#We cannot tear out a single page of our life but we can throw the whole book in the fire [ Classicaloid Verse ]

[madame-sand]

[ @cainidepripas​ from x ]

George tilted her head and racked her brain to match his face with a name, 

❝ You do look familiar though. Do you work in the publishing industry?❞

[unvillagez]

.ೃ࿐ we cannot tear out a single page of our life, but we can throw the whole in book in the fire. .ೃ࿐

— george sand

[delicioussshame]

Posting next part of sugar AU before going to bed; we’ll see if I still hate it tomorrow.

Luo Binghe had always hoped for this, had always known he’d have it some day, but all his waiting couldn’t prepare him for how happy having Shen-laoshi makes him.

It does make his mornings even harder. He had grown to resent Shen-laoshi’s tendency to rise late, but now that waking him up with wandering hands or a ravenous mouth could be on the table, it’s even worse. Luo Binghe would love to start his day with the taste of Shen Yuan lingering in his mouth and his moans fresh in his mind. Sadly, Shen Yuan doesn’t quite approve. The one time Luo Binghe tried, Shen Yuan had barely managed to keep his eyes open for a few seconds before falling back to sleep. Really, how had he managed to go to work like this?

By suffering from chronic lack of sleep. The lifestyle definitely hadn’t suited him. His current situation is just so much better in every way. Luo Binghe will certainly relish watching students return to class, knowing his laoshi won’t be accompanying them.

Not for now, at least. He’s not quite sure what Shen Yuan is planning for his own future. He doesn’t think his teacher has accepted him fully yet. Shen-laoshi is probably still thinking things through, considering whether to look for another job or returning to school.

Since Luo Binghe himself now has Shen Yuan in his house, in his bed and away from the high school he refuses to call his, he finds himself willing to be patient on this particular aspect. He will, instead, focus his campaign on another, probably more delicate, front. “The literature division is holding its executive retreat in two weeks. I’m expected to show up for a formal dinner.”

Shen Yuan lifts his eyes from the book he’s reading and winces. “I’m sorry Binghe has to deal with this.”

Shen-laoshi, thank you for the hook. “It would be much easier if Shen-laoshi were to accompany me.”

“No it wouldn’t. The pain of trying to explain away my presence would far outweigh its benefits.”

“What is there to explain? Executives are allowed to bring their significant other. So would I.”

Shen Yuan returns to his book. “Very funny.”

There is nothing funny with his request? “How is it funny?”

“Like Binghe could introduce me as his significant other.”

“Why not?”

Shen Yuan puts the book down on the table and gives him an incredulous look. “Do you want to tear your reputation to shreds? I don’t have anything against you being attracted to men, but I’m not the majority. It will hurt your business, and by extension, your employees’ livelihood. Not to mention any chance of me working in education ever again. It’s unfair, I know, but Binghe cannot make his preference public.”

Luo Binghe blinks, confused. “I don’t care about any of this? My first priority will always be Laoshi. Why would I care about how he affects the conglomerate? As long as it still generates enough money to support Shen-laoshi as he should be supported, which it will, even a huge hit would still leave me with more money than anyone would ever need, I don’t care what happens to it.”

“Binghe, you’d be the front page of every magazine, every website, every news show. Your life would be exposed to the public, every single moment scrutinised and published for all to see. So would mine, and that’s if someone doesn’t get into their head that I must have abused you when you were a minor, in which case I could be jailed. It’s not a question of caring. You cannot do this.”

“Shen-laoshi would never have taken advantage of me! He couldn’t even tell I had a crush on him!” No one would ever believe something this ridiculous!

“That doesn’t matter. Binghe, I gave you a lot of attention. You remained after class so many times I cannot remember all of them. Everyone knew you were my favorite student. Look at it from the outside. How could you explain you, stunningly handsome and just as rich, choosing me, a no-name teacher with neither of those qualities, beside the fact that I groomed you? At best, I’ll be labelled a pervert and a degenerate. You can’t tell anyone you don’t trust. You’d be ruining your life.”

Luo Binghe had always known that their marriage might not ever be recognised. He had been fine with going abroad to get married, and had already set up a few shell corporations to finance legal challenges to the current definition of marriage, but he knew the chances of those challenges succeeding were slim.

In the end, it didn’t really matter. The commitment did. He had lawyers ready to set up the legal situation as close to marriage as it could be as soon as Shen Yuan agreed to it.

He’d never considered he would have to keep their relationship private, especially not forever. He has nothing to be ashamed of. If anything, he wants to brag! Who wouldn’t be jealous of him?

But if it’s going to make his laoshi’s life this much harder, to the point that prison was a possibility…

The prospect is too terrifying to contemplate. “We can move.”

“I’m sorry?”

That’s a good idea! “If we live elsewhere, somewhere where it’s not an issue, it wouldn’t matter as much!” And it’s not like another country would care that Shen-Yuan used to be his teacher! How would they know?

“And you would manage your inherited, incredibly complex conglomerate from there? Your board is going to love this.”

“And I should care because?”

“This is ridiculous. Binghe needs to think those things through instead of living in a fantasy where everything works out perfectly! He needs to think about his position before he jeopardises it! And he needs to think about his legacy before throwing everything away for a man! Don’t you want children?”

“If Laoshi wants some, we can adopt or arrange for a surrogate. It’s not an issue.” He bets Shen-laoshi’s children would be adorable. Luo Binghe would never leave them alone.

“Your fellow socialites would never accept it!”

This is really quite a pointless fight. “Again, I could not care less. I’ve never wanted their approval, and I don’t need it. The only approval I’ve ever wanted is yours. You must have felt something similar, since you gave this world up to work the job you wanted.”

“It’s not the same thing! I didn’t, nor would I ever have, your status! I wasn’t even my parents’ heir! I have three other siblings! They didn’t need me around. Your corporation has no one but you to rely on.”

“It’s just a corporation. If it bothers you so much, I could easily sell all my shares, step down from my post and live off the wealth for the rest of our life.” It would have the advantage of leaving him with nothing but time to take care of his laoshi.

It would also feel like failure. He worked so hard to make himself into the kind of man his laoshi could be proud of, the result of his constant efforts. Giving it all up would leave a bad taste in his mouth.

He would still do it in a heartbeat if his laoshi requested it of him.

“That’s not what I…” Shen Yuan rises from the couch, walking around the room hurriedly. “I think I’ll never understand why you do what you do. Surely I’m not worth it. My family certainly wouldn’t think so.”

He wouldn’t say it, because he knows it wouldn’t go down well, but one of the reasons Luo Binghe had looked forward to going public had been to rub in said family’s face their abandoned son’s success.

Now, he just wants to do it more. “For myself, I’ll never understand why Shen-laoshi cannot see his own worth when it’s so evident to me.”

Shen Yuan stops, a barely visible embarrassed flush on his face that instantly distracts Luo Binghe from this unpleasant conversation. “Binghe can’t say things like that just to change the subject.”

He snorts. “I wasn’t. It’s just true. Maybe if I keep telling Shen-laoshi what a wonderful person he is, he will start believing it.”

He sees Shen Yuan shutting up as he grows more embarrassed.

Luo Binghe goes to pull him into his arms. “I just want Shen-laoshi to be happy. If he wants to remain private, that’s what we’ll do. Just give me some time to figure it out.” It’s not what he wanted, but it can’t all be what he wants all the time, can it? If anything, it might be a good sign. Shen Yuan barely implied the situation was his fault, and didn’t offer to leave to take care of it.

Shen-laoshi appears to melt into his embrace, hiding his face into his neck.

Luo Binghe still hasn’t developed a resistance to Shen-laoshi showing him any form of vulnerability or affection, not that he thinks he ever will. He discards the conversation for now in favor of returning said affection in the way he’s still getting used to.

[rouiyan]

𝘖𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘊𝘈𝘚𝘛 𝘚𝘒𝘐𝘌𝘚 𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘛𝘏𝘖𝘚𝘌 𝘞𝘏𝘖 𝘋𝘐𝘌 [ 𝘭.𝘫𝘯 ]

⧏ the second volume of rouiyan’s debut series, till death do us part ⧐

synopsis: “i will keep you,” he says softly, as sweet as black tea, “and i will keep you warm.” (Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless)

✧ prince!lee jeno x crown princess!reader ✧ royalty au

✧ genres : fluff, angst ✧ word count : 5.0k ✧ disclaimers : brief descriptions of nudity (nothing sexual), allusions to sex (nothing explicit), malintent

read volume one here: of the heart.

when the moon, in all her glory, begins to set, Mother Nature begins each new day by inhaling the misfortunes of the day before and blowing out frigid breaths in their stead. this morning is no exception for nothing is so clear as the wisps of fog that lie just beyond the horizon, a velarium of sorts, over the forest canopy. the sun is a little early today, but it is for naught, since its rays are caught between the tendrils of fog right as they begin to show. perhaps Mother Nature woke up in a bit of a fit today, seeing as the skies are already oozing the grays before the blues have yet to surface. Her fingers gently stir the clouds to ensure that they collide right where the earth most needs it and She's joyful in the sense that Her work can be admired from far down below. after all, the paintings She conjures in the skies are nothing short of masterpieces.

like a ceiling folding in with the pressure of water leakage, the clouds from down below give off an air of distress. the air itself is heavily encumbered with a clarity found only after the rainiest of days. and if not for the sake of the story, the author could spend hours droning on about Mother Nature's tour de force, she really would, but instead she will insert a few lines from a symphony: 

The autumn mist drifts blue over the lake,

The blades of grass stand covered with frost,

The flowers' sweet scent is gone,

An icy wind bends down their stems,

My heart is weary.

Der Einsame im Herbst (The lonely one in autumn), from Mahler’s Das Lied von der Erde

in the exact opposite sense that Mother Nature loves her leaves, with tender fondness and a forgiving hand, prince jeno's father has never loved his second son more, with an impassioned sneer and a bagful of riches in mind. at least, that is exactly what prince jeno himself thinks as he skims through yet another letter, this time from his father. 

son,

never did i think i would enjoy the prospect of a winter ceremony as much as i would this, perhaps you would also like to see an early coronation. i've made the necessary arrangements, i assure that you will not be suspected in the least but keep caution and wariness by your side, our family name is already a great deal tainted. thought not for long, i'll be sending a carriage to retrieve you for your rounds back home, we've ought to get going on them. the damsel is a sight for sore eyes, i presume, i'd hate for her to foil our ambitions; she is much in your hands to attend to now. i'll see you by the throne soon, my lad. 

king of the southern mines, your father.

the prince's vision narrows upon the words 'coronation, arrangements, suspected, foil, throne,' and he is already a sight of frustration, fingers gripping the paper with such force that his short nails are digging into his palms through it. seething, he tears his eyes from the script before him but instead, they land on the previous letter sat atop the open escritoire. the one from his mother. the stamped edge of the paper lifts with the wind that filters through the window just above it and he has the sudden urge to let it be carried away wholly. jeno crosses the room in four steps. 

with both the pages collected in his hands, jeno crouches by the mantle, the roar of a fire licking up before him. his face is drawn in concentration, jaw stiff and clenched. the lines of his brows are met with a furrow in between, set above the meek lines of his eyelids. his pupils dilate, albeit out of habitual need, in the reflection of the inferno before him. he's ever-so-aware of the distinct scent of burning coals that siphon and sharpen his reminiscence of home. it's sentient, the feelings of familiarity that overcome his senses, halting his movements, his fingers clutching the papers in a way that almost tells of longing. longing of a seemingly different world entirely, one that he has only ever known until a few weeks prior. being washed anew in distant lands and over the course of a single lunation, jeno finds that he's never felt more mismatched from himself, disconnected from the people who raised him in contrast to the people who have brought out the better in him. but the embers are not the only thing he smells, not the only he sees, or heeds to.

the pearly carrara marble of the mantle tells stories in the grayed lines that trail across its posh surface. his eyes rove over the white, the faith and purity of your heraldry binded with the emblem of your family. the white of angels, of untainted relations, sterility in empowerment, the inviolable you. the white tells stories that the black never could.

so jeno finds a warm pleasure in the way the flames overwhelm the papers with eager enthusiasm, the damned words of his parents receding into mere ash. prince jeno thinks he could forever part with the world if it asked him to feast his eyes on this very sight until the end of time. 

despite arousing before the sun, you are disappointed when it starts to chase your wakefulness. there is something edging the growing unease in your mind, as if time is trickling down the drain of the past, too fast and too unforgiving. as if time is berating at your senses, telling you there is much more than what meets the eye but for the life of you, you cannot pinpoint what. for now though, you tend to the pressing matters at hand, jeno has been called home for his rounds, rather abruptly.

"perhaps i should go with you, rounds don't always have to be made by one per-”

jeno cuts you off effectively, "they are very much a one person duty," he assures pointedly. your nose scrunches, the light inconveniences starting to rub off on your exasperation. in a tired voice you mumble, "we could always change it up a bit, i'm sure." jeno chuckles heartily at that, his hand coming up from his side to rub out the lines of stress in your forehead.

"little miss princess, you're saying that as if you do not have rounds to complete of your own. i'm almost certain you host are a far greater amount of people that wish to be invited to the ceremony than i have-"

it's your turn to cut him off now, "why don't you stay with me then?" in attempts to enhance the force of your resolve, you uncover a hand of your own from under the sheets to comb through his locks. the way his eyes instantly close to relish in your touch paired with the little purr he gives is almost telltale of your victory. almost.

jeno pauses, his eyes flicker back open, and a soft knowing smile runs along the features of his face as he shakes his head, in knowledge of your artful tactics to wear him down. "and neglect my kingdom and their desires?"

you've left the feelings of frustration behind, instead deciding to fool around with the boy, to see what you can get out of him for good fun, "but we've yet to decide what flowers to use as centerpieces. and whether we're throwing a private or public ball. wedding preparations are surely more important than handing out personal invites…we can cut corners one some niceties." jeno knows better than to let his guard down. the jeno around y/n isn't to be trusted as easily. he settles for words of comfort instead, "i'll write."

"well, that's of course. silly of you to voice something as unequivocal as that."

a pause and his resolve is slipping, "maybe a few short visits back wouldn't hurt." you lick your lips in good-natured fun, another pause, "i'm sure my father wouldn't half mind if we cut it a week short." your eyes look hazy to him, though in reality they are simply amused, and drawing words from him he isn't even sure he's saying. "or- or maybe i could convince him, or try to at least…," he trails on and on.

your satisfied a certain amount and, suppressing a smile from giving away your plotted schemes, you mutter quietly, mostly for your own pondering, "i'm thinking alliums would make a statement, blue alliums." jeno gives a noise of confusion, unsure of how you've suddenly come to talk of flowers. "the centerpieces, i mean." jeno's silence only urges you on, "alliums, or blue alliums at that, are symbols of unity and good fortune. i think that'd make a nice combination with a base of milkweed, dignity and freedom, if my memory serves me right."

the prince has found his voice, "what of the rounds?" but he's met with a small chortle, "nothing, a month is a month, i'm sure we'll work around it."

"but, i- i'm not sure i understand. you were adamant enough a millisecond ago, and now-"

"and now i'm telling you i was toying with you, dear sir. such fun it is when you let on more than you'd like."

jeno's cheeks flush, the warm color dusting the bridge of his nose, apples of his cheeks, tips of his ears. your warm smile and benign banter bring him the simplest of joys. he's not sure he's ever felt this way before. familiarity. and, not the familiarity that comes from his assigned butler since birth, or the old lady at the apothecary he's been to all his life that's paid to tend to his wounds. not the familiarity that comes with blood and playing house, the type of sickened familiarity he feels with his brother, doyoung, that every second spent with him is forced. the familiarity he feels with you is by choice, by genuine and sincere desire. you want to wake up in the mornings with him by your side. you want to spend breakfast pushing each other's toes away underneath the table. you want to hold his hand when he walks you to your carriage. you want to make love with him in the most ungodly hours of the day. which is exactly what happens that morning.

a day is barely enough to do all the things you've penned in your journal. things to be done before you were to be married, with the one you were to be married to. the list had been written, curated, and refined by nine-year-old you, who you must say, had some very good ideas, though verily a romanticist. 

jeno is departing tomorrow morning, as early as the sun will permit, and suddenly you wish that it would never rise again. whatever the case, you set out first thing this morning, hand tugging along a very tired prince, for the bathing pool. nine-year-old you must have misinterpreted the meaning of 'skinny dipping' for swimming but you thank nine-year-old you because things seem to have worked out in your favor either way. jeno is jolted awake by the gelid water, the seasons now mark three-quarters into fall. 

"go in first," you state simply, hands on your hips and eyes drawn down into the water. the single toe you had dipped in to test the waters is frigid and frozen. jeno, who has yet to finish undressing himself, nodded at your words. if he were looking in your direction he would've noticed the smirk on your face. he stands straight, boxers on the ground behind him as he takes place by your side, "cold?"

"not at all, surprisingly," he's looking at you now and your countenance can't help but decompose in front of him, a small, unsuspecting smile adorning your lips. "oh really, can you attest for that?"

the smile is now blossoming unto your cheeks, "are you telling me to go in first?" the prince nods at that, fully aware of your schematics, "yes, i would like to see you enter the warm water."

"you agreed to go in first just a few seconds ago, don't tell me you've backed out on your word," a feeble matter against the boy but he defends himself by saying, "devious little princess, as if this wasn't your idea."

you're equally defensive when you point out, "not me, directly, but rather me as a child-" he pushes you in. lee jeno, second prince of the esteemed southern kingdom pushes you into the subzero degree bathing pool.

assuredly though, he dives in a few seconds after he's had time to relish in your shocked expression and piercing screams. he's coming up for air, his hands have found your bare hips to make sure that you resurface together. or drown together, you think, because it seems his foot is caught in the crevices between two rocks and since he's writhing like a madman, you're writhing with him too. it's a strange sight, two very beautiful individuals, absolutely in love but absolutely inane, for if jeno had thought to let go of his grip on you, you might've been able to unlodge his foot altogether if he had not been set on wrangling both your bodies about.

it's four minutes later that the two of you are on the leveled bronze rock, now, absolutely loosing it over jeno's lack of common sense. both of you are having trouble breathing, spurts of water still occasionally gushing past his lips. he thinks you're most beautiful in your bare skin, with nothing to define you but yourself. he's running his fingers up and down your torso, lips connecting with the surface of your neck. he appreciates that you kiss him with such avidity, you always do. jeno loves that you make it known to him, that what you say, you mean. and that even if you were never to utter a word again, he would still understand the sheer vehemence with which you love him.

you cross off paragliding, building a snowman, and studying together for a test. not because they've been completed but because there simply is no plausible way to get them done with the deadline closing in fast. the next activity you present to jeno has his eyebrows raised in intrigue. he's quick to reply when you ask him. 

"a moon, a quartered moon." the knowing smile that grows on your face tells him he's chosen correctly.

jeno gives a squeeze to your hand as the needle comes in contact with your clean skin. the first few minutes are highlighted by the sensation of a million bee stings, racking through your brain, but the rest is relatively smooth sailing. yours comes out just as good as jeno's, a small moon, a quartered moon, tattooed into the skin just behind the left ear. there specifically, so that it's known by each other and each other only. 

there will be months passed before the moon becomes a sort of unspoken but affirmative communication instrument. when jeno loves you a little too much, he rubs the inked skin softly. his sleepless nights are cured with the pad of your finger upon the spot. between the many general meetings you're required to oversee in a day, jeno waits outside the conference room for you to exit, his fingers stroking the moon for the duration of the few seconds allotted to him before you're whisked away again. the symbol of night is translated into accounts of bonding, the smallest of things giving way to happiness. 

you would say the uses of the 'lovemark' are amplified as the sun retreats and the mascot of your relationship shines brighter than ever. it's evident in the look on jeno's face, especially, a few feet below you, peering up your skirt with a dumbstruck look on his face. 

"jeno, dear, now is really not the time." the boy clears his throat and looks away, baffled at how you'd caught him anyways. your position is so frightfully awkward, one foot on the top end of your chamber's windowsill, another bent and hoisted onto the flat ledge of your roof. "come on up now, and get those dirty thoughts out of your mind. for heaven's sake, we're here to watch the sunset and stargaze, not to pound into each other."

the prince laughs at your offhanded remarks, arriving himself on the platform. the view is expansive in the way that you can see the forest from here, the ocean if you squint, the hills set in the far distance, and the sky has never felt closer to the earth while the things you've always known to be near appear smaller and more distant than ever. even the gregarious tree stalks of the forest rise to what could be measured as an only inch from this outlook. 

"nine-year-old y/n seems to have known nothing but fun days." jeno muses, leaning his weight back upon his hands. your eyes are glazed in an omniscient mist, "i'd expect so, she was born and raised with everything." the prince picks up on the tone of distaste with which you'd spoken your words. he turns to you and studies the hairs that fall in your eyes, "hardly fair."

you reply not a beat after, "not at all fair. if i were to accomplish one thing during my run as queen, i'd give the children opportunities of a lifetime." the thoughts tumble out of your mind, as if you'd known of this conviction of yours since you were but a child. your drive as a ruler, firm and headstrong to implement your values and beliefs on your subjects has been the sole idea that's grounded you in the castle for your entire time being.

"and what if you cannot?"

your first reply is dealt with in humble humor, "at the very least, i'd like it to be engraved on my tombstone that i tried." the second, is laden with a sorrowful undertone, "housing, schooling, meals and warmth in the winter. we have it the worst here up north. if they are without school, they are left with nothing." jeno's head turns to yours, he sees the slip of a tear and he wipes it away, only to be met with another. your voice cracks in despair, "there are no mining jobs to take up, no farms to harvest, aqueducts to run. i dread that one day i must rule a kingdom of arts."

jeno tries, he really does, to gather you in his arms but your sobs rack your body with such force that he is left to comfort your desolations with words and a hand on your back, "what is there to dread? are the arts so difficult to maintain?"

bitterness forms at the tip of your tongue, "no, jeno. i regress in the face that art is invaluable. but the world seeks to attach a price to every viable thing, to label the passion of others. and now, now the arts are for the rich, only for the rich. have you ever heard of a hungry man paint instead of seeking shelter from the rain? a woman who writes prose instead of feeding her dying children? there is no one who can live solely on art but the heavens have sent me to rule a horde of those very people."

the prince knows you need to voice the thoughts weighing down your mind, so he gives them a platform, a nudge, "a kingdom of arts would be blessed to house a queen with intentions such as yourself, surely there are others who hold the same principles as you." 

"no doubt," your eyes cast on the forming stars, "but as much as i would love to trail a path of meliorism and say that with a tide of willingness, there will be change, i must not forget the real nature of the world we live in."

"and what is this nature that you speak of?"

"the drive of greed and sadism, in exchange for the feeblest of pleasures."

the world comes to a still in this very moment. the moon begins her ascent. the stars unsheath their full luminance. the whites of their gleam reflecting on the rooftop on which the two of you are sat. time and space shrivel in the potency of untainted humanity.

"we will bring change, you and i."

you feel your heart calm as your rambling ceases. jeno looks over at you and smiles.

prince jeno is scheduled to return in twenty seven days time. there is something that feels wrong about him leaving. a feeling that if he leaves, all hell with turn loose and you will be unleashed unto the dogs for ravaging. there is a coated and unspoken thought that splutters in your mind whenever you even dare so much as to begin to think of it. the possibility that with jeno's leave, you'll be left with the realization that it was all a phase of infatuation. that when you see him again, all the feelings that you'd built up over the course of a month and a few days was just a glamourized dream. that he was never real; the real that you needed.

"i'll be forever thinking of those lips on mine, maybe even missing them," you let, comically. jeno eyes you conspicuously, "and i'll be forever thinking of you, as a whole, not just the lips unlike you. a little fixated you sounded there, mind you." his little sniggers are given in response to your hands pushing his chest in frisky response. the prince pulls you closer into a final embrace, the coachman of his black carriage is awaiting his departure. 

he parts from you and you can't help but trail behind him down the paved path. he's over his shoulder now as you let loose a sliver of your deepest worries, meekly, "i hope we never change, jeno."

the prince halts at the bottom steps that curl into the palace. he sees you, feels you, knows you, for he quotes, “i will keep you,” he says softly, as sweet as black tea, “and i will keep you warm.” (Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless)

jeno can hear the light pellets of raindrops hit the roof of his carriage. the gray skies are darkening by the second, it's telling him something that he's sure he doesn't want to hear. his fingers fiddle with the cuffs of his tailored suit jacket, something you'd requested be made for him when his stay was first prolonged. the prince is entirely clad in white and he knows enough to imagine the face his mother will make when she first sees him home. lee jeno doesn't remember a time when he's donned a color other than black, but somehow, the white doesn't feel too far from home. 

with the white, his mind flashes with the events of the past month or so spent in your noble abode. you, on the other hand, rarely ever wore a color other than white, the most differing shade being a cream or beige. but even with all the lights, you never seemed to mind when they were dirtied. almost always, a day in the fields or by the bathing pool would drench a good six inches of your skirts in mud and the unfurled hems of your frocks or crinkled fronts of those sweaters you so often adorned were always beyond your notice. you were free in that way, never stopping to fuss over the little things you deemed unimportant. jeno thinks if he could live that way too and though he isn't sure if he can, he knows he wants to.

jeno can hear the spindles of the carriage gyrating with added resistance against the now watered-down mud of the trodden roads. his eyes are caught in the sky that looks as if it's to detonate at any given second. he predicts the thunder before it rings loud in his ears and he hears the coachman slash a whip to a trepid horse, an echo of the natural phenomenon. he wonders what it would feel like to be the coachman, out in the clamorring downpour, or perhaps the horse, blindlessly running to the crack of a whip, or the trees even, awoken by the threat of a fire. he wonders if he has any desire to be the lightning itself, to jab at the delicate foliage as he'd like, to set fire to that of which he doesn't like, to wield destructive power. he wonders, but he knows he doesn't want to.

lee jeno is in his carriage when he realizes what it means to be free, but not in the hindrance of others. he realizes what it means, not to rule but rather to guide without the oppression of others. lee jeno is also in his carriage when the skies turn black and a deluge of rain is unleashed upon the castle of white. 

a man a few inches brief to the prince, but of higher rank in swordsmanship, is propped on the limestone trellis that holds the awning in place, his two feet hooked between the vertical balusters of stone and fingers clung onto the ridge of the balustrade. he finds it ludicrous that every individual of importance he has ever met, is so caught up in their own belief that they are untouchable, where in reality they are the most vulnerable of all. he thinks this, specifically, as he upturns himself over the railing and onto the landing, only to see that the king's door are left wide open, the only shield of protection being the pristine white curtains glinting a sheen of blue in the moonlight. 

renjun is humored when, upon drawing the curtains back, the king himself is simply laying there on the ground, unconscious as he was informed he'd be. the knight presses two fingers to the inner wrist of the withered man and finds that he still has a job to finish. brandishing a blade from the underside of his calf, he deems the inscription on the handle fit for the deed. he drives it into the gut but makes quick work of it, the sputters of blood that erupt from the now-awakened royal something he wishes the guards just outside not to hear. renjun makes further assurance that the blade is firmly put in place, the stout palladium shaft protruding from the king's abdomen like the ring of a windup toy. 

a black body bag is used to sheath the quickly-paling bag of bones. it is left under the light of the moon, through a skylight rounded in the dead center of the palace. around the malefaction, stairs wind in all directions from the ground up and if there were even one maid to have crossed the landing once in the night, she would have been met with what looked to be an unassuming trash bag. but fate had it so the sun would rise before your dead father was stumbled upon, an inscribed shank planted between his internal organs reading, this star-like solitude (Giuseppe Ungaretti, from Last Choruses for the Promised Land: XVI (tr. by Patrick Creagh)).

the blood that seeps from the measly opening in the bag is not silver, nor is it gold. it is blood red. the red of a brazen senex that perhaps preceded and proceeded his times, entangled in the intricacies of the new age, the new game of politics he simply had no means to play at. akin to the webs of an arachnid, the string of fate hung around his neck, thin and unnoticeable, cinching with each passing second until Mother Nature deemed his time up. the blood that seeps writhes in the rays of the sun, twines like the veins in the marble beneath it. it seeps until the figure in the sack is drained and the clumping skin of human remains is the same shade as the white tiling. red against white, white against black, the black of a crying sky.

read volume three: dearly departed.

copyright © 2020 rouiyan all rights reserved.

✧ end note — i had such a hard time trying to pull this outta my ass in a way that captures everything i wanted to say. so thank you for reading this piece. it’s one of my most favorite things i have ever written, undoubtedly.

[imagine-loki]

Can I ask you somthing? How do you stay positive and upbeat with all the horrible things that are going on now, especially with Covid? I feel so bombarded by all the bad in the world. News, Facebook, etc, they all just throw it at me all day every day. I feel like I am suffocating, this blog is one of the only things that I see as positive, you don't let all the real stuff in. How do you do that?

Okay, take a nice deep breath. The world is still spinning, we are all still here. It’s okay. 

How do I stay positivbe when the news is so negative, simple, I don’t look at it. News is not healthy all the time. How many people have died of Covid today, how many have caught it? I genuinely have no idea. I feel for those suffering for it but for me, I don’t need to know that. I remember the day 1,000 deaths were announced in Britain, the first 1,000 to die. I got anxious, I felt terrible, it did nothing positive to help me get through my day. I start every single day with the same hellos to my kids and a smile to my partner. I tell myself that today is a good day. It’s blustery, we have the tail end of a storm, something negative happened with a delivery my son wanted but it’s a good day. I smile when I say it because it genuinely does help. 

I only follow blogs I like, animals, Marvel, Tom Hiddleston, Loki. I do the same on Facebook. I actively hide stories, unfollow people or snooze the ones focusing on negative things. My FB algorithm is rescued animals and cute pets because I make sure that I only look at those things because I refuse to let myself be dragged down. For too long, I tried to care too much and I pulled me into a negative person. I choose my battles. I fight ardently for the causes I really believe in and I do my best to be positive to be around and to make the world nicer. Smiling and kindness to those I interact with, even with my mask on. 

If you feel Facebook is becoming too negative, snooze those who drag you down and block the pages you don’t want to see. That one day you clicked on the Fox News article and now it’s here annoying you, hide it. Go to options, and click “Why am I seeing this” get it off your feed, get it out of your life. 

Imagine Loki is my getaway spot from the real world. There are simple rules of etiquette here, political, religious, sexuality, etc bashing is NOT permitted. The Trans Asexual is welcome here as much as the devout Catholic or Muslim and no one is allowed to ram their opinions down anyone else’s throat. I don’t care if your religion deems something a sin, I don’t care if you see someone’s religious garb as anti-feminism, those things don’t matter here, this is about LOKI, that sexy, sly God of Mischief we all love so much, so leave that at the door. Everyone has the right to their opinion, what you don’t have the right to do is shove it down the rest of our throats. There are a lot of wonderful blogs that deal with politics and such, go to them for that. 

I also listen to a lot of music and try to find things that are positive. Last night, I found out that there’s an amazing new movie about my history and culture that is being celebrated and shared with the world as a cartoon, I use these positive things to make me happy even when I feel lonely and separated from home because of this. I cried happy and sad tears at hearing Irish accents and seeing our amazing history and stories being shown to the world but I choose to focus on the happy......and I may be singing songs from it all day in happiness as a result. 

We cannot control what is happening in the world around us, we can control how we choose to interact with it. Keep knowledgeable on foreign and domestic affairs, know what is happening, but not too intimately. It drags you down too much if you let it. 

Love and happiness to you. 

Wolfie. 

[noepls]

We cannot tear out a single page from our life, but we can throw the whole book into the fire.

-George Sand

[babbushka]

This sounds like a super fun prompt for something spooky with Knight Kylo! If you like it! Thank you for opening requests! 💋

Everything is born from the flames. Do not burn the evidence—it will grow forth thrice fold. You cannot trust fire.

1.2k ; Content Warnings: Occult/Ritual/Black Magic, body possession, mild body horror/eye horror, brief NSFW

The books do not lie.

For many moons Kylo has studied them, poured over them, deciphered them. An ancient language written with long forgotten runes, ink upon vellum, secrets stored from a thousand years ago. There are symbols, symbols Kylo now knows, words he can now read, secrets he can now uncover.

Power, the books say, power unlike anything Kylo could ever dream. He had been marked when he was born, he knows this. Marked for something special something…otherworldly. You know it to be true, in the way he can influence the world around him. His mother had called him Gifted once upon a time, had cast him away for it, claimed the devil had taken hold of his heart.

Once upon a time, he believed it.

Kylo looks at you, and he now only believes that if there were anything claiming his heart, it would be you – and the devil would not dare to fight you for it.

“There is a ritual,” Kylo had told you a fortnight ago, “I need your help.”

He had shown you the books, and you needn’t ask a single question. You would do anything to help him, anything to bring him happiness, power that he seeks.

Now, in the woods, the very depths of them, you stand naked beside him as he speaks them to you in a discordant tongue. There is a fire, redyelloworange, spitting and hissing despite the rain around you. That is Kylo’s doing, you know, he has asked the rain to keep you dry, and the rain has obeyed.

The flames burn brightly as Kylo opens the books, the sigils, the symbols glowing, reacting to the heat. They shine so brightly that you must shield your eyes. There are things Kylo has brought, things which must be thrown into the fire. You had helped him collect them, even though you knew not what they would do once obtained.

Kylo…Kylo…Kylo…

There is chanting, chanting coming from another world, from deep within your bones, from the inside of your throat. You do not speak, and yet the chanting grows louder louder louder, drums thrumming in tune with your heart.

Kylo…Kylo…Kylo…

There are faces in the fire, mangled and torn, and they grin, oh how they grin at you! How they laugh! How they chant and beg and taunt to join them join them join them.

Kylo…Kylo…Kylo…

Kylo takes a step towards it, and the fire reaches out to him, it coils around his fingertips, his wrists. He makes not a sound, only allows it to lure him closer, until he is walking on the hot coals themselves, standing in the flames.

Kylo! Kylo! Kylo!

As he steps into the fire, it roars and chants and begs and pleads, lightning cracks through the sky, drums pound, the fire climbs higher and higher into the air, engulfing his body completely. It turns a multitude of colors all at once, first blue then white then green then purple, and your husband falls to his knees inside of it.

“Kylo!” You shout, panicked, rushing into the fire with him without a second thought.

You throw yourself on top of him, trying in vain to prevent him from being burned alive. Yet, they do not burn, the flames. A warm caress, an embrace winds around your ankles, the flames like vines existing everywhere and nowhere at once. Kylo is hunched over and you pull his shoulder so he might turn around, might face you.

When he looks at you, it is with eyes which have gone completely black, no trace of the whites left for you to see. 

Black tears stream down his face, flow in thick sticky rivulets across his cheeks, into his mouth, down his nose. 

You wipe them away but they do not stop, flowing flowing flowing as Kylo’s jaw unhinges and a scream that you have never heard fall from his lips tears through his chest.

“Darling?” Your voice echoes a thousand-fold through all planes of the universe. “What do I do?”

“It is done.” A dozen voices laugh back at you, elated, shrieking screaming laughs as Kylo’s body convulses and spasms under the pressure of it all. “You have freed us! Freed us! We are forever in your debt.”

We, the we, who is the We? Kylo’s eyes are still black, still weeping, magic and dark, so dark, the mortar of hell itself seeping into his pores.

“Where is Kylo?” You shout, grabbing the face of your husband and holding it tightly, unafraid even as the flames whip and curl and roar around you. You are unafraid for anything other than your beloved’s safety.  

“He is here, he is us, he is we!” They shriek, voices overlapping loud, so loud, piercing the night sky.

“What will you do with him?” You demand.

All at once, the fire stops.

All at once, the chanting ends.

All at once, the rain suspends, hanging in droplets crystalline and still around your bodies.

Kylo stands, although it is not Kylo, not with these eyes black as ink. The body of the man you love rises to his feet and extends a hand. It is his hand, and so you take it, standing in the pitch blackness of the woods.

“No no, our Queen. It is not what we will do with him,” The voices say softly, comfortingly, soothingly, grateful and truthful, sincere. They realize you do not know, you have no idea, and they wish to calm you. “But what he will do with us. You have freed us from our prisons, we are in your debt.”  

You can feel tendrils of something dark, something sinister caress and brush across your shoulders, your stomach, your throat. It does not do more than a gentle caress, and soon, soon the touch is replaced by that of your husband, your Kylo.

“(Y/N)?” It is his voice which calls to you, and your pulse spikes in your chest.

“Kylo, my beloved, my darling, what happened?” You pull him close to you, pull him tightly. There is no wetness on his face, no more tears. When you pull out a small sharp of mirror to reflect the moonlight into his eyes, they are chocolate honey brown, handsome, sparkling.

Kylo’s fingertips touch your cheeks, reverent, he kisses you deeply, passionately. His hands wander down your naked body, fingers pushing between the folds of your pussy, rubbing and teasing to get you wet. You kiss him back, sighing into his mouth, relieved, so relieved that he is safe.

“I have seen God, and she bears your face.” Kylo touches you, squeezes at your body, your breasts. He bites and kisses down your throat, fingers crooking inside your cunt, stroking your walls as he whispers, “I have unlocked the mysteries of the universe, you have shown them to me. We will conquer the world, conquer life, conquer death.”

Kylo lays you down on the simmering embers of the no-longer fire, but they do not burn your back. You part your legs for him, let his mouth latch onto your nipple as he sucks and bites and licks and thrusts himself into you, power trembling through from his body to yours.

As he fucks you on the coals, you think of the pages of vellum which have ceased to glow, the symbols and sigils which have pressed their way into Kylo’s flesh, which have pressed their way into yours. The We have blessed you, and you will take their blessings with pride.

Everything is born from the flames. Do not burn the evidence—it will grow forth thrice fold. You cannot trust fire.

The books do not lie.

[theheartsmistakes]

The Last Night

Jordelia Fan-fiction

Lucie Herondale shook with the knowledge she had just learned about the bracelet that her brother wore so loyally. If Matthew hadn’t been there to hold her arms back, she would have gladly hit Grace Blackthorn with her tightly wound fist. 

Back in Matthew’s car, she glared out the window at the gray London skyline, bracing herself as Matthew sped past a group of boys on bicycles, narrowly hitting a car passing on the other side of the uneven cobblestone street. 

“We need to find James and get that bracelet.”

“You heard what she said,” Matthew argued. “He won’t willingly take it off.”

“Then we take it off of him,” shouted Lucie, sounding terribly like her mother when Tessa rarely showed aggression, which was usually elicited by someone talking about her family or her close friend in a way that she deemed cruel or unkind. “You hold him down,” Lucie continued, “and I’ll rip the bloody bracelet off and smash it into pieces.”

The terrible things she had said to James when she couldn’t find Cordelia made her cringe. She wished she could take them all back, but knew that she couldn’t. The truth was, she was angry at herself more than him. They were to be parabatai, she should know how to find Cordelia. She should know the place Cordelia would look to for solace, for strength, and they should be a place of solace and strength for each other. 

“Lucie.” Matthew reached out and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “It’ll be all right.” 

Lucie wanted to believe him, to take comfort in his words, but something dreadful told her that it wouldn’t. It couldn’t possibly be all right. 

* * *

Cordelia stole a moment before she entered through the door. The weight of her sword Cortana across her back served as a reminder of her courage and strength. The light from the fire inside flickered under the door casting a warm orange glow across her feet that she wishes would extend to the dark corners of her mind and warm her heart. Her fingers shook where they grabbed her thin, silk coverlet; focused on the light beading in the design of daisies. She’d tried to dress in a manner that she thought he would like. If it were to be his last memory of her, she wanted it to be a good one.

Her hand hovered in the air for a moment and she thought dreadfully of turning around. All of her life she’d lived in lies. Lies her brother wove to protect her. Lie her father designed to protect himself. Even lies her mother told to protect everyone. She would not lie to herself, even if it tore her very heart out of her chest. Even if it darkened her dreams and erased her fantasies forever. Even if it meant she was ruined. 

She felt ruined already.

The door opened and her heart quickened in her chest. Jamie stood in front of her, his crown of dark curls fell into his eyes that were circled in darkness. His eyes blazed yellow like the glow of the fire light. He hadn’t changed out of his clothes from the night before and she wondered, darkly, if it was because they still smelled like Grace.

The image of the two of them locked in a passionate embrace violated her thoughts. She caught her breath and focused on the undone button just below his clavicle.

“Daisy,” his voice was rough. “Where have you been? Everyone has been out looking for you. You had us all worried.”

He reached out for her, the silver bracelet catching the candle light. She stepped back before he could reach her.

A muscle in his jaw tightened as he swallowed. His hands, empty, opened and closed as they dropped back down to his sides. “Cordelia…” She had never heard her name said in such a way, as if it were the most important word. It was nearly enough to shatter her. “I cannot properly express how sorry I am, but if you could please, allow me to explain.”

“It’s not necessary James,” she said, not unkindly. If she could, she would listen to him talk all night long and forget any animosity that she felt towards him, but she needed it to give her strength for what she was about to do next. 

“This is entirely difficult for me to say.” She wished she could go on the other side of the door and say what she needed to say instead of saying it to his face, but that felt incredibly cowardly. “Growing up, I was very much alone. I had my brother, of course, but we were very different and often wanted different things. To spend the time, I would read anything I could get my hands on, because of that, I think that I created a fantasy in my head. It was very difficult to let the outside world in. To let the truth in and ruin it, which is why I think it was so easy for me to say yes to your proposal, because it made sense for my fantasy. But James, I feel as if it was the most selfish thing of me to do.”

“Selfish?” Jamie shook his head. “Daisy, I have been the selfish one, not you.”

“Please, let me finish.” Her eyes burned with unshed tears. “When you asked me to marry you, I saw a life so different from the one that I am living. A life surrounded by people who love me and people who I love. I promised myself if I ever found that within my possession I would never let it go.”

“It can still be yours.” James, ignoring her protest, reached for her again. This time, his hands wrapped around her wrists and brought her scarred hands up to his mouth. She allowed him to kiss the tops of her fingers; the promise ring he’d slid onto the second to last on her left hand. “Do not let what I’ve done take this away.”

“I cannot marry you James.” The words spilled from her by their own volition. 

He released her as if she’d burned him. “It’s only for a year. We will come up with a lie and you’ll be free to marry whomever you choose. Someone who can—”

  “What?” She asked. “Someone who can love me?”

Who could ever love you like that? 

The fire was quickly dying behind James allowing a chill and darkness to descend upon the room. His eyes, burning embers and gold, held her gaze and filled with a terrible sadness.

“Where will you go?” His eyes darted away from her face and then back again.

“Home. To Idris,” she said. It was mostly true. She wouldn’t go home to stay. Being a ruined woman and all, her options were limited and she couldn’t stand the idea of returning to the lonely life that was left for her in Idris. Alastair promised to return with her and keep her company, but she couldn’t subjecting him to the same fate she sealed for herself. The idea came to her in a dream. She joined the Iron Sisters where she forged weapons as strong as the one that hung on her back. 

“What about Lucie?” His eyes blazed and his tone turned chagrin. “It’ll break her heart.”

“So would losing her brother,” said Cordelia. “I don’t regret what I did. Not for a single moment. Lucie will understand. She is clever and will make anyone a wonderful parabatai.”

“And what of the rest of us?” James took a step towards her, closing the distance between them. “Anna. The Merry Thieves. My father, who told me if I hurt you, he’d throw me into the Thames.”

Cordelia smiled, but she suspected it looked more like a grimace.

“We’ve all grown to appreciate your presence in our lives,” continued James. “It will be like ripping pages out of a book; nothing makes sense without it.”

His features blurred together through her water-rimmed eyes when she looked up at him again. “You will fill it with something else- someone else.” 

“No.” The word was a breath on his lips. 

The grandfather clock on the wall  startled her as it chimed eleven times . If she didn’t leave soon, Alastair would come in looking for her and she wasn’t sure she could stop him from enacting his threat to deal James a world of pain for hurting her. It took her a great deal to calm him down before she wasn’t sure she could do it again.

It didn’t matter though. She had said all she needed to say except the two words she needed to, but couldn’t bring herself to say.

So instead, she turned from him and walked towards the door, except her foot caught on the Persian rug and she stumbled downwards when a hand caught her wrist. Another wrapped around her waist, spinning her back, and she was crushed again him. His face buried in her neck. His arms like a vice, leaving her breathless.

“James,” she sobbed.

“I can’t— I don’t want to lose you.” His words were muffled against her skin. He kissed her shoulder, her neck, her jaw, her cheek, until his mouth hovered over hers. An invitation. All she would need to do was look up, but it’d be her choice. 

Her hands went from his shoulders to his face to stop him, or to stop herself, she wasn’t sure. She slid the pad of her thumb across his bottom lip, wet with his tears, and remembered what it felt like to kiss him in the Whispering Room of The Hell Ruelle. Warmth climbed up her chest and into her cheeks. 

It had been a kiss of passion and one that she didn’t want to replace with one of sadness and regret.

“My father once told me that love is like the flame of a candle.” She felt his chest press against hers when he breathed. Every inch of him touched every inch of her. “To keep it lit you need to protect it. Block it from even the slightest breeze and it will carry you through even the darkest of times. I thought, for the briefest moment, that maybe if I kept my light, my love, burning maybe one day one would grow for you too.” Her hands slid down to his chest, and as gently as she could, she pushed him away. “But I see now that’s not possible. Not when you have a flame that burns so brightly for someone else.”

James opened his mouth to say something, but no words came. It hurt worse than any broken bone, cut, or bruise she’d ever endured. She had the answer she’d come for. She could stand no more torment.

Slowly, she backed away from him, until she was nearly at the door. 

His hand circled his other wrist, around the bracelet, as if he were going to take it off.

“I wanted so badly to marry you.” She quickly wiped at a tear that had escaped down her cheek. “But a year with you, as your wife, is not possibly long enough.”

“Cordelia— I” 

“Goodbye James,” she whispered into the space between them and took her leave before anymore words could be said. 

[spawnofwitches]

there are not enough people discussing how Frederic Chopin's main lover was a WHOLE ASS BISEXUAL LEGEND AND GRUNGE GIRL

this is George Sand, a French novelist who used a male pseudonym as well as the following (at the time) masculine things

Wore means clothes because they were comfier and looked better

Had shorter than standard hair

Smoked cigars like A LOT

Partied hard

Chopin met her at a party and I want you to just imagine this: A fabulous party with fancy clothes and wine glasses clunking all around, cut through like a KNIFE by a short, dark haired, big eyed woman sitting in a corner chair, in men's clothes under clouds of cigar smoke.

She later wrote about him, "I must say, I was confused and amazed the effect this little creature had on me." and he was her, "beloved little corpse."

She was a huge feminist and socialist, writing many socialist novels later in her life. When she left Chopin, she became enamoured and soon became intimate with a French actress named Marie Dorval

it was never confirmed that they were sexually involved but take this quote from Sand how you will...

"Only those who know how differently we were made can realize how utterly I was in thrall to her...God had given her the power to express what she felt...She was beautiful, and she was simple. She had never been taught anything, but there was nothing she did not know by instinct. I can find no words with which to describe how cold and incomplete my own nature is. I can express nothing. There must be a sort of paralysis in my brain which prevents what I feel from ever finding a form through which it can achieve communication...When she appeared upon the stage, with her drooping figure, her listless gait, her sad and penetrating glance...I can say only that it was as though I were looking at an embodied spirit."

Here's a couple more really pretty quotes from her!

The capacity for passion is both cruel and divine.

One approaches the journey's end. But the end is a goal, not a catastrophe.

Guard well within yourself that treasure, kindness. Know how to give without hesitation, how to lose without regret, how to acquire without meanness.

We cannot tear out a single page of our life, but we can throw the whole book in the fire.

There is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved.

In short, George Sand dated the first emo boy, wrote a shit ton of famous political and romance novels, and was overall super fucking cool.

[madame-sand]

one-liner: george being herself boogaloo for @cainidepripas

❝ Would you mind feeding the bird?❞ 

[mae-gi-writes]

Deobi Playlist (EP 5) | The Boyz Imagine

Ep 5: in which Kevin says it’s okay to be different 

The Boyz x Hospital Playlist inspired drabble series.

Main Characters: Hyunjae, Juyeon, Kevin and OC (Mae)

Sides: the rest of The Boyz.

Genre: fluff, slice of life, comedy, BROMANCE BRUH

EP 1 | EP 2 | EP 3 | EP 4 | EP 5 | EP 6 | EP 7 | EP 8 | EP 9 | EP 10 | EP 11

----------

“I managed to take out his tumour, but I’ll need him to stay for a few days just so that he can recover fully. He’s under anesthesia for now but he should be up soon,” Kevin flips through his newest patient’s medical file and scans the page for his details. His name is Yeon Hanjo, eight years old, who had suddenly collapsed to the ground a week ago with no indication of an illness whatsoever. An MRI scan of his head and body had shown that the small child had been keeping a tumour hidden within the side of his skull for some time and after some thorough deliberating and research about the best methods to go about the operation, Kevin had managed to successfully draw the tumour out without any mishaps or complications. 

Mrs. Yeon bows before Kevin once more with barely restrained tears coating her eyes. She holds a tissue in her hand, which seems already wet and crumpled into a ball, and Kevin reaches out with another tissue that she takes gratefully. 

Mr. Yeon is at her side, one hand on his wife’s shoulder to provide her comfort, “Thank you, thank you so much Dr. Moon. We--We don’t know what we would’ve done without you.”

Kevin lets out a small, genuine smile, “it’s my duty. Hanjo’s life is just as important as anybody else’s, if not more.”

A few hours after the parents have left and Kevin has done his rounds as he is supposed to, he makes way to Hanjo’s room with a box of chocolate in hand. 

Hanjo is already awake, blinking at the night sky from his hospital bed. The child turns his attention towards the door when Kevin pokes his head in with a smile, “hello Hanjo. How are you feeling?” 

The child shrugs, and looks away. 

Being familiar with the way children react when they are forced into an unfamiliar setting where strangers prevail, Kevin steps in, closes the door behind him and takes a seat at Hanjo’s bed. The child is still not looking at him, chin adamantly pointed towards the outside world. 

“I bought something for you,” Kevin opens up his box of chocolates and offers him the box. Hanjo peeks into it for a few seconds of silence, looks up at his face, then pushes the box away.

While Kevin isn’t used to children not wanting any chocolate, that doesn’t dissuade him from trying. He closes the box and sets it on Hanjo’s bedside table. 

“In a few days, you can go back home. Aren’t you glad?” Kevin chats on despite the reluctance in Hanjo’s body behaviour, “what’s the first thing you want to do when you go back, Hanjo?” 

Still, the child stays silent. Kevin sees his lower lip tremble but decides it is better off not to mention it. He takes it as a fact that Hanjo might be shy, unwilling to converse because he’s a stranger. The only solution to that though is for Kevin to keep trying, which he does day after day. Every time he’d bring something different -- a different candy, or toy that boys his age would’ve liked -- but Hanjo refuses every single item without delay. 

When the date of Hanjo’s discharge looms closer and closer, Kevin can’t help himself but urge him to speak by prompting the child with good news, “you must be excited, only three days left!” he grins at the child in hopes of getting a smile back, at least. 

Hanjo, on the other hand, merely blinks. Then, a fat tear rolls down his cheek before he bursts into tears.

“Hanjo,” Kevin’s demeanor softens then, gently tugging the said child in his arms and scooping him close against his chest. The child keeps on crying, his face now red and tears cascading down his cheeks, staining Kevin’s white coat. His parents, having heard the commotion from outside, quickly slip in with mirroring expressions of worry and take the child from Kevin’s arms, who is left confused and slightly concerned at the child’s suddenly sad countenance. He cannot, for the life of him, understand how Hanjo’s mind works. Kids like him shouldn’t be crying like their world is tearing apart, shouldn’t be subdued and silent and just afraid of everything. 

No, there’s something that’s bothering Hanjo. And Kevin finds his answer a few hours later. 

“Hanjo spent most of his life in Florida, where he was born,” Mrs. Yeon says to him. After Hanjo had fallen asleep, she had ushered to buy Kevin a coffee at the cafeteria. She now sits opposite him, coffee cup clasped between frail fingers with skin wrinkled and saggy from years of work, eyes rimmed with blue aprons and mouth tugged down in a tense, awkward line, smeared with a pale chalky lipstick.

“We moved here just a few months ago. He hasn’t told me anything, but his teacher tells me that he hasn’t been very...interactive with the other kids,” she purses her lips as if in discontentment, “he barely talks, not because he doesn't understand. We talk to him in Korean all the time at home. Somehow though, he barely says a word here. It’s like he doesn’t want to make even the slightest bit of effort.”

“Have you tried talking to him about it?” Kevin asks with furrowed eyebrows. 

She shakes her head, “no, well. We’ve tried asking him about school and stuff, maybe mentioned his teacher’s comments once or twice but that was it. We don’t want to push him either.”

He can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the said young boy, knowing all too well how strange it is to move oneself to another country altogether, a country where the language is different, the people are different, and how it feels like your entire life has just turned upside down because of that mere fact. 

“Oh that’s just like little Kevin when he just moved here,” Hyunjae can’t help but snigger, prompting Mae to whack him across the back of his head.

“Ouch!” Hyunjae throws her a scowl, “why are you even a doctor? You should just become part of the mafia. Seriously! That hurt--”

She proceeds to shove a piece of lettuce in his mouth to muffle his protests. Juyeon and Kevin exchange knowing glances, before shrugging. 

“You should talk to him,” Mae suggests, and though she’s trying very hard to act normal, Kevin can feel the unease rolling off her, how she’s not looking at him and permanently fixating her gaze on her platter of food. He makes a mental note to ask Juyeon about it later.

For now, he replies, “yeah I should. It’s just a saddening thought. Children shouldn’t have so much trouble earlier on in their lives.” 

“Hey touff, we all haff prwabems,” Hyunjae attempts to say with his mouth still full. He swallows before gulping down some water. Slamming his cup down, he jabs a finger in Mae’s direction, “you and I have a problem.” 

“The only problem that I’ll have with you is killing you by asphyxiation, and before you ask, there is food involved,” Mae cooes. 

Hyunjae shivers, “psychopath.” 

“Nu-uh, Sociopath? Probably. But psychopath?” she scrunches her face up as though contemplating the thought, “nah, I’m too kind.” 

“You flatter yourself too much,” Juyeon rolls his eyes.

“Can we focus on the problem at hand?” Kevin waves his chopsticks around dramatically, ignoring Hyunjae stealing his piece of chicken and replacing it with some ginger instead. 

“Kevin, we all know that you’re the wondrous child talker here,” Hyunjae says, “we’re all counting on you to babysit our kids one day.” 

“Excuse me? Is there kindergarten written on my forehead?” 

“You mean, there isn’t kindergarten written on your forehead?” Hyunjae gasps dramatically, “here, let me--” 

“Don’t you dare, Lee Jaehyun.” 

Kevin waits until Hanjo’s parents leave with promises that they’ll be here to watch over him tomorrow morning, before slithering inside the children’s ward. Hanjo spots him, but doesn’t say anything as the said doctor sidles up to his bed and takes a seat on the abandoned chair next to him.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” Kevin murmurs. The child watches as he pulls out a box of pocky sticks. His mother had stated that Pocky is the only asian snack he eats. Surely enough, Hanjo doesn’t hesitate to grab it with his little chubby fingers and Kevin gazes down at him with a fond sympathy gripping his chest.

But then, Hanjo glances up at him uncertainly. Kevin puts a finger to his mouth, “can you keep a secret?” 

Hanjo pauses, contemplates him for a moment. Then, he nods. 

“Cool, because I can’t actually sneak in any outside snacks,” Kevin whispers with a soft chuckle at the alarm washing over Hanjo’s face, “it’s okay, don’t worry. This is between you and me, alright?” 

It takes a few seconds for the child to decide that Kevin’s intentions aren’t all that bad, before he slowly pries open the packet and digs into the snack with barely restrained excitement. Kevin just watches him with fondness, glad that for once it seems like he’s done something for Hanjo, when the child suddenly sticks out the packet, urging him to take some. 

“Oh,” Kevin blinks in surprise, before drawing a pocky stick, “thanks, Hanjo. That’s so nice of you.”

Hanjo just nods, before returning his attention to the said chocolate covered sticks. As his mother had stated, it is indeed his favourite snack. 

“Do you often eat pocky, Hanjo?” Kevin asks. 

The child shrugs, urging Kevin to ask, “do any of your friends eat pocky?” 

At this, Hanjo’s mouth pauses as if in contemplation and Kevin knows that he has hit a nerve. Not just any, but a sensitive one. He hurries to continue talking for fear that he might lose momentum, “you know, I never really had any friends when I first moved here. I used to eat pocky because it reminded me of the snacks my mom used to buy for me, back when we were still in Canada.” 

He can practically see the cogs turning inside Hanjo’s brain as he mulls over the newly acquired information. 

“I was shy back then. I didn’t know how to approach people. They all spoke Korean, I understood them. But I was so scared that they couldn’t understand me for some reason. After all, I never spoke Korean back when I was in Canada, just with my parents.” 

Kevin let the information sink in for the child who was now gazing up at him with newfound interest alight in his big brown eyes and it takes everything inside the said doctor not to squeal at how adorable he looks. Instead, he pauses and waits, waits with the hope that Hanjo will react to this, however he wants. 

“How?”

Kevin blinks. Hanjo’s mouth is open, curiosity filling his features as he continues hesitantly, “how...did you...make friends?” 

While Kevin wants nothing more than to punch the air in success, he decides that this is not the right moment to be celebrating that fact. Instead, he clears his throat and allows his arm to rest on the side of the child’s bed. 

“Actually, the pocky sticks helped me. The kids at my school always brought the same type of pocky sticks and then one day, when one of the girls in my class didn’t have any snacks, I offered her one,” Kevin smiles at the memory flashing before his eyes, “I thought she’d laugh at me when she started talking to me because of my accent. I wasn’t completely fluent. Surprisingly though, she was very interested to know what I had to say, despite the fact that I was so scared she’d just turn away from me.” 

“What was her name?” Hanjo asks.

“Her name?” Kevin tilts his head, “actually, she works here too. Her name’s Mae, she’s a doctor from the Cancer department.” 

Hanjo pauses for a few seconds, before he looks down at the box of pocky in his hand, “I don’t like talking in Korean,” his voice is small, barely a whisper, “I don’t like it here. Everything is different. Everyone is different.” 

“You know, Korean is one of the hardest languages to learn. And you know English. Do you know how amazing that is?” Kevin smiles down, one of his hands going to pat his head, “I know how it feels. It doesn’t feel like home, because home is far far away. But it will get better, Hanjo. It’s okay that you’re not fluent in Korean. You’ll get there, eventually. Look at doctor Kevin, see?” he motions towards his own chest, “I was in the exact same position as you were, once. But it really gets better, trust me.” 

Hanjo is frowning at the snack in his hands now, as though there are different thoughts flying about in his brain, thoughts too complicated for him to explain. But he surprises Kevin when he suddenly looks up and holds out his pinky. 

“Promise?” Hanjo asks, “promise it gets better?” 

“I promise,” Kevin hooks his finger with the child’s, “and you know what? You made your first friend right here,” and he pats his own chest with an amused smile. Hanjo’s lips tilt up in a mirroring expression, albeit hesitant, and Kevin’s heart melted right then and there in a puddle of Hanjo goo.

-----------

Knock knock. 

Kevin blinks away the drowsiness as he raises his head from his desk where he’d been napping just a few seconds ago. Rubbing the sleep away from his eyes, he spots Hyunjae and lets out a groan at the mischievous smirk on the latter’s lips. 

Whenever Hyunjae’s in a mood, he’ll have some kind of face that warns people about it. 

“Get lost, Hyunjae. Not in the mood,” Kevin groans while his friend saunters in as though he hasn’t been straight out rejected. Kevin buries his face back into his arms and Hyunjae quickly lays his head just beside him. 

“What?” Kevin asks with his eyes still closed.

Hyunjae merely giggles, before blowing softly on his face. 

Kevin whips his head around, “you’re so annoying. Get lost.” 

“But Kebiiin,” the taller man whines and nestles his face even closer so that Kevin’s soft hair tickles the bridge of his nose, “I have important news!” 

“What news?” comes Kevin’s mumble.

“I’m getting married.”

“To who?” 

“To you.” 

“No you’re not.”

“Okay fine, to Juyeon.” 

“No you’re not.” 

“Okay fine, to Mae then.” 

“Do you know,” Kevin asks slowly, “why is she acting so weird?” 

“Weird?” Hyunjae snuggles even closer, breathes in Kevin’s soft vanilla scent, “like usual Mae kind of weird or weirder than weird?” 

“No, she hasn’t been talking to herself. But she has been avoiding me.” “Oh.” 

“Oh?” Kevin whips around to look at him in alarm. 

Hyunjae draws back to stand, leaning against the opposite doctor’s empty chair as Kevin straightens to look at him with growing concern, “what do you mean by ‘oh’?” 

“She did ask me something weird the other day.” 

“About?” 

“About who you were crushing on.” 

“WHAT?” Kevin’s eyes grow wide, “what did you tell her?!” 

“That I had no clue.” 

“Oh thank god,” Kevin visibly slouches in relief. Then, his eyes grow wide, “wait--Does she know then?! That I--” All it takes is for Hyunjae’s face to take on a suspicious air for Kevin to realize that he is not out of dangerous waters yet.  He scrambles up and holds onto Hyunjae’s sleeve, “what?” Kevin demands like it’s a life or death situation. Which it is to him, “why do have that look on your face?” 

“Look Kev, mate, I definitely did not do anything.” 

“But?” 

“I never said there was a but.” 

“You implied it!” 

“Okay fine,” Hyunjae huffs, “but, someone seems to have leaked this information to her, like it or not--” 

“What?!” 

“--and we all suspect that it’s the Neurosurgery resident, the one that comes from Toronto--”

Kevin sucks in a sharp breath, “Jacob Bae?” 

“If anyone asks, this did not come out of my mouth,” Hyunjae is quick to defend while raising his arms in the air in mock surrender, but Kevin is too preoccupied at the thought that his secret is now out in the open for everyone to dissect and digest. How in the world does Jacob know about this? He barely even talks to him! 

Unless...unless it’s that obvious? 

His head snaps up so suddenly, eyes dark and so vividly intense on Hyunjae’s that the latter can’t help but yelp in return, “Hyunjae,” Kevin says slowly, “you’re sure...you’re sure you didn’t say anything?” 

“Are you implying that I lied to you?!” Hyunjae gasps mockingly, “Kevin, I’m--”

“Shut up and be serious for one second.” 

“Of course I didn’t! Who do you take me for?!” 

“Shit,” is the only thing that Kevin has to say, “Shit. Shit.” 

[consumedkings-archive]

ancient names, pt. ix

A John Seed/Original Female Character Fanfic

Ancient Names, pt ix: heartlines

Masterlink Post

Word Count: ~7.3k (yes I am a clown)

Rating: M for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop.

Warnings: Language, some “light” religious blasphemy (it’s Far Cry 5). Strong canon deviance.

Notes: I have nothing to say for myself, except: thank you thank you thank you! Everyone's comments really just got me through the real brunt of this chapter and it's a long one, oh boy. I cannot reiterate enough how much the hopeless romantic in me desperately wants them to just live happily ever after, and also how MUCH it really means to me to see your guys' feedback, but alas alack, here we are; I, with my long-winded author's notes saying the same thing every time, but I am just as grateful each time it happens.

As always, I have the best, sweetest, kindest, most thoughtful and wonderful proof-reader but most importantly friend who helped me block out this chapter because I was really, really struggling with it. @starcrier, my lover my life my shawty my wife, she is Elliot's number one stan and also an incredible writer so please go check out her stuff!!

On a brief tangent, I have some beautiful artwork made the artist @raviollies​ on tumblr, which you can find here! I definitely did cry a little tiny bit over it.

It’s your fucking fault.

Elliot’s words, venomous little baby snakes spitting their venom, crawled around the bone arena of his skull. John could not stop replaying them in his head, even though he desperately wanted to; the idea that the rookie deputy might now well and truly hate him—really hate him, more than she maybe ever had before—was an unsettling one. He liked to think that it was because he was worried what Joseph would think if they no longer had her cooperation, her good behavior, but—

But there was something else that dug at him. There was something else squirming in the cavity of his chest, sinking its nails right into him, but he couldn’t pick it out, couldn’t pull it apart.

(Or maybe he didn’t want to; maybe the idea of identifying what this strange and unknowable beast inside of him was kept him from trying too hard, a good enough reason to throw up his hands and say, sorry, I just can’t.)

He pushed the door to the church open, stepping back inside to the cool, dim quiet. Jacob had pulled a map out and spread it over the table, the radio set aside; Joseph sat in a front-row pew, one leg crossed over his knee and his expression mild.

“Did you get the opportunity to chat?” he asked, without looking at John, as though he just knew that it was him and not someone else coming in. “She seemed…” Joseph’s head tilted, just a little. “... Unseated.”

John hesitated, and then began walking down the aisle. “Yes,” he replied. “Although, I don’t know if chat is the proper word for it, considering that she all but put her teeth in my neck.”

“I thought you liked that kind of thing?” Jacob supplied without a hint of a humorous inflection in his voice, and John shot him a dirty look.

“Bleeding out to death? Not particularly.”

Joseph nodded, the gesture gentle, ignoring the bickering. “It does appear as though our deputy is not a damsel in distress, but rather a damsel under duress.” He turned to look at the youngest Seed brother when he reached the front of the church. “But it is nice to see the foundation you’ve put down, John. You’re taking my advice, and it isn’t going unnoticed.”

He felt something pleasant and warm bloom in his chest, billowing up into his head until it almost completely gassed out the venomous little vipers Elliot had planted in his mind. “I did have an idea about that,” he added, feeling more emboldened by Joseph’s praise as he walked past the table. “About endearing the deputy to us.”

“Oh? Well, I’m all ears.”

John’s gaze flickered across the space between his two brothers. Jacob had said nothing; he was bent over the map, dog tags glinting in the single beam of light that hit them from the window, one veiny hand clenched into a fist as it held the map in place.

“Maybe,” John continued, “our dear brother could try to stop antagonizing her.”

“Why?” the red-headed deadpanned, not looking up from the map. The fact that Jacob didn’t even deign to make eye-contact with him was enough to make irritation prickle in his chest, raise his proverbial hackles.

“Why?” John reiterated. “Perhaps because each time you open your mouth, you incriminate yourself as a villain—and us too, by proxy.”

“You can drop the attorney lingo,” Jacob said dryly, finally lifting his head to look at John—and John wished that he hadn’t, because the half-lidded, arrogant gaze of his eldest brother only served to stoke the fires of anger inside of him.

“It’s just my vocabulary, Jacob, and you missed the entire point, by the way, so in the interest of making sure we’re all on the same page—”

“—not an idiot, little brother, so you don’t need to—”

“I think John is right,” Joseph interrupted, effectively silencing the argument that was brewing. “He’s done exactly as I asked of him. Think of a stray dog, Jacob; you don’t beat it into submission. You feed it, nurture it, gain its trust, and then it becomes a lifelong companion.” The hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “A loyal companion.”

“This is an age-old philosophical debate.” Jacob’s brows furrowed together; a deep-set frown sat on his face. “A classic: is it better to be feared than to be loved? I think that we’re going to disagree fundamentally on this one.”

“Well,” Joseph replied mildly, “aren’t we lucky that there’s only one of us in charge of how our deputy is treated, then?”

John’s breath flickered out of his chest in a single blink at Joseph’s words. Casual and ever-so-patient, as though Jacob’s jaw weren’t setting in preparation to argue, as though it didn’t strike John right in his gut to hear Joseph say, there’s only one of us in charge of how our deputy is treated, as though it didn’t twist the knife right between his ribs to hear Joseph refer to Elliot as their deputy, over and over again.

A stamp. A brand. Joseph claimed, like he always did, the things that he thought rightfully belonged to him.

“Someone’s lucky,” Jacob said at last, a final and reluctant acquiescence.

Joseph’s small smile did not disappear. In fact, it seemed only to root itself more firmly on his face, as though he were pleased at Jacob’s unease. Joseph’s gaze flickered back to John, settling on him and then beckoning him forward.

He did as Joseph bid, coming and sitting beside his older brother and clearing his throat. He wanted to stop thinking about the way that Joseph had said our deputy, like he had any claim on Elliot—and that shouldn’t have bothered John, but it did, wriggled its way through the spaces between his ribs and squeezed, nice and tight.

“She was upset,” Joseph said, when John had settled next to him; it was not a question, but a statement, an assertion of what Joseph knew to be true. Their eldest brother scoffed from his spot at the table, bent back over the map, tracing and re-tracing the topography lines. John shifted in his seat a little.

“I think Jacob might have ruined any chance at a merciful conversion when he mentioned that her friends would deserve it if they didn’t make it out.” John’s voice was hard when he shot the red-head a stinging look, but unsatisfyingly, Jacob did not lift his head this time. John felt the strain of his brows furrowing at the center of his head, and then Joseph’s hand was on the side of his face, fingers spreading against his hair, primed and comfortable to grip.

“Grief,” Joseph said, his voice low and soothing, “is a part of change. Like shedding a skin.”

“It’s not—she was furious with me,” John replied, grimacing. “She just kept saying she hated me, and us. Joseph, I think—it would be beneficial to let me do things my way—”

“Our deputy is killing the person she used to be, John.” Joseph’s gaze was steady, piercing, a venomous yellow. His other hand came to the right side of John’s face, cradling him. “Strangling her old self, with her own hands. People like us, we’re lucky; we’ve always known who we were meant to be.” He leaned against the wooden backing of the pew again. “You’ve guided her here. Give her a while to grieve that girl from before. Patience is a virtue.”

John’s throat felt tight. He thought the Elliot in the bar those years ago—flushing and soft, breathless when he leaned into her—and the Elliot threatening to choke a man to death in front of him if he didn’t beg for his life, and the Elliot who played baseball with a shovel and a man’s head, and the Elliot that smoked a cigarette down to nothing while she cranked Welcome To The Jungle up on a van stolen from a group of crazy Swedish cultists.

He was not convinced she had not already killed the girl she used to be.

“You have got to have faith.” Joseph’s voice broke him out of his reverie. When John looked over to his brother, Joseph was absently dragging his thumb along his lower lip, his eyes fixed on the Eden’s Gate emblem glowing above them in the afternoon light. “Remember what I said; you have to love them. I know you can do this for me.”

His throat felt tight. This would be easier, he thought, if he could have just done everything this way. Wrath, he thought, would look perfect on her. But that wasn’t right; wrath already fit her. There was no skin to be shed. It was already on.

“John.”

He dragged his gaze from the white collar of Joseph’s shirt to his brother’s gaze, meeting it.

“Tell me you can do this,” Joseph said, his voice lower now, softer. It was not his counseling voice; this was Joseph asking him, his brother, not the man who led the masses. Asking, demanding, but waiting patiently for it to be given, never taking before it was time.

He was no longer thinking about Elliot at her fiercest, but rather the way she had softened for him, on occasion. Pressed against him for warmth, lashes wet with tears, unwilling to let go of his arm.

“I can,” John replied, “for you.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Elliot didn’t know for how long she slept. When she woke, the sun was still in the sky, the air felt sticky and wet with late-summer humidity, and while she slept sweat had gathered at the nape of her neck and in the hollows and dips of her body. For a second, panic filled her—she couldn’t remember where she was, or how she got there, confusion twisting and knotting its way through her.

And then she remembered. She was in Joseph’s compound, in a bunkhouse that served as a home to Eden’s Gate members, dressed in Eden’s Gate clothes sans her boots and underclothes. Elliot wiped the sweat from her forehead and pulled her hair out of the ponytail. Standing proved dizzying, and she felt the dehydration twisting around in her stomach like a scorpion; stinging, and unkind.

“Fuck,” she said, pressing the heel of her palm to her eye. The gesture reminded her that she had done it just recently; just before she screamed at John, just before she told him that she hated him. Oh, yes. That.

Grief still squirmed around inside of her, but it had been abated, for now, and she thought that she almost—

“No.” Elliot’s voice was firm, but still wobbled on its legs, when she spoke to herself. “I don’t feel bad about what I said.”

“Good to know.” It was John’s voice from the doorway, bringing with him a hot breeze that should have felt good being that they were on an island, but it just added to the humidity. Elliot’s stomach twisted violently at the sound of his voice. It wasn’t anger that populated her mind, now, but embarrassment: that she’d let him get under her skin, that she’d let him see her without her veneer, that he’d been there and endured it and now he stood here again, undeterred, as though John Seed were someone with a moral high ground that allowed him to endure verbal attacks and return as though nothing had happened.

I hate you. Elliot willed the words to her mouth, tried to muster the venom, but she couldn’t. She fixed her eyes instead on the knot of a wooden floor panel, trying to ignore the sight of John moving in the corner of her eyes, closing the space between them. He did this, always—invaded her space, overwhelmed her, until saying things like I hate you became harder.

He smelled like sweat, and day-old cologne, and heat and dust and outside, and when he put his hand on her arm she opened her mouth to say something—anything, any of the venom that might come to her in the heat-addled and perspiring confusion—but he put a cold water bottle, slick with condensation, in her hand.

Her eyes went to find the bloodstain on his shirt when she realized that he wasn’t wearing that shirt anymore. He was in a white shirt, the same kind that Joseph wore.

“Drink,” he said. “I promise it isn’t poisoned.”

Elliot turned the cap of the bottle. It cracked, promising that the seal was freshly broken, and she brought it to her mouth and took one heavy swig before she pulled it away. Her nerve-endings immediately screamed in relief at the water in her mouth, but her stomach lurched—she knew she’d need to pace herself, or she’d be puking it up in a few minutes.

“Did you sleep?” John asked when she didn’t say anything. Elliot sucked her teeth.

“I don’t think we should play at being friends,” she said, her voice wicked with a dry, crackling, wildfire-in-the-making heat. John’s gaze was steady, though, once again unfettered by her words and remaining in her space. She was more aware of it than ever, now: as though resting, and having basic necessities like shower and drinking water also made her all the more aware of John’s presence, the heat radiating off of his body and the way he was watching her—

(like he couldn’t get enough of her)

—like he wanted to make sure that nothing she did escaped him.

“We’re not playing at being friends, deputy,” John drawled, crossing his arms over his chest and rocking back on his heels a bit as he looked at her. “Whether you like it or not, you and I are on the same side.”

“For now,” Elliot bit out.

“For now,” he acquiesced, as gracious as ever.

Her eyes narrowed. John was not the kind of person who forgave and forgot the sorts of things that she’d said to him. Elliot felt the suspicion rising up in her throat. She kept waiting for the punchline; for John to say something stupid like, and when this is over you’ll be begging for me to absolve your sins, or something equally driven by ego and his desire to have Joseph’s approval.

“So,” John began again, arms unfolding elegantly to be held out in a gesture of harmlessness, “did you sleep?”

Elliot took another swallow of her water bottle, stepping around John. Her body instantly braced itself—as though she expected him to try and stop her—but he didn’t; merely turned with her, a planet trapped in her orbit.

“Briefly.” She kept her voice short and clipped as she headed towards the door. “Are your friends back?”

“Jacob’s ready whenever you are.”

Her face scrunched up at the mention of the eldest Seed brother. She was now unsure which of them was the most unpleasant to be around; they all found their own special ways to get under her skin. John, perhaps, was the worst; Joseph and Jacob, she could handle their particular brand of crazy, but John—he was harder for her to read, because all of the time spent with him had started to cloud her brain.

“Why are you being nice to me?” she demanded, turning suddenly to find that he’d crossed the bunkhouse again, as though to follow her outside. Because she hadn’t quite gone out, yet, he now stood nearly nose to nose with her, even with her back pressed against the door of the bunkhouse.

John’s gaze swept over her. “Does it bother you?”

The plastic of the water bottle crunched in her hand. Her jaw set, painfully tight, holding back her gut reaction—to tell him that yes, it did bother her—and instead swallowed thickly. It would be just like John, to go out of his way to be nice to her because he thought it would unsettle her. But then, wasn’t John all about bending and cracking someone to his will, no gentleness required?

A headache splintered behind her eyes, throbbing painfully. She was spending too much time trying to parse John Seed out, and that was her first mistake.

“I’m just surprised you know how,” Elliot snipped, watching the way her words ticked the corner of his mouth upward in that easy, boyish smile.

“I can be nice,” John offered, “if someone isn’t spitting venom at me nonstop, calling me pathetic.”

“Fucking pathetic,” she pointed out, ignoring the way John’s eyes flickered down to her mouth and then back up to meet her eyes. “I shouldn’t have said that—”

“—no need to apologize after the fact, deputy—”

“—because I know how sensitive you are,” Elliot finished, wiping the smile off of John’s face, “and since we’re on the same side, I suppose I can’t afford to have you down and out.”

John’s eyes narrowed. His hand found the doorknob, and he was very close, so close all of a sudden that for a brief moment Elliot’s brain short-circuited and all she could think about was how unjust it was that a man so deserving of her venom could make cologne smell so good.

And then he said, “No, I suppose you can’t,” and opened the door behind her, the heat of the afternoon sun sunk into her skin, sticky and hot. “I work best when my partner isn’t trying to fight me the entire time.”

She turned and stepped out of the bunkhouse, clutching the water bottle in her fist and putting as much distance between herself and John as she said, “And I work the best if you stay the fuck out of my way, John.”

No more, she thought, decisively, no more of that.

Images of Eden’s Gate members scattered in her periphery; they were eager to look, but not eager to be seen, so that when she turned her head to find them they were already disappearing behind a corner or into a building. The heat was no more bearable if she was moving, either, the sun high in the sky and threatening to burn any exposed skin.

John fell into step beside her, his hand landing on the doorknob to the church before she could open it, holding it closed while she stopped on the landing.

“Jacob likes when he gets under your skin,” he said to her, the words sounding a little different than before. “He might say whatever he can to rile you up, and make you look unreliable to Joseph.”

Elliot hesitated. She didn’t know why John was giving her this information; not only because she already knew that—because of course Jacob enjoyed pushing her—but she didn’t understand why John was trying to be helpful. It was always going to be the Seed brothers against her, wasn’t it?

She thought of the way they had been bickering, the two brothers, while she tried to gather herself after her call with Jerome. She wished she’d been paying attention so that she could know what it was they had been arguing about.

John waited expectantly. He said, “You want to get Joey out of there, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Her brows furrowed. “What kind of—”

“And I want Faith out of there, with as little risk as possible,” he plunged on, keeping the door in place, “so we can’t get outvoted in there. Joseph does take you seriously, though who can imagine why—”

“If you’re trying to convince me we’re actually partners,” Elliot deadpanned, “you’re doing a shit job of it.”

“All I’m saying,” John continued irritably, “is that if we present a unified front in there, we have a better chance of us both getting what we want.”

Elliot didn’t want to admit that he was right. The last thing she ever wanted to do was tell John Seed that he was right about something. But if she had to weigh her options, she’d rather tell John he was right than do whatever the fuck it was that Jacob and Joseph wanted her to do. One Seed brother she could handle.

So, she relented, “Fine.”

John stuck out his free hand to her, grinning. “Shake on it, partner?”

Elliot groaned and swatted his hand away. “Don’t push it, buck,” she replied, pushing the door open—and this time, John let her, trailing in after her. Jacob and Joseph were in their spots at the front of the chapel, waiting ever-so-patiently. She reminded herself of what John had confirmed; that Jacob liked to see her on the brink of a meltdown, that he was a pusher.

It did not escape her that John had not offered any insight into Joseph.

“Have a nice nap?” Jacob asked as she came up to the table with the map.

“Funny, John asked me the same thing.” Elliot kept her voice even and took a drink of her water before she started tying her hair back into a ponytail. “So, where are they? Where are Joey and Faith?”

“South of here, the faithful say,” Joseph said before Jacob could speak again. “At Sacred Skies Lake. Just past Angel’s Peak. It sounds like they don’t go by any name, and just call themselves a family.”

“And do the faithful say what they’ve been doing?” she asked tartly. She had an idea of where they had made their home; probably at the abandoned youth camp, though as far as she last remembered that had been occupied by Joseph’s own.

Well, probably not for very long. There was no way Joseph’s little rednecks could hold up to the precision that these crazies had.

“Living,” Jacob replied, his gaze hard and his jaw set. “They’re not doing anything. They’re just—there. Like they’re waiting for something.” 

Elliot’s stomach plummeted at Jacob’s words. There was no way he could have known, surely; she hadn’t told John, and she hadn’t said anything to them in the car, about the way Ase had cradled her face, and called her mor, and had said, I know that you will always come back to us.

Fuck. There’s no fucking way.

But there was. If Ase didn’t have absolute confidence that Elliot would seek them out, why would she have let them go? Why would they have been mostly unscathed? They were playing with their food—a sick, drawn-out catch-and-release.

The brothers had started speaking again. The aqua curve of Sacred Skies on the map burned into her retinas the longer she stared at it without blinking.

“Waiting for me,” Elliot mustered up after a moment, her mouth feeling very dry. “They’re waiting for me.”

Three pairs of eyes fixed on her, all with the same uncanny precision. There was no time for it to bother her; her stomach was already rolling with nausea.

And then Jacob barked out, “Explain,” and she thought she might punch him in the face if he didn’t shut up. Elliot took in a deep breath, mustering all of the composure she could manage, and focused herself on the map.

“When John and I got—when we had our run-in with the family,” she began, “we were separated, and—they drugged me, with something. But their leader, Ase, she was there for a little while—”

“What?” John demanded. So much for presenting a unified front, she thought ruefully. She shot him a look, willing him to be quiet, to just let her gather her thoughts; blissfully, he did.

“She kept calling me something in Swedish,” Elliot explained, “and she kept saying all of this weird stuff, like—like that she saw my color, that she saw me, and then…”

The Seeds all stared at her, waiting expectantly. Even Jacob remained silent.

“And then she said something like… Like that she was going to let me go, but only because she knew I was always going to come back to her.”

A moment of silence stretched in front of her, endless and dizzying, where no one in the room said anything and all Elliot could think about were all the things that Ase had said.

And then, as though these words had almost no impact on him, Jacob said, “Well, at least we have proper bait.”

“Absolutely not,” John cut in immediately, angrily. “You’re not putting Elliot out there to try and lure them here—”

“—they want her, I don’t see why we wouldn’t—”

“Brothers,” Joseph interrupted, his voice effectively bringing both John and Jacob to heel. Like before, he stood directly across from Elliot; her gaze was fixed on him now, tumbling Ase’s words around in her head while the Seeds argued about whether or not she was shark bait or not. “What do you think, deputy?”

The words were gentle. Elliot knew what they were; certainly, Joseph knew how long it had been since someone had asked her opinion, rather than her having to fight tooth and nail for someone even to consider it.

“I think—we could get Ase to come out of the youth camp, which is probably where they’re holed up,” she said after a moment, willing the charm of Joseph’s attentiveness away. Her gaze slid to John for a moment. “If we used me as bait.”

“Are you serious?” John demanded. He took her arm in his hand, pulling her from the table and hissing, “When I said present a unified front—”

“If we’re partners, you have to trust me,” Elliot insisted tersely. His expression hardened. A part of her hoped that he regretted suggesting they be anything remotely close to on the same team, and a part of her was glad that he had, or he wouldn’t look like the words you’re right were sitting right on his tongue.

Finally, at last, he said, “Fine.”

Elliot turned back to Jacob and Joseph, with the brunette’s hand still on her arm, and asked, “Are you any good with a sniper rifle?” 

“The best.” Jacob’s voice was clipped, insistent. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“So if I can get Ase out to meet me,” she continued, “can you not shoot me?”

His eyes narrowed, but there was a tiny, tiny smile pulling at his lips. “Scout’s honor.”

John exhaled a sharp, short breath. “This is ridiculous—”

But before he could plunge onward, Joseph held up his hand to stop him. He turned his gaze to her, now, studying her for a few long heartbeats before he said, “Do you think they won’t kill Faith if we kill their leader?”

Elliot shrugged his hand off of her arm and walked back to the table, setting her water bottle on the table and crossing her arms over her chest. “I think like any snake,” she replied, “the body won’t function if you cut the head off.”

“At any rate,” Jacob interjected, “push comes to shove and you can get in without a firefight to get Faith out of there.”

“And Joey,” Elliot replied firmly, and stifled down the absolute fury when Jacob shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.

“We’ll start making the preparations immediately.” Joseph sounded pleased. It took everything in her power not to say something just spite that, to remember that even though she didn’t want to be, she supposed that she was on their side, too.

Jacob gathered up the map from the table and immediately set off after Joseph, who had stepped down from the small stage and gone to the side door. Elliot picked up her water bottle and took one more heavy drink to finish it off before she turned and looked at John.

His brows knitted together at the center of his forehead. He looked troubled. It was not an expression that she was used to seeing on John Seed’s face; it might have been endearing, if she didn’t know that he was troubled by her, and not in the fun way.

“Spit it out, then,” Elliot prompted. John heaved a loud, impatient sigh.

“This is a stupid idea,” John said abruptly, angrily. It was a change of pace from the cocky asshole he normally liked to be. “There’s no way that they know they aren’t waiting for you to show up so they can skin and gut you, and—”

She waited, patiently, for him to get the words out. Whatever they were, they stuck in his throat.

“—and what use would you be then?” he finished, his lip curling up in clear distaste. Ah, there he is, Elliot thought absently. Almost thought I’d lost you, John.

“Don’t worry,” she said lightly. When she had capped her water bottle again, she headed to the back of the church. It feels good, she thought, pushing on the door, to have a plan again. “I’ll far outlive my use to you, Seed.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The plan was simple.

Elliot was going to walk herself—unarmed, much to her personal chagrin—out to the Sacred Skies Youth Camp, once they dropped her off. Jacob would already be in a position where he could get a good look at what was going on, and when he got a clear shot at Ase, he was going to take it.

And they were banking on the woman coming out to get Elliot herself, based on what Elliot had told them. John was not convinced, but he had been overruled; it was no longer his choice, and instead of going in and being on the same team as Elliot, he had found himself on the opposite of the playing board from all three of them—his brothers and the deputy.

Not ideal.

But now, as John parked the truck at the bottom of the hill leading up to the youth camp, all he could feel was dread knotting his stomach. The plan was supposed to be simple, but John remained unconvinced that it would be executed as easily as everyone seemed to think it would.

Elliot seemed in perfect spirits; she’d eaten a handful of granola bars, finished off two other water bottles, and her coughing had become less frequent. Not once had he seen her reach for a cigarette, either. It was like the second she had an actionable plan, she no longer stressed: there was nothing for her to worry about, beyond getting the job done.

John met her gaze through the rearview mirror. “You’re sure?” he prompted, and ignored the way Joseph’s head gently cocked to the side. Elliot flashed him a smile.

“Just focus on making sure Jacob doesn’t shoot me in the head,” she replied, “okay? And I’ll focus on getting Joey and Faith out of there.”

Joseph said, lightly, “That’s all we could ever hope for, deputy,” and when he did Elliot shot John a look through the mirror, a look that said, can you fucking believe this guy? And for one, brief second it felt like they shared a joke only between the two of them.

Then she pushed the back door of the truck open and kicked her legs out, landing on the dirt road with a soft thump. The blonde closed the truck door and then came up to John’s window, which had been rolled down, and said, “You’re sure you don’t want to give me a weapon?”

It would blow the whole fucking thing if they caught her with a gun or a knife, Jacob had said; if by some strange happenstance he didn’t snipe the shit out of the crazy fucking Swedish woman, and Elliot wound up getting dragged into the belly of the beast, having a weapon on her would out her immediately. They would know that she hadn’t come willingly, but that she had come with the intent to harm.

At least in the instance that they somehow avoided Jacob, she could lie her way out of it. Maybe.

“I have absolute faith,” John said, mimicking Joseph’s veneer of confidence, “that you can make a weapon out of just about anything if you need to.” She patted the side of the truck and took one centering breath, but before she could set off up the hill John said, “Elliot—”

The blonde turned back around to look at him, life and vigor back in her face and one brow arched loftily at him.

Be careful, he thought to say, the words sticking in his throat. That’s what he should have been saying, if they were actually partners—even fake partners, even tenuous partners, partners-by-proxy because John insisted for the sake of feeling like he had some control over the situation and Elliot because there was no one better that she had the chance to pick. Not exactly setting the bar very high, were they?

“Any day now, John.” Elliot’s voice snapped his attention back to reality. She was waiting expectantly, but there wasn’t impatience in her voice; she was content, at last, to have motion. He cleared his throat.

“Don’t start going yet,” he said, instead of the things he thought would matter, like, don’t forget to breathe. “Give Joseph and I a chance to get up to where Jacob is.”

She gave him a two-finger salute, wisps of hair fluttering into her face from a late-afternoon breeze. “Yes, boss.”

John threw the truck into reverse, pulling back and then into a u-turn to head off down the road. The car was silent for a moment, blissfully, with the golden-hour light drenching the two of them in a warm glow. If he didn’t know what was going on just out of reach, he might have felt like he was transplanted into a different time and place entirely.

“You don’t need to worry about her, John,” Joseph said lightly.

“I’m not,” John replied, pulling the truck off of the road. Dry brush crunched and snapped beneath the weight of the tires. “She’s perfectly capable of handling herself with three granola bars in her system and healthy bout pneumonia.”

“You sound frustrated.”

“I just think that maybe we could have picked someone that’s not—” John inhaled. He parked the truck deep into a grove; to the right of them, a small trail would lead up to where Jacob waited with his perfect vantage point to see Ase come out and collect Elliot. “—Sick,” he finished, after a moment, “and not such a wildcard. You know she tried to kill one of the guards when I had her at the ranch? She was going to choke him to death, right then and there. For—touching her, or something.”

Joseph looked unaffected as he stepped out of the truck. “I’m unsurprised, if that’s what you’re looking for.” And he paused, looking thoughtful for a moment, before he said, "Touching her, you said?"

John ignored the question. “Well, then maybe that should speak to the level of reliability Elliot displays.”

“I think you’re underestimating the power of a positively-reinforced bond.” As Joseph spoke, John fell into step beside him, climbing up the slope. Behind them, he heard the distant sound of voices; the members of Eden’s Gate that weren’t holed up would be waiting for Jacob’s signal to swarm, if things looked grim. “Didn’t she say she hated you, and us? And yet today, here she is. In a good mood, no longer frothing at the mouth, rabid and dangerous.”

“She’s still dangerous,” John started, but Joseph stopped him by pressing his hands to his shoulders.

“You’ve done exactly as I asked,” he said, a mirror of the words he’d said before. “Remember? You haven’t beaten your stray into submission. This—” Joseph gestured with his hand in the general direction of where they had dropped Elliot off. “—is all only possible because of the work that you have put in, John. And when we bring Faith home, and return to our followers, that is what they’ll remember. Not the person the deputy used to be.”

John’s felt something hot and painful twist in his chest, prickling pain squirming up his spinal cord. He should have been pleased to hear Joseph refer to Elliot as something that belonged to them and instead was giving him some ownership—but he realized too late that it wasn’t what he had been wanting from his brother. This wasn’t what he wanted from Elliot.

He swallowed and said, thickly, “Yes, Joseph.”

“Good boy.” Joseph held him in a tight hug, the pressure of the gesture relieving some of the stress in his shoulders like muscle memory pulling it right out of him, and then he pulled back. “Now, let’s go and get our sister back, yes?”

His brother stepped up the last stretch of the slope, and he followed obediently behind. Jacob was perched carefully, eyeing the scope and muttering to himself; as John crouched beside him, and Joseph on the other side, the redhead breathed out a little swear.

“Stupid piece of shit,” he sighed. “Remind me to get these upgraded next chance we get.”

“What’s wrong?” John asked, already on edge.

“Nothing’s wrong—the gun’s perfectly functional, it’s just not as stealthy as a rifle should be,” Jacob explained. “It’s got a red dot sight on it.”

John’s eyes narrowed, his teeth clenching. “So they’ll see it the second you get it on that woman.”

“They might,” Jacob protested, “I’ll just have to be fast.”

“Where’s your rifle?”

“It’s back at the center,” his brother snapped. “I didn't have the opportunity to grab it before I went on a wild hunt for you across the Montana countryside. Anything else I can help you with today, little brother?”

“There’s no time for arguing,” Joseph interjected, sounding almost tired now. “Quiet, now.”

From their vantage point, they had a clear view of Elliot. The blonde was yelling something to garner attention, to lure people out, and there was some movement through the trees that blocked off the camp up the road. He could see her start to walk farther up, and then stop, hesitating.

“Someone’s coming,” Jacob said, peering carefully through the scope.

Tentative bodies drifted down the road, breaking the treeline: though John could not see Ase’s strange, lithe form anywhere among them, he could hear what he thought was certainly her voice, saying something to Elliot, who had her hands up carefully to show that she was weapon-free as best she could.

The movement that he thought might be the Swedish woman stopped just before the treeline. Come on, John thought, taking in a breath, come on, you fucking bitch, come out here.

It was someone else that stepped forward from the protection of the tree line. It was Ase’s man, the tall, broad-shouldered ginger, though he too looked unarmed. John tried not to think about how easily he had nearly disposed of them with only his hands, last time.

The man made it to Elliot, gesturing for her to come forward, to close the last foot of distance between them herself; she did as he bid, straying to her right, feigning innocence. John knew what she was doing: leaving room for Jacob to make a shot.

“That’s not her,” John hissed. 

“Yes, I’m not fucking blind.” Jacob’s voice was sharp but steady. “She’s leaning for me. Who is he?”

“Her—right-hand man, or something. I don’t think you should take...”

John’s voice trailed off. The man had stopped Elliot, snagging her wrist—which looked tiny in his hand—and said something to her that did not look pleasant.

“I think I should,” Jacob muttered, shifting the rifle.

“Jacob—” John began, sensing the way his eldest brother’s muscles tensed, ready.

Elliot was saying something to him. She paused, just briefly, and John saw her head tilt down; she saw it, first, and then the ginger looked down at his chest just as Jacob was lining up his shot. 

The incriminating red dot gave it away. The man’s head shot up and locked on them instantly, and before Jacob could pull the trigger, he’d twisted Elliot around and pulled her right against his chest, his hand gripping the pillar of her throat.

John’s stomach plummeted. He heard, as though in a last-ditch effort, Elliot shout his name: and he didn’t know if it was because she wanted help or if she wanted someone to take the shot anyway. He didn’t know if either of those options was more comforting than the other. 

The man had shifted her so that the red dot now lay directly over her chest, pinning her, and Jacob did not pull away from the scope. Even from this distance, John could see the wicked grin splitting across his expression.

“Do not fucking shoot,” John hissed, “Jacob—do not fucking shoot—”

For sure, now, he heard her voice. "John," she said, desperately, his name choked in her throat by the grip of the Swedish man bruising her skin.

“There’s a good chance it would hit him and kill him,” Jacob insisted, his finger hovering over the trigger. “They’re goading us. This is the perfect opportunity to—”

“You fuck,” John seethed. “Joseph, tell him not to shoot!”

Joseph was silent, his jaw set lightly and his gaze fixed on the scene before them; Elliot, struggling to breathe, while the man began to make his way back to the treeline with her body shielding him. For the first time since Elliot had become a problem of theirs, John saw his older brother take time to consider whether or not he really needed her alive or not.

“Killing a right-hand man would be—”

“The plan was to let her get taken in,” John snapped. “Not to fucking shoot through her to get to some nobody!”

“That was before they knew we tried to trick them,” Jacob insisted. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, little brother—”

“Leave it.” Joseph’s voice was final, and sharp. It seemed his brother was bringing an end to fights like this more and more often. “They won’t kill her, or the others. They want her for something. If you shoot through her, we’ll lose our one person on the inside.”

Jacob looked, for one split second, like he might willfully disobey Joseph’s final ruling on the matter. The hard lines of the eldest Seed’s face sharpened, steeling, before he finally flipped the safety on the rifle and straightened up.

A swift, hot breeze drifted through, picking up dust along the dirt road, and right as the shade of the treeline began, the man stopped. John could see Elliot squirming against his grip, her fingers grasping at his wrist and hands, scratching as she gasped for air: but he was immovable, and his attention wasn’t on her, anyway.

It was on them—where he thought they might be. He lifted his hand, thumb up, and two fingers out in the shape of a gun, pointed it at them, and mimicked a single gunshot.

Jacob was seething, the emotion rolling off of him in waves. “The fucking gall—”

But John wasn’t listening anymore. He felt like he was going to throw up. This was exactly what he’d been worried about happening—and here it was, laid out before him, a feast spoiled rotten by reality. He couldn’t get the sound of the way she’d called for him, desperately, like he was the last safeguard she had left.

And yet again, he had failed her. Her, and Faith, and sure, while he was at it, he could stick Joey Hudson’s name on the list; and didn't that mean he'd failed Joseph, too?

John came to a stand. “I have to go in,” he said, assertively, drawing both sets of eyes from his brothers now. “They know, now, and—they think Elliot is a big threat, so if there’s a chance she’ll put up a fight they’ll drug the fuck out of her. I should go in, and Jacob can watch my back, because—”

Because I don’t trust anyone else to get this done the way it needs to be. The thought auto-completed itself in his brain, but the words didn’t come, and it didn’t look like Jacob nor Joseph expected it out of him.

“John,” Joseph said, “are you sure you want to do that?”

“Faith is our sister,” John replied, “and didn’t you say that’s who I was? Ever-giving?”

The man hesitated, just for a second; the sound of chatter below, and Elliot’s furious voice rising as she presumably was given more room to breathe, echoed in the air.

“Yes,” Joseph said at last, relenting. “We did.”

John nodded, turning and making his way down the slope. He kept thinking of the way Elliot had said his name, because it wasn’t the first time she had done that; in the van, too, his had been the first she’d said.

And he couldn��t stop thinking of Ase’s man, either, and the way he’d wielded her with ease, the way he’d grinned when he’d spotted them, the way his hand gripped Elliot’s throat like he’d choke her to death right there if he’d gotten the chance.

No, John thought furiously as the truck came into sight, that won’t do at all.

[isa-bella-cognition]

We cannot tear out a single page of our life, but we can throw the whole book in the fire.

George Sand, Mauprat

[pengychan]

[Good Omens] Winging It - James 4:11

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon Rating: T  

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: This chapter is longer than usual because I added a full page of fluff between Crowley and Aziraphale that has little to nothing to do with the rest. But I left it where it is ‘cause Christmas, I guess, and you really cannot count on Ineffable Bureaucracy for fluff. 

***

The angel Gabriel from heaven came His wings as drifted snow His eyes as flame...

“Of all songs, did they have to pick this one?”

“Hah! Don’t like Sting?”

Something did sting all right and, as a matter of fact, he did not like that, but Gabriel knew better than to explain why those words - a song about his most well-known task and the mention of his wings, which had been white as drifted snow except for the faint purplish tint of the primary feathers  - made him wish he could shut himself in a dark, quiet place for a century or two or twenty. 

“You could say that,” Gabriel finally muttered, mildly thankful of the fact the background noise in the pub made it easy enough to shut out the lyrics if he didn’t focus on it too much. 

Daniel shrugged. “I don’t mind it. But maybe we’ve just had it up to here with Christmas songs by now. I swear that every year they start playing them earlier and earlier. We were just through Halloween and bam, Christmas. I swear I’ve been hearing jingles ever since.”

Ah, yes. Halloween. Gabriel made a face, trying not to think of the laughs everyone at the warehouse got at his expenses from time to time over his less than measured reaction when several workers had come in dressed up as demons. Namely, screaming and trying to climb up the closest scaffold. Even Daniel had been unable to keep himself from laughing to tears - but really, how was he supposed to know it was just pretend and not, well, actual demons?

Of course, that wasn’t something he could say aloud, so he had to resign himself to the fact that everyone working in the warehouse thought he was, to put it mildly, a scaredy cat. Not that it had done much damage, aside from the occasions ‘boo!’ shouted behind him to try getting him to repeat the performance; somehow, it seemed to have actually helped. 

“I found you a little stuck up at first, but you know what, you’re good fun,” someone had said, and that seemed to be the general consensus. Plus, the fact he was able to speak to every single worker in their native language - English, Polish, Romanian, Urdu, German, Italian, you name it; he hadn’t lost that sort of knowledge - had gained him a lot of respect despite what they probably perceived as oddities from his part. 

That was… not the kind of workplace he was used to, but chances were that no one would hold him down to tear out a pair of limbs because a CEO told them to, and Gabriel found he liked that in co-workers. Besides--

“Gabriel? Did you hear a word of what I said?”

“Huh?” Gabriel looked up from his glass, and his confused expression was probably enough of an answer. Daniel rolled his eyes a little, and took a swig from his glass before he spoke again. 

“I asked what plans you’ve got for Christmas.”

“Plans?”

“... I take it you have none?”

Gabriel shook his head. “Not really,” he murmured. Christmas was celebrated in Heaven as well, of course, though not the way mortals did. It was one impressive birthday party, although the birthday boy himself rarely showed up in the high spheres to see them. Now he certainly wasn’t in the mood to celebrate it either way. 

���Ah. Don’t you have any family? Sorry if that’s personal, it’s just that you never mentioned--”

“I had-- siblings,” Gabriel cut him off, blurting out what he felt was probably the closest term a human would understand, and emptied the glass. When he spoke again, his voice was beyond bitter. “We’re not on speaking terms.”

I understand you have no wish to see us, and we will not impose.  

Daniel nodded, his expression grave. “... I understand.”

“I don’t think you do,” Gabriel muttered, more harshly than he meant to. 

Daniel didn’t seem fazed. “Did they do something, or--”

“They cast me out,” Gabriel snapped, slamming the empty glass down. “They just-- they were told to cast me out, and they did. I...” he paused, and swallowed. He hadn’t heard from Crowley or Aziraphale in the past couple of months, but now the demon’s voice rang in the back of his mind, loud and clear as though he was standing right there before him. 

Had it been you receiving the order and Michael the one on the ground, would you have refused to do what God asked of you?  

All we knew was that we owed obedience, the letter read.

“... They cast me out,” he repeated, and leaned back against his seat. It still hurt to think of it; the scars over his shoulder blades ached at the memory. “And then they went and said I could call for them whenever, but I can’t. I won’t.”

“Maybe they want to make amends,” Daniel said slowly. He put down his glass, still half full; he spoke slowly, carefully. “Maybe they-- regret throwing you out.”

We never wished for any harm to come to you. I hope you know that.

“Maybe,” he finally said, gesturing for the waitress to bring him another drink by lifting up the empty glass. He was getting used to alcohol, sort of, but three drinks seemed to be his limit and he had no intention to surpass it, so that would be his last for the evening. “I doesn’t really matter. We’re through.”

“I’m sure that if you did take their offer and tried to call--”

“What, are you their advocate now?” Gabriel snapped again, and immediately regretted it. He groaned, rubbing his face. “... My apologies. It is a sore subject.”

“No, no, I get it,” Daniel immediately backpedalled. “I’m sorry. I pressed on without even knowing what happened. I just-- you know, sort of know how it is, wanting to make contact after… something stupid and cruel you wish you could take back, but can’t.”

Daniel’s wistful tone, more than his words, got Gabriel’s full attention. He stared at him across the table as another gin and tonic was put in front of him; he thought back at Aziraphale, how dignified he was while stepping into Hellfire, how hard facing him was when, even after all that, he went out of his way to help him.

“Do you regret what you did, or do you only regret where it landed you?” 

“I regret it. I do. I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” Gabriel finally said. “Guess I know what it’s like, too. Actually, everything happened because I did something stupid and cruel I did and can’t take back.”

“Mmh. Want to talk about it?”

Gabriel lowered his gaze back on the glass. “Not really.”

“I see,” Daniel said, and thankfully didn’t pry: he just took a long swig of his pint before putting down the glasses. “... Maybe there is still time to fix it. It’s what I tell myself all the time.”

Gabriel glanced up. “Fix what?”

“Whatever you did wrong.”

“I don’t know if that’s possible,” Gabriel muttered, then, “what is it you want to fix?”

For a few moments, Daniel said nothing. He stayed silent, seemingly debating with himself whether or not he wanted to answer, then he sighed. “Ah, you see - there is someone I-- well. I had a sister. I still do, I think, she can’t be that old but you never know. I’ll know for sure once I find her.”

“Oh?” Gabriel took a sip, frowning a little. Daniel had only ever talked about his wife, and not very much: he was tight-lipped when it came to his life before he found himself in the streets. All Gabriel had gathered was that his wife had died of cancer, and he had no other family. No mention had been made of an estranged sister before. 

Daniel nodded, frowning down at his own glass. “Yeah. I don’t like talking about it, but-- she was my older sister. Her name was - is - Alison. She was way older than me, by almost fifteen years. She must be about seventy now, but I can’t picture that very well. She was twenty-five last I saw her. I was eleven. And Christ, I was a catastrophic dick.”

“I can’t picture an eleven year old boy being such a catastrophic dick,” Gabriel muttered. “Unless it’s the Antichrist, then I guess I can.”

Entirely unaware of the fact that statement was not a joke at all, Daniel chuckled. “Heh. I guess I was just following my parents’ lead. They were the ones who told her to fuck off, and I repeated every single shitty thing they said.” Another long swig. “I wouldn’t now. Those were different times, and I was a kid. But that’s the convenient excuse, isn’t it? Different times and all that.”

“What did she do?”

“She was into women.”

Gabriel blinked. “... Weren’t you as well?”

“What-- well, I was a kid, but-- well, yes, but I am-- a guy. You know? Adam and Eve and all that.”

Oh, right. That was a thing with humans, getting hung up on such insignificant things. “I’d wager their example is not one anyone should strive to follow. Adam and Eve’s, I mean. When you get kicked out of Eden, you know you’ve done something wrong.” He made a face. “Believe me.”

A chuckle, half-hearted. “Heh. Not a bad point, that. But that’s not the way people thought at the time. Our parents sure didn’t. And I thought whatever they told me to think. When you’re that age you still think your parents can do no wrong, you know? Like they’re God or something.”

There was a painful twinge in Gabriel’s chest that he did his best to ignore. “I understand.”

“So she-- stood there, and took the insults, and if not for the fact that her girlfriend was there I think our father would have tried to beat it out of her. But that woman looked like she could break him over her knee, so he didn’t. He just screamed. My mother screamed and cried. And Alison looked at me.” Daniel threw back his head, finishing the pint in one gulp. 

Gabriel suspected he knew what he was going to say next, but he kept quiet and waited for him to speak again. When he did, his voice was tight. “I told her she was disgusting, and that I never wanted to see her again. It was stupid, and it was cruel, and… I didn’t even fully understand what was going on, I think. But I knew it was something that made our father furious, and it made our mother cry, and I hated her for it. I told her I never wanted to see her again,” he repeated, like he could scarcely believe it. 

“... And you did not.”

“I did not. She was told to leave, and she left - they both did. Skipped town.” A pause. “... I got a letter from her a couple of years later. It was addressed to me only. I always picked up the mail, she must have known I would get it before our parents did.”

“What did it say?”

Daniel grimaced, giving him a look that was pained and ashamed in equal measure. “I don’t know. I recognized her handwriting and just threw the envelope in the fire. We moved home a few months later and I never got anything from her again.”

“And that was--”

“Forty years ago. I began looking for her about ten years ago. I figured it would be easier with all the technology - Facebook and Instagram and whatnot, if you listen to folks everybody is on it. But not her, apparently. I can’t find her anywhere. Maybe she’s too old for that crap. I tried with electoral registers, but… nothing. I guess she might have opted not to be on the public list, or changed her name, or…” he paused, the next words he’d clearly been about to utter - or she’s dead - never getting past his lips. In the end, he sighed and shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. I’m starting to think it would take a miracle.”

As Daniel turned to gesture for the waiter to get him another pint, Gabriel looked back down at his unfinished drink, his brows knitting together in thought. 

“Yes,” he said slowly, more to himself than to Daniel. “I suppose it would.”

“But maybe it’s for the best that I don’t find her,” Daniel said, turning back to him. He looked saddened. “Maybe she doesn’t want to see me ever again, either. I was awful to her. I didn’t know any better, never occurred to me to defy our parents, but-- yeah, I can’t take back what I did. I only wish I could let her know I’m sorry.”

We cannot begin to understand God’s reasons to order such a thing of us, and to punish you alone, the letter on his desk had said. All we knew was that we owed obedience. We never wished for any harm to come to you. 

“You know,” Gabriel said slowly, “you shouldn’t despair just yet. Miracles do happen, after all.”

Should you ever need us, all you need to do is call out our names, and we’ll be there. Always.

*** 

“Ba’al.”

“Ah, Gabriel. I was wondering where--”

“Where have you been?”

“... I don’t like your tone.”

“You were with Astaroth again, weren’t you? And Lucifer, and--”

“Maybe. So what?”

“You know what! It’s… the wrong sort.”

“The wrong sort for what?”

“To be around. The things they say - it’s not an amusing joke anymore. Everyone is on edge. Patience is running thin. They have stopped short of declaring themselves above God so far, but it seems a matter of time before something happens, and when it does--”

“Maybe we are above God. Them, me, you.”

“What-- Ba’al!”

“We do all the work, no? God has done nothing but give orders in eons. Why shouldn’t we take-”

“Don’t you dare say such a thing! None of us is above--”

“Be quiet, Archangel! Remember it’s a Virtue you’re talking to!”

“I-- you--” Hesitation, because never before did Ba’al bring up their superior rank, but only for a moment. “You’re a Virtue because God willed so! You exist because God willed so! You can’t seriously think--”

“What I think is none of your business.”

An attempt at walking past Gabriel. Gabriel refusing to budge. “Please. I don’t understand what’s gotten into you.”

A pause. “... If you really want to understand, come with me one of these days.” A step forward, a hand held out in invitation. “Maybe you’ll change your mind once you listen--”

“I won’t! Are you out of your mind?”

No answer, for a few moments; only a long, icy silence. “... Perhaps you should be on your way, then, Archangel Gabriel. You wouldn’t want to be caught hanging with one of the wrong sort, would you?”

“What? No, I didn’t mean you, you’re not--”

“And how would you know?”

More silence; not icy, but stunned. “I-- I know you.”

“... No. You do not.”

 ***

I knew him, before the Fall.

Of course, was nothing new: Beelzebub had known that annoying little piece of trivia for well over three months now, during which he had avoided that insufferable idiot like the pla-- no, wait. Not like the plague, they had quite enjoyed that despite part of history despite-- I was a healer once wasn’t I -- the sudden increase in the influx of souls in Hell. That had resulted in some serious pressure on the chronically understaffed New Arrivals department - the understaffing was intentional, of course, or else it wouldn’t be Hell - as well as a few headaches.

And speaking of headaches, there was one threatening to split their skull right now. Served them right, Beelzebub through, for trying to remember. Why do that? It was painful, and whatever they dredged up couldn’t possibly be worth it. Gabriel wasn’t worth the hassle of trying to change his mind. He wanted to live as a mortal? Fine then, let him live as a mortal. 

He’d die eventually and when it happened, Beelzebub could bet a six hundred and sixty-six souls that he’d find himself in Hell - because God was no better than the worst of them, except when it came to PR - and oh, how they’d laugh, then. They’d laugh in his stupid face and throw him in some pit to be tortured for all eternity, because he could forget getting a nice, important role after rejecting the offer so many times. And then they’d never glance in his direction again. 

They’d never have to remember. Just cast him down, like he’d cast them down, and… and…

But he did not. It was Michael.

“I had a spear, and your sword was broken…”

“Gabriel, what are you waiting for? Strike them down!”

But he had not. Neither of them had moved, which was… stupid. Why had they not moved? Why had he not struck them down?

“No, I didn’t mean you, you’re not--

Enough. Beelzebub shook their head to chase away the memory, expecting another spike of pain in their head, but nothing happened. Well, now that was… interesting. Memories were painful to pull up from the depths of their mind, but once they managed to do that thinking of them caused no more pain. Nothing to keep them from revisiting them. 

“Lord Beelzebub? Is something the matter?”

Dagon’s voice seemed to come from a mile away. Sprawled on their throne, Beelzebub looked up.

“Nothing’s the matter,” they buzzed. Whether Dagon believed it or not, she knew better than to argue. “What is it?”

“We have received a report from the demon you assigned to watch the Archangel Gabriel.”

“Be quiet, Archangel! Remember it’s a Virtue you’re talking to!”

“That idiot is no angel,” Beelzebub snapped, straightening themselves. “He’s a mortal. He’s nothing but a waste of time and resources. Give the demon another assignment and forget about him.”

Dagon blinked a few moments, taken aback, but she was quick to recover. “Yes, my Lord,” she said, and turned to leave.

“Wait,” Beelzebub called out, and held out their hand. “... The report.”

May as well read it, and then forget all about that fool.

*** 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the letter he’d found himself unable to throw away, Gabriel felt increasingly foolish as minutes passed and he did nothing, said nothing, called out for no one. He couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t do it.

Calling out names - or just one name, you don’t need several archangels for one miracle - was all that it would take, and they could make Daniel’s wish come true by finding out where his sister was, if she was even still alive. 

Such a huge change to his life, with minimal effort… and no risk. He knew none of them would harm him again. He knew none of them had wanted to do it in the first place, but still he  couldn’t will himself to do it. The mere thought brought him back to when he had last called out their names, cried out their names as he begged for the pain to stop, for them to stop hurting him.

“Michael, please! Uriel-- Sandalphon-- no, no, no, please please--”

Gabriel swallowed, trying to ignore the burning sensation over his shoulder blades, and forced himself to relax his grip on the letter before he damaged it. He threw it back in the drawer and slammed it shut, then reached to take his phone, and dialled the number to Aziraphale’s shop.

The thought of turning to him for help again left a sour taste in his mouth - after what I did, after all he’s already done - but it felt less unbearable than the alternative. He’d explain he needed to help a human and he’d help, or his demon would, and that would be it. Easy. Convenient.

Except that no answer came; the phone rang and rang, but no one picked up and Gabriel realized, belatedly, that Aziraphale had mentioned leaving London around Christmas time for a few days.

“Leave a message and I’ll get back to you,” he’d said. There were few things Gabriel was better at than delivering messages, but this time he just ended the call without leaving any. He would just call back; there was no rush, after all. He could take care of that in the New Year. 

He failed to take into consideration, even after living as one for months, how frail humans truly are - and how easily their lives are snuffed out, without warning.

***

“You did what!”

“Gave the wrong directions to the Wise Men.”

“Crowley, for the love of-- you did not!”

“Why do you think they only got there in January? They lost the star and asked for directions.”

“How do you lose a star?”

“Well, it was cloudy.”

“I see. And you absolutely had nothing to do with it, did you?”

Crowley grinned. Aziraphale made a sound halfway between a snort and a rather undignified giggle. 

“I can’t believe you.”

“Oh, you do. How long have we known each other?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“All right, that we can recall, we have known each other for some six-thousand years, give or take a few months. So yes, you can absolutely believe that I gave wrong directions to the Wise Men. It’s got my name all over it. In my defense, they did the worst part on their own.”

“The worst part?”

“Picking the gifts. Newborn shivering in the cold, and they bring incense and gold and whatnot. Not very wise of them. Why not a blanket?”

“Gold can buy many blankets.”

“Not in the middle of the night in Bethlehem, it can’t.”

“Maybe they wouldn’t have arrived at night if someone hadn’t thrown them off course.”

“Nice try, angel, but they were travelling at night, following a comet that just so happened to be heading the right direction. They wouldn’t have arrived during the day anyway.”

A sigh. “All right, fair,” Aziraphale conceded, and went back to looking up. The night sky was perfectly clear, the stars so very close. The valley below them was almost completely dark. 

“Maybe we could visit Alpha Centauri,” Crowley said. “A vacation. But I like it here, for now.”

“A demon, enjoying a visit to the Devil’s Dyke? Who would have thought.”

“Did I just experience a microaggression here? The betrayal,” Crowley sighed in mock hurt, leaning back on the blanket they had lain on the grass. They both could keep their body temperature in check easily, but neither had wanted to really bother, so they were wearing thick coats and, in Aziraphale’s case, a woolen hat. “You know how this place came to be, right?” Crowley asked.

“Ah, I heard the myth. The devil was digging a trench to let the sea flood churches, but the noise disturbed an old lady who lit a candle. The devil thought daybreak had come and fled, leaving it unfinish-- wait. Oooh, wait. Don’t tell me…?”

“... In my defense, I was drunk.”

Aziraphale laughed, a gloved hand to his mouth. “That would have been amusing to watch.”

“You were busy running around with the Knight of the Round Table,” Crowley muttered, and looked up again, the glasses off his face. Aziraphale followed his gaze up to the stars. 

“You know what would be nice? Snow would be nice.”

“Snow, on Christmas Eve? Groundbreaking,” Crowley sneered, but he was already lifting a hand to snap his fingers, and clouds began closing in above them. Aziraphale smiled and said nothing as the first snowflakes began dancing through the air, illuminated by the headlights of the Bentley.

***

“Are you sure you don’t want to come dine with us?”

“Yes. I’m tired.”

“It will be fun. Lukács is going to make carbonara, but he’s putting cream in it and we’re all going to watch Fabrizio have a full-blown meltdown.”

“Didn’t Fabrizio say his grandmother would kill him if he didn’t make it home for Christmas?’

“Couldn’t afford the tickets right on the day. He’ll go before New Year’s, if he survives the shock of eating carbonara with cream. So, did I convince you?”

Gabriel - who couldn’t begin to imagine what could be so bad about adding cream to carbonara, a position that would have severely disappointed Aziraphale and caused roughly sixty million Italians to froth at the mouth - smiled a little. “Do get his reaction on video for me,” he said, causing Daniel’s smile to fade.

“Are you really sure? It doesn’t seem right, being alone on Christmas Eve.”

“I’ll live,” Gabriel said, his voice somewhat hollow. He tried not to think of the celebration they would hold in Heaven for the birthday of God’s son, tried not to wonder if it would be held that year too with him gone. He made an effort to smile. “If it gets bad, I’ll show up uninvited.”

“You’re already invited, idiot,” Daniel muttered with a laugh and one more worried look, but he did not insist further. When they parted ways it was already dark, and Gabriel just began walking, not really minding where he was going, barely even looking up. When he did look up, he found himself staring at the pier. 

Well, good job I did look up, Gabriel thought, sitting on a bench. It was cold, but at least it hadn’t rained. Or I’d have walked right in the water and I am not entirely sure I would be able to swi--

“You know, this is where the Titanic set off. A good place.”

“Gah!”

“Oh, please. I wasn’t even trying to startle you.”

Gabriel turned to look up, so suddenly it almost made him dizzy, to see Beelzebub perched on the backrest of the bench he was sitting on. They tilted their head on one side, looking at him. 

“You look aged.”

Gabriel clenched his jaw. It was the first he saw of the Prince of Hell since he’d stormed out of that café three months earlier, although he was fairly sure they did, at the very least, have him under surveillance. 

“What do you want?” he asked, full expecting them to answer ‘your soul’. 

Beelzebub didn’t reply: they just slipped down to sit next to him. They weren’t bothering to wear a coat proper coat, but then again it was probably for the best. Gabriel didn’t quite want to imagine what atrocity Beelzebub would consider a proper coat.

“They got some idiot to deal with the appeals,” they informed him, causing Gabriel to frown a little. He’d put the appeals system in place himself, for souls to make their case that Hell had claimed them unfairly - far more civilized than having a skirmish each time over a soul. Beelzebub hadn’t been especially keen on it at the start, but in the end they had agreed to it.

Needless to say, nearly everybody who found themselves in Hell filed an appeal, but there were very few cases, relatively speaking, that were truly considered and reached Gabriel’s desk. 

Of course, Hell would fight tooth and nail to keep each soul, but he and the Lord of the Flies had always managed to keep those discussions in the ream of civility, meeting on neutral ground on Earth. Sometimes Hell kept the souls, some other times Heaven was able to snatch them, even more rarely it was Hell to put forward a motion to get someone’s soul out of Heaven and into Hell, claiming that significant sins had been overlooked. All in all, it was a challenge, and one that Gabriel had enjoyed, red tape and small writing as his weapons. There was a certain work ethic to Beelzebub, too, and he could respect that. 

“They did?”

“Yes, some nondescript angel who tries to argue too many cases at once. Or so I’m told.”

Gabriel blinked. “You haven’t met them?”

Beelzebub scoffed as though insulted. “Don’t make me laugh, I am the Prince of Hell. No time to waste arguing with someone so below me. They sent a nondescript angel, and they got a nondescript demon to deal with it.”

“Ah. I see.” Gabriel fell quiet, and looked out towards the sea, a cold wind ruffling his hair. It had grown, and he’d needed to have it cut for the very first time; needless to say, having someone stand behind him with a sharp object had been… unpleasant, even with the backrest shielding his back from it. Luckily, the barber’s chatter had served well enough to distract him. Overall it had been less disastrous than his first attempt at shaving. “Did you come to tell me that?”

Beelzebub frowned and leaned back against the bench, arms crossed and glaring at the nearby street light. “I have a question. And I demand an answer. Why didn’t you strike me down?”

That was… not what Gabriel had expected to hear. He blinked, turning back to them. “What?”

A glare. “Are you deaf now?”

“I can’t strike you down, I have no powers--”

“Not now, idiot. During the Battle. Why didn’t you?”

Ah. That. “I-- I don’t know.”

You didn’t try to strike me, either. 

A displeased buzzing sound. “That is not an answer. You can remember without your skull splitting in two, no?”

“Well, yes, but--”

“Then do better and remember.”

“Last we met, you didn’t want me to--”

“Don’t pretend you know me!” Beelzebub snapped, causing Gabriel to recoil. “I hate nothing more than a question unanswered, so you will give me an answer or else!”

“All right, all right,” Gabriel said quickly, still reeling a little. He… wasn’t precisely sure he wanted to remember himself - that past was dead and buried for a reason - but then again, you don’t say no to Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, without repercussions he’d rather avoid. If they wanted answers, they would have them… but he should get something in return, too. With Aziraphale unavailable and not really wanting to see his former colleagues, at least he could get one question answered. 

“There might be something I’d like to ask you,” Gabriel finally spoke slowly, fully aware of the fact that trading favors with Beelzebub was… an awful idea. Beelzebub raised an eyebrow, looking mildly surprised, and Gabriel continued. “It’s about a departed soul,” he said. He hoped, truly hoped that Daniel’s sister was not dead yet, but he didn’t want to explain too much to the Prince of Hell. They had already threatened a mortal to force him into a deal. “Alison Brown from Plymouth, born… sometime between 1948 and 1950, if my estimate is correct. I don’t know the date of death. I only want to know if she’s in Hell.”

“And why would you want to know if that particular soul is downstairs?”

Gabriel pressed his lips together, saying nothing. “Why do you want to dwell in the past?”

Beelzebub narrowed their eyes. “It’s on a need-to-know basis, and you do not need to know.”

“Likewise,” he retorted. He got himself an annoyed glance, but in the end they nodded. 

“Fine. Deal. I’ll have the records searched to find out if this ‘Alison Brown from Plymouth’ is in Hell, but when I return with the information I demand answers before I give it to you. And if she is one of ours,” they added, sneering, “I might be willing to trade her soul for yours.”

Ah, Gabriel thought. Of course. Not too long ago, he would have been outraged at the suggestion that his soul was worth that of a mortal and no more. Now he just smiled a little. Despite everything, it was almost a smirk. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d given up on trying to claim me.”

“No. You have well and truly pissed me off too many times not to want you in my trophy room.”

“You have a trophy room?”

“You’ll be the starting point.”

“That’s oddly flattering.”

“Shut up.”

Gabriel smiled faintly and said nothing, waiting for Beelzebub to leave in a cloud of sulphur and smoke, leaving him alone on the pier. But they did not, nor did they say anything themselves. They both just sat there in silence, staring out at the pier beneath a starless sky - and while it was no Christmas party, it was still better than being alone.

*** 

“Do you think Yeshua is going to show up?”

“Doubtful. He never does.”

“Why do we bother celebrating his birthday, anyway? That’s the sort of thing mortals do. And he spends every single one of them on Earth.”

“Tradition, I suppose.”

“Who started it?”

A pause, and they all lifted their eyes up from their papers to glance at each other, a grim sort of realization dawning in. They couldn’t remember, and were not supposed to ever forget things unless it was somehow related to the Fallen. As the Son of God had been born as a human long after the Fall… well, only one angel had been cast out of their ranks ever since.

Was it Gabriel who’d suggested they should celebrate the anniversary of the birth he’d announced himself as his best-known task? Did he enjoy celebrating it? How did he convince them? Michael couldn’t remember. It was nowhere in the notes she had written down. 

Notes are not enough. They can never be enough. Anecdotes about a stranger we know we ought to care about, but cannot remember why. 

“Maybe we could check on him,” Sandalphon spoke slowly. “Just to, er, check.”

“He didn’t call for us,” Uriel pointed out. “It would upset him.”

“He won’t know,” Sandalphon replied, and glanced over at Michael. She hesitated. 

“Aziraphale is keeping his promise to keep us updated,” she said slowly. It was true, of course, but it didn’t help much now that another realization hit her - she was forgetting what his voice sounded like. How do you write down the sound of someone’s voice?

“But he hasn’t met him since he left London. He only relies on what Gabriel tells him on the phone, and-- we can find him. We can see how he’s doing, and... he won’t know it’s us.”

Michael stared a few moments and finally, slowly, she nodded. Uriel sighed, and nodded back. 

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Just to check.”

***

“For if either of them falls, the one will lift up his companion. But woe to the one who falls when there is not another to lift him up.” -- James 4:11

***

[Back]

[Next]

[ineternalexile]

We cannot tear out a single page of our life, but we can throw the whole book in the fire.

George Sand, from Mauprat

[irelise]

the yew tree 3.2/3.4

Erik has worked with Sebastian Shaw ever since Shaw rescued him from human experimentation when he was a boy. He is reluctantly enlisted to assist in Shaw’s newest scheme: seducing the wealthy and enigmatic Lord Xavier to claim his vast fortune. With Shaw posing as Xavier’s doctor, Erik goes undercover as Xavier’s personal manservant to convince him to fall in love with Shaw.

But Xavier has secrets of his own, and it isn’t long before Erik starts having second thoughts about the whole thing…

Featuring mysteries, hidden agendas, a jealous and conflicted Erik, and a whole heap of master/servant tropes.

(the handmaiden inspired au - no canon knowledge required

part one and two now on ao3!

beginning of part 3)

Warnings for this part: Referenced human experimentation, referenced sexual exploitation of children Rating: M Word count: 3984 Notes: the long overdue update is finally here! this is basically the end of the emotional arc of the story - the next update will probably be the last (unless i get impatient and split it into two) and will mainly tie up loose plot threads

It’s a beautiful day out in the grounds, golden sunlight and verdant greenery as far as the eye can see. In the distance, a lark trills as it ascends in flight.

An automobile idles in the driveway. It is sleek and black, its engine rumbling quietly like a great predator at rest.

The window rolls down. A powerful, thick-fingered hand beckons Charles forward.

“You’ll be good,” Uncle says. His face is half-hidden in shadow.

How do you know you’re doing the right thing?

Charles bows his head. “Of course, sir.”

The only way to stop him is to kill him.

“You remember our agreement. Our deal.”

You make it sound so easy.

“Yes, sir.”

It is.

***

Sunset. They’re to stay put until the dark of night, so the two of them are in Charles’ study now, the air so thick with tension that Charles rubs at his temples, resigning himself to a migraine. Not tonight, he prays. If all goes according to plan, everything will end tonight.

The clock ticks, the march of time slow, inexorable. Beside him, Erik stirs, crossing and uncrossing his long legs. There is a book propped open on his lap, but as Charles watches him, Erik’s eyes skim through the text without seeing, gaze flickering across the same line over and over again. His mind is a storm of questions, but it’s tempered by concern; Erik has resolved not to push Charles for answers before he’s ready, and he’s determined to stand by his decision even though curiosity is eating him alive.

Charles loves him very much at that moment.

One hour to go. He can’t delay any longer. Charles has made a promise and he doesn’t intend to go back on his word. Still, it doesn’t change the way his whole chest goes tight, shame and anxiety and fear making it difficult to breathe. His hands tremble as he shuts his book (he hadn’t read a single word these past few hours), and immediately Erik’s attention snaps to him.

Charles musters an unconvincing smile. “Let’s be going, shall we.”

Finally, Erik’s thoughts shout, but all he says is: “You sure you’re ready?”

“I don’t think I ever will be,” Charles tries to joke, but it falls flat, too honest to be funny. He shakes his head. “I’ll do what I must. Let’s go.”

He’s walked the path to the recital hall many, many times before, almost every single day of his life. But never before has he felt this mix of choking fear coupled with quiet, fragile hope.

The last time. Whatever happens, this is the last time he has to walk this path.

Erik’s mind sparks with the keen interest of a hunter as Charles pushes open the door to the hall. His sharp gaze sweeps through the room, cataloguing every detail. The small raised dais, open and exposed.  The rows of benches arranged in a circular pattern, allowing the hungry audience to watch the performance from every direction, every angle.

The bookshelves, each of them stuffed to the brim. Uncle had kept expanding the hall as his collection grew. Now the bookshelves are ordered in neat, dense rows, enough of them for a small library. Display cases of glass break up the monotony, proudly exhibiting intricate scrolls and illustrated texts.

Confusion creases Erik’s brow. “This is…” Just a normal room, his mind supplies.

If only.

And the thing is, Charles can keep up the deception. The trapdoor is right there. He can just lead Erik down to the lab, leaving this whole sorry chapter of his past behind him. Erik never has to know his shame. His weakness. He does not owe Erik this part of the truth; this has nothing to do with the lies he had told concerning Shaw.

But – and Charles doesn’t wholly understand it himself – some part of him wants Erik, someone, anyone to know the truth. The whole truth. He’s lived with the lies and the silence for too long.

He wants – he hopes – for Erik to understand.

But what if he doesn’t? Or, worse, what if every time Erik looks at him from now on, he only sees a victim? Someone weak, someone piti–

“Charles?”

Erik’s voice jolts him from his thoughts. Erik is watching him with a frown. He wants to demand answers, Charles can sense it, but the greater part of his thoughts is preoccupied with concern for Charles.

Charles takes a deep breath, licking dry lips. He can’t look at Erik.

“The bookshelves. Just. See for yourself.”

Erik’s footsteps are soft as he picks his way across the hall. Charles closes his eyes, building up the barriers around his mind. Already he regrets his decision.

Paper rustles.

Then–

Shock. It pierces clean through Charles’ mental defences, and Charles freezes like a child caught eavesdropping. He can hear the turning of pages again, loud and quick, a noise like a panicked bird beating its wings.

Erik tosses the book away. It thumps against the ground. He rips open another book, flicking through the pages so rapidly that Charles can hear it as a snap-snap, snap-snap, the crack of the whip, the breaking of bones.

“Charles. What is this.”

He cannot answer. Charles stares at the ground, waiting for Erik’s scorn. His eyes burn.

“Charles!”

He shakes his head.

From far away, he hears the ragged exhale of Erik’s breath. “You. All this time. Every single time you went to read for him, every single day… I, that time I forced you into that costume…”

All his usual eloquence had deserted Charles. He closes his eyes, mute, and Erik lets out a snarl, fury battering against Charles’ shields.

“How long?” Erik demands. “How long has he– When did this start?”

“I was six,” his voice sounds so quiet, nothing like himself at all, “from memory. It was shortly after I first arrived here. I…”

His voice cracks. He swallows, rubbing at his eyes, a childish habit he can’t seem to break. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t– I didn’t know how to say no. You must think me so–”

Charles jumps as Erik suddenly moves, arm sweeping out to send the row of books tumbling to the floor in a series of sickening thuds. They lie there like dead, broken things, pages bent and crumpled, covers askew. He catches a glimpse of a half-torn ink drawing, the legs ripped apart.

“Erik?”

The whole room trembles. Wood splinters, the nails that hold the bookshelf together rattling and warping. The whole thing comes apart with a clatter, rows and rows of books falling to the floor, the wooden frame tumbling down to crush them. Charles stares uncomprehendingly at their broken-spined forms. He almost feels like he’s one of them, lying helplessly on the ground as Erik pulls the world apart right around his ears.

Silver flashes through the air: metal, responding to Erik’s command. Veins bulge from the back of his hand as he clenches it into a fist, and the metal soars in deadly arcs across the bookshelves, scything across wood and paper alike.

Pages flutter to the ground. Another bookshelf trembles, coming apart with a groan and sending a cascade of books spilling across the floor. Almost in a dream, Charles stoops to pick one of them up, only for Erik to snatch it out of his hands and throws it back onto the pile. “Never again,” he says harshly, but the words seem to slip out of Charles’ dazed mind the instant he hears them. He can only watch, still uncomprehending, as Erik steps contemptuously over the pile, crushing the delicate pages beneath his shoes.

Another crash. Something falls: an inkwell, splattering black stains across the fallen volumes.

Erik is pausing, one of the exposed pages catching his eye: …if anyone desires to use you in any manner whatsoever, he will use you…

Fury. Charles’ mental shields crack.

Erik, on the ground, blades of metal ripping through the pages.

A scattering of red. Ink? Blood? Charles makes a small noise – Erik shouldn’t hurt himself, not over this – but it’s swallowed up by the tearing of parchment as Erik rips apart a stack of papers, trampling them underfoot.

One of the glass cases shatters, its metal frame warping. Crystalline shards slice through the scroll on display. It’s one of Uncle’s favourites, a depiction of a woodland hunt, the baying hounds immortalised in ink, the fleeing boy naked and half-mad with fear.

All gone now. The ragged, ruined edges of the parchment burn in Charles’ mind.

Another shelf topples. The very bones of the house seem to shake with the force of Erik’s rage, a red tide that crashes over Charles’ mind.

Strange. He doesn’t fear it, not like the way he fears Uncle’s red thoughts.

Something hard shifts under Charles’ foot. His heart skips a nervous beat when he realizes he had just stepped on one of Uncle’s books. Instinct takes over and Charles flinches away – he remembers this book, remembers being twelve and sitting on the dais and reading it aloud as every single man in the audience fantasised about raping him – and he jumps at another thunderous crash as Erik takes an armful of books and dashes them all against the ground.

He’s never seen such deadly focus in Erik’s eyes before.

Never again.

Gingerly, his heart pounding, Charles nudges at the book with his foot, pushing it beneath the growing pile of rubble. He’ll never have to see it again. He’ll never see any of this again.

The mad racing of his pulse doesn’t slow, but with that first little act of defiance, some of the fog around his head lifts. Although he still can’t bring himself to speak, Charles scrapes together enough courage to touch Erik lightly on the elbow, guiding him to the back of the room where a discreet false wall swings open to reveal an alcove filled with accoutrements Uncle likes to keep on hand: racks of wood and metal – the sort perfect for tying a small, unwilling body to – and long braided whips, silken ropes and the faceless mannequin Uncle had liked to see him straddle.

Erik destroys all of it. Charles stares at the twisted metal, the shattered wood, hardly daring to breathe, hardly daring to believe. In a daze he leads Erik to the trapdoor, only dimly aware of the devastation Erik leaves in their wake.

Down the stairs they go, the cold darkness broken by Erik’s churning anger and disbelief. All this time, how could I not have known…

The steel door, heavy and forbidding. Erik wrenches it apart with nothing but a flick of his wrist.

Electricity sparks. The entire bunker rumbles ominously, but Charles feels no fear; a first, considering his usual experiences in this place. He’s curiously calm as he watches Erik plant his feet against the ground and raise his arms.

The humming of Erik’s power grows, rising to a crescendo. Charles’ breath catches in wonder as every single piece of metal in the room shudders, then floats, effortlessly borne aloft by Erik’s power. There must be enough metal there to build a warship, but Erik lifts it all without a hint of strain, the look of focus on his face absolute and intense.

Then, with a defiant shriek that shakes the very foundations of the mansion, all the metal in the room crumples. The cabinets and the machinery, the cruel surgical tools – all rendered harmless in an instant.

The silence that follows is deafening. Standing in the middle of the wreckage, Charles gazes at the remnants of the only life – the only home – he had ever known.

Erik turns to face him. Under the stark white lights of the ruined laboratory, his eyes blaze. “I’ll kill him,” he vows, fierce. “He’ll never hurt you again.”

Charles blinks. The fog blanketing his head stirs sluggishly. “I… I don’t…”

“We’ll wait for him to come back from his trip. Forget Shaw – we’ll deal with this first.”

“Erik.” Charles finds his voice again, the fog around his head burning away. “Stop.”

Erik whirls around to face him, fury and disbelief twisting his face into that of a stranger’s. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to let him go. Marko needs to die.” His hand sweeps out, gesturing at the twisted wreckage of the room. “After everything he’s done – all he’s done to you! You can’t walk away from this, Charles. You need to take revenge.”

It feels like they’ve had this conversation before, arguing in circles. “I don’t want his death and I don’t want revenge. I only want to ensure he never does the same thing to anybody else.”

“Killing him does the same thing.”

“I don’t want revenge!” Charles repeats in a snap, heat flaring in his chest. Some days he thinks he spends his entire life shouting into a void, unheard, all his words futile. “Enough, Erik. Please.”

He’s spent his whole life being bent to serve Uncle’s will. He doesn’t think he can bear it if Erik turns out to be the same.

Perhaps Erik sees some of his thoughts on Charles’ face. Charles doesn’t know; he’s still too much a coward to delve into Erik’s mind again, too fearful of the possibility that he may be faced with Erik’s scorn and pity. Whatever the case, Erik softens, but his eyes lose none of their intensity. “We can’t let him walk free. You know that.”

“Yes, of course.” But what can he do? Restless, Charles begins to pace down the length of the room. Some of that dream-like haze returns, but Charles forcefully shoves it away – no time for that, he can process his shock later, lock it away and toss away the key. Right now, Erik is waiting for him to come up with a plan. Charles can feel his eyes boring into his back as he walks, fingertips trailing against ruined fixtures and crumpled shelving, the physical evidence of Erik’s fierce anger.

Anger. For him. On his behalf. Even now, Charles can feel it brushing against his shields, a thundering roll of righteous fury, and there’s something else–

Protectiveness, Charles realises, with no small amount of awe. Despite everything, Erik still cares about him.

He cannot – will not ­– let Erik down.

Charles takes a deep breath, centering himself. Erik is right; Uncle must be dealt with, but how? Charles’ mind turns to the principles he had clung to all his life, to his belief in knowledge and education and communication, but the thought of talking to Uncle is so ludicrous that he almost laughs. No, Uncle will never listen to him.

Is there truly no other way? Charles refuses to accept that. His eyes scan the room, searching for a solution.

A pile of battered folders lies in his path, Uncle’s notes spilling onto the ground. Picking up one of the files, Charles flicks it open, carefully locking away the revulsion stirred up by memories of all those experiments. Uncle had never shared the results with him before. Now, Charles frowns at the jumble of numbers and graphs, trying to wrestle them into some semblance of sense. There’s so much information here, and this is only one file out of hundreds from the years Uncle had spent studying his telepathy – how much had he discovered that Charles knows nothing about?

Charles closes the file with a decisive snap. He bends, beginning the laborious task of stacking all the remaining folders into a neat pile. “Erik, help me gather all the files you can find.”

Erik’s discontent rubs against his mind like prickling static. “I hope you’re planning to destroy them.”

“No, I’m going to use them.” Charles responds evenly.  “Despite their…origins, by all rights they should belong to me.”

“They’re the product of human experiments. Human cruelties. You don’t need them, Charles.”

How to explain this? Erik is striding up to him, footsteps quick and angry, and Charles meets his eyes without flinching. “You of all people should understand the concept of using the enemy’s own tools against them. The research exists already. Destroying it would be a waste when we can channel it towards something more productive.”

“Such as?”

Charles brushes his fingers across the back of the battered folder, all its crinkles and imperfections rough under his fingertips. “I… If I’m to live away from here, in the outside world, I need to master my telepathy. I’ve been afraid of it for far too long. These files, all the files in this lab, they contain the details of every single experiment my uncle has ever run on me and every other mutant that has passed through these doors. Our powers, our genetics, our biology, our health…” A plan is beginning to coalesce in his mind. He’ll reclaim everything Uncle has ever taken from him; he’ll take all of Uncle’s twisted research and use it for good. “We can use this knowledge to help our people.”

Erik isn’t convinced, that much is clear, but neither does he make any move to stop Charles. “The files will be dangerous in the wrong hands.”

“Then let’s make sure they stay in ours.”

His plan solidifies. Resolve settling into his bones, Charles takes a moment to savour how good it feels to finally, finally be sure he’s doing the right thing. He’ll gather every single scrap of Uncle’s notes with or without Erik’s help.

Erik must sense his conviction, because he exhales in that quiet way that Charles has come to recognize as Erik conceding a point.

“We’ll try it your way,” Erik says, but what Charles hears in his mind is: I trust you.

***

They don’t have much time left before their rendezvous with Shaw, and there are so many of Uncle’s notes to pack. It’s impossible to take them all; Charles does his best to pick out the important ones, trying to drown out the ticking of the clock, the movement of the wind and cloud-shadows outside his window. It’s already full dark. The gas lamp flickers as Charles pores over the notes and he rubs at his eyes, trying to will away the growing tightness in his chest.

After the third time he unpacks then repacks their luggage under the guise of rearranging the notes, Erik stops him with a light touch against his wrist. “You’re delaying.”

“I’m only being thorough,” Charles protests, although he knows the truth. “Shaw can wait a few minutes, this is too important to rush.”

“Charles. What’s wrong?”

Charles bites his lip, but, as always, he concedes that he owes Erik his honesty. “It’s nothing serious. It’s just, just rather difficult to believe this day has finally comes.”

Erik watches him, steady and intent. “You mean leaving the mansion?”

“I’ve never left, not since the day I first arrived,” Charles confesses. Automatically, his gaze goes to the window, but at that moment, the thought of the outside world is too much. His eyes skitters away, skin prickling hot and uncomfortable. “I thought I never would.”

“You’re afraid,” Erik observes. Charles braces himself for Erik’s judgement, but there’s not a whisper of that in Erik’s mind, just quiet, thoughtful concern.

“I suppose I am.” For all the time he’s spent living in other people’s heads, Charles has no idea what to expect for himself. What if he leaves only to realize he’s incapable of adapting to the outside world? What if he leaves only to realize that Uncle is right, that the only place for him is inside this mansion, inside Uncle’s reading room?

Unconsciously, his breathing quickens. Chest tight with frustration, Charles scrubs at his eyes, forcefully willing away the tell-tale prickle of heat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to delay us. Shall we go?”

He doesn’t get a response immediately. Erik’s mind is a steady hum of activity, picking out words and phrases only to discard them just as quickly; Charles doesn’t pry into the specifics. He stays carefully still as Erik moves closer, but he can’t help the startled exhale that leaves him when Erik’s warm hand cups his cheek, tilting his head so they face each other properly.

Erik’s pale eyes are grave, solemn with the heavy weight of promise. “You don’t have to do this alone, Charles.” His thumb brushes across Charles’ cheekbone, against the curve of his ear, startlingly gentle. “You’re leaving behind everything you’ve ever known. It might take some time for you to find your way, that’s only normal. I won’t abandon you to do it alone.”

“Erik…” It’s too good to be true. Charles blinks rapidly, trying to quell the rising, foolish hope that threatens to overtake him. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, my friend. Don’t forget we still have our differences.”

“And we can work through them,” Erik insists. “Together.”

Erik’s mind burns with conviction – not a momentary blaze, but a conviction that entrenches itself into his mind with foundations of solid steel. He means it, Erik really does mean it, he’s going to stay…

Charles can’t help it; the hope and affection rushing through him needs an outlet. He stretches up to kiss Erik, swift and urgent – and just a touch uncertain – but then Erik cradles his face in calloused hands and pulls him closer, deepening the kiss. For a long moment, they simply stand there, swaying against each other, Erik cupping Charles’ face and Charles’ arms wrapped around Erik’s shoulders, and the moment is just perfect, so perfect.

The chime of the clock interrupts them. Charles pulls away slowly, his reluctance mirrored in Erik’s eyes, but an unspoken understanding resonates between them. They need to put an end to this. Shaw, Marko – neither can be allowed to continue.

They leave his rooms, moving with purpose. Charles deftly nudges all attention away from them. The mansion is almost eerie in its emptiness as they walk through its lonely halls one last time, their footsteps swallowed by the carpet. All around them, the flickering gas lamps throw strange shadows against the wall as they walk, and Charles picks up the pace, pulse thudding in his chest. Soon.

Erik throws open the heavy front doors. The night air drifts into the mansion, cool and sweet with the first hints of spring.

“Are you ready?” Standing at the threshold, Erik looks ethereal – a spirit bathed in the spill of moonlight, silver threading against the crown of his head.

Icy doubt trickles down the back of Charles’ neck. It’s already far too late for second thoughts, but he can’t help it, all his old fears and insecurities rising in a sudden, crushing tide that constricts his throat and makes it difficult to breathe. “One moment,” he manages. God. Erik looks so untouchable like this.

He jumps as Erik’s hand closes around his, broad and warm and alive, calloused from a life spent working and fighting. Erik laces their fingers together and squeezes his hand.

“Look at me, Charles.”

Charles lifts his gaze. This is real. He’s real.

Erik is looking back at him, and the expression on his face is painfully gentle. Charles swallows down the lump in his throat. He doesn’t deserve this, not any of this, but it’s so hard to protest when he’s surrounded by the candlelit warmth of Erik’s mind, a quiet blanket of safety and acceptance settling around his shoulders.

“I won’t leave you,” Erik vows.

You’re not alone, his mind promises.

And, finally, Charles believes him. He nods. A smile breaks across Erik’s face, fierce and joyous, and he grips Charles’ hand with renewed strength.

They cross the threshold and step into the moonlit grounds. A lively breeze ruffles Charles’ hair, bringing with it the scent of new grass, the fresh growth of spring, the trill of a faraway nightingale.

Erik never once lets go of his hand. Together, side by side, they make their way past the boundary of the estate, leaving behind them the silver-dappled shadow of the yew tree.

(next part)