#all hail fitz

[queercontrarian]

i'm gonna make obpbl memes to get over the fact that it's finished. i need to cope somehow.

@iftheshoef1tz

[buffyspeak]

aria montgomery deserved better 2kforever like. in these first two seasons, her relationship with ezra is hard to watch (in more ways than one! i sometimes find myself rooting for them not to get caught, largely because i like and have sympathy for aria but also because the actors do genuinely have good chemistry. but then i remember how fucked up it is! that’s why the romanticization of this relationship was so dangerous!) - anyway. it was hard to watch and messy but she also had like. other things in her story that at least made her feel like a more fleshed out character. and i always see people saying things about how she’s not as kind as she acts like but she literally shows so much empathy to. most people. and her role as a psuedo caretaker/fixer in her family is so nuanced and interesting and informs a lot of how she interacts with ezra (she feels like she’s been forced into a more adult role, so she courts this adult ‘romance’. ugh.) and it legitimately could have been a nuanced and interesting story about family dynamics and the pressure on teenage girls in their roles in family and how that can be connected to grooming if it had been written that way but!!!!

anyway her story just becomes more and more entangled with Only Being About Ezra from what i remember. which is one of the reasons people kept theorizing about her being A but. i just see it as isolation (not total, she is obviously still very close with her friends, but there is a sort of disconnect.) and then they get MARRIED????? she deserved better for real.

[thesongofsoleil]

ANS SHES A QUEEN FOR THAT

You know who scares me?

Holly Jackson

That crazy shit pip did SHE THOUGHT OF

AND WROTE IT PERFECTLY

[blurredcolour]

The Only Truth... | Part Four

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x POW Flight Nurse!Female Reader

The day Stalag VIIA is liberated ought to be one of pure celebration. Unfortunately, fate has other plans in store.

Warnings: Language, Angst, Death, Blood, Brief Battle, Serious Reader Injury [gunshot wound], POW Camp Setting, SS Officers, Mental Health Struggles, References to Christianity, Reader Scars, Hospital Setting, Kissing, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: Thank you all ever so much for your patience! At last we come to the end of our tale. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 6267

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

The morning of Sunday, April 29, 1945, dawned cloudy but bright. The chill of early spring still hung in the air, your breath hanging from your lips as you ducked out into the tent to collect the clean yet still-unfolded laundry that had been awaiting your attention throughout the drama of the rainstorm. You had just managed to tuck it away into your room when Fitzgibbons arrived with a new book for you to read, a more recently published fantasy novel called The Hobbit, though you had other priorities before diving into it.

You had almost gotten away with your clandestine chores, rags folded, and three-quarters of the bandages rolled, when your former surgical technician appeared at your door, knocking on the frame with an admonishing look on his face.

“I see you’re taking it easy on your day off, Ma’am.”

Huffing in irritation at being caught, you shook your head. “I’m off my feet, Fitz, can’t we just call a truce?”

He made a non-committal noise before cracking a grin. “Actually came to ask a favor, so I’m thinking we can come to an agreement. Menzies,” his deliberate mispronunciation of the British Captain’s name made you roll your eyes affectionately, “ordered me to flush a wound using your make-shift tools and honestly, I cannot make heads or tails of what you’ve jerry-rigged.”

Biting back a laugh, you nodded quickly, well aware that your cobbled-together system was more than a little unorthodox and not at all surprised Menzies had not taken the time to ensure Fitzgibbons knew how it worked. “Certainly, let me walk you through it.”

Grabbing the laundry you had thus far folded, you made your way down the hall to collect the items from the supply desk and followed him to the bedside of a new patient. Introducing yourself warmly, you learned the man’s name was Michaels and he hailed from the frigid wilds of Canada.

“Fitz and I are going to use this here to flush that wound, alright?” You nodded to the nasty laceration on his calf, your makeshift instruments cradled in your arms.

“Sounds fine, Ma’am.” He nodded patiently, vowels clipped remarkably short in that efficient Canuck way of speaking.

“Alright so if you take this, Fitz.” You held out a funnel with a piece of tubing secured to it, watching the tech take it carefully.

The mundane calm of the morning was shattered by the sudden hum of an airplane engine, your eyes shooting to meet Fitzgibbons’ sharply moments before the eruption of gunfire.

“Everyone get down!” He shouted and you both lurched into motion to begin helping your patients from their cots onto the wooden planks of the tent platform, abandoning your instruments on Michaels’ cot.

Panic rising as you once again found yourself in a wildly unsafe place while under fire, you urged the men from their beds to get low, presenting smaller targets for the errant bullets that were punching holes through the canvas of the tent every so often. The cacophony outside only increased with the rumble of approaching vehicles – tanks quite possible given the depth of sound that carried across the camp – and you nearly tripped over your own feet in an effort to reach the last two patients who simply could not move on their own.

Heaving one, Sidhu from India, out of his cot and depositing him onto the floor, you were just sliding your arms beneath the shoulders of the last, Hernandez from Texas, when searing heat and pain punched into your side. Your arms and legs gave out beneath you instantly, your body collapsing atop the poor boy still on his cot, both of you gasping for breath. With a grunt of annoyance, you flung a hand back to your hip, eyes widening as your fingertips were quickly covered in a warm, slick fluid.

“M…Ma’am?!” Hernandez warbled from beneath you, watching as you lifted your fingers to inspect just what was going on, his face blanching at the unmistakable scarlet of blood. “Doc?! Medic!! Help!!!” He began to shriek all the words he knew to summon assistance, making you wince at the racket as you forced yourself to roll off him, crashing to the floor in a pile of uncooperative limbs.

Taking a moment to try and catch your breath, pulse rocketing at an alarming rate, you began to realize that no matter how long you lay there, things were not improving. In fact the situation was growing a lot more serious as a deep ache was settling into your right side and you could feel your clothes growing damper with blood by the second. Rolling onto your stomach, you had just begun to feebly pull yourself across the floor of the tent when the racket outside subsided momentarily, Hernandez’s cries summoning several sets of boots to run in your direction.

A great, external cheer erupted in the same moment you were lifted by many hands onto one of the recently vacated cots, Chalmers, Menzies and Fitzgibbons all hovering above you as they yanked at your shirt and pants to get at your wound. The striking similarity between your plight and that of Simms set your teeth on edge, tears brimming in your eyes at the sudden thought that this could really be it. You might very well die here in these filthy, mud-covered clothes while the rest of the camp cheered on outside.

“Keep breathing for me, Nurse. You’ve got an entry and an exit wound, you just stay with us now.” Chalmers barked firmly and you managed a brief nod despite the shakes that seemed to want to rattle your bones. “Fitz go find out if they’ve got a Medic with them – we need sulfa and plasma, and she needs an aid station and surgery.”

“Sir!” He replied before you heard his frantic footfalls leave the tent.

Menzies applied a ruthless amount of pressure to the front and back of your hip and it was all you could do not to wail pathetically at the lances of pain that shot through you. “I know, Nurse, I know. For your own good, now. Why’d you have to go and get yourself shot in the middle of our liberation, hm?”

“Libe.r.ation?” It was difficult to form the word, your mouth clumsy and filled with cotton, head buzzing with adrenaline and pain.

Your heart was beginning to lose its rhythm, stuttering and skipping beats every so often. Your medical training offered a whispered explanation of ‘blood loss’ which did nothing for the suffocating feeling of panic in your chest.

“Looks like your American Army showed up to bring you home, so let’s make sure you can get there alright?” Chalmers added firmly and you nodded again, trying to take deep breaths.

You were so close. They were right there.

What had started as a frigid day seemed to be growing colder, your fingers tips positively icy by the time you heard Fitzgibbons return, giving someone a rundown. The familiarity of it made your heart ache for a simpler time when the two of you were the ones saving people, taking them from danger to safety. Now you were the one in peril, finding it remarkably difficult to keep your eyes open. The unfamiliar face of a young man in an Army helmet came into view before you felt the sting of sulfa on your wounds.

Your left sleeve was rolled up, your nonsensical protests going unheeded as the man began to search for a vein, inserting an IV for the bottle of cheery yellow plasma – the bright color anachronistic to the monochromatic color palette that pervaded the Stalag. Bandages were wrapped tightly around your middle once more and they were just about to lift you, cot and all, when another set of heavy footfalls sounded on the floorboards.

“Jesus christ…angelfish…” Bucky’s voice was unmistakable, though anguished, and you rolled your head to the side to look at him with a weak smile.

“Bucky.” You managed to form his nickname at a volume no more than a whisper, vision narrowing in on his pinched, tight features, the normally rosy hue completely drained from his cheeks.

Suddenly everything tilted and whirled as your cot was hoisted onto the shoulders of Chalmers, Menzies, Fitzgibbons, and the Medic.

“Take the plasma, Egan. Hold it up, keep pace.” Chalmers ordered sharply and the ceiling of the tent began to blur as they rushed out into the daylight, your vision going completely white before all was darkness.

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

The morning had seemed like any other, crowded around a small campfire trying to keep warm, trading suppositions about the end of the war with Jefferson, when the unmistakable sound of an aircraft engine had broken through the din of the camp.

“Hey Macon, that’s a P-51!” Jefferson had shouted and instantly the entire population was on their feet, cheering on the pilot as he took out on of the guard towers.

Their elation was short lived, the abrupt sound of incoming artillery sending all the prisoners into the dirt as every single German soldier seemed to open fire as one, the camp instantly an active battlefield. Bucky’s eyes strayed to the hospital tent, its canvas walls helplessly pinned between the encroaching American tanks and the defending German guards. They needed to put a stop to this from the inside before any more lives were needlessly lost. Even as this thought crossed his mind, men were falling all around him.

“Fellas! Take out the tower!” Bucky shouted as he ran for the tent where the majority of the Americans were sheltering, seeking out the homemade stars and stripes they had carefully crafted and transported from camp to camp, kept hidden from goons, just for such an occasion.

It took a few tries before Jefferson successfully came up with the flag, passing it to him quickly. Dashing through the chaos of prisoners running hither and thither through the camp, some fleeing, some fighting guards, Bucky was boosted onto the roof of the administration building. The flagpole was less than sturdy as he climbed it but as he removed the Nazi war flag and tossed it to the cheering crowd below, the guns fell quiet. Securing the ragtag American flag, watching the breeze immediately catch and fly it high, an immense feeling of relief wash through him and after taking a moment to celebrate, he pressed his forehead to the hand-hewn timber of the pole to soak in his gratitude for making it this far. Though the ragged appearance of his country’s flag undoubtedly mirrored his own.

As he carefully climbed down the rickety pole, his eyes caught on a somewhat familiar figure running frantically through the crowd toward the gate, moving against the flow of those milling around the yard, celebrating. The man’s shouts carried intermittently on the wind across the crowd and Bucky managed to pick out “Medic,” his heartrate picking up at the word “Nurse.” His stomach dropped when the word “shot” reached his ears.

“Angelfish.” He whispered and quickly scrambled his way off the roof, wincing a little at his rough landing, before he began to shove his own way through the oblivious celebrants towards the hospital.

Skidding to a stop on the threshold of the tent, he was startled to find all the patients cowering beneath their cots while you lay on one of their abandoned beds, a bloody mess surrounded by men frantically trying to save you.

“Jesus christ…angelfish…” He choked out, throat clenching painfully as your head lolled to the side, slightly unfocused eyes meeting his.

“Bucky.” Your faint whisper of his name propelled him forward, a frown settling over his features at the state of your clothes, wanting nothing more than to cover up the expanse of your abdomen and the scar on your arm – you surely hated to have that so prominently on display.

Chalmers’ sudden directive for him to manage the plasma grabbed his attention and he quickly grasped the glass bottle, holding it high as they lifted the entire bed to begin carrying you out of there.

“Just hold on, angelfish.” He rasped, heart lurching painfully as your eyes rolled back in your head, your body going slack.

Running alongside you to the gate despite the way his lungs ached, the crowd mercifully parted before their odd little group. A jeep was waiting with a stretcher strapped to the back, and Bucky watched helplessly as your unsettlingly limp form was transferred from the cot, the bottle of plasma wrenched from his fingers by the Medic before he perched atop your legs. As the vehicle took off, the Lieutenant Colonel of the armored division strode over sternly.

“How the devil did a nurse end up as a POW?” He demanded as Lieutenant Colonel Clark came to stand on Bucky’s right.

Chalmer’s sighed deeply before sharing what he knew of your story, of your arrival back in January including the fact that the Red Cross was informed through the usual process, and how you were housed separately in the hospital. As Fitzgibbons, the very same surgical technician you had earned your burns pulling out of your plane, filled in the rest of your service history, Bucky could only reflect on how little he really knew you. How short his time with you had actually amounted to be. Hell, he would not have even known your squadron number if it was not for that conversation right then.

“What a SNAFU.” The man muttered and Bucky could certainly see the resemblance of the man’s commanding officer, Patton, in him. “Well, let’s get this formal surrender over with so we can get these boys home.”

Clark nodded in return and Bucky shuffled back to sit heavily amongst the men of the 100th, waving off Brady’s look of concern. Watching the salutes and handshakes, he was completely numb, his thoughts miles away with wherever they had taken you, only able to hope against hope that their aid station was of the highest calibre.

Bucky had not resorted to prayer often throughout the war. Sure he had worn a crucifix and crossed himself reflexively when flying into a hail of flak, but conversations with higher beings had never been something he had put much stock in. Faced, now, with this gnawing feeling of helplessness, your very survival in the balance, it seemed like the only tool left at his disposal.

Crammed into the tent that night, shoulder-to-shoulder with his neighbors, he felt rusty and self-conscious as he addressed the god of his childhood Sunday school and fairly begged for you to make it. He stopped short of bargaining his own life away, but barely, before sleep overtook his aching body, the exertions of the day overtaking him.

As he found himself jostling in the back of a transport truck on his way to Paris the next day, handpicked by Lieutenant Colonel Clark to be among the first sent back to England, he could not help but feel as though he was being driven further and further away from you. It was near night by the time they pulled into the base and Bucky took his first warm shower in over a year, changing into a fresh uniform and feeling almost human. They were served white bread that might as well have been cake, with steak and eggs that were too rich for him to endure more than a few bites before he crawled into a remarkably clean bed and slept deeply, exhaustion winning out over his continuous concern for your well being.

Climbing into the belly of a B-17 for the first time in over eighteen months felt awkward and painful, the crew from the 100th consisting of unfamiliar replacements, the space feeling more cramped than it ever had as he wedged himself into the cockpit behind the pilot. The deep-seated terror he had desperately been trying to supress, his fear that Buck had not made it to safety despite their planning and the beating he had taken to distract the guards, surged to the fore of his mind. It competed ruthlessly with his anxiety over whether you were still drawing breath, the fact that he may have to face the truth of losing both of you leaving him silent and withdrawn as the plane took flight.

There was no immediate answer awaiting him at Thorpe Abbotts either, no familiar faces lining the tarmac – not even Lemmons was around, which struck him as unsettlingly odd. Making his way to the CO’s hut, his eyes at last landed on a familiar face as Herrmann emerged from one the equipment sheds.

“Hey Winks! Where is everybody? Guy comes back after a year-and-a-half and no one’s around?” He plastered on a playful smirk as the boy’s face broke out into a grin of astonishment, shaking his hand vigorously as he rushed over.

“Buck took Rosie, Douglass, Croz, and Kenny up on one of those mercy missions they’ve been practicing for, they should be back any time now, sir. Gosh it’s great to see you back here.”

Bucky’s attention immediately snagged on the first name Herrmann mentioned, finding it immensely difficult to continue listening as he exhaled half of the tension that had strangled him all the way across the English Chanel. “Good to be back, Winks. Think you can give me a lift?” He raised an eyebrow, desperate for a moment of levity.

With a quick nod, Herrmann was promptly driving him towards the control tower. The most difficult part of getting up there was making it past all the congratulatory pats and handshakes, but Bucky was able to pull off his surprise, the sound of Cleven’s voice over the radio going a long way to mending some of the deep wounds he was still sporting.

More handshakes and pats-on-the-back awaited him at the hardstand and it finally felt like he was back amongst the familiar faces of these men. He did not miss the way Cleven’s eyes were quietly scrutinizing him, however. The gratingly familiar feeling that his friend was looking right through him was undeniable as he joked and smiled with the boys who had never been imprisoned. Who had not endured the things they had. As the crowd around them thinned out, Bucky turned to watch Cleven pull out one of his toothpicks, sliding it between his molars in a familiar yet long-lost motion.

“So what you been up to since I left?” His friend asked.

Bucky swallowed and shrugged a little walking over to the jeep, Cleven immediately sliding into the passenger’s seat out of habit.

“That terrible, huh?” Cleven muttered and Bucky sighed as the vehicle roared to life.

“Ended up in Moosburg.” He started out slow, with simple facts. “Got a little hurt on the way, so Brady and Hambone took me to the hospital. Turns out there was a Nurse there, POW since January.”

The look of shock on his friend’s face registered in the corner of his eye and Bucky did not have the heart to fully face him.

“The German’s held a woman prisoner?” Cleven shook his head with a sigh of dismay.

“She got shot during the liberation, stray bullet. Medics from the armored division took her and I have no idea if she made it.” Now that he had started telling the story it all just came pouring out of him.

“You care about her more than just on moral grounds.” Cleven stated matter-of-factly and Bucky sighed as he pulled up in front of what used to be their hut.

Who knew if it still was.

“Yes.” He begrudgingly admitted, though his admission was addressed to the steering wheel.

There was a long, drawn-out silence, the incessant chirping of sparrows filling in the gap in conversation and Bucky realized he had not really heard a bird his entire time in captivity. His head snapped sharply to look at Cleven as he suddenly spoke again.

“If anyone can find someone in the chain of evacuation it’ll be Smokey.”

Bucky furrowed his brows a moment before it clicked. “Doc Stover? You think?”

Cleven shrugged. “He’s our best shot I guess.”

“Our…”

“Are you going to drive us to the hospital, or should I?”

A grin pulled at Bucky’s lips as he started the jeep back up and took a sharp U-turn, heading for the base hospital. He pretended not to notice the way his friend’s eyes lingered on the stiff movement of his body as he climbed out of the jeep – he was definitely sore but was most certainly not going to admit to it. The wards were just as populated as they had been in 1943, something he found rather infuriating. It was another feeling he tucked into a neat little package and shoved down to be ignored until a more convenient time. Or perhaps never to be acknowledged again.

Stover was easy to find, dressed in his white coat, just finishing his rounds.

“Majors, what can I do for you?” He gestured for them to follow him into his office and Bucky sank down into a chair heavily, once again ignoring another man’s assessing gaze on him.

“Well it’s an odd request really but…” He trailed off, hesitating as he smoothed his too-long hair, reflecting once again that he needed a proper haircut.

“We’re wondering if you might be able to track someone down for us. Someone who was injured at a camp in Moosburg and evacuated to an aid station.

Stover raised an eyebrow curiously. “One of your fellow POWs?”

“Something like…. well yeah, she is.” Bucky corrected himself midway through, watching the doctor’s eyebrows shoot up dramatically. “Flight Nurse from the 802nd MAES, POW at Moosburg since January of ’45, shot during liberation and taken to the aid station of Patton’s 3rd Army – armored division. Which division I don’t know.”

They watched as Stover quickly grabbed a pen and started jotting down the important details, including your name.

“How bad was she hurt?” Stover asked and Bucky swallowed tightly.

“I didn’t see it happen but there was a gunshot to her stomach somewhere. They got her on plasma quickly.” He added hopefully but Stover’s face remained grim.

“I can’t promise you anything Major Egan, it doesn’t sound particularly hopeful either, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Doc.” He nodded, leveraging himself out of the chair with a barely concealed wince.

“And what do you have going on?” Stover stayed seated, eyeing him expectantly.

Bucky noticed Cleven had not budged either, the bastard. Emptying his lungs with a heavy exhale, Bucky put his hands on his hips and shrugged.

“Couple of broken ribs, I’ll be alright.” He replied nonchalantly.

“And how old are these broken ribs?” Stover prodded and Bucky ignored Cleven’s pointed look up at him.

“Couple weeks, I’m halfway mended, just overdid it getting in the fort to come back.”

Stover rose from behind his desk and opened a cabinet, fetching a bottle and holding it out to him. “Aspirin, to keep you comfortable. Take two every four hours as long as you need. Come back if you run out.”

Bucky accepted the bottle with a nod of thanks, the memory of you scrounging up two rare pills for him in the Stalag flooding back, furrowing his brows. The things you could have done in a place like this with limitless supply.

“Thanks again, Doc.” Cleven’s expression of gratitude pierced through his reminiscing and Bucky nodded quickly, tucking the pills into his pocket before heading out quietly.

Accommodations were procured and there was not much for him to do around base aside from rest and learn how to eat properly once more. It took several days for any news of your condition to reach him, via Stover’s connections, but when the man pulled him into his office on the morning of the May 5, he was stunned to learn that not only were you alive, but that you had been air evacuated to Redgrave Hospital just thirty minutes away from Thorpe Abbotts.

You were safe. You were close.

“Seems they weren’t quite certain what to do with her, but as she serves under the Army Air Force, they sent her to our main hospital.” Bucky realized Stover was still talking and he shot him a warm grin before grasping his hand to shake firmly.

“Well I really appreciate your help, Doc. I’ve gotta…” Bucky glanced over his shoulder at the door, desperate to make his way to you.

“Yeah, go…” He chuckled and shooed him out of his office.

No longer a squadron commander, Bucky technically did not have a jeep of his own to disappear with off base and so he was in the process of grabbing one of the stray bikes outside the control tower when Crosby emerged into the daylight, eyes squinting in fatigue at the brightness.

“Where are you off to Major?”

“Redgrave Hospital!” He replied brightly, watching the younger man blink.

“Sir that’s a good eleven miles, that’s a terrible idea with your ribs.”

Word seemed to have spread fast…

“Take my jeep, I’m not gonna need it today.”

“Croz, you are a lifesaver.” Bucky dropped the bike he had been wrangling to slap him on the back before diving into the jeep allotted for use by the Group Navigator. “I’ll be back!” He shouted, taking off in a spray of dust and gravel.

Turning onto the two-hundred-acre country estate, Redgrave Hospital, consisting of nearly forty Nissen huts, stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the trees and landscaped green. As he pulled up to the headquarters of the hospital, Bucky quickly realized that the staff there were not nearly as excited to see him. In fact, they were downright reluctant to allow him in to visit you, but assured him that while you were ‘heavily medicated and resting’ you were still ‘on the mend.’

While relief still permeated his system, it was a new agony to have you so very close and yet still out of his reach. If they were not going to permit him as a regular visitor, Bucky realized he was going to have to get a lot more creative in order to lay his eyes on you, and until he did, there would be not real peace.

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

Moments of clarity punctured through the blackness – a blur of trees, the flurry of activity of an aid station, the masked face of a surgeon speaking to you reassuringly, the heartbreakingly familiar interior of a C-47 – but it was not until you were settled in a bed inside a hospital with four walls, windows, and nurses that true cognizance really returned to you. Casting your eyes around the sterile, white space, you noted you were situated at the end of a row and walled off from other patients with a set of privacy screens. The most striking feature of this hospital was the very stern-faced Bucky parked in a chair to the left of your bed.

As you began to stir, his eyes lifted quickly to meet yours, some of the tension easing from his frame. “Have a good rest, angelfish?” he whispered, and you furrowed your brows up at him, so full of questions. “They got you on the good stuff don’t they.” He chuckled fondly, reaching out to brush his fingertips across your cheek tenderly.

“Kick a girl when she’s down, why don’t you.” You sighed, speech slightly slurred from pain medication and the dryness in your mouth, but still capable of using his own lines against him.

His resulting grin contained all the brilliance of the sun and made you look down with a self-satisfied smirk. Your eyes immediately fell on your exposed arms laying atop the blanket, the scarring along your left forearm lain bare for all to see. Jerking your hands back roughly, you clumsily tried to shove them beneath the covers despite the warmth on the ward. Bucky’s gentle tut before his hand came to rest atop yours halted your attempt.

“Shhh, you’re just fine you brave, beautiful woman. Stay right there.” He murmured as he laced his fingers with yours, pinning your arm to rest above the blanket. “You have nothing to hide or be ashamed of.”

Swallowing thickly, you slowly lifted your gaze to meet his. “I think I’ve acquired a few more…” You sighed, the feeling of thick bandages padding your hip acutely registering as you spoke.

“Probably.” He nodded softly. “You also probably saved that boy Hernandez by taking the bullet, so I’d say they were well earned. Besides, they’ll make an excellent target for my mouth one day.”

Your soft smile transformed into a look of disbelief, your free hand rising to whack his shoulder gently. “John Clarence Egan.” You chided half-heartedly and he pressed his face to the side of your head where it lay propped up against several pillows, his heavy exhale ruffling through your hair. “We are in a hospital, and you are making inappropriate jokes.”

“Mmmm.” He hummed in agreement, stroking his thumb against yours affectionately.

“Which hospital is this, anyway?” You asked curiously, finding its curved roof and white walls lacked distinguishing features.

“Redgrave Hospital, you serve in the Army Air Force after all.” He pulled back slightly to answer.

“Redgrave…” you repeated thoughtfully. “Sounds awfully English.”

“Hit the nail on the head, angelfish. We made it.” Bucky’s lips brushed against your temple, and you smiled softly. “Despite our best efforts.” His teasing made you laugh softly, and you shook your head.

“If we’re in England, where’s the King?” You raised an eyebrow expectantly and he smirked, shaking his head.

“No King, unfortunately, but I did bring you this?” He reached behind him, pulling out a newspaper to lay across your lap.

“Victory in Europe.” You read the headline aloud, pausing a moment as the words sunk in before gasping and looking to him wide-eyed. “Truly?”

A look of solemn earnestness overtook his features and he nodded softly. “Truly. German army surrendered yesterday.”

You gulped roughly and looked back to ready to date of May 8, 1945, on the top of the paper – you had lost nearly nine days. You really had been so close, everyone had. And the fact that you were here, and others were not seemed so very arbitrary. Sighing heavily, you squeezed his hand gently.

“By the skin of our teeth.” You murmured thickly, looking up as a nurse shuffled past with a faint nod of acknowledgement before making a sharp about-face to come and check your vitals.

“How’re you feeling?” She asked you and you nodded slowly.

“I’m alright, thank you. Bit foggy but things are the clearest they’ve been in days.”

“I’m going to fetch the Doctor.” The nurse turned to eye Bucky sharply. “You’d best make yourself scarce.” She commented before continuing on her way.

“How on earth did you get in here?” You raised an eyebrow as you came to realize how unusual his presence was.

“Bought my way in with a few bottles of champagne – your flightless comrades are quite friendly if one knows the price.”

You coughed out a laugh as the comment made Nurses sound like some species of bird and his lips twitched into a smile, your eyes unable to look away from the soft, rosy skin of his mouth.

“Hey before you go…”

“Hmmm?” He turned to you, half risen from his chair.

“I don’t have the mental capacity to think of something self-deprecating right now, so can I just get a kiss?” You murmured before pursing your lips shyly.

His face transformed into a warm smile, eyes crinkling adorably at the corners as the tips of his ears flushed pink. “I always said you just had to ask, angelfish.”

Echoing his smile, you turned your lips up expectantly as he braced his hand on the pillow beside your head, leaning in to gently brush his lips against yours, drawing a contented sigh from deep beneath your breastbone. Bucky’s lips pressed closer, a tender hum rumbling from his throat just as a sharp cough sounded from the end of the bed and he slowly pulled back with a rueful huff.

“Just checking her breathing, Doc.” Bucky grinned wolfishly as the man raised an eyebrow sharply. “She’s doing great.”

“Hn.” The doctor intoned, clearly unimpressed. “And how are your ribs doing, Major Egan?”

Inhaling sharply, you looked him over quickly, the litany of his injuries flooding back to you from your sub-conscious.

“Much better, thank you Doc. Who knew Smokey was such a gossip. Well, angelfish,” he brushed his knuckles down your cheek, “guess that’s my cue.”

Nodding slowly, wondering who on earth Smokey might be, you watched him leave before your Doctor took over, running through numerous checks with you before discussing the extent of your injury and the surgeries that had been performed to save your life. It was nothing short of remarkable, what they had thrown at you to prevent your death, the conversation a very sobering one. It would be a long road to recovery, and one, it turned out, you would mostly be taking back home in the United States.

After a week or so in Redgrave Hospital, you were deemed fit enough for transport back to the Zone of Interior for convalescence and recovery in a domestic hospital. Though the sympathetic nurses had not seen fit to permit Bucky onto the ward again, they had taken a shakily written note, the loss of strength you had suffered in just over a week was startling, and promised to deliver it to him. The trip via Prestwick to Greenland, then Newfoundland, and ultimately Grenier Field in New Hampshire felt luxurious on the much more spacious C-54. You were admitted to the Station Hospital there to continue your recovery and rehabilitation, enjoying phone calls with your family instead of delayed correspondence for a change.

It took two months for you to be fully back on your feet, back to yourself. The same amount of time, it seemed, for the 100th bomb group to be repatriated stateside. Freshly discharged and clad in a brand-new olive drab dress uniform, proudly bearing your silver 1st Lieutenant’s insignia following your promotion and the ribbons from your two purple hearts, you had sweet-talked your way back onto the base. One of the more sympathetic MPs who had heard your story – admittedly there were few in New Hampshire who had not heard your story at this point – had not even protested your request. It seemed that fate saw fit to land Major John Egan in your life a second time, with Grenier Field the destination for his bomb group on their return flight.

Standing in the warm summer breeze, watching the sky for the silhouettes of their planes, it honestly felt odd to be wearing a skirt. The complexity of affixing your stockings to the straps of your garter belt had briefly made you long for the convenience of slacks, but with your properly cut and styled hair and feminine clothing you felt like an entirely new woman as you stood outside on the grass with the ground crew. Would Bucky even recognize you?

At last the distant droning of aircraft engines reached your, and everyone around you’s, ears, the shapes of B-17s multiplying on the horizon before they began to circle in for a landing. Honestly, there were so many of them you briefly doubted you would be able to find him with any manner of efficiency. Clamping a hand over your officer’s cap to hold it in place as a plane taxied onto a nearby hardstand, your eyes began to scan the crowd of men as they filtered past, surely headed for the mess hall or officer’s club. Catch a glimpse of those unmistakable ears, you stepped forward and called out to him.

“John Clarence Egan!”

His head whipped around so fast he nearly took out the man walking beside him.

“Do I really look so different in a skirt that you would walk right by me?” You teased fondly.

“Angelfish!”

His flight bag hit the asphalt with a sickening ‘crunch’ that had you worried for its contents, but the impact of his body against yours drove that thought quickly from your mind. Wrenching his cap from his head he tilted his face to nestle beneath the brim of yours and kiss you soundly. Distantly, you were aware of all manner of cheers and wolf-whistles from his comrades, but you were too busy clutching at his shoulders to truly mind.

“How did you-? What are you-? God, it’s good to see you.” He rambled before pressing his mouth against yours firmly, not even giving you the opportunity to reply.

Laughing brightly into the kiss, you became vaguely aware of the sound of footsteps approaching much nearer and pulled back slowly, smiling fondly as Bucky’s lips made as if to chase yours, but his friend’s question interrupted him.

“You gonna introduce us, John?” A tall blond man with striking blue eyes and a pair of unsettlingly symmetrical facial scars asked sardonically.

Bucky cleared his throat and stepped back, though you noted his arm slid around your waist in a rather proprietary move. You found you did not mind in the least, particularly as your fully healed wound gave no protest of pain whatsoever.

“Angelfish, this Gale Cleven – call him Buck, Robert Rosenthal – Rosie, and Harry Crosby – Croz.” He followed up by introducing you by your full name.

“He give you that nickname, too?” The one he told you to call ‘Buck’ raised an eyebrow and you laughed.

“It’s a long story….”

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

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @luminouslywriting, @softspeirs, @sunny747, @storysimp, @slowsweetlove, @httpsmoon, @buckysegan, @justheretoreadthxxs, @precious-little-scoundrel, @jointherebellion215, @timetowastetime8, @mads-weasley

[ahoyimlosingmymind]

Dead FFitz. How would the crew react?

I don't think a single soul would actually believe it was real for a very long time.

Some part of Keefe would reach for his imparter to call Fitz before his wanderling was planted, feeling like he needed to talk to his best friend about his best friend's funeral. Only to realize he can't. Sophie would find herself reaching out to him telepathically, and finding an empty void in response. He was one of the first minds she'd ever entered, and they were cognates, and it would feel like she lost a limb. She'd reach out even knowing that he wouldn't answer, through some vain hope. Biana would get whiffs of the smell of baking from the everglen kitchen and hurry down just to find a gnome baking Mallowmelt. It won't ever taste like Fitz's, and she can't even take a bite without feeling like she's going to throw up. When she gets to the elite levels all she can think about how both of her big brothers are dead and how she's the only one left. Della would pace in front of her sons' bedroom doors, and she would sometimes open them, expecting to see her boys sitting on their beds, doing homework, or chatting with their friends on their imparters. They're always empty. Covered in dust, slowly losing the smell of their colognes'. When the gnomes come to clean, she screams at them through tears. Nobody touches the rooms after that; not even her. Alden doesn't go near their rooms. He won't even approach the hall. He keeps Fitz's imparter in his pocket and answers all of Keefe's half-thought hails in the middle of the night, and sometimes neither of them can breathe. Keefe hangs up first. He can't stand the fact that Fitz's teal eyes are staring into his, but he isn't even there. It all feels like denial. Like he's going to come back somehow, by some miracle. Sophie stares at all the bows she kept from the treats he baked her. She curses her photographic memory, because his movie-star smile never quite leaves her mind's eye, and Keefe uses his own to draw portraits of his dead best friend. Sophie won't look at them. Della holds them close to her chest, and Biana pretends that it doesn't feel like being stabbed to see them. Alden hangs them in his study. Keefe draws one of Alvar too, and Biana keeps it in a drawer in her room.

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 70: Alexander's Punishment

Previous > Masterlist > Next

tw: mind control, body control, captivity, hand whump, eye whump, everything whump, stabbing, psychological torment

September 1905

There was no possibility of Fitz relaxing, of course. Not when both his fate and Lex's hung in the balance. Not when tonight would make the difference between a life of freewheeling theater and travel and laughter and a life where his body was no longer his own and his mind was tortured out of him bit by agonizing bit.

He idly flipped through a catalog that Lily had left on her coffee table, trying to trick himself into being interested in fine wool housecoats and imported cosmetics. The tick of the cuckoo clock on the wall was loud enough to be deafening, and the cheerful floral wallpaper felt as though it were closing on on him. He wished that he could pray -- but then, none of the gods he'd ever heard of were likely to want to help a vampire succeed in his mission.

Lex usually tried to conceal his feelings from Fitz, blocking off their shared mental connection, but tonight was different, perhaps because all of his mental efforts were directed towards controlling his platoon of vampire hunters. Fitz could feel his fear, tempered by his determination, and just the briefest flashes of hope. At one point, Lex consciously reached out to Fitz, calming him, and Fitz closed his eyes and allowed himself to soak up the comfort.

His chest ached with the intensity of Lex's fear.

The cuckoo clock was becoming unbearable.

A sudden terror washed over Fitz, and then everything went quiet. Fitz's heart skipped a beat, knowing what this might mean and wishing he didn't. And then Lex's command echoed through his mind, clear as a bell.

"Run."

The clock chimed.

"Fuck," he muttered to himself, standing up. It was over. The worst had happened. They'd lost.

He had to go. That's what Lex wanted him to do. Lex had handed him a small fortune in loose bills and very clear instructions, and Fitz had no desire to still be here when Lex's sire arrived. He could hail a cab, get to the train station, hop on the first train out. He could ride it as far as it would go, or hop in another state and try to get on a boat to another country -- somewhere he couldn't be found. He needed to do it right now, before it was too late.

His hands felt slick with sweat as he grasped the wad of bills. He knew exactly what he needed to do, but actually doing it meant acknowledging the worst -- that Lex had lost, that the future they'd hoped for had gone up in smoke, that he'd probably never see Lex again. That he might be lucky if he never saw Lex again.

He really should have known that this was all too good to be true.

Just as Fitz dug deep for the willpower needed to get his feet moving, Lily appeared in the doorway of the parlor, disheveled. "Lily," Fitz croaked, his mouth gone dry. "I think Lex failed. I need to leave now."

"Mmm." She looked intently at the floor, not moving from the doorway.

"You could go too. There's still a few hours before sunrise, but I don't know what you'd do after that. But I don't think you want to face your sire either," he said. "But I have to run now. I need to make it to the train station before…"

"Showtime, Fitz."

Fitz's eyes went wide, his mind starting to shut down before he could even register what was happening. "What? Why?" he asked, struggling to keep his eyes open as he began to slump over.

"Shh." Lily approached him, taking him in her arms and laying his head on her shoulder, stroking the back of his head. Fitz was fighting the enthrallment with everything he had, but he still couldn't pull away from her. "Shh, Fitz, it's showtime. Just sleep now, Fitz."

"Don't…"

"I'm sorry. I really am sorry this time. I don't want to do this, but I had an order from my sire, just a few moments ago. I have to keep you here, or else he'll torture my Nellie along with you." She brought Fitz, now limp and pliable against his will, over to the couch, and laid him down with his head in her lap.

The floral wallpaper was a blur as his eyelids began to flutter shut. "You betrayed me. You betrayed Lex," he managed.

"I can't simply disobey my sire, and Lex knows that. He knows this is a consequence of his failure. I'm sorry. I know it doesn't mean much that I'm sorry, but I am. But you'll be taken either way, don't you see? Even if I tried to help you escape, he'd only hunt us both down. It's better this way." She pet Fitz gently as he fell under her spell. "For what it's worth, Lex couldn't save me either."

Perhaps he was just imagining it because his vision was blurring, but Lex thought he saw tears in her eyes. "What do you…?"

"Shhh, just sleep. Get some rest and comfort while you can. Just sleep, dear, and have a lovely dream."

A loud, crisp snap caused him to open his eyes. He was no longer on the couch with Lily. Instead, he was in in the middle of a nightmare. He was standing ramrod straight, stiff as a board, in front of the Maestro. His pitch black suit made him look like a tear in the fabric of reality.

The panic within him felt like it would make his heart leap from his chest. Lex had just tried to kill him. They both had. If the Maestro had burned him merely for showing off on the auction house stage, what would he do as revenge for attempted murder? Fitz was very certain that he'd be better off dead.

The only small comfort was the wound on the Maestro's neck, mostly concealed by his collar, but visible nonetheless. At least one person had managed to touch the untouchable.

"Good evening, Fitzwilliam," said Lex's sire in that musical voice that did not reveal his cruelty. "It seems as though Alexander was eager for me to begin your training a day early."

Fitz wasn't sure his question would be tolerated, but he had to ask anyway. "Where is he, sir?"

"Alexander is in his customary cell in my dungeon, bound in silver. He will remain there without comfort and without blood for some time. He has not yet been punished, as I needed to collect you first."

Apparently, being locked in a dungeon and bound in burning metal didn't count as punishment. "I would like to see him, sir," he said. Maybe if he could at least see Lex, and put on a brave face, it would give him some small relief -- which was why he was certain the Maestro would not allow it.

"And so you shall," said the Maestro, to Fitz's surprise. "Lily."

"Yes, sire."

Fitz hadn't even realized that Lily was standing behind him until she stepped forward. She looked only at her sire, as though Fitz weren't even there, resignation written on her face.

"Oh, Lily." The Maestro took her hand gently, oh so gently, and ran his hand over hers several times before snapping her index finger with a sickening crack. "You knew about this." He snapped her middle finger. Lily barely flinched. "You knew about this, and you didn't see fit to warn me." Her ring finger was next. Fitz felt lightheaded from the sounds and the sight of her digits unnaturally bent. "I can understand why you didn't. You'd be a fool if you didn't wish me dead, and I know very well you aren't a fool." Her smallest finger was bent all the way backwards. "You aren't a fool, unlike your sire-brother. That's why I'm so disappointed in you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sire," she said, her voice wavering.

"I will attend to your further punishment later, but I must see to Alexander tonight," he said. "You will need to be patient."

"Yes, sire."

"Very well then, I'm off. Follow." He snapped at Fitz, and Fitz's body followed him out the door as though he were a wind-up toy soldier, his legs refusing to obey him no matter how much he pleaded.

The night breeze blew through his hair, and Fitz wondered if this was the last time he'd ever feel it. Was this the last of his autonomy? Would he ever be free again? He'd squandered his precious freedom while he'd had it, always wanting more, more, more. And now he would have nothing, not even his own body and mind.

There was a carriage waiting outside of Lex's house, and it was, unsurprisingly, as black as the night, with black horses to match. The Maestro didn't acknowledge the coachman as he entered the carriage, pulling Fitz in after him, and Fitz guessed that this was another thrall. Fitz found himself compelled to sit next to Lex's sire -- no, his new master, wasn't he? -- as the carriage lurched forward.

Fitz was a child again, sitting up straight next to his father, watching and listening so carefully for the inevitable disapproval and punishment.

The Maestro took one of Fitz's hands. His skin was like a doll's, or like fine china, smooth and cold. Fitz couldn't stop himself from letting out a whimper, sure that his fingers were about to be broken just like Lily's. But instead, the Maestro rolled up one of his sleeves and ran a finger up his arm.

"Exquisite. I will need to exercise caution when I scar you, lest I mar the canvas."

"Scar me, sir?"

"You should realize that I am presenting you with an opportunity that few are ever given, the opportunity to be made perfect. You should be grateful."

Fitz swallowed hard. "Yes, I am grateful, sir." Before he could register it, his ears were ringing from the slap to his face.

"You lie very prettily, but you still lie."

Fitz knew this game. Search for the thing that would appease him and spare Fitz the pain. "I will have to learn to appreciate the opportunity, sir."

"Better." The Maestro sighed and leaned back just slightly, not relaxing at all, still as stiff as a steel bar. "I was expecting a quiet evening before all of this nonsense began, you know."

He couldn't actually expect Fitz to feel sorry for him, did he? Fitz kept his head low and said nothing, wondering what the punishment would be for ignoring his new master.

Several long minutes passed by in silence before Fitz realized he wasn't being punished. His body was still in the vampire's grip, but the Maestro himself was staring out the window as they rode through city streets.

Fitz took what little range of movement he was allowed to look out the window himself. If only he weren't being held, he could take this moment to leap from the carriage and flee. The momentary fantasy danced before his eyes -- running through alleyways to evade the vampires, begging and busking for money, leaving on the farthest train out of town before the sun set the next day.

It was all just a fleeting fantasy to take his mind away from the present moment, one which crumbled to dust when they arrived at the Maestro's manor. It managed to be as foreboding as its occupant, surrounded by a high wrought iron fence and a stone courtyard. Every window was shuttered, with no hope for sunlight in daytime and no indication of life at night. The paint and trim were eerily pristine for a house so old that otherwise appeared to be abandoned, as though it were frozen in a time long gone.

As he drew nearer to the dread entrance, Fitz strained as hard as he could to stop himself from following along behind the vampire and sealing his fate, to no avail. All too soon, the moon and the stars and the city streets were gone, possibly for good.

The inside of the manor was pitch dark, the only light the faint flicker of a gas lamp from a distant room. If Fitz had to navigate the manor himself, he would never be able to do it without fumbling and bumping into walls. Instead, he was being moved effortlessly through the blackness, as though he'd been untethered from the Earth and was now floating in a starless night sky. His stomach lurched as he was puppeted down a steep spiral staircase, the air growing cold and dank as he went down, and down, and down.

Finally, the Maestro lit a weak lamp, which flickered and guttered as though it did not want to be here any more than Fitz did. As his eyes adjusted, Fitz could make out iron bars and stone walls. Occasional soft groans and rattling of chains made it seem as though it was inhabited by ghosts.

Perhaps it was. Perhaps Fitz was a ghost as well, a poor soul who was already dead and simply hadn't realized it yet.

The Maestro wordlessly brought the lamp over to one of the cells. The flame was reflected in blue eyes, eyes so dull and lifeless that Fitz nearly didn't recognize them.

Lex.

He was slumped over against the wall, wrists and ankles bound in heavy silver cuffs. To Fitz's surprise, he seemed physically uninjured, but mentally, he was a million miles away. He didn't look up at Fitz, and Fitz couldn't call out to him, even if he wanted to.

Fitz wished he could be a million miles away as well, dream himself to wherever Lex had gone and leave their bodies behind in this miserable cell.

There was a wooden crate next to Lex, and the Maestro picked it up and dropped it in front of Fitz with a rattle. His head was directed downwards so that he could peer into it. It was filled with wooden stakes and silver knives of many different shapes and sizes, some roughly hewn and some with delicately wrought handles, all sharp and ready.

"These are the material goods that I confiscated from the intruders Alexander invited into my house," said the Maestro, as Fitz flinched from hearing his voice so suddenly after so long in complete silence. "They are weapons that are used to kill vampires, of course, but they are only fatal if the vampire is stabbed through the heart or beheaded. Otherwise, they only cause immense pain, and wounds that are difficult to heal."

Fitz felt himself bend over, forced to pick up a serrated silver knife, weighty and cold in his hand.

"That is why you will not be stabbing Alexander in the heart or the neck."

Fitz's arm was pulled upwards, a puppet on strings. Lex didn't even look as Fitz's body stabbed the knife into his thigh, not even making a sound when the Maestro compelled Fitz to twist the knife, dark blood gushing forth and pooling on the floor.

"Alexander meant for these weapons to be driven deep within my heart," the Maestro said. "It is a mercy, then, that I am avoiding any place that would kill him."

The next knife was driven into Lex's face, his beautiful face, and Fitz was not even able to close his eyes or look away as thick, chilled blood ran down his hand and around his wrist. He couldn't block the sight. He couldn't block the smell.

It had been easy to think that this would all be worth it, when he was safe in bed with Lex and the Maestro was a distant threat, one which could be thwarted. It had been easy to think that, even if he were captured and it all ended in tragedy, that Lex would never regret it, that even in captivity and torture he could comfort himself by knowing that it had all been worth it for a moment where he'd felt wanted.

It had to be. It had to be worth it. Or else…

Everything felt like a nightmare as Fitz was made to take the implements from the box, one by one, each one finding its home in a wound on Lex's body. Pretending like this was a nightmare, like none of this was real, was the only way Fitz could endure this. Judging by the emptiness in Lex's eyes, the way he barely looked at Fitz, he was doing the same.

Lex's body would heal from this, but who could say if his mind would?

How many times had something like this already happened to him?

What if this was what it was like from now on? Fitz forced to torture Lex each day until neither of them recognized the other? The Maestro could do that, if he wanted.

After an eternity, the box of weapons was empty. Lex was barely recognizable, lying in a pool of dark blood and silver knives. Some of the knives were still sticking out of his body. He was slumped over, unmoving.

He wasn't dead, Fitz knew he wasn't dead, but it might be better for Lex if he were.

"You've played your part adequately, child," said the Maestro. "As I expected, Alexander decided to care about you, enough to risk… this." He walked closer, standing just behind Fitz, with Fitz unable to move or even flinch. "I want you to answer this honestly. Do you think you were worth all of this pain?"

Fitz couldn't even pretend to himself that it wasn't an easy answer. "No, sir. I'm not."

"Of course not," he said with something dangerously close to amusement. "Hopefully Alexander will learn an important lesson from it."

He'd learn that it had been a mistake to care about Fitz. That's what this had been about all along.

Fitz felt himself turned around to face the Maestro. He looked Fitz up and down with disdain, and Fitz was acutely aware of how much of Lex's blood had soaked through his suit.

"Because your presence has been educational, I won't punish you for Alexander's trangression," he said, and Fitz almost laughed at the notion that he hadn't already been punished. "After all, a thrall as yourself couldn't possibly know better. No, child, I intend to reward you with the gift of my tutelage. I will make you perfect."

He pulled out a single black glove from his pocket, put it on, and used one finger to tilt Fitz's chin upwards so that he was looking straight into cold, dark eyes. "I have no doubt that you'll commit transgressions of your own that will require punishment, in due time."

Committing transgressions was one thing Fitz excelled at. And he might as well commit one now while his tongue was still in his head.

"I wish Lex would've killed you, sir."

He tried not to look terrified as he stood, anticipating the torture that he had been fearful of all night -- no, the torture he'd been fearful of since that day in the auction house. A part of him wanted it to happen, to end the dreadful uncertainty. But after several long minutes, it was apparent that it wasn't coming. Not yet.

"No doubt," said the Maestro. "Unfortunately, despite his considerable innate talent, my Alexander is a failure more often than not. I do hope you won't be like him."

Previous > Masterlist > Next

Next week: How Alexander was initially broken.

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin

@whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist

@vampiresprite @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @und3ad-mutt

@sowhumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada

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@cinnamoncandycanes @avvail-whumps @tauntedoctopuses @secret-vampkissers-soiree @whatamidoingherehelpme

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@pokemaniacgemini @jumpywhumpywriter @basica11ywhumped @anoontjecanush @cepheusgalaxy

@whump-me-harder

[ilikebookssomuch]

here goes nothing

I wrote--and am still writing, by the way, this is NOT finished yet--some angsty au thing where Dex and Sophie don't get rescued in book 1. They just...disappear. Anyway, here is a little bit.

Edaline’s POV:

Edaline saw Sophie, her foster daughter, ignore her husband Grady’s calls and race towards the cliffside. Edaline knew the caves were down there, so she conjured up Iggy’s cage and ran after her. “Sophie, wait!” She said, grabbing Sophie’s arm. She placed the tiny imp on Sophie’s shoulder. “In case you need a friend.”

“Thanks,” Sophie said, wiping away a tear.

“Be careful down there. Looks like a storm’s coming.” 

Sophie nodded and climbed down to the caves, her blond hair whipping wildly in the wind behind her. As Sophie vanished into the gaping mouth of the cave, Edaline turned away and walked over to Grady, who had picked up the satchel Sophie had thrown on the grassy pasture ground. 

“She’ll be back soon,” she reassured him, taking the satchel and snapping it into the void. Grady sighed. 

“I don’t know, Eda. What if this time. . . it’s too much?”

“If what’s too much?” a familiar voice interjected from behind them.

“Dex!” Edaline said, hugging her nephew. “Sophie is in the caves, if that was why you came.”

“She seemed really upset when I saw her in the halls today.” Dex kicked the ground and looked away. “Did I do something?”

“No,” said Grady. “It’s our fault she's upset.”

“Oh.” He seemed relieved. “Well, Fitz told me I should stop by, so. . . .” Dex’s voice trailed off. “I’m going to go check on her.” He ran to the caves without saying goodbye.

“I’m sure they’ll be fine. Let’s just go inside and wait it out.” Grady said, pulling Edaline close and hugging her. They walked to Havenfield, passing Verdi on the way. She looked out towards the ocean, letting out a nervous ROOOAR. 

Grady and Edaline sat on their giant, squishy couch for a few hours. They both drifted off when the sun started to set, but were awakened by a loud squeak and the sound of ripping fabric. “Iggy!” Grady yelled. Instantly, the imp stopped tearing apart their pillows and darted over to Edaline’s face, flapping his wings and squeaking. 

“Gah–what do you want?” She yelled, shielding herself. Iggy might be a ball of fluff, but his claws were sharp. Iggy flew over to the window, pounding himself against the glass a few times before repeating his squeaking-flapping-pounding pattern. 

“You want us to go outside?” Grady asked, getting up and heading to the enormous front door. Edaline followed, quickly running down the steps and into the pastures. Iggy followed, leading them towards the dilophosaurus pasture near the cliffs. 

The dinosaurs all looked fine, but Edaline still scanned over their tall, thin bodies for any injury. Aside from a scratch in one’s neck frill, they were fine. Iggy seemed insistent that they still follow him, so she hurried on. That’s when she realized: “Grady! Sophie and Dex are still in the caves!” 

Grady started sprinting down the uneven path to the caves, rocks and loose sand crumbling out behind him. Edaline lifted her gown and caught up with her husband in a few moments, but when they reached the cave, it was empty. 

“SOPHIE? DEX?” They called, looking into the darkest crannies of the cave. When it was clear they weren’t there and the moon had risen to the top of the sky, Edaline decided to hail her brother-in-law, Kesler. After a few tries, he answered the Imparter, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

“Are Dex and Sophie over there?” She asked, her heart racing with fear for her daughter and nephew. 

“No, I haven’t seen them,” Kesler said, his eyes widening with worry.

“Well, please hail me if you hear from them.”

“Will do,” he said, all of the sleepiness gone from his voice.

After that, they tried hailing Alden, Della, and even Lord Cassius. No one had seen them. 

Grady eventually convinced that they were fine, probably just mad and hiding somewhere to cool down.

 “But where are they ‘hiding,’ Grady?”

He couldn’t answer that. 

They both crawled into bed, but Edaline knew neither of them got a wink of sleep that night.

TO BE CONTINUED, please let me know what you thought of this

figured I'd tag some people too so @myfairkatiecat @lisalovesapplesauce @kale-of-the-forbidden-cities @stunning-mess @doodle-do-wop @sophiejacksonchase @ilov3b00kss0much @riordanverseaddict

[synonymroll648]

WHERES MY BOY DRAWINGS AND BUTLER HEADCANONS *holds you at butler point* /j /not forcing /this this supposed to be silly /im not forcing you /im not an assholeplease

thanks for clarifying the tone on this one, because otherwise i wouldn’t have read this right. took my time cooking these up because i care about The Boy (for those who don’t know: an oc this person made that’s a stray cat fitz adopted). closeups (all right side up) and headcanons under the cut :)

headcanons that are indeed related to the drawings here, and then some! (disclaimer that i’ve never had a service cat before, but i have had a service dog, so there may be some major inaccuracies here, in which case please correct me for future reference)

butler may have been a scrawny stray when fitz first got him, but since he only eats things fitz bakes and fitz bakes all the time from stress, he’s a bit of a Thick Boy. and we love him for that

fitz learned how to bake cat treats through definitely legal searches for cat treat recipes, and help from the gnomes and sophie (she’s the only one that knows which gnomish veggies taste like what meats) substitutes for fish and stuff

they’re human/elvin grade treats ofc

butler is a pretty good name for not only his appearance but also his personality most of the time! butler loves fetching things for people, especially fitz. usually he gives people either things he loves or things he notices them pick up frequently

this includes fitz’s imparter (which now has bite marks around the corners), biana’s hairbrush, alden’s scrolls on occasion (fitz apologized profusely the first time it happened, alden just laughed it off. he now calls butler’s bite marks in his doomed papers “autographs”), and della’s jewelry (there was one time he accidentally got her earrings stuck to the magnets in his service vest - we’ll get back to that later - and kinda just jingled around everglen trying to find her. the gnomes found him first and couldn’t stop laughing. the rest is history)

butler is also known to sleep on any and all clothes fitz leaves folded out, and also try to drag said folded clothes to fitz on school mornings in an attempt to help out. it is not very successful. fitz has three lint rollers in his foxfire satchel, and two in whatever everyday cape he’s wearing. he’s recently started having the gnomes teach him how to mend the accidental tears butler’s attempts to be helpful leave

one time butler almost broke a bottle of raven lovelylocks by trying to jump down from fitz’s bathroom counter with the bottle in his jaws. fitz opened the door to see him about to jump and frantically made his way over to butler so butler wouldn’t grip it tighter and break the glass. first line of action afterward was to hail dex and check if lovelylocks as a brand used chemicals harmful to cats. he now leaves all products in his (closed) bathroom cabinets

the first time butler tried to bring mr. snuggles to fitz, fitz almost had a breakdown, because it looked like his new cat was trying to rip apart his emotional support stuffed animal. in reality our little man only had his claws out because he was trying to pull the covers mr. snuggles was tucked under, and his teeth were at snuggles’ throat because that was the narrowest point of contact butler was could find. in the moment fitz panicked super hard, and didn’t let him anywhere near mr. snuggles for days. he figured out what was really going on when he saw butler drag biana’s stuffed yeti lady sassyfur to the door by the arm later that week and drop it at her feet

now that fitz knows what butler’s deal is, he’s allowed near mr. snuggles, and is often seen curled around the stuffed dragon. especially when fitz isn’t home and butler doesn’t get to go with him

butler is surprisingly trainable! he’s incredibly food motivated, but also can be trained on affection alone. he’s all good as long as he gets to be clingy. fitz pretends to grumble about the constant attention all the time, but not so secretly loves having an excuse to smother someone in physical affection. even if that someone is a cat. butler is refreshingly less complicated than his friends and family

butler knows soooooo many tricks. bro can roll over and sit and lay and fetch and “butler, cmon, drop it” and spin and go for walks and shoulder rides on command. he can stand on his back legs too. he’s not quite athletic enough for backflips, though. fitz is planning on getting him on a training regimen working toward that soon

butler is super duper talkative. will shush on command most of the time, but he has his rebellious moments. mostly when fitz goes in the kitchen or when he’s by the door. will yowl for treats or a walk without hesitation. polite yowls though. meows increasingly loudly when he can’t get into something and wants someone to open it for him. mostly doors. everyone knows to just pick him up and move him somewhere else if he wants help in the kitchen though. no unearned treats for you, sir!

butler has an absurd amount of collars and leashes and toys because fitz is so the kind of guy to get gifts for his cat all the time. all his collars and leashes match - the one he’s wearing in the sketches is his plainest one, and also his first one. his name’s usually engraved on a heart but sometimes a star or paw. butler’s favorite toys are the feathers on strings that you tug around with a stick. he will get that thing if it fucking kills him or someone else. it’s fetch for diehards and goddamnit he will win (he’s just like fitz fr fr)

butler loves walks but doesn’t know his limits. one second he’ll be prancing along and the next he’s flopped out in the grass somewhere on everglen’s property giving a very sad, tired meow. that is when fitz picks him up, puts him over his shoulder, and goes back inside

butler gets on fitz’s shoulders at nearly every opportunity. this unfortunately has ruined a decent amount of capes, and left a lot of scratch marks along fitz’s back and right leg (there was one time butler used fitz’s bad leg and fitz nearly collapsed, and butler has since been trained to not touch fitz’s left knee). fitz loves the feeling of having a purring scarf that gives his cheek kisses too much to mind

speaking of purring! bro purrs so loud you can hear him across the room. that shit rumbles through your whole body. his favorite spot is fitz’s chest. sometimes he’ll need fitz’s chest before settling down, to which fitz calls him his little baker butler baking biscuits. most commonly occurs when fitz is stress-baking in the middle of the night, though that happens less with butler around

during a check-in with elwin, elwin noticed that fitz’s echoes (especially in his chest) seemed to be doing a lot better since he and butler had gotten into their little rhythm of things. he decided to have a check in at everglen next time so he could look at how fitz’s body reacted to butler purring on his chest and such in the face of his echoes acting up slightly, and found that his echoes’ effects were tamped down compared to usual

elwin was immediately like hey dude considering how easy this cat is to train, and how it’s helping you with your disabilities that you are not ready to call disabilities echoes, you should put him through service cat training. i know a guy. and so they did that

butler is quite serious when he’s got his vest on. goes from wandering goofy goober to steadfastly walking next to fitz, or politely meowing to get on fitz’s shoulders when it’s crowded or to get fitz’s attention when fitz is stressed out. he has a different number of polite meows for different requests. the last request is less of a request and more of a demand, though, since his job is to get fitz to relax. doesn’t meow otherwise

the moment the vest’s off he’s back to being super silly though. all the urges he was holding back to fetch things or beg for treats are let loose. behold, cat zoomie hell. unless fitz is just taking his vest off so butler is comfy falling asleep for the night, in which case butler is a nice quiet cuddle buddy

everyone loves butler but man does sophie love him possibly as much as fitz. part of it’s her being someone with major echoes, part of it’s her being his cognate, but the biggest part of it is that she misses marty ._.

oh yeah the magnets i mentioned earlier in his vest! that’s because i was too lazy to draw buckles i thought it’d be interesting for elvin service animal vests to use small magnets instead of buckles, considering how elves like to use magnets when it’s more convenient. specifically referring to the deleted scene where fitz explained how elvin rings are magnetic and no one gets piercings

[the-way-astray]

It's the Never Change author once again, maintaining my anonymity for now! Katie knows now (we did confirm that) but I don't think anyone else does (it had to do with the anon I sent you about the passage I dislike in your rant, but I've only ever talked about that over DM's to Katie and Isa, so as long as they don't rat me out I think I'm okay)

This chapter is significantly less Keefe and significantly more, hmmm, other keepblr members. Specifically Katie's mutual circle, which you are in contact with because they are the other ones who walked through the fourth wall.

—————

Title: Never Change chapter 3

Pairing: Stria x Keefe

—————

Once upon a time, Stria would have sworn she didn't care enough about Keefe to think about him, unless he was shoved into her face via KOTLC book or tumblr post, during which times she hated him with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns.

But now, here she was... thinking about Keefe.

Something was troubling her about their smoothie date.

He'd outright objected to and argued with her about the idea that he read people's emotions on purpose to find out what they were hiding. She expected this, of course. He somehow managed to both hate himself and believe he did absolutely no wrong at the same time, and she was prepared for his defensiveness.

She wasn't prepared for his lack of defensiveness.

He hadn't exactly addressed the passage about him being jealous of Fitz. He didn't defend it, either. There was no argument. There were so, so many other arguments, and yet...

"Like I said, you don't know me half as well as you think you do."

That was all she got.

She did know him well. Sure, there was the fact that most of what she knew about him was told through Sophie's unreliable perspective, but his actions said plenty on their own. Plenty of her opinions were subjective, sure, and she owned that, but that didn't make them any less valid. She just didn't like him.

She was allowed to not like him!

But that passage wasn't supposed to be subjective. It just didn't make sense. Shannon was clearly making random excuses for Sophie to comfort Keefe. Keefe's bitter, ironic laugh and refusal to defend himself should not be bothering her to this extent!

Actually, she shouldn't be thinking about him at all. Why was she still thinking about this? She could, of course, do what Sophie would do, and try saying We're officially done thinking about this! out loud, but despite the fact that Stria walked through the fourth wall on purpose, she was not about to concede to that level of being written by Shannon Messenger.

She needed validation here. Preferably from someone who didn't like Keefe. Maybe she could reach out to Tam. She needed someone to say, "Stria, why are you overanalyzing this? This isn't like you. Keefe is just being his usual melodramatic self. Since when do you care?"

She'd never actually talked to Tam, though, so he would probably think he was weird if she hailed him.

Why was she the only Keefe hater who walked through the fourth wall?!

Sighing, Stria pulled out her imparter and hailed someone who was probably not going to make this better at all, but was the most likely to concede to the objectivity of her statements, even if she twirled her hair and giggled over it.

Katie answered immediately. "Stria? Are you okay?" she asked. Background noise and voices came through as well.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Stria lied. She was not fine. What sort of brain poison had her thinking this much about Keefe when he wasn't there? And what posessed her to call someone who did think this much about Keefe when he wasn't there? "I just, um..."

"MADDIE, LEAVE MY POOR CAT ALONE!" Katie called behind her. There was a meowing sound, and a little brown tabby cat padded across the background of the screen. "Sorry," she said, directing her attention back to Stria. "Why did you call? We're not scheduled to argue about Keefe for another two weeks."

There was an offended gasp on the other side of the screen. "Gracie licked my applesauce!"

Katie sighed. "Hang on."

"Is this a bad time?" Stria asked.

"No, just give me a second." Katie put the imparter down and walked away. "You might want to put a cover over this when you're not eating it, Lisa. Gracie, the applesauce is not for you." When Katie came back, grabbing her imparter once again, she was holding the little brown tabby cat. "Sorry. Don't mind Gracie. So, what were you calling about?"

"Well, it was a Keefe thing, and I was kind of looking for a little validation about one of my points—"

"—from me?!—"

"—but I'm definitely not thinking about him anymore—what is going on in your house?!"

"Theoretically we're playing uno," Katie replied, which didn't answer her question at all, actually. She turned around again. "Oh my gosh, Alayda, I will ban you from my house! Okay, it's official—Isa's my favorite!"

"Isa was already your favorite," Alayda complained.

"I was," said a voice that must have been Isa.

"She was," Katie agreed. "Now will you guys be normal without supervision for five minutes? I'm trying to talk to my duel spirit mutual." She turned back to the screen. "My apologies once again. I swear it's not normally this chaotic over here."

"That's a lie!" said a voice offscreen.

"Maddie!" Katie groaned.

"Wait a minute. Did you say you're talking to Stria?"

Before Stria knew what was happening, too many people were gathered around Katie's imparter screen. Stria shook her head vehemently. "Nope. I did not sign up to talk to five Keefe lovers."

"Meow," Gracie said, as if to say, Don't worry Stria, I'm on your side! I don't like Keefe either! (At least, Stria was choosing to interpret it that way, for her own sanity).

"So it's about Keefe, then?" asked the girl holding a bowl of applesauce, who must have been Lisa.

"Okay, I'm hanging up. Bye!" Stria put down the imparter. What was everyone doing at Katie's house? Who knew? At least she wasn't thinking about Keefe anymore. Mission failed successfully.

Keefe cancelled their milkshake date only ten minutes in advance. Internally, Stria laughed at him, figuring he chickened out. Weirdly, she was slightly disappointed.

Probably because she wanted to yell at him, and he'd canceled her planned yelling-at-Keefe session.

She was even planning on telling him who Shannon was this time! Which was what he wanted! Rude. Well, she was going to do it to mess with him, but still!

However, at Foxfire the next day, when she was walking to her next class, she noticed a large sign on the Healing Center door as she passed by: For every reason for visitation short of impending death, please see the office across from Lady Galvin's classroom.

For every reason for visitation short of impending death?!

Stria noticed a friend she'd made was passing by and decided to ask her about. "Estella!"

"Oh, hey Stria!" Estella greeted. "Where are you headed?"

"Chemis—Alchemy. What about you?"

"Elvin History," she groaned. "What's up?"

"Do you happen to know why we're supposed to go to the office by Lady Galvin's room instead of the Healing Center?" Stria asked, gesturing to the sign on the door. "Did something happen to the Healing Center?!" It made sense, actually. It was probably the main cast's fault.

"Oh, that's the sign they put up when they're treating serious injuries," Estella explained. "By serious, I mean like... about to die, banshee sleeping next to Sophie Foster type serious. It never used to happen before she arrived and she and her friends all started making a habit of almost dying."

Oh.

Oh, that made a lot of sense.

It would also explain why no one ever had a normal school nurse visit while the main cast was using the Healing Center like a personal hospital.

"Wait, so that means Elwin's treating someone who's literally close to death in there?"

"Yeah. They never tell us anything. It's probably Sophie, though. Or one of her friends. Keefe, the Vackers, Dex, those two twins..."

Stria read Keeper of the Lost Cities, of course. She knew what happened in it. But it still felt... well, very serious to know that on the other side of that door, the characters were going through the sort of traumatic experiences she'd read about in those books, except it was real.

Suddenly, the fact that Keefe canceled their milkshake date ten minutes in advance didn't seem funny anymore.

"I've really got to get to my history session," Estella said apologetically, "but I'll see you around!"

"See you around," Stria said absentmindedly, still contemplating the sign on the door.

—————

And the plot grows more serious!

I had to add some silliness before the seriousness, of course, so take my humble offering of what I think Katie hanging out with her mutuals in person would be like. (Am I one of the mutuals referenced in this fic? Did I write about myself? Who knows! Can't say.)

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! At least I'm aware enough that I can point to some of the out-of-character Stria moments myself now, but I'm going to leave them there, because it's not like this is going to be very in-character anyway once Stria and Keefe fall in love.

Sincerely,

Never Change author

part one, part two

"Katie knows now (we did confirm that) but I don't think anyone else does (it had to do with the anon I sent you about the passage I dislike in your rant, but I've only ever talked about that over DM's to Katie and Isa, so as long as they don't rat me out I think I'm okay)" okay, first of all i think alayda knows who you are as well. at least that’s what she told me, several times. and yeah, i figured you had talked about that passage with katie in your dms. thanks for confirming my suspicions.

also now that alayda, katie and possibly isa are in the know, am i even the first one besides you to read these. do you send them to them for peer review or something before sending them to me (you shouldn't i like being the first one i feel special). is there even any point in tagging katie anymore.

edit: i did all the following notes before getting told who maddie is. so there's a lot of "who the fuck is maddie?" in here. I KNOW WHO THAT IS NOW. don't have to tell me anymore :)

this will surprise a lot of people, but i actually don’t think about keefe that much. when i’m reading the book, he almost never leaves the page, which means i’m filled with annoyance from start to finish, so of course i’m thinking about him (i wrote my rant during a reread). but i don’t spend much of my free time pondering how best to insult him on tumblr, lmfao. probably why my rant isn’t articulated as well as i’d prefer on second thought. but yeah, unless he inserts himself into my awareness first, i don’t spend a lot of time thinking about him. but this is a strieefe fic so whatever. it’s forgivable. this ship is still godawful and makes no sense, but whatever.

i still think shannon making keefe jealous of fitz (not for family reasons) makes no sense and was just there for the sake of shannon milking some worthless comfort between keefe and sophie (which goes on way too long and bashes the the reader over the head until they're black and blue), but whatever. i still think it was an awful writing choice that has little to no follow-through. but we'll see where this goes.

"Plenty of her opinions were subjective, sure, and she owned that, but that didn't make them any less valid. She just didn't like him." why strieefe could never work in a nutshell. keefe's horrible humor is a core part of his personality, and even if you remove all his toxic traits, that still remains. and that irritates me. there's quite literally nothing i'd actually enjoy about hanging around this guy.

"Shannon was clearly making random excuses for Sophie to comfort Keefe." yeah basically. this man has so much pity dumped on him it's a marvel he can even walk without sophie holding his hand and cooing him along.

"Keefe's bitter, ironic laugh and refusal to defend himself should not be bothering her to this extent!" i'm going to be so honest, i would not realistically have even noticed this as being out of the ordinary. i've said this before, but i'm horrific at picking up on body language/cues/adjacent things.

"She could, of course, do what Sophie would do, and try saying We're officially done thinking about this! out loud, but despite the fact that Stria walked through the fourth wall on purpose, she was not about to concede to that level of being written by Shannon Messenger." GOODBYE I LITERALLY TRY SO HARD TO FORGET SHANNON WROTE THAT. I'M NOT EVEN LYING. there's two things that are 100% canon, if you ask me: the vackers have brown eyes, and sophie did not start yelling at herself about her feelings for keefe, twice. don't even think about it. i'm correct, okay. also i walked through the fourth wall on purpose . . . why did i do that? did the keefe lover group from later follow me? did i follow them? did we come together? clearly i didn’t come to talk to keefe.

"Maybe she could reach out to Tam. She needed someone to say, "Stria, why are you overanalyzing this? This isn't like you. Keefe is just being his usual melodramatic self. Since when do you care?"" not something i'd be realistically overanalyzing. thinking about keefe when he's "not there" is not something i'd be engaging in. man doesn't deserve any of my braincells. but the idea of reaching out to tam is intriguing. will i get to interact with the other kotlc characters? oooooooh, can i meet alden and della? that might make the strieefe worth it . . .

"Why was she the only Keefe hater who walked through the fourth wall?!" yeah :( i want max. you should bring him over, then give him an interesting b-plot where he investigates fintan and finds him making out in a closet with bronte. or something. he'd be perfectly happy with this development.

"And what posessed her to call someone who did think this much about Keefe when he wasn't there?" does katie really think that much about keefe when he's not there, though? i doubt it.

""MADDIE, LEAVE MY POOR CAT ALONE!" Katie called behind her. There was a meowing sound, and a little brown tabby cat padded across the background of the screen." first of all, who the fuck is maddie???? second of all, is this the famous gracie? making an appearance at last?

""Why did you call? We're not scheduled to argue about Keefe for another two weeks."" GOODBYE WE LITERALLY SCHEDULE OUR KEEFE ARGUING HOURS THAT'S SO GOOFY.

""Sorry. Don't mind Gracie. So, what were you calling about?"" I WOULD NEVER MIND GRACIE I LOVE CATS GIVE HER TO ME.

""Well, it was a Keefe thing, and I was kind of looking for a little validation about one of my points—"" i would literally never go to katie about anything keefe-related. unforgivable . . .

""Oh my gosh, Alayda, I will ban you from my house! Okay, it's official—Isa's my favorite!" "Isa was already your favorite," Alayda complained. "I was," said a voice that must have been Isa. "She was," Katie agreed. "Now will you guys be normal without supervision for five minutes? I'm trying to talk to my duel spirit mutual."" accurate. also alayda's not capable of being normal. katie should make her take timeout outside for a full five minutes.

""Wait a minute. Did you say you're talking to Stria?" Before Stria knew what was happening, too many people were gathered around Katie's imparter screen. Stria shook her head vehemently." why are all these people aware of my existence. why do they know who i am. still don't know who the fuck maddie is, so i can't imagine she'd be aware of my existence, either. and i barely know who lisa is, i only do because she wanted keefe x her fics in her inbox instead of me lmfao.

do katie and the gang know in this fic that keefe fucking. asked me to drink smoothies with him. and that i said yes. because i can't imagine they'd let me live that down. well, minus maddie, whoever that is, and probably isa. i don't think isa would care.

""Nope. I did not sign up to talk to five Keefe lovers."" . . . well. guess who's now signing up for those exact five keefe lovers to see this. @myfairkatiecat @alaydabug2 @permanently-stressed @lisalovesapplesauce @/whoever-the-fuck-maddie-is i'm signing up to talk to you.

""Meow," Gracie said, as if to say, Don't worry Stria, I'm on your side! I don't like Keefe either! (At least, Stria was choosing to interpret it that way, for her own sanity)." *sniff* i love you gracie . . . the only keefe hater to break through the fourth wall with me . . .

""Okay, I'm hanging up. Bye!" Stria put down the imparter. What was everyone doing at Katie's house? Who knew?" i love how i hung up without getting to the point. that's so in character lmfao. and is this not a normal day on katie's blog, anyway?

[block limit!!!! wahoo!!!!]

"Keefe cancelled their milkshake date only ten minutes in advance." not a date, not a date, not a date, not a date, not a date-

"Weirdly, she was slightly disappointed. Probably because she wanted to yell at him, and he'd canceled her planned yelling-at-Keefe session." that's exactly why i'd be disappointed. correct.

"However, at Foxfire the next day [ . . . ]" i go to foxfire confirmed? did me and the keefe lover group morph into elves upon our walk through the fourth wall? do we have abilities? i feel like alayda should be a phaser, but i have no strong feelings on anyone else. maybe make someone a polyglot for the sole purpose of communicating with gracie? though maybe not katie herself . . . what about the mysterious maddie?

"Stria noticed a friend she'd made was passing by and decided to ask her about. "Estella!" "Oh, hey Stria!" Estella greeted. "Where are you headed?"" it's unclear to me whether this is a real person on tumblr or whether you made them up. if they are real, who is this????

"It made sense, actually. It was probably the main cast's fault." WAIT. wait, wait, wait. is this taking place when the series is still going/the neverseen are still not defeated???? that had not been what i'd been picturing.

"It would also explain why no one ever had a normal school nurse visit while the main cast was using the Healing Center like a personal hospital." interesting headcanon. that would explain a lot, especially how nobody came in from cutting their hand on glass in elementalism or something during flashback, for instance.

"Stria read Keeper of the Lost Cities, of course. She knew what happened in it. But it still felt... well, very serious to know that on the other side of that door, the characters were going through the sort of traumatic experiences she'd read about in those books, except it was real." is it keefe. is that why he canceled the milkshake outing. and i less read kotlc so much as i do burn through it.

also if the series is still going, as i assume it is, does that mean all the copies of kotlc that exist in the universe that me and katie's group came from have magically corrected themselves to account for our existences in the series? i think that would freak out the readers. quite a bit. also i think i'd quickly become the most hated character for daring to hate keefe and steal him from sophie.

"Suddenly, the fact that Keefe canceled their milkshake date ten minutes in advance didn't seem funny anymore." called it about two seconds in advance :)

OOH IT SOUNDS LIKE ACTUAL PLOT SHENANIGANS ARE GOING TO HAPPEN. COOL, I LOVE PLOT.

i can smell the fanfic tropes a mile away; there's gonna be some hurt/comfort between me and keefe for sure. sigh.

in conclusion, you should make keefe kiss lisa while katie stands off to the side, taking notes. it would be hella funny.

"(Am I one of the mutuals referenced in this fic? Did I write about myself? Who knows! Can't say.)" doubt it. you're not katie, alayda, or isa. that leaves lisa (i'm pretty sure you aren't her because why the fuck would she write a strieefe fic) and maddie (i guess you could be her, whoever the fuck that is).

edit: i now know who maddie is! (tagging her properly now: @queefsencen. and this is yet another reason to bring max into this world: he’s her favorite keefe hater!!!!) and i'm certain you're not her, seeing as she didn't even know what strieefe is until a little while ago. so unless you're the mysterious estella . . .

"[ . . . ] it's not like this is going to be very in-character anyway once Stria and Keefe fall in love." yeah, strieefe existing in and of itself is excruciatingly out of character for me. but whatever.

[bookwyrminspiration]

hi!!!! i was just wondering if you had any headcanons for transfem!keefe? maybe a little trans!sophie as a bonus? of course you dont have to but i thought it would be nice

Hi!!!! I can certainly share a few!! I absolutely adore trans headcanons <3

i think Biana played a huge role in Keefe's transition/self-realization

she was always daring him to wear her dresses, or to let her do Keefe's make-up. and Keefe laughed and played it up, but when she put them on...

when she came out, Biana was overjoyed to have a friend tentatively enjoying more "girly" things. Keefe's artistry and Biana's experience are a heavenly combination

I think Sophie and Keefe came out around the same time (though not exactly)--and Sophie was so relieved to give all the dresses he'd spent years hating a new home

When she told Fitz, he went "Dude--wait, no--I didn't mean--" and Keefe couldn't stop laughing after she got over her nerves about telling him

Keefe's got a whole thing going with her hair, but you can only do so much with it when it's short--all the possibilities that open up when she starts growing it out!

buns and braids and bubble ponytails and all the extra material to work with!! it's scary how good she gets at them

Dex hooks her and Sophie up with hrt from slurps and burps, and when they can/their doses line up they hail each other to take it together

Keefe hasn't picked a name yet, but can't wait to find one and further distance herself from her parents

In the meantime she's going by Keeferina/Keefella (reference to her joke suggestions to name the baby aliorns) (she thinks it's absolutely hilarious)

When Sophie heard he just shook his head and sighed, but he was smiling. then he went to ask Keefella to show him how to do his hair

[queercontrarian]

howl chapter 6 as memes

IT'S MONSTERFUCKING TIME with @iftheshoef1tz

as always, spoilers ahead

[flyinghome-againstthewind]

Beside the Seaside: Ch 7

read on ao3

previous chapter

next chapter

Jamie might have called Murtagh in a desperate panic when he asked him to locate Murtagh’s cousin, Mrs. Fitz, and bring her to the inn, but he had done so knowing Murtagh was equal to the task. Still, when they arrived at The Fairy Hill’s doorstep in just a matter of days, Jamie couldn’t say he wasn’t startled by the haste at which Murtagh had brought her there.

“Mrs. Fitz!” he hailed in greeting, feeling his heart lift unexpectedly at the sight of the older woman’s beaming face. It had been nearly eight years since he’d seen her, but it felt like memories of another lifetime when they had both been at Leoch. “Welcome!”

“Och, Jamie lad, it’s good to see ye!”

He came around the front desk to embrace her and felt his throat swell when she uttered joyously, “You haven’t changed a bit.” He knew he had changed from the nineteen-year-old lad that she had known working at his uncle’s hotel. He was a father, for one, and… well, as much as he’d wished it hadn’t, the war had left him permanently marked in more ways than one.

“It’s good to see ye, Mrs. Fitz. Thank you for coming.” He met his godfather’s gaze over the woman’s shoulder, and while Murtagh did not look particularly pleased at the moment, the man had still shown up when Jamie had called. He had always counted on that with Murtagh.

“And who’s this wee yin?”

Jamie looked back to see Faith peering curiously at the three of them. He smiled and held out a hand to her, beckoning. “This is my wee Faith.” His hand rested lightly on her head once she was near. “Come say hello to our new cook, Mrs. Fitzgibbons. She’s an old friend of mine.”

“Ye can call me Mrs. Fitz — or Grannie Fitz if it suits ye.”

Jamie watched any hesitancy in his daughter melt at that. For all that she was a puir motherless thing, she had a habit of collecting parental figures, and he could practically see the moment she decided she would keep Mrs. Fitz held in her heart. “D’ye want to see the kitchen?” Faith asked her.

“Faith, I’m sure Mrs. Fitz wants to get settled first—”

“I can get settled after I see the kitchen,” Mrs. Fitz insisted, taking Faith’s hand in her own. “I’ll need to know what I’m working with, after all.”

He watched Faith lead the woman past the stairs to the doors they had always kept closed to the guests — but wouldn’t need to for much longer. The kitchen was modest, he knew, but he didn’t doubt Mrs. Fitz would be able to make it work, and there was a dining area for the guests, with small round tables and chairs. He’d already seen Mrs. Fitz in charge of a kitchen before, and he’d promised her the freedom to run this one as she saw fit.

Murtagh’s hand clapped his shoulder, snapping him out of his reverie. “Are ye gonna tell me why I had to race here wi’ Mrs. Fitz because yer business depended on it?” his godfather asked, parroting Jamie’s own words from their telephone call back at him. Murtagh’s arm swept out in front of him, gesturing to the space around them. “The place doesnae seem to be on the verge of collapse.”

Jamie let out a measured breath, and patted Murtagh’s upper arm. “Thank ye for bringing Mrs. Fitz,” he said, ignoring that last comment. “I was having a devil of a time trying to sort out where she went and which grandchild she had gone to visit.”

“She was wi’ Laoghaire in Inverness,” Murtagh answered baldly and, seeing Jamie’s momentary puzzlement, added, “the blonde wee lassie ye met at Leoch.”

“Oh aye,” Jamie murmured, remembering vaguely the young girl who helped Mrs. Fitz in the kitchen and sometimes worked as a maid at the hotel as well. “She won’t still be a wee lassie now though, I suppose.”

“That girl will be a lassie until she's fifty,” Murtagh muttered dryly. “Now are ye going to tell me why I rushed the woman here, or do I have to beat it out of ye.”

Jamie arched one brow at that. Murtagh was scrappy in a fight, to be sure, but Jamie had the stronger build. But Murtagh had known him since he was wee and was immune to any of the natural intimidation that came with Jamie’s size. “The inn is doing well enough, I suppose, but I’m losing business every day when my own guests cannae even eat here.”

Murtagh grunted at that, but still eyed Jamie a little too keenly. “I’ll stay for a bit. Just a few days. Ye owe me that at least.”

Perhaps he did, and there was a chance Murtagh truly needed the respite, but Jamie suspected the time would be used to keep an eye on him. None of his family had come to stay since he and Faith had moved here, but Jamie hadn’t exactly extended an invitation either.

“Aye, alright, I have an extra bed in the spare room next to Faith’s. It’s all yours.”

  ----------

  Claire had been hoping to find Jamie alone when she descended the stairs, but she instead found him behind the front desk with a tall and lean dour-faced man.

“Sassenach,” he called to her before she had much of a chance to decide if she should change course or not. He was grinning broadly and she felt the pull to go to him, to bask in that light for a bit. “This is my godfather, Murtagh. Murtagh, this is Claire.”

Claire extended her hand to the man, wondering if Jamie realized he hadn’t said anything further as to who she was — no this is Claire, one of my guests here, or this is Claire, she stays on the third floor and occasionally patches me up. Just Claire, as if she needed no further introduction.

Murtagh shook her hand, eyeing her acutely. “Wee Faith had a lot to say about ye when she was at Lallybroch.”

And apparently, she hadn’t needed any further introduction. That revelation not only startled Claire, but Jamie as well, she noticed. “Oh,” she said, “All good things, I hope?”

“Oh aye,” Murtagh said immediately, but something in his tone seemed to indicate a layer of… was it curiosity? Claire glossed a smile over her face and looked at Jamie, unsure how to proceed from there.

“Go and check on Mrs. Fitz, will ye? See if she needs anything?”

Murtagh’s expression changed to something even more surly, realizing he was being dismissed. “Just to remind ye, in case ye’ve fallen on yer heid lately, I’m no’ yer errand boy,” he said, but still turned and went out of the room.

Claire turned wide eyes to Jamie.

“Aye, that’s just Murtagh for ye. A wee bit rough around the edges, but more loyal than anyone I’ve ever known.”

“He, uh—” she stopped herself from saying that the man seemed lovely, because in the few moments that she’d known him, she couldn’t say that was exactly true, but she could tell, even with just a glimpse of it, that Murtagh was protective of Jamie, and that was certainly a credit to him. “Is he staying?” she asked instead.

“Aye, for a few days.” Jamie grinned then and leaned forward against the counter, inching closer to her. “He brought my cook here — Mrs. Fitz. I cannae wait for ye to meet her.”

“Oh, Jamie, that’s wonderful!”

“Faith is giving her the tour just now, we can go and introduce ye now, if ye’d like.”

“Yes, but first,” she said, suddenly feeling a breathless flutter in her chest to seize the moment while it was just the two of them. “I’d like to extend our stay here. That is, if you still have room,” she added quickly, and hoped her nervousness that he might already be booked didn’t show as plainly as she felt it.

“Aye, I do have room,” Jamie said immediately, without so much as a glance at his booking calendar, though he did fumble for it after giving his answer. “For how long?”

“For three more weeks.” It was impossible to miss the unrestrained smile that those words brought to Jamie, and Claire felt her heart flutter again in her chest. “If you can bear the sight of us for that much longer,” she teased. “It’s been… so good for Fergus here. I was actually thinking—”

“Miss Claire!” Faith’s voice rang out from the other side of the room, and Claire turned to see the girl followed by Murtagh and the woman she supposed was Mrs. Fitz. Jamie came around the desk to join them.

“This is Claire Beauchamp, she’s staying here for a few more weeks wi’ her son Fergus.” Jamie’s smile was rapturous as he said this, never taking his gaze from her face even as he spoke to Mrs. Fitz. “So I’m sure you’ll get to see them plenty.”

   ----------

The days of their summer in Nairn began to change shape by inches, first with the arrival of Mrs. Fitz and the opening of the kitchen at Fairy Hill. Unsurprisingly, Fergus was quickly charmed by the inn’s grandmotherly cook almost as much as he was by her cooking. And though she didn’t speak a word of French, Claire watched with her heart in her throat as Mrs. Fitz fussed over the two of them and was never put off by Fergus’s silence.

It was during this time that Fergus had decided he wanted to return to the beach. Claire had begun inviting Faith to join them in their afternoon excursions, at first to be a playfellow for Fergus, and then because something had begun to resonate with Claire where young Faith was concerned; there was no doubt that Jamie loved the child with everything he had, but there was still a hunger — a longing — in that small girl that Claire knew all too well.

So on a bright day in late June, Claire took both children to the beach. Fergus sighed and squirmed while Claire covered him in sun lotion, but he didn’t slip out of her grasp until she pressed a kiss to his greasy forehead in silent permission to go. “You too, Faith,” she called as both children moved toward the water. When the girl looked back at her, brows drawn together in confusion, Claire crooked a finger at her.

“My da never puts that stuff on me,” Faith said bluntly, even as she flopped down onto the blanket in front of Claire and sat perfectly still.

“Most people don’t put it on, unfortunately,” Claire sighed. “But you are even more fair-skinned than Fergus, and I don’t want you to burn.” She carefully rubbed in the lotion over the smattering of freckles along Faith’s nose and cheeks. Where Fergus behaved as though Claire was torturing him, Faith seemed to relish the attention and care. Poor love-starved little thing, Claire thought, with no ire directed towards Jamie. She knew, after all. She’d had Uncle Lamb and loved him dearly, but there was nothing to be done to fix the yawning emptiness where one or both parents had been. Driven by sudden impulse when she was finished, Claire took the girl’s face in her hands and kissed her forehead. “Now go and play.”

  ----------

“You know that you could speak English here, if you wanted to… don’t you?” She said this in French when Fergus had collapsed onto the blanket in the shade of a beach umbrella. Claire had watched him and Faith run ragged in the water and then work side-by-side on a sandcastle, and it was during that latter activity that the language barrier between the two had indeed turned into a barrier, with Fergus giving instructions in French to a blank-faced Faith and none of the work truly being done together.

Claire reached over and brushed Fergus’s curls back from his face. Faith was nearby, still working steadily on a moat around their castle, but even if she heard them, there was a sense of privacy in speaking in French. “Frank was wrong for what he said to you. And none of our friends here would mock you for having an accent or saying the wrong words. You know that, don’t you?”

“I do know, Maman.” His voice was soft and unconvincing.

“I am happy to speak with you in whatever language you prefer, but even I know my French is atrocious.” That got a smile out of Fergus — yes, she did know her pronunciations were that terrible. “But you’ve never belittled me for it, and you still know what I’m saying to you just the same. And I don’t want you to… to not have certain friendships in your life because of something that a very selfish person said to you.”

Fergus’s gaze turned contemplative, and he tilted his face up, staring at the underside of the umbrella, fingers laced together over his bare stomach. She brushed his cheek with the backs of her fingers and struggled to tamp down on the sudden swell of guilt that still had a foothold in her.

   ----------

“—Ye could hire more workers here is all I’m saying. The place seems to be doing just fine.”

Claire looked up from her breakfast as Jamie entered the dining room, Murtagh hot on his heels. Fergus had scarfed his food down already and gone out to the front with Faith and her chalk — some things didn’t require the ability to communicate, and the children were finding those spaces all on their own, in a way that made Claire’s tender heart ache to see.

“I don’t recall sharing the inn’s finances with ye,” Jamie shot back.

“I just mean that ye never take a moment’s rest for yerself, and ye dinnae need to be doing it all by yerself. I suspect ye can afford at least another staff person.”

“I have another staff person already — Hugh Monroe.”

Murtagh grunted at that, though what the noise was supposed to imply, Claire wasn’t sure. She dropped her gaze to her meal, unable to give them the privacy of not eavesdropping while they were conversing right in front of her, but the least she could do was make it seem like she wasn’t trying to listen in. “And what if ye wanted to take a day off every now and then, huh? Ye could go home and see yer family then.”

It was Jamie’s turn for a Scottish noise of displeasure, though Claire had far less trouble interpreting his frustration from that. “I’m no’ going to take time away from the inn in the middle of my busy season. Also, I dinnae recall ye being this much of a mother hen with either Willie or Rob,” Jamie said pointedly.

“Aye well I wasnae their godfather, was I? Just yours. Lot o’ good having Colum and Dougal for their godfathers did them, though, god rest their souls.” Claire couldn’t help looking up at that, and caught Murtagh crossing himself.

Jamie was stone-faced, and turned for the kitchen, disappearing through the swinging door that separated it from the dining area.

“Who are Willie and Rob?” she asked, and found Murtagh’s surprised gaze on her. She was rather sure her own surprise reflected back at him, that she had even asked the question out loud.

“He doesn’t talk about them?”

She shook her head.

Murtagh considered that with a quiet sigh. “His brothers. Willie was the oldest, then their sister Janet, then Jamie, and wee Rob was the youngest.” She had a suspicion, from seeing Jamie, that “Wee Rob” was more of an affectionate family name for the youngest, for surely any brother of Jamie couldn’t be small in stature.

“That’s a big family,” she murmured, a little dazed by the thought. It was only ever just her growing up.

“Aye,” Murtagh sighed, his expression darkening. “Then the three o’ them went to war, and only Jamie came back. Now it’s just him and Jenny.”

She sat with that news, feeling a cold damp fist around her heart. After all he went through at the hands of Jack Randall, and losing his entire unit, and then… his brothers, too. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because he’s no’ doing well, and I ken ye’re the only other person besides me who sees that.” Murtagh cleared his throat and straightened. “I’m his godfather, so I’ll always have his back, but he pushed everyone away when he came home, except for Faith. He willnae let me help him. But I think…” the older man raised one eyebrow, “he might let you.”

“And… you trust me to help him? You don’t even really know me.”

“Trust is a bit of a stretch, aye, but it’s plain on yer face that ye want to help him. So.”

Claire felt her face flush at those words, at being so thoroughly seen by someone who’d only been here a few days. “Jamie has been incredibly kind to me and my son. He’s… he’s been a very good friend.”

Murtagh grunted at that, though she couldn’t for the life of her sort out what he meant by that, either. “So, that’s why I told ye. And I have to go, he doesn’t want me hanging about much longer, but I trust… ye’ll keep an eye on him for me, aye?”

“Of course,” she found herself saying. Perhaps more startling to her was the realization that she had meant it.

He studied her intently for a moment and, finding something there in her face that reassured him, he nodded once and followed Jamie through the swinging door.

Murtagh left the next day, returning to Lallybroch, but their brief conversation in the dining room stayed with Claire long after the man had gone.

  ----------

“Claire!”

Someone pounded on her door, making her heart jump to her throat. She had just been to Fergus’s room to tuck him in for the night and was halfway out of her blouse, which she quickly began to shrug back into, trying to button it as fast as she could.

“Claire!”

More pounding.

It was Jamie’s urgent voice, and she swore under her breath as her fingers fumbled with the last two buttons. “Yes, I’m coming! I’m—”

She yanked open the door and took in the sight of Jamie looking more unraveled than she’d ever seen him before.

“Faith is sick. Please—She’s—she has a fever. Please come.”

She turned for her medical kit without a word, and by the time she returned to the threshold, Fergus stood in the doorway of his own room, peeking out in mild concern.

“Go back to bed. Stay in your room,” she told him, and followed a panic-stricken Jamie down the stairs.

[squish36-writes-and-draws]

Import Cygnus Oscuro

Summary: Creative Writing Final. It's a fedex humans are space orcs au. They're forced to be in the proximity of one another and it's fun for everyone except for those directly involved.

Word count : 5244

TW: one (1) swear word, auton (robot) racism including an in-universe slur (thanks, Fitz), absolutely incomprehensible worldbuilding (thanks, Squish)

Taglist (lmk if you want to be added/removed!): @stellar-lune @faggot-friday @kamikothe1and0nly @nyxpixels @florida-preposterously @poppinspop @uni-seahorse-572 @solreefs @i-loved-while-i-lied @rusted-phone-calls @when-wax-wings-melt @good-old-fashioned-lover-boy7 @dexter-dizzknees @abubble125 @hi-imgrapes @callum-hunt-is-bisexual @callas-pancake-tree @hi-my-name-is-awesome @katniss-elizabeth-chase @arson-anarchy-death @dizzeners @thefoxysnake @olivedumdum @loveution

On Ao3 or below the cut!

Bonus worldbuilding / q&a / suffering because I doubt any of this makes sense

    import pandas as pd

    import numpy as np

    import matplotlib.pyplot as plt

    from sklearn import datasets, model_selection, metrics

    from sklearn.model_selection import train_test_split, cross_val_score

    from sklearn.preprocessing import *

    from sklearn.neighbors import KNeighborsClassifier

    from sklearn.metrics import *

    “Once again, what do you mean by Eifelia? The planet itself or the system as a whole, including its moons?” Sophie asks, staring out the window at the receding planetary surface as their spaceship affectionately called the ‘Cygnus Oscuro’ lifts off the ground. 

    “Eifelia has only one confirmed inhabited moon, Batyrbai. Your home planet of Datson is the only satellite in the Telychian system to have more than one moon that is suitable for habitation. Supplies were acquired at the port of Darriwilian, located at 25.78, -80.21, on the planet of Eifelia itself,” Dex replies, reading off the coordinates from the corner of xor vision. 

    It’s very easy to read off coordinates when xor neural network is constantly searching for information that it thinks will be helpful to xem. It, more often than not, is entirely extraneous information, but it is difficult to discern when, exactly, it will be of assistance. 

    Dex continues, “Five crew members departed in preparation for Eifelia’s cyclical festival of Batyrbai appearing full in the sky from the dark side of the planet. In turn, three crew members embarked.”

    Dex’s fan freezes up. “One of these crew members is human, which hail from Earth, most accurately described as a ‘Death Planet’. It is located in the system of Sol, 40.3 light years away. Take care to avoid any and all possible conflicts.” 

    Sophie fixes Dex an unbelieving look. “They can’t be that bad.”

    Article after article scroll across Dex’s field of vision. “They’ve earned their infamous reputation and most are highly unaware of it. Did you know they have contests to see which one can suffer through the most capsaicin-induced pain? Then, to cool the pain, they consume a drink full of near-impossible-to-digest lactose sugar.”

    “Yeah, and you can bend titanium without even a second thought.”

    “I’m sure a dedicated enough one would figure out how to do that.” 

    Sophie rolls his eyes. “I’ll make sure to tell Keefe not to be an intergalactic space wyrm this week but I don’t think that’s going to be happening any time soon.” 

    Dex’s processor runs the numbers, and Sophie is correct for once. In any other situation, a correct prediction from him would be a thing to praise, but in this particular case, it’s more worrisome for Keefe’s safety.

    stars_df = pd.Dataframe(data=stars.data, columns=stars.feature_names)

    stars_df.iloc[39060]

    name                “Beta Pictoris c”

    distance_ly         60         # light years, 3*10^8 m/s

    yerkes_stellar_class    “A6V”

    mass                4658.44    # Eifelia masses, 4.13*10^24 kg

    orbital_period         197.55     # Eifelia years

    grav_accel         182.470    # m/s^2

    surface_temp        1250       # kelvin

    “Greetings,” Dex’s assigned partner says as Dex slides into the chair next to him. His voice is blanketed with a thick accent Dex’s processor is unable to place, though the circling loading sign in the top corner is certainly trying. Such is the curse of exploring new planets faster than xor updates are able to keep track of them. 

    Today’s mission is expected to make that problem worse, although only slightly.     

    “I’m Fitz,” he says, holding out a hand.    

    “I’m D3x+3r,” Dex replies, not actually pronouncing the numbers like numbers even if they should be pronounced like numbers because they are numbers. The loading wheel is still circling around itself. “Although most people call me Dex because apparently two syllables is too many. I don’t understand it either.” 

    Fitz’s hand falls into his lap. “Nice to meet you, Dex.” He pauses. “Unless you have anything else I’ve forgotten, I think we can probably get going down to the surface so that we can get back sooner than later.” 

    Dex pushes away the loading circle in favor of the small transport ship’s inventory list. “I believe we have everything. If that is a false presumption, the communication link with the Cygnus Oscuro is up and running.” 

    Fitz gently undocks from the Cygnus Oscuro and that’s when Dex’s processor finally decides to provide xem with any information. It’s odd how it’s so proficient with useless information and finally now that it’s relevant, it takes a suspiciously long time. 

    It apparently doesn’t think it’s a major priority to know that xe’s just been sealed into a very small shuttle with a human. No big deal. This is both fine and normal. It’s not like they’re documented to have very short tempers. 

    Now the accent makes sense. Humans have hundreds of different languages, owing to their incredibly diverse geographic distribution. Most other species, including the Eifelians, only exist in small pockets in the corners of their worlds. Humans looked at that and went ‘no, I don’t think I will.’ Any other species is almost immediately recognizable by their accent but humans. They live to be difficult. 

    Even if the accent hadn’t been atrociously obvious in hindsight, the lines streaking across his skin—Blaschko lines, Dex’s processor claims—should have given his heritage away. The even more entertaining part is that most humans don’t even know they have them. 

    Dex’s processor is able to pull up Fitz’s official file without too much difficulty, and that seems like a mostly safe conversation to have instead of stilted silence. “So, how long have you been part of Parallax?” 

    “Well, my parents have worked here since before I was born, so the answer I usually give is, ‘Yes.’ How about you?” 

    “I was built on Gzhelia roughly 250 Eifelia years ago.” Dex pauses, converting this to a unit hopefully a little more familiar to Fitz. “That’s a little more than 4 Earth years.” 

    Fitz’s brows draw together. “Built?”

    Dex’s fan pauses in such a way that it sounds like a sigh as xe pulls back the artificial skin away from xor wrist, revealing the wires twisting underneath. A green fiber optic cable shimmers in the artificial light of the shuttle. 

    “I am aware that I am running on slightly older hardware, but I promise that my software is as updated with the most current Parallax Dataframes an update cycle half an Eifelia year ago could provide. Again, for ease of conversion, that is about three Earth days.”

    “You can stop with that. The conversions. I’ve grown up around more Eifelia time than Earth time.” 

    “I apologize. I was simply trying to prevent any incidental miscommunication before there was an issue. I will refrain from it in the future.” 

    The table of conversions still floats in front of Dex’s vision like a temporary burn-in.    

    Dex and Fitz sit in a silence that even Dex’s emotion identifier that was deprecated two years ago can identify as uncomfortable. Xe really should get around to installing a new one. 

    Fitz is the one to break the silence. “How’d you know I was human? Your little CPU tell you?” 

    Dex nods slowly. “Yes, it did, along with installing several files explaining your species’ customs. I can feel one of them slowing down my SSD flash memory with its sheer size.” 

    “Yeah, yeah, we all get it. Humans are big and loud and dumb and there’s so many of us that you can’t be bothered to learn all of it.” 

    Fitz flicks a half-dozen switches, initiating the landing sequence of the shuttle now that it is within the last thousand kilometers of altitude. The reason that it has to be activated so early is due to Beta Pictoris C’s incredibly high gravitational acceleration, causing the shuttle to have a much higher velocity than if it were under the gravitational influence of most other planets. 

    In other, more numerical terms, gravitational acceleration on Beta Pictoris C at the surface is about 182.970 m/s2, while, for reference, Eifelia’s is 8.011 m/s2. Of course, they are still up in the air, meaning that their orbital radius is slightly larger than the planet’s radius, but that really is not that much of a difference due to the sheer scale of the planet. 

    It’s no wonder Parallax has chosen the two of them for this mission—they’re the most likely to not be crushed under the sheer weight of the surface gravity. Or, more accurately, their own weight due to the increased surface gravity. 

    Fitz touches down gently, one of the very few landings Dex has experienced without involving a significant amount of screaming. 

    “Are you ready to go find one amino acid and then leave?” he asks, standing up. 

    Searching for life on planets like these is, for lack of a better descriptor, a neural-network-numbing process involving taking a few dirt samples while trying to make sure that Dex’s zinc components don’t get instantaneously vaporized, among other problems. 

    A-type stars aren’t even the hottest ones out there, but they’re on the very edge of what is believed to be habitable due to their instability. Their scarcity in the universe also makes it much more unlikely for life to have the opportunity to form around one. 

    It’s nearly inhospitable to every life form currently described, leaving a few carbon-fiber autons to figure out how to sample things on stars-forsaken planets that are literally half the surface temperature of Eifelia’s home star, Telychia. 

    “It would probably be beneficial to don some protective clothing before doing that, even if Beta Pictoris C is nearing aphelion and we have landed on the night side. Do you happen to know if it is tidally locked?”

    “That’s not in your file system?”

    “I regrettably am unable to locate it if it is.” 

    Fitz rolls his eyes, muttering, “Turing incomplete,” under his breath. 

    It takes a few milliseconds for Dex’s processor to provide the context to that statement, and that context is not a flattering one. Its origins lie with both the first human theoretical computer scientist, Alan Turing, and it became popularized due to Earth’s history with artificial intelligence. 

    It’s…not a pleasant history. 

    “Do you believe that infinite memory is possible? Because everything is technically only Turing complete when it is assumed to have infinite amounts of memory, which is impossible to create in the real world. Thus, every device, including this shuttle and your knee replacement is Turing incomplete.

    “Yeah, but at least I can feel emotions.”

    Fitz slides the heat suit’s helmet over his head, obscuring his face.

    “Most of your emotions are induced by shifts in hormonal signals. The Floians don’t have hormones. Does that mean that they too are artificial because they do not experience emotions in the same way that you do?” 

    Fitz opens the shuttle door, pressing himself against the wall to avoid being blown away by both the swirling, windy atmosphere blowing dust into all of the delicate machinery of the shuttle and the zeroth law of thermodynamics. 

    Dex’s fan immediately kicks into its highest gear, and it will stay there as long as the door remains open, barring some catastrophic, friction-related disaster. 

    “The Floians had to figure out how to evolve on their own. That should be a reasonable enough distinction for you.”

    “That implies that genetically modified organisms don’t count as organisms. And then, most autons learn via a reinforcement algorithm that mimics how evolution works in order to train a neural network. That’s the thing that I have making decisions in my ‘little CPU’ and its trillion transistors. How many neurons do you have again?”

    Fitz steps out into the outside, his suit making him look like a large orange nebula. Hopefully the door doesn’t decide to close with its own artificial consciousness like last time. That was not a fun time. 

    “Why do you ask when you could just search through your files? I’m sure it’s in there.” 

    “The answer was 135 billion,” Dex says flatly. That would be a more relevant description if xe was able to inflect xor speech more, but xe has found the setting to make xor voice a specific frequency and uses it a touch more than xe probably should. 

    Fitz turns back to Dex. “What are you doing? The sooner we get these samples into your file system, the sooner I stop looking like the stay puft marshmallow man.”

    Dex smiles as the image flashes across xor vision. Xe follows Fitz down the ramp, revealing the expected vast desertlike landscape of Beta Pictoris C.

    It’s significantly too hot for water to remain liquid but—there’s something odd about the erosion patterns. Those might not just be wind erosion. Xe downloaded a whole library of algorithms a couple of months ago. 

    Ignoring Fitz’s demands to know where xe’s going, Dex approaches one of the striated, gray rock formations. 

    url = 'https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/e/2PACX-1vTCZgoegOH a49SFXYU-ZZTdCkgTp0sn&single=true&output=csv'

    rocks_df = pd.read_csv(url)

    features = rocks[["depth", "width", "mohs_hardness"]]

    label = stars_df["class"]

    X_train, X_test, y_train, y_test = model_selection.train_test_split(features, label, test_size = 0.2, random_state = 42)

    model = KNearestNeighbor(n_neighbors = 53)

    model.fit(X_train, y_train)

    new_rock = pd.Dataframe([7,4,6.5])

    pred = model.predict(new_rock)

    A smile blossoms across Dex’s face. “We’ve got liquid erosion. It’s slightly less viscous than water, but liquid erosion nonetheless.” 

    Fitz stares at xem, waiting for an explanation that takes a long time to get there. 

    “I’m going to have to run some simulations on the ship because I don’t have enough RAM for the kind of resolution I want, but there’s potential that there used to be water here, and I’m sure you’re aware of how water and life are synonymous. Most of the time.” 

    Dex carefully scrapes off a corner of the ashy sandstone column for further study because xe, quite unfortunately, doesn’t have a built-in mass spectrometer. It’s also generally good practice to collect samples. 

    Another aspect of good practice is to look at more than one rock before drawing conclusions about an entire planet. 

    Dex traces into the dirt a simple sketch of Fitz in his marshmallow suit. He’s lucky to have all of his appendages attached, let alone proportional. Dex then takes a sample of the dirt. The mixing helps to paint a better picture of what the sand is like, rather than just the solar-radiation-exposed topsoil. 

    Suddenly, Fitz swears, pointing at something in the vial. That something is a little creature wiggling its way around the glass. 

    Dex nearly drops it, which would have been a less than ideal decision, as xe tries to find the little guy who is desperately trying to not be seen. 

    The little guy is a fairly standard arthropod-style body plan, with an exoskeleton, a number of legs that is larger than 2 and smaller than the number required for ‘burn it alive’ algorithms to kick in. So somewhere in the 6,8,10 range is probably pretty reasonable. 

    Although, to be fair, even numbers are more of a guideline than anything else. Once again, Earth is an exception to the rule with a three legged fish down in some of the deepest parts of its oceans. Also echinoderms with their five-fold radial symmetry. 

    “You, uh, might want to put him down,” Fitz suggests. “You don’t want to be charged with kidnapping should that little bug guy who I’m now going to be naming Fred turn out to have a consciousness.”

    Humans’ inclination to name creatures that have no way of communicating with them is a fairly large section in their file overview. It seems as though this can even occur with inanimate objects, which just links to a page advertising a pet rock, whatever that’s supposed to mean. 

    Dex pours the vial back onto the ground and attempts to take another sample without kidnapping another Fred. 

    Is that how human naming goes? Does it really matter? 

    The only reason this is a question is probably because It feels like all of Dex’s wires are currently being poached in the water designed to cool them. 

    There’s another one in the next vial. And the next. It’s almost like spontaneous generation but, like, not yet disproven by putting meat in a jar and covering it so maggots don’t get laid on it. 

    Yeah, that’s literally what the humans decided to do. Specifically one named Francesco Redi. Seems like a waste of calories for a species who needs to eat a lot of them to support their endothermic metabolisms. At least they figured it out in the end. 

    The fourth attempt seems to be safe as Dex only fills the vial halfway and shakes it extensively to avoid accidental kidnapping. Now the only possible complication could be microscopic creatures, but that’s past the point of reasonable care. 

    Fitz spends another few minutes gallivanting around, likely wandering around for more interesting samples, even if the entire report is already writing itself in the back of Dex’s processor. 

    He returns with a half dozen more samples of varying mineral compositions which get stored in his marshmallow suit’s pockets. “I saw another guy. Sorry I couldn’t get a picture, but he kind of looked like a scorpion. If you know what those are.”

    Dex nods, projecting a picture of one onto the first rock ledge just to prove that xe has image files stored in xor drive. 

    “Yeah, he looked kind of like that.”

    Dex switches the picture to a different one, one that isn’t necessarily a true scorpion. That doesn’t stop Eurypterus from colloquially being called a sea scorpion. It also doesn’t stop them from being extinct on Earth for around 252 million of its own years. 

    Fitz repeats, louder this time, “Yeah, he looked kind of like that.” 

    Fitz’s new best friend the Beta Pictoris C scorpion, who notably has yet to be blessed with a name, hops up onto the rock ledge, and it’s remarkable how similar they look, albeit the hologram being significantly larger. Blue swirls across its hardened exterior, and its pincers look like they’re very ready to reduce the number of fingers Dex has. 

    A warning light flicks on in the corner of Dex’s vision, cutting off access to xor files. 

    “We should probably be getting back to the ship. I have the coordinates of our landing point so that a larger, more prepared team can conduct a more detailed study. And before you begin to state that we are that team, if I am to stay out here for much longer, I will probably end up shutting down, and that is a burden I would rather not impose upon you.”

    It’s kind of odd how Dex’s vision is able to start flickering as xor processor threatens to have enough for the day. One would think it would work the same as when it gets too cold, but no. One second, xe’s completely fine and the next, xe’s restarting after eighteen hours trapped in an avalanche. 

    This is a normal experience. It’s not Dex’s first time, and most other autons xe has communicated with have had similar ones. It’s a risk associated with the job, and xor data won’t be lost in anaerobic environments the same way that data in an biologically-designed brain will. 

    Unless that brain belongs to an obligate or facultative anaerobe, but the vast majority of intelligent species do require some form of a gas to function. Many use oxygen, but carbon dioxide, methane, hydrogen, and carbon monoxide are fairly common as well. 

    Dex and Fitz make their way back into the spaceship and make absolutely certain that the hatch is sealed before peeling off their marshmallow suits. Dex’s blinking temperature warning sign disappears, but xor fan still remains running at full speed. 

    Fitz collapses into the pilot’s chair, sweat streaking down his brow, and barely waits for Dex to sit down beside him before lifting off. 

    They once again sit in an uncomfortable silence, punctuated only by the sounds of Fitz flipping various switches on the shuttle’s control panels. 

    Dex makes half a note that xe should learn how to fly a ship at some point, although Sophie would rapidly abuse that particular ability. 

    Once xe’s back aboard the Cygnus Oscuro, xe locates the mass spectrometer in order to analyze the samples before Fitz starts telling everyone about the larger portion of their discovery, because then xe’s going to have to answer other people’s questions instead of xor own.

    url = ‘https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/16lsnIQaP37r682gKuz CZp-YqLgCis-Ln4PSaDEpiAjw/edit#gid=0’

    mass_spec = pd.read_csv(url) 

    compounds = []

    for i in range(mass_spec.size()): 

        id = identify(mass_spec[i]) 

        compounds += id 

     It turns out to absolutely no one’s surprise that liquid water doesn’t exist inside of the rock samples, but tricobalt tetraoxide, Co3O4, is in there, and it is a liquid at the planet’s surface temperature. It’s certainly a choice for an electron donor, and it’s kind of a wonder the entire planet isn’t bright blue with the Cobalt (ii) ions. 

    Dex isn’t surprised to find out that by the time xe’s had enough time with the samples that the entire ship knows about the little arthropod that was found, even if they aren’t formally related to the Earthen order of arthropoda Fitz is comparing it to. 

    They look similar. It’s close enough. 

    What Dex is surprised to find is that everyone wants a tour to see them despite the fact that the vast majority of the crew would acquire heat stroke almost instantaneously. This is xor thirty-sixth mission to actually go down onto a planet for the first time—autons are cheaper to replace than biological organisms—and this is by far the biggest response to a new species. 

    It’s odd. Xe doesn’t like it. 

    Dex’s neural network wants to blame it on Fitz, and there really isn’t any data to contradict that particular hypothesis. It also makes it a very difficult hypothesis to test, which makes it significantly less useful as a hypothesis. 

    On the other hand, a useful hypothesis would be one relating to the actual little alien creatures that for some reason are able to live on a planet that’s more similar to a furnace than a habitable landscape. 

    And so, against all logical reasons surrounding the temperature of a planet known to be at least twice the temperature of the hottest previously confirmed life forms. Of course it’s on Earth. Hydrothermal vents don’t look like a place where organisms could live, and then they’re just down there chilling. That’s probably not the best choice of a descriptor. 

    When in doubt, the answer is more often than not ‘Earth is a weird planet.’ 

    The journey back down to the surface with Fitz passes with significantly less fanfare than the first, the beeping of the ship being obnoxiously loud in the deafening silence. 

    They touch down, Fitz not taking as much care as last time with making sure the landing has as little of a change in momentum as possible, which is to say that it’s nowhere near the gentle landing of the first trip. 

    Fitz leans back and sighs. “Do you have any commentary you’d like to provide or are you ready to go and collect data so we can finish our reports on this planet?”

    “I mean, I’m always collecting data, even if it's only a live feed of my precise coordinates getting thrown into a plaintext file never to be seen again, so the answer is closest to both of the above.” 

    That does not seem to be the answer Fitz wants as he takes one of his bags of human snacks—potato chips, according to what’s printed on the yellow label—and throws it into the garbage can in the corner. 

    “Wow.” Dex’s visual apertures widen. “I didn’t realize that throwing projectiles with accuracy was a human skill. I’ll make sure to add that to my files, as well as to the main system.”

    Fitz’s eyes flash, his features drawing into hard lines. “Are you physically incapable of not being condescending? I get it. I’m a human. I’m from a death planet. Humans are weirder than fucking dark energy. It doesn’t require that many comments about it to get your point across!”

    Dex pauses, letting xor neural network fully process Fitz’s statements before replying, “I don’t understand where I was being condescending.”

    “You just did it two sentences ago!”

    “I did not do anything two sentences ago. It was genuinely quite interesting how your species has evolved to throw objects with accuracy, even ones with high surface area to volume ratios such as that bag of chips, because it is not something that has been documented in any other intelligent species.” 

    “Oh, please. It’s a basic skill.”

    “Do remember that your species evolved in part to bring down large prey such as Mammuthus primigenius. Throwing spears at a wooly mammoth directly led to that ability being rewarded with a higher rate of nutrients, and thus resulted in the following generations being more able to throw spears as well.”

    “You know all of that but you didn’t figure out that throwing things is pathetically easy? Your little auton brain isn’t very good at drawing conclusions from data you have, is it?”

    “It is simply something I did not have cause to consider before now, though I do recognize that it would have been quite easy to identify without the inciting event.”

    “And you’ve also said that you have a very large file on humans. Most of our games are based around the concept of throwing a ball. Was that not enough information to extrapolate that maybe we’re good at it?”

    “Games of chance are common in many species. It follows that this could simply be a manifestation of that desire in humans, so games like your ‘basketball’ or ‘baseball’ do not provide sufficient evidence to draw conclusions such as the ones you’re suggesting.”

    Fitz rolls his eyes. “Why do I even bother? It’s not like you’re going to change your mind. You don’t have a mind to change.”

    Dex wants to explain that xor neural network is actually changing its dependence on its individual notes on a regular basis, but that doesn’t seem to be advantageous in this particular context.

    Fitz rolls his eyes, muttering in what is likely his native tongue—one which Dex has not downloaded the translation file of—as he gets into the marshmallow suit once again. 

    They go out, describe a half dozen new arthropod-esque species, each with more legs than the last, and return with more samples with as few words as possible. But nothing is ever allowed to be simple. 

    The hatch on the shuttle has decided today that leaving itself open in the blistering heat is not something it likes to do, and while Fitz and Dex are distracted, it shuts its doors. 

    In turn, it opens the floodgates for Dex to learn some new fun human swear words when Fitz notices what’s happened. 

    “No reason to worry,” Dex says, making xor way through the sand to open up the back emergency panel that exists for exactly this reason. 

    “Uh, I left the keys in there. There’s very much a reason to worry.”

    “And I’ve got admin privileges. It’s fine. Go back to looking for the next beetle you’re going to call your son.”

    “Don’t be rude to Benny like that. He’s not that replaceable.”

home@Cygnus-shuttle-3:~$sudo su

home@Cygnus-shuttle-3:~$******

root@Cygnus-shuttle-3:~$ufw disable 

    There’s no particular reason why the firewall sometimes decides to make the hatch close, and this is enough of a solution for Dex to not go searching for an answer. 

    As the door begins to open again, Fitz asks, “So, what’s the password?”

    “I’m the password.”

    “Yes, yes, I understand that you’re helpful. Now, what’s the password if this were to happen again and you aren’t around?”

    “I’m the password. It’s literally just my name. D3x+3r. It’s got an uppercase character, lowercase character, number, and a special character. My friend Sophie thought he was hilarious when he heard it, so now it’s my password for everything. Don’t tell anyone.”

    “I won’t. I don’t even know where the special characters are even if I wanted to.”

    “The ‘t’ is replaced with a plus. The ‘e’s are fairly obviously transliterated to ‘3’s. There’s nothing fancy going on here.”

    Fitz turns to walk away but stops himself. “The name Sophie feels a little familiar. Does he by any chance know a Keefe?”

    “Yes, actually. The two of them dated for a while. Although I’m not sure if that should be in the past tense. I stopped asking for updates a while ago.” 

    Fitz laughs. “Stars, I wish I could figure out how to do that. I’ve never escaped from them.”

    “Just kind of stare blankly into the distance and people will stop wanting to tell you things. They’re usually doing it because they want compliments on whatever it is they’re telling you, and by depriving them of that, they stop wanting to do that.”

    “Are you sure you’re an auton?”

    Now it’s Dex’s turn to laugh, a sound xe was very much not designed to make, so it sounds more like an out of tune record skipping. “Yeah, I think so. I’ve walked into too many door frames to have gone this long without getting a contusion, which is another thing your species doesn’t particularly care about getting.”

    “Case in point: I found one on my leg yesterday and I have no idea how I got it. It’s already green and I’m not sure how I hadn’t noticed it before. I guess that’s what I get for being from a death world.”

    Dex gestures widely to the rolling desert around xem. “I think Earth’s death world status may be a bit outdated. If this isn’t a death world, I don’t know what is, and, by comparison, I’m pretty sure Earth is an absolute paradise. You didn’t have to evolve to use tricobalt tetraoxide as an electron donor.”

    “We’ve also had five mass extinctions,” Fitz interjects. 

    “So has everybody else, including the Datsonians, even if their government would rather not admit that out loud. You’re not special.”

    Fitz snaps his fingers inside of the marshmallow suit, which does not work well with the thick padding of the gloves. “And that’s exactly what I wanted you to admit.”

    “Is that why you volunteered to come back down here?”

    “That was mostly a decision based on Parallax’s inability to find another poor sap that would be willing and able to come down here.”

    “Wouldn’t it be really funny if they send a Gzhelian in your place?”

    Fitz smiles, the sound of the air conditioners they use onboard the Cygnus Oscuro at a nice, toasty 200 kelvin having kept him from sleeping for nearly as many hours as Dex has wanted to disconnect xor audio input. 

    A beat of silence stretches in the space between them, but for the first time it isn’t immensely uncomfortable. 

    “We should probably be getting back inside the shuttle before it decides to close again,” Dex says, even if it would be very entertaining if they stood outside long enough for it to grow its own intelligence again. 

    After all, that’s kind of how xe got here. Xe’s going to get replaced by a shuttle door within the next couple of Eifelia years. 

    Xe’ll probably get assigned to, like, repairing the Cygnus Oscuro in all of the places the non-auton mechanics are unable to go, but at least xe’ll have discovered a wondrous new world before that happens. 

    while True: 

        # avoid getting hit by Fitz’s projectiles

# no, seriously, they’re dangerous

        update_coordinates()

        data_status = upload_data()

        if (data_status == True):

            break() 

[bronte-deserves-better]

Candor

Pspsps Bronte and Tiergan fans, new fic about them-

Title: Candor

Wordcount: 5219

Summary:

noun: candor

the free expression of one's true feelings and opinions

-

“It-“ under Bronte’s icy stare, Tiergan finds his usual lies slip away. “Fine, it’s not fine. What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing in particular. I just wanted your honesty.”

Tiergan considers snapping at him and finds that he has no energy left to do so. He sighs. “It should be better now that Sophie’s better, shouldn’t it?”

“I regret to inform you that that is not how elven minds work.”

-

Or, Bronte and Tiergan talk in the aftermath of Sophie's shattering and subsequent healing.

(Sequel to Ancillary)

Warnings: death mention, mentions of injury, referenced deadnaming, discussion of homophobia and transphobia

-

It's a Tuesday.

It’s a Tuesday, and Tiergan should probably be grading assignments or talking to the rest of the Collective about their next move against the Neverseen or any of the infinitely many other things he has to do, but all he can think is that he should be at Foxfire, in one of the cramped rooms they use for telepathy sessions, two prodigies sat in front of him.

No one wants to make Sophie go back to Foxfire after the events of last week. And no one can muster the energy to argue with Sophie’s friends, who are insistent on spending as much time with her as possible. So Fitz and Sophie are both home this morning, and Tiergan, for all that he’s always hated working for the Council, finds himself lost without the obligation of mentorship. 

His imparter dings, and he scrambles to grab it, expecting to see Prentice or Wylie’s name.

Instead, displayed on the screen is

Councillor Bronte:

Do you want to go to lunch today? I find myself (against my better judgement) almost missing your tendency to snark at me. Besides, I think we should discuss some of what happened last week.

Lunch with Bronte would normally sound horrible in all ways. Today, it’s a blessed distraction.

Tiergan Alenefar:

Where and when?

Councillor Bronte:

12:00 in Eternalia, Arty’s Café (24 Favriel Way, in the historic district). It’s a nice place. Run by a friend of Oralie’s from a while back.

Tiergan Alenefar:

I can’t believe I’m saying yes to this.

Councillor Bronte:

Trust me, I can hardly believe I’m asking this.

Tiergan sets his imparter down and debates if it’s acceptable to go to lunch with a Councillor in his pajamas. Probably not, though, as Livvy would say, it would be funny.

Ultimately, he does pick out a decently nice (but comfortable) tunic and even manages to pull his hair back before he sets out. Though he’s never been to this particular café before, the historic area of Eternalia is the part he feels most comfortable navigating, at least. Not that that’s a high bar. Tiergan generally avoids crowds and loud places to the best of his ability, which consequently means he doesn’t spend a lot of time in any of the elven cities. Combine that with a below-average sense of direction, and you get the incredible ability to get lost approximately thirty seconds after leaping just about anywhere.

It's fine. He has time before he has to meet Bronte, and wandering Eternalia is better than sitting at Solreef and trying not to remember how the vacant expression in Sophie’s eyes was a perfect mirror of Prentice’s.

He should feel better. By all rights, he should be okay now. He got Prentice back. He got Sophie back, against all odds, against all that they had known to be possible. But once the initial relief faded, he just felt…. empty. Tired. Exhausted, even. There’s so much still to be done, so many battles to be fought and wars to be won. It all feels like too much.

He knows he’s been avoiding people. There are three unanswered hails on his imparter from Livvy, and he counts himself lucky she hasn’t run out of patience and showed up at his door yet. Wylie hasn’t found the time to yell at him over the events of last week yet, and for that too, he’s grateful. Prentice, as well, has been a victim of Tiergan’s unwillingness to interact with people; though he made such sweet promises and held Tiergan so softly in those fragile moments after the healing, there’s still a part of Tiergan that screams at him to run and hide from the raw vulnerability of Cognatedom. He’s almost ashamed to find himself still afraid after all these years.

It's something a lot like shame as well that he can’t bring himself to talk to the people who love him yet is happy to meet with a grouchy Councillor who he absolutely detests. Maybe it’s the freedom of knowing that he doesn’t have to measure his words carefully around Bronte- he can be raw and cruel and honest, and Bronte will still come back the next week to be bitter and blunt and honest right back.

Tiergan slows to a stop, realizing that, lost in thought, he walked straight past the café he’s supposed to be meeting Bronte at.

By the time he winds his way back, Bronte is already standing by the entrance. It’s strange to see him so dressed down in a simple dark grey tunic and cloak, clasped with a silver pin. No circlet, no glimmering jewels. Just Bronte, as unbreakable and unyielding as steel.

The knot in Tiergan’s chest loosens a bit.

“You’re late,” Bronte says dryly.

“I got lost.”

“Of course you did.”

“Asshole,” Tiergan huffs, because he can, because he’s not afraid of Bronte, much as neither of them likes the other.  

Bronte snorts, very undignified for a supposedly perfect Councillor. “Rude.”

“As if you’ve ever known me to be anything but rude to you.”

“True that. Let’s go in, shall we?”

“Sounds good to me.”

The door makes a gentle clinking noise when Bronte pushes it open. Inside, though he’s never been before, the interior appears intimately familiar. Cozy armchairs and booths, the scent of fresh mallowmelt, and elves with balefire jewelry glinting from their ears and wrists, phoenixes shining from around their necks, long hair and beards, short hair and dresses.

Oh. The sense of safety creeps in slowly at first, then all at once, and Tiergan lets out a long breath. “You would take me here, of all places.”

“It can be nice to be among others who are alike us.”

He can’t argue with that. “I didn’t know this place existed.” “There’s not a lot in Eternalia, but there’s this, and a few ballrooms. You get to know the scene well when you live in a city for a few thousand years.”

“I wasn’t aware Councillors were supposed to sneak around so,” Tiergan says, raising an eyebrow.

“And I wasn’t aware that Foxfire mentors were supposed to join rebellions or pine for their best friends,” Bronte snipes back. “Yet here we are.”

The words stir emotions Tiergan has been trying very hard to forget about, the ache that steals his breath when Prentice’s hands brush his. “Careful, Bronte.”

���Would you ask me to pull my punches with you now, after all that?”

“As if you and I have ever pulled punches with each other.” His own words echo in his mind. He was right, he knows, but…he’s tired. “Fine, you’re right. I’d be a hypocrite to ask for your kindness.”

Bronte halts abruptly and turns to him. “Are you alright?”

“What?” “I could have sworn I just heard the words ‘you’re right’ pass your lips.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Bronte doesn’t quite grin, but the edges of his lips curl up with undeniable smug amusement.

The person in front of them in line gives them a very odd look but is just as soon distracted by ordering their pastries.

Then, it’s their turn. Bronte orders mallowmelt and strong coffee for himself, and then glances back at Tiergan. “You want anything?”

“I-“ deciding sounds like far too much energy. “I’m fine.”

“Three strawberry ripplefluffs and some mint tea,” Bronte tells the employee, who grins at him.

“Coming right up!” She punches in the order, grinning. “How are you doing?”

“Well enough, all things considered. Yourself?”

“Oh, same old, same old, you know how it is. Who’s this, by the way?” She gestures at Tiergan with her free hand.

“A-“ Bronte looks at Tiergan, who shrugs back at him. “A coworker of mine from Foxfire. His name is Tiergan. Tiergan, this is Zelda. She and her husband are old friends of Oralie’s.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Zelda chirps brightly.  “I hope this old grouch has been nice to you.”

“Well- he’s been grouchy,” Tiergan settles for, not really sure how to reply.

Zelda laughs. “As always!” She takes Bronte’s birth fund cube and swipes it, handing it back to him. “You two are good to go sit down. I’ll have El bring out your order in just a moment.”

“Thank you, Zelda.”

“No problem. Next!”

They go find a seat in a warm, cozy corner. Tiergan sinks gratefully into the softness of the chair, marveling at how this odd little café is just the right kind of quiet and dim. There’s a faint hum of background chatter, but the abundance of fabric is enough to absorb some of the noise, and the gauzy curtains filter the light into soft shades of purple, pink, and blue. Across from him, Bronte is lit in a gentle rose, softening out his harsh features and making his dark hair gleam like copper.

For once, Tiergan finds himself without anything to say.

“So. How has your life been going? Better than mine, I hope,” Bronte says dryly.

“It’s been…fine.”

“That makes me think it has not been fine.”

“It-“ under Bronte’s icy stare, Tiergan finds his usual lies slip away. “Fine, it’s not fine. What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing in particular. I just wanted your honesty.”

Tiergan considers snapping at him and finds that he has no energy left to do so. He sighs. “It should be better now that Sophie’s better, shouldn’t it?”

“I regret to inform you that that is not how elven minds work.”

“I know.” He knows better than anyone. Nightmares of Cyrah’s death and Prentice’s shattering still haunt him, even to this day.

Bronte sighs as well. “I have to admit that I find myself not unaffected by it as well. Even with all the millennia I have seen, there are some things that are impossible to forget.”

“Such as?”

“Seeing your brother’s mind broken, how a burn from Everblaze feels, the sting of an ogre’s rusted blade, your prodigy collapsed and vacant-eyed.”

Tiergan shudders. He’s never going to get that image out of his mind either.

“You-“ Bronte starts, and then looks away.

“What?”

“There were… several minutes between you losing your connection with me and Prentice’s arrival.”

Oh. Was that…worry in Bronte’s voice? “I was unaware.”

“You were essentially dead to the world, I’m not surprised. But yes, there were several minutes where you were not responsive, and I was unable to act effectively.”

“You did help,” Tiergan tells him. “Your inflicting was part of why I was able to hold on as long as I did.” It rankles his pride to have been so reliant on Bronte, but not nearly as much as it would have before.

A glimmer of surprise flickers through those icy eyes. “Were it anyone else saying that, I would be confident it was a reassuring lie.”

“But you believe me?” “I don’t believe you of all people would ever lie to spare my feelings.”

A small laugh spills from Tiergan’s lips before he’s hardly aware of it. “True, I wouldn’t.”

“Exactly.” Bronte’s lips quirk in a wry smile. “I suppose I should have known that I was capable of positive inflicting when even you believed I was. I just assumed you were in denial about the reality of our situation.”

He doesn’t like to admit this, but- “I was, to some degree. I was right, in the end. But I had no real reason to believe you could, only that you had to be able to or all was lost.”

“Desperation is a powerful motivator.” “It is.” He has to swallow the sudden lump in his throat, recalling those horrible, desperate hours when he thought Sophie was gone forever. The grief, the rage, the dreadful, agonizing guilt. She was gone, and it wasn’t fair, and he should have protected her.

Tiergan knows better than most the fragility of the elven mind and consequently, the danger of allowing yourself to dwell on the past. Yet some days it seems like looking backward is all he can do. Ever since Prentice’s mind break, the future has seemed too daunting, too terrifying and exhausting, to even consider. Even now, even with Prentice back, there’s the Neverseen to fight and a cognate bond he’s been avoiding and a thousand worries about Sophie, her friends, Wylie, Tam, Linh, Leto, Prentice- the list goes on. It’s easier to look at the past, whether with yearning or regret, than confront how the lingering fear that all he’s gained is only temporary has carved itself into his very bones. Will he ever be able to look at Prentice without fearing he’ll break apart before his eyes? Will he ever not see Cyrah in the curve of Wylie’s jaw and the quirk of his brow? Will he ever look at Sophie without seeing a mirror of his own, younger self and how he saw no way to go on, no happiness in his future? He could drown in those aches, those fears, hearing Wylie’s pacing on sleepless nights and Sophie struggling in the throes of the same despair that once took him.

He only realizes that he’s been staring at the worn wood table for far too long when a cheerful elf with a wide, easy smile comes to give them their drinks and sweets. “Mallowmelt and strong coffee for you, Bronte?”

“As ever.”

The elf beams and sets the plates down before levitating two more around to set in front of Tiergan with a flick of their wrist. “And mint tea and strawberry ripplefluffs for you?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“No problem. I hope you two are having a good time.” They pair that with a slight wink.

Bronte sighs. “It’s not like that, El.”

“Ah, sorry for the assumption.” El cracks another easy grin. He reminds Tiergan a little bit of Prentice before the mind break, all warmth and smile lines.

“Easy mistake to make.”

“Do you make a habit of taking guys you’re flirting with here?” Tiergan has to ask.

“Not in particular.”

El laughs. “This café just generally sees a lot of that sort of thing.”

“Indeed, and not the least from myself and my friends over the years,” Bronte says dryly.

“True that. You’re our best customer,” El jokes.

“Please, that title absolutely goes to Albert.”

“Oh, true that. Speaking of which, I need to get goin’. It’s busy today.”

“We won’t keep you any longer, then,” Bronte agrees.

El beams once more before turning to take another table’s dirty dishes.

Meanwhile, Tiergan blinks at Bronte, baffled by how comfortable he seems around this near-stranger, particularly when it comes to secrets so large and life-ruining as what they are.

“El is one of us,” Bronte explains, seemingly anticipating his questions. “I’ve known him for many years.”

“You’re very open here.”

“I am.” He pauses to take a sip of his coffee, setting the cup down again with a gentle clink. “Em- someone I know once asked me how I could stand knowing that there were so many people who knew what I am. I gave him the same explanation I’ll give you: there are numerous things that I am forced to hide, and numerous elves who would depict me as things I am not. I have played this part for too many years to deny myself the opportunity to be seen for even a small part of who I truly am.”

“Does it not scare you to be seen?” It scares Tiergan. He never wanted Bronte to know the truth of him, shies away from even Prentice’s kind gaze.

“Of course it does. I simply find that when one grows accustomed to perpetually playing the part of a perfect Councillor, being seen more truly becomes more a relief than a burden. I suppose that’s part of what Oralie and I see in each other: someone who can look past all our facades.”

Tiergan watches Bronte’s slim hand curl around the cup and tries to breathe. “You think it’s worth it, then?”

“I like to think so. Though I’ll admit that it can be…difficult.”

“It can be.”

“It’s easy to grow so accustomed to hiding parts of yourself in order to survive that secrecy begins to feel like safety. It is, I suppose, for elves like you and me.”

It’s like Bronte’s struck him, head reeling with the unpleasant feeling of his longest-buried griefs being brought to light. “It is,” he manages to rasp.

“It is,” Bronte agrees. “Yet I find that it can be a hindrance as well. The fear of that secrecy being overturned follows us even in places of safety; it prevents us from finding one another.”

Tiergan can’t breathe. His heart is stripped bare, fears and pains laid out under Bronte’s discerning gaze. “You’re not an expert on my fears.”

“No, I wouldn’t imagine I am.” He says nothing more than that, allowing the quiet chatter and clink of dishes to fill the silence instead.

Tiergan takes a sip of his tea. It’s still warm, sharp and fresh and minty. The band around his chest loosens a little.

“I knew someone who would swear by mint tea as a cure for any emotion, you know.” Bronte’s tone is strangely melancholy, eyes focused somewhere behind Tiergan’s head.

“Oh?”

“Anxiety over school? Mint tea. Angry at your brother? Mint tea. Heartache? Mint tea.”

Tiergan manages to smile. “Did it work?”

“Unfairly often.”

“Is that why you bought it for me?”

“It was the first thing that came to mind.”

He sips at his tea again and decides that whoever this person of Bronte’s was, they were at least a little bit right. It doesn’t quite wash away the fears that are carved into him or the ache that’s nestled in his chest, but it soothes the sharp edges a little bit.

Across from him, Bronte takes a bite of mallowmelt. Tiergan is struck by how similar and yet how different this feels to their time at Foxfire; instead of the uncomfortable chairs and gleaming light of the mentor’s cafeteria, there’s the soft glow of blue through the drapes and plush fabric on his seat, but the core of it remains unchanged. Him and Bronte, Bronte and him. Forever opposite one another, even as, on some fundamental level, they’re a little bit the same.

Which reminds him-

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something, actually.”

“Do tell.”

“The one day at Foxfire that I snapped at you and told you that you were worse than a monster. You didn’t sit with me that Thursday, but the next week you came back. Why?” It’s a bold question, but here, in the little café where Bronte is so open, almost unguarded, seems like the right time for bold questions.

“I didn’t lie to you, if that’s what you’re asking. That Thursday I did genuinely have a Council meeting that ran over into lunch. As for why I came back… I will repeat what I told you before. I have hidden for too long to deny myself the opportunity to be seen truly.” He sighs, setting down his fork. “You have to understand that I have been spoken of as a monster for longer than you have been living, Tiergan. From the moment I manifested as an inflictor, those whispers have followed me, and I am ashamed to say that I’ve proven them right, at times. Though I am not proud of it, there comes a point when even you start to believe yourself a monster, incapable of being anything else. You saw through that. Though you have ample reason to hate me, you still saw me for an elf capable of good or evil as opposed to the monster I’ve so often been said to be. That is worth more than you can imagine.”

“Even if that meant I hated you more because I knew you could have acted differently?”

“Even then. Your hatred matters less than the truth of your perception.”

“That cannot be a healthy way to handle that,” Tiergan informs him.

“I’m well aware.”

For once, Tiergan doesn’t understand. He’s grown used to seeing a mirror of his own pain, not just in Sophie but in Bronte as well. Twin reflections of the trauma of a life lived in forced secrecy. This, though, is something completely different. “I don’t understand you sometimes.”

“I would be concerned if you always understood me, honestly.”

 “I understand how you can be open about some things. That’s the point of signaling. What I don’t get is-“ the words stick in his throat.

“Is?” Bronte prompts.

Tiergan lets out a breath. “It doesn’t scare you to have someone look at you and see the truth- not just a piece, but all of it?”

Bronte’s eyes are, in that moment, unimaginably ancient. “You ask that as if anyone has ever looked at me and seen the entire truth.”

“Has no one?”

“Oralie comes close, some days. Fintan was closer.”

Another breath. He can taste mint at the back of his mouth. “I shouldn’t be afraid of him. He loves me.”

Bronte is silent.

“Secrecy has always meant survival for me. For us. How do I unlearn that?”

“In my experience, you don’t.”

“You don’t, but-“ But he’s given Prentice everything he was ever able to give, save for one thing: himself. “But I owe him more than secrecy and avoidance.”

“Do you?”

Tiergan can’t answer that. “I love him. I want to trust him.”

“Love doesn’t always mean trust. I’ve certainly loved men who I couldn’t trust as far as I could throw them, or however the saying goes.” Bronte takes a long drink of his coffee.

 “That sounds…”

“Like a bad idea? It was.” Tiergan must look startled, as Bronte snorts. “Don’t look so surprised. Even I was young and foolish once. And I find we are all often proven fools when it comes to love.”

If the brief curiosity of wondering just who Bronte loved had banished the ache in his chest, now Bronte’s words return it tenfold. A fool is certainly what Tiergan is, to hope and grieve and rage and yearn all these long years, and yet to run from Prentice now that he’s finally returned.

The edges of his fork are digging into his hand, and he makes an effort to relax his grip. “And if someone deserves your trust but you can’t seem to give it to them? Does that make you a fool?”

“Not a fool. Cautious, perhaps. If I were more poetic, I might call it scarred.”

“Like a solider coming home.”

“Exactly.” Bronte’s gaze is far away, eyes watching something no one else can see, as he says “You’ve been at war for so long that you don’t remember what peace felt like.”

“You can’t be the same as you were. Not even elven medicine can erase some scars.”

“You’ve become what you needed in order to survive. But there is no coming back from that.” Bronte’s balefire earring flashes in the light when he turns his gaze away from the window.

Tiergan’s breath rasps in his throat. “How can you be soft again after you’ve been asked to be brave for so long?”

“I don’t know if you can. Not entirely.”

“No. Not entirely.”

“You’ll never be the same as you were.” The twist of his mouth says that he speaks from bitter experience.

“How could you be?”

“You couldn’t.”

“You can’t,” Tiergan agrees. He’s no longer sure if he’s talking about Prentice’s mind break or Cyrah’s death or Sophie’s shattering or the war against the Neverseen or even just growing up as himself in this world where he cannot be anything but brave. He carries so many losses and scars, the sharp edges of his heartache pricking at his soft skin like so many thorns.

The lines of Bronte’s face and the scars on his hands as he lifts his cup tell a tale of his own silent griefs, wars waged and won under the cover of darkness and closed doors. “I suppose I should have faith that any struggle can be overcome, given sufficient time. However, I doubt that certain things can ever be undone.”

He’s right. He’s right, and that makes it even worse that he’s done all that he has. “You can’t undo some things. Even if you reverse it, the damage is done.”

“The damage is done,” Bronte repeats. His face should be shadowed with regret, twisted by guilt. Instead, he just looks tired.

Tiergan’s grief burns like hot tea in the back of his throat, aches like a broken rib above his heart. “He’s still gone in my head. I’m still at war.” It should be euphoric to have Prentice beside him again and Sophie healed, to be surrounded by people he knows he can trust with the truest, most fragile parts of himself. But he can’t seem to stop running.

“Some days, I’m still sixteen and called by a name that was never mine,” Bronte answers. A grief for a grief, vulnerability laid out on the table between them like a quilt.

Here, in this quiet little bakery, they are both utterly exposed; if he takes this chance to strike Bronte where it hurts, Bronte will find the chink in his armor just as easily. Mutually assured destruction. Maybe that’s why Tiergan says “We once said Sophie was just like you and I at fifteen.”

“Scared and alone in a world that wasn’t built for us. I remember.”

“I sometimes wonder if we’re like that even now.” Sometimes it feels like the shadow of that fifteen-year-old follows him still, overlays his every word and action.

“Not exactly like that. For one thing, neither you nor I are entirely alone.”

“True.”

“Still, you may be right- though don’t tell anyone I said that.” He sets his cup down with a soft clink. “Once you’ve been that child, you will never quite let go of that part of you. I’d imagine you know that better than anyone.”

He bristles at the assumption, balks even more at the fact that it’s correct. “Don’t act like you know that about me.”

“I’m only extrapolating from what you’ve told me.”

Tiergan lets out a breath. “Then I’d imagine you also know that very well.”

“I was just like you were at fifteen,” Bronte reminds.

“And Sophie is just like I was at fifteen.”

“And even I was like how you are now, once.”

Tiergan doesn’t want to be alike Bronte. But he is tired of denial, of fear. “I wonder if I’ll end up how you are now.”

“I hope not.”

“Me too.”

“Like my brother, I am the way I am because the world has written me into this role. I hope that you won’t allow yourself to be twisted into bitterness the same way.”

“I would argue you haven’t let yourself be twisted as much as he has.”

“No, perhaps not.” Bronte sighs. “Still, I have become more bitter and resigned than I ever wanted to be. There was a day when I struggled against the world like you; now, I find I have become the person you and others like you struggle against.”

“That’s not the end of it, you know,” Tiergan tells him. “You could choose differently. Even now.”

“Some things cannot be undone. But yes, I can do differently today, and tomorrow, and all the days that will come after.”

“Some things can’t be undone,” he agrees. “But it’s worth trying to do better the next time.”

“I suppose so. And I will remind you of the same- whatever regrets you carry, you can always start afresh.”

It’s a marvel, really, Bronte’s ability to tell what Tiergan needs without it ever being spoken aloud. The words can’t quite put together the fractured glass of his soul, but they soothe the jagged edges just a little. “I know. I should…I should talk to him.”

“Probably.”

“You don’t even know who I’m talking about.”

“I could guess. And besides, Emery insists communication is important to any relationship. Admittedly, I don’t usually listen to Emery, but he might have a point about that.”

“It is, as I’m always telling Fitz and Sophie.” It’s ironic, really, that he’s teaching the teenagers how to handle their Cognate bond while his own is something he’d been avoiding for years even before Prentice’s mind break. Still, he’s been given a second chance, something he never really let himself believe that he would be able to have. He would be a fool to waste it, he knows. He’s going to get it right this time.

Bronte’s dry voice breaks him from his thoughts. “Ah, yes, the young Cognate pair.”

“They’ve struggled with communication at points. And I doubt my advice has been the best, given…everything. Teenagers can sense a hypocrite from miles away.” He realizes his ripplefluffs have been laying abandoned for most of the conversation, stabbing one idly with his fork.

“Oh, certainly. As Sophie is happy to let me know when I attempt to advise her on handling her emotions.”

Tiergan can’t help a small laugh at the idea of Bronte giving advice on emotions to anyone. “I have to agree with her there.”

“Of course you do. At least you listen to my advice on other things occasionally,” Bronte sighs.

“When you have a decent thought, so very occasionally.”

That earns him a glare.

He takes a bite of his ripplefluff, resisting a smile. It would be a lie to say that the lingering grief of Sophie’s shattering doesn’t still lay heavy on his shoulders, that he won’t still fear the intimacy of a Cognate bond, that the shadow of that wounded fifteen-year-old doesn’t still follow him. But all those burdens seem less for having been spoken aloud, the air in his lungs less like shattered glass.

He's going to try again. He and Prentice are going to try again, and Tiergan is going to whisper softly to that wounded child that’s curled up in his heart, it’s okay, it’s alright, we’re safe here. We’re safe with him.

They finish their food, and he thanks Bronte for taking him to lunch. Bronte stares at him like he’s grown a second head, and Tiergan laughs again at his startled expression. “I can be nice, you know.” “Yes, but the fact that you’re choosing to be nice to me makes me wonder who you are and where the real Tiergan has gone,” Bronte deadpans back. “This is a nice place. And there are some things you understand better than anyone else.”

“True, I suppose. Well, thank you for coming to meet with me. I’m sure the rest of the Council have managed to cause at least three crises while I’ve been gone, so I should be off, but our conversation was…enlightening.”

“The same for me. I’m sure Wylie and the other kids have broken at least one of my nice vases,” Tiergan jokes, though now that he thinks about it, that has definitely happened before. “I’ll see you at Foxfire, then?”

“Sooner or later, I’m sure.”

Tiergan walks out into the bright sunlight of Eternalia, pulling out his imparter as he does so.

Tiergan Alenefar:

Do you want to talk about Cognate stuff + a few other things this week?

Prentice Endal:

Of course <3

Wednesday, maybe?

Tiergan Alenefar:

That works for me

[renee-writer]

Frank Chapter 65

AO3

She is loath to do it but she trusts her better then her parents who she doesn’t know. Mistress Duncan has returned to the village. Frank won’t allow her to take the baby that far. So she finds herself in the surgery, her son in her arms.

 

“Laoghaire, how may I help you?” She winces at seeing her children, Jamie’s children, laying on a tartan at her feet.

 

“He is to small. Frank says so. Says he needs to get bigger or…”

 

There was no need to say more. All at the keep are aware of his mistreatment of her.

 

“May I see him?” Laoghaire hesitates a moment to the healer’s relief. At three months, it seems she has finally started bonding with her child.

 

Claire takes Frank’s presumed child in hand. A quick exam shows he is developmentally where he should be for his adjusted age. Maybe a bit underweight but he was also born six weeks early.

 

“Little Frank is doing well. The reason he is smaller then expected is because he was born early. Is he nursing well?”

 

“Aye, he seems to want fed all the time. Is that normal? He says it is because I am not feeding him enough.”

 

Claire shakes her head with frustration. “Does he have many wet clods?” She nods, “Good. You are feeding him enough. He is growing. That takes energy. He gets that from nursing more. You are doing exactly as you are supposed to.”

 

She lets out her breath as she takes her baby back. “Thank you.”

 

“I will explain this to Frank, eh?”

 

“Thank you. That would be most helpful.”

 

“Laoghaire, is he still mistreating you?”

 

She blushes as she presses her baby against her chest. “He doesn’t want martial relations. Says one child is enough. He expects him to never cry. Wants him to be as hail and hardy as your own children. He says that they are two and he is just one. I should be able to make his son strong.”

 

 

Claire sighs. “Every child is different. Fergus and Faith have a different father. It makes a difference. They also weren’t early. Do you have any support outside of him?”

 

“Granny. She helps as much as she can.”

 

Thank God for Mrs. Fitz, Claire thinks.

 

“Good. I will talk to Frank.”

 

“Aye, thank you again.”

 

She walks out and Claire turns to her own. They need fed. Jemmy is out with Jamie. She lifts them up and gets them nursing.

 

“Frank is a right arse.” She tells them.

[oliversrarebooks]

i want to leave a rose on fitz's doorstep

Fitz opens the door, spots the rose, and freezes up in full-blown panic.

He grabs his suitcase and his thrall and hails a taxi to take him to a rundown hotel out of the city, where he huddles in terror while his thrall tries to comfort him. It's only after several days and a lot of reassurance from his mental link with Lex that he accepts that Lex's sire isn't coming for him and that he can go back home.

In the meantime, there's a lot of crying in the shower. Roger's neck and shoulder are all bruised from the amount of stress eating Fitz indulged in.