#a six year old kid whose face we’ve never seen

[dreamings-free]

.

[perseusjackson-jasongrace]

look i didn’t want to be a sour kid

god, it's brutal out here: and percy jackson knows what that means. scars on his body like pulled threads. calluses on his palms from pens that turn into swords, coins that turn into weapons, hands that curl into fists. walking home after an annoying day at school and having to fight the troll on the bridge. you must give me something in order to pass my territory. he gives it death. it gives him another shirt to wash blood stains out of. gods with too much arrogance giving him quests with too little return policy. body that doesn't want to cooperate after he blows up a mountain. body that wants to move too fast when he needs to follow a plan. heart that gets broken and rebuilt with different materials every day. god it’s brutal out here: and percy jackson knows it’s brutal in here too.

traitor: and percy jackson has never felt a word more like a branding in his entire life. he thinks back to the summer he turned thirteen and he sees scorpion tails flashing behind his eyelids. and he sees blonde hair and sometimes he can't differentiate between her and him and them and him. and he sees a scar and he wonders if the cut was deep enough to lose goodness. and he thinks maybe he wouldn’t have minded so much if someone had just told him what was going on. and that makes him a traitor too. and he sees it now, how easily he would succumb to the scorpion tail. how he would welcome the bliss of losing his goodness. who’s to say it’s true goodness anyway? and he remembers the red curls and the summer of beach walks and glass houses and the look of betrayal when plastic hairbrush meets yankees cap. is he a traitor then? to his own feelings? surely not. must be. neither of them liked it. he liked them. traitor, but to who? and remembers the day he left a girl on an island and promised to help her and couldn’t in the end. he remembers eyes of fire at his incompetence. and he is a betrayer. but only to others. traitor: and percy jackson thinks he’s never really betrayed anyone but himself.

got my driver’s license: and percy jackson is growing up so fast his limbs can't keep up. one leg is slightly longer than the other and it makes him clumsy. his left hand is bigger than his right and he uses it to punch. he flies a pegasus for the first time and he understands why mortals are always so angry. they will never know this unbridled freedom. and he gets kissed by a girl and he thinks his skin understands the heat of the sun. and his hair becomes curls instead of waves and he has to clip it> push it> tie it back because it keeps getting in his eyes. and his mom asks him if he wants “blue cake this year?” and he has to tell her he’ll never be too old for it because she’s scared he’s going to grow out of her love. he is not. and paul teaches him how to read a book without feeling like his eyes are drowning and he can’t believe he’s learning to read in high school. and he is moving through the days like water, finding a way around everything. got my driver’s license: and percy jackson knows it’s only a matter of time before he gets a death sentence too.

it’s always one step forward and three steps back: and percy jackson is waking up with no sense of who he is. he is carrying a goddess on his back and he doesn’t even know who his mother is. he is stepping across a river and erasing the curse of indestructible. he is again a demigod with too much vulnerability and not enough care. and he is being flung to an island where time doesn’t move and he doesn’t want to either. and he is healing like he never has before. and he is leaving and not even the girl who loves him can keep him there because he loves another girl and she doesn’t know she loves him back. and he is taking the sky from a friend and he is giving the sky to a goddess and he is leaving a hunter to see the stars and he is watching a new hunter evade the fate they are cursed with. and he was relieved from this burden for one brief second in time. burden of what? burden of sky? burden of prophecy? burden of death? and they are all handed back to him, presented with no other option. they are not the weights in the balancing scale. they are the scale and he is the weights. one step forward and three steps back: and percy jackson wonders if he can go far back enough to erase his own existence. 

i know you get déjà vu: and percy jackson is hurtled to summers spent in a camp, next to a girl, next to a satyr, next to a friend. and he is living his life in montauk with his mom and he is watching red hair fly in the wind, paint smudges on their  skin. and he is remembering how everything is different every year but he can still see the fire wall from his cabin and the smell of wild strawberries is the only thing his scent receptors know how to identify. and he knows solstice could bring death or happiness and he’s starting to think one doesn’t exist and one exists too much. and he sees people who love him and show it in ways he knows. blue candy has never been a complicated feeling. and doesn’t see people who love him in ways he doesn’t know. seaweed brain, let me come with you into the labyrinth, become praetor with me. and he thinks his childhood disappeared the day his mother was kidnapped and is it possible to have déjà vu if you’ve never lived enough to experience something once. and he thinks maybe the god of the sun gets déjà vu every time he pulls the star across the sky because it’s all about warmth isn’t it? your body’s way of saying we’ve been here before and we survived. i know you get déjà vu: and percy jackson is sure he has lived a thousand lives in this one alone.

good for you: and percy jackson is craving a life that doesn’t involve this madness. he is jealous of the kid in his science class that accidentally knocks over the bunsen burner and only gets a disapproving look from the teacher. his nose bleed starts a war. he is jealous of the neireids that simply become the water and wait for the world to stop burning itself to the ground. you look happy and healthy and he looks like he’s missing five years of his life and no way of moving forward. he is tired and he wants to sleep but the last time he did that it was six months later and he couldn’t remember anything. and he wants to sink to the bottom of the ocean but he is still exhaling mud because he drowned in sludge once. and he is too young to be this exhausted but. good for you: and percy jackson wants to become the villain.

all i ever wanted was to be enough for you: and percy jackson is struggling with the expectations people who don't know him want him to have. he is twelve and the teacher hands back a test face down and he knows he’s going to shove it into the pit of his bag before he can be scathed by a red pen. he is thirteen and his mother has finally given herself the hero ending she deserves but he is still this little kid who doesn’t know how to handle the world and if she doesn’t need him to protect her what is his purpose? he is a teenager watching people have silent conversations about his fate and getting no replies when he asks too. as if it is ridiculous to involve himself in these discussions. he can't be the one, it’s not possible. and wait she is here, from her tree grave. no, she is gone, to her hunter fate. wait they are here from their timeless casino. no she is gone and he is young. far too young. and he can’t do this and he can’t do that and he isn’t there yet, not powerful, too reckless, too loyal. the monsters realise his potential and use it to hurt him. the people don't realise his potential and wish he would use it. all i ever wanted was to be enough for you: and percy jackson is too far gone to be of use.

i hope you're happy, but don't be happier: and percy jackson cannot fall in love unless it’s with her. and he has seen the beauty of people and he wants to keep them all close and he doesn’t know how to do it because she keeps him in her grasp. deathly afraid of spiders she says but she has built a web so big he can't move without getting caught. and he goes to a scorned girl on a secluded beach and he likes the way her eyes sparkle in the sun, how she plants the same way his mother does and he leaves her there because she doesn’t have a storm in her gaze. and he loses his memory and remembers only her and he knows it’s inescapable. and maybe he kind of loves it. nobody has ever really given him a choice anyway. at least this one he can love. i hope you're happy, but don't be happier: and percy jackson has never known happier anyway.

jealousy, jealousy: and percy jackson is surrounded by the best. he is in a camp dedicated to people like him and he is still at the bottom. and he is on a quest that makes him the main perpetrator but he is still being puppeted along. and he cant help but wonder if he will turn out like the boy with the scarred face. and he cant help but wonder if he’ll turn out like the girl who grabbed a figurine. and he can't help but wonder if he’ll become a monster or a hero and what’s the difference really. everyone is fighting for a cause. it’s just the matter of whose side you're on. and he wants to know what will happen if he just lets go. he wants to be like the people who follow their cause. instead he is doing biddings. he is following orders. he is making things right. jealousy, jealousy: and percy jackson wants to know if he can be jealous of his own dreams.

i hope i was your favorite crime: and percy jackson is a little kid with a long record. he is on the news plastered as a criminal endangering others, blowing up a bus. it is not the last destruction he causes. he learns to get clever about it. and he is on the news sobbing about his generous stepdad. generous about the bruises he administers, and the words he spits. generous about his appliances. and he is on the news for jumping off a bridge too high to survive. and he doesn’t really know if he will survive but when is he ever really sure he’s going to survive anyway? at least this was a choice. and he is always a criminal unable to plead his innocence. i hope i was your favorite crime: and percy jackson wonders if anyone cares about the injustices against him. 

you're okay: and percy jackson is staring at his reflection in the rippling water and he knows it’s time to forgive himself. he was just a child. with far too much responsibility and far too much guilt. he had seen death before he’d had his first kiss. he had felt pain before he felt comfort. he had never known safety. and now he is old enough to go wherever he wants and do whatever he wants and he has to forgive himself first. because he was just a kid with a hundred targets on his back and only a fierce need to survive protecting him. you’re okay: and percy jackson knows he will be. 

[orionares]

BTHB: Comatose

BTHB: Comatose 

Law and Order: SVU

@badthingshappenbingo​

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“Can I ask you something?”

He flinches at the small voice from across the room. Blue eyes similar to his eyes stare at him blankly beneath brown curly hair with the same tenacity and strength he'd worked side by side with for twelve years. 

Elliot nods slowly, prompting the ten year old to slide out of his chair and cross the room to stop inches from the foot of his mother's bed. Noah Benson rests his hand on the foot of the bed and eyes Elliot cautiously. "Did you do something to my mom?"

Elliot chokes on his breath and pushes himself from the huddled position in his chair to face Noah. He stifles a need to burst into tears and instead answers in a cracked voice, “What do you mean?”

“If you were the one that got her hurt,” Noah muses, “you’d be in jail. But- but you aren’t arrested and you have a badge. So you're a cop. Right?”

Elliot can feel his heart shatter as the boy eyes his mother, lying unconscious in one of Sanai’s hospital beds, hooked up to a handful of wires. He himself can’t bring himself to look at her- no, not after what had happened. The guilt alone-

“Do you work with my mom?” Noah’s question comes as he steps closer to Elliot, causing the older man to flinch. “I’ve never seen or heard about you before.”

“You're inquisitive,” Elliot stammers. Noah cocks his head to right and mutters, “What’s itiquative?”

“Inquisitive,” Elliot corrects. He scratches the back of his neck and sighs, “It means you ask a lot of questions. You also like to ask the right questions. Like your mom.”

“That’s what Uncle Fin says.” His face falls as he turns towards the bed and sniffles, “Is she going to be ok?” 

A knuckle raps on the door as Fin Tutola ducks his head into the door before stepping in. He pauses to stare at Olivia for a moment before shaking his head in disbelief. Even though he had dropped off Noah an hour earlier, he still finds himself shaken at seeing her in this state. “You ready to head out, Noah?”

Noah doesn’t peel his eyes from the bed. “Why hasn’t she woken up yet?” he answers softly. Behind him, Fin and Elliot exchange a worried look. 

“Do you remember what we talked about yesterday?” Fin asks. He walks to the side of the bed opposite Elliot and Noah. He places a hand on Olivia’s forehead and sighs as one of his closest friends doesn’t react to his touch. Noah nods slowly and furrows his brow as he recalls the day prior’s conversation. 

“She hit her head on the sidewalk when she and-” Noah quickly whips his head back to Elliot, “Detective Stabler was trying to leave the hospital. It’s a….it’s called a…”

“Cerebral edema,” Elliot finishes. “Brain swelling. They induced a coma to help the swelling go down. It’s going to take a few days for her to heal, buddy.” Using the word ‘buddy’ stings for Elliot- hell, he doesn’t deserve to use that term for the son of the woman whose heart he broke. 

 Noah shakes his head. “Oh, yeah. Can I stay a little longer? ‘Cause I want to be here when she wakes up.” 

“Well, Elliot will be here-”

Noah’s eyes widen and he turns once more to Elliot. He mirrors his mother’s investigative scan at his badge and face. “My mom says your name in her sleep. A lot.” 

Fin snorts unexpectedly at the boy’s comment. “Okay. Maybe this is a conversation for another time-”

 Elliot finally pulls himself out of his daze and holds up a hand in defense. “No, I-I can head out and-”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Noah counters. “Can I talk to Elliot, Uncle Fin?”

Elliot glances up to Fin, who’s staring at Noah with contemplation. Even after ten years, Elliot can recognize the planning in the sergeant’s eyes. After a minute, Fin looks down to Olivia and whispers to her, “It’s your kid and you know I can’t say that to that face. He’s going to ask a million questions unless we nip it in the butt.” 

“Fin-”

“Why don’t you take Noah down to the cafeteria?” Fin suggests, cutting Elliot off. He checks his cellphone to see 7:36 on the lock screen. “I think the cafeteria closes by 8 and he hasn’t had dinner yet.” 

“Wait, maybe-” 

Noah’s already moving towards the head of the bed where an empty chair sits close enough for him to climb onto the bed. He sits on his knees and begins chatting to his mother, “Mom, I’m going to be right back, ok?” 

“She heard you,” Fin says. “I’ll keep an eye on her.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the cafeteria, Noah slides into one of the cafeteria’s booths with a plate of a hotdog and French fries. Elliot stands next to the table and watches the boy slide off his jacket and begin eating hungrily without a word. The detective hesitates before easing down into the booth and sliding across to sit directly across from him. 

“How’s the food?” Elliot finally asks after a few minutes of silence. 

“Good.” 

“I’m glad.” Elliot rests his hands in his lap and asks, “So your question about if I did something to your mom….what made you think that?”

“I heard Auntie Amanda and Uncle Sonny talking about you when I stayed at Auntie Amanda’s apartment,” Noah answers. He takes a bite of his hot dog and continues, “They were talking about how her ex-partner came back and how someone….named Chief said that she should stay away from you. What’d you do?”

“I- '' Elliot inhales and exhales slowly, replaying the many ways he had predicted having a conversation with Olivia’s son. “I was her partner at work for twelve years. We were inseparable and then I left her….without saying goodbye.” 

“Why?”

Elliot pauses to formulate his answer. “Adult reasons.”

Noah moves onto his French fries and mumbles, “Adults always say that. It’s dumb.”

“Touché. I was married until a couple of months ago when my wife died,” Elliot explains. Saying the words ‘my wife died’ still stings. “When your mom and I were partners, I…..um…”

“You loved my mom?” Noah’s eyes widen before he shrugs his shoulders at Elliot’s sudden look of disbelief. “What? It happens in the movies all the time.”

“You are too smart for your own good,” Elliot chuckles. “I did but I was married. That’s a complicated line even for adults.”

“Then….why’d you leave?” 

“Because I was afraid. Things became complicated so I did what cowards do and ran, Noah.” He ignores the instinct to stop spilling his guts to a ten year old and pushes on. “ My family and I moved to Italy and I cut her out of my life.” 

Noah suddenly stops eating, pushes the plate towards Elliot and scowls at the man. “That’s stupid.”

“What?”

“I don’t get why adults do stupid stuff like that. My friend Phillip’s parents hated each other but they stayed married. Philip said they should have gotten a divorce  a long time ago but didn’t. He moved away last year with his grandparents,  I think. It’s dumb that you left.” 

Elliot settles back against the booth, speechless. The observations and opinions shared by everyone in Olivia’s life spilled out by her son in a ten minute conversation. “It was and will be one of the greatest regrets in my life.” 

Noah takes another fry off of his plate. His next question comes in a timid voice. “Do you still love my mom?”

Elliot swallows hard and feels tears forming in his eyes. “Why do you ask?” he chokes out. 

“Because you keep staying with her at the hospital. And you look like people do when people they love are hurt.” 

Elliot nods and chuckles. “You should be a detective when you grow up.”

“I want to be a dancer. Do you?”

Elliot smiles for the first time in days at Noah. “More than anything. More than anything.”

Noah takes another fry before stifling a yawn. “You should tell her...if she...if she…”

“Hey,” Elliot quickly slides out of his side of the boot and moves to sit next to a suddenly tear eyed Noah. Elliot rests a hand on his shoulder and says softly, “Your mom is the absolute strongest woman I ‘ve ever met. She’s going to be ok. You can’t give up hope, okay?”

Noah buries his head against Elliot’s shoulder and whimpers, “Okay.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"They're letting me stay the night," Elliot says softly as he settles back into his chair he had been sitting in for the past two days. After parting ways with Fin and Noah, he had returned to the hospital room to find a blanket , a pillow and a nurse giving a nod in approval. "I think they assume that we've..that we're…together, I guess."

Hw can't bring himself to look at her battered form in the bed. The moments of leaving the hospital after the Chief and IAB had dismissed Bell, Olivia and him to go home replays over and over every time his mind wanders.

"Elliot, I don't need protection!" Olivia growls as the three head towards the parking garage. 

"Wheatley got to Angela in a hospital! I'm not going to let him get near you!" Elliot counters. Behind him, Bell's eyes are occupied on her phone, brow furrowed at the information she's just received from Jet. 

“I know how to protect myself and my son. I’m a police captain,” she argues back. There’s an anger behind her statement that he can’t quite place but-

Bell suddenly holds up a hand and exclaims, “Hold up! Jet’s just sent me a-”

His sergeant doesn't finish as a concussive force slams into his body , propelling him and the two women across the pavement and into unconsciousness. 

Elliot shakes off the memory and continues to talk. “I think it’s because I’ve spent a total of six hours away from you since the explosion. Liv, I can’t- ever since I’ve come back, I’ve put you in danger, caused you stress and….got Kathy killed.”

In the back of his head, he imagines the Olivia of ten years ago, sitting next to him with a cup of coffee and a comforting hand on his shoulder, saying, “El, you can’t blame yourself for something that was out of your control.”

“But I left you and that was in my control,” he answers the voice. He rubs a hand over his face in frustration. Another bit of memory- the briefest moment of consciousness after the explosion replays in his head. 

He’ll never forget opening his eyes to her lying unconscious a foot away from him on the pavement with blood running from her ear onto the ground. 

“I know I don’t deserve this but,” Elliot whispers, “but don’t leave me please. I didn’t deserve Kathy and I sure as hell don’t deserve you….but” he finally looks up to the bed and can’t stop the sob of guilt that comes. The tubes, cuts and her stillness break him. Elliot stands up and walks to her side, letting the tears fall. The tears don’t fall only for her, but for his wife, his kids, Noah and everyone he’s impacted since returning to New York. 

“I love you,” Elliot whispers. He rests his forehead against hers and repeats the words he hopes he can say one day again. “I love you.”

[a-storm-of-roses]

October Prompts 1: Monster

Pairing: John Sheppard/Rodney McKay

Rating: T

Words: 1060

Summary: Madison has a monster under her bed. Lucky for her, Uncle Mer and Uncle John are on the case.

The first in my October prompts!

Read on AO3 or below!

“The number for the pizza place is on the fridge, along with her pediatrician and poison control. Oh! And she’s going through a bit of a phase right now; she needs the night light left on and the door to the hallway cracked open.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure we’re more than capable of keeping her alive for a few hours,” Rodney says, as he hands Jeannie her coat and bag, shooing her out the door.

“Alive and not scarred for life,” Jeannie emphasizes.

“Definitely. We got this. Go enjoy your date night.” John leans against the bannister, looking far too happy for a man whose vacation now includes babysitting a six year old.

Outside, they hear a honk, Kaleb waiting impatiently in the car.

“Right, well, call me if you need anything. And thanks again for this.” Jeannie presses a quick kiss to both John and Rodney’s cheeks and heads out the door.

“Uncle Mer,” they hear from the other room, “come play legos with me!”

---

“Uncle Mer, Uncle John!”

Rodney pauses, face frozen into the skin of John’s neck, where not a moment ago he was enjoying nibbling and licking and all the delicious noises that come from John when he bites just right there.

“Did you hear something?” John groans in response, hands gripping his hair, and pressing Rodney right back into his neck.

“UNCLE MER, UNCLE JOHN!”

With a sigh, Rodney pulls away, leads John up the stairs to Madison’s room, soft pink washed in warm yellow hues from a night light shaped like an airplane.

“Everything ok, Madison?”

In bed, Madison is sat up, covers drawn to her face. She shakes her head.

“What’s wrong, honey?” John tries, stepping into the room.

“Honey?” Rodney silently mouths behind him.

“There’s a monster under my bed!”

“Is there now?” John asks, over-dramatically. He bends down to look, before kneeling at Maddie’s bedside. “I don’t see anything!”

“It’s there!” Maddie does sound scared, her little fingers gripping her floral duvet tight.

“Well the good news is, I’m a world-class monster fighter. One of the best. If anyone can scare it away, it’s me.” John jabs at the air a couple of times, just for good measure. In the doorframe, Rodney rolls his eyes, even if a tender smile threatens its way onto his lips.

“But what if you fall asleep?”

“I’ll stay awake. But even if I do, I’m a very light sleeper. No monster is going to get past me.”

“But what if it tricks you? What if it can pretend to be me? Or Uncle Mer?” Maddie asks.

Rodney wonders just what kinds of shows Jeannie is letting her watch.

“Good thing I’m very experienced at telling real McKays from fake ones.” John smirks back at Rodney.

“And Millers, too!” Maddie adds.

“And Millers, too.” John agrees.

“But what if it waits til you leave? Mom said you could only stay a week! What if it gets me and Mom and Dad?” John looks back to Rodney, flustered and eyes glaring, as if to blame him for McKay-levels of anxiety and paranoia.

Rodney makes his way to the bed and with a groan, sits cross-legged next to John.

“Maddie,” he starts, “there’s no such thing as monsters.”

Maddie looks unsure. John rolls his eyes and mutters something sarcastic under his breath.

“But I heard a scary noise!”

“I told you to be quieter,” Rodney mutters at John.

“And I told you to leave my neck alone,” John snipes back.

“Look, we talked about the scientific method earlier, right? How you have to come up with an idea or hypothesis?”

Maddie nods.

“Ok, so your hypothesis is that there’s a monster under your bed. What next?”

“We need ‘pircal evidence.”

“That’s right,” Rodney says, proudly, “empirical evidence. Do we have any evidence that there’s a monster under the bed?”

“I heard a noise!”

“That was your Uncle John. He was, uh, just being silly.” In the soft yellow glow of the room, it’s hard to tell, but John is certain Rodney is blushing. “But you haven’t seen anything, right? Or heard anything else?”

Maddie shakes her head.

“But I never see Santa or the tooth fairy either, and they exist.”

Rodney goes to open his mouth, but snaps it shut as John elbows him.

“Well,” John says, his voice serious. “You don’t, but that’s not the only kind of evidence out there. I mean, you don’t see Santa, but you still know he came because there’s presents and he’s eaten the cookies, right?”

Maddie nods. “He likes the vegan chocolate chips ones the best!”

Rodney scoffs, and John chokes back a laugh.

“And the tooth fairy leaves you some money, right?”

“Yeah!”

“So, there’s your empirical evidence!” John turns, and gives Rodney his smuggest smile, the one that says look at how good I am with kids and you totally owe me a blowjob for this.

“But we haven’t actually made any tests for the monster! Don’t we need to do data?”

“Gee Rodney, I didn’t realize you’d taught her the entire 6th grade science curriculum while I was doing the dishes,” John grinds out.

Rodney sniffs. “Good science education can never start too early.”

Then, in a move usually reserved for the labs or the control room, Rodney snaps his fingers rapidly, his face lit up with a thought.

“Ah, but we have! You know, monsters love Chinese food! And we had some last night, and someone forgot to put it away, and then we had no leftovers,” Rodney glares, “but it was out all night, and no monster bites. None at all.”

Maddie looks skeptical. “Monsters like Chinese?”

“Love it,” John confirms.

“So you see, no evidence of any monsters. Which means we’ve proved your hypothesis false. Which means,” Rodney pleads, “you can go to sleep?”

Madison acquiesces, but only after Rodney agrees to read her another chapter of Anne of Green Gables, with the voices Uncle Mer. John stays and watches, heart so full he could burst.

Finally, Maddie drifts off, and Rodney tucks her in again, placing a light kiss on her forehead. They leave the bedroom door open, just a crack, and silently make their way downstairs.

“I can’t believe you scientific method-ed a monster away.” John says, flopping back on the couch.

“Hey, it works in Atlantis!” John raises an eyebrow. “Sometimes!”

[scripts4dreamers]

I literally JUST sat down, pt.2

Part One, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven

AN: The case stalls, but no one’s willing to give up on you just yet. Characters: Spencer Reid, Penelope Garcia, Derek Morgan, Aaron Hotchner, Jennifer Jareau, David Rossi.

Pairings: Spencer Reid x reader

Spoilers: None

Warnings: Mentions of crime and violence, alcohol

(Again! Massive shoutout to @pirateismywayofspeaking​ for the constant support and ideas! And lemme know if you want to be added to the taglist!)

—————————-

It’s a well known fact that there are three certainties in life; death, taxes and the willpower of one Penelope Garcia. In less than an hour she had somehow organized to get all your clothes and personal possessions delivered right to the BAU, packed in your favorite suitcases and all. A couple of things had to be kept in evidence because the UnSub might have come into contact with them, but all the important stuff was there. It was comforting, having your stuff safe with you and, as you sat through the long and rigorous process of being interviewed, you felt better.

“And you’re 100% sure that none of your employees could have possibly done this?” Rossi asked, “Maybe someone you recently fired? Or someone who has a history of violence?”

You gave him an incredulous look, “Rossi, come on. Do you really think I’d be stupid enough to hire someone with a violent past?”

“You checked everyone out?”

“Full background checks on all three employees,” you agreed, “the harshest thing on any of their records was a parking ticket and a decade old charge for underage drinking.”

Hotch sighed, rubbing his temples right where you knew he got headaches.

“We know the poem is significant to the UnSub. It’s an old love poem, so it’s got to be someone who has some sort of connection to you,” he repeated, “it's personal.”

You shook your head, “Hotch, I don’t know what to tell you. I haven’t had a romantic relationship in years. There’s not a lot of time when you work 14 hour days.”

“Don’t we know it,” Rossi agreed, “so, a stalker, maybe?”

“That’s a hell of a way to make first contact,” you scoffed, “a phone call would be less risky.”

“And less effective.”

You conceded the point with a head tilt, and then looked back at Hotch, “Hotch, can we take a break? We’ve been at this for hours.”

“Of course,” he agreed, “get some rest, Y/L/N.”

“No, it’s okay, there’s work to be done here. I can stay,” you assured, stretching your stiff limbs.

Hotch shot you a look, but said nothing, obviously sensing that you weren’t going to give in without some sort of fight. Instead, he just gave you a terse nod, and walked out, leaving you with Rossi.

“You’re impossible, you know that, right?” He said.

You smiled, shrugging, “What can I say, Ros? I learned from the best.”

He chuckled, shaking his head and ruffling your hair as he walked past you, “Good to have you back, kid.”

The bullpen was busy when you walked back in, suitcases in hand, striding your way over to your old desk. It’s scary how little had really changed in the year since you’d been gone. Aside from Spencer’s semi-annual hair evolution, everything was the same; the smells, the sights, even the comforting clack of Garcia’s heels against the floor. It was comforting, almost painfully so but, as you reached your old desk, you noticed something was wrong.

“Whose stuff is this?” You asked, gesturing to the stacks of files and piles of paper scattered all over the surface.

“Mine,” Emily said, not even looking up from her work.

“But...you have a desk,” you pointed out.

“And now I have two,” she replied simply, “you can sit somewhere else.”

She was being stubborn and you felt a lick of irritation flare up inside your chest. Emily Prentiss had been one of your closest friends for years and, when you’d left the BAU, she’d taken it the hardest. Any other time, you would have understood her resentment but, given the circumstances, you weren’t feeling particularly generous.

You crossed your arms over your chest, “And where do you suggest I sit?”

Emily shrugged and gave you a sickly sweet smile, “You can share with Reid.”

You felt yourself flush with heat. Emily had known about your feelings for Spencer, she’d even encouraged you to act on them. You knew she’d never actually betray your trust, but even that subtle dig was enough to make you want to argue. You opened your mouth but, before you could say anything, Spencer interrupted.

“Here, Y/N,” he smiled, patting a spot beside him, “I’ve got space.”

You pressed your lips together, but relented when he took the time to pull an empty chair over for you to sit in.

“Thanks, Reid,” you said, taking the offered seat.

“So, did you and Hotch figure anything out?” Spencer asked.

You shook your head, “Nothing we didn’t already know. Rossi thinks it might be some kind of stalker?” You offered.

Spencer frowned, “A stalker? That doesn’t make any sense, what kind of stalker starts off their pursuit with a murder?”

“A very, very desperate one.” Emily offered.

You wanted to snap something like; ‘oh, so now you’re talking to me?’ but you bit your tongue. You knew you were on edge, and now wasn’t the time to lash out at the only people who could really help you.

“Or very deranged.” Spencer suggested

You shuddered, picturing a faceless man in all black running his blood soaked hands across your walls, drawing a jagged smiley face above your bed, memorizing the faces in your pictures. You exhaled and pushed the thought away.

“Does this even count as an escalation?” You asked, “I’m not sure there’s really anywhere to go from here.”

You were met with stony silence as Emily and Spencer inspected their respective files. You knew what they were thinking, what everyone was thinking; whatever this was, it was bad news.

“Do we know who our victim is, yet?” Spencer asked.

“Nope,” you sighed, “the UnSub burned off his fingerprints and removed several of his molars before he dumped the body, the ME is doing her best to get a DNA match, but it’ll take time.”

“The mutilation is odd, considering there wasn’t any evidence of torture on the victim before they died,” Spencer said.

“It’s gotta be a forensic countermeasure,” Emily agreed, “but it’s extremely sophisticated. Our UnSub must have experience with law enforcement.”

“But as a perp or a cop?”

You sighed and buried your head in your hands, letting the familiar back and forth wash over you like white noise. You’d had this conversation before, many many times, and it never got any easier. Usually you lived for the puzzle but, now that you were the one under scrutiny, it felt like your brain was rebelling against you.

“Y/N/N?” Spencer asked, touching your shoulder gently and snapping back to reality.

“Mm?” You replied.

His face softened as he took in the exhaustion radiating off your body.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

You nodded, “Just a little drained, that’s all.”

The clicking of heels against the floor drew your attention and you looked up just in time to see Garcia swooping in with her purse.

“You ready to go, crime fighter?” She smiled.

“Go where?” You asked,

“Home!” She smiled, “I have the honor and privilege of hosting you tonight.”

“Garcia-“ you started.

“No! No arguing.” She insisted, “I’ve already found us a lovely little Thai place for dinner, and there’s a bunch of episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer lined up on my DVR.”

You groaned, rolling your eyes fondly, “I hate how well you know me.”

She smiled devilishly, “Sounds good, right?”

“It sounds incredible and you know that because you’re a super genius who knows literally everything.” You teased, pushing yourself onto your feet, “Okay, Wonder Woman, let’s go.”

As you made your way out of the office, you cast one last look over your shoulder, smiling when Spencer met your eye and gave you a small wave.

————————-

“Okay, Sugar Plum, spill,” Penelope pushed, handing you a full glass of wine, “how’re you really doing?”

“With what?”

Penelope shot you an incredulous look, “With, you know, all of it. The murder, the mystery, being back at work, the Spencer Reid of it all.”

You spluttered through a sip of wine, “The what? ‘Nel, you can’t be serious.”

“What? I’m just asking,” she insisted, “he followed you out earlier, you’re sharing a desk now...it wouldn’t be crazy if maybe your old crush came creeping back in.”

“Penelope” you started, “some creep dropped a dead body in my bookstore and broke into my apartment and you think I’m thinking about Spencer?” She didn’t answer, just raising her eyebrows and you sighed, sliding down the couch, “Okay so I’m pathetic.”

“No you’re not!” She insisted, “You guys were like two peas in a pod, back in the day. Plus, you’ve seen like a thousand dead bodies, you’re probably just desensitized.”

“Still,” you sulked, “I can’t believe I’m still thinking about Spence.”

“Naaaaaaaaw,” she swooned, squeezing your knee, “you called him ‘Spence’, you haven’t done that in ages.”

“Fuck off, Nel” you said without any real malice, burying your face in your hands and sighing again, “please tell me I’m being ridiculous.”

Garcia smiled, a knowing glint in her dark blue eyes as she sipped her wine and watched you squirm. She’d kept in touch with you when you left the BAU, insisting on weekly brunch meetups and girls nights and a million other things that you’re not sure you would’ve survived without. She’d been like a lifeline in those first few months and, because of that, she was the only one who really knew how hard leaving had been for you. She’d been the one who sat through the hours of crying and panicking and wondering who you were without your job, who’d held your hand when you went to get a small business loan, who’d sampled your cookie recipes and helped you design uniforms. Penelope Garcia had been there for all of it. You had a photo of the two of you together at the bookstore next to your bed. It was one of your most treasured possessions.

“Now, Sugar Plum, you know I’ve always had a soft spot for you and the Boy Wonder. He’s lovely, you’re lovely; he loves you, you love him, I love you both, it’s a match made in FBI heaven as far as I’m concerned-“

“But?” You prompted with a rueful smile.

“But,” Penelope agreed, “he took it really hard when you left, and I’m not sure how he’ll handle losing you a second time.”

You frowned, “He never lost me. None of you lost me, I just got a different job! It’s not my fault that basically no one bothered to keep in touch.”

Penelope’s face softened and she smiled at you sympathetically, “Pumpkin, you know it’s not like that. When you’re in the BAU, it’s like we’re living in our own little crime bubble, everything outside just kind of….fades, you know?”

“I know…”

“And with Spencer, well, you know he’s never been the best at dealing with abandonment, the poor thing’s been through so much already,” Penelope continued, “he tried to keep in touch. He really did, and he talked about you all the time.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

She sighed, “I don’t know. I guess I just-“ she shrugged and squeezed your knee again, “I don’t want you to think that he forgot about you, that’s all.”

You felt a small smile tug at the corners of your lips, and you gripped Garcia’s hand.

“Thanks, Nel.”

You knew she was right. Life in the BAU wasn’t like life on the outside; you lived by different rules, took different risks, valued different things. It was strange and intoxicating and you really couldn’t fault your teammates for continuing to play the game the way they always had. You’d chosen to leave and you had to live with the consequences of that.

“Can we talk about something besides boys now, please?” You asked, “I want this girl’s night to pass the bechdel test.”

She smiled and clapped her perfectly manicured hands, “Oh do not fret, ma Cherie because I’ve got so much to catch you up on-“

You listened with rapt attention as Garcia filled you in on the last twelve months of FBI gossip. You laughed together, ate Thai food and just relaxed together. With every Perfectly Penelope story, you felt a little more of your tension slip away and, by the time you made it to bed, you were feeling almost normal.

Penelope had made up the couch for you, complete with pillows and blankets and a homemade quilt. It was comfortable, too comfortable. So comfortable, that your brain had way too much time to mull over what Penelope had said earlier.

Spencer hadn’t just forgotten about you. What did that mean? He’d taken it hard when you left...the questions bounced around your mind like wasps, keeping you awake. Without meaning to, your mind started to drift, sifting through the years worth of memories you’d kept locked away in a box in the back of your mind.

————————

“You are the most insufferable person I’ve ever met,” you laughed, “I’m fine, Spence.”

“You’re not fine, Y/N, you got shot.” Spencer reminded you, his eyes still sparkling with the relief of seeing you alive and in good spirits.

You were sitting in the back of an ambulance, a throbbing pain resonating from the wound in your shoulder as the police searched through the nearby crime scene and Spencer inspected your face. It was cold and dark, but the sirens and flashing lights meant that it was anything but peaceful, and you knew it would still be many hours before either you or Spencer got any sleep.

“Yeah well, we’ve all been shot,” you pointed out, “and, statistically speaking, we have a 100% survival rate.”

Spencer rolled his eyes, but he was smiling so you knew he wasn’t too mad.

“You’re bastardizing my beautiful statistical analysis and using it for evil. Remind me why I’m bothering to check on you, again?” He teased.

“Because you loooooove me,” you teased back, jostling his shoulder with yours, “and because I just took a bullet to the shoulder for you.”

He chuckled but avoided your gaze, focusing on his shoes, “Yeah that would explain it.”

Something in the atmosphere changed and you looked over at Spencer, noticing the way he worried at the inside of his cheek with his hands in his pockets. His brow was furrowed too, like he was sad, and something in your chest pinched.

“You alright there, doc?” You asked.

“Don’t do it again,” he said, looking up and catching your eye.

You paused, “don’t do what?”

“Take a bullet to the shoulder for me,” he explained, “get hurt trying to protect me. Promise me you won’t do it again?”

You pressed your lips together, recognizing the same feeling of fear and guilt in Spencer that you, yourself, felt any time someone you cared about was in danger. You reached out, pulling one of his hands out of his pocket and giving it a gentle squeeze before letting go. Spencer held on for a second longer, his dark eyes filling with something as he took you in.

“You know I can’t promise that, Spence,” you said gently, “if we’re ever in a situation like this again….no way I’m just letting you die to avoid a couple of stitches.”

“No, you don’t-” he paused, getting himself worked up, “you don’t get it. I watched my girlfriend get shot right in front of me, I-I’ve lost so many people that I care about, Y/N, and I can’t lose anyone else. Not for something as stupid as my own life.” 

“Your life isn’t some insignificant thing, Spence,” you insisted, “it’s important! To me, to the team, to everyone. We’re a family, Spencer, families have each other’s backs. Always.” 

He took a deep breath and nodded, carding his fingers through his hair like he was agitated. 

“Just-” he started again, “just promise me you won’t do it again.” 

“I can’t.” you insisted, “I can’t make that promise. 

He turned to face you, looking more tired than you’d seen him in weeks, “Then promise you’ll be careful. Promise me I won’t lose you too?” 

Your heart ached, and you longed to reach out and wrap him up in your arms, but you restrained yourself. 

“How about this; I’ll promise that you won’t lose me, if you promise that we’ll always be best friends, and that you’ll try to start valuing your own life as much as you value mine or Morgan’s, deal?” You offered, extending your hand for Spencer to shake.

Spencer frowned, opening his mouth to argue but, before he could, an agent interrupted.

“Agent Y/L/N? Dr. Reid? Agent Hotchner is looking for you.”

———————————-

You snapped back to reality with a jolt, and realised you were lonely. So much time had passed since that night, but you remembered it all perfectly, every detail. It wasn’t an especially meaningful night, there were a million moments just like it, but something about it had stuck. Maybe it was the potential, the wondering, that thing that he never got to say. You wish you’d gotten to hear it now.  

You fumbled around in the dark for your cellphone, typing out a message and pressing send before you could think better of it. It was short, and to the point, and you would be shocked if he responded but, once it was done, you felt something in your chest loosen, like maybe you’d been wanting to send that message for a really long time.

To Spencer Reid:  Hey, Reid? I’m sorry I left, I never meant to break my promise. 

With the heavy weight of remembering suddenly lifted, you realised how tired you were, and you let sleep drag you under. If you’d stayed awake a little longer, you might not have missed the way Spencer kept typing, typing, typing away some message he never sent. Or the eventual response, which only came in three hours later: 

You never broke your promise, Y/N. I broke mine.

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

Taglist: @ourfavoritesergeantbarnes​, @confused-and-really-hungry, @word-scribbless​, @reidloversisforever​, @ashookykooky​, @l0ve-0f-my-life​, @shilohpug​, @tangerinenotions95​, @petitchatonbleu​

[novelconcepts]

fic wanting (more than any ghost could)

“Do you still see him?”

Dani raises her eyes from the polished brass frame she’s been trying to pretend for half an hour not to gaze into. “What?”

Jamie isn’t looking at her. Jamie is, in fact, half in their closet, fumbling to hang up an assortment of shirts that have invaded the floor over the past week. Her voice is casual, easy, a little too cheerful for the kind of day they’ve been having. 

“Do you still see Eddie?”

Something in Dani’s chest clenches at the name. She doesn’t hate hearing it anymore--Jamie’s helped with that more than even she can know, coaxing stories out of Dani over the years to turn Eddie into a memory she can bear carrying around instead of a sharp knife between her ribs--but there’s something about the way Jamie says it now. Like she’s trying to get at something Dani can’t see yet. 

“No,” she says, a bit more clipped than usual. “I haven’t seen him in years.”

“Since that night,” Jamie presses. “Yeah? Only, I figure you would have said something otherwise. If you’d seen him after that, I figure you would have mentioned it. Or done your scary-bug routine.”

Dani clenches her fists in her lap. “What are you getting at, Jamie?”

“Nothing,” Jamie says, her voice entirely too innocent. Dani clears her throat, a Teacher gesture she hasn’t had to use on actual children in years. 

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“Because--” At this, Jamie pokes her head back out of the closet, grinning. “You are having what the songs call a rainy sort of Monday.”

Dani makes a face at her. Fact of the matter is, every day has felt like a rainy sort of Monday for the last week or two. She’s been steady too long, she fears, easy in her skin for years more than she thought she’d be allowed. Four, five, six Christmases have come and gone--four, five, six birthdays--four, five, six years of setting tables and arranging flowers and kissing Jamie goodnight and good morning and good I just felt like it along the way. 

And now, things are stirring. Changing. It’s a slow motion wake-up call, nothing so reliable as to make her stomach clench up every time she sees a reflection of blonde hair and mismatched eyes...but she’s getting there. Getting to the point of wanting to cover every mirror in the house again, getting back to that old habit of letting her eyes slide out of focus when she passes shop windows and too-clean city buses. The Lady isn’t always there, but Dani can’t guess when she’ll appear, and that’s somehow the worst bit. The not knowing. 

“Jamie,” she says. “Seriously, what are you getting at?”

“Okay.” She backs out of the closet, clicks off the light, shuts the door. “Okay, this is going to sound a bit out there.”

“Like nothing else in our life,” Dani drawls, watching Jamie move across the small room to settle beside her on the mattress. Her face is alight with something not-quite excitement, not-quite pleasure. It’s Jamie’s thinking face, Dani realizes. Jamie’s idea face. 

Usually, this is the face that results in furniture moved around the apartment for a new look, or a spur of the moment trip out of state to see the ocean, or an incredibly poor new dining experiment that will absolutely result in ordering takeout and eating on the living room floor at ten in the evening. 

“How did you get rid of him?” Jamie asks. Dani bites her lip. 

“I--”

“You never told me,” Jamie presses. “Not really. You just showed up a few days later with a cup of the worst coffee England’s ever seen and a promise that you were ready. And you were, and I’m never gonna stop being grateful for it, but you never told me what happened. How’d you go from flinching away to never seeing the specter of Ex-Boyfriends Past again?”

Dani shifts, gripping the material of her shirt in both hands. “It’s...hard to explain.”

“Can be patient,” Jamie says easily, like she’s ever anything less when it comes to things like this. She moves across the mattress in an easy prowl, settling with her knees touching Dani’s like they’re just two kids at a sleepover, ready for a spooky story. 

Two kids at a sleepover, Dani thinks with a wry amusement, except the way I feel the second her knee touches mine would never fly at a Clayton House Function. Mom would be scandalized. 

“It was a weird night,” she says slowly, remembering. Her eyes flutter closed, her memory reaching out across a gulf of half a decade. Who had she been that night? Scared. Always so scared back then, but also...determined. A little drunk. Maybe more than a little. “I was thinking...I was thinking about you. About you and me, and that...”

“Kiss,” Jamie supplies, when she falters. Dani knows they’re both remembering now, how Jamie had asked if she was ready and how she’d been nodding even before she could process the question. She was ready, for Jamie, and she wasn’t, for what it would mean. 

“It was a good kiss,” Dani says, smiling a little. Sloppy, and a little chaotic, their mouths slipping and missing and locating again as the wine steered the bus. She still remembers how sturdy Jamie’s jacket felt in her fists, how steady Jamie’s hands somehow were in her hair, on her back, pulling her so close she’d thought for a minute they’d be allowed something precious and sacred and theirs on a night she had spent lost in darkness. 

“It was,” Jamie agrees. Her hands move across the divide between them, closing over Dani’s wrists, turning her palms upright. “And?”

“And I wanted it. That. You. And I knew if I didn’t deal with the rest of it, finally, I wasn’t going to get another chance. You looked so...” Broken. “Certain, when you walked away that night, that I wasn’t ready. And you were never going to push.”

Jamie makes a little humming sound, fingertip tracing Dani’s lifeline. She shivers, flexes her fingers, smiles. 

“Hard to think when you’re doing that.”

“Do it anyway,” Jamie coaxes. Dani closes her eyes again, tighter. 

“I was drunk, and I was--”

“Riled up?” Jamie suggests, laughter in her voice. Dani flips over one hand, smacks her knee lightly. 

“If you want the story, stop talking. Yes. Riled up. And angry, if I’m honest. Angry at him, and angry at myself for not being able to let him go.”

She’d been so tired, she remembers. So tired, the way a person gets when sleep is just a parade of memories best left in the dark. The way a person gets when every smile is a mask, every laugh is a reprieve, every touch of another person’s hand is electric and painful and too much to stand. 

“So, I took his glasses. And I went out to the fire. Hannah had left it...I guess, Hannah was dealing with her own stuff that night. It hadn’t occurred to me to worry. It was just me, and him, and I threw them in. I didn’t want them, you know. Tried to tell his mom that, but Judy was...” Kind. Tried. Never quite ready to see what was right in front of her. “Anyway. I tossed them in, and I watched them melt, and it was the last time I ever saw him.”

“Because?”

“Because I was ready,” Dani says, a bit helplessly, feeling unmoored by the combined distance of memory and the solidness of Jamie holding her hand. She’s on the bow of a ship, she feels, shifting her weight in a search for balance, and if either the past or the present are to push just a little harder, she thinks she’ll go over the side. 

“Because you were ready,” Jamie agrees. “Not to carry that weight anymore. Because you wanted something more. Something that would make you happy. Dani...are you happy? Right now?”

It’s a bucket of ice water, and Dani sits up straighter. Her chest aches. “Yes,” she breathes. “With you, yes.”

Jamie smiles. “I’m not asking for that. Not really. I mean...are you happy. These last few weeks, you’ve been...I don’t want to say slipping away. I don’t want to say it, ‘cuz I know where you’ll go with a thought like that, but...”

But I have been, Dani thinks. Because I can see her, Jamie. Not all the time. But enough to not know whose face will be in the mirror each morning. 

“So, I was thinking. The last time you carried something like this, it was him. And you got rid of him. Never saw him again. Banished him, some might say.” Jamie shifts a little, like she’s actually getting nervous. Dani hasn’t seen her nervous in years, not since setting a single flower on a countertop and saying, I’ve got a problem. Or rather, we’ve got a problem, Poppins.

“Jamie--”

“So, I was thinking,” Jamie repeats. “If you could get rid of something that big, something that weighed that heavy, and you could do it because...because of...”

“You,” Dani supplies, knowing this is a step too far even for Jamie’s grinning sense of accomplishment. Knowing Jamie needs her to fill in the spaces sometimes, to remind her the way she’s always reminding Dani, that she is the most important person in Dani’s world. “Because I wanted you.”

“Yeah,” Jamie says, relief flooding her face. “Yeah, me. So...why don’t we try it again?”

“Try...”

“Banishing,” Jamie says. She’s starting to lean forward, a little-kid excitement roiling up through her small frame. “Banishing the beast. You and me. You don’t have to do it on your own, Dani. You know that? We can work together.”

Dani’s mouth opens and closes. “I don’t...I let her in, Jamie. Me. I invited her.”

“Yeah,” Jamie says gently, “but the way I see it, you invited him, too. In a way. You felt responsible for his death, and you carried that all the way across the pond, and you let it sit like a stone on your chest for months. Until you decided not to anymore.”

“So...you’re saying you think I can just decide to let her go, too?” She’s not sure she likes this conversation, where it’s headed, what it implies. Jamie shakes her head aggressively, curls flopping around her face. 

“No, no, Poppins. Listen. What I’m saying is, I think we can make her let go. Together.” Jamie curls her fingers tighter around Dani’s, thumb playing reflexively across her knuckles. “Like last time. You know.”

They sit for a long stretch in silence, Dani mulling it over, Jamie just watching her with a sweet nervousness in her eyes. She looks like maybe this was the kind of idea that appears in the middle of the night, out of a dream, and when you wake up and try to pass it along to someone else, all the logic falls right out of the bottom.

“Let me...get this right,” Dani says slowly. “You think...we can banish the Lady of the Lake...from being attached to my soul...like last time. When we...”

“Wanted each other more than any ghost could want you,” Jamie affirms. She looks a little embarrassed, but with that solid marching-on expression Dani knows they both get when they’re determined to set something right. Her lips curl upward at the corners almost against her will, looking at Jamie with that expression on her face. 

“That is the silliest thing I’ve ever heard, Jamie.”

“Yeah,” Jamie says, rising up on her knees, hand sliding up Dani’s wrist, up her arm, cupping under her elbow as she guides Dani to hold her around the waist. “Yeah, it is. But it was silly last time, too. To think you could want me enough to let go of him.”

“I did,” Dani says, a lump rising in her throat. “God, I really did.”

“And now?” Jamie’s hand, trembling around her elbow. Jamie’s face, inches from her own. Something seems to release in Dani’s chest, something warm and spring-loaded and impossible to put back once it’s loose. 

“I...can’t think of anything I want more,” she says hoarsely, honestly, and then Jamie is kissing her and she can’t think of anything else. 

***

It is, far and away, the most insane idea they’ve ever had. More insane than America, more insane than a flower shop, more insane than putting one foot in front of the other despite knowing a clock was running down in the background. 

And it’s the best Dani has felt in weeks. 

There is a difference, she thinks, between living your life with a timer going and living your life actively trying to stop that timer. She’s never considered the latter before. If she’s honest with herself, she’s been living on Jamie’s philosophy of Borrowed Time ever since leaving Bly--that life is organic, that everything which begins is doomed to end, and that the beauty is in the ending. It’s a good philosophy for parties, a good thing to say to people to make yourself look enlightened and stable. 

It is ever so less enlightened, to admit to anyone over a glass of wine that she is now desperately trying to remove a ghost via sheer force of desire for her forever person. 

And, yet...

“This,” she mumbles against Jamie’s neck, “is still the most insane thing we’ve ever done.”

“The part with the ghost,” Jamie pants, “or the part where we’re performing an exorcism via sex?”

Dani raises her head, eyebrows arched. “All of it? Jamie. All of it.”

They’ve made it through the majority of a day with hands to themselves, if only because a shop you own is less likely to stay afloat if you spend the entire day groping your girlfriend behind the counter...but it’s not like Jamie has been making it easy on her. She’s got this way of being exactly where Dani wants her, exactly when Dani wants her, and still holding herself just out of reach. All day, it’s been Jamie shifting past with hands on Dani’s hips, Jamie’s fingers brushing hers as they work together on an arrangement, Jamie standing just behind her, pretending she can’t feel the way the breath pulls up through Dani’s body until her heart is pounding. 

“You’re rude,” she says now, pushing Jamie harder against the back room door. “You know that about yourself, right?”

“I’ve just been doing my job,” Jamie says, mock-innocently. “Just going about my business as usual, Poppins. Really thought we’d be able to wait until we got home--you know, like proper adults.”

Dani makes an undignified noise through her nose, grasping Jamie’s collar in one hand and holding her by the hip with the other. Jamie's grin is just a touch more smug than Dani feels capable of looking at without spinning apart. 

“You made this bed,” she says, and ducks her head to bite at Jamie’s earlobe. It’s a bed Jamie made three nights ago, kissing her senseless and promising the unkeepable promise: that they’ll be able to do this together, that they’ll be able to unwind the hold the Lady has on her through force of sheer combined will. It’s insane to think about. It’s insane to even consider. You can’t exorcise a demon through sex. 

“And yet,” Jamie says in a raw voice, head thrown back, hands clutching at Dani’s shirt, “I can’t find it in myself to show proper remorse, with you doing that.”

Dani laughs against her skin, and it is unreal how solid she feels with Jamie in her arms. There was peace in their life before, peace and passion and the kind of love that seems only to expand with the stars, but this is different. This is a feeling of being filled-in, of color spreading up through the outline of her life in layers. This is...

Deciding to fight, Dani realizes, as Jamie’s mouth takes hers, Jamie’s hands sliding up under her shirt to explore. Deciding to fight and maybe even beat her at her own game. 

“If this works,” she says, the words half a moan when Jamie’s hand works open the clasp of her bra. “If this works, you’re going to be insufferable, aren’t you?”

“More attractive, you mean,” Jamie sighs. Her shirt is half-unbuttoned. Jamie’s hips are searching for contact, rocking lightly, trying to coax Dani into touching her. “Okay, hey, you started this--” “You started it,” Dani replies, “when you rubbed up against me for like two straight minutes out front.”

“I was adjusting the racks.”

“Reaching around me to do it?”

“You happened to be in the way.”

They’re both laughing, kissing around the smiles, Dani holding Jamie steady to keep her from taking control. It makes Jamie crazy when she does this, she knows; they’re both of a similar mind on taking the lead, two people who spent their lives trying desperately to set their own pace in the world, and who have since learned to fall into step with one another. Jamie laughingly refers to it as “mutual big spoon energy”, how neither of them is particularly good at letting the other take the lead or fall behind. They spend much of their life walking side by side, in perfect tandem. It’s unlike anything Dani has ever been a part of before.

Which makes moments like this--grabbing Jamie’s wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand, forcing her to lean back and let Dani steer--all the more delicious. It is, in a way, the only time Dani feels entirely in control of her life. Moments like this, with Jamie making a strange little growling sound at the back of her throat, with Jamie trying to buck against the hand that is leisurely working its way down her body, feel so steady. 

“If you’re going to be a tease,” Jamie begins, and Dani kisses her hard enough to elicit a whimper. Jamie, who pretends she doesn’t love it, seems to go boneless between her body and the door. Her fingers flex above her head, her voice panting out of her when Dani slips a thigh between her legs and presses up. 

She lets Jamie shift her weight, lets her join in at a slow pace, until they’re moving more or less in perfect sync. Jamie’s head rocks back against the door, and Dani releases her hands to cup behind her skull, fingers digging into thick hair and keeping her from doing actual damage. 

She’s not thinking about ghosts or promises or anything except the rhythm they’ve set between them, riding out the pressure of Jamie against her until she’s shuddering and gasping into Jamie’s throat. She’s not thinking about ticking clocks or how much time anyone can possibly expect, not with the unbound way Jamie grips her hips and pulls, pulls, pulls her harder against Jamie’s bucking. 

“Remind me,” Jamie pants, eyes rolling back in her head as she struggles to find breath, “never to hire additional help. Having this room to ourselves is the best investment we’ve ever made.”

***

It doesn’t banish the Lady in the first week, and Dani is trying desperately not to be disappointed. It wasn’t likely--it isn’t likely to work at all, she reminds herself--to get the job done right away. This isn’t the same kind of possession, not the same kind of ghost, and if there's one thing her too-real dreams have taught her about Viola Lloyd, it’s that the woman was designed stubborn. 

Still, the first time she turns around and catches a smooth-faced glimpse in the bathroom mirror, all the strength goes out of her legs. 

“What?” Jamie asks, summoned by the high-pitched intake of air Dani hadn’t realized she’d made. She’s half-dressed for a day of not much of anything, cropped shirt and underwear and a bewildered expression. Dani leans her weight against the counter, covering her eyes with one hand. 

“Nothing. Just--”

“Her?” Jamie slides into the space beside her, peering into the glass. She tries so hard, Dani thinks with a stab of frustrated gratitude. She tries so hard to see what Dani can’t look away from, and all she ever comes up with is that hard, searching look going nowhere. 

“It’s silly. It was silly to think--”

“Hey,” Jamie says, catching her with a soft grip around the shoulders. “I know you’re not giving up so easy. We’ve only been trying for a couple of days.”

Dani can’t help the shaky laugh that puffs out against Jamie’s cheek when she pulls her in for a hug. “You sound like a husband reassuring his wife that there’s still time to make a baby.”

Jamie makes a perturbed noise. “I cannot think of a less appropriate analogy for our situation than a little monster coming into our world--”

Dani smacks her chest, still laughing. “So you’re saying no kids, then?”

A very specific sort of paleness seeps into Jamie’s already-fair skin. “Wait, d’you want--’cuz we’ve never talked about--how we’d even--”

“I’m kidding,” Dani says quickly, unable to commit to the cruelty of letting this particular joke linger. Of all she’s thought about in her time with Jamie, of all the mad, wonderful ideas that have sparked off at odd hours of the night, children are not one of them. Kids are complicated at the best of times, and she loves them--loves being able to listen, and help, and teach them to be the kinds of adults the world needs--but they can’t even get married. Can’t even walk in public hand in hand, like she so desperately needs sometimes. Kids are so far off her radar, it’s surprising they’ve come up at all.

Jamie, for her part, looks relieved. “I love you,” she says. “So much. But thank Christ for that, because can you imagine me raising a kid?”

“Yes,” Dani says honestly, remembering in perfect tandem Jamie’s meltdown over tattered flowers and Jamie’s strong arms lifting a sleeping Flora into the air. She’d be good at it, in her own way, if it was something they both wanted--but it feels better this way. Just the two of them. Just the two of them, and...

“So she’s still in there,” Jamie says, switching subjects with obvious relief. Her finger presses very gently to the center of Dani’s forehead. “Took you by a bit of a shock, I take it.”

Dani sighs. “I just...hoped it’d be...”

“Quick and dirty?” Jamie wiggles her eyebrows. Her hands are sliding around to rest on the back of Dani’s skirt, giving a gentle squeeze that makes Dani jump. 

“It was with him,” she says, trying to keep her composure. Jamie’s eyebrows rise even higher, and she flushes. “No, I--the banishment, I mean. Just one night. That’s all it took.”

“Maybe I’m losing my touch,” Jamie muses. She leans in, brushes her mouth against the corner of Dani’s frown. “Maybe I’m just not working hard enough...”

“I don’t--think that’s--” It’s hard to think at all, hard to keep the words in her head, with Jamie kissing a slow path: cheekbone, underside of her jaw, hollow of her throat. Her back to the mirror, Dani closes her eyes. “Jamie, aren’t we going to be late for something?”

“Movies come,” Jamie says in a low, careless voice, “and movies go. We can catch a late showing...”

She’s sinking lower, one hand resting on the small of Dani’s back, nipping gently through the fabric of a thin t-shirt. Dani sighs, letting her hands drop to rest on the counter for balance as Jamie drops to her knees, kissing along her belly, her hips, teasing the skirt up and ducking her head beneath its hem. 

That they don’t even have to talk about it, Dani thinks distantly, white-knuckling the counter as Jamie moves in along her thighs with soft bites soothed instantly by hot licks. That they don’t even have to have these conversations most days, is a wonder. She can feel it in the air when Jamie’s in the mood, can read it on every line of her body when she isn’t. The are you sure’s are still there, resting comfortably between them, but it’s like a dance they’ve choreographed together by now. 

She inhales as Jamie presses a kiss between her legs, as a soft tongue moves against the damp fabric of underwear she hasn’t gotten around to removing just yet, and there’s nothing in the world she wouldn’t give up to keep hold of this. Nothing in the world she wouldn’t sell, burn, barter away if it meant more days with Jamie, more of Jamie on her knees on the bathroom rug with hands cradling the backs of her thighs and soft groans vibrating up through her skin. 

She lets her head fall back, lets her hips go as Jamie eases away the last boundary between them, and just concentrates on riding higher, higher, far away from a world where memory can burn and surprises hide behind innocent reflections. When Jamie slides tongue into heat, she jerks once, twice, releases everything. 

“Maybe,” Jamie says, leaning back on her haunches and wiping the back of her hand across her lips. “Maybe that did the trick.”

Dani laughs, but can’t quite convince herself to look over her shoulder. It’s too good, too nice, too perfect letting the weakness of her knees carry her to the floor where she straddles Jamie’s hips and kisses her. No point ruining it by looking back. 

***

Days pass without a sign of the Lady, and Dani finds herself initiating contact more and more, hands searching Jamie out at all hours. Sometimes, she’ll just come up behind Jamie in the kitchen, arms around Jamie’s middle, and stay there while Jamie chops and preps and boils water. Sometimes, she’ll find Jamie reading on the couch and slide between her and the back cushions, head on Jamie’s chest, letting the slow rum-pum of her heart lull her into a daze. It’s everything with Jamie that makes the world a stable place, she thinks, every inch of Jamie’s calm nature, Jamie’s bad jokes, Jamie’s kiss on her temple as she passes on the way to the bathroom. 

When Jamie has to leave for a weekend conference, a one-person-ticket event they’d decided months ago would be best suited if the person who actually understood the ins and outs of growing plants attended, Dani feels like she’s walking through a dream. She sits on the edge of their bed, watching Jamie hold a series of nearly-identical jeans and flannel shirts up to her body and discard them onto a nearby chair. 

“You’re sure?” Jamie asks for the fiftieth time that day. “You’re sure you’re all right with me going?”

“Yes,” Dani’s mouth answers automatically. No, she thinks. Every time, the same response. 

“Only, I don’t have to,” Jamie presses, looking over her shoulder. “I could call out sick--”

“It’s the best chance we have of the sale prices,” Dani says, like reading a script she’s been going over for a year. “And you said it yourself, networking is everything for a small business in its infancy...”

“That was early days,” Jamie protests, abandoning a shirt and crossing to the bed. “We’ve done all right for ourselves since, and I could...”

Dani wraps arms around her waist, leaning her face against Jamie’s shirtfront and sighing. “I’d be lying if I said I was excited about a weekend alone,” she says. Jamie’s hands rest on the back of her head, sifting through her ponytail in soft, easy strokes. It’s almost enough to lull her to sleep sitting up. 

“I’m just...what if...” Jamie stops herself short. Dani looks up, mouth twisting in a parody of a smile. 

“What if the Lady comes while you’re away?”

“I don’t like it,” Jamie says. “I don’t like risking it. You’ve seemed better lately, less...”

“Flinchy?” Dani suggests, suddenly bone-tired. “She hasn’t been sneaking up as much.”

“Right. But isn’t that because--”

“We don’t know what causes it,” Dani says, trying to convince them both with a single shot. “We don’t know if she’s been absent because of dumb luck, or because she doesn't feel like coming out to play, or because--”

“Or because it’s my bloody presence helping scare her off,” Jamie says, so fiercely, Dani reaches up to press a hand to her heart. Her face is set in perfect determination, and Dani thinks with certainty that this has ceased to be a joke in Jamie’s mind, a game to help keep Dani’s off of the fear. She believes, on some level, that she’s been doing actual good for Dani’s fight with the beast in the jungle, that it’s her hands and her mouth and her steadiness that’s kept Dani safe--safer--these past weeks. 

Dani can’t say for sure that she’s wrong, if she’s honest with herself. The Lady is still there; she can feel her, lurking, watching. But it’s getting...different. Maybe because Dani just feels better, and when her head is clear, when the sun is out, when Jamie’s hands are on her skin, it’s easy to convince herself that only children get scared of the dark. 

Maybe. Or maybe there really is something to be said about this battle of wills. Of the Lady’s need coming up against Dani’s own hungers. 

“I don’t want you to go,” she says, and is pleasantly surprised at how firm her voice is. She pulls at Jamie, guiding her down until they’re laying face to face atop the blankets. She wraps a leg around Jamie, pulls her closer, kisses her gently until the line between Jamie’s brows smooths out. 

“So, it’s settled, then,” Jamie breathes against her lips. “I’ll just ring ‘em up and--”

“I don’t want you to go,” Dani repeats, hand smoothly working the button of Jamie’s jeans open. She kisses her again, open and warm, letting her tongue curl around Jamie’s sigh, and adds, “But I’ll be all right. For two days. Two days missing you. Imagine what that’ll do...”

She likes the way Jamie folds into her, the way Jamie’s skin flushes beneath the tips of her fingers as she slides a hand down and curls gently against damp heat. She moves, fingers rubbing circles that make Jamie squirm and writhe and reach down to clasp her around the wrist. 

“You’ll go,” she says softly against Jamie’s lips, the words half-muffled and entirely unimportant, as Jamie holds her wrist and guides her deeper. “And I’ll be here. Thinking about you getting back. It’s you that keeps me grounded, Jamie, but it’s this, too. The wanting.”

Jamie makes a noise, small, like she’s trying to contain herself. Dani doesn’t think she’s even arguing anymore, not really. 

“It was like that,” she says, letting the words turn into a groan when Jamie clenches around her. “That night. It was the wanting of you. Of being with you, of being happy with you. It was wanting to let it all go so I could taste this. What being happy really was.”

There’s only so much room, Jamie’s jeans too tight, but she can move enough to twist her fingers, to press her thumb down as she thrusts in, out, in. Jamie kisses her with no grace whatsoever, presses until her forehead is flush with Dani’s, sweat beading on her skin as she tips over on Dani’s command. 

“You’re sure,” Jamie says, when she’s recovered herself enough to speak. “You’re really sure?”

No, she isn’t sure. Dani hasn’t been sure of anything regarding her unwanted anchor, not since taking the Lady in that night. But she feels...something in her chest, something solid and more certain than she’s used to, nodding in agreement all the same. 

She kisses Jamie, lets Jamie take her hand and kiss each finger clean, lets Jamie roll her over and clear away the clothes and the cobwebs of worry in practiced motions. With Jamie pulling the sheets over them, she feels safer than anywhere else in the world. 

“Just come home to me,” she breathes when Jamie touches her. “Just promise you’ll always come home.”

***

Jamie, of course, keeps that promise. Jamie, for someone who doesn’t like to make many, keeps promises better than anyone Dani’s ever met. She calls when she makes it to the hotel Friday afternoon, calls again each night after the conference lets out, sits on the phone until Dani falls asleep. 

The rest of the weekend feels foggy to Dani, like someone has wrapped their apartment in a thin gray smoke. She tries to keep busy, but her attention is variable at best; a book, a puzzle, a movie can only hold her for patches of minutes at a time until she bounces to her feet and goes off in search of the next distraction.

She spends all of Saturday on old habits, keeping her head resolutely turned away from the mirror whenever she needs the bathroom, refusing to give the Lady the satisfaction of a glance. 

Sunday, the restless energy pools until she can’t stand it anymore. She takes a long walk in the summer heat, humidity pulling at her clothes, the sun baking itself into her hair. She wishes Jamie were there, pointing out dogs and laughing at kids. 

Sweat soaks into her clothes, and she heads straight for a shower upon returning home. Her eyes fixate on the towel, the clean pajamas piled on the counter, the row of neat bottles on the shower rack. She lets the water heat until the room is bathed in steam, and then, only then, does she turn to the mirror. 

Blonde hair, serious frown, one blue eye, one brown, staring back at her. What Jamie sees whenever she joins Dani at the mirror, and nothing else. Nothing more. She leans her weight on her elbows, staring her own reflection down. She keeps expecting something to jump out at her--a perfectly smooth face, dark hair stringy around a white nightgown--but, no. 

Here’s Dani Clayton, she thinks with a rebellious little laugh. She’s a bit of a weirdo, but she’s a lot stronger than she thinks. 

Jamie knew her so well, even then. Jamie, seeing straight to the heart of the matter without even being asked to look. Jamie has always been so good that way, so capable of reading Dani at the most unexpected moments. Eddie wasn’t like that. Eddie’s mother, her own mother, her old friends--they were all missing whatever critical piece Jamie’s puzzle contains. The one that lets a person look and actually see: not what is wanted, but what is there. 

She steps under the spray, shivering a little at the heat on clammy skin, and thinks, Maybe someday. Maybe someday I’ll take cold showers in July, because it won’t be a matter of fogging up the mirror before I’m safe being naked and alone. Maybe someday. 

It’s more than she’s allowed herself to hope in years. Maybe she’s crazy even to think it; maybe it’s just testing the gods, the universe, the beast in the jungle. Here kitty kitty, come out and see if you can take a bite. 

She presses her forehead to the tile wall, swaying a little, wishing Jamie were here. Wishing Jamie were sliding back the curtain, stepping into the tub, too giddy at the idea of seeing her even to wait the half hour for her to leave the bathroom. 

She wishes, and still, when hands slide around her from behind, it’s all she can do not to break Jamie’s nose with a terrified headbutt.

“Fuck,” Jamie gasps, ducking aside in the nick of time. “All right, Poppins, fair enough. Guessing you didn’t hear my merry hellos.”

Her heart is a ricochet, bounding around her ribs in time with her gasping breaths. The hands are Jamie’s--Jamie in a black t-shirt with the sleeves rolled, Jamie in shorts and a somewhat embarrassed expression--but for a moment, Dani was back at the sink in the Bly kitchen, feeling the starbursts of lust and newly-born excitement come up against the guilt of phantom gloves. 

“Next time,” Jamie says, “I will yodel.”

“Next time,” Dani agrees breathlessly, leaning back into her arms and trying not to cry and laugh at the same time as she returns to earth. “You are--”

“Home early,” Jamie supplies, kissing the curve of her shoulder. “Couldn’t stand another minute of those buttoned-up stiffs. You know how long they talked about tax benefits and profit margins? Hardly any of ‘em had touched real soil in years, I’d wager.”

“You are fully dressed,” Dani points out. Jamie pauses, looking down at herself in a dripping shirt and shorts that are going to be nearly impossible to wriggle free of. The car keys are still in her hip pocket. She reaches down, flings them out toward the counter. 

“Right. Didn’t think this through.”

Dani laughs, a mouthful of water nearly choking her, and leans her head back to nuzzle into Jamie’s neck. “You’re wonderful. And a mess.”

“Well,” Jamie says slyly. “If I’m already wet, I mean...what’s to be done, but lean into it?”

Dani can’t fault her this logic, and suddenly the laughter is turning into a very different sort of sound as one hand splays across her belly, the other easing sopping hair aside to kiss her neck with deliberate care. She lets herself lean back, the heat and the pressure of the water creating a perfect little pocket far away from the world. When Jamie cups between her legs, hips rocking gently against her from behind as she builds slow friction with nimble fingers, she wonders if maybe she’s dreaming. If maybe the strength of will has peaked and allowed the dream to spill over into reality. 

Or else maybe she’s summoned Jamie, summoned her with that restless desperate need she never quite understood before Jamie walked into her life. Either way, she presses a hand flat against the tile, breathing in steam, the world around her reducing to Jamie’s hands, Jamie sucking a soft red mark into the curve of her neck, Jamie breathing heavily against her ear, I love you, I’m home, Dani, I’m here. 

After, she lathers shampoo into her hands and washes Dani’s hair, talking merrily of foolish conventions and more foolish old men, and Dani thinks she’s never been so relaxed in her entire life. Even with the water shut off and a towel around her body, watching Jamie struggle to peel out of dripping layers, she feels good. Her eyes dart to the mirror only once, in time to watch Jamie’s swearing reflection hop in a circle as she fails to remove a sock and nearly topples over. 

There is only her. Only her, and Jamie, and this life she would kill to keep. 

***

The weeks become months, the months become years, and the Lady--the Lady is a memory more than anything else. Dani thinks she’s still in there, somewhere. Thinks this kind of ghost requires a kind of exorcism she doesn’t know how to perform. That maybe the invitation was different enough to ensure no take-backs, no pushing her back out again into that cold night and locking the door behind her. 

But she also thinks maybe Jamie was right, sitting on their bed that night with nervous hope in her eyes. Maybe an invitation, once made, can at least be amended. Maybe an unerring will, when contested with equal strength, can be placated. 

The sex ebbs and flows, as it will, but Dani finds her need for Jamie never diminishes. She never feels as though her day is complete unless she’s held Jamie’s hand, counting the callouses beneath her fingers, feeling the warmth beneath the swipe of her thumb. Some days, they spend hours on the couch, Dani wrapped around Jamie like a human blanket, talking and dozing and laughing, and Dani thinks, I almost missed this. I almost got too lost to know it. 

There are still bad days. Days where she looks furtively into standing water and thinks maybe she sees a shadow, an inkling, a seed. On those days, she walks straight to Jamie, and Jamie--who has always seen only her, who knows her so well she could tell their whole story without Dani’s help--holds her close. Rains kisses up and down her skin, grasps her face between hands that have her memorized, looks her in the eyes. 

“Still here, Poppins. Still here.”

“Yes,” she gasps on those days, and feels herself solidify a little more. She’s older now than she ever thought she’d get to see. Older, and maybe not as much of it shows on her face--Jamie’s getting these surprisingly-sexy lines around her mouth and eyes, a little more each year, and Dani can’t kiss them enough, can’t wind her hands hard enough into silver-threaded hair--but she feels it. Feels the years curling up upon themselves like the rings of a tree. Feels a little steadier, with every one she puts behind her, like an admonishment of cruel gods. Still here, she thinks with a savage kind of pride. Still here, and still here, and still her. Dani Clayton. Bit of a weirdo, stronger than she thinks, and so fucking in love with Jamie I could burst. 

“Do you think we’ll ever manage it?” Jamie asks one day, the pair of them lazy in bed though the Saturday sun has been brightening the room for hours. Dani’s head rests on her chest, Dani’s fingers playing with the waistband of her underwear. It’s a good day, a good, simple morning. Nothing pressing on the horizon. They could stay here all day. 

“Manage what?” she asks, when Jamie gives her a gentle shake as if to say wake up and pay attention to me. Her hand sneaks down a little lower, toying with soft skin. Jamie inhales slowly. 

“You are a menace. Do you think we’re ever going to be rid of her? Your beast in the jungle?”

Dani traces tiny shapes into Jamie’s skin, watching her hand disappear under cotton, watching the way Jamie’s hips jump a little when she scratches gentle circles and triangles and flower petals with blunt nails. “I don’t know.”

“You still see her?” Jamie’s lip is between her teeth, her eyes fluttering as Dani presses herself against her thigh and grinds gently. Not in a rush. Just meandering along, enjoying herself, enjoying the way Jamie still feels so alive under her hands. 

“Sometimes,” she admits. It doesn’t scare her the way it used to. It’s different now. It’s there, and it’s frustrating, but it doesn’t feel like something rising from the depths to pull her under. It feels, almost, as though after so many years of fighting Dani’s hunger for life, for Jamie, the beast, too, is tired. 

“But you’re--” Jamie swallows, a low moan passing her lips as Dani finally touches her properly. Slow, languid, she slides her fingers in and cherishes the way Jamie moves to accommodate and accept. 

“I’m what?”

“Happy,” Jamie groans. “With me. With us. You’re happy?”

Dani rolls over, watching Jamie’s brow crease with the loss of her hand. She smiles, sliding down the bed, kissing breast, belly, mapping all the little lines and scars and markers of a life lived well with her tongue. 

“Happy,” she agrees. “Very.”

There are rings on their fingers now, as she reaches up Jamie’s body without looking to tangle their hands. Rings that meant something when she bought them, meant more when they signed a piece of paper, will finally mean the same to everyone else when they stand up in front of friends and family in a few months and repeat those vows. There are rings, and there is laughter, and there are conversations in the dark and tears on a Wednesday and bad coffee and ghosts. Always ghosts. 

Maybe some things can’t be banished completely. Maybe some ghosts are more solid than others. 

As Jamie moves beneath her, coming apart under her lips, she thinks that part doesn’t matter so much. The Lady won’t be taking her. Not this time. 

She wants Jamie--wants this life for as long as she can possibly have it--more than any ghost could want her. If she knows nothing else, with Jamie on her tongue, Jamie’s kiss on her skin, Jamie’s ring on her finger, she can say that much for a certainty. 

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 280: I Am Red Riot

Previously on BnHA: The pro heroes over at Gunga Mountain struggled against Gigantomachia and the League until finally Midnight was all, “fuck it, let’s just put the kids in charge.” Momo immediately got to work organizing a sophisticated counteroffensive involving an exploding swamp, a bunch of sedative cans, and a massive coordinated team attack. I gotta tell you guys, it’s really something to watch a large-scale group attack in which all of the team members are actually competent. I don’t know what Japan put in the water when all these sixteen-year-olds were growing up, but that shit has paid off big time, and basically the only reason Machia hasn’t gone down yet is because he cheated and was all “sneeze” and the kids all got blown away because they are little and because he is really, really big. Anyway so then Dabi set the forest on fire because he loves doing that, and the chapter ended with Mina using her Acid Man attack to make herself FUCKIN’ FIREPROOF so she could charge through the woods ready to save the day and stuff!

Today on BnHA: Mina launches herself straight at Machia like the beautiful corrosive wild child she is, but then everything goes to shit when she recognizes him from that one time she almost got murdered while giving a strange man directions. Just when it’s looking like she might get killed for real this time, KIRISHIMA SHOWS UP TO SAVE THE DAY AND SHOVES HER TO SAFETY AND IS ALL “BOTTOMS UP” AND HEAVES A LITERAL CAN OF WHOOPASS RIGHT IN MACHIA’S MOUTH. At this point the grown-ups are all “oh wow look at that, time for us to take over for you kids now, don’t worry we’ve got it all under control” because Oh Those Wacky Pros and all that, but at least Majestic finally deigns to show his face so that’s a plus! The chapter ends with us cutting back to the Jakku battle, where Tomura is curled up in a little ball all “curse you heroes, how dare you [checks notes] save people all the time”, which is a real take and a half. Anyway so things are looking up, which can only mean everyone is about to die. That’s how it works, right. Shit.

HOLY SHIT LOL

THIS IS MINA. SHE’S REALLY COOL AND SHE CAN MELT PEOPLE. um, the hell kind of tagline is that?? holy fucking shit?? “melt and succumb”?? IS THE SUCCUMB PART REALLY NECESSARY. IS THAT NOT ALREADY IMPLIED. it’s like saying “die and then perish”, which actually sounds really badass and I’m about to make it my new go-to threat actually so you know what never mind. where the fuck were we anyway

“IS EVERYONE SAFE” some absurdly bad-at-gauging-situations kid from class B is yelling while the forest is on fire and all the kids are recovering from having been catapulted fifty miles by King Dodongo’s windy yeet breath. of course they are safe, sweet child. of course everyone is absolutely fine, why the fuck would they possibly not be safe after something like that

KAMINARI NOOO MY POOR SWEET BABY

AT LEAST HE’S STILL CONSCIOUS ENOUGH TO MAKE STUPID JOKES. holy shit this baby got concussed to hell and back and then Machia turned him and the others into precipitation and he wasn’t in any kind of state to even try to land safely, I hope to god someone caught him

Sero is all “is there anyone still in range!” and damn, I like that he’s taking charge and trying to regain their momentum. he is so criminally underrated. I feel like he’s in the top six or seven of class 1-A kids who I would most trust to take charge. which is very high praise because that class has a lot of charge-taking kids

SPEAKING OF

it “probably” can’t get through her acid, she says. my god. sometimes the spirit of Plus Ultra just takes ahold of these kids and it’s like, I want to ruffle their hair proudly and then grab them by the shoulders and shake them vigorously because WHERE EVEN IS YOUR SELF-PRESERVATION WHY DO NONE OF YOU HAVE IT GODDAMMIT AIZAWA REALLY SHOULD HAVE EXPELLED YOU GUYS AFTER ALL

man. and yet I really do love this “be the one who can do it” stuff. what a heroic fucking attitude dfjfklks. I’ll just go put on my humongous sandwich board that reads GIANT FUCKING HYPOCRITE and go stand in the corner

damn it this week’s scan is annoyingly dark, it’s really hard to tell what’s going on but it looks like the pros are attacking Machia and the League at long last. way to go guys it only took you seven years but you finally hopped to it

MINA WHY IS THE ACID COMING OFF OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD. PUT IT BACK!!!

I KNOW SHE’S NOT GONNA DIE DAMMIT BUT AHHHHH AHHHHHH AHHHHHHHH

okay what the hell is up with these weird zen proverbs though

“your fear stricken heart”, “the shortest path”, what the fuck even is this. whose thoughts are these. normally these translations are honestly decent enough but I gotta say this time around I’m totally being thrown for a loop lmao

(ETA: FYI I’m only just now realizing that he was saying the shortest path to Master, as in Tomura, not “master” as in to master something fjkldjskf lol some delayed reading comprehension there. so basically he’s just bitching about how annoying these little “flies” are proving to be.)

JESUS CHRIST

okay is it just me, or is Gigantomachia suddenly showing intelligence in his eyes instead of mindless animal instinct the single most pants-shitting thing you’ve ever seen?!! holy shit. the way he just LOOKS at her out of nowhere all of a sudden?? holy fucking shit DO NOT HURT MT. LADY OH MY GOD I’M FREAKING THE FUCK OUT. AND DON’T YOU DARE HURT MINA EITHER!! JUST FUCKING DIE AND PERISH

but also though, is that recognition in Mina’s eyes?? because even though this dude is 80 feet tall now, her encounter with him a couple years back had to have been one of the more memorable experiences of her young life. damn I was wondering when this would finally come into play

OKAY YES THE NEXT PAGE IS A FLASHBACK OH SHIT

this has nothing to do with anything but Mina just has the prettiest hair, btw, and this “just woke up covered in acid” look is a particularly good one on her. it looks so soft and fluffy, like damn. this is like Shouto-hair-billowing-in-the-wind levels of pretty here

NOOOOO

oh my god holy shit?! putting her back in the school uniform to show the slip in her mentality is a PUNK MOVE, HORIKOSHI, and I respect the shit out of you for it you manipulative bastard. goddammit. bracing myself for the incoming wave of Mina feels... here they come... they’re a lot... let’s see if I can latch on to anything I can actually figure out how to describe in words

okay well here’s one, my respect for Mina’s bravery just went up like a thousand percent in this instant, because now we know this was actually such a traumatizing event for her that hearing Machia’s voice again years later immediately sent her into a full-blown flashback. she was that scared and yet she still stood up to him and didn’t hesitate. and now I’m remembering how her knees just buckled right afterwards, and just...

and this visual, though!! what a brutally effective way to show that in her mind she went right back to being that scared middle schooler again for a moment. god fucking damn. holy shit you guys is Kirishima fireproof because if he comes waltzing out of the woods next I don’t even know what I’m gonna do. lolo kids getting traumatized left and right this arc is fucking merciless

um eXCUSE ME!?!?!

YOU MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF SHIT LET GO OF HER RIGHT NOW OR I AM GONNA LOSE IT!!

THAT’S NOT WHAT I MEANT!!

holy shit he could have fucking snapped her neck like that??! I don’t like this at ALL WHAT THE FUCK

OKAY SERIOUSLY

I’M GONNA NEED ANOTHER KID TO STEP IN HERE WITH A LAST MINUTE SAVE LIKE RIGHT THE FUCK NOW, OR I AM GOING TO THROW MY COMPUTER OFF A FUCKING CLIFF AND MOVE TO THE DESERT AND BECOME A HERMIT AND NEVER READ MANGA ON THE INTERNET AGAIN

OH THANK GOD

TODAY WE SPELL “REDEMPTION” K-I-R-I... ETC. THERE’S A LOT OF LETTERS BUT YOU GET THE DRIFT!!!

holy fucking shit y’all. I mean, it’s not like it came out of nowhere, like the setup could not have been more obvious, but let me assure you that none of the predictability lessened the actual impact of this moment in the SLIGHTEST. Horikoshi really wrote a flashback scene one hundred and thirty five chapters ago and planted it, watered it once a day, and patiently waited for THREE LONG YEARS until he could finally harvest the badass fruits of his labor in the midst of his most epic arc to date. I’m so fucking hyped I’ll even forgive him for sacrificing Mina’s big moment and having her get rescued, because it’s such a good reversal. he didn’t freeze up this time. he promised himself he’d never freeze again and he didn’t and he saved her and god fucking damn. anyways so now Machia is going to treat him like a fucking action figure though but he’s a solid little dude he can take it hopefully

NO WHAT IS THIS!!! STOP KILLING MY MOOD!!!

she better not be dead!! SHE BETTER NOT FUCKING BE DEAD I WILL RUN MY PC THROUGH A PAPER SHREDDER AND GO AND LIVE ALONE WITH MY FEELS ON A MOUNTAIN IN TIBET

CHINTETSU!!

well we know he’s fireproof. another callback at the least expected of times lmao

so Tetsu’s all “yeah Kirishima’s not really all that fireproof but he totally ran over here anyway to save you. oh wait that probably wasn’t very comforting of me to say.” maybe that’s why it seems like he might not have actually said it out loud, now that I’m reading this over again. good call Tetsu

ARE YOU STANDING UP AND CASUALLY STRETCHING OUT YOUR BACK

I CAN’T EVEN BELIEVE HOW MUCH I HATE THIS GUY RIGHT NOW. WE’RE REACHING LEVELS OF HATRED RESERVED FOR NAZIS AND PEOPLE WHO WALK TOO SLOWLY IN FRONT OF ME IN A GROUP SHOULDER TO SHOULDER INSTEAD OF SINGLE FILE SO I CAN PASS IN FRONT OF THEM. YOU’RE A FUCKING TOURIST IN NYC YOU PIECE OF SHIT

lmao he’s just dropping this random hero person and letting him fall to his doom wheeeeee

remind me to leave all of the League of Villains’ texts on read for the foreseeable future. goddamn. I still love you guys but also, fuck you so damn hard

OHO A LIL RED SCALY BOI ISN’T DONE YET!!

real talk, just between you and me, I’ll lower my voice so that Kirishima can’t hear. so uh. we all agree that even if Kiri is fireproof and squishproof, that little can of tranquilizer juice technically shouldn’t have been, right? but we’re all going to hush and pretend like it was anyway for the sake of not spoiling his big moment. even though I am crossing my arms and tapping my chin with my finger while doubtfully glancing to the side

anyway here he goes!

YEAH KIRI GO GETTIM [stage whisper] there it is, in his pocket. should’ve burned. we won’t discuss it

OH FOR FUCK’S

TOGA YOU LITTLE WIENER BUT WHAT’S THIS ABOUT “MY HALF” NOW????

DID HE GRAB MINA’S MID-AIR?? IS HE REALLY REACHING INTO HIS BACK POCKET AND FUCKING UNZIPPING IT RIGHT NOW WHILE HOLDING ON TO NOTHING AND PRESUMABLY FALLING THROUGH THE AIR. DID A LITTLE BIT OF OCHAKO’S QUIRK RUB OFF ON YOU OR WHAT

OH SNAP SON HE REALLY DID THE THING HOLY SHIT???

AND TOKAGE FLEW OVER AND SAVED HIM AND NOW TANKS ARE SHOOTING AT MACHIA, LMAO WHAT IS THIS. MOMO HOW MANY GUNS DID YOU MAKE

Shouji standing there trying to be useful any way he can. are eyeballs really that much more effective if you make them the size of tennis balls and hold them up above your head. legit question, I don’t really know how eyes work

okay after 45 seconds of googling this my impression is that no, they are not. well good on you for giving it the old college try anyway though Shouji

oH MY GODLKDLK?!?!

DID SHE SAY WHAT I THOUGHT SHE SAID, DID SHE SAY MAJESTIC, ARE WE GONNA SEE MASJKESLTKCI DSFLKJL

oh my god he really is the Magic Man dude??? TIME TO DUST OFF MY INVENTORY OF ADVENTURE TIME QUOTES

(ETA: AHH FATGUM AND GANG ORCA ARE THERE TOO YESSSS!)

“that’s enough depending on some interns” oh, okay. now that they’ve done all your work for you. I see, I see

so now Gigantomachia is LITERALLY UNHINGING HIS JAW I can’t fucking believe this dude you guys. everything he does is just like, ARE YOU SERIOUS

please go to sleep already. thanks to you I have my keyboard set to capslock as the default for the duration of this chapter

ARE YOU SERIOUS YOU FUCKING WAITED UNTIL MAGIC FUCKING MAN SHOWED UP TO TEACH US MAGICAL LIFE LESSONS AND NOW YOU’RE CUTTING BACK TO THE TOMURA FIGHT?? WHY DO WE KEEP LETTING THIS MAN GET AWAY WITH THIS

oh my god you guys they really fucking did it

I guess that Howitzer slash fire punch combo really was that potent huh

anyway so now Endeavor is standing there making a big speech instead of reaching into Tomura’s pocket and taking the bullets that he doesn’t know about and shooting him with one asap. dammit Endeavor

aaaaand Tomura is firing back with the wisdom of Shimura Fucking Kotaro of all people

well you sure convinced me. damn I don’t know what I was thinking. heroes suck you guys. how dare they help other people all the time

so now he’s all “PERIOD, EXCLAMATION POINT!!”

take that Endeavor. you heard the man. it’s not destruction without conviction, as god as his witness he will have you know it is destruction WITH conviction. something something the great sage Shimura “I hurt my family for absolutely no reason at all, fuck this ‘helping others’ bullshit” Kotaro. I hope you packed your textbooks because you just got SCHOOLED. I hope the person who ordered you signed up for delivery notifications because you just got SENT. I HOPE YOU LIKE CAPITALISM BECAUSE YOU JUST GOT OWNED. I HOPE YOU CHOSE PAPER AND NOT SCISSORS BECAUSE YOU JUST GOT ROCKED

what an absolutely, unreservedly bizarre place to end the chapter lol. we’re really just done with this week, just like that. Majestic showed up and Gigantomachia opened his chin like a garage door and Tomura is all “you may have won the battle but you suck” while he buys time for Aizawa to suddenly sneeze or something so he can make his terrible comeback and continue Horikoshi’s Traumatize Every Kid in Class 1-A 2020 campaign. what an arc this is my friends. what an arc

[miraculousandbts]

BTS | AMAs

P.S. The story is in y/n's perspective. Just because I wanted to.

Summary: You get your first big nomination, but you just had to stumble into a very handsome stranger.

Pairing: OT7 X Reader (Platonic)

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 2.2k

Warning: Reader’s train of thought goes crazy every once in a while. I feel like this should be a warning.

I was hugging my manager and jumping in circles with her, as a way of expressing my happiness. Ashley was not only my manager, but also one of my closest friends, always supporting me and believing in me since the start. Both of us were ecstatic with the news, and this was our way of showing it. Aside from jumping, we both were also screaming very loudly. I had never been so thankful for having a house near the forest area without neighbours.

Oh, wait! I never introduced myself; how rude of me. (Yes, I was thinking about the Thea Stilton books...) I'm y/n, a singer and songwriter. I live in LA. Me and Ash were just watching the American Music Awards nominations, and we just couldn't control our excitement when they took my name. This was my first nomination for an award. It wouldn't be that big of a deal for an experienced artist or someone who has been in the industry for long, but I'm still a rookie, debuting only two years ago.

Me and Ashley finally calmed down when a very startled guard came in and told us that we screamed so loud that he saw bats fly away from deep inside the forest. We sheepishly apologised, and decided to go to sleep. I had been recording a song the whole day, while she had been busy with manager duties, so we both were exhausted. I had actually known her for the last four years, and she often stayed over. So often, in fact, that my guest room had become 'Ashley's Room' very quickly.

After bidding each other happy good nights, we both went to bed in our respective rooms, falling asleep speedily.

*****

Taylor was applying my makeup, while I sat in the stiff makeup chair. This had been going on for the past hour, despite me telling her that I wanted light makeup and a simple dress. Instead, she and my stylist Ben decided to go against my wishes for once. Ben had prepared an extravagant dress too fancy even for a royal ball, and I was thankful it wasn't pink or blue or yellow; I absolutely did not want to look like a princess, that just wouldn't be me. Taylor kept on applying a little too much makeup on my face for my liking. She was very talented, so at least I was sure I wouldn't look bad.

Right now, she was working on my eye makeup, expertly putting on eyeliner and...something. I'm not good with this stuff. Taylor's assistant, whose name I always forgot, was painting my nails. I looked at her working. She was a pro at this. She smoothly glided the brush over my nails, effortlessly painting them purple, and then decorating them. She used as less materials as possible, knowing I hated it when even my nails felt heavy; my face was enough.

After two more hours of torture, I was finally ready. I looked breathtaking, but if I had an option, I would still go with something lighter. After another hour of sitting in the limo, we were finally there.

I got out, and there were cameras in my face. All I saw were purple blotches, because the camera men couldn't use their brains enough to shut off the flash. Or maybe those cameras didn't have an option to shut off the flash.

Anyway, I struck a few poses, blew some kisses, and walked ahead. And then I saw Dan. He was a reporter for such gigs, and I often did short interviews with him. He wasn't like the others; he didn't ask about rumours or made new ones, he didn't ask controversial questions to increase their channel's TRP.

I gave him a grin and walked towards him.

"Hey, Dan."

"Y/n! Looking beautiful as always."

"Oh, you flatter me." I kept a hand on my chest.

"Okay, stop with the over dramatics, girlie." You grinned.

He motioned his cameraman to start recording. I tuned out the whole introduction, and focused when he asked me a question, the said question being how was I feeling about being here even though it hadn't been long since my debut. "It's all thanks to my fans. I love making music, and I believe that if you do something with true passion, you will be successful. I guess this is destiny's way of showing me that what I'm doing is right. And not gonna lie, it feels like I've been feeling like I'm on a sugar rush since the nominees were announced, because of the adrenaline."

After some more questions and smiles, I finally went in.

I was too focused on not tripping on my own feet because of the long dress, so the first thing I did after entering was bump into someone. Great! I wasn't even surprised anymore, knowing how I was. "I am so sorry!" I looked up with wide eyes, only to meet kind brown ones. It took me a second to register that he wasn't alone, six other men behind him. They seemed familiar. I could tell they were from east Asia. I glanced at all of them, and then looked at him, apologising again.

"It is okay." He had a cute accent to his English, and I internally smiled, not only because of his accent, but also because he wasn't mad. I must've smiled in relief, because he looked amused. Now that I was looking at him properly, he was handsome, with a capital H. Little round face, pretty eyes, cute boop-able nose. And then he smiled. And then I died. It was the cutest smile I had ever seen!

Thankfully, I wasn't the kind of gal who would stand there checking him out. All of this took me a second, and I excused myself after thanking him.

*****

"Oh, hey!" I heard a smooth deep voice as soon as I sat down. I looked to my side and found one of the friends of the man I had bumped into earlier. I was right, my brain didn't forget. I smiled a small smile. "Hey."

Extending my hand towards him the old fashioned way, introduced myself. "Y/n."

He shook my hand, seemingly unfazed by my apparent childish behaviour. "Kim Namjoon, more commonly known as RM."

That's when it clicked. RM. K-Pop. BTS. My eyes must've widened; I was always terrible at hiding my emotions. "Everything okay?" He brought me out of my stupor. "Uh, yeah. Just, when I stumbled into one of you guys before, you all seemed familiar, I just couldn't place your faces anywhere." I replied honestly. "Oh." He simply leaned back into his chair and nodded.

"So, in which category are you nominated?" He continued.

"Top social artist. You?"

"Same. It'll be a four year streak for us if we win again."

"Ooh, really. Well then, I hope you win."

"Don't you want to win?"

"Coming here already feels like a dream. I don't think I can handle the adrenaline if I do win."

"So basically you want us to win for completely selfish purposes, huh?"

You both laughed at that remark, and continued making small talk for a while. Then he said he had to use the washroom. I hummed in his direction, and as soon as he got up, I saw the guy I had ran into in the chair next to his.

He had noticed Namjoon getting up too, so he was looking on my direction. He grinned at me, and sat in Namjoon's chair. "Hello."

"Hey."

"I am sorry. My English is not that good. Only Namjoon speaks English." He sheepishly rubbed his neck. "Why are you apologising for that?" I was genuinely curious. It was okay to not know perfect English. Even though I was a native English speaker, I still made mistakes. Everyone did. And the said language wasn't even his first language. "At the entrance, I wanted to talk."

"Oh. Well, You should have, I don't judge because of stuff like this." He smiled at that. "I will introduce you to them." He gestured to his band mates who were very engrossed in the show. Before he could do that, I interrupted him. "Hey, sorry. I haven't been in the industry for long, and I've only ever heard your guys' name, so...I only know RM and V? Is that right? So, yeah, I don't know your name."

I cursed at myself internally. Way, to go y/n! So damn awkward. He must've sensed my hesitation, because all he did was offer me his hand. Ooh, the old fashioned way. Good to know I wasn't the only one.

"Suga."

"Y/n." I shook his hand. Namjoon came back at that moment and him and Suga said something to each other in Korean. Wait, Suga? That does not sound right. Oh, right! It must be his stage name.

And then I facepalmed. Literally. I didn't think before my hand met my forehead. I must've made a pretty loud smack, because both of them were now looking at me like I was some weirdo. I sighed and slowly hid my face in my hands. "These kind of things always happen to me..." I mumbled.

I looked up when I heard them chuckling. I pouted, but I knew they could see the relief on my face that they didn't think of me like I was demented. "Don't worry, we've been living with these guys for the past eight years, these kind of things don't faze us anymore." Namjoon gestured to the other guys, who were still oblivious to their surroundings, absorbed in the performances.

I let out a breathy chuckle at the fact that they were so openly dissing their own friends. Namjoon, by now, was seated in the chair in which Suga was previously sitting in.

"So, I refuse to believe that Suga is your real name. And I would rather be literal friends with you guys, rather than two artists who just know each other."

"Yoongi. Min Yoongi." The way he said it reminded me of how Geronimo Stilton introduced himself. 'Why my brain has to go down completely random memory lanes is beyond me...and why am I thinking about a kid's book series?'

Within the next hour, I had been introduced to the other guys, and all of us were conversing about anything and everything. Seokjin was very happy that I was loving his dad jokes, Hoseok was a little too excited about my proposal of shooting a dance cover on one of mine or their songs, Jimin, Taehyung and me got along very well, as we were all the same age, and Jungkook had offered to teach me boxing, after I expressed my wish to learn it.

All in all, I was getting along very well with them. They were fun to be with, and it was absolutely adorable how they sometimes got flustered over their mistakes while talking. After the fun night ended, I congratulated them on their win, and went home, completely exhausted.

*****

"Noona!" Jungkook was the first to notice me. With wide eyes and a happy grin, he came to hug me. I had decided to surprise the boys by coming to Korea. Right now, I was standing in their dance studio. Even after four years, we were still going strong. It felt like now I had four elder brothers, two twins, and a kid. '...that was a terrible reference...god, please tell me what is wrong with me.'

Soon, all the boys came to hug me, though I tried running away to avoid their sweaty hugs, but Jungkook held me at one place, while I tried to squirm away. I should've just waited in their dorm.

"Kookie!" All I got in reply was a mischievous giggle. He really was a baby. Later that day, a collaboration between us was confirmed, and I couldn't have been happier.

Geronimo Stilton and Thea Stilton might be kids’ books, but they’re still the best!! Change my mind, I dare you.

[destiniesfic]

132 Hours, Chapter 2:

“Say ‘please?’”

“Fuck off, Greenbriar.”

“Close enough.”

Previous

Read chapter 2 on AO3 or read below:

This is the shape of my nightmares:

My sister Taryn and I are thirteen years old, sick and miserable. We’ve just endured our first heats and stayed home from school for a week with doctor permission. Even now, we feel residual awfulness: headaches and sore muscles. Heats are painful when there’s no one to help you through them, and obviously we’re too young to mate. We sheltered in our rooms, and our adoptive father briefly hired an omega nurse to tend to our high temperatures and help us wrap up in blankets, so at least we felt safe and cocooned.

Everybody knows why we missed school, and they whisper about it behind our backs. Even before we presented, our designation was obvious. The rest of our class—the rest of the school—is alpha kids, and the ones in our year have all started growing out of their baby fat, shooting up like wheat stalks. Taryn and I are only barely taller than we were last year, our cheeks are still soft, and we are gaining weight in our hips and chests. Everything about this is awful. Nothing is fun.

We are outside for gym class. The alpha kids, growing into their bodies, have a lot of extra energy, so they need to spend time circling the track or tackling each other in games of capture the flag. Taryn and I will join them until we get tired, but if we show signs of flagging, we’re benched. Omegas aren’t as sturdy. Omegas break.

Today, the teacher is more generous. During our game of capture the flag, she simply mandates we play defense, guarding the precious flag, and abstain from running around with our classmates. It’s boring, but fine. We get to talk to each other while the alphas tussle among themselves upfield.

Except a few of them are “on defense” today too—the alpha elites, too lazy or too important for gym, who can slack off. As the only two omegas on school grounds who aren’t staff, Taryn and I are categorically beneath their notice, but we know every member of the clique by name: Locke, the son of a wealthy consultant who’s never home, always traveling; Nicasia, whose mom is a senator; Valerian—nobody knows what his family does so we all kind of assume it’s crime; Cardan, the youngest of six heirs to the most absurd family fortune this side of the Rockies.

Already, they are taller than us, stronger than us, looking unfairly sculpted in the autumn sun. Already I am aware of how we are different.

Then the wind blows past me, picking up my hair. And the scene changes.

The first thing I notice when Cardan unexpectedly strides toward me is that he smells amazing. He smells so incredible that I goggle at him for a second, baffled by how I somehow didn’t notice this about him before. I feel a clenching in my stomach and the urge to do something, although at the time I don’t know what. And then, while I am paralyzed by his scent, he gives me a hard shove for no reason, knocking me off-balance.

I land on my backside, an embarrassing but safe place to land, padded with muscle and fat. Our adoptive father always taught us that it’s better to land there than anywhere else, better to suffer a little humiliation than to crack your skull open or shatter your ankle or wrist. It still smarts, but at least the only thing bruised is my pride.

Then Valerian throws his head back and laughs. “That’s where she belongs,” he crows. “On her back, like a good little omega.”

Nicasia thinks that’s hilarious. Locke raises his eyebrows, blinking at us with large, tawny eyes. And Cardan, the instigator. Cardan just sneers.

That sneer has haunted me. I’ve seen it countless times since then. He starts holding his nose when he passes me in the hallway. Whenever I get complacent, he makes sure to whisper in my ear that I reek. He and his friends seem to find it more fun to bully the alphas smaller or weaker than them—omegas already know their place, after all—but that does not protect us when they’re bored, or when said alphas further down the food chain need to take out their own aggressions.

I think they thought it would break me.

They couldn’t know it would do the opposite.

---

“Jude?”

I open my eyes to a darkened room, and groan. I feel vaguely like I’ve been run over by a truck, then the truck stopped and someone picked me up and threw me in the back of it, and we proceeded to drive down a very bumpy road. In other words: like shit. My head throbs, and when I try to sit up, the world spins and I flop back over.

“What happened?” I mutter. Everything is greyish and blurry. Dim light seems to be filtering in from somewhere above my head and to the left, but there isn’t very much of it. I hold my hand up in front of my eyes and squint at it until I stop seeing double.

There’s a relieved sigh from somewhere past my hand. A male voice. “You’re okay.”

I make a second attempt at sitting up and am more successful this time. My shoulder scrapes against a wall to my right, so I lean into it. The light source I clocked before is a small window, longer than it is wide, set high up above me. And on the other side of the room, sitting across from me, sits the dark shape of a boy, or a man, or someone caught eternally in between those two things.

Cardan.

I blink at him. “You look like shit.”

“Yeah, you too.” Cardan rubs his eye. He isn’t sneering now. In fact, he looks worse than I’ve ever seen him. His hair is messy—which is nothing new, people are doubtless running their hands through it all the time with how perpetually tousled it seems—but there are circles under his eyes and he looks pale. He’s also bleary-eyed and squinting a little. He doesn’t seem to have any visible injuries, though, although jury’s out on whether that’s good or bad. I’ve often thought he could stand to get pushed around a little more, instead of always being the one to do the pushing.

“I gave you the mattress,” he says, gesturing at what I’m sitting on. “There was only one.”

I look down. I’m indeed sitting on a mattress. There’s no linens, but someone has thrown a slightly scratchy blanket over the lower half of my body. I peer around, dread sinking in as I begin to grasp the severity of our situation. “Oh, fuck.”

“I think it’s ransom,” Cardan volunteers. “I mean, I really can’t think of anything else it would be.”

I hug my arms to my chest and say the thing drilled into every omega’s brain since they’re old enough to wander off from their parents. “What about sex slavery?”

“Yeah, there’s not a huge demand for alpha men on the black market. Although…” He looks down at himself and smirks a little. He’s built like a classical sculpture and he is well aware of this fact. “Can’t blame them if they decided to make an exception.”

It’s impossible to think he’s making a joke about this, not when it’s actually a thing that could happen to me, a possibility that my stepmother Oriana warned us of ever since she married Madoc and inherited his adopted twins. Sex slavers looking to snatch up omega girls became our bogeymen.

But the odds are that Cardan’s right: it’s probably ransom. I imagine people would do and have done worse to get their hands on a fraction of the late Eldred Greenbriar’s billions.

But I say, “Maybe someone finally got tired of you being annoying as shit.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Feeling mouthy, are we?”

“Fuck off. This is your fault,” I accuse, wagging a finger at him. “You did this.”

Cardan blinks at me. “What, you think I kidnapped myself?”

“Not literally.” I slump back against the wall. “Although it seems like something you would do. You love attention.”

“Ah, yes. All of the attention I am getting from you in our cozy eight-by-ten cell. I’m just soaking it in.” He pantomimes splashing water on his face. “Great for the skin.”

“You’re in a playful mood.” But of course he’s feeling better than me. He would have needed a larger dose—of the chloroform? ether? they used on us to get us here—but he also would have bounced back quicker. Everything about alpha biology is kind of extra like that.

“I joke a lot when I’m nervous.” He sighs and runs his hands through his hair. “I am actually freaking the fuck out.”

“Oh, great.”

“I do have water, though. Thought that might interest you.”

I sit up a little straighter. “God, my head is killing me. Yes.”

“Say ‘please?’”

“Fuck off, Greenbriar.”

“Close enough.”

Instead of getting up, which I think for a moment he might, he rolls the half-empty bottle of water across the floor and over to me. It bumps against the edge of the mattress and I have to lean over to grab it, which nearly makes me hurl then and there. The water helps, though. It’s room temp, but even a mouthful makes me feel more like a person.

“It’s not drugged,” Cardan calls. “Surprised you didn’t ask in advance.”

I flip him off. After I’ve drained the last of the bottle, I let myself just breathe, counting backwards from ten in my head. There are many warring emotions vying to tip me over the edge of a panic attack, but I can’t let them. I have to get out of here.

Cardan flicks at a bit of dust on the floor. When I am on three, he interrupts my mindful breathing. “You realize that, technically, we have now swapped saliva?”

“Ew.” I throw the empty water bottle at him and am annoyed when he catches it effortlessly from the air. “Could you be, like, useful for once in your life?”

“Sure.” He leans forward and lowers his voice, like he’s afraid someone might overhear. “There are three of them. One’s a woman, I think the other two are men. The only one I’ve seen is tall and white and barely spoke a word to me. He dropped off the water when I was still groggy.”

That is useful. Dammit. I frown. “Designation?”

“Dunno. Couldn’t get a read on him. I think they might be using maskers for their scents.”

“Yeah, maybe.” I exhale. “Tall” doesn’t have to mean alpha—my sister Vivi, who’s shorter than me, is proof enough of that. But it doesn’t sound good. “Any idea where we are?”

“I don’t think we’ve left Long Island. I don’t know for sure, though. We could be in Jersey for all I know.”

“Right.” I sigh again and rub my temples. “Okay, so ransom. Ransom. You could technically pay the ransom yourself, right? You’re over eighteen—”

“I’m twenty.” When I blink at him, he clarifies, “Repeated sixth grade, remember? And I just had my birthday in July.”

How could I forget? My life wasn’t exactly blissful before he came along, but it definitely got worse when he got bumped down to my year. “Okay, you’re twenty, and your dad died last year. So you’ve got your own money now.”

Cardan raises his eyebrows. “Wow. Real considerate.”

Now is definitely not the time to quibble over manners, but I manage, “Sorry, I guess.”

“Don’t be. He was a dick.” I glare at him, but he ignores me, patting down the pockets of his skinny jeans. “Huh, you know, when they took my phone and my wallet, they must have also taken the special checkbook I keep on me just for hostage situations. Think they’d accept Venmo?”

“Very funny.”

“But the real issue here is that I can’t touch my trust until I turn twenty-one.”

I wish I could say that didn’t interest me, but it does. Sure, Madoc has money. He’s a ruthlessly efficient attorney with killer instincts, and, among other prominent clients, he’s represented Cardan’s dad and both of his older brothers at one point or another. But he’s not among the alpha ultra-rich. Private helicopter rich. Secluded island rich. And I’m nosy enough about how the point one percent of the one percent lives. Anyone would be. So I ask, “Why’s that?”

“Why did my dad do anything?” Cardan folds his hands behind his head. “To make my life difficult, I guess. It was probably to ensure I wouldn’t embarrass myself by buying and crashing seventeen Porsches in a row. Give that frontal lobe time to develop. He’s not here to say. Anyway, Balekin’s the trustee. Maybe there’s some clause about life-threatening emergencies.”

Balekin is Cardan’s oldest brother, but thinking about siblings makes me wonder, with a pang in my chest, about Taryn. What had she done when she and Locke couldn’t find me at the party? Had she panicked? Had she gotten home safe? I don’t want to think about Madoc because he’s probably freaking out in a big way, a side of him I have only seen once before, the last time someone threatened me. It’s more likely that he’ll tear the kidnappers limb from limb than give into anybody’s demands. I hope Balekin has a more level head, although given his reputation for throwing massive parties, I am not counting on it.

“Right,” I say. “So they’ll hit up Balekin for the money?”

“Dude, I don’t know. Honestly? He might have staged this himself to get at the trust, or more likely my stake in the corporation. In some ways, I think it’s better for my family if I disappear.”

It surprises me to hear him say that. “Wouldn’t—that would be a huge scandal, though?”

I don’t say what I think, which is Don’t they love you? But there’s a pretty big age gap between Cardan and his oldest siblings. They could be practically strangers for all I know.

Cardan just shrugs and looks gloomy.

“I don’t think they planned on getting me, too,” I say quietly. There’s only one mattress in the room. One bottle of water on hand for when Cardan woke up. And anyone who thinks they can extort “Mad Dog” Madoc is definitely biting off more than they can chew. But that curdles my stomach, because if Cardan hadn’t chased me down the beach, I probably would have woken up in my lavender canopied bed, safe. Probably with a killer headache from overstimulation, but safe. As safe as I can ever be.

“Yeah,” Cardan agrees, which doesn’t help me feel any better. “Wrong place, wrong time.”

I blow out a breath. “Well, Balekin better pay up in the next forty-eight hours, or we need to figure out how to get out of here. Otherwise we’re going to have problems.”

“We are?”

I swallow. I hate that I have to spell it out for him. But I keep my voice even, casual. “Unless you’ve got spare heat suppressants on you.”

Cardan looks dumbstruck. “Oh,” he says after a moment. “Shit, no. I must have left them in my other jeans with my hostage checkbook.”

I feel myself blush, which is ridiculous. Unregulated heat cycles, messy and inconvenient as they are, are nothing to be ashamed of, as everyone says. Just a quirk of biology. Just the way I am. There’s even a group of pretty radical omega activists out there fighting to destigmatize unregulated cycles, citing the damage that suppressants can wreak on the body. Except my designation is going to be pretty problematic if I’m locked in this room with Cardan for reasons other than societal stigma.

To be honest, it’s already a problem. The room is probably ten feet long, not long enough for us both to lie down across from each other without curling up to avoid touching. I am already hyper-aware of his presence, the nervous drumming of his long fingers, the terrible urge I have to run my fingers through his already messy curls. It’s just chemistry, but if it’s bad now, it’ll be about eighty times worse for both of us if I go into heat.

And if any of our captors are also alphas…

I shake myself all over. I can’t go down that road. I’ll never pull myself back. I’ll just curl up in a little ball and then it’ll be up to Cardan to save us, which, no thank you. “Yeah. So, one way or another we have to get out of here.”

Cardan goes pale. “Jude, I—”

“So we assume nobody’s coming,” I continue. “Use the next twenty-four hours to figure out as much as we can about the people who’ve taken us and where we’re being held, and the next twenty-four to escape. That’s the plan.”

“That’s a reasonable plan,” he says, vaguely startled.

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

“I’m not. You were valedictorian, of course you have a plan. Just, uh, my mind went totally blank when you pointed out you’d—”

“We don’t have to talk about it, okay?” I snap. “I assume you want that just as much as I do.” Which is not at all.

The way he pales further tells me I’m not far from wrong. I mean, he’s always made it clear how much he’s hated my scent, the way I look, the fact that I get better grades than him. He hates pretty much everything about me, because I am an omega and he is an alpha, and that means he should be on top of the world and I should know my place.

I massage my temples, trying to clear my head. “No, we’re going to get out of here before that happens.”

For reasons I can’t pretend to understand, that seems to reassure Cardan. He nods and unfolds his arms, letting his head fall back against the wall. His eyes close. “Okay.”

I am surprised that he seems at all willing to trust me, but I suppose he is pretty low on options. That’s his mistake. Already I am thinking of what a relief it will be to leave him behind, even though I know that, morally speaking, I should be formulating an escape plan for the both of us. Besides, abandoning Cardan to his fate wouldn’t really solve any of my problems. But I wouldn’t have to face his sneer anymore, wouldn’t have to wonder what it would take to convince him I have earned my place when the answer is clearly “Nothing, ever.”

“I just have to figure out how,” I mutter under my breath.

Cardan cracks one dark eye open to look at me, but I ignore him, staring up at the little window. There has to be a way to crack this place open like a nut, and if there is, I’ll find it. There is no other option but this, no other way but out.

I refuse to believe otherwise.

Next

[malarkay]

To Walk With Dreams and Darkness

Chapter two up!  For the perusal of the two of you who are actually seeing this and, presumably, reading it.  Thanks, gatorkid509 and yami268!

Chapter 2: Goodbyes and Greetings

Piper pushed her eggs around her plate as she tried to decide how to tell her family about her being magical.  "Hey, eat up," Robert told her as he deposited a pancake onto her plate and dusted it with confectioner sugar.  "Florence said the train leaves at 11:00 sharp, with or without you on it."

 "I'm just not very hungry," she told him as he gave Finn and Aaron each a pancake before returning to the stove to get a new batch from Agatha.  She had barely finished her sentence before Finn snatched the pancake from her plate.  "Hey!"

 "What?  You said you aren't hungry.  I am!"

 "Finn, we do not steal food off other people's plates in this house," Agatha chided from where she was pouring the last bit of batter into the pan.

 "But she didn't want it!"

 "Yes, I did!"

 "You're only saying that because I took it!"

 "It's a pancake! Of course I wanted it!"

 "Then don't say you're not hungry!"

 "You don't have to be hungry to eat a pancake!"

 "It helps!"

 Beside Finn, Aaron just shook his head slowly as he quietly ate his own breakfast.  Robert came back and gave her two pancakes, then added another one to Aaron's plate.

 "What about me?"

 Robert gave Finn 'The Look' and waited.

 "May I please have another pancake?"

 "Yes, you may, thank you for asking so politely," Robert told him, giving him one more.  He added the rest to his own plate while Agatha came to join them with her own.  

 "Are you excited, Piper?" she asked.

 "Nervous."

 "That's understandable. I think everyone is feeling a bit out of sorts this morning," Agatha said, looking at Finn, whose brow was furrowed in a frown as he shovelled food into his mouth.

 "You're going to be just fine," Robert said.  "People are going to love you."

 She smiled at him, and breakfast finished up without any further arguments.

 Ms Davies arrived a little after 9:00 and pulled her aside as Robert loaded her things into the boot of their car.  "Have you told them?"

 "Not yet.  I didn't want them to think I was crazy, so I thought I'd wait until we get to King's Cross Station.  If what Professor Skeelur told me about how to get onto the platform is right, then there's no denying that magic is real when they see it for themselves."

 "Well, you're not wrong about that," Ms Davies agreed.

 All six of them couldn't fit into one car, so they split up for the ride to King's Cross.  She and Aaron went with Ms Davies, while the Wrights took Finn with them.

 "Promise me you'll write," Aaron told her as they drove.

 "Of course I'll write," she assured him.

 "Every week."

 "I'll do my best, as long as you do the same."

 "I will.  And if you have any problems with any of the other kids and you can't handle it, not that you won't be able to handle it, but if you can't, let me know.  I'll come up there, and I'll deal with them!"

 She laughed.

 "I mean it!"

 "I know you do. That's very sweet, but I don't think you're going to have to."

 Once at King's Cross, they reunited with the others.  "Where'd you put your ticket, Piper?" Robert asked her.  "We need the platform number."

 "Um, about that," Piper said, pulling her ticket out of the messenger bag she had slung over her shoulder.  "There's something you need to know first."

 "You're having second thoughts?" Finn asked.

 "No.  It's just the school I'm going to; it's no ordinary school."

 "Pfft, okay, we knew that already.  It's for super-smart kids like you," Finn said dismissively.

 "Not exactly. It's, well, it's easier if I show you. We need to get to Platform 9 ¾."

 She watched for their reactions.  Robert and Agatha exchanged concerned glances before looking to Ms Davies for confirmation. Aaron looked confused while Finn laughed.  "Good one, Piper.  Seriously, is it platform 9 or 10?"

 "Platform 9 ¾," Ms Davies confirmed.  "You have to run at the wall that separates platforms 9 and 10."

 "I'm sorry? Florence, we've known each other a long time, but this sounds absurd," Robert said.

 "You want us to run into a wall?" Agatha asked.

 "No, I want us to run through a wall."

 The Wrights still looked rightfully sceptical, so Piper spoke up.  "Let's just go, and then Aaron, Finn and I will show you."  

 Robert shook his head but gestured for her to lead the way.  "Alright, but I really don't want to spend the rest of the day in hospital while the three of you get patched up."

 For their parts, Aaron and Finn looked excited at the prospect of either running through or into a brick wall.  When they got to the column between the two platforms, they backed up to give themselves a good running start.  "Okay, on the count of three," Aaron said.  "One."

 "You're really not even a little bit hesitant?" she asked them.

 "No, we trust you. Two."

 "This is the stupidest thing we've done all week!" Finn said, grinning.

 She glanced over to her foster parents.  Agatha was shielding her eyes from what she must assume would be imminent disaster. Robert stood with a hand covering his mouth, looking perplexed.

 "Three!"

 They raced each other to the column, and when they reached the brick, there was a moment of darkness as they passed through, and then they were on the other side.  The platform was packed with families seeing their children off to school.  On the tracks behind them was the Hogwarts Express, an impressive-looking steam locomotive, all shiny red and black and looking brand new even though she had read that it was 150 years old.    

 "Awesome!" Finn yelled, drawing several eyes toward them.  "This…this is magic!  You're magic?"

 "I'm magic!"

 "The school you're going to is a magical school?"

 "Yes."

 "That's so cool! And unfair!  Why can't we be magic, too?"

 "It's a rare gift," Ms Davies said from behind them.  They turned to see that she and the Wrights had made the journey through the platform.  The Wrights were looking around as if they thought they were having a shared nervous breakdown.

 "Aww."

 "By the way, the school isn't named Saint Cyprian's," Piper explained to the Wrights and Aaron while Finn was busy pouting.  "It's called Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  When you write, just put my name and the school's name on the envelope and drop it into the post.  Professor Skeelur said it will get to me."

 "I don't understand. That professor didn't look like a wizard," Agatha said faintly.

 "To be fair, Ag, Piper doesn't look like a witch," Robert replied.

 "None of them do," Aaron said, looking around.  "Aren't witches supposed to be green?  With warts?"

 A girl a few years older than them shot him a dirty look as she passed, shaking her head. "Bloody stupid Muggles," she muttered under her breath.

 Piper crossed her arms, "That's just in the movies."

 "They do dress kinda funny, though," Finn said, getting over his disappointment.

 It was true.  While everyone was wearing Muggle clothes, not everyone was doing a very convincing job of it.  Most of the kids had managed to pull together a look that wouldn't raise too many eyebrows.  The same couldn't be said for the adults.   One woman in the crowd was wearing an elaborate ball gown, which wouldn't automatically be a problem except that it was 10:50 in the morning on a Wednesday.

 "Well, they do have their own world that's separate from ours," Piper reasoned. "It makes sense they dress a little differently."

 "As much as I'd love to stand here and discuss wizard fashion, we better get you and your luggage boarded," Robert said.  "The train leaves soon."

 Piper nodded and turned to Aaron first, hugging him.  "I'm going to miss you," she told him.

 "I'm going to miss you, too.  But you'll be back for Christmas.  And we're going to write each other all the time," he reminded her.  "It'll be like you never left!"

 She let him go and turned to Finn.

 "Well, I'm not gonna miss you even a little," Finn said.

 "Good, because I'm not going to miss you either."

 "I suppose you expect a hug."

 "This is the last time we're going to see each other for the next three and a half months, but I'm not going to twist your arm."

 He scoffed and hugged her, surprising her a little with the fierceness of it.  She hugged him back just as tightly, and he buried his face in her shoulder.  She felt a bit of dampness seep through her shirt.  "Are you crying?" she whispered, even as she felt her own eyes start to sting.  

 "No," he lied.

 They broke apart after a long moment, and Aaron threw an arm around Finn's shoulders as she went to hug Agatha goodbye.  She even hugged Ms Davies.  Once her goodbyes were said, she and Robert went and got her trunk settled into the luggage van.  After that, there was nothing left to do but board the train herself.

 Students crowded the corridor, congregating to greet old friends or looking for a compartment to settle down in.

 She picked her way slowly down the corridor, searching for a seat. The compartments were filling up fast, but she managed to come across one that carried only three occupants, two boys and a girl who all looked to be fellow incoming first years.

 "Do you mind if I sit in here?"

 The three looked at her appraisingly before exchanging glances, coming to an unspoken consensus. One of the boys, a stocky kid with shaggy brown hair, spoke, "Compartment's full."

 She put her hands on her hips, frowning at the blatant lie. If they didn't want her around, the least they could do was have the guts to be honest about it. "It doesn't look full to me."

 The group's spokesperson scowled, but it quickly shifted into a grin as he looked over her shoulder and waved to someone behind her. "Lark! Saved you a seat!"

 Piper glanced around and spotted the girl from the wand shop. Their eyes met, but if she recognized her, she did a good job of not showing it.  "How very thoughtful of you, Alex," she said dryly as she slipped past Piper to join them.

 "You know me, always thinking," the boy said.  "Besides, I haven't seen you since you've been back.  We've got a lot to catch up on."  He looked back to the doorway, feigning surprise that Piper was still there.  "I thought I already told you that there's no more room.  Find somewhere else to be.  Oh, and close the door for us on your way out, would you?"

 "Close it yourself!" Piper turned on her heels and stormed off. Her departure was met with a chorus of snickers from the group.  In her annoyance, she failed to watch where she was going and ended up nearly bowled over a lanky boy with ginger hair.

 "Whoa!" He reached out to take hold of her shoulders, steadying them both after their collision. "Are you alright?"

 "Yes, I'm fine," she snapped and immediately felt terrible.  "Sorry I ran into you," she told him more gently.

 "It's okay.  And are you sure you're fine?  Because I might not be if I had to deal with that gang of tossers."

 She looked up at him, wide-eyed. "You saw that?"

 "Yeah. You're better off, honestly. You don't want to be friends with them."

 "You know them?"

 "Well, no, not personally," he admitted with a slight frown. "More by reputation. Come on, let's find somewhere to sit, then we can talk more."

 She trailed along behind him until he found a compartment that was empty save for a blonde girl.

 "Mind if we join you?" he asked her.

 "Not at all. I'm Dierdra Macmillan."

 "Bill Weasley. And this is," he paused to let Piper introduce herself.

 "Piper Cochran," she said, sitting next to Dierdra. Bill sat across from them.

 "Is this your first year at Hogwarts?" Dierdra asked. They both nodded. "Mine, too. I can't wait! What House do you think you'll be sorted into?"

 "My mum and dad were both in Gryffindor," Bill answered. "It wouldn't surprise me if I'm put there."

 "My father was in Ravenclaw, my mother in Hufflepuff.  But I'm not sure where I'll be placed, honestly."

 Piper's face grew hot as they spoke. She curled up in her seat and tried to stay out of the conversation, but Bill had other plans.

 "I'd wager Piper is going to be sorted into Gryffindor. You should have seen how she had a run-in with a group of bullies and didn't let them intimidate her," he grinned.

 Dierdra's face twisted as if she'd been force-fed a lemon. "Bet I can guess who you're talking about. Alex Nott and his friends?  I saw them earlier."

 "Do you know him?"

 "Unfortunately. We're distant cousins on our mothers' sides.  Not distant enough for our paths to never cross, sadly.  He's always been an insufferable prat."

 "My condolences."

 "Thank you. Anyway, I don't understand why the Ministry is even allowing the children of Death Eaters to attend Hogwarts."

 Bill shrugged. "You can't really punish them for what their parents did, can you?"

 Piper chewed her lip as curiosity warred with her embarrassment over not understanding what they were talking about. In the end, curiosity won. "What's a Death Eater?"

 Dierdra looked at her in surprise before realization lit her face. "Oh, you're Muggle-born! Why didn't you say so? Death Eaters were followers of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

 Piper's lack of comprehension must have shown because Dierdra elaborated, "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was a dark wizard who believed Pure-bloods should rule the world. A lot of good people who disagreed with that died in the war against him."

 Piper gaped at her, "There was a war? When?" How could there have been an entire war going on right under their noses, and they had never noticed?

 "It went on for practically our whole lives. It just ended last October when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was finally stopped. As for his followers, a lot of them have been sent to Azkaban."

 "And a lot of others managed to lie their way out of trouble," Bill added.

 "Or buy their way out of it," Dierdra added with distaste. "And who knows how many others are out there who haven't been caught yet?"

 "So those kids back there, you're saying their parents are Death Eaters?"

 Dierdra shrugged, "The Ministry suspected Thaddeus Nott of being one.  They even put him on trial, but in the end, they couldn't prove it. That's Alex's uncle, though.  They never suspected his father, but as someone who has met the man, I can tell you that the odds are good that he was one, too.  The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

 "The Cyclonis' definitely were," Bill said. "It was a real shock when that came out after they died. Cyneric Cyclonis had a good reputation within the Ministry. My dad works there, too.  He says a lot of people thought it was only a matter of time before he'd run for Minister for Magic and that he'd probably win."

 "How'd they die?"

 "No one knows. My dad says it was probably You-Know-Who," Bill answered.  "He'd do that, sometimes, kill his own followers if they upset him badly enough."

 "Was there never an investigation?"

 "There was, but…"

 "But what?"

 "But they were Death Eaters.  The Ministry wasn't going to put too much effort into solving the murder of a couple of Death Eaters, no matter how popular they may have been before their secret came out," Dierdra finished bluntly when Bill hesitated.

 "That's awful."

 "A lot of awful things happened in the war," Dierdra said, in a tone that suggested that the story they had just told her was amongst the least of them.

 Piper knew what it felt like to lose both parents. Dierdra may not feel any sympathy toward Lark, but Piper couldn't help it. But the way that Bill and Dierdra spoke made the Death Eaters sound more like terrorists than soldiers in a war. She couldn't make herself feel too bad for Lark's parents in that case. Still, it'd drive her crazy if her parents were murdered, and no one cared enough to find out who did it or why.

 "You still with us, Piper?"

 "Huh? Oh, yeah, sorry. I was just thinking."

 "That was a lot of information we hit you with all at once," Bill said apologetically. "I'm sure the school library will have old copies of The Daily Prophet if you want to read up on the war. Some of the stories are pretty bad, though."

 Piper nodded, "I'll take a look. I want to be able to understand what people are talking about, after all."

 "You'll get used to the wizarding world pretty quickly," Dierdra assured her. "It can't be all that different from the Muggle one, can it?"

 Piper laughed. Just from what she'd seen so far, she knew they were very different. "You have no idea."

 "Anything off the trolley, dears?"

 Piper looked toward the door where a kindly looking old woman stood with a trolley laden with sweets.

 "I brought something from home, thank you," she said.

 "Me, too," Bill said.

 "What?" Dierdra sounded absolutely scandalized. "Piper, you at least have to get your first chocolate frog."  She hopped out of her seat and handed the trolley attendant some money. "Three chocolate frogs, please."

 She was handed three fancy looking boxes. She passed one to Piper, one to Bill, and retook her seat with the third.

 "Thanks, Dierdra, but you really didn't need to buy us anything," Piper said.

 "But I wanted to. Open it up! Each chocolate frog comes with a collectable card."

 Piper pulled off the seal that held the box closed and flipped open the lid. As she did, the chocolate frog within leapt right out of the box. She made a grab for it, snatching it out of midair before it could hit the ground.

 "Whoa, nice reflexes!" Bill exclaimed.

 She held the squirming frog out at arm's length. "Is it supposed to do that?" she yelped.

 Dierdra covered her mouth. She was trying not to laugh and not doing a good job of it. "Sorry! I know I should have warned you, but I really wanted to see your reaction."

 "The frogs are enchanted," Bill explained with a grin. "They're fine to eat once they stop moving."

 Piper tentatively opened her hand. Luckily, the frog's enchantment really had worn off, and she was able to put the now still frog back in the box after retrieving the card.

 She looked down at the pentagonal card. A blonde-haired woman wearing an old-fashioned aviator cap and goggles smiled up at her. At the bottom of the card read the name Jocunda Sykes. As she watched, the woman waved and snapped off a little salute.

 "They're animated!"

 "Well, sure, why wouldn't they be?"

 She flipped the card over. There was a little blurb about Jocunda's accomplishments printed there. She was the first witch the fly across the Atlantic Ocean on a broom back in 1935. Piper thought that sounded like a lot of fun.

 "Are we going to learn how to fly on a broom at Hogwarts?"

 "Of course! Not only that, but if you're any good at it, you can try out for your House Quidditch team."

 "Quidditch? Oh!  There was a shop in Diagon Alley that had that in its name, but I didn't think to ask what it meant."

 Dierdra and Bill grinned at each other.

 "You might as well get your lunch out and make yourself comfortable; we've got a lot to talk about."

 ~*~*~

 Talk they did, until some older students came along, walking down the corridor and knocking on doorframes. "One hour to Hogsmeade Station. Time to start thinking about changing into your robes."

 Dierdra pointed a finger out into the corridor. "Out, Bill. We'll change first."

 Bill went to stand out in the corridor, and Dierdra slid the door closed, pulling down the window shade.

 They changed into their uniforms without much chin-wagging, so they didn't keep Bill waiting too long. Piper had to admit that she felt a little silly as she slipped her robes over her uniform.

 Once ready, they swapped places with Bill. By the time they were all dressed, the older students were making their rounds again. "Half an hour to Hogsmeade Station! Make sure you have everything you brought with you! The train won't be coming back until the Christmas holiday!"

 Before she knew it, the train was pulling into the station. They made their way to the exit and stepped out into the night. The station bustled with activity.

 "All luggage and pets over there! They will be brought to your dormitories!"

 "Second through seventh years, make your way to the carriages! Four students per carriage, please! We won't have a repeat of last year! Looking at you, fifth-year Gryffindors!"

 "Firs' years? Firs' years this way, follow me!"

 Piper and the others followed the sound of the last booming voice and discovered that it belonged to an immense man with long dark hair and a beard. He was broad, but more than that, he was tall. Taller by far than anyone she had ever seen before. Twice her height, easily, and then some!

 Looking around, she saw many of the others openly gawking at him. So, some things took even wizarding children by surprise. Good to know.

 He led them to the edge of a lake, where a small fleet of rowboats waited.

 "Alrigh' then, in the boats yeh go!" he told them, overseeing them all. They sat four to a boat. Piper, Bill and Dierdra were joined by a boy who introduced himself as Liam Logue.

 Once all the first years settled into their boats, the giant man stepped into one of his own. It creaked loudly under his weight but stayed afloat. His boat moved of its own accord, pulling out in front of all the others, and all the other boats followed.

 She looked out over the lake to their destination and inhaled sharply. An expansive castle rose from the craggy shores at the far side of the lake. A gibbous moon rose into the clear, starry skies behind it, casting its glowing reflection into the lake in front of them. It was beautiful. A low murmur of appreciation rippled through the fleet of boats at the view.

 As they drew nearer to the castle, the man called out, "Watch yer heads!"

 She ducked slightly as the boat glided through an ivy-covered opening in the cliff. They sailed on through an underground tunnel before coming to a stop on a rocky shore. They climbed out and followed the man up a flight of stone steps to a heavy wooden door. The man knocked three times, loudly, and the door swung open.

 They followed him into a large entry hall, coming to a stop in front of a strict looking woman with her black hair pulled into a tight bun.

 "Professor McGonagall," the man greeted. "The new firs' years for yeh."

 "Thank you, Hagrid," the woman replied. "Follow me," she said to them. She led them across the large entrance hall, stopping before another large door.

 She turned to address them. "The Sorting Ceremony is about to begin. But first, there are a few things you should know. There are four houses at Hogwarts: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each of you will be sorted into one of these houses, where you will remain throughout your years here. Over the course of the year, you will have many opportunities to win your house points. Any misbehaviour, however, may lead to the deduction of points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points will win the house cup. Now then, are you all ready?"

 They all nodded, and Professor McGonagall pushed open the doors, striding into the Great Hall beyond. They trailed after her, and Piper stared in wonder. Four long tables stretched along the length of the hall, two on each side of the walkway they followed the professor down. Dozens of kids already sat at each table, watching them. At the head of each table hung a banner depicting what she assumed was each house's crest. Green and silver emblazoned with a serpent, blue and bronze with an eagle, scarlet and gold with a lion, and yellow and black with a badger.

 Hundreds of candles floated in midair above them, casting a soft flickering glow throughout the hall. The ceiling, well, she wasn't sure there was a ceiling. It looked exactly like the night sky had outside. Even the phase of the moon was the same.

 Upon a raised dais, at the front of the hall, sat another long table where the teaching staff sat. She spotted Professor Skeelur amongst them and tried not to gawk.  His hair was styled into a tousled quiff; the long top section dyed green while the shorter sides were purple. Even his goatee was purple. He was dressed in robes, black with silver trim on the outside, but with a violently fluorescent lime green lining that glared out from the inside of his hood and sleeves.  She could just imagine the look on her foster mother's face if he had shown up to their house looking like that. Aaron and Finn would think it was the wickedest thing ever, though. She felt a twinge at the thought of them. She really wished they could be here, too.

 In front of the table, right in the centre of the dais, sat a stool with a wide-brimmed, pointed hat sitting atop it. The hat looked ancient and worn, and she wondered what purpose it served in all of this.

 Professor McGonagall led them right up to the steps leading up to the dais before climbing the steps herself to stand behind the stool.

 An expectant silence fell over the hall, and after a moment, the hat began to sing.  Because, of course it did.

 Before I Sort you all tonight, there's one thing to make clear,

A note to both the tall and small that I find apt this year.

When Godric, Helga, Rowena and Salazar began,

They joined forces to achieve their illustrious grand plan.

For all four were well aware that they could not unaided,

See their great ambition reached; they were not yet so jaded.

So all together they succeeded in their common quest,

To build a school that the wizarding world would name the best.

And while it's true that each had certain values that they sought,

When it came time to fill these halls, it's everyone they taught.

So, while it is my job to place in Ravenclaw the wise,

And make sure that it is the true that Hufflepuff comprise,

And while in Gryffindor it is that boldness must reside,

And into Slytherin go those whose aspirations guide,

I bid you to remember that united we are strong,

And don't forget that each and every one of you belongs.

 "When I call your name, come up and take a seat on the stool," Professor McGonagall said once the hat fell silent.  She retrieved a scroll of parchment from a pocket in her robes, unrolled it, and called the first name.

 "Agarwal, Arjun."

 A nervous-looking boy wearing a black turban climbed the steps and took a seat, and Professor McGonagall placed the hat on his head. They all waited in eager anticipation to see what would happen next. They weren't kept waiting long. About fifteen seconds later, the hat called out, "Hufflepuff!"

 The kids at the yellow and black table broke into applause, and the boy smiled and hopped off the stool to join them.

 She watched as the same scene played out for a couple more kids, and then the professor called out, "Avery, Josephine."

 Piper frowned. She recognized the plump, bespectacled girl as part of the group that had rebuffed her on the train.

 Less than ten seconds went by before the hat yelled, "Slytherin!"

 The green and silver table burst into loud applause as she joined them.

 "Boo!" someone called from the scarlet and gold table, and Professor McGonagall shot them a look that Piper was very happy to not be on the receiving end of.

 "Decorum, ladies and gentlemen," the professor said sharply. "This is your one reminder! Brimble, Claudia."

 "Gryffindor!"

 That was met with riotous celebration by the scarlet and gold table.

 Bryne, Elliott and a pair of twins by the name Cadwallader all went to Hufflepuff. And then...

 "Cochran, Piper.'

 She slowly mounted the steps and sat on the stool. Professor McGonagall placed the hat on her head, and the brim slipped down over her eyes, obstructing her view of the Great Hall.

 She nearly jumped when a voice spoke to her. 'Let's see what's in this head of yours, shall we? Hmmm, interesting. You're quite intelligent, aren't you? I see a great deal of curiosity. You're studious and creative. You'd do very well in Ravenclaw. Very well, indeed.'

 She waited for the hat to shout that out to the rest of the room. Instead, the hat spoke again.

 'Not so fast. I'm not done with you yet. There's more here. I see bravery. I see a desire to do the right thing. You're someone who won't tolerate injustice when you see it, who won't back down from a fight. Fine traits in a Gryffindor.'

 Again, she waited for the hat to make its announcement, and again it did not.

 'I haven't decided yet. You're a difficult case. I believe you'd excel in either house. But what about you? What do you think?'

 'I don't know,' she thought to the hat. 'I don't know enough about either house to decide.'

 'You don't need to know anything about them. You just need to know yourself. What matters to you?'

 'I don't know!' she thought, frustrated. 'I want...'

 'Yes?'

 'I want to feel like I'm part of something, like a team or a family. I already miss mine. Don't get me wrong, I'm excited about learning magic. Really, really excited! But I worry I'll end up too homesick to enjoy it.'

 'I see. Each house is like a family to its members, but it is true that some form closer bonds than others. Of the four, Ravenclaw is the most individualistic. And so, I believe, the matter is settled.'

 "Gryffindor!"

 The hat was pulled off her head, and she made her way to the cheering Gryffindor table.

 "I told you!" Bill said as she passed him, and they grinned at each other.

 She found a place to sit at the table, getting handshakes and backslaps from everyone within arm's reach. She couldn't stop smiling as she turned her attention back to the sorting.

 "Coventry, Maximus."

 That did make her smile falter a bit. The scrawny kid with dark, curly hair who took his place on the sorting stool was the other silently judgmental boy from the train. It came as no surprise to her when the hat called out, "Slytherin!"

 "Everyone is getting sorted so fast," she commented to an older girl who sat next to her. "When I was up there, it felt like it took forever!"

 "You actually were up there for a while," the girl told her. "Close to two minutes. Some people aren't as easy for the hat to figure out as others. It's not a bad thing. The hat wants to make sure you end up in the house that's right for you. I don't think I'd trust it if it sorted everyone in five seconds."

 "I suppose that's true," Piper conceded as she turned her attention back to the ceremony.

 "Cyclonis, Larkspur."

 Piper expected her to be sorted as quickly as the Coventry boy, but ten seconds passed, and the hat remained silent. Fifteen seconds. Thirty. A minute. It was a minute and a half before the hat made its decision.

 "Slytherin!"

 "See?" the older girl told her reassuringly. "It's not uncommon."

 The sorting went on for some time. Their boat mate Liam went to Hufflepuff. Dierdra ended up in Ravenclaw. Alexander Nott landed in Slytherin. Eventually, the group was whittled down to three.

 "Weasley, William."

 The hat had scarcely settled on his head before it declared, "Gryffindor!"

 He took a seat across from her and smiled. "Mum and Dad will be happy."

 Winters, Gideon was sorted into Hufflepuff and Woodlock, Aisling into Ravenclaw. And with that, the sorting was complete.

 The stool and hat were replaced with an elaborate owl lectern, and a man stepped up to address the room. He looked exactly how she expected a wizard to look. He was a tall, thin man draped in midnight blue robes, with long white hair and a long beard. He studied them through gold-framed, half-moon glasses.

 "I'd like to start with a brief announcement. As many of you may have already noticed, Professor Skeelur has returned to us. He will not be resuming his role as Divination professor, however, as Professor Trelawney will be staying on in that position. Instead, he will be taking over the teaching of Defense Against the Dark Arts."

 Professor Skeelur stood and gave a jaunty bow as the students applauded.

 "Now then, for those of you who may not know, I am Professor Dumbledore, Headmaster of this school, and it is my pleasure to welcome you all to a new year at Hogwarts. You know, I've always found the beginning of a new school year to be a magical time, a time of new beginnings and new possibilities.  And this year, I feel it even more keenly.  We have been through tumultuous times in recent years.  For some of you, that is all you've ever known.  But we have weathered that storm.  Those days are behind us now, and we are free to look to the future with a renewed sense of hope.  And that is what I feel when I look at all of you now.  Hope.  The hope that we can help guide you into becoming the best possible versions of yourselves.  You are the future of the wizarding world, and it is my fervent wish that your future is a bright one, one full of peace, and prosperity, and progress.  That is the world you deserve to know."

 He paused, letting his words sink in as his gaze slowly swept across the hall.

 When he spoke again, his tone was more light-hearted, "But that's enough talk for one night. Enjoy the feast!"

 With those words, a multitude of steaming serving bowls and platters laden with food appeared in the centre of the table.

 She helped herself to a slice of roast beef and one of baked ham, roast potatoes with garlic and rosemary, Yorkshire pudding, peas and glazed carrots and tucked in for a night of good food and conversation.

 She discovered that the older girl she had spoken to during the sorting was a fifth-year prefect named Cathy Wells. She assured Piper and the other first years within earshot that they could come to her with any questions or concerns.

 She also learned that two other first years at the table were Muggle-born and just as excited as she was to be here learning real magic. Connor Monohan was from Wexford, Ireland, while Edgar Grant was from Leeds.  When they found out that she was from Brixton, they wanted to know all about her experience with the riots from the previous summer. Her foster parents had kept her and her brothers well clear of the violence, but she told them what she could of those days and their aftermath. The conversation fascinated the wizarding kids, who didn't seem to grasp the concept of racial tension until one of the older Muggle-born students compared it to Pure-bloods versus Muggle-borns. That had everyone chiming in with their own stories from that same summer. Apparently, the Death Eaters had been particularly emboldened in the months leading up to You-Know-Who's downfall.

 Cathy only let the conversation get so far before she steered it away from the grim turn it had taken. No one complained.

 The dinner dishes vanished as Bill told them funny stories of his five little brothers and baby sister. In their place, an entire spread of pudding appeared. Being stuffed from dinner didn't stop her from taking a slice of Victoria sponge cake.

 About half an hour later, all the plates disappeared. Professor McGonagall, who Piper had learned was both Deputy Headmistress and the Head of Gryffindor, announced that it was time for the prefects to lead their houses to the dormitories.

 Piper followed Cathy out of the Great Hall and off to the staircases. "Pay attention," Cathy instructed them. "The staircases change, and you don't want to get lost on the way to Gryffindor Tower later when you're all on your own."

 Sure enough, as Piper watched, some of the staircases overhead shifted from one landing to another. "We're this way," Cathy pointed out before mounting the steps. "Seventh floor."

 She led them up several flights of stairs and down a hallway to another spiral staircase that led to a large landing where a portrait of a large woman hung on the wall.

 "The Fat Lady guards our common room entrance," Cathy explained.

 "Password?" the portrait requested.

 "Frabjous day!"

 "Callooh!  Callay!" the Fat Lady replied with a delighted laugh, and the portrait swung open to reveal a round door that opened into a circular common room. The room was warm and cosy, with a fire roaring in a large fireplace. A lion portrait hung above the mantle, and the walls were lined with paintings and tapestries in varying shades of red and gold. Overstuffed scarlet chairs and sofas dotted the room. Several long tables could accommodate multiple students for studying, along with smaller side tables that held books or chessboards. Tall windows were spaced in even intervals along the walls. During the day, the common room was sure to be bathed in sunlight. A few nooks and alcoves were cut into the walls, which would lend a small amount of privacy to the few occupants they would allow. Near the door stood a message board. Cathy explained that they could find announcements such as Quidditch tryouts, club meeting schedules, and changes to the common room password posted there.

 "First-year girls, follow me. I'll show you to your dorm," Cathy said. "First-year boys, follow Matthew. He'll show you to yours."

 She pointed to a blond boy who looked about the same age as Cathy. The boy saluted, "Matt Higgins, at your service."

 Bill and the other boys broke away from the group to follow Matt while Piper and the girls followed Cathy up a side staircase to a room that housed five four-poster beds in a circle around the room, each bed draped with heavy scarlet curtains. Their trunks were placed at the end of the beds for them, and they each had a plain wooden chair and nightstand of their own.

 "Breakfast is served in the Great Hall from 6:30 to 8:30. You'll get your class timetable at breakfast tomorrow. Classes begin at 9:00. Whatever you do, don't be late! We don't want to start the year with negative house points. Curfew is between 9:00 PM and 6:00 AM, except when you have astronomy. Other than that, no wandering the castle in the middle of the night. It's against the rules, but besides that, it's dangerous. Lights out at 10:00.  Bathrooms are one flight up the stairs we took to get here. Any questions?"

 They all shook their heads no.

 "Well then, sleep well!"

 With that, Cathy left them to their own devices. They chatted as they prepared for bed. Her dormmates were Claudia Brimble, Maeve McCarver, Catriona Taggart, and Jocasta Erskine. None of them were Muggle-born, although Claudia and Catriona both had one non-magical parent, so the Muggle world wasn't a completely foreign concept to them. They all seemed friendly, and Piper thought they would probably get on well enough during their time here.

 "We should probably get to sleep soon," she said as she laid out her uniform for the following day. "Like Cathy said, we don't want to be late."

 The others agreed, and soon they were all tucked snugly into bed for the night.

[nerdlifecentral]

Unknown Secrets [3]

Summary: Y/n joins the hunt for the mysterious nephidemon, but she finds out some shocking information that brings them closer to saving this town from the clutches of Asmodeus’ child.

Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, reader, Gabriel, Castiel, Mick, Ketch, Asmodeus

Pairing: everyone platonic

Genre: Angst, bit of fluff

Word Count: 3,906

Warnings: none :)

A/N: Sorry this took so long, but here it finally is! <3

I pull up next to Baby in front of the small motel. "So we meet again, beautiful." I say lovingly, patting the roof of Dean's beloved car. I walk up to room number 63. The six has a loose screw which makes it look more like a nine, so I hope it really is room 63.

My anxiety is quelled when I see Ketch open the door with a wide, relaxed smile. "Hello, darling. I hope you didn't spend all of last night trying to research just to show off,” he says while giving me a hug and playfully winks, prompting Mick to shake his head from his spot at a small table across from Sam, whose laptop is open and running some sort of crazy code.

"No, not this time. Although I have always been the brains behind the operations when it comes to you two." 

Mick let out a chuckle while Ketch simply rolls his eyes and went to lounge on the couch. Sam then gets up, somewhat awkwardly and offers a quick hug.

"So," he starts, "me and Dean tried to dig up anything extra we could have skipped over in either demon lore or any offspring they could produce." I nod for him to continue as he takes a seat and turns his computer towards me. "The only thing that could be a possible lead is the tracking spell Rowena used and there's been a history of weird weather patterns - especially lightning storms for almost forty years. So that means that either Asmodeus or his child has been here for at least forty years."

I rest my chin on my hand and think about what could explain this Prince of Hell living in my town for forty years. I mean, how have I never ran into him or seen anything weird even once?

The door opens and in walks Dean with lots of beer and various snacks, along with a pie that I assume to be cherry.

"Alright, what's the game plan guys? FBI or some basic computer research?" Dean asks, putting away his items and walking over to his bed and plopping down looking at me.

"Sam was just catching us up on the weather stuff y'all found last night." I respond, noticing Sam's open laptop. "Although I think it would make the most sense if Asmodeus was here for, let's say, twenty years, scoping the place out and getting other Hunters to believe that the storms would be normal so no one bats an eye once his child is born, and they could live here for maybe twenty more years, completely undetected."

After a short pause, Mick speaks up, "It is certainly possible and the most likely lead we have. Why else would he want to risk staying in one area for that long?" 

Sam sighs and nods in agreement and slides his computer to face himself again.

"So, y/n," Dean starts and I pick my head up and look to him, "has anyone ever seemed off to you or someone you heard of being born thirty to forty years ago?"

I snort a laugh and respond. "You named most of the folks in this town. Most people have grown up here all their lives and don't really have the desire to move away. Not many long term or consistent visitors either."

Ketch stands up from the couch and walks over to Mick snatching a notebook sitting next to him. He says, "alright, who could be the most likely candidates for being this monster, y/n?"

I rubbed my eyes and leaned back, trying to narrow down who to say, but all I could see were faces morphing into each other and names swirling through my thoughts. "How should I narrow it down?" I ask with my eyes closed for a moment, opening them only because of the sound of Sam typing on his computer and Ketch speaking.

"Let's start with anyone especially strange or out of the ordinary, people between thirty and forty who have lived here their whole lives, only children, maybe anyone who doesn't know their parents or their mother died in birth."

I take a deep breath and start naming people that fit any or all of the criteria Ketch described while explaining which characteristics they have as Ketch writes the addresses that I can remember and Sam types up the list.

It takes us a few hours of narrowing down and organizing everyone into sizable chunks and who our most likely hidden monster is. Luckily, everyone lived nearby and Dean brought back some good food choices. Well, as good as gas station and tiny grocery store food can get.

"I vote we get a move on with this list and split up a bit to cover more ground." Ketch suggests.

Sam glances at Dean as he says "Works for me. We going for FBI on this one?"

The group nods as Dean butts in saying, "We'll go through the people in these neighborhoods," he waves his hand over the section towards the east, "and you three can take the rest." He says while pointing at me.

"Alright, let's get ready and get a move on." I say, standing up and walking out to grab some gear. I can’t help but think how odd it is that I have grown up with these people and all this time one of them could be such a horrible, dangerous creature. My palms almost itch with the anticipation of making my town, and the world a safer place. But I can’t help but wonder if we’re making the right decision.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Last house will be just to the left of Willow Street.” Mick says from the passenger side, directing Ketch to our final stop before it got too late.

I don’t even know how we’re gonna find this nephidemon at this point. No one we’ve talked to all day has said or remembered anything that would help us remotely. Hopefully Sam and Dean have had some better luck, I think as Ketch pulls up to the curb across from the house.

We all climb out of the car and casually walk up to the front door, Ketch and Mick with their badges and me prepared for the endless complaints this case will earn me from the locals for bringing the feds to their doorsteps. But, if I can possibly help out Mick, Ketch, Cas, and the Winchesters with something like Asmodeus or his freak kids, then it’s worth it. The door opens revealing Fred and his wife, Josie with polite smiles on their faces.

“Hey, Fred and Josie! How have you guys been?” I ask, smiling warmly.

Josie responds for them both. “We’re doing just fine, dear. You should join us for game night next time!” 

I laugh and nod enthusiastically, about to explain and introduce the two "agents" beside me when Fred beats me to it. “Who are your friends? They visitors?” he interjects with slightly narrowed eyes and hands shoved in his pockets.

“Of course, my apologies. These are FBI agents McCullough and Morgan.” They both hold up their badges with calm expressions. “They’re old friends of mine and have been looking for someone they think might have been hanging around here for awhile. I figured you both have excellent memories and I was hoping you wouldn’t mind us taking a few moments of your day to help them find a potential suspect?” I slightly tilt my head and try to look as innocent and eager to help as possible. Fred and Josie have always treated me as one of their own children and I certainly hope Ketch doesn’t offend them in any way.

“It’s no problem at all. Very nice to meet you gentlemen. As y/n stated I am Josie Hutcherson and this is my husband, Fred.” Josie, being the polite and kind person that she is, shook hands with Ketch and Mick, welcoming us all inside.

One nice thing about living in a small town is how nothing really changes; not the people, the drama, and not any buildings save for the occasional fresh coat of paint or new lamp. Having something constant is always welcome, especially when it feels like the world is ending.

"What case did you say you were helping them with, y/n?" I'm drawn out of thoughts by Mrs. Hutcherson kindly sitting down across from Mick and Ketch, Fred still choosing to stand near his wife with crossed arms.

"They're trying to track the movement of a very dangerous criminal, they have reason to believe he stayed here awhile back and then left." 

Josie smiles at me and turns back to the "agents" to speak, but Fred says, "Uh huh. And why does the FBI want to take up your time in this what I would think would be a highly classified search?"

Fred may mean well, but words were always something he left to Josie. Hopefully he's only put off by Mick and Ketch, I would really hate for them to be hiding this demon kid.

"Y/n here knows almost every person in this town, and from what she's told us she is extremely attentive as well." Mick offers, "We were looking around aimlessly until we met her. My partner actually was interviewing her and she offered to help us look around town for a little bit." He gave a reassuring smile towards Josie and a firm nod towards Fred.

"Now, have either of you noticed anyone strange at all in the past thirty to forty years? They would be extremely charismatic but slightly arrogant as well. And maybe looked something close to this picture." Ketch asks while pulling out a picture of the current vessel of Asmodeus. Even though we aren't sure he was in this vessel when having a kid, it's the best bet we have in recognizing him at all.

Both Josie and Fred denied anyone acting out of the ordinary or ever seeing that picture before. I could tell Mick and Ketch wanted to keep interviewing Josie since she was more open, so I tried to get Fred a little ways away to get through to him better. "I know that you don't really care for the FBI and sticking their noses where nothing has happened, Fred. "He uncrosses his arms with a sigh and a reluctant nod. "But this guy is a really bad guy and they asked me who would be the most attentive people to ask about. And you and your wife were the first I thought of, that's all."

After Fred agrees to be more open to answering their questions, I smile and thank him before walking back out toward the living room where Mick and Ketch are standing up.

"Y/n, I believe we shouldn't take up anymore of these people's time. Thank you both so much for all your help." Mick says with a kind smile and handshake with Josie, then Fred.

"Thank you Josie and Fred, I'll come over when I can," I say with a wave out the door and down the sidewalk. Mick and Ketch also exit and walk back to their car.

"Anything you guys picked up on?" I question, lowering my voice with caution.

Ketch closes his eyes and with a short huff of air responds "Not really. The only odd thing Mrs. Hutcherson mentioned were the persistent lightning storms that drove everyone inside, except for this one time. There was a man and a small child who were outside in the middle of the road, completely unprotected. Just gazing up into the sky for a few hours...."

Thunder, so loud that it feels as though the earth beneath my feet shakes. I look up in wonder as brilliant flashes of lightning take over the dark sky. A warm hand rests on my shoulder, its presence keeping me focused and grounded.

I glance up to the man, who has a prideful smile and warm eyes, and I remember feeling safe despite the chaos and danger surrounding us.

The man speaks, sounding southern and calm. "My daughter, this will be our last night together, I was hoping for more time with you but it's far too dangerous." I tilt my head in question, turning to face him more. He continues, "Someday all of this will seem like a dream for you. That's when your purpose will become clear. And we will be united once again."

I feel tears starting to form, this is my father, he can't abandon me now! "But father, when will that happen? And how long after I remember will I see you again?" He bends down to my level taking both my hands in his.

"I know I will miss you, my child, but I would rather feel this heartache than know you are at risk from Hunters. They are so dangerous and you must always be careful around them. Alright?" I nod my head and hug my father, one last time. I hear him speak once more. "I love you, never forget that." And the whole world goes silent.

I faintly hear voices speaking to me but I couldn't make out what they are saying. I know it’s Mick and Ketch. What on Earth are they doing here? The entire case comes flooding back to me, the Winchesters, Asmodeus, his kid, my strange hallucination. I struggle to open my eyes met with blinding light and someone, Sam, I think, sitting next to me.

"I'm sorry Sam, but there is no way for me to understand why she fainted. She appears to be in good health, not dehydrated, having enough food and energy. I can't find anything wrong." Cas says, slightly leaning his head back from his place at the end of a bed, near a small mirror on the wall.

I try to sit up and ask what's going on, but Sam gently pushes my shoulders back onto the mattress.

"Hey, y/n don’t sit up yet, alright? You've been passed out for a while. Do you remember anything?" Sam speaks calmly and softly, as though speaking too loud may cause me to lose consciousness yet again.

"I remember helping you guys on a case," I start, realizing how quiet my voice is and how hard it is to speak clearly. "You and Dean went to interview some people and Mick, Ketch, and me did the same. I remember leaving their house and walking out to the car..." I trail off, too unsure of how much I should reveal before learning whether it's a weird vision, or... a memory? I shake my head at the thought. It's simply impossible. I glance at Sam then Castiel while saying "I think that's all I can remember, sorry."

Sam gives a gentle smile just as the front door opens, revealing Dean, Ketch, and another person. He's the shortest out of all the men but has a confidence about himself, sandy blond hair that's longer than Dean's but shorter than Sam's, with beautiful whiskey colored eyes.

"Morning, Sunshine. Feeling any better?" Ketch asks, dragging my attention away from the newcomer.

"A little. My brain is still kinda foggy though. What happened?" I ask, looking between Mick and Ketch hoping they can help me discern reality from fiction.

"Well," Mick begins, "we had finished interviewing the Hutchersons and walked out to our car. I told you what Mrs. Hutcherson had told us about seeing a man and a child during a lightning storm, and you fainted."

He explained, taking a seat on my other side. I just stared at him for a while, trying to understand what had happened. I'm not a person who regularly faints, and this simply cannot be a coincidence.

"Okay, um thank you." I say, surprised at how numb I sound. "Also, who are you?" I ask, looking at the strange man sitting at the table with Dean.

He smirks and responds "I'm Gabriel, like the Archangel." He puts his hands next to his shoulders, waving them to mimic flying.

Dean rolls his eyes while Cas stares annoyed at Gabriel's actions. I guess that sort of makes them brothers?

"Naturally. Well, I'm y/n and didn't realize you were joining us." I tilt my head at Mick slightly and he makes a point to stare at Sam across from me.

"Yeah well neither did we." Dean speaks up, glancing at Cas.

The angel sighs and faces me "Gabriel was kidnapped by Asmodeus for his grace, a little over four months ago. Ketch used to work with him and was able to get Gabriel back to the bunker." I look to Ketch who looks down, almost in shame. Then to Gabriel who simply rests his head on his hand and shrugs. Cas continues, "I called Gabriel here since he deserves to be in on taking down Asmodeus, and it certainly won't hurt to have his help."

"But enough about me," Gabriel exclaims suddenly. He looks over to Sam, raising his hands up in question. Why can these idiots never just say what they need to say rather than act all secretive?

Sam takes a deep breath and turns slightly to better face me. "Y/n, I know you're not going to remember everything. But, " he pauses, searching my eyes while being careful to not give anything away.

"But...?" I prompt, looking around only to be met with Gabriel staring with anger towards me. Which is unbelievably rude and unfair, considering how I literally just met him.

"But, are you sure there's nothing else you can remember? Any detail or generic thing?" Sam finishes, with an understanding smile. I don't know what he could mean by that though, I mean, I was passed out for a long time and I don't think people can speak while being unconscious in that sense.

I shook my head no after thinking for a moment. Gabriel let's his head fall back in dramatic fashion while mumbling something under his breath.

"Sorry my answer isn't the one you wanted, Gabriel." His head snapped up and glared at me. What is this guy's problem? "But I barely remember even walking out to the car, let alone any specific details of our last interview."

"You're lying," Castiel said from the corner of the room, a perplexed look on his face. I wanted to ask what he meant but he continued, "you woke up in Ketch and Mick's car and described something very disturbing." I try not to shrink under the angel's condemning gaze; because I actually don't remember waking up at all until being in the motel. The disturbing thing I described, I don't think I will ever be able to forget.

"I don't remember that at all. I had no idea I woke up before five minutes ago."

Gabriel stands up and snaps his fingers in one motion and I immediately find myself in the backseat of the Impala with Castiel next to me.

"What the hell was that for?!" I say trying to steady myself from falling to one side or the other.

Castiel barely spares me a look and explains "Gabriel snapped us both here to have some kind of privacy I assume."

I try to open the door handle but Cas reaches over to grab my arm, and locks the door. He refuses to let go of me whether because of my continued swaying or because he thinks I could outrun him or something.

"Okay, and what exactly are you doing here? I wouldn't think he would want privacy from you if he's saying his piece."

Castiel finally releases my arm but gives no answer, and instead, looks out the window.

I do the same hoping that Gabriel and the Hunters don't take all day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Back in the motel room)

Y/n and Cas had disappeared from the room thanks to Gabriel.

"Really, Gabe? You probably could've just asked them to leave the room for a minute." Sam says, exasperated with Gabriel already.

Gabriel takes a deep breath and slowly walks around the room, in deep thought.

Dean uncrosses his arms, letting them rest on either side of the motel chair while watching the archangel pace the room, waiting for an answer.

"What have you got to say that you didn't feel y/n or Cas should hear then?" Mick stands from the bed and asks, squaring his shoulders and walking towards Gabriel with annoyance.

Gabriel pauses his movements, stopping in front of Mick while saying, "Cas already knows what I'm gonna tell you, that's why he's with y/n right now." He turns back looking at Ketch. "She did just wake up after being knocked out for a few hours and I'd rather not be responsible for a casualty already."Gabriel brushes by Ketch to sit on the spot that he vacated. "And I doubt she would appreciate her being told how probable it is that she is this nephidemon we've been looking for."

The room falls silent as the Hunters process his words.

"And why exactly do you think this?" Sam asks Gabriel, a shocked expression on his face. "She literally volunteered to help us with this case without any kind of convincing from any of us. If she is the nephidemon, then wouldn't she want to get as far away from all of us as possible?"

Gabriel closes his eyes and leans his head against the bed's worn bed frame, "Sam, I can't put my finger on it but when I first saw her, she reminded me of Asmodeus all over again." He slowly opens his eyes, keeping them focused on the ceiling missing the spark within them. I can only assume that kind of trauma doesn’t leave a person - or archangel I guess unaffected.

"Well, try to. We have to figure this out now, or come up with a plan on testing her or something," Dean says, rubbing his temples still trying to understand how y/n could have played them all along. How she could have played Ketch and Mick for even longer.

Gabriel sighed saying, "I don’t know if this will make you feel better, I doubt she knows herself if she's related to Asmodeus. She doesn't act like him at all, and from what you've said she sounded confused, scared even by what happened when she passed out."

The group relaxes but only slightly. "How could she possibly not know?" Ketch thinks aloud, "and why would a single memory or hallucination suddenly reemerge right now?"

Gabriel only shrugs, not really being able to provide any kind of a possible answer or solution. Mick shakes his head and offers "He could have wiped her memory in order to protect her. That is why we initially thought the nephidemon would be here for so long." Dean slowly nods while Sam rubs his eyes in frustration. "And maybe Ketch describing what Mrs. Hutcherson saw triggered part of her memory to come back; why she passed out."

The men sat in silence, mulling over everything Gabriel brought up, before anyone could move to suggest anything further, the archangel snapped his fingers and slowly let his hand drop back down to the bed.

"Figured it might be smarter to ask her about it, maybe search her memory or something." He states, beginning to act a bit more normal, as they wait tensely for y/n and Cas to walk back through the door.

[busterkeatonfanfic]

Chapter 8

Buster woke the following morning feeling like hell. His nostrils were so stuffy he could barely breathe out of them, his nose was on fire, and his mouth still tasted like blood even though he’d brushed his teeth twice before bed. He stumbled to the bathroom to look at the damage. Two small purple bruises underscored his eyes and the bridge of his nose was swollen to twice its size. His appearance confirmed that canceling filming had been the right decision. He swallowed some aspirin, cleaned his teeth again, and took a shower, letting the steam open his clogged sinuses. 

The aspirin barely touched the pain. He toweled off and pulled on a dressing gown, then poured himself a breakfast whiskey to go with the steak and eggs he ordered. Once he’d eaten, he called Nate. To his relief, he was patched over to her line; she hadn’t left for Sunday brunch at Dutch’s yet. 

“Hello?” she said.

“Hi, how are you?” he said.

She told him that she was well. 

He said, “I broke my nose in the game last night.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. How?”

He explained the eighth-inning fastball to the face. “But we won the game. 9 to 6.”

“Did you?” she said. “That’s too bad about your nose though. I’m sorry, darling.”

She sounded suitably sympathetic, but he craved more. He wanted the soothing, the I’ll-be-right-there, the kissing and canoodling. 

“How are the boys?” he said.

“The usual,” she said. “Full of the devil.”

“Good,” he said. “I won’t be filming for a few days because of my nose. You should really consider bringing them up. They’d love the steamboats and I’d like you to see the set. They say the shopping is good in Yolo, too.”

“Oh Buster,” she said, her tone telling him the answer was already a big fat no. “You know I’d love to, but six hours on a train is too much for them, don’t you think? I know you’re disappointed, but we must think of what’s best for them. And wouldn’t they be in your way? I’d have to bring Connie to mind them, and I think four is getting to be a crowd. I don’t suppose your suite would hold another four, would it?”

“Nate, you don’t have to bring the governess. I think you’re perfectly capable of managing them for a few days, don’t you? We can get a second suite or even a third, if that’s what has you concerned.”

“I’m flattered by your faith in me,” she said with a little laugh, “but you’ve never traveled with three- and five-year-old boys! I know I’m letting you down, but it’s only another month, isn’t it? Five weeks tops? That’s really not so bad when you think of it.”

“Yeah, it’s not too bad,” he said, echoing her hollowly.

“I miss you dreadfully,” she assured him, before launching into a story about the picture Dutch was filming and the party she intended to throw with her sisters at the Villa next weekend. He listened with only half an ear. He wasn’t surprised about her answer to his proposal, but he still felt lousy.

Since Bobby had been born and Nate had booted him out of the bed, he’d accepted that his needs would have to be satisfied by other women. He knew that Nate hated him for it, even though he’d stuck to his original promise and been the soul of discretion. In spite of her rejection, he still desired her and wanted to win her back, but the most she would ever permit was necking and light petting. If he so much as thought about taking things further, she’d squirm out of his grasp. He just didn’t understand, even three years since he’d last made love to her, why he couldn’t have both a wife and the rights that other husbands were entitled to. He’d gone over it in his head a thousand times. Was he a bad lover? Was it her upbringing? Peg’s sermonizing? Her religion? Could she be a lesbian? He didn’t know and God forbid he even try to broach the topic. She’d give him such a withering look before she stalked out of the room that he felt like he ought to be thrown in jail on charges of sex depravity for even mentioning the idea. 

Divorce was out of the question, naturally. There were relationships to preserve: the one with Joe for starters and those with his famous sisters-in-law. He didn’t trust that Nate wouldn’t try to keep the boys from him, either, if he tried to end it. He could just hear her saying to some attorney, ‘Well, he doesn’t see them much anyway.’ In the meantime, all the saphead could do was to keep trying vainly to find that opening in his wife’s affections. Casting her as his leading lady hadn’t worked. Building her a little love-nest, then a great big love-nest, hadn’t worked. He’d recently decided that maybe a real honeymoon instead of the post-nuptial cross-country train trip that had masqueraded as one might work on her. He figured deep down it wouldn’t change her mind, but still he had his foolish hopes. 

When Natalie was done prating, he told her he had to get ready for lunch with Joe and said his goodbyes. There wasn’t any such lunch, but he no longer wanted to talk. 

He ended up spending the afternoon at the new zoo, disguised by a fake moustache, a tweed cap, and jumper vest that constricted him in heat on what was already a sweltering day. It worked, though. No one looked twice at him. The zoo was a disappointment. To begin with, it was extraordinarily tiny, but more importantly most of the animals featured—deer, wild turkey, raccoons—could be seen if you just sat in a Muskegon tree long enough. The most exotic offering consisted of some listless-looking monkeys in cages. A pack of adolescent boys thumped on their wire enclosures and screeched at them to perform. “Pick on someone your own size!” he yelled at them, and they scattered. The monkeys blinked back at him, not seeming to care one way or the other. 

He did have dinner with Joe that night at the Italian Restaurant in the Julius Hotel. As Buster tucked into his truffle tagliatelle, Joe dropped the bomb. 

“We can’t have the flood sequence.”

Buster laughed. “It sounded like you just said ‘We can’t have the flood sequence,’ Joe, but I don’t think I heard you right,” he said, and took a bite of tagliatelle. “Good one, though.”

“I’m not kidding. Think about how it’ll look. You’ve got a river that’s supposed to be the Mississippi—”

“Sacrasippi,” Buster said, lifting his eyebrows.

“Cut it out,” said Joe, frowning. “I’m trying to be serious. You’ve got a river that’s supposed to be the Mississippi and it’s supposed to flood. Well, you know as well as I do that hundreds of people just lost their lives in the Mississippi floods.”

“Since when do you care?” said Buster. If there was one thing he’d always liked about Joe, it was that he let him alone and let him make the pictures his own way. Something about this smelled fishy.

“It’s in poor taste. It’s not going to get laughs, it’s just going to bring bad publicity. I don’t want it to flop. There’s too much money in it.”

Buster set down his fork. Two words had stuck out: publicity and money. “This is Harry, isn’t it?” he said, narrowing his eyes.

Joe gave a slight wave of his hand, dismissing the comment. “Now don’t go blaming Harry. I happen to agree with him. It would be a risky thing, and God knows what it would cost to pull it off anyway.”

“Well that god damn bean-counter,” said Buster, anger flaring. “We’ve already got everything set up for a flood! The entire god damn picture is about a flood. That’s the entire point!” Joe looked at him with a firm expression. “I’ve made up my mind. We can’t do a flood.”

“Well, we may as well can the whole picture then,” Buster said. “All my best gags are built around the flood. I can’t just start from scratch.”

“Look,” said Joe, continuing to eat his own meal. “We’re talking about lost lives here. You can see that, can’t you?”

“Horseshit,” said Buster. “Remember Chaplin’s picture Shoulder Arms? The ink wasn’t even dry on the Armistice when he released that. I remember ‘cause it was the first thing I saw after I got back from France. Everyone loved it. No one was thinking about how many soldiers had just gotten their heads and legs blown off in the war, they just knew a funny picture when they saw one.” He clenched his left fist in his lap. 

“Why not try another disaster?” Joe said.

“Like what?” he said. He stabbed at the pasta with his fork and took a bite without pleasure.

“I’m not the brains here.”

“What, like a cyclone? Joe, I bet you tornadoes and hurricanes kill more people each year than floods. Sure we wouldn’t get bad reviews and angry letters from folks whose families have been killed by tornadoes?”

Joe waved his hand again. “A cyclone sounds just fine. Anything that’s not a flood, you can do.”

It stunk to high heaven as far as Buster was concerned, but he knew Joe well enough to see when he’d made up his mind. He finished his tagliatelle in silence and didn’t even pretend he was willing to pick up the tab when Joe went to pay. He took a taxi back to the Senator and went to bed early, tossing between the sheets and stewing about his lost flood. There were butter cookies in the brown paper sack making dark greasy spots on its sides. Nelly stood outside Buster’s dressing room, her heart racing with the memory of what had happened last time she’d stepped inside it. Before she lost her nerve, she tapped on the door. 

“Come in!” called Buster. 

She slipped through and closed the door. He was sitting at his table again, not in costume today but wearing dark slacks and a long-sleeved blue jacquard shirt with faint stripes.

“Hi, it’s Nelly,” she said, by way of greeting. 

“I haven’t forgotten your name,” said Buster, one corner of his mouth quirking. “What do you have there?”

She stepped a few feet forward and extended the bag. “I made you cookies.”

He looked from the bag to her as he took it, surprised. “What did I do to deserve such an honor?”

“I heard you broke your nose,” she said. Indeed, she could see up close that his nose was swollen near the top and there were small faded bruises beneath his eyes, not noticeable unless you were next to him.

“So you baked me cookies.” He peeked inside. 

“Yes. I wanted to thank you, too,” she said, feeling the full ridiculousness of her gesture. “For taking care of me last Friday night.”

“No one’s ever made me get-well cookies before, not even my own mother. I’d just get cod-liver oil, even for sprains.” He sounded pleased.

“How’s your nose?” she said, as he bit into a cookie. 

“Hurts like the dickens,” he said, chewing. “I’m hoping the swelling will go down by Friday so I can start filming again.” He didn’t remark upon the cookie as he finished it, but she noticed he pulled another out of the bag. “We’re doing the night scenes soon.”

She was still a little fuzzy on Steamboat Bill’s plot, but this week’s filming had involved hundreds of local extras, and the grander of the two steamboats was piloted up and down the river, belching out huge plumes of black smoke. She’d taken a break to watch the spectacle. The crowd’s enthusiasm for the steamboat seemed real. The whole set certainly looked real thanks to all the props down by the riverside, the small boats, the large pennants reading KING, and the patriotic bunting draped on storefronts. Buster had been on hand near the cameras helping direct, but hadn’t noticed her in the throngs.

Buster went on. “I’ve got this publicity man who says I can’t have a flood because of the lives that were lost when the Mississippi flooded, so we’re changing everything up for a cyclone.” She marveled a little that he was telling her anything about the production, but tried not to show it. “I wondered what those airplane propellers and big motors Bert had me order were for,” she said. 

“These are good,” said Buster, pulling a third cookie from the bag. “Remind me to get hurt more often.”

“Or rescue foolish girls from themselves more often,” she said. 

“It was nothing,” he said. 

“It was something to me.” 

He considered her as he started on the third cookie. 

“Anyway, I already took lunch. I’ve got to get back to the shop,” she said.

“Okay,” he said. 

She had her hand on the door when he spoke up again. 

“Why that Shrew play, anyway? Why not Juliet?”

She turned back and looked at him, thoroughly confused. She had no idea how he knew about one of her dearest and closest ambitions.

He noticed her puzzlement and clarified. “You said your dream was to star in that Shrew play. Why? Why not Romeo and Juliet?”

“I don’t remember telling you that,” she said, feeling abashed

“Well, don’t get bent out of shape about it, I was just asking,” he said, a little defensively. 

“No, I’m not bent out of shape, I’m surprised,” she said, as she faced him. “I don’t remember saying that. I’m afraid of what else I, uh, might have said that night.” She cringed to think of what else might have come out of her mouth. “I hope I didn’t beg you for a break or anything.”

He regarded her with a calm expression. “You didn’t. I’d still like to know, though.”

“Well, Kate has a mind of her own. She wants to control her own fate. Marriage isn’t for her,” she said, conscious of how clumsy her words were. “She’s fun to play. Romeo and Juliet is a little boring.”

In truth, it was Katherine’s spirit which she loved, the rebellion against her father and Petruchio, and hang the end of the play. In her experience, the audience never remembered the end of the play, only the beginning and middle where Katherine was at her most defiant and fiery. 

Buster nodded, elbow on the table and finger sliding absently under his lip. The silence stretched on for long enough that Nelly said, “Anyway, I’ll see you around.”

“Thanks for the cookies,” Buster said.

Note: It’s easy when writing a fiction about Buster Keaton to cast Natalie Talmadge as a villain. I prefer to listen to Buster’s granddaughter Melissa Talmadge Cox who points out that the divorce is ancient history and that fans should get over it! Even though I’m writing a story that is obviously canon divergent, I always remember that Buster lived happily ever after with Eleanor Norris Keaton and considered himself to have had a lucky life with very few dark spots. Why did Natalie put a end to her sex life with the gorgeous, winsome Buster Keaton? I think the likeliest explanation is that she just wasn’t attracted to him or simply didn’t like sex. I do think Buster really loved her too and wanted things to work out, which is why their marriage lasted as long as it did. I’ve tried to convey that with this story. Also, I’m with Natalie. Trying to travel hours on a train with two young rambunctious boys sounds like a nightmare, even with a governess.  And yes, the Keaton governess was also named Connie, not to be confused with Constance “Connie” Talmadge, who was also frequently called Dutch. Finally, with a lot of digging through newspapers I learned that the date Buster broke his nose was July 30th, 1927! So the first scene takes place on the 31st. The second occurs on Wednesday, August 3rd.

[discotreque]

Disco 3.08: The Sanctuary

This week IRL was a real mixed bag for me: a lot of messy and barely-manageable anxiety about my health, my day job, and uhhhh *gestures outside*—but also I’ve recently fallen in love (from a responsible social distance)—so it’s been equal parts re-writing professional emails to edit the panic attack out of my tone and gazing dreamily at Discord notifications with cartoon hearts in my eyes. It feels like my life is going to hell in the cutest, coziest handbasket—which is to say that Michael Burnham could not possibly feel like a more relatable character to me right now.

I continue to have issues with the writing at a strange medium-level—somewhere between micro, where the dialogue and characters are really good, and macro, where I’m digging the pace of the overall season, it almost feels like something went wrong in the assembly process, and the script ended up a little bit less than the sum of its perfectly good parts. Again.

But that’s such vague criticism as to be nearly meaningless, and it’s hardly the most interesting level to spend time on anyway. If I zoom out, the parallel season arcs of “getting used to the future” and “the mystery of the Burn” are hanging together wayyyyy better than the Red Angel saga did last year.

And if I zoom in? This episode was funny as shit, wtf.

The discourse re: Tilly these past couple of weeks has been bullshit, and I have a whole angry thing to say about it—but honestly, if you can’t appreciate Doug Jones and Mary Wiseman as a comedic duo, I’m not really mad: mostly I pity the lack of joy in your heart.

Everyone on this show is so funny. Doug’s prissy little delivery absolutely slaughters me (“Execute!...?”), Mary will make a face sometimes that has me screaming laughter into my hands, and I’ve gone on before—and will again—about Sonequa Martin-Green’s egregiously underrated comedy chops.

They were obviously casting for folks w/ jokes in the new season too: David Ajada is no slouch in the dry-delivery or the goofy-face department; his energy and chemistry with Sonequa are as suited to comedy as they are to romance (i.e. extremely 🥵). Anthony Rapp and Wilson Cruz we knew about, but Blu del Barrio—a certified tiny baby!!!—holds their own and lands every smartass whiz-kid one-liner just on the right side of “too precious to stand.” (I almost always at least chuckle, and never roll my eyes, and for a “teen genius” character that’s literally as good as it gets.) And living legend Michelle Yeoh is clearly having the time of her life, omfg.

Disco’s not funny-funny like Lower Decks, but they do funny-on-purpose better than any live-action Trek except maybe DS9. They have such a deep comedic bench they don’t even need Tig Notaro—they have her on just to flex, I presume.

(I don’t know if I’m predicting, per se, that Strange New Worlds—with Rebecca Romjin’s deadpan, Anson Mount’s twinkly eyes, and Ethan Peck’s twinkly-eyed deadpan—is going to have a tone somewhere between Disco S3 and LwD—but I mean... it kinda has to, right? And you know they kept the number for Rainn Wilson’s agent.)

***

At the start of this episode, I was “sure, why the fuck not” about First Officer Tilly; by the end, I was completely on board. And to everyone who’s still wringing their hands about “the real military” this (always from people who have no idea how actual militaries work, lol) and “Lt. Nilsson” that (she... already has a job on the ship? And no character traits besides “stoic” and “furrows brow”? Oh, I get it—she’s skinny and blonde)—y’all are kind of embarrassing me.

“Rank” and “position” (and “seniority” and “day-to-day duties”...) aren’t the same thing, in Star Trek or any IRL military. Yes, the permanent first officers of normal-duty Starfleet ships we’ve seen have usually been command-division officers with the rank of Commander—but not always. Star Trek: Discovery-A, if you will, is a unique show about a unique ship in a unique situation: “B-b-but that’s not how they do it on Star Trek!!!” isn’t a legitimate criticism, not of this—it’s the mournful cry of an entitled pissbaby who isn’t having their hand held all the way to the fireworks factory.

Here’s what an argument supported by the text of the first 37 episodes of Star Trek: Discovery actually looks like: Sylvia Tilly is nervous and lacks self-confidence, but once she gets over herself—which she can do pretty much instantly in a crisis, even when hilariously intoxicated—she is competent as hell. In lower-stakes situations, without intense pressure to focus her attention, she sometimes gets sidetracked by her own insecurities; at her best, she channels that anxious energy into ambition, drive, and being scrupulously organized.

The only person Tilly doesn’t always get along with is Stamets, and even Stamets’s husband thinks he’s an asshole. Since Season 1, we’ve seen her easily socializing with the rest of the crew, who seem to universally adore her. And she’s also happy to leave her social comfort zone at a moment’s notice: she aligned herself with Ash Tyler (miss you, Shazad!) when no one else would, and she instantly befriended Po even when Po was in Weird Feral Alien Princess mode and Tilly had salad in her hair. She doesn’t like confrontation, but she’s brave enough to initiate it anyway if she needs to, and she’s compassionate with other people’s feelings while still setting firm boundaries. (Her graceful dodge of Rhys’s tipsy kiss at the party in 1.07 lives rent-free in my head to this day.)

No, Tilly didn’t finish the Command Training Program—but she started it, which is almost certainly more command training than any of the lieutenants whose names we know, all of whom are Ops or Science personnel with, presumably, specialized non-command training of their own. The same could be assumed for any unseen ranking officers on this science ship with an entirely volunteer skeleton crew.

And seriously, about Nilsson: she’s my #3 background bae after Octopus Head and the lady on Pike’s Enterprise with the spiky red face, but her job is Spore Drive Ops, not personnel. If she’s running after Saru with a holo-clipboard, who’s going to look serious and push holo-buttons when there’s a Black Alert? *drops holo-mic* Drumhead!

***

The stuff on Kwejian, though. Ooof. Ol’ Two-Takes Frakes directed this one, and between the kinetic energy he always adds to the camera and the scintillating performances he evokes, things stayed moving so briskly I almost didn’t notice Book’s entire “homeworld” was a rental house outside Vancouver, a couple acres of adjacent woods, and like six or seven people.

It’s a hot mess in retrospect, but in the moment it gave us the intensity of Book and Kyheem trying to hurt each other’s feelings by poking at 15-year-old wounds, which as a sibling with complicated sibling relationships I found both funny and devastating—not to mention Frakes directing “shaky bridge” explosion falls at an obvious intensity of “10” on an outdoor location shoot. It falls apart at the slightest scrutiny, but I can’t lie, on first viewing I was totally along for the ride.

***

I’m dying to see where this Georgiou thing goes. It doesn’t feel like a stretch to assume she got Cronenberg’d a couple weeks ago, probably to get her under the thumb of this century’s Section 31, and that her arc is going to take Michelle Yeoh off this show in a way that sets up the S31 show. But also, I don’t care so much whether I’m right, I just want to watch Michelle Yeoh—and Sonequa Martin-Green, and also David Cronenberg tbh, and bring back Shazad Latif while you’re at it—get wherever they’re going.

It’s also a fun and interesting direction to take the comically-evil comic relief character and show that her performative moustache-twirling is partly habit and partly a transparent emotional defence against very real fear and vulnerability. We’re all products of our circumstances, and a radical enough change in circumstances can afford almost anyone at least the opportunity to change. I can’t say Emperor Georgiou would have been my first choice of protagonist for that storyline, but it’s not like Michelle Yeoh’s not going to fuckin’ crush it.

***

Miscellany:

So the Burn had an origin point, and now that point is broadcasting a signal that’s somehow both a haunting melody that everyone seems to know—but no one can remember learning—and a Federation distress signal. What the fuck, y’all. I have full-body goosebumps just typing that.

Saru workshopping his own captainly catchphrase with the aid of Tilly’s extreme sincerity and organizational skills is probably the funniest thing that’s ever happened on this show—followed closely by the uncomfortably lingering reaction shots when he’s trying them out on the bridge 😂 (And omg please give Rhys and Bryce the dumbass buddy-comedy C-plots they deserve next season, I beg you.)

I would do a little “prop watch” entry on those Kwejianian(?) bolt-throwing rifles, but I’d have to stop drooling over them first. “Curvy polished hardwood” seems to be New Trek shorthand for “extra sleek and futuristic” (cf. the bridge of the USS Titan in the LwD finale), and I have to say: I am fully into it.

Restating my prediction that we will not see Detmer and Owosekun get together this season, because we will find out that they’ve been together for ages. Everyone knew—Pike even knew!—it just never came up in front of the audience before. That would be one of the cutest ways to do it imho, and one of the funniest too, especially as a meta-joke about how much character development didn’t happen in the first two seasons. (That said, if we get to see their first kiss, I will be screaming with incoherent joy for days, so this is a real win-win for me.)

Speaking of cute: IRL spouses Mary Wiseman and Noah Averbach-Katz, both Julliard-trained actors (it’s where they met!), can’t quite hide their chemistry in the scenes between Tilly and Ryn. I loved seeing Tilly be a hardass when Ryn was rude to the captain, but that sparkle in her eyes didn’t quite match the context <3

And speaking of people who are VERY OBVIOUSLY IN LOVE: that last scene with Book and Michael, and his nervous little “yeah, I said it” eyebrow lift, and her irrepressible giggle as she’s walking away... it was almost too much. Especially right after the queer-family scenes with Stamets and Culber and Adira. My poor heart is going through a lot lately, and I guess I’m just glad Season 3’s emotional intensity is melting it with soft sweet scenes like that instead of kicking it down repeated flights of stairs like Season 1.

***

Next week: everyone stops caring about the Burn and starts trying to solve an even more important mystery—why is this (holographic) dude wearing an early-2360s uniform with an early-2370s combadge?

[welllpthisishappening]

One Foot In (4/7)

The facts were these.

Killian Jones was dead. This much Emma knew, standing in the middle of the funeral parlor staring at him. What she didn’t know was why. Or how. Or what she would do when she touched him.

Because Emma Swan had a gift. Touch a dead thing once, bring it back to life. Touch it again, dead forever.

And the last thing Emma could do was bring Killian back to life, talk to him for the first time in years, only to watch him die all over again. Not when she’d spent the better part of those same years being in love with him.

—–

Rating: Teen, but eventually they’re going to kiss Word Count: 9.3K and I seriously don’t remember writing all of this AN: This is the part where we kind of deviate from Pushing Daisies (although there are some jokes from other episodes) and move into magic and meaningful conversations and it’s going to get relatively exciting from here on out. I hope, at least. Thanks for reading this. I think you guys are swell. 

@shireness-says​ @optomisticgirl​ @nikkiemms, @teamhook, @dayo488​, @greymeetsblue​, @jennjenn615​, @heavenlyjoycastle​, @klynn-stormz​, @superchocovian​, @onepunintendid​, @jonesfandomfanatic​, @lfh1226-linda

Also on Ao3 if that’s your jam. Or, you can take it from the top. 

—–

Emma Swan is twenty-nine years, six months, twenty-three days and, approximately, twelve hours and forty-two minutes old when her shoulder is nearly ripped out of her socket.

“Ow, jeez, what the hell, Ruby?” she hisses, gaping at her partner as soon as she tightens her hold on Emma’s wrist. “My health insurance is garbage. I can’t get injured here.” “Don’t you think we could sue the town of Storybrooke? I think you’re technically on city hall property at this point.” “Town hall,” Killian corrects. He’s leaning against the back door of Emma’s car, feet crossed at the ankle again which is only kind of infuriating in the way it makes Emma’s heart jump, but he’s also got a pinch between his eyebrows that wasn’t there when they left the restaurant. 

It’s because Emma made him sit in the backseat. 

And Ruby agreed. 

His arsenal of curses has gotten far more creative in the past two decades. One of the more nautical ones even made Ruby blush. 

Emma didn’t think she was capable of that. 

“Storybrooke is a town,” he continues when Ruby quirks a vaguely annoyed eyebrow in his direction. “If you want to get technical. The state of Maine is weird like that. Anything can really be a town, but a city has to be incorporated by a special act of the state legislature.” “Why do you know that?” Emma asks. “And, really? Anything can be a city? There’s not like...a population requirement.” “Usually. But Maine’s a strange place with strange laws and as discussed before, I’ve read some things in the last few years.” “That includes the requirements for a city to be formed?” “Incorporated.” “What a ridiculous word.” Killian hums, but the pinch between his eyebrows is still there and he looks a little cautious. Or nervous. That’s really the word for it. He looks nervous, as if whatever they’ll find out from Cora Mills at the Storybrooke Town Hall is going to change everything. 

Ruby still hasn’t let go of Emma’s wrist. 

Emma is slightly concerned about the blood flow to her hand. 

“The specifics of any of this could not possibly matter less,” Ruby hisses. “Jones, I need you to take a walk towards those very high bushes.” The pinch between his eyebrows is never going to disappear. “Excuse me?” “Did none of these encyclopedias you’ve read teach you how the English language works?” “Why do you think I was reading encyclopedias?” “Were you not?” “I mean,” he shrugs, “maybe at one point. Nemo had some really old ones that were mostly focused on the naval history of the world, but those weren’t very interesting and the pages were really fragile and—” “I do not care,” Ruby shouts, and Emma blinks at the absolute acid in her voice. She tries to yank her arm back to her side, but that works as well as trying to understand the absurd inner-workings of the Maine census bureau and only ends with Emma elbowing herself in the ribs. Ruby huffs dramatically, lips pursed. “A walk,” she repeats. “Towards those bushes where, presumably no one can see you and realize you’re breathing.” “Why are we yelling this?” Emma mumbles. Ruby’s answering glare could probably melt several thousand diamonds. 

Her grip could certainly crack them. 

And Emma isn’t really sure what’s changed in the car ride from her restaurant to the Storybrooke Town Hall, but there had been a lot of cursing and mumbling about acting like I’m a little kid and sounds like Liam and that second one had made her breath catch in her throat and Ruby was always very good at reading her face. 

Which she could see perfectly. From the front seat of Emma’s car. 

Oh, damn. 

“Maybe just one second,” Emma says, glancing at Killian to find him staring at her like it’s the first time he’s ever seen her. Ruby squeezes her nails into Emma’s wrist. “Or,” she amends. “Like thirteen seconds. Just...to come up with a plan of attack.” Killian clicks his teeth at that, eyebrows lifting, which doesn’t do much to help the very obvious whatever that settles on every inch of his face – something that looks like surprise and feels like disappointment and the buzzing in between Emma’s ears sputters into nothing. He’s chewing on the side of his tongue, a nervous habit he picked up when he was seven and Liam let them watch Friday the 13th on Halloween with the lights off and enough candy to make Emma regret her distinct lack of dental insurance again. 

“Huh,” he mutters, barely audible over the sounds of the town. 

They’re familiar sounds – a few cars and some kid riding their bike because it’s August and there’s a hint of humidity in the air that’s already starting to make the ends of Emma’s hair curl. She can hear an ice cream truck a few blocks away and mosquitos and someone needs to get their air conditioner checked out because it can’t be good for it to be that noisy. 

Emma shifts awkwardly on her feet, trying, and failing, again, to regain control of her right arm, but Ruby must have been a wrestler in another life because she’s got some kind of choke-hold and, clearly, no intention of letting go. 

“It’s just thirteen seconds,” Emma says, but her voice sounds like the lie it is and her own nerves are obvious in every single syllable. Killian’s lips twist. 

“At least. For your plan of attack.” “We just...you know, we like to be prepared going into stuff like this.” “Murder investigations.” “Well, to be fair, I’m not usually dealing with people who are alive. We’ve got more time and I don’t want to, you know, waste that.” “Seems impossible when you’re used to only a minute,” Killian says, and Emma is single-handedly digging herself into the world’s biggest ditch. She’s a little worried Ruby’s nails have cut her arm. 

“You don’t actually have to stand in the bushes.” Ruby scoffs, her own mumbled curses, and Killian’s lips twitch. “I had no intention of standing in the bushes. You better attack though, Swan. Lucas looks like she’s growing talons.” “Claws, honestly.” “I am standing right here,” Ruby seethes. 

Emma shrugs, glancing over her shoulder and she hadn’t realized she’d moved away from Ruby. Or closer to Killian. Honestly she’s going to write a twenty-seven page research paper on the possibility of magnets in the real world and how goddamn inconvenient they are. 

“And whose fault is that?” Emma asks. “Alright, I really do have garbage health insurance, so if we could avoid bodily harm before we deal with a maybe murderer, that’d be great. C’mon.”

She, finally, regains control of her arm, moving a few feet down the sidewalk and leaving Killian with the car and the anxiety practically radiating off him. 

And, really, Emma has every intention of controlling the conversation from the get-go, a determination that’s almost impressive because she’s having a very difficult time remembering to breathe consistently, but then Ruby is in front of her and the sun appears to be reflecting off the highlights in her hair and she’s doing that foot tapping thing. 

Emma hates that foot tapping thing. 

“Is this where you yell?” Emma asks, Ruby already shaking her head. 

“No, this is where I do the asking several very important questions and you tell me the God’s honest truth or I swear to God I will push you in traffic.” “In traffic?” “Is that not threatening enough?”

Emma makes a contradictory noise in the back of her throat. “I feel like people would probably stop their cars. Or I’d still have the ability to dodge. I think I could dodge.” “Your reflexes are not that good,” Ruby promises. “And we are wasting time. Also, do you think Jones knows how to read lips?” “I’ve got no idea.” “What do you know about him?” The question seems unfairly large to start with, but Emma’s got a sinking suspicion that’s not actually one of Ruby’s questions and the weight of disappointment that settles in her gut at the realization that she may not actually have an answer is somewhere close to horrendous. 

“Your silence is overwhelming.” Emma blinks, trying to push impossible tears back in their ducts and she’s going to chew her lower lip in half before the day is over. “It’s not...ok, I know that’s not what you wanted to ask, so can we get to the point of this—” “—No, no, I wanted to ask that. Because I think there’s some seriously shady things happening here and a group of goons on some tourist cruise who call some other dude master is a little terrifying, don’t you think?” “I don’t think Killian was working for that guy.” “Do you know that for sure? Can you know that for sure?” Emma bites her lip again. There’s blood in her mouth. It’s disgusting. And Ruby sighs. “All I’m saying is maybe we should be careful and I…” She exhales, eyes going dangerously thin and Emma braces herself for the riot act. What she gets is almost worse. “Are you in love with him? Is it that brand of stupid?”

Emma’s right knee gives out. Only her right one. It’s kind of weird, but that seems to just be the sub-headline of her life now. And, at least, she doesn’t fall down. 

So, comparatively…

“No,” Emma says, but the word feels heavy and incorrect and Ruby’s head tilt is almost vibrating with judgment. “No.” “No?”

“No.” “I’m going to tell you that I don’t believe you, but—” “—I killed his brother.”

The words fly out of Emma’s mouth, her eyes widening with her own surprise and the noise Ruby makes is not of this world. It sounds like an alien has settled into her body and realized what a god awful race humans are and then decided, unequivocally, that Emma is the worst of the worst and is now desperate to get off this planet. 

The greenhouse gasses are pretty horrible anyway. That’s probably Emma’s fault too. 

Ruby brings both her hands to her temples, blinking far too quickly to be anything except jarring and Emma is running out of lip to bite. She moves to her cheek. 

“Ok, hold on a second,” Ruby mutters. “That is...when? Recently? I thought he said his brother died when he was ten.” “He did.” “And?” “And what? I…” Emma trails off, yanking on the ends of her humidity-ruined hair. They are going way over their thirteen-second limit. “The very short story is that the EMTs said Ingrid suffered a brain hemorrhage. Incredibly rare, immediately fatal and I...didn’t know that. So—” “—Oh my God, you touched her,” Ruby finishes. This is not the first time she’s heard this particular part of the story. Emma nods. “And that meant that…” Her hand flies to her mouth, but it doesn’t do much to silence the gasp she makes. Emma swats at both of her arms, desperate to quiet her or silence whatever guilt is bouncing around her skull and neither thing works. She can feel Killian casting curious glances their direction. 

“I am going to push you in traffic,” Emma warns. “And you will trip over your own heels.” Ruby scowls, absurd with her hand still plastered over her mouth. “You are questionably obsessed with my fashion choices. But Ingrid died. That’s why you had to leave Storybrooke.” “I know. But, ok, you cannot make any noise, do you understand me?” Ruby nods slowly, and there will probably be handprint marks smearing her lipstick. “I came into the kitchen and Ingrid was dead. Sudden and real and I was nine. I didn’t think...I just reacted and then she was alive and I was so happy, but then...well, the universe is a dick and—” Emma can’t bring herself to finish. 

The tears on her cheeks are distracting.

Ruby pulls her hand away from her mouth – lipstick somehow in place, which is actually almost comforting – wrapping her fingers around Emma’s wrist in a way that’s even more comforting. “Does he know?” 

Emma shakes her head. “No. I didn’t know at first. I had no idea what the rules were or are and I wasn’t trying to do that. I...I loved Liam too and he was so good for Killian and Killian...oh, he idolized him. But then I was leaving and he kept saying I was going to come back and—” “—You didn’t ever come back.” “No.”

“Did you want to?” “Every single day.” Ruby exhales through her teeth, and they’re all going to need extensive dental work by the time this is over. “Ok, so, uh...that leads us almost directly to my number one, top of the list, most important question of all time. Who died to make sure Killian Jones didn’t?” “I have no idea,” Emma admits, those particular words far more difficult to say than a secret she’d like to kept under metaphorical lock and key for the rest of her mortal life. 

“Yeah, I figured you were going to say something horrible like that. How does that even work? Is it an age thing? Does it have to be relatively similar.” Emma shrugs. “I think it’s a general proximity thing.” “I was like twenty feet away from you!”

“I wasn’t really thinking,” Emma reasons. “That’s not an excuse, it’s just a fact. I would have been upset if you died.” “Wow, your charity is overwhelming, Em. You know what, I’m going to take all of your reward. Screw that. I didn’t realize I was playing with fire here.” “Metaphorically, I guess.” Ruby kicks at her ankle, nose scrunched. “You make jokes when you're nervous. It’s a coping mechanism.” She grits her teeth, more exaggerated breathing that Emma supposes is warranted in the moment. “And you know what this means?”

“Should I?” “There’s another body somewhere with no reasonable explanation for its death.” Emma’s left knee gives out. “Oh, well, shit.” “That’s eloquent.” “You have something better to suggest?” “Nah,” Ruby says, a grin that feels wholly out of place in a conversation filled with so much death. Emma wishes there weren’t always so much death involved. “But I bet if you ask your boyfriend he’d be able to help. I think he was using some pirate ones before. He seems like a practical treasure trove of frustrated curses.” “Are you making jokes now?” Ruby shrugs, hand moving to Emma’s shoulder. “It’s an observation. And you didn’t contradict boyfriend, just for the record or whatever.” “I don’t have time to be worried about antiquated relationship qualifiers,” Emma mumbles, but the butterflies in her stomach have returned and she wants to know every single thing Killian has learned in the last two decades. 

She really doesn’t want to tell him she killed his brother. 

On accident. 

Kind of. 

She wouldn’t mind kissing him again. 

“Yeah, sure you don’t,” Ruby laughs. “Alright, well, we’ve got a serious check-list of things we need to accomplish before anyone else realizes we’re trying to accomplish them. No time like the present, right?”

She’s gone before Emma can begin to formulate a response – a twist of red and hair that doesn’t appear prone to humidity and a very particular shine to her shoes that Emma is almost certain she’s developed on her own. 

And Killian is exactly where they left him. 

He licks his lips as soon as his eyes dart towards Emma, eyebrows raised in silent question. They’d always been very good at that, silent communication that used to drive Ingrid and Liam insane in equal measure until Liam threw his whole head back and taught them morse code so they could at least learn something practical and they used to flash lights at each other from across the street when they were supposed to be asleep. 

“Everything alright?” he asks, and Emma makes a noise that is the audible version of the worst lie she’s ever told. “That so?” “I didn’t actually say anything.” “Yeah, you didn’t really have to, did you?” “The mind reading thing isn’t nearly as cute as you think it is.” The tongue stuff has got to stop. It means Emma keeps thinking about Killian’s tongue and that’s a dangerous line of thought and maybe they should get him some new clothes. Seeing him in the clothes he was supposed to be buried in is disconcerting. 

“So you think I’m dreamy and cute?” Killian asks, pushing off the car at the same time his eyebrows defy several laws of gravity. Emma swallows. She wonders how much it would hurt to have to get stitches in her lip. “That’s quite a tandem don’t you think?”

“I think you’re way too confident for your own good and it’s going to get us in trouble.” “What other trouble could I possibly get into, Swan? I’ve already been dead once in the last forty-eight hours, seems to cover most of my bases doesn’t it?” Emma sighs. “Can you pull your hat down? There’s too much of your hair showing.”

He does as asked, tugging with almost too much force. “No one is going to notice me,” Killian says, a promise he can’t possibly make in the middle of a town that knows far too much about both of them. “It’s the middle of the day, anyway. Cora’s probably the only person in the building. You know how she hates to delegate, works through lunch and—” “Yeah, uh,” Ruby interrupts, moving back towards the sidewalk and Emma hadn’t even realized she’d gone into the building. “No one’s really doing anything with lunch in there. Or doing much of anything. At all.” “What does that mean?” Emma asks. 

“This creepy Cora? She’d likely be at a desk that says mayor on a very fancy plaque? Dark hair? Suit that costs more than my yearly rent?” Killian nods. “All of the above.” “Yeah, she’s very dead.” Both of Emma’s knees give out – and she knows Killian moves, an immediate reaction that is equal parts dreamy and cute and absolutely impossible because she’s not wearing nearly enough clothing and there are rules and he can’t catch her. 

She stumbles forward, balance no more than almost precarious as Ruby’s fingers curl around her elbow. “Deep breaths, Em. It’s fine. It’s...you know, it’s fine.” “That was almost as bad as Swan,” Killian mumbles, arm still outstretched like he’ll be able to do something. It takes them all a moment to realize it’s his left arm. He grimaces as soon as his eyes land on the skin there, the sleeve of his shirt hanging over the edge and Emma wants a lot more than she should ever be allowed to even consider, but more than anything she wants to pull his arm into her hands and hold him there and promise it will be ok because he’s ok and it doesn’t matter, none of it matters, them or him or whatever they may be dealing with in the moment, because he looks at her like nothing is wrong. 

He looks at her like he’s been hoping to find her every single day he’s woken up and it’s a feeling Emma understands and wants and maybe Ruby is right. 

That’s kind of annoying. 

Emma hates when Ruby is right. She’s a bad sport about it.

“Did it...well, what do we do?” Killian continues. 

Ruby grins. “What we normally do.” “You want to—” He glances at Emma, mouth hanging open. She tries to smile. It fails miserably. “Oh, yeah, ok,” Killian nods, sounding as if he’s trying to convince himself. “Is that ok, Swan?”

She wishes things would stop surprising her. It can’t possibly be good for her blood pressure or the apparently shoddy state of her knees. But he says it with such sincerity and that hat looks absolutely ridiculous, makes the slight point of ears Emma always teased him about when they were little even more obvious, and he keeps having to push the sunglasses they found in the glove compartment up. 

Emma nods brusquely. “Yeah, of course. I mean...that’s what you were saying before, right? This is kind of my schtick.” “That’s not what I meant. I just...you were plotting.” “I wasn’t plotting without you.” “That’s not what it looked like.” “Ok, we genuinely do not have time for this,” Ruby says, cutting in before Emma can say something absurdly sentimental and decidedly out of place for what has just become another crime scene. “We have negative amount of time for this. Let’s go talk to creepy Cora Mills and get the hell out of here before someone realizes the lurker in the weird hat is dead.” “He’s not dead,” Emma growls, but Ruby just waves her hands in her face and nods as if that word isn’t kind of offensive. 

Killian smiles at her. “It is a kind of weird hat though, Swan.” “It’s not a weird hat! And you’re not dead. Can we please stop using that word? It’s--it’s messing with my head and, like, my lungs and—” “—You’ve got to breathe, love.” “How are you so calm about this?” 

They’re frozen in the doorway of the Storybrooke Town Hall, far too close and not close enough. Ruby is tapping her heel on marble tile now. “I’m not,” Killian says with an ease that belies the look on his face. “I’m frustrated and annoyed and pissed off. At the world and Cora Mills and goons one through six and kind of at you for never coming back because I always wanted you to come back and I wondered and—” She can see every single one of his teeth when he cuts himself off, and Emma wishes he’d stop doing that, but she figures it’s kind of unfair to demand proper sentence structure at this point. 

“I was dead, Swan,” he says, expression softening when Emma makes a face. “That’s a fact. But then you showed up and changed that and I...well, I wasn’t...if this is as dangerous as it might be then I don’t want anything to happen to you.” “Oh.” It’s the worst response. It’s an absolutely lame response, but Emma’s always been a little worried that she’s missing some fundamental piece of her empathy chip and she twists her arms behind her back again to stop herself from touching him. 

“Oh?” “Oh,” Emma repeats, whatever disgusted sound Ruby makes at their distinct lack of conversational progress bouncing off the far too ostentatious walls around them. “I—well, that was kind of nice.” “That was kind of the goal.” “Right. Right, well, mission accomplished, I guess. And, uh...that hat came from a baking contest a couple years ago.” “You were in a baking contest?” “You were making jokes about award-winning pie, but it’s almost true. The five-berry one was described as something close to life-changing.” “Seems to be a trend,” Killian mutters. He moves his hand again, a quick brush of fingertips over the curve of Emma’s shoulder and he shakes his head as soon as she tries to tell him to stop that, God. “That was the last time. Just...making sure.” Emma doesn’t have to ask what he means – knows he’s making sure she’s there and real and this would almost make more sense if it were some very lucid dream. But she figures she wouldn't want to torture herself even in a dream and Emma’s inability to touch a guy she maybe hopes could be referred to as her boyfriend in regular conversation is something she’ll have to contend with eventually. Once they solve his murder and the trail of bodies that seem to be piling up behind him. 

“Let’s go,” Ruby groans from the other end of the hallway. 

“It’s not like Cora’s getting up and walking away,” Emma mutters, working a laugh out of Killian. 

“At least not yet. C’mon, love, I’d rather Cora’s assistant didn’t find us while we were in the middle of this.”

Cora Mills, mayor of Storybrooke since, quite possibly, the dawn of time, looks almost exactly the way Emma remembers her. 

There’s more gray to her hair, a few more wrinkles around her eyes, but she’s still got an air of superiority around her that sets Emma’s teeth on edge. Her suit definitely cost a ridiculous amount of money and the manicure looks nearly immaculate – except on her right hand. It’s not the whole thing, but three of her fingers are missing nails and—

“Oh my God, Cora Mills gets acrylic nails,” Emma laughs. 

“Is that a clue of some sort?” Killian asks, earning more laughter for more sincerity and it is really getting very difficult not to hold his hand. 

“Ah, I like that you said clues. And, no, well, maybe, but...I guess it’s just funny. Acrylic nails are so...tacky.” “Ok, that’s not true at all,” Ruby argues. She’s already picking her way through piles of paperwork, a determined look on her face that usually ends in several stacks of bills untraceable by the IRS. “These aren’t just acrylic. They’re gel and hard gel at that.” “I feel like she’s speaking in code,” Killian says, perched on the edge of Cora’s desk. 

Emma lifts her eyebrows. “Should you be up there?” “What’s she going to do to stop me?” “Jesus,” Ruby growls. “The flirting is honestly disgusting. Also, I am not speaking in code. I am speaking in spa.” “What’s the difference?” “The difference is that hard gel eventually becomes, as its name implies, hard enough to basically be an extension of the nail. Getting those off is some kind of serious bitch. You’ve got to be totally committed to the color.” “None of this makes sense,” Emma fumes, bobbing on her feet and she’s unreasonably nervous to touch a dead person in front of Killian. “Can I just touch her so we can get out of here?” Ruby doesn’t look up from the papers she’s leafing through when she answers. “No one is stopping you, but you’re missing a very important point.” “You lord information over other people when you want to feel in control of a situation.” “And why do you think might I feel out of control in this particular situation?” “Oh, shit, no I get it,” Killian says, jumping off the desk with enough enthusiasm that Emma is really starting to wonder if time travel is possible. “Fuck, that’s not great, is it?” “We won’t know until Emma touches her.” Emma rolls her whole head. “What am I missing?” “Lucas is right, we won’t know until Cora tells us, but,” Killian starts, grinning like a maniac who just discovered what was underneath that one man hole on Main Street, “If hard gel requires a commitment to the color scheme, that means it would take one hell of a fight to pull the nails off, right?” Ruby nods, something that feels like PI pride hanging off her shoulders. “And that means that Cora didn’t just die under natural circumstances.” “I kind of figured that part was obvious considering your rather untimely murder,” Ruby muses. “But I wasn’t sure there was a fight until I noticed Madam Mayor’s rather grimy hands. She didn’t go down quietly.” “If you knew Cora, you’d understand that’s very in character.” “Well, I feel as if it’s time for me to meet the great and powerful Oz.” “That wasn’t funny,” Emma mumbles. Ruby laughs anyway. “Alright,” she huffs, jumping up and down as if that will work out her influx of nervous energy. Killian smirks at her. “I am nervous about this with you here.” “I’m going to take that as a compliment.” Ruby gags. Again. For at least twenty-one seconds straight. “There is a dead person here. Let’s try and keep some perspective. Also what did you say about that assistant?” “Aurora was terrified of Cora,” Killian reasons. “I doubt she’ll be back before the end of lunch. And you’ve got nothing to be worried about, Swan. It’s not going to change anything.” He can’t possibly mean it the way it sounds, but Emma’s brain doesn’t care. It latches to those words and that particular curve of his lips, confident in her and whatever magic she may be in possession of to fix things and control things she shouldn’t be able to control. Killian nods again when Emma wavers, his smile shifting slightly when he raises his right hand to cover his eyes. 

“That better?” he asks. 

Emma has to look down to make sure her entire body has not exploded into flames. It has not. That’s nice. “Yeah,” she breathes. “That’s...that’s good.”

“Can we get on with it?” Ruby drawls. She’s started opening drawers. 

“You may want to move,” Emma suggests. “Sometimes they can get a little flaily when they just wake up.” “Oh, yeah, good point.” She takes the whole drawer with her when she steps to the other side of the office. 

Emma takes a deep breath, tugging her phone out of her pocket and setting the timer and she’s almost pleased to notice that her finger doesn’t shake when she brushes over Cora’s hand. Killian’s fingers shift. 

He’s still smiling. 

And Cora does, in fact, flail. Her limbs are everywhere, impossibly agile and decidedly threatening, even with a few less nails than she’s normally used to. She jerks back as soon as Emma touches her, eyes crazed with a snarl on her face that’s only slightly intimidating. 

Her head snaps around, taking in her surroundings as if she’s surprised to find herself still in the office where she, presumably, died a few minutes earlier. 

“Oh,” Cora says, some of the fight almost visibly falling off her. “That’s—” She glances around again, and the curse she growls at all of them as soon as her eyes land on Killian is enough to make Emma’s hair curl without any humidity involved. ‘No, no, no,” Cora stammers. “What the hell are you doing here?” “That’s the million dollar question isn’t it?” Killian asks. “Who killed you, Cora?” “Where’s your hand?”

“Full of tact as always, ma’am.” “That’s not a question of tact, although if you’d like to discuss upbringing, I’d be only too happy to share some thoughts on your uncles and what they’ve done to that beautiful house.” “Did you think I had both of my hands when I died?”

“I didn’t think they’d take it, no.” “They?” “Listen,” Emma interrupts. “You’ve got like...fifty seconds to tell us everything that’s happened to you today and why you’re missing nails.” Cora blinks. “I wasn’t going to sit there and take it. That goon—” “—A goon,” Ruby cuts in. “What kind of goon?” “Is this heaven? Because that’s...well, that’s a little surprising, honestly.” “It’s not heaven,” Killian promises. “But there’s the possibility for some serious karmic retribution if you answer our questions. I make no guarantees about where you’ll end up, although I imagine not being a complete and utter harpy can only help you.” Cora laughs, dark and threatening. “Oh, you were always far too confident for your own good, Jones. I’d imagine the people who killed me are the same people who got rid of you. Although why they brought you back to Storybrooke, I’ll never understand.” “Is that why you offered the reward?” Ruby asks. “Covering your own ass?” “That’s a little crass, but sufficient.” “Who were these people?” Killian presses. “You never actually said.” “And yet you were only all too happy to agree weren’t you? Desperate to get out of this town and away from this life. It was the perfect opportunity for both of us.” “Explain that.”

Cora bristles at the command, Emma still sitting there silent and nervous and she hates how knowing the gaze that flashes towards her is. “Oh,” Cora says. “There’s something interesting about you, isn’t there? And it...it matches up with his.” Emma jerks her head up. “Who’s what?” “Jones. Can’t you feel that? Ah, well maybe you can’t, but that’s always been my own particular talent. That’s why they recruited me of course.” “Who?” Killian shouts, standing up and Emma hears Ruby’s breath hitch. He’s furious, that much is obvious, but it’s more than that, a hint of darkness and frustration that wasn’t there when they were kids and it makes him feel taller and more threatening than anything else in that room. “You’re running out of time here, Cora. Straight answers.” “Fine,” she snaps. “Sit down, you’re acting like a petulant child. I’ve...well, I’ve been endowed with several gifts in my life and one of my more...appealing gifts is the ability to see into someone’s heart.” “What?” “If you’d like an explanation, then it’s probably in your best interest not to interrupt.” Killian doesn’t sit down, but he doesn’t say anything else and Emma moves to the front of her seat when his fingers wrap around the back of her chair. “As I was saying,” Cora continues. “I’m rather good at seeing what people want. Deepest desires and darkest feelings, those hopes and needs we’ve done our best to hide away from the rest of the world. And our mutual employer found that very interesting. He wanted someone with your particular abilities to help him, Mr. Jones.” “I don’t have any particular abilities,” Killian says. Emma hopes she doesn’t crack the chair.

Cora shakes her head, smile turning mocking. “I believed that for a very long time too, but that’s not true. I can see it, Mr. Jones and I can feel it. It’s...not quite as strong as Ms. Swan, yes, I remember you too, but it’s there. And it seems to time up very well with hers.” “With my what?” Emma demands, almost too aware of the ticking seconds on her phone. 

“Why your magic, of course. Both of you. It’s admittedly unfortunate that you had to die for it, Mr. Jones, but I’d imagine you walked right into it.”

“There’s no magic here,” Killian says, but Cora is already shaking her head and looking far too smug. She narrows her eyes. 

“The darkness is always interested in finding more of us whenever he can.” Emma freezes, mouth hanging open and breath coming in decidedly unattractive pants. Killian curses – loudly. And they almost suffer another disaster, a case of proximity and the whims of the universe, but Ruby’s shrill Emma, fuck wakes her up and she more or less slaps Cora across the face. 

It’s oddly satisfying. 

None of them say anything. There’s not much to say. Magic is a child’s story, but Emma can wake the dead and make sure they stay dead and the buzzing in her head roared to life at Cora’s words, like it was reveling in them and there’s got to be an explanation for this. 

This explanation, however, only seems to spark more questions. 

That’s less satisfying. 

“So,” Ruby says, eventually breaking the silence and Cora looks worse now than she did when they first found her. “That uh...didn’t really help us much at all, did it?”

“None of that made sense,” Killian mutters. “That’s—”

“—You going to tell me that magic is impossible when you just watched your girlfriend undead and redead someone?” “There’s got to be a better way of phrasing that,” Emma mumbles. She lets her head drop forward, colliding with the wood of the desk painfully. 

Ruby makes a noise that is, hopefully, an agreement. “Yeah, probably. So, uh...you do anything magical recently, Jones?” “That’s the part that doesn’t make any sense,” he says. “I never even learned how to do card tricks. I...I wanted to get out of Storybrooke and Cora gave me an avenue to do that while helping Nemo. That’s all there was to it.” “Still doesn’t help us much as far as figuring out who you were both, apparently, working for.” “She said him,” Emma whispers, the realization striking her like lightning and several other natural disasters. She hears Killian shift, letting go of the chair to move around her and he’s crouched next to her when she moves her head. “Cora, I mean. Whatever she was talking about with magic. She said the darkness is looking for that, but she said him. As in a human male.” “Or an alien male,” Ruby suggests. “Let’s be as inclusive as possible. Could even be an animal, right? A really dangerous...dark cat? What’s a terrifying animal? Oh, God, what about an alligator? Right, right? Apex predator.”

“It’s a crocodile,” Killian mutters. His knees must be killing him. He doesn’t try to stand up. “Those jaws could snap a whole person right in half. Plus, they’re scaly, so that just makes them untrustworthy. Thoughts, Swan?”

Emma can’t shrug when she’s more or less draped across a dead mayor’s desk and they are pressing their luck staying that office with the same dead mayor, but she makes a valiant effort and that’s really all she can ask of herself right now. “You said it was shady, didn’t you? The whole thing on the boat—ship, yeah, God, that’s...it’s stupid that you keep doing that.” “It’s a control thing,” Killian admits with a smile. “But, yeah, it felt incredibly shady. And...wrong.” “What does that mean?” “I don’t know how to explain it without sounding like a complete and total crazy person. “Try me.” 

Killian sighs, but it’s not frustration. It’s more nerves and concern and Emma knows part of that, most of it really, is directed at her. She’s going to give herself carpal tunnel from tensing her fists so often. “It felt wrong,” he starts. “I don’t...it was like I could hear it.” Emma’s elbow falls off the desk. She’s very glad she’s already sitting down. “You could hear what? Exactly?” “Buzzing?” “Why was that a question?” “Because you seem to already have a very strong idea of what my answer was going to be, Swan.”

“God,” Ruby chuckles. “When this is all over, Jones, remind me to offer you a job. You’re incredibly good at reading people.” He shakes his head, eyes not leaving Emma. “Just her.”

The rush of everything that shoots from the top of Emma’s head to the very tips of her toes isn’t quite as overwhelming as it probably should be. She’s got her suspicions about that – the look on Killian’s face and how goddamn blue his eyes are and whatever his mouth does when, she assumes, he feels it too – but Emma’s never been very good at actually voicing her emotions. 

And Killian has always known anyway. 

Plus Ruby would probably make fun of them. 

“Did you feel that?” Emma asks softly, another unnecessary question. They need to get out of Storybrooke. She’s going to bake twenty-six pies. At least. 

Killian nods. “Did you hear that?” “The buzzing?” “The buzzing.” “Yeah, I did.” “Ok, good.” “Good?” Emma echoes, and her voice cracks traitorously on the word. Killian moves, shifting his weight back onto his heels as soon as she presses her lips back together. He wiggles his fingers, like he’s trying to stop himself from touching her and Emma is fairly sure she doesn’t imagine his mumbled fuck it before he reaches forward, stopping just short of the bend in her knee. He doesn’t touch her. 

That’s for the best. 

Or so she’ll tell herself on loop while she bakes those twenty-six pies. 

“It means we’re both equally crazy,” Killian mutters, Ruby cackling at the sentiment. Emma blinks, not quite crying, but drifting dangerously close and her shoulders droop when she exhales loudly. 

“Yeah, I think it might be exactly that.”

“Well, now that we’ve settled all of that,” Ruby announces, stuffing what appear to be a few receipts into her jacket pocket, “let’s say we evacuate the crime scene, do a little bit more research on some kind of mythical darkness from the outer reaches of space and then maybe get Jones some new clothes to wear?” "I really don’t think we’re dealing with aliens,” Emma reasons. 

“And where exactly do you suggest we get me new clothes?” Killian adds, holding his arm out when Emma moves towards the office door. She mutters gentleman under her breath and he winks at her. “I don’t know that some kind of makeover montage is really in order,” Ruby sticks her tongue out. “I have clothes.” “I’m not sure I’d be able to keep my balance in your heels.” “Yeah, yeah, you’re absolutely hysterical. And you couldn’t even hold your own in my heels. But you might be able to do something in some t-shirts.” “At least solve a few more crimes.” “I think we’re still just dealing with one.” “Small miracles,” Emma mumbles. “Although you should get some new clothes. These are…” She doesn’t finish – not sure if it’s offensive or just plain ridiculous, but they were also just talking about aliens, so Emma figures she’s well within her right when it comes to ridiculous. 

“Yeah, it is a little macabre, isn’t it?” Killian asks. 

“Good word.” “Voracious reader with a very smart vocabulary.” “Is that what you tell all the girls when you meet them?” He snorts. Ruby groans. “No,” Killian says. “That’s what Shakespeare used to say when I’d use that same smart vocabulary to tell him that no one was interested in hearing another soliloquy.” “Did he recite soliloquies often?” “Almost as often as he liked to critique my clothing choices. He was never very big on the leather jackets.” Emma’s reaction to that is one-hundred percent more ridiculous than the alien idea. “Huh.” The tips of Killian’s ears go red. 

“That was super smooth, Em,” Ruby mutters, ushering them both back into the hallway as soon as the footsteps in the hallway start to grow louder. “But I’m not super interested in getting arrested this afternoon, so, if you two would be so kind…”

Emma nods quickly, Killian tugging his hat further down and pushing the sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. They’re back in the car, key turning in the ignition when they hear, what Emma assumes, is Aurora’s scream. 

“How did you decide you wanted to open a pie place?” 

Emma tilts her head, several hours after a fashion clinic in Ruby’s apartment and Ruby’s absolute refusal to explain why she had so much disposable clothing of the men-type variety. “Pie place,” she repeats slowly, stirring the mixture in front of her. 

Killian grabs a strawberry. 

“Ok, stop that,” Emma snaps, but there’s a distinct lack of annoyance in her voice. It’s almost too obvious how easily he’s charming her. “We’re not going to have anything to put in the pie. And this was your idea.” It was – laden down with at least a week’s worth of clothes and a few options for shirts because, you know, you need some extra shirts, Jones, Killian and Emma had walked back to her restaurant, slightly cautious steps because, for the first time since this had all started, there was a break in the action and a lull in the momentum and he asked if she’d bake something. 

“I can help,” Killian added quickly, flashing her a smile, her smile , and Emma couldn’t argue with that. He’d probably been banking on that. 

“And it was a very good idea,” Killian says. “I’m just trying to spark some conversation while you do whatever it is you’re doing. What is it you’re doing, incidentally?” “Making crust.” “You make your crust?” “Oh my God, that’s honestly the rudest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Killian shakes his head, reaching forward to try and steal a handful of raspberries. “That can’t possibly be true.” “It is and then some,” Emma promises. “You think I...what? Use frozen pie crust in my actual pie restaurant? That’s ghastly.” He nearly chokes on his handful of raspberries. “Did you just suggest that frozen pie crust is ghastly? Did that really just happen?” “It is. It’s all processed and there’s way too much sugar in it and it’s not good. It’s...there’s no feeling involved.” Killian doesn’t freeze, exactly, but it’s awfully close and Emma wonders if, maybe, some of Cora’s claimed magic has shifted to him. Like a magical barnacle. She kind of feels as if he can see straight into her or through her, she’s not sure which is worse. 

“You bake with a lot of feeling, Swan?” 

“No,” Emma grumbles. She needs to find a whisk. And buttermilk. “Can you open the fridge for me? And if you try and steal any more of my filling, I’m going to hide all your clothes on you and then what will you do?” “That seems to suggest you think I won’t leave the apartment in your clothes.”

“I bet you a magillion dollars you would not do that.” His shoulders shake with his laugh – the sound finding its way to Emma’s ears despite most of his head pushed into the refrigerator. “How many zeros would you say are in a magillion? Also what am I looking for in here? You haven’t actually given me any instructions.” “Oh, uh, buttermilk and just like...as much butter as you can carry.”

“That is not very specific.” “I don’t need it to be specific.” Killian glances at her over his shoulder, a wry look on his face and the prickle of something at the base of Emma’s skull kind of feels like sticking her hand into a fire. It’s not uncomfortable, just little brushes of warmth and familiarity, but she’s a little worried about getting burned by the whole, entire thing. 

She wishes she’d stop thinking in metaphor. 

“Isn’t baking some kind of exact science?” Killian asks. “I always thought you had to follow a baking recipe to the letter.” “Whoever told you that was a great, big, enormous liar.” “Wow, that is just...a sweeping judgment.” Emma shrugs. “It’s true. Baking is, well, at least for me, it’s instinctual. God, did that sound as weird out loud as I think it did?” “It didn’t.” He has to bump the refrigerator door closed with his hip, which probably shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. “But it did sound as if you’re baking with a little bit more than feeling, love. So, let’s have it. Why’d you open the pie place?” Emma considers her answer for a moment – the idea of lying about it particularly appealing, but then he’s dumping ten sticks of butter onto her counter and there’s a jug of buttermilk pinned to his side with his blunted arm and anything except the absolute truth seems entirely unfair. 

To both of them. 

“It always felt like home,” Emma says. “And I’m...well, at the risk of sounding like a melodramatic idiot, this is something I’m really good at.” “That’s not melodramatic. It’s not entirely true, but it’s not melodramatic.” “You don’t know enough about me to know it’s not true.” Killian shakes his head, the smile on his face making it very difficult to come up with all those reasons Emma was so certain of a few seconds before. “I think I still know you pretty well. And I know you’re far too hard on yourself. It’s not necessary. Although,” he adds, grabbing a stick of butter and a knife, “you want these chopped?” “Yes, into, like...just, you know follow the lines on the wrapper? Was that your follow-up question?” “No, no, I just figured I should continue to pull my weight around here.” “It’s been kind of a ridiculous few days, I think you could get a pass.” Another head shake. This one is a little more tired and a little more anxious and several of Emma’s internal organs lurch at the sight. “I’d be very interested in knowing every single about you from the last twenty years.” She giggles. An honest to God, real life giggle. It feels like it bubbles straight out of her soul and explodes into rainbows and those little animated hearts that showed up on the Saturday morning cartoons they used to watch when they were kids, the ones that always showed how in love a character was. 

Damn, Emma hates when Ruby is right. 

“What do you want to know?” Emma asks, and Killian beams. While cutting up butter. 

They’re sitting on the floor of the kitchen twenty minutes later, pie in the oven and a bowl of berries in between them –  We’re getting real berries, Swan, if you’re going to bake the pie, the least you can do is eat it too – and Emma knows her teeth are stained blue. It doesn’t seem to be bothering Killian, who doesn’t seem to have an end to his list of questions. 

“Ok, what about prom?” “What about it?” “Did you go?” “And you dare to suggest you know me.” He rolls his head onto his shoulder, unimpressed. “I don’t need to rehash old points of the conversation, Swan. An answer, please and thank you.” “No,” Emma shakes her head. “I was...somewhere at that point, shit, when are you supposed to go to prom?” “I don’t know, I didn’t go.” “You didn’t go?” “Do you know me? It was far too middle America. I had no use for corsages or tuxedos or spending all that money on a limo to just stand awkwardly on a dance floor. Plus, you know, it’d probably help to have some friends who would want to go. Or a girl.” He mumbles the last few words, refusing to meet Emma’s gaze and she hates how stunned she is. She’s incredibly stunned. “God, what a bunch of idiots.” “Who? Me and you?” “No, well, yes, but mostly the teenage population of Storybrooke whenever you’re technically supposed to go to prom. Probably like sixteen, right? They’re the idiots. I bet you’d be a great dancer anyway.” Killian chuckles, soft and still a little nervous, which makes Emma’s organs react again, but she’s also pretty positive she can feel something in the admittedly minimal amount of space between them and it might be magic. 

She kind of hopes it’s magic. 

It feels a lot like what she thinks magic would feel like. 

“That’s an awful lot of confidence you’re throwing my direction, Swan.” “I’m not throwing it,” Emma argues. “I’m placing it. Lightly. At your feet. Which I’m sure are incredibly rhythmic.” “I’d at least be able to ask Shakespeare for some lessons. I’m sure he’s got tips.” Emma hums, not entirely in agreement, but mostly in contentment. “When’d you get your first leather jacket?” “I was fourteen.” “Wow, a bad boy from a very young age.” “Nah, a wanna-be. Mostly because I thought it’d make me look cool and, well...I remembered Liam having one when he was younger.” Emma doesn’t gasp. She’s proud of herself for that. She does, however, lick her lips and that might be worse because Killian notices and that means Killian is looking at her lips. It suddenly feels impossibly warm in her kitchen. 

“That must have been before I got to Storybrooke,” Emma murmurs, and Killian nods. 

“Yeah, I think it must have been. Ok. What about…movie...snack?” “Popcorn. With melted malt balls on top.” Killian makes a scandalized noise, complete with tongue and that only means Emma is also staring at her lips. Maybe they are the idiots of this story. “That is disgusting,” he proclaims. “How do you make that?” “Oh, it’s a very refined recipe. Lots of boiling and melting and—” She can’t help but laugh when he gapes at her, some of the tension twisting in between her shoulders loosening at the color of his eyes. “C’mon. I use a microwave. It’s the least complex thing I make.”

“That still sounds disgusting. It can’t be very healthy.” “Strangely enough I’m not thinking about my blood pressure when I’m watching movies.” “Favorite?” “Hmmmm?” “Your favorite movie,” Killian says, pausing between every word as if Emma is under oath and the fate of several different galaxies rests on her answer. They’re not actually dealing with aliens. “When we were kids it was—” “—Still is. That, uh...that hasn’t changed.”

He’s silent for a moment, another far too charged moment with irregular temperatures and the growing scent of a pie with way more berries than the recipe called for hanging in the air. And then he’s moving, reaching up towards the counter and knocking the roll of saran wrap on the floor, plastic spilling at his feet. 

“Ah, damn,” Killian sighs. “That’s not nearly as romantic as I was hoping it would be.” Emma clicks her tongue. “I think it went ok.” “Something about kissing, right? At the end? Most passionate, most pure...this one left them all behind. That’s how it goes?” “Yeah,” she breathes, yanking off a far-too-long sheet of saran wrap. “Is this a kissing book?” “I’d very much like it to be.”

Emma giggles again – straight into the plastic and against his mouth and she sees him shift, doing his best to keep any other limbs away from her and how much she wants to touch his goddamn hair. They stay in each other's space for a moment, quick kisses that turn back into longer ones that turn into quick and bruising and a slew of other adjectives that probably look ridiculous to anything else. 

It feels a little life-changing to Emma. 

Killian is the first one to make a noise that time, a victory of the make-out variety for Emma and her distinct lack of make-out experience. He opens his mouth against her, like he wants to tug on her lower lip or do something that involves the tongue that’s been distracting her all day, and both of those are impossible. Emma appreciates the effort. 

“I stole gloves from Ruby’s apartment,” Killian mumbles through the plastic against her chin, and Emma startles at that. 

“Is that code?” “We should come up with a code. I bet that’d infuriate Ruby.” “You’ve known Ruby for point two seconds and you’re already trying to infuriate her?” “Don’t forget stealing from her. That’s really the important part.” “Why’d you steal glove?” Emma asks, still a little breathless and a little giggly and a little something after all those kisses. And she kind of knows the answer. 

Killian kisses her through the crumpled-up plastic again. “To hold your hand.”

“Emma. Emma, are you there?” Emma blinks blearily, trying to take in her surroundings and there isn’t anything there. She’s standing on nothing, nothing but darkness around her and a distinct lack of anything. The voice yells her name again. 

“What the hell…” Emma starts, stumbling backwards when she blinks and there are two people standing in front of her. 

The woman is shorter than the man, dark hair in a pixie cut and a soft look to her eyes that feels like it could wrap around Emma and protect her for the rest of forever and, at the same time, cut down anyone who dared to threaten that. The man isn’t much taller than Killian, hair almost sandy in color and a set of his jaw that feels far too familiar. 

Emma curses. It’s distinctly piratical. 

The woman’s eyebrows leap. “Oh,” she mutters, but the man is laughing and he sounds kind of proud. “Well, that was...I mean, that’s fair.”

“What is going on?” Emma demands. 

“You have to listen to us, Emma. This is important and there isn’t much time. But...things are happening now that have been destined to happen since, well, the dawn of time—” “—What?” “Don’t interrupt,” the man chides. He’s smiling at Emma. And it all feels like déjà vu and answers to questions Emma’s never wanted to ask for fear of what she’ll find out. She bites her tongue. 

“It’s going to get difficult, sweetheart,” the woman continues. “But it won’t always be like that. You won’t always be like that. And, I promise, he’ll understand.” Emma blinks. “Who? Who will understand, what?”

“It’s going to be worth it, Emma. No matter what you think. Love is always worth it.”

Emma opens her mouth to ask what the hell are you talking about again, but she takes a breath and everything shimmers and her phone is ringing. 

“You’ve got to answer that, love,” Killian mumbles, back on the living room floor with a glove on his right hand and fingers brushing Emma’s forearm. 

Emma shakes her head, trying to get rid of metaphorical and possible literal cobwebs and she’s already having a difficult time remembering what she just saw. She grabs her phone off the coffee table, nearly hitting her head in the process and Ruby is already talking as soon as Emma swipes her thumb across the screen. 

“Em,” she says sharply. “You’ve got to get down here. They found another body.”

[fandomfanfics12]

Home Lives With You-Part 2

Title: Home Lives With You. Pairings: Steve x Tony Part: 2/? Warnings: swearing, fluff, angst, blood, abuse (physical and verbal), ptsd, anxiety, bullying Summary: Peter’s been living with the abusive Thompson family for years, it was the only family in the system that would take him. When Steve and Tony get a phone call from the social worker who introduced them to their daughter Morgan for an emergency placement, they feel like they must pay back the favor. But are Steve and Tony taking on more than they can handle, and will Peter be able to adjust to a warm and welcoming family home? A/N: A nonnie requested this and I couldn’t resist writing it, hope you enjoy!

Part 1

Peter couldn’t believe the Stark-Rogers residence. When he’d arrived at the house he’d expected it to be as cold and unforgiving at the Thompson’s. instead he found that it smelled like spaghetti Bolognese and looked lived in. it was clear to Peter that they’d cleaned up just before he’d arrived, everything was clean but not the squeaky clean that came from disuse but the kind of lived-in everything’s been used clean. There were toys for Morgan everywhere despite all of the toy boxes and cubbys that were stationed around the house. Peter kept replaying his conversation with Steve over and over again. But I’d prefer it if you called me Steve. Peter had been tempted to take him up on his offer, but he was worried that it could be a trap.

“He seems like a really good kid.” Peter could hear Tony and Steve’s voices down the hall in their own bedroom. Steve and Tony had promised to give him a proper house tour after school tomorrow and Peter had simply nodded his head. He was too busy trying to commit the taste of ice cream to memory. When Steve had suggested it, Peter had tried to come up with a way to say he had never had ice cream before. He’d seen it before, Flash had always taunted his dessert in front of Peter as Peter looked for scraps of leftovers. But he’d never been allowed to taste it. he was afraid he wouldn’t like it and that the Stark-Rogers’ would judge him for that. But it had been incredible and the first thing Peter had eaten in more than a day. He’d considered for half a heartbeat asking if he could have some spaghetti Bolognese if there was any leftovers, but had reconsidered. He was lucky to have been given the ice cream, he shouldn’t ask for anything more than what was mercifully offered to him.

“Morgan really likes him.” Peter smiled to himself from where he was curled up on the floor, his backpack used as a pillow. Morgan was possibly the most adorable kid that Peter had ever seen in his life and he hoped that he’d get to see her again once this was all over. Peter rolled over and eyed the bed, Steve had told him that it was for him. But it wasn’t worth risking. The bed still belonged to Tony and Steve. And even though neither of them had explicitly said it, Peter knew this was a guest bedroom. This room isn’t mine. It doesn’t belong to me and neither does the bed. I’m not allowed the bed. So he curled up on the floor, hoping that wouldn’t bother Tony or Steve.

-

“What if he’s vegetarian?” Steve said suddenly and Tony looked up from the eggs he was scrambling.

“what?”

“We’re making him bacon and eggs, what if he’s a vegetarian?”

“Then he doesn’t eat the bacon.”

“Okay, but what if he doesn’t like eggs scrambled, we should have asked him.” Steve apparently was going to be a mother hen through this whole situation and Tony already knew why. He’d known it from the moment Peter had called him Mr Stark-Rogers instead of sir. Steve wanted to keep Peter beyond the month. Maybe even forever. Tony would be lying if the thought hadn’t crossed his mind but it was still too early to think about, to even discuss. They hadn’t even had him for a full twenty-four hours. It didn’t help that Morgan absolutely adored him.

“Stevie if he’s vegetarian or hates scrambled eggs we can just make him something else.”

“but that could make him late for school.” Steve ran a hand through his hair and there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

“Then we’ll get him something on the way. Set the table please.” Steve nodded and went to set the table, Peter stepped inside the kitchen then. His wide eyes took in Tony making breakfast and he paused mid-step.

“Sir I’m sorry I didn’t wake up sooner to help with breakfast i-“ Tony waved a hand.

“Don’t even worry about it Pete, do you mind if I call you Pete?” Tony glanced at him and Peter’s throat bobbed.

“Not at all sir.” Tony grinned, and poured the eggs into the frying pan.

“Great, do you like scrambled eggs and are you vegetarian?” Peter blinked and then nodded, followed by his head shaking.

“I like scrambled eggs and no I’m not a vegetarian sir.” His eyes darted over to the bacon on the grill and he licked his lips. Tony was kicking himself for not forcing the kid to eat more last night but had had a feeling that Peter wouldn’t have accepted it. it was hard enough getting him to eat the damn ice cream.

“great, Steve’s setting the table.” Peter didn’t move from the doorway.

“My old fosters kept my chores on the fridge, where’s my list sir?” Tony looked up again and rose his brows.

“Your what now?”

“My list of chores sir?” Peter bit his lip and his eyes frantically darted around the room. Tony’s heart broke for him.

“Don’t be ridiculous Peter you just got here. But if you really want a chore can you make sure Morgan’s up and tell her breakfast is ready?” Peter swallowed and suddenly looked so dejected that Tony immediately wanted to take it back.

“of course sir.” Peter turned on his heel and left before Tony could tell him not to worry about it, before he could tell Peter to just sit at the table and eat.

“Shit.” He grumbled, feeling like any progress he’d made with Peter had somehow just been undone.

-

Peter was an idiot to think that the Stark-Rogers’ were actually going to feed him breakfast. For half a second he’d let himself imagine what it would be like to be Steve and Tony’s son, to come down and have breakfast ready and no chores to do. But then, why had he asked about Peter’s food preferences? Maybe he was just making sure Peter would eat the leftovers like the Thompson’s? that had to be it, there was no other explanation. Peter knocked on Morgan’s door and heard a giggle in response.

“Morgan?” he asked and then she shrieked. Peter slowly opened the door and was practically by the eight year old as she wrapped her arms around his waist. Peter was so malnourished that he crashed to the floor and Morgan was shrieking. His heart lurched into his throat and he covered his head with his arms as footsteps sounded up the stairs. He was done for, he was so dead, like six feet underground dead, he’d fucked up for real this time.

-

When Steve came upstairs he was simply checking in to see what Morgan was over excited about this morning. He found Peter cowering against the wall, hands covering his head and trembling.

“Peter?” Steve dropped to his knees beside the kid and Peter flinched.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have opened the door, I didn’t know that wasn’t allowed, I should’ve known better sir ididntmeantoupsetherandipromiseyouthatillnevereverdoitagainand-“

“Slow down Peter, take a breath it’s alright.” Steve gently placed his had on Peter’s back and rubbed soothing circles between Peter’s shoulder blades.

-

Peter was sure that he was hallucinating. There was no way that Steve was actually trying to comfort him, he had to be losing it. surely not, surely he was going insane? But he found himself calming down and he slowly lifted his head, still unsure whether that was a good move or not. But Steve was smiling gently and Morgan was frowning at him.

“Are you okay miss?” his voice wobbled and she nodded, her face breaking out into a grin.

“It’s not your fault Peter, Morgan is really hyper in the morning, she was screaming in excitement.” Oh. Peter leaned back against the wall and nodded, suddenly feeling embarrassed from his outburst.

“Sorry for causing a scene then sir.” Steve winced but nodded.

“Breakfast!” Tony called from downstairs and Steve pulled Peter to his feet.

“I’ll get ready for school now sir.” Peter told him and Steve rose a brow.

“Breakfast is ready for you Peter.” Oh, so Tony really had planned on giving him breakfast. Peter nodded once and followed Steve and Morgan downstairs, his heart was racing. Tonight he wouldn’t get dinner, he just knew it, his outburst had ruined it for sure.

“Thanks daddy!” Morgan sat down and Tony pushed her chair in. Peter looked at the kitchen island where he thought the leftovers would be, but there was nothing other than a dirty frying pan.

“Pete?” Peter turned at the sound of Tony’s voice and found there was a fourth spot set up at the table and it took him a moment too long to realise that it was set for him. The plate was full with bacon and scrambled eggs and his mouth immediately salivated at this. was he dreaming? Were they really going to let him eat bacon? Peter sat down next to Morgan and waited. Steve began eating, Tony reached for the salt.

“Are you going to eat?” Steve asked, his voice light and airy.

“right, sorry sir. Thank you for breakfast sirs.” Tony glanced at Steve but said nothing as Peter picked up his knife and fork. He ate slowly, savouring every bite. The eggs were perfect, light and fluffy and Peter almost moaned when he put them in his mouth.

-

Tony didn’t miss the fact that Peter had gone from calling Steve Mr Stark-Rogers back to calling him sir. Once they all finished Peter collected all the plates and took them to the kitchen sink where he froze.

“Pete?” Tony asked and Peter looked up, biting his lip.

“If it isn’t too much trouble…could I take a shower?” Tony glanced to Steve whose eyes had gone wide.

“Of course Peter, it’s the door across from yours.”

“Would you like me to wash the dishes before I did take a shower?” Tony glanced at the clock and shook his head.

“We’ve got a dishwasher. You better hurry though or you’re going be late for school.” Peter nodded and ran upstairs, like he was afraid they’d change their minds. Tony turned to Steve, frowning.

“I’m going to give Rhodey a call, see just how bad Peter’s circumstances were back at the Thompson’s.” Steve said before Tony could even ask.

“I love you.” Tony said and Steve chuckled.

“I know.” At that Tony’s jaw dropped open.

“Hey!” Steve chuckled, stood up and kissed the top of Tony’s head.

“I love you too, now you should get dressed or you’re going to be late.” Steve said and grabbed Morgan to finish getting her ready for school.

-

Peter made sure he didn’t spend more than two minutes in the shower. He quickly ducked into his “room” and grabbed his tiny bar of soap. He’d have to ask the school nurse for another one soon. He then slipped into the bathroom and didn’t turn on the water until he was underneath the spout and didn’t even consider the hot water. The cold was biting but forced him awake and sent a tremble through his body. He’d done a shit job of stitching up his wound but he wasn’t bleeding anymore which he took for a good sign. The bruises were worse this morning and his ribs were killing, but he wouldn’t voice his concerns to anyone. No one wanted to listen to him whine. He also brushed his teeth whilst he was in the shower, making sure he didn’t use any water more than he needed.

“Peter are you ready?” Steve called and Peter grabbed his backpack. His clothes scratched his skin and were only a thread away from unravelling altogether.

“Coming sir!” he called as he made his way downstairs. Steve smiled and Morgan was impatiently jumping from one foot to the other.

“Let’s go!” she cried and Steve chuckled.

“Bye Tony!” Steve called and Peter glanced back to Tony coming towards them in a suit.

“Bye honey.” He and Steve kissed and then he bent down to Morgan.

“Have a good day princess.” She scrunched her face up but couldn’t stop grinning.

“bye daddy.” She bounded outside and both men turned to Peter.

“what time do you finish school?” Tony asked and Peter shifted his weight. What kind of job did Tony have?

“three-fifteen sir.” Tony nodded his head, smiling gently.

“Have a good day Peter, I’ll pick you up in the main parking lot.” Tony promised and Peter nodded, though he didn’t truly believe that Tony would.

“Have a good day at work sir.” He followed Steve out and climbed into the passenger seat of the car, heart racing. He’d made it through his first night and they hadn’t done anything mean to him. If anything they’d been overly kind, too kind. Suspiciously kind. No one had ever done anything like this for him before and he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Can I tell the other kids that I have a new brother?” Morgan asked as Steve lined up to drop Morgan off at school. Peter’s heart practically stopped in his chest. New brother? God, the thought of getting adopted at his age was…impossible. No one adopted teenagers, not when he only had a few years left before he was legally responsible for himself. No one wanted a teenager, that’s not how the system works.

“Not just yet sweetheart.” Steve stopped the car and Morgan frowned.

“but Peter lives with us and everything!” she cried and Steve chuckled.

“Just think of it as an extended sleepover okay, have a good day your dad will pick you up.” She nodded and got out the car, Peter watched her go through the gates and run up to a group of eight-year-old girls. Steve punched in the address of Steve’s school on the GPS and then they were on their way.

“Thank you for driving me to school sir.” Peter said and Steve sighed.

“It’s not a problem Peter, but I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t call me sir anymore.” Peter flinched but nodded.

“sorry sir, I mean, err, Mr Stark-Rogers.” Steve chuckled and it put Peter on edge. Was this the other shoe about to drop?

“It’s alright Peter, and I’m sorry about Morgan she’s just very excited to have you around.” Steve told him and Peter blushed.

“She’s a very cute kid sir. And may I please ask you a question?” Steve rose a brow but nodded.

“ask away, whatever you want to know.” Peter nodded and looked out the window.

“You don’t have to tell me, it’s your personal life but I was just wondering what you and your husband did for a living?” Steve let out a laugh and Peter sank down further in his seat. He shouldn’t have asked, shouldn’t have pried. He was such an idiot.

“Tony does something in marketing, he’s got some fancy title that I can never remember and it’s got a lot to do with math. He spends a lot of time in meetings, I’ve just learned to smile and nod.” Peter despite himself chuckled and Steve grinned, big and wide.

“And yourself?” Peter asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious. He looked down at his hands and clenched them into fists.

“Well I used to be in the military, I served for six years, went out on deployment about eight times. And uhh met Tony when I was twenty-five about to leave for another deployment. Literally met him at the airport. My flight was delayed and so was his and we basically had our first date at the airport.” How romantic. Peter thought to himself and focused on Steve who seemed so relaxed, a dopey smile on his face.

“And then what?”

“Well, then I had to go. one day I got a letter and it was from him and we were pen pals for the next six months. I’d served my time and was given the opportunity to leave the military, an offer I decided to take. Now I’m an arts teacher at NYU.” Peter’s brows rose.

“What?”

“I only teach afternoon classes, Tony works his schedule around my classes for Morgan and now I guess you.” Steve chuckled but a wave of nerves washed over Peter. He was bothersome, something they had to fit their lives around.

“Sorry sir.” Peter mumbled and Steve groaned.

“It’s not an issue Peter, we don’t mind. We wouldn’t have taken you in if we weren’t willing alright? You’re not here for a pay cheque alright?”

“Alright sir.” They pulled into the car park of Peter’s school and he debated running but felt like Steve wasn’t ready for him to go just yet.

“Tony will pick you up from here alright? I’ll be home by dinner. Have a good day Peter.” Peter smiled and nodded.

“Have a good day to, Mr Stark-Rogers.” And then Peter was out of the car and heading inside the school.

-

“Hello?” Tony was pacing in his office and felt so relieved to see Steve’s name light up his phone screen.

“You won’t believe what I got Peter to do on the way to school.” There was so much excitement in Steve’s voice and Tony settled down into his chair.

“crack a half smile?” Tony asked and opened up his emails, he had about a billion to get through since yesterday.

“I got him to laugh.”

“Without me? no fair.” Tony pouted and Steve chuckled but Tony knew this was a big deal, the kid did act a little strange.

“I mean it was only a chuckle but I think with some more structure ad some love we could really-“

“I’ve already put it in my to-do list to call Rhodey.” Tony said before Steve could finish his sentence. He could picture the grin on Steve’s face, how excited Morgan would be when they told her. Kids, the idea seemed crazy that Tony now had kids.

“How is it that you always know what I’m about to say?” Steve asked but Tony noted the relief in Steve’s voice, it made him nervous. Just because it was becoming clear to them that they wanted Peter didn’t mean that Peter would want them. He might want to go live with other people after the month was up, he might prefer other people and reject them both. Tony didn’t want to watch Steve get his heart broken.

“Because we’ve been married nearly twelve years Steven.” Tony said, making sure to keep his voice light despite all the worries that plagued his mind. He could see his assistant waving at him through the glass of his office, it was time for his next meeting.

“I’ve got to go to a meeting now honey, I’ll text you about the phone call with Rhodey.”

“Okay, love you, have fun.” They hung up and Tony sighed, he hated these insufferable meetings. But now he had something else to ponder, a whole other child to consider.

[blackfemmecharacterdependency]

34. Ivory

Previous Trigger Warnings for mentions of underage/revenge porn, mentions of eating disorder Word Count: 8388

Between Grace making that post of her rapping along to Captain Hook, her saying "aye aye" to Simon in comments, and this photo of Simon's D print in the gray sweatpants, I'm starting to think he's packing a curve 👀

Simon Laurent "liked"

Commenter: He is! Did you never see the old sex tape?

Poster: The WHAT? No… But, wait… I thought that they dated in school. You mean like something that happened after that?

Commenter: They were in school, but it was online for the longest time before she snitched, so I’m sure somebody still has it out there…

Poster: That’s gross. I’m not that desperate to see it that I wanna look at some kids doing it. No thank you.

Simon Laurent “liked”

Commenter is blocked by Simon.

.

Grace was in the grocery store with her mother and brother, and Zasha, a white samoyed puppy that Mrs. Monroe had purchased from a breeder… to potentially train to be in competitions, and Zasha’s handler. Why did Mrs. Monroe bring Zasha into the store, just to have someone else hold her? For the same reason that the nanny was also there, tending to Montanus. “Because, that is literally what I pay them to do.” But… we’re at the grocery store and didn’t even have to BRING them! Grace didn’t argue.

However, she did wonder if she was suffering from some type of weird mid life crisis, or just a rich, bored woman whose husband was working more and more all of the time, despite supposedly getting closer to retirement. Then, she wondered if they weren’t doing so well. But, she kept those wonders to herself, as it would frighten her to know whatever the truth was if it was anything other than her mother did whatever she wanted because she could afford to. 

Plus, she wanted to get out of the house, and apparently that had been reduced to tagging along with Grace at the grocery store, in case she needed help. “You’re almost 6 months, correct? How has it been? Online, one would swear that you’re Diahanne Caroll in her prime. You’ve rarely broken a sweat. Is that for your fans?”

Grace shook her head and read the label of something before putting it into her cart, “I haven’t had any problems, except for eating way more than I used to and getting gas, but those calcium chews usually help with that and I bounce right back. You know, I’ve always taken really great care of myself, think things through and pay top dollar for the finest self care. I guess that the baby is pleased with their temporary temple.” She smiled at her mom and noticed the woman looked leery. “I know… you had a very rough pregnancy with me. Believe me, I remember this fact, but I haven’t been having that experience, personally. In fact… Did you know that I’ve gained THOUSANDS of new followers since they’ve seen that I was pregnant. Pregnant people have been asking me what I use for this and for that and I’ve been plugging my brand, since we’ve got the pregnancy line now. It’s been sensational. I’ve had a blast!” 

Grace had been working on a blog about her pregnancy, which she began with a video addressing all of the questions to all of the people who were not her. 

“Hey, Those That Are Graced!” She’d cheered into the camera, “Happy New Year! I know that I’ve been unavailable to reach out too, and believe me, I do miss interacting with fans and followers, but I am currently not working on my career, to focus on other things in my life. Just to touch base with everyone, I feel like we’ve had this discussion before and those of you who actually respect me would definitely not need it repeated, but there have been so many new faces of possibly unfamiliar followers that I am revisiting notes that I have in all of my bios… 

First, my professional life is one thing, my private life is another. I extend myself professionally, and over the past few months, even though I have not actually been working, I’ve still been spending time providing everyone with content. Please do not send messages, comments, or questions for me to any of my friends, and especially not to my family members, Hazel in particular. She is 12 and shouldn’t have adults bothering her for information that not only isn’t her concern, but isn’t your concern. She wants to be able to enjoy the limited hours of screen time that she’s allowed. That becomes difficult for her when people are asking her hundreds of questions that literally are related to her mother’s sex life. 

Second, my professional life is offered at my discretion, as well. Whenever there is product that I think you should try, I will announce it. If I’m not familiar with a product or no arrangements have been made for me to try a product or I’m unaware of a product… my comments is not the place for said product. That is including everything from your all natural care supplies, book recommendations, your demos, your dance videos… Like… I LOVE receiving those things, but whenever I open my comments back up, that is not where those things go. 

I have links for email addresses for avenues of business, entertainment, etc on my website, and if nothing else, my website is featured on every form of social media that I have. I am the person who goes through those emails. I am NOT the person who checks my social media messages, so you will never get a response from me through those and run the risk of me not seeing something if you send it there instead. 

Third, my spaces have boundaries and moderators to enforce those boundaries. Whenever you’ve been allowed to be a guest in any of my spaces or my child’s spaces, you treat that shit like Afropunk - “No sexism, no racism, no ableism, no homophobia, no fatphobia, no transphobia, no hatefulness.” And then, since I’m not Afropunk and I have even greater needs, and can’t believe I have to say this much else: No pedophilia, no inappropriate interactions with a minor, no incestuous ideation, and no nudity. My moderators are quick, but not perfect. Your fellow guests and neighbors in my spaces should never have to see jokes about my mother and I engaged in sexual acts together, or worse, my UNDERAGE daughter, and no - Hazel and I posting a dance video is not an invitation for someone to make comments that because she might be fluid in her movements that it is sexually suggestive and if ever we find one of those headass posts where you put a photo of my beautiful daughter up, say something obscene or rude or ask, “Thoughts?” Simon finds out your IP address, sometimes more than that and he doxxes your ass. Ask around. If threats of violence or suggestions of harm are given… he might show up at your house and I don’t know what to even tell you about that one, because I’m not at liberty to say, according to the lawyers.” 

She smiled, relaxed, unclenched her teeth that she realized had been clenched since she began her greater needs. 

“Fourth, leave Hazel alone. She isn’t going to add you, because she is not allowed to add adults that she does not know. If you follow her public figure pages, those are for her poetry, her brand, her rapping, her artwork, her theater program, and whatever announcements she wants to share with her fans about her personal life, which is usually vague and innocent. If Hazel posts that she had a great time at the premiere of some movie, that is not the place to ask her personal questions. The place to ask her personal questions is nowhere! We don’t have a space created for strangers to ask her personal questions. She sometimes will be allowed to grant an interview, in which she will answer a professional about appropriate questions that have been approved.

Fifth, shut up about Simon! Shut up about Simon! I swear to you… In the past few years that Simon and I have been in communication and the ones that we’ve been in close communication, I KNOW that you realize that we are communicating, but that falls under my private life, which I have not created a space in the public for.

Now… you may speak with Simon about whatever things he speaks about in his private life, I can’t control that, but what I can control and do control is what he will or won’t say about me, even in HIS space. Yes. I got it like that, and what will happen, is Simon will be seeing this, and he is very good at remembering details and he will memorize everything that I’ve said here and he will respect that and enforce it, even in HIS space. 

Which leads me to my last thing… There’s a lot of Esmoroth fanfolk in my spaces now and you all act a certain way in your little Esmoroth corner of the Internet… but in here, in Grace’s space, you better act like you’ve been tossed to the feet of the Idol Princess when her pheromones are igniting the internal flame of servitude. Because, we stan the Idol Princess in this space, and you’d better act right.”

After the release of the 3rd book and return of the Idol Princess aka the Future Queen, several fans were disappointed and had called Simon out for “pandering.” But, several MORE fans came around. He was competing for top spots with the YA novel greats after the 3rd book. But… that also meant more fans to be in Grace’s business. 

Her New Year’s announcement remained pinned at the top of her page and the next post was text, “Oh, yeah. Last but not least, you may have noticed that I’m pregnant. I’ll be featuring some of my favorite findings on my maternity journey here, so please stay tuned if you’re pregnant, expecting, or planning, for what I think and hope will be some helpful tips for your journey!”

Most of the Esmoroth fandom didn’t like her very much, but they also “just couldn’t stay away. Aside from the Grace in Maternity blog, she still didn’t have social media open for commentary, though she did sometimes pass through Simon’s or Hazel’s comments and engaged a little bit with them. She pinned the video to other sites and then just didn’t really visit them again much.

“I could barely walk whenever I was six months pregnant. I had the finest of everything, too,” Mrs. Monroe broke into her thoughts. “Then again, I had what they now call an eating disorder for several years. I… wasn’t completely… well whenever you were announced…” she looked guilty, like she did whenever she faced her own failures as a mother. “We had to get a 24 hour nurse to keep me… healthy. By seven months, I could hardly get out of bed.”

Grace furrowed her eyebrows, “Mom… you’ve never told me that you had an eating disorder. Did you ever get help for it?”

“Help? Oh… like… whenever I had to be rushed to the hospital multiple times? Yes. I got help.”

“MOM… Did you ever heal?”

“Wait, are you asking me if I have disordered eating now? Heaven’s no, Grace. I was trapped with your father by the time you were born. I eventually realized that I had to be more… alive and well than I did flawless. We hired a nutritionist and personal chef.”

“Mom… a lot of people need psychological help for something like that.”

“And I come across to you as ‘a lot of people’? Hmph. It’s pathetic enough that I allowed myself to be so weak. I wasn’t going to beg someone to give me the strength I needed.”

“That’s not what it’s like at all…” Grace cupped her mother’s face and said, “There may be things that people need to help you with, Mom. That doesn’t make you weak or whatever else you’ve convinced yourself of. It didn’t make me weak when I needed to get help. It doesn’t make Hazel weak when she needs help…”

Mrs. Monroe waved Grace’s hands off of her face, “As long as you’re fine, have no other concerns.”

“Mom…”

“Were you done with the shopping?” Grace sighed and continued moving. 

.

Simon was pacing, clenching and unclenching his fists. Several of the message boards, every one of his social media platforms, and even at least one of Hazel’s. He’d taken her devices away, but now she was angry and he certainly couldn’t find the words to explain beyond, “You can’t be online right now.” She was scribbling aggressively in one of her paper journals, and fuming. They both were fuming from different but related reasons.

Grace came in with her little shopping entourage and Hazel rushed to her, furiously. 

“Your BOY TOY took my devices DURING screen time and REFUSES to give them back!” Grace’s eyes went wide and she turned to look at Simon, who was pacing and didn’t even seem to hear the accusation, notice that she came in or to see Monty. Something was absolutely wrong here. 

“Help get the groceries and I’ll get your devices, okay?” Grace said and cupped her chin. Hazel was still breathing heavily as she stormed out towards the groceries and Mrs. Monroe settled on the couch. Grace took Simon’s hand and he was startled by her sudden touch. But, the moment he realized it was her, he let out a deep breath and wrapped her up in a tight hug. “Hey. Let’s go talk, okay?” She suggested, rubbing his back. He nodded his head, but didn’t move from the spot or lessen his hold on. She squirmed a little bit and said politely, “Oxygen, Gray Eyes..” He let up and rushed out of the room. Grace followed and watched him flop on the bed and cover his face with his fists. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“We’ve been doing SO well…” He said, shaking his head. 

“We have.” So, this is something that he did wrong? “And the only way that we continue doing well is to be open and caring with each other.” He slicked back the wild hairs that weren’t pulled into his ponytail. He appeared to be in a lot of pain, but she had to get whatever this was settled. “Should I go online? Will I see what happened, if I do?” She pulled out her phone, mumbling, “I’m guessing that’s why Hazel’s stuff was confiscate-” He snatched the phone from her hands and she let out a yelp, both at the audacity and the fact that she didn’t even see him get up. 

“No. I have to tell you. You can’t find out on the Internet. SHE can’t get on. She CAN’T!” 

“Why can’t she? Because, she’s pretty pissed and it IS her screen time…”

“Because, the internet is relentless and unkind, and she’s too young to have to deal with how much. Not today. She’ll… I’ll… give her extra time once it's died down.”

“Tell me what’s going on, Simon.”

He frowned, “Someone brought the tape up.” At first, she was confused. Was this something about the movie? Why would he be so upset as to take Hazel’s… “And it’s recirculating again. I’ve been reporting it and fans have been reporting it and it gets taken down, but more and more people have seen it now and it’s just… too much. I don’t want her to run into it…” NOW, she understood. That tape… which… technically… it was done with a webcam, so it was never a tape, it was a recording, but… “I saw it again… not watched it, but you know, saw a portion of it whenever I was reporting it… God…” He sat down on the bed, “You’re a kid, Grace. You had the rounded face and everything…”

“Ummm… You’re a month and a day older than me, Dude.” she said, sitting down, trying to pretend that she was more calm than her heart was allowing. She could barely breathe, thinking about the feelings that just mentioning that used to bring up for her. She wasn’t sure how she might react to seeing it come up somewhere. But, maybe she should try…

She gently took her phone back, despite his struggling. One stern look and he let it go, realizing that she was determined and he was probably already in a lot of trouble, if something had been triggered. She nodded, “Yep, looks like a few people have tagged me, asking me if I saw that somebody posted it…” She went to the video and he clenched the bedspread, moving his legs uncontrollably and looking straight ahead. “You know, a lot of people used to say that you couldn’t see your face in it, that it was out of frame, but it does come into frame a few times…” she said. She paused, “See?” He shook his head. “Simon, you’re not even gonna indulge me a little bit at a time like this?”

His frown deepened and he took another long breath. She was right. SHE was the victim in this. The least he could do was take a look at his disgusting handiwork. He saw himself and he recoiled. “You were a kid, too,” she said. “Sure, at the time, this hurt more than anything my brain can recall. But… I do know, as a grown ass woman, you were wrong and also were a child. Both of those things can be accurate.”

“We’re only a few years older than Hazel, there. If some kid did something like this to her… I would…”

“I would hope that you’d remember that you were their age once and just as bad.”

“Is… is that how you would react?”

“Oh, hell no. I’ve never done anything like this. I’d kill that fucking kid. But, you would have to be the adult that fucking pulls me off of him…” She laughed and scratched at his beard, “But, nothing like this will happen to Hazel. She’s a good judge of character and we know all of her friends.”

“Your parents knew me too, and I think that they’re pretty good judges of character. Your mom at least. She always knew that I was rotten.”

“No she didn’t! She knew that you weren’t rich, and in her head those two things were the same thing. She knew that you were controlling, and she thought that I was going to sacrifice myself for you, but she didn’t think that you were going to straight up try to assassinate my entire character.” He looked away from her, “And NOW, you are very diligent in making sure that you aren’t crossing any lines, with me and with Hazel, my mother, my father, and I think people in general. This wasn’t long enough ago that it’s not hurtful to think about… but it was long enough ago to not beat yourself up over. But… It is a burden that you designed. So, it’s only right that you explain to Hazel exactly why she shouldn’t be online right now.”

Hazel took it so much better than she had taken him taking away her computer and phone. “Are you serious? I’ll just avoid social media. You KNOW I don’t wanna see anything like that, myself, but I already knew that it existed out there somewhere.” She shook her head, “I don’t like the way you look with clothes ON, think I’d run the risk of seeing you without them?” 

Grace suggested, “Is there anything else you want to say to him? Maybe about how you broke the news to me when I got home?”

“Oh..” Hazel flared her nostrils and rolled her eyes, “Sorry I called you Mom’s Boy Toy… You kinda are, but I shouldn’t say it…” 

Simon laughed, mostly because he was relieved that she wasn’t scarred by him having to talk to her about this video resurfacing. “You kidding? I’m gonna put that on a t-shirt.”

“No cap? Because I have SO many where that came from.”

“We’ve gotta brainstorm.”

“Simpsona T-shirts can be your new thing…” And just like that, Grace watched them be best friends again. Hazel could get mad and stay mad for a long time, but she didn’t like to argue, so even whenever she got mad, she tended to stay to herself until she wasn’t. The two of them left to go sit on the swing set outside of the house they were renting, and Grace sat by her mom on the couch. 

“I don’t even want to know what that was about.”

“Cool, because I wasn’t gonna tell you.”

“You don’t have to. One of your “boy toy’s” fans will.” Grace laughed and then threw her head onto her mom’s shoulder. The woman gasped at first, taken aback by the show of affection, but then placed her hand on Grace’s. “You’re a very good mother to both of them. You’ll be a good one to that one too.” she pointed her free hand at Grace’s belly.

“Did you just…?”

“Come on, you’ve been raising yourself a man since you met him and I’ll stand by that forever. Might get it engraved on my headstone.”

Grace cackled, “I absolutely AM NOT raising him!”

“He is literally a life sized puppy that went through a rebellious phase where he kept biting you!”

“Well, I finally realized that I have the power to curve that behavior… and trust me, Mom… It’s not something you’d do with somebody you’re raising.” Grace stuck her tongue out.

“Get off of me you scoundrel!” Her mother joked. Grace just laughed and held on tighter. The woman put her arm around her. “Are you okay, Darling?”

“Whenever I was hurt or scared as a little girl, I was more afraid of admitting it to you and Daddy. I would be more hurt by the thoughts of how little you would think of me if I openly showed imperfection. Not feeling that way took a long time and a lot of work. So, now, if I have a hard day, I’m not too proud to lay on my mommy and say so.” She looked to gauge her mother’s reaction. She was always speechless whenever Grace got emotional. 

She’d never learn past those suppressing ways and it amazed Grace that her mother didn’t realize how much her and Simon were alike in that way. Simon had to work really hard at it and her mother was too proud and pampered to put in such effort. But, whenever Grace booped her nose, the woman’s eyes flickered amusement, ever so slightly. Now, she pushed Grace off of herself and opened her arms to receive Montanus. “Take a photograph of me with my children,” She told the nanny. “One with the two human ones, then we’ll add the new fur baby…”

.

She still hadn’t made any announcements about her status with Simon, nor had she spoken about her pregnancy outside of the maternity blog by the time Valentines’ Day rolled around. But, one thing that she did was allow for Simon to share maternity photos. That was her “gift” to him. 

There. Were. Tons. 

Simon took photos of everything. He had a copy of every ultrasound. He had an electronic journal of every detail that came up. So, whenever he posted the album “Countdown to Ivory’s Arrival,” he had more photos than most of the fans were probably going to look through. Therefore, he left many of them private, with only close friends able to view, and the ones that were public were his favorites of the candids of Grace being pregnant and gorgeous, some of the ones from photoshoots that she would post, and the professional maternity photos that they had taken so far. They took some each trimester, as a family. 

The ones at her three month mark were taken in New York, early November (around their anniversary, whenever he was in town. They had fall colors and all three of them were absolutely stunning. Hazel was impressed with how well that Simon cleaned up, so much that whenever he showed her older photos of himself, she thought he was a different person. She had no idea how right about that she was. Simon being both subservient and also a mega diva himself was absolutely salivating every time Grace did something, but also, it was him who insisted, "We have to have a photoshoot each trimester, each with a different theme.” She agreed on the trimesters, but wasn’t feeling the theme part so much. She told him that they could simply have the season be the theme.

They had three changes of outfits for each set. Grace had a gown made much like the one that she had worn to the fall festival in 9th grade (the one that the Idol Princess’ gown was very heavily based on, the one that Simon had taken photos of her in, getting her first beauty deal underway), one that Simon saw her in and immediately began crying. “You’re… gonna ruin the photos,” Hazel told him. 

There were candid ones of him crying. Her favorite was one where he was crying, Grace was trying to comfort him and Hazel dropped in front of them, bombing it with a prison pose and her tongue out. She had on a yellow pantsuit with fall leaves in her hair, her signature look being wearing leaves in her hair. Simon’s yellow suit was similar to hers, but way more expensive and the red accents, instead of the orange ones that Hazel elected. 

The orange outfits were Hazel in orange overalls, Grace in a romper and Simon in a jumpsuit that Hazel insisted was “the most expensive prison wear in the world.” The red ones were regal matching dress attire, Grace in a two piece dress to show off her belly, Hazel in the same floor length evening gown, but one piece, and Simon in a red suit, made of the same material. Hazel’s hair was down and flowing. Grace’s was gathered up, with most of her afro pulled forward, cascading out of the jeweled red head dress she wore, and Simon’s usually (these days) flowing hair was pulled into a ponytail, with the undercut showing. He was generally self conscious about it, but Hazel put little red jewels over his scar, so even though he was still anxious about his hair, he was proud of her accessorizing enough that he wanted to confidently show it off.

The six month ones were taken in January, and done in all white, which Hazel said, “Looks fabulous on mom and me, but you look like the abominable snowman,” to Simon, on the day of. They were in California by that time, but took a little trip to the mountains because the Monroes had property there that Simon remembered had beautiful scenery that he wanted to have family photos at. 

They did all white shots and winter blues. 

Whenever Simon posted them on Valentines’ Day, Hazel joked in the comments, “I still say that we need to crop your face out.” 

People loved the maternity photos, noticed that Grace did NOT have any on her page and she didn’t comment or react to any on Simon’s page. (Yes, these people pay entirely too much attention to the lives of celebrities that they didn’t even KNOW), but someone did some investigating and found Grace’s pregnancy blog. So… even though that was mostly a completely different following, others stormed into the space, thinking that FINALLY, some place where Grace has actually been interacting and will interact with us. She literally ignored anybody that wasn’t asking about helpful tips for their own pregnancy or giving her helpful tips and the title changed from, “Grace in Maternity” to “Y’all Can See This is a Mommy Blog, Right?”

A few people were seething, but funny enough, Grace’s faithful mommy following were more along the lines of, “Wait… You’re FAMOUS, Monroe Mommy???” After that, she had a hoard of moms check out her other life. She enjoyed having more of them in her fan base, though she also had a lot of ones who had always known being like, “Y’all seriously didn’t know Grace Monroe?” and her favorite quote ever on that blog, “Hell, her album is the reason I AM pregnant!!!”

Meanwhile, Simon had been less likely to play around with any of the fans ever since the video thing. He’d made that very clear, and then sort of stopped interacting with them. He didn’t even go through to like people’s comments anymore. Some of them would say things like, “Whoever resurfaced that video, if we find you, it's on sight for making Simon hate speaking with us!”

Sometimes a person would “Lol” and contend, “He’s too busy working on the Esmoroth movie. He’s not here because of the movie not some fuzzy sex tape from years ago.” 

Those were the only ones that he’d respond to just to say, “No, they’re right,” and nothing else. 

He wasn’t as busy on the Esmoroth movie as he intended to be. He was working on more tech and models for the movie than any other movie things. For one thing, the script was being adapted, and casting was hard. The casting director wanted to get a different type for the Idol Princess, but Simon was extremely firm and clear that the Idol Princess HAD to look exactly as described in the book. “There are parts of the story that are directly related to her looking the way that she does.”

“We can adjust those parts,” the director had said, hoping to appease him. 

“The Idol Princess looks like my childhood best friend. Her look is non negotiable,” he had told them. They didn’t believe in non negotiable, apparently, because the girls that were being considered were all much too light. Whenever Simon had rejected them all, they informed him of those girls’ filmographies and their agents and other people said agents represented.. “Maybe they have that type of record because people are hiring them for roles that were meant to be for someone else. Just… give me all of the call sheets for girl characters who auditioned.” 

He went through and disqualified half on looks alone (not to say that they weren’t pretty children or whatever, but they didn’t look like the Idol Princess). Whenever he had the stack of dark skin girls, he went through, checking their filmographies and auditions.

He asked Hazel for her opinion and she suggested a name that he recognized from his rejected stack. He pulled it back up and looked at the light skinned girl in the photo, "Do you mean this girl, Hazel?" He wondered.

"Yes! She's a really good actress!"

He furrowed his eyebrows and pointed out, "But she doesn't look like the Idol Princess. The Idol Princess has dark brown skin, tightly coiled hair, full nose and lips, and dark brown eyes. This girl has none of those things."

Hazel shrugged her shoulders, "She's really good though."

"Well… maybe some of these other girls are really good and people just don't want to see them in stuff like this." 

Hazel frowned and she asked, "Are you accusing me of favoring her because she's got features like mine?"

"No. I'm just saying that she doesn't look the part. You're usually really good about that kind of thing, Haze."

"Well… I don't know anybody in the age range that looks like the description of the Idol Princess." She folded her arms, "But like you said, maybe that's because people take the easy way out and just get the pretty Black girl that they know of to play a part instead of being true to characters. I've definitely read more books with dark skinned girls than I've seen in movies…"

"Here are some of my choices," he said and spread the sheets out before her. "I think this one has the look, but I think this one had a better audition. BUT, she was auditioning for a background character and this one was auditioning for the Wicked Heiress. Maybe she just didn't have that role in her and should audition for the Idol Princess, so we can know for sure.."

"I think that maybe they should all audition for the Idol Princess again. What if they just didn't believe it would be realistic that they'd get offered a job like this, especially if bigger stars are being considered? Sometimes, I have to talk kids into auditioning for our productions because they're worried that the same actors will win out anyway."

He gave her a side smile, "I think you're onto something, Haze."

.

Hazel sent out the invites for Grace’s baby shower. Unfortunately, all of Grace’s friends lived elsewhere, so it would be an expensive trip. Fortunately, they had money, so the Monroes could foot the bill for everyone who didn’t just have the means to travel across country for an event. 

Meta flew in with Damita from New York the previous week, but he made some business plans to collab with a Cali artist that week, so he was working, as well. Meanwhile, Damita and Grace were spending the week reconnecting and chilling. Shana and Iza came in from Atlanta the night before. Gharrisahn was already in LA for work, so she would swing by the day of. Grace’s parents arranged for Mikayla and Tulip to come down. They were in coach on the same flight that Lucy’s and Lindsay’s moms and they were in first class, so they’d all meet the driver upon landing.

Hazel had on a headset, along with Simon’s assistant and Grace’s assistant, because Hazel had arranged the shower and she wanted to make sure that things went how she meant for them to. 

Grace was in a custom made gown that was inspired by Book 3 of Esmoroth and Simon had been at her side simply staring at her for the entire time she had it on. It had been a surprise. A very nice one that he apparently loved. She hired the costume designer for the movie to make her several pieces, but this one was like the one that the Idol Princess resurrects in. Grace was now hip to the lore enough, mainly from paying attention to Hazel’s ravings, and her and Simon’s movie chat. 

For the most part, Grace didn’t want to have a shower. All of her friends lived elsewhere, the baby was due sort of close to Hazel’s birthday and she still wanted Hazel to be able to have a party - which she doubted would be able to happen if she waited until after they were born, so she wanted to have Hazel’s birthday party, INSTEAD of a shower and Hazel said, “How about you just worry about slaying everybody in your peak perfection pregnancy, and I’ll take care of the shower?” 

With the financial backing of GlamMother, her dad’s big brain, and her own penchant for moments and aesthetics, Hazel tended to be very good at making things come together. She even produced some choreography (Doereography, as she called her pieces), for her and her mother to perform, because, yes, Grace was good and swollen by May, but she also could still do mostly everything that she was doing before with that additional bundle. It did throw her balance off a little and she couldn’t lift Hazel at the moment, but she kept up with every step of the Irish step dancing that Hazel put into the choreo, and she absolutely could still nail every Haitian movement. Hazel wanted to make a birthday choreo with ties to her heritage, and Grace was always very supportive of her doing anything that made her feel connected to her identity. 

For good measure, Hazel looked up cultures from Grace and Simon’s heritages too. She was most accustomed to American jazz/hip hop and ballet. She started at 6, with Grace and when they were apart, Grace used to make instructional videos and post them just for Hazel. Whenever she was 10, she started to tap, and all of the other things in between, she and Grace perfected, and whenever she really wanted to nail something, they’d call in a world class trainer. 

Hazel felt that a world class trainer was needed for the baby shower. Grace very much so disagreed. So, Hazel got her grandmother to get them. “Next time, simply come to me first,” the woman had said. 

Hazel opened up with one of her raps. Her mom’s friends (as always) got their entire lives whenever she would flow - which was possibly the reason that she honed her talent, if she thought about it - and even Simon would be into the groove with things. He didn’t have the best rhythm, but he certainly always looked way taken up with her talent. Grace bouncing around with a round belly was everything in the world to Hazel, and when she was done, she waddled over to hug her. 

They played games, did some traditional shower things and some new things too, that Hazel consulted with celebrity event planners for. When it was time for gifts, Grace froze, looking at the way that everything flowed. It was like her 16th birthday again and she felt like she might have a panic attack. “Grace… It’s okay,” Simon said. She looked at him on the other side of the tete a tete and he smiled, “I learned my lesson. This is straight up simply tribute.” He kissed her on the forehead and she calmed down to receive gifts and cry about everything, but manage to not look ugly doing so, because no matter how comfortable she had gotten over the years, that was still engrained in her as a huge no-no.

Winding down from the party, she found Hazel and her friends at the photo booth, having switched out their baby shower outfits for their birthday party outfits. “Where’s Simon?”

“Bullying people about their gifts,” Hazel said nonchalantly. 

“Oh God…” Grace raced over and smiled, “Hey… what’s uh… what’s going on?”

Mrs. Monroe stood behind Simon with her arms folded and Mr. Laurent was in front of them. Simon answered, “Well, I’m giving people things back that went against the specifications for the list.”

“I don’t remember making specifications for the list.”

“You wouldn’t, because you didn’t, I did. You aren’t particularly great at meticulous things and you don’t pay attention whenever I’m telling you plans like these,” Simon said.

“We’re not gonna send a gift back with the person who gave it to us.”

“What are we gonna do, donate it to charity? Because I am not putting this together for our baby. This company uses…”

“Thank you, Mr. Laurent. Thank you for coming and thank you for this gift.” She gave the man a pat on the hand and smiled at Simon. He was still frowning, along with her mother. “You’re backing him up, now?” She got flashbacks of whenever they used to gang up on her and she was very salty that she had to defend MR. LAURENT of all people against the devastating team and Simon and her mother could be.

“He specifically said nothing from that company ON THE LIST,” her mom said, beginning a tirade against this man, with her and Simon taking turns on letting him know exactly how he’d fucked up.

“Their product is cheap and substandard.”

“They’ve decimated the supply of the people in the area they harness things from TO make cheap product.”

“And they use slave labor!”

“Child slaves.”

“OKAY! Okay… That’s a good company to boycott. But hear me out… Mr. Laurent is a simple man who shops at like three places and definitely doesn’t look up things like that,” Grace said.

To which Simon and Mrs. Monroe both reminded her, (loudly) “It was on the list!”

“I made it clear which companies we weren’t accepting gifts from!”

“It’s already bought.” Simon was going to continue complaining, but Grace took his hands and placed them on her belly and he immediately softened up and stared at it. “This is the most important thing, right?”

He looked up at her and cupped her face, shifting himself to touch foreheads with her. Hazel appeared out of nowhere to bomb the photo that they weren’t even expecting Lucy to take. 

.

“Wait, that was it?” Grace wondered. Let’s be clear… she did go through a lot of pain and it was a tough time in the birthing house, even with Simon right beside her and Hazel, her mother and her best friend nearby. But… it felt like there should be something else happening or that something was missing, that she had neglected something, or like something didn’t happen that was supposed to. 

She supposed that she had simply set her expectations so deeply into the thought of pain, struggle, blood, sweat and tears, that when it came… her imagination had actually run wild. Simon had kept telling her she was doing well and how he was proud of her and other affirmations. He was holding the baby now while she was being cleaned up. 

“Did everything happen?” Grace asked. 

Hazel went over the checklist with her. Yes. Everything happened. “Did I pass out?” No. She was awake. She was there for every grueling minute. It just was a different experience for her than what her mother described, than what she read and interpreted. 

The professionals explained to her how her birthing went relatively well, what to do next, etc. Charlotte, from the center, even talked to her about how it’s not only different for everyone, but how all four of her own pregnancies and births were different from the last. Grace was expecting something terrible to happen within the first few days, just because it didn’t seem like everything had happened! The paranoia died down on day 3 and she simply was back to cuddling with her new baby.

They looked like her, so far. Hazel made them a stuffie of a potato in a diaper… the baby just looked like a potato. She didn’t know how else to express that. Simon worshipped them. He was constantly holding them whenever Grace wasn’t. He was close by whenever she fed them. He took so many photos on his phone that within days, he surpassed all of the ones he had of Monty from the past several months.

NONE of those were going online any time soon. Grace had only posted a few days after giving birth her experience with having done so. She bounced back so quickly and looked so effortlessly beautiful that some people were claiming that she had been trolling and was never actually pregnant. She found that funny, but it also was her cue to duck away from the Internet for a while again. 

The first month of Ivory’s life, they were for the most part a quiet baby. Simon frequently worried that something was wrong, checking, rechecking, then coming back and checking again that they were breathing, awake, happy, etc. Grace was more like, “You’re so gross. Look at you! Drooling all over everything. Little slobbery monster!” She spoke in a high pitched voice that made Ivory smile and kick their little legs around.

“GRACE! Don’t say that!” Simon insisted. “You’re gonna make them feel bad.”

“No way! Ivory’s a tough little cookie, like their Mama. I gonna bite you, Cookie! Mama gonna bite you!” Then she playfully nibbled at their feet and hands. 

Simon studied the baby for a while and determined, “They seem to be enjoying it.” He would then relax a little. 

Hazel was the only person allowed to post photos of Ivory, and comments were always closed. The first one was on Hazel’s birthday. She was in a sundress, tanned a little more than usual and Ivory and she had on matching rompers and sunhats. “Ivory came 13 days before my 13th year. They really said, “I’ma be 13 too, Sis.” Look at them. Tiny. Tiny Potato. Sis has your back for life. #taurustribe #jk #idcboutthat #MonroeSibs #Doetography #HouseLaurent 

And there it was. All that anyone needed to see. You honestly couldn’t tell what the baby looked like, but how could anybody doubt Hazel’s hashtag “House Laurent?”

Simon sort of liked having a private family. He wasn’t sure why he had been so eager to have people acknowledge things before. Even one year ago, he needed for somebody, anybody to know that he slept in the same bed with Grace Monroe. He needed for her to say “I love you.” He needed to hear Hazel call him “dad.” He still loved those things, but he had everything he could have ever wanted… it just looked different than he thought it would. 

Why did he want to “take care of” Grace for so long? She was caoable of taking care of herself, probably better than he was of himself. She had talents (was ALREADY back to working on new dances with Hazel and new music), qualities… God… that smile made him weak… She had several other things too, but if he sat there making a list, he’d be there for a while, and he COULDN’T be there for a while, because Ivory was six weeks old and Grace told him that he could take them with him to work. 

He began strapping the baby into the stroller… “Are you… where are you trying to take my baby?” Grace asked.

“My calendar says that they’re six weeks old. I can take them to work with me.”

 Grace put her hands on her hips and Simon frowned. “You said it. I have a recording of you saying it.”

“Well, I said that we shouldn’t take them anywhere before six weeks…”

“And I set my calendar,” Simon completed the thought and pulled the diaper bag onto his shoulder. “Abigail is bringing Monty, so they’ll have a play date.”

“Oh, she is?” Grace asked, toweling herself down. “Hold on. I’m coming.”

“Grace, I’m gonna be late!”

“I’m not letting you go be a Daddy sized snack with TWO cute babies on you with a cute, perfect bodied nanny with no friends!”

“I don’t think she’s all that cute and I have no idea what her body looks like!”

“It doesn’t look like she pushed a baby out of it six weeks ago!”

“NEITHER DOES YOURS!” 

She came into the room, changed up and smiling, “Awww. That’s so sweet.”

“How did you?” She looked perfect. She looked perfect and she couldn’t have taken any longer than five minutes. And she thought she had anything to worry about? But, he wasn’t complaining. If he had Grace and the baby around, that was just better, all around. 

“I’m staying here,” Hazel told them and continued dancing in the mirror.

Grace was standing on the scooter, with Simon behind her, sporadically kissing her on the neck every now and then, making her smile and gush. Whenever they pulled into the studio Simon took the baby out, which Grace noticed was wearing an oversized heather gray, “Proof he got lucky with Grace Monroe” onesie. “Simon! What did you…?” She gasped and saw that he had a shirt, the same color that read, “I got lucky with Grace Monroe.”

“In my defense, you weren’t supposed to be here today!” Simon told her. 

“How many shirts and onesie sets did you buy?”

“Not a lot. I bought WAY MORE t-shirts than I did onesies.” She fell behind a little and the back of that man’s shirt said “Grace’s Babydaddy.”

“Simon…”

“In my defense… You were right there whenever I walked out of the house wearing it.” She laughed. “It’s just in the studio. I’m working on some mechanics. There’s not gonna be cameras on me or anything.” She was still pouting. “I know that you’re super secretive, but I’m sure that most of the people who give a damn about what we do already know that this is indeed my baby…”

“It’s not that.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Ugh. I wanted to do this whole reveal thing for you on Sunday! I was gonna make this long, sweet post and open my comments and EVERYTHING. Now, I feel like it won’t have the same effect…” His eyes were already all watery, just from her THINKING about doing so.

“Sunday is Father’s Day…”

“Yeah. I can keep my own secrets. Not tell people about my pregnancy or who I bone or how I share time with my daughter or whatever, but I didn’t plan on making you stay in the shadows of my spotlight for the rest of our lives, especially when it comes to this. You’ve been an immense pain in the ass, but you’re a wonderful father and I figured it’d be a good… coming out of sorts for me to acknowledge that on that day.”

He cradled Ivory closely, “You can still do that.”

“Well, you’ve announced it all over your clothes and also… I just told you the entire plan!”

“I love knowing plans!” Simon said. “Here.” He took off the shirt and threw on his hoodie, which it was too hot for and then they changed the baby’s onesie too. “I sort of want to eat it up whenever people actually find out from you that I am indeed, who you bone.” She laughed. “This is the best spoiled surprise that I’ve ever had!”

“Well… I didn’t tell you ALL my plans, so there’s still stuff to look forward to.”

“Yeah?” He asked, casually as they walked inside.

“Mmm hmm.”

“Can I have a hint?”

“Something that starts with the letter P.” Simon turned red and she smiled brightly.

“Uh. Didn’t put THAT on your calendar, did you?” 

His lip dropped, “I DIDN'T!” He frowned, “In my defense… we don’t really do that enough for it to have been something I was counting down to.” He smirked, “But every time we do…” He raised his eyebrows and smiled at her. She bit her lip and shook her head, “Nope. Sunday. You aren’t gonna beard break me, Mr. Laurent.”

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