#also also points to the scar on his nose and then points to sixtys forehead theyre friends (well granted ive never seen a role swap fic

[moeblob]

Reverse!Gavin

[lyansi]

Chapter Summary: She finds solace in the menial house-tasks; washing the floors, scrubbing the laundry clean, even airing out their furnishings. The tasks keep her busy and her mind doesn’t wander on the what ifs. 

But suddenly, he is there. And demanding things of her. What does he want?

Disclaimer: Rumiko Takahashi is responsible for the Inuyasha series, I only lay claim on the story I have written.

Read this work on AO3

Shinagawa, Tokyo, Japan

June 19, 1946

1428:14 PM

“Sota! Hurry up, your friends are here to walk to school with you. And don’t forget your textbooks this time!” 

Kagome uses her free hand to hold open the bamboo screen, the other holds tight to her futon-tender, a long bamboo stick with intricate loops at one end. Behind her, three students entertain one another with conversation. Her blue eyes turn back to them and inform of her younger brother's descent. She hears behind the curtain Sota’s loud footfalls as he approaches the entrance. 

“I don’t know why I have to go— it would be more helpful if I worked in the fields with Mama and jii-chan.”

A lanky dark-haired young man pushes up the curtain. His bangs usually pushed to the right, are greased back in a professional manner. A frown sets on his face as he speaks to his sister. 

Kagome glares at him, placing her hands defiant on her hips. The stick almost knocks into him and he is forced to take a step back. He stands a head taller than her, but this doesn’t daunt her one bit. 

“Absolutely not! You are to go to school every—single—day and finish. Education is so important these days! Do you know how hard Mama and I work to make sure you graduate?” Kagome jabs a finger in his chest as she punctuates her words. His friends chuckle as she lectures him. 

Her words rang true though— there was so much at stake, and Sota could have a future she would never have. A formal education, the opportunity to study abroad, a life full of happiness and prosperity. 

If only he would stop forgetting his textbooks at home!

“Go on now— did you grab the book as I said?” This time, Kagome is pointing the bamboo stick at him. He holds up a faded hardcover volume clutched in one hand. 

Sota rolls his eyes as he moves past his older sister. He falters a moment and glances over his shoulder. Shadows cast over honey-brown eyes. “Don’t work too hard today, nee-chan. You look like you need sleep.” 

Sucking in a deep breath, Kagome’s lips twist down. She turns back to the wooden drainboard. 

The heaviness of the last few years weighs upon her. She has been in a state of perpetual exhaustion. When was the last time she even had a restful night of sleep? There had been so many years sowed with anguish.

With the brunt of her strength, Kagome begins to dust out the thick futon slung over the drainboard.

It started with the death of her father in the uprisings of 1935. 

She remembers how her mother fainted upon hearing the news. Within a few short months, Mama who was once so full of life and vigor withdrew into herself. Soon she was so thin that Kagome feared that any embrace would snap her in half. In the wake of her fathers death, and the brief time of her mothers depression, Kagome took it upon herself to help out as a farm tenant in the afternoons.

Then in 1940 Japan entered into the Tripartite Pact.

That year was especially difficult. The country had already been barren with food shortages. The rice rations happened not only in the mainland but beyond to the colonies in Korea and in parts of China. Upon entering the treaty, pre-war efforts put a strain on the communities already struggling. This also meant their borders would be forever closed to their friends in the West, who still funneled resources into their economy. Likewise, it was the year she decided to leave school to work full-time alongside her grandfather and mother as sharecropper, concluding a chapter in her life. 

The sun begins its ascent above her with nary a cloud shielding its bright beauty. Sweat beads on Kagome’s forehead and she takes a moment to fan herself cool. A thin haze of dust surrounds her like a fine mist. One could almost compare it to the fog created on a humid day in the winter season.

Kagome brandishes her arm to dissipate the cloud but is unsuccessful; tasuki ties back her yukata sleeves, the knot pressed between her shoulder and axilla. Suddenly she hears the reverberating sound of a car backfiring. An angry squeal and a holler sound in the distance. 

Raising her free hand above her eyebrow as a visor Kagome peers down the road. The distinctive shape of a utility vehicle, its blue-green paint reflecting the sun, is parked down the street. The American flag hangs off the right side of the vehicle. She could make out the shape of a military man behind the wheel of the car, seeming to throw his hands up in frustration. Pursing her lips, Kagome returns back to the futon, continuing her previous exertion.

At the beginning of the 1941 winter, Japan declared war on their American friends. 

Kagome was fearful that her mother, who had not yet turned forty, would be called into service. Her grandfather, on the other hand, had lucked out of service. He had turned sixty-two that year; he held his head high and spoke proudly of joining the war efforts, had he been in better health and allowed to.

Through the next few years, as men were conscripted into the war, they were able to make a meager living as farmland tenants. Under the laws at the time, their landlord acquired the majority of their harvest, which was subsidized to be sent to the military. Despite the fact that the price for the sale of rice rose, their labor wagers did not reflect those changes. What scanty income they did make, Kagome always made sure to put away money for Sota’s schooling.

“Higurashi-san.”

The previous year, 1945, was the worse though. 

In March, the bombings started. Her mother and grandfather thankfully had been outside the city edges at that time. Her grandfather had terrible pains and neighbors recommended a foreign doctor, way out in the countryside. It was a day walk away and even by carriage took several hours. 

“Higurashi-san.”

Sota had been on the other side of the city. He was staying with a friend for the evening to work on extra coursework.

Unlike her mother, her grandfather, or even her brother, Kagome hadn’t been so fortunate. She had finished selling the last of their shared crops in the towns center when the first bomb struck. Although not at the epicenter, the fire that sprouted in the aftermath could have killed her. 

She was luckier than most with minor physical scars. As long as she wore her kimono sleeves down, no one was the wiser. 

“Higurashi-san!”

Chest heaving, Kagome turns to the voice calling out to her. Tears threaten to spill but she holds well not to allow it so. Her neighbor, Okamoto-san, stands in front of her. Next to her is the man that she immediately recognizes as the Nisei Officer. Although he wasn’t the only Nisei on the island, he was the only one holding a rank higher than most. He was so well-known that his prominence neared that of  Marshall MacArthur. 

He stands several feet above her and is so tall that she actually needs to tilt her head back and still, she only catches the bottom of his chin. It makes her realize how close he stands and takes a step back.

“Hello.” She speaks softly and casts her eyes downward. As she does so, she swipes away the tears from her eyes. When she glances back up amber eyes focus not on her face but on her arm. She feels a hot shame overcome her and loosens the knot at her shoulder. The straps loosen and as she covers the red welts that wrap around her forearm.

“May I help you?” She speaks slow, trying her best to pronounce the words in English correctly. The words form shapes her mouth does not often make, movements foreign to her tongue. Amber eyes train themselves back on blue, and a quiet contemplation swims behind the gaze. The officer is as surprised by her shame as he is by her words.

“Do you speak English?” The words come out in a quick burst. It takes Kagome a moment to roll the words back and forth in her head as she attempts to translate them. 

“I know only a bit of English.” She gestures with her forefinger and thumb.

The man drums his fingers across his clipboard, a frown written across his lips. His eyes are staring down at the list before him. They flick back up to her and then down again. 

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” He asks, eyes trained downward. One hand tightens around a pen that begins to tap with impatience against the side of the rigid board. Before she has a chance to give a response though, he sighs with exasperation.

“Is there an adult here? Perhaps I can speak to your father?” He questions instead. And then he peers behind her at the small hovel, with its thatched roof and missing doorframe. It takes all of Kagome’s willpower not to slap him across the head with her stick. 

“My English is not so good, do you speak Japanese?” She says instead, this time in her native language. She allows the switch of language to buffer her anger. “Is there something I can help you with?”

He nods, finally glancing at her. The sun shines against his eyes and amber irises glow gold. It also highlights the speckles of silver in his blond hair. The officer is a handsome man with a strong jawline and a straight nose. His skin is tanned and  standing close she sees freckles smear across the bridge of his nose. His hair is combed over to one side on top while the sides taper off around his ear and neck.

“I am Lieutenant no Taisho, with the Committee for Land Reform. I have documents that your family is registered to take over as new owners for this hectare? It states that the previous owner was one…Akitoki Yuji.” He is all business now and unblinking. 

The name pulls at her heart and she quickly squashes the memories.

“We need to make sure that all the paperwork has been properly put together. In addition, it is important for us to understand if your family will be working farm landowners or non-working farm landowners. We also need to know how many hectares of farmland you will be leasing and the financial aspects of the payment conditions need to be evaluated.” Lieutenant no Taisho explains in Japanese. It is so clear, and his accent is perfect, she could have mistaken him for a native-born man. His words, however, cut through her like a knife in water. 

 She stands unmoving for several moments, thinking at the list of responsibilities she suddenly has. It reminds her of the continued situation that she, and her family, found themselves in the wake of a post-war society, grappling with aspects of the economy they had never had to worry about before.

Azabu, Tokyo, Japan

April 17. 1910

Our family has prospered for many generations under the bakufu, but at what cost? As the last of the cherry blossom petals fall from the sky, it reminds me of the renewal of our Empire. The great Goisshin and end of sakoku!

Under Emperor Meiji, Nippon has had wealth of heights never before seen. By opening the ports to our friends in the West it helped create prosperity all over our great Empire. The shoguns of the past have suffered the most under this new system. Chichi-ue is insistent on trades and negotiation and refuses to accept modernization.

I do not think chichi-ue would be most fond if he learned of the literature that has been brought into the Gakushujo. The periodicals with girls of skin equally as pale and their hair. Eyes the color of the sea. The books on the theories of public affairs, leadership, and governing of people. The stories of fields upon fields that are not green: a sea of yellow, a sky of pure blue. Where rice is not a national identity.

The older girls talk of attending to the study-abroad program in the United States of America. I fear the day upon which Ozawa-sensei asks chichi-ue for permission to send me upon that journey.

It’s not that I do not wish to join my friends in this voyage: to see a world beyond the coasts of Nippon; to meet those that do not speak my language; to eat foods that I am unfamiliar with. These are experiences I wish most to attend.  

Chichi-ue has other plans for my life. He has arranged for me to meet a man, the son of someone he worked with many years ago. Haha-ue has been most opposed to those plans. She wishes for me to finish my education and continue my studies in the theory of public affairs. Haha-ue has not been able to stop chichi-ue’s decision for me to attend the omiai though. I realize she will not be able to stop him when he withdraws me from school.

We have fallen on hard times. Chichi-ue has taken the last of his fathers' paintings to sell. Next will be haha-ue’s uchikake and then my kimonos. I expect soon, we will sell the house. This is why he has arranged the omiai. I have not yet laid my eyes upon my future betrothed, but I know of his name: Setsuna no Takemaru. I am told he is a handsome man. A prosperous man. It is said that of his past grandfathers served as a samurai under Nobunaga Oda himself. He is a man worthy of marriage according to chichi-ue.

Is this truly the life I wish to live? Am I to be traded off like cattle and prepared for slaughter?

Shinagawa, Tokyo, Japan

June 19, 1946

1309:28 PM

Inuyasha continues to tap his pen impatiently against the clipboard, silent. A film of dirt clings to her skin but it does not hide the color that drains from her face. Blue eyes stare up at him in unquestionable horror. 

She must have a Western relative, to have eyes as piercing blue as hers are. 

“Do you have that information now?” He asks again in Japanese as he waits for a response. Amber eyes look back down to his clipboard, eyeing the number of names that follow “Higurashi”. There was five other families on the list with whom he needed to speak to regarding land ownership. 

Just before the end of the war, landholding kept a noose on those tenants that sought to earn an income. Should a tenant want to work on a landowners farm, it was required to give up all crops but that required for a family of a certain number to survive— and sometimes, less than. As rice grew in cost all over the country, landholders became very rich. That was not trickled down to those that worked the fields however, and the income gap increased with each passing season. Major land reforms helped bring equal distributions to those in a rural society. 

In the wake of the war, instated programs by the United States helped dismantle large plantations into individual plots, sold dirt cheap. It helped to collectively allow more peasant farmers to own their own land and strengthen the growth of the agricultural business through diversifying crops. 

“I’m sorry but my grandfather has that information secured. He is in the fields with Mama though, I won’t be able to get it right now…” His eyes snap back to her face as she speaks again. 

“Okay, I would like you to take this…” Inuyasha shuffles through his papers until he finds the sheet of interest. He scribbles down an address first in English, on instinct, before recalling the situation. He scratches out the direction before re-writing the location in simplified kanji. He turns the clipboard in her direction.

“This is the location of my office.” Inuyasha circles the written address. “You will need to call the office to make an appointment first; here is the phone number.” He taps the right hand side of the page with his pen several times before underlining it. He practically rips the sheet from out of the clip board and thrusts it in her hands. As he does so, he notices a resolve settle in her eyes.

“I will do it.” She says simply. 

And then. 

“Are we done?” 

He raises a thick eyebrow, surprised by the sudden dismissal. It is unusual for such occurrences— often, he was forced to bend himself time and time again in their manners and gestures. It was exhausting for him as he tried to learn and understand the culture. Especially as many of the islanders expected him to have already understood it. 

Although an Issei, an immigrant-born Japanese-American, to his knowledge his mother never practiced any her Japanese culture. She only spoke Japanese in the house and was insistent that he only speak it with her and in the confines of their home. It was not until her passing that he realized how much memorabilia she had  safeguarded, even from him.

His mother was an enigma he would never fully understand. 

This country was equally a conundrum he found himself thrust into. 

A hand waves in front of his face.

“Are you okay?” A look of concern flashes across her face, eyebrows knit together and mouth pursed in confusion. 

Inuyasha frowns and practically glares at her, as if she were at fault for his situation. 

“Just remember to call and make an appointment. You will lose your land if you do not complete this in a timely manner.” He points to the sheet of paper before turning on his heel and storming away. 

Behind him, the woman’s face quickly changes from one of confusion to one of restrained anger. Her fingers clench tighter around the stick she holds and she bounds off to release the frustration. 

[gaybastard2]

IDFC- Chapter 8- Travis is a Badass

Text

[Travis is a Badass]

Warning, this chapter will contain: Gore, choking, self-deprecating thoughts, panic attacks, vomiting, mentions of alcohol, and physical fighting

Travis POV -

I held my breath as I silently crept behind my father, slowly raising Larry's bat higher, trying to ignore the dried blood on the end. I was shaking slightly, both from fear and anger. This sick bastard found me, as of he didn't do enough damage already. I'm honestly surprised he even gave a shit I left. Ah, guess he thought I knew too much. I held my breath, gritting my teeth, as I inched closer behind my father. I was fucking infuriated.

Ashley opened one of her eyes, whimpering in pain when her hair got yanked again, and went slack-jawed when she saw me. She nodded slightly and shut her eye again. I glanced back towards Larry and Sal. Larry's eyes seemed far off, but not to the point of passing out.

The sweater around his bleeding wound had went from a light violet to a dark brown from the blood, making numbing fear run through my body. Sal's chest was still rising and falling gently, the blood starting to dry on his mask and head. They have done so much for me, all of them, I need to protect them. Larry's going to die of blood loss if I don't hurry.

Tears ran down my cheeks as I took another step closer to my father, leaving about a foot between us. I need to do this. Just as he lifted Ashley higher in the air by her hair, I leaped forward and slammed my bat on his head, landing on my ass afterwards. He shrieked and dropped Ashley to the ground, loosing his footing and falling to his knees. His gun went cascading across the floor, landing in the corner.

She stood up and ran to bathroom, returning moments later with med kit. Ashley started to disinfect Larry and Sal's wounds. I warily stood up. Larry managed to lock eyes with me and gave a wary smile. More tears fell down my cheeks as I smiled back. I can do this, for him, for them. Fuck, for me.

I turned my attention back to the grown man crying on the floor, trying desperately to stand up. Blood was steadily dripping from the gash in his head, turning his blonde locks into an angry scarlet. The man that made my life a living hell is sobbing in front of me. The man who shot the boy I love, and beat my new and only friends. My knuckles went white as I gripped the bat tighter. I lost all composure and control.

A scream ripped its way out of my throat as I jerked him straight up by the back of his collar and held my bat to his neck, immediately applying pressure. I held the bat between my forearms and my hands were against the back of his head. My father gasped for air as I choked him, yanking the bat harder against his throat and pushing his head forward. My sight blurred as he desperately clawed at my arms. The more he struggled, the worse my arms hurt, but the more determined I became.

"Let..go..yo-you pi-piece of shit!" My father managed to choke out. At this point all his movements were jerky and he was gasping for air, occasionally letting out a pitiful sob. He was shaking uncontrollably. His eyelids were red and puffy and there were red splotches on the whites in his eyes, probably from popped blood vessels. My fathers face had tinted purple and his veins were now visible.

He went fucking ape-shit, now flailing his limbs frantically. His elbow managed to ram into my chest, sending me stumbling backward as the pain spread through my body. Fucking ow. He took a deep breath and started hacking, clutching his throat desperately. I got a good look at his face. The red splotches in his eyes were still quite visible and his eye lids were still puffy. Tears were running down his cheeks and saliva was trailing down his chin. Blood was still running down the back of his head, parts dried and staining his hair.

After a few more seconds of violent coughing, my father gasped and puked bile onto the floor. A look of disgust spread across my face as the foul smell lingered in my nose. Fucking ew. My father panted a few more seconds and passed out with a loud thud, head landing in the grotesque pile of bile in front of him. I looked down at my shaking hands. Drying blood coated my fingertips and palm from the gash in his head. I took a deep breath and combed fingers through my hair, wet with sweat.

"Uh, Travis? Are you, uh, are you okay?" Ashley shakily called from behind me. Fuck, I almost forgot that literally everything went horribly wrong at the same fucking time. I looked over at her. Larry was laying on the couch, his shirt off and wound now properly bandaged. He was now asleep, his chest rising and falling slowly. I swallowed thickly, holding back tears. I looked at Sal, worry now heavy on my chest. Please be okay, please be okay. Ashley had taken off his mask and started to bandage the gash on the side of his head carefully. His electric blue pigtails had been pulled out, the hair bands now laying on the ground next to him, and I realized that this is the first time I've ever seen him without his mask on.

There were scars going from the top left of his forehead down to the right corner of his chin. His nose structure is gone, leaving just his exposed nostrils, and a small chunk of his mouth is missing, showing his teeth. Now that his mask was removed it was easier to see his eyes. The right one seemed to be a shade of blue lighter than the left, tilting to right slightly. Huh, guess he has a fake eye. That's actually kinda cool. It looks like a chunk of his jawbone is gone, leaving his head slightly misshaped. He honestly doesn't look that bad, but whatever did this to him must be terrifying. Sal looked up at me and smiled lazily.

"Hey, Travis!" He slurred happily, holding the a out. Ah fuck. I smiled back nervously and looked at Ashley. "Ash, what's wrong with him?" She sighed and shook her head, visibly annoyed. "Well, I didn't wanna hurt him with the rubbing alcohol, and he needed to calm down, so I gave him some vodka. Sal was hysterical when he woke up, especially when he saw you. He drank fucking half of it while I was taking care of Larry, and i'm also like sixty percent sure he has a concussion." She explained, ignoring Sal as he braided parts of her hair, mumbling to himself. I nodded in response. Makes perfect fucking sense, which is almost as scary as the rest of this shit.

I looked at back at Larry. He was shifting slightly, mumbling incoherently. I walked closer and sat down in front of the couch, facing Ashley. I looked back at him. His face was twisted in what looked like discomfort and fear, his mumbling getting louder. My chest tightened at the sight. It kills me to see him like this. I reached out and and grabbed his hand gently, rubbing circles into his skin with my thumb.

"Is..is he gonna be okay?" I asked, my voice cracking slightly. She planted her hand on my shoulder and and gave me a reassuring grin. "Definitely. I disinfected the wound immediately, and bandaged it. It does need stitches, though. We'll do that bull shit tomorrow." I smiled warily and nodded. Her expression became serious. "Alright, now what the fuck do we do with him?" Ashley asked, gesturing towards the man laying unconscious on the floor behind us. Huh, almost forgot about him.

Just as she said that, the door swung open. Todd Morrison walked through, his bright orange curls bouncing slightly, fiddling with what looked like and old Gear Boy but with some major advances. "Alright Sally, it should be working fine now, you have to be careful with it though. I also added some minor adjustments." He rambled, gesturing to parts of the Gear Boy. Then Todd finally looked up. His eyes widened and went slack-jawed immediately, eyes flickering between Larry, Ashley, me, and my unconscious father, and back to Ashley. He dropped the Gear Boy to the ground, it now long forgotten.

With a shaky hand, he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, mouth still agape and wide-eyed. "Alright guys, what in the fresh fuck happened?" Todd asked, edge to his voice. Sal sat up and gasped, "Todd! Oh my god hey!" He shouted, waving frantically before falling onto Ashley. Todd pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking slightly. I don't know whether he's shaking out of fear or anger, but either way I'm scared.

Larry's eyes snapped open and he sat up, a look of pure panic on his face. Dear lord. "Todd, we can explain!" Larry nearly shouted, attempting to stand up. He immediately fell over, falling into my lap. I quickly stopped his head from hitting the floor, gasping loudly. My cheeks dusted over pink as Larry mumbled more before drifting asleep, snoring quietly. I looked up at Ashley, confusion written in my features. What the fuck is wrong with him?

She crossed her arms defiantly. "I had to give him vodka, too. I didn't know what to do, okay?! We didn't have any pain relievers. I'm not a fucking doctor." Todd waved his arms around, clearing his throat loudly. "Hey guys, Todd's still here! I get Travis and Larry are having a bonding moment or whatever, but what the actual fuck happened?! Why the fuck is there an unconscious man laying on the ground? What the fuck happened to Sally and Larry? Did Larry get fucking shot or some shit?" Before anyone could respond, he continued to ramble on, pulling at his orange curls nervously.

"Also, why is Travis here? I guess I'm fine with it, but what's that about? Is Sal fucking drunk? I have to go back to the unconscious man on the floor, because what the fuck! You guys do realize that we aren't the only people who live here, right?" He whisper-shouted, gesturing wildly around the room. He looked back at Ashley, panting from barely taking a breath during his questions, and crossed his arms. She stood up, having to gently push a now sleeping Sal off of her, and walked towards Todd, resting both her hands on his shoulders.

"Todd, calm the hell down! Okay, so long story short, the man on the floor is Kenneth, and Travis is cool now. Yes, Sal is drunk, and yes, Larry got shot by Kenneth." Because that's helpful. He backed away from her, looking even more frantic than before. I stroked Larrys hair gently as Todd and Ashley bickered back and forth, admiring his features. Honestly, I need a minute to comprehend what's happening, so I tried to focus on him. That became difficult when Todd and Ashley started fucking screaming.

"Listen, Ash, I get that we have Kenneth now, but that doesn't change how risky this was, or how stupid. We are in an apartment, people live above us, and probably heard your dumb asses! I wouldn't doubt if the police are on their way." Todd shouted, pinching the bridge of his nose once again. "Well, what the fuck were we supposed to do?! He just barged in and tried to kidnap Travis!" Ashley screamed. That's when it hits me. This whole thing is my fault. If I hadn't come over, if I had warned them, if I had done fucking anything, this wouldn't have happened.

My breathing quickly became ragged and uneven as they continued to argue, tears pricking my eyes. The world blurred as warm tears ran down my cheeks, my thoughts becoming more and more harsh. This is my fault. All of this. I yanked my hair, my body shaking uncontrollably. I was gasping for air yet still couldn't breath. I scattered backward till I hit the couch, bringing my knees to my chest and sobbing into them. Everything is so loud, both my thoughts and screaming rang through my ears.

I thought I was dying. So what if I did? Larry deserves better. Dad definitely doesn't give a fuck. Ashley and Sal probably hate me, and I've made an awful impression on Todd. No one would care. I let out a particularly loud sob and the screaming stopped momentarily, before more screaming. "Way to fucking go, Todd, you're making him freak out!" Ashley shrieked, venom dripping off her words. As more screaming followed, I continued to gasp and sob. I'm gonna die, this is it. My thoughts swallowed me, getting louder and louder. I'm a monster. 'This is your fault, all your fucking fault.' The voice shouted.

"Shut the fuck up!" I screamed, trying to quite all the noises in my head and out loud. The room went dead quite, as did my thoughts for a short amount of time before they started again, louder. At least Ash and Todd stopped yelling. I heard a small gasp and a few footsteps towards me. "Travis? Travis, look up." I faintly heard Todd whisper calmly.

[rhinozilla]

L, N, P, T and Z!!

Under the break because I got carried away XD

L: Say something genuinely nice about a character who isn’t one of your faves (chars you’re neutral on are fair game, as are chars you dislike)

I’m neutral on Kara, but she is so strong. She starts the game essentially with a complete mind wipe, and in the span of one(?) day, defies and fights Todd (someone bigger, stronger, more threatening than her, who is her actual owner, and who she knows has severely damaged her before with zero remorse), in order to protect Alice. Then, with only the clothes on her back and nerves of steel, she pushes on, creating her own mission of protecting this little girl and getting them both somewhere safe, where they can both be free and happy. And she is clearly terrified for most of that time, but she does it anyway. And to be that scared and to do the thing anyway is the bravest, strongest thing that anyone can do.

N: Name three things you wish you saw more or in your main fandom (or a fandom of choice)

Connor having friends outside Hank. Not just Nines either, but maybe a handful of people/characters who have looped him into their social circle, who genuinely care about him and enjoy his company. This so that when drama happens between him and Hank or him and Nines/etc, then he has an extended support system to help him through it. Let this boy have more friends!

Connor struggling with mundane things. State of the art android, programmed with the most cutting edge technology and access to boundless information…and he struggles with things like laundry. Cooking. Shopping for clothes that fit (because he’s one of a kind and all of Cyberlife’s clothes were tailor made for him). Styling his hair his own way. Playing catch. Dancing. Doing things for fun that serve no other purpose.

Connor experiencing wonder over everyday things, and the humans around him being tickled every time. Prior to deviancy, he was designed to have mission-based tunnel vision. There was no time for slowing down to simply observe the world around him in all its small nuances and intricacies. So now he takes the time to enjoy little things like watching children splash through puddles, like a starry night sky, like bees landing on flowers, like the sound of his friends laughing, like stepping on a crunchy leaf. Just to enjoy the more peaceful, quiet moments of being alive.

P: Invent a random AU for any fandom (we always need more ideas)

The secret government testing of a biochemical weapon has misfired, and an area of the country the size of Rhode Island has been affected. Effects of the airborne toxin are similar to a zombie virus and can be spread similarly. The entire zone has been walled off from the rest of the world, with the intent to let the virus run its course until everyone inside the zone is dead, and then they will worry about cleanup. But it’s taking longer than expected as stubborn humans continue to survive within the zone, and it’s becoming more difficult for the government to keep this incident a secret from the rest of the country.

No organic being is allowed in or out of the red zone, so androids are deployed to run reconnaissance with the explicit instruction to kill anyone they find inside, alive or walking dead, to speed up the process. Among the most decorated androids in the field are the RK units: Connor, Nines, and Sixty. They are efficient, they are resilient, and they get the job done…until during one tour through the red zone, they each come across a human (or band of humans) and instead of mercy-killing them on sight in accordance with their orders, they save the humans…from the zombie, from the infection, from the elements, from starvation. If asked, they couldn’t tell you why they did it, but now it’s done and, now deviant, they have also been abandoned to the red zone by their superiors, left to expire among the dead and the dying.

Now what?

T: Do you have any hard and fast headcanons that you will die defending, about anything at all (gender identity, sexual or romantic orientation, extended family, sexual preferences like top/bottom/switch, relationship with poetry, seriously anything)

Connor will never call Hank ‘Dad’ or any variation of that title. Their relationship is for sure a very father/son dynamic, but the use of the term ‘Dad’ carries a LOT of baggage for Hank. Even if they reach a point where Hank legally and literally ‘adopts’ Connor as his son in the eyes of the law, Connor will always stick to just ‘Hank’ or some other innocuous term of endearment.

Z: Just ramble about something fan-related, go go go (prompts optional but encouraged)

I’ve got to imagine that Connor has an EXTENSIVE file of undercover disguises. We see Kara alter her appearance slightly, so can you imagine an android specifically designed to go undercover? Connor can not only change his eye color, hair color/length/texture, rearrange his freckles, but he can modify the entire ‘bone structure’ of his face, his cheekbones, his forehead, his nose. He can rearrange his teeth, draw scars and tattoos on his skin, and to an extent, alter his body shape and physical height. The more intense the alterations, the more processing power and strain on his systems, so there is a give and take, but he could literally become a stranger on the street if the mission demanded it.

[avegetariancannibal]

“Je me souviens”

PLEASE NOTE: There is character death below. But life after that, as well.

Hannibal was no longer aging.

Will pointed it out to him one day when they were walking through the market and had stopped in front of a shop window.

"Look at us," Will said, looping his arm through Hannibal's. He nodded at their reflection. "When did I catch you?"

"The moment we met," Hannibal told him.

Will laughed and elbowed him playfully. "I mean my hair is as gray as yours now. When did I catch up to you? You look just the same."

“There’s a plateau when it comes to aging,” Hannibal said as they resumed their walk through the bustling market, still arm in arm. “A man of fifty looks quite different from a man of forty, but a man of fifty could be the twin of man aged sixty years. It is like a period of idling, when the face, hair and body are deciding just how quickly they want to barrel towards complete entropy.”

"By my count, you're sixty-four now," Will said. "That's past the idling stage."

"Am I?" Hannibal asked, genuinely surprised. "I suppose I stopped counting. That means you owe me a rather sizable backlog of birthday gifts. I can't remember getting even one from you."

"You said you had everything you could ever want," Will reminded him. He lowered his voice. "The night we killed the Dragon together."

"So I did," Hannibal agreed. "No birthday gifts ever, then?"

"Perhaps one," Will said, moving to step around in front of him and press a kiss to his lips. He winked and added, "Young man."

***

Of course, he didn't believe at first that he'd stopped aging. Everything aged. Even diamonds would eventually degrade to graphite. But one night, as Will lay sleeping beside him, he had to consider it. Will was as beautiful to all of Hannibal's senses as he ever was, but no longer appeared to be his junior. If anything, a stranger might deem Will the older of them both.

If he had to make an estimate, he would say he'd stopped aging some time after he was arrested. He might have been fifty-one when it---whatever “it” was---happened. He might have been a bit older. If he were still a practicing doctor, or had access to one he trusted, he could perform tests. A bone density screening might have given him some clue, or not. He didn’t have quite the scientific curiosity he once did.

What he had was Will, and that was infinitely better.

***

Twenty-two years and just over four months passed from the day of his realization to the day he had to keep vigil at Will’s bedside.

"You're not going to fight off the Grim Reaper," Will said. His hand was so small and frail as Hannibal held it between his own. "I'm going to die in this terribly boring, usual way."

"Nonsense," Hannibal said. "You'll live forever."

"In your memory palace," Will said, rolling his pale eyes. Sarcastic even then.

"I can't guarantee there's an afterlife," Hannibal said. "So I'll have to live forever and keep you. What is a soul but the memories we hold inside us?"

Will laughed until he began to cough. Hannibal moved to fetch the oxygen mask, but Will waved it away.

"Imagine me as a young man," Will said when he'd caught his breath again. "Leave this rickety old body in the past where it belongs."

"I love your rickety old body," Hannibal said. "I love every possible iteration of your body because it is yours."

Again, a roll of the eyes. "As a favor to me, then. I want to be thirty-nine or forty again. And get rid of this forehead scar, would you? That's the one I never cared for."

Hannibal brought Will's hand to his face and kissed his knuckles. "Shall I keep the belly scar? Or only the ones we sustained together as we killed the Dragon?"

"I'll leave it up to you," Will said. "One last birthday gift... from me to you."

Hannibal crawled into bed beside him, careful not to jostle him too much, and lay his head on the bird-thin breast that shuddered with every weakened heartbeat. Will started to make a joke about being in bed with a much younger man, but gave a sharp little gasp before he could finish it, and then nothing else.

***

The world shifts. 

Hannibal's world shifts. He lives only in the present tense now.

He takes Will's ashes to Giardino delle Rose and pays a gardener to look the other way when he buries them under the feet of Folon's sculpture of a man seated at a bench.

Will appears beside him, young again and dressed unseasonably in a heavy winter coat. He looks around, squinting at the mountains in the distance, then at the sculpture.

"So this is Florence," he says. The sun is bright and golden on his face. There is no scar on his brow. "Wish you'd brought me when I was actually alive."

"I thought we had more time," Hannibal says. When regret wells up, he pushes it back down and focuses again on the now. "This garden is an old favorite of mine. Inspired by French gardens of the 1800s, yet not so antique that it didn't welcome a Japanese oasis designed by the architect Yasuo Kitayama."

Will nudges the sculpture's foot with his own. "And this guy?"

"A piece titled Je me souviens."

"'I remember,'" Will translates. "Very meaningful, you sap."

"I've always been fond of symbolism, as you know," Hannibal says. 

"You could've just tossed my remains in the ocean," Will says. "Or you could've eaten me, as unappetizing as I was. If I'm going to live in your mind, does it really matter?"

"If I'm going to live forever," Hannibal says with a shrug, "it might matter to me someday."

***

For the first hundred years, he shows Will everything he's ever wanted to show him. Some decades and places are more open-minded than others. They hold hands in public when doing so in the flesh would get others chased off the streets or even arrested. They make love in the sanctuary of Hannibal's mind, rutting on chapel floors and up against museum walls, invisible to all but one another. Which isn't so different from how they were together all so long ago.

Over the next hundred years after that, Hannibal finds himself defying his own commandment to live in the present.

Or perhaps it's not so much a defiance, as it is a kind of exercise. He wants to make certain he can still recall the entirety of his past with Will. He wants to know all the details are still there, just where he left them.

He meets Will for the first time all over again. He doesn't allow himself to change a single detail, as tempting as it is to imagine himself reaching out to brush the hair off Will's brow, right there in the middle of Jack Crawford's office.

He also enjoys going back to the night Will confronted him in his kitchen, his eyes cool and dark, hands steady as they held the gun. He wants to ravish Will then and there, bite up and down the length of his throat and be grasped so tightly in return that his flesh bruises. But it wouldn't be true to what actually happened.

He ducks out of the memory and into the autumn woods behind Will's old house. Will is waiting there for him, ankle deep in leaves as he strips out of his clothes. The belly scar is gone, but the scars on his cheek and chest are still there. They fuck so obliviously and for so long that the falling leaves all but bury them.

Afterward they doze side by side until they find their voices again.

"Have you tried to meet anyone else?" Will asks.

"You would know if I had."

"Humor me."

"I haven't and I don't care to. I have you."

"In your mind."

"There's no difference between body and mind. Not for me, or us."

"So, you haven't gotten laid in over two hundred years?"

"Nobody calls it that anymore," Hannibal says. "I find my liaisons with you more than satisfying."

Will laughs up towards the trees. "Surely nobody calls it that, either!"

Hannibal rolls over onto his elbows so he can gaze down into Will's face. His gleaming hair reflects glints of red from the setting sun and his cheeks are ruddy from exertion. His eyes are the darkest slate blue of the cold Atlantic.

"I'm fond of you," Hannibal says.

Will grins up at him. "I should hope so."

"I would forget every piece of music, every work of art, every magnificent landscape I've ever seen just to make room for you in my memory. You may become as expansive as you like. Live dozens or hundreds of lifetimes. I'll remember them all."

Will reaches up to trace Hannibal's mouth with his thumb. "Don't be lonely."

"I couldn’t be," Hannibal says. "I have you."

He bends down to kiss the crooked bridge of Will's nose, crooked precisely to the same degree it was in life because Hannibal remembers him down to a fraction of a millimeter.

"Do you remember my dogs?" Will asks.

"I believe so."

"Can you bring them to me?"

Suddenly six dogs come spilling out from Will's old house, tails high and waving like flags as they bound through the leaves. They tackle Will with slobbery kisses and happy barks. They haven't seen him in centuries. Hannibal conjures a chain of sausages from his memory and hands them to Will for the dogs.

"If this is your afterlife," Hannibal says, "then I suppose it's theirs, as well."

***

More centuries go by. Hannibal spends a much of the time on one beach or another with Will, sometimes with Will's five dogs and sometimes not. They go to Greece and Italy hundreds of times, and Australia, too. They visit Japan often. Once in a while Hannibal brings them to his best approximation of a beach in Florida, as he's never bodily been there.

He also takes Will to rivers and streams where the fishing is good, and he thinks up wonderful catches for him.

"Bring me to Havana again," Will says. "Go there yourself, for real, and bring me with you. Smell the food and hear the music for me, and not just in your memory. Live there for me."

"It doesn't exist outside my mind anymore," Hannibal tells him. "And in the dusty pages of whatever books still survive."

Will frowns. He's up to his hips in the water of some fabricated stream, casting his line in arcs like a spider throwing out a strand of silk. "I notice you don't take me with you into the real world anymore. Is it that bad?"

"Not everywhere," Hannibal says. "There are still beautiful places, centers of some culture. They're simply harder to reach than they once were."

Will smiles at him. "Good thing you have such a good memory, then."

"Good thing," Hannibal agrees.

***

Hannibal meets Will again for the first time in John Crawford's office. They talk about eye contact and building bridges, just as they did a thousand years ago.

"I loved you from the start," Hannibal says, and brushes the hair off Will's forehead.

Will frowns at him. "Is this how it goes?"

Hannibal thinks. He's revisited this memory so many times, turned it over in his mind as he would a pleasingly smooth stone in his palm. Each time, he replays it just as it truly happened.

"It all changed so slowly," Will says. "I bet you don't even remember when my voice started to sound like your own."

Hannibal gets up from his chair and paces the length of the office. John Crawford gives him a quizzical look, so Hannibal dismisses him from the memory.

"You don't remember exactly how my voice sounded," Will says. "You naturally replaced it with your own, over time."

"I only need to focus to bring it back!" Hannibal snaps, louder than he means to. He kneels down at Will's side and takes hold of his hands. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't lose my temper."

Will smiles down at him. "I've missed arguing with you."

Hannibal bows his head into Will's lap, lets his hair be combed through with gentle fingers. "I'm sorry."

"It's been a thousand years, Hannibal," Will says, his voice mostly his own again. "You've replayed and reenacted every conversation we've ever had, over and over and over again. Not even you can be expected to have a perfect memory after all that time and repetition."

He looks up to meet Will's eyes. "Then what do I do?"

"Revisit the one memory you've been avoiding for ten centuries," Will says. "Revisit the truth."

Hannibal scoffs. “Avoiding? I’ve never been one to run from the truth.”

“Says the man who never went back to his family home,” Will says. “Who is, incidentally, the same guy who jumped on a plane to France after gutting me.”

“I was running from the law.”

Will laughs, but it's not a cruel sound. “Oh, come on. Your memory can't be that bad even now.”

Hannibal stands up and takes Will's hands in his own to pull him to his feet. "Fine. Then tell me where we're going."

"To my grave," Will says.

***

It takes him a little over three weeks to get to Florence, but that's barely any time at all to a man who seems to be living forever. He hasn't ever been back to the precise spot he buried Will, despite his love for the gardens.

Of course the gardens are long gone now. The roses most likely stopped blooming nine centuries ago, or more. Je me souviens is long gone, as well, although there are scraps of what might be bronze in the place that might have been the bench.

He sits amid the rubble and calls forth Will's spirit.

Will gives a low whistle. "Wow. What a dump. It's really fallen apart since last time, and it's hotter, too."

"Have some respect," Hannibal says, gesturing beside him until Will sits. "This is sacred ground, after all."

Will bumps shoulders with him. "Wanna make out? Close your eyes."

He does as he's told and feels Will climb into his lap, feels Will's solid weight settle against him, and feels familiar lips against his own. They kiss under the blazing sun, in afternoon temperatures that anyone still living nearby is wisely avoiding. Hannibal digs through the sedimentary layers of his memory to call forth the smell of the cologne Will used to wear. Instead, he dredges up the salty, metallic tang of blood.

Will pulls back and gives a satisfied sigh. "I only wish we'd done this when I was alive."

Hannibal pushes away the memory of blood and gives him a soft smile. "What, kiss on your grave? I don't think that's the sort of thing one can do when one is still alive."

Will holds his face in his hands, looks deeply into his eyes.  "Oh, Hannibal," he says. His expression is so kind, and so sad. "This isn't my grave, and you know it."

***

The past came rushing back at him like a rising tide and deposited him on the rocky beach far below the bluff house. He spat out a lungful of the Atlantic and picked himself up despite the pain that gripped his body.

He found Will twenty yards away, face down on the rocks. The waves relentlessly came for his legs, reaching a little further with each surge, trying to pull him back into the sea.

Hannibal stumbled toward him, pressing a hand as best he could to the bullet wound in his gut. He was certain his collar bones were broken, and several ribs, but it hardly seemed to matter. If he could just get to Will, everything would be all right again.

He dropped to his knees and forced himself to take a moment to feel around the vertebrae in Will's neck. If anything had broken, moving him could be disastrous. If he had even survived...

Will jolted at his touch and turned onto his side himself. His face was flayed open from his right cheekbone nearly down to his jaw, but he was alive and nothing else mattered.

Hannibal laughed with relief and moved to lay Will's head in his lap. "We're alive," he said. "We're alive together."

"I feel like I'm drowning," Will said, his voice hoarse.

"You've surely taken in some water," Hannibal told him.

Will gave the smallest shake of his head. "No, I---"

Will coughed then and a great quantity of blood came up with it. The smell of it filled Hannibal's senses, as salty and vital as the sea. Hannibal's doctorly calm abandoned him. Panic rose in a spike that made his body feel colder and more numb than even the sea had left it. His hands shook as he pressed them against Will's ribs, exploring.

"I can barely breathe," Will said, his voice little more than a wheeze.

"Your lungs are punctured," Hannibal said. His gaze went to the house far above them. If he could get back up there... "I'll call for help. I'll turn myself in again. Will, I'll get help, you have to hold on."

He started to move, but Will clutched at his hand. "There isn't time for that, Hannibal."

"There's time," Hannibal said. "We have our whole lives ahead of us."

"In hell, perhaps," Will said. He laughed weakly and brought up another cascade of blood. His face was paler than the full moon that watched over them from its loft perch. Still, he managed to smile. "Promise you'll meet me in hell. Or... or heaven, if we even remotely deserve it. Do... do you believe in an afterlife, Hannibal?"

"Not with any degree of certainty," he said. "We live on in the memories of those we leave behind."

"Then one of us will have to live forever," Will said. He winced and gasped as something in his body failed him. "Oh. I don't think that's going to be me."

"You will live," Hannibal said. He brushed the wet hair off Will's brow and held the left side of his face in his palm. He could feel the pulse fading under the pale skin at Will's temple. "I'll give you an entire life---an entire life and an afterlife, as well."

"W-with you in your memory palace?" Will asked.

"If you wish," Hannibal said. "You can grow to be an old man."

Will nodded. "A good, long, boring life, just the two of us sounds...it sounds..."

"He's gone," a voice says behind him. "That was the moment he went. The moment I went? It's all a bit confusing, if you ask me."

Hannibal glances back to see Will, as he looked in his seventies, in the pajamas he'd once conjured for him.

Will settles himself down onto the rocks, sitting beside the body of his younger self and Hannibal.

"I forgot you died then," Hannibal says.

"You didn't forget," Will says. "You ran from it. Don't try to tell me you don't do that, either. You can let him go now."

Hannibal kisses Will on his cold lips, wishing he'd done it just once when Will was still alive, and eases the body out of his lap. It doesn't take long for the frothing waves to reach them, and to take its prize to a watery grave far out to sea.

When Hannibal looks up again, the Will sitting beside him is young. There are no scars on his face. Most of the bluff has long since eroded and there's no sign at all of the house that once perched there.

"Can you bring me my dogs?" Will asks.

A small white terrier with brown ears and a larger, auburn-haired dog appear before them, grinning and wagging their tails. They bound through the shallower edges of the water, splashing each other in some joyous game.

"I know you had more, but those are the only two I remember with any clarity," Hannibal says. "I'm sorry. After a thousand years, the details escape even my mind."

Will calls the dogs over, rubs their heads and scrubs over their fur with his fingers, laughing and happy as if they were truly there.

"We are truly here," Will says. "Or truly enough. If there's no difference between body and mind, then there's no difference between your mind and my body, is there?"

Hannibal leans to the side and rests his head on Will's shoulder. "What happens now?"

Will shrugs. "I dunno. Nobody's ever lived forever before. I guess we'll just find out, won't we?"

"Together?" Hannibal asks.

"Together," Will promises.

-end-

[redheadedramblings]

Troubled History (Part 1)

Title: Troubled History (Part 1) Paring : Bucky x Reader Summary: You are a former Shield agent, after Shield was exposed you went underground and took some time for yourself. But now that the Winter Solider has woken up in Wakanda you are requested to watch over him and help him recover. word count: 2,398 warnings: none A/N : Should I turn this into a series? Would anyone like to read more? Also this is a crap title, anyone have any suggestions?

masterlist

You wiped the sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand. Standing up you put your hands on your hips and admired the newly planted flowers in your garden. You let out a satisfied sigh and took off your gardening gloves and adjusted your sun hat. Today was a beautiful day and you thought it was a great time to add some new plants to your garden. The temperature was perfect, it was a low sixty degrees and the wind was just right giving you the perfect amount of coolness without making you too cold. It was the beginning of the summer and the temperature was finally getting warmer, you were so sick of the cold and the snow. Stepping back to look at your work you chuckled to yourself as you picked up the empty watering can. This new life of yours was turning out better than you thought it would. As a former Shield agent it wasn’t easy after it was exposed to be an ugly front for Hydra. This whole time you had been working for that disgusting organization and every time you thought about it, it made you sick. When the documents were released online, and the whole world knew who you were, it got ugly. Those months after were rough for you, especially since you had no were to go. Then came the Accords, you didn’t want anything to do with that, you didn’t want to take sides so you didn’t. You let them hash it out like adults. You stayed off the radar until things cooled off. Fleeing the scene you tried to start over, since you didn’t have anything to go back to you tired to make things work. And man was it hard at first. You tried to create a new person, new name, you tried to lie. But for some reason it never worked even thought thats what you did for a living, you lied. You you took some steps back, you tried something nice and simple. You tried being yourself. But that was harder than you thought because you didn’t really know who you were since you would show other people what they wanted to see, the alias, the lies. You took a trip of self discovery if one should call it that. You made a mental note of things that you liked and things you didn’t. At first it was small things like, you liked the color blue over the color red. You didn’t like crowed places, they made you feel uncomfortable. And you didn’t like loud sounds or big cities. Then you started to get more in depth like you preferred waking up at noon than at nine everyday or you liked thick cut bacon to thin cut bacon. Or you didn’t like spicy foods, for it hurt your stomach. These things for you were important to because you needed to find out who you were before anyone else could. You lived by yourself, you have always lived alone for as long as you can remember. You never minded it really since there was no one to really miss. Although sometimes something would happen in your day and you were dying to tell someone but all there was, was an empty apartment. You bought your apartment with some extra money you had thrown into savings. You bought a flat for yourself that was a bit out of town, far enough away that you couldn’t hear the loud cars or the sirens. But not too far that you could pop back into society and be around people. It was a decent size, nothing fancy you preferred it that way. You specifically picked it because of the garden that was off your porch. When you were on your little path of discovery you found out that you loved plants and flowers. You took a liking to them and filled your garden and your house up with different types of herbs and flowers. For some reason adjusting to civilian life was easier than you thought. Although you haven’t done the whole “friends” thing yet. You don’t usually talk to people and you keep to yourself. That was another thing you had to deal with. One day at a time though. Although you still had your training, and that was something you couldn’t just shut off. If you accidentally dropped something your quick reflexes would grab it before it would hit the ground. You would also be on high alert to what was around you, taking in every smell and sound. If something was off, you knew in a split second. So maybe having friends wasn’t the best idea at the moment, it may not be for a while. No one would really understand. Walking back into to the porch you threw your gloves on the table and you brushed the dirt off you before you walked inside. You opened the doors and slipped off your shoes before entering the house. Oh, that was another thing, you didn’t like to track dirt in from outside so you always took off your shoes. You cleaned yourself off but still felt gross so you took a shower. The warm water felt good on your skin and it trickled down your legs. The steam opened up your pores and you washed your body with a wide varieties of body washes and soaps. You loved things that spelled sweet so your bathroom was decorated with all sorts of lotions and shampoos. You took the wash cloth and washed yourself finding some dirt had gotten though your overalls. You moved down your stomach and washed your scars carefully. You had scars covering your back and parts of your stomach. You hated them at first, they were a collection from over the years. But each had their own story. The big gash on your stomach is when you were taken hostage on a rescue mission gone wrong. You had another on your back that looped around your side that was caused by a horrible car chase that put you in the hospital for weeks. You looked down at yourself and smiled, you felt like a flower. Flowers have all sorts of lines and colors on them, the white scars that littered your body were a decoration on you. Running your hands down your stomach you touched the three bullet scars that peirseded your skin. There were three, when you looked at them, they looked like they would form into a lop sided triangle. These scars you hated, you were shot three time in the same day. You remembered that day, although you wished you could forget it. You should have died but you didn’t, instead you were gifted with these lovely reminders that you failed and that it was all the Winter Soldiers fault. Your smiled faded as you found yourself trying to shake that memory out of your head. You turned off the water and stepped out in a towel. You didn’t want to ruin this day with the memory of that man. You got dressed and made dinner that night. Then you stayed up way to late reading a book which you would always lose track of time, but that never bothered you. The next day was very sunny and very hot. You decided that it would be wise not to go work outside because you didn’t want to sweat that much. You took a trip into town and thought it would be a good idea to visit your favorite coffee shop. You didn’t like coffee, it was too bitter for your liking although you liked the smell. You loved tea though, you even grow your own tea leaves in your garden. You popped in and the lady in the front knew you, you were one of her regulars. When you ordered you talked about her son and how well the shop is doing. When you got your iced tea she threw in a biscuit for free and you sat out in the front of the shop at a table by yourself. Taking a deep breath in you took in everything around you. Another beautiful day, there were kids laughing people walking around shopping and it was bliss to you. Suddenly your felt your purse buzz as you reached into it and grabbed your phone. You looked at the screen, the caller ID read “unknown” but you answered it as you got a gut feeling telling you to do so. “Hello Y/L/N” said the voice on the other end. Fury. You knew that voice anywhere. You smiled and adjusted in your seat sipping the straw in your tea. “Hello Fury. What can I do for you?” “We need to talk” “Well what do you call us doing right now?” “We need to talk in person” You paused for a moment. You didn’t know what this meant but you hopped you would be getting roped into something bad again. “Alright when and where?” you asked. “Does that coffee shop sell a good dark roast?” Damn it. He was here. You pulled the phone away from your ear and looked around and saw Fury leaning against a building watching you from afar. You lowered your sunglasses down to the bridge of your nose and set your phone down. He walked across the road and reached your table. You held out your hand and you shook hands with your former boss. You had always liked Fury, he was always kind to you. He was the one who recruited you and he personally put in a request for you to join Shield. He was tough on you but he cared a lot for you and knew you were a good agent. You hadn’t seen him for a few years, not since the accords. You spoke to him briefly and expressed you concerns which he respected. But since then nothing, you hadn’t talked to anything from your former life since then. “So boss, what brings you here?” you asked as he sat in the chair across from you. “You arn’t even going to ask how I found you or how I got your number?” “At this point i am not surprised anymore.” He let out a small chuckle but his smile disappeared as he leaned in. Un-Oh, you knew that look. He was going to ask you a question that you weren’t going to like. “Y/N” he began. “I have a job for you to do” You swallowed and looked up at him. “Alright, what kind of job are we talking about?” He just looked at you for a moment. His silence was making it worse for you. “You know Barnes was put on ice right?” Oh lord. Bucky Barnes. That was the last person you wanted to hear about right now. “Yea, I heard about that. He was put under so that he wouldn’t hurt people.” “He is going to he woken up soon. And we need someone to watch over him” “No” you quickly answered. You knew what he was asking you. You didn’t want to think about that man, you didn’t want to talk about that man and you sure as hell didn’t want to babysit that man. “Y/N” “No. Fury. My answer is no. You know how I feel about this” “I understand that. But what you need to understand is that I think it will do you good to see him. It will help you get better. I know what happened to you, but you need to trust me on this. Plus I needed someone I trust to be at his side”. You looked away from him. You didn’t want to be having this conversation right now. “I think it will do you some good” he repeated this time with a softer tone. “Why me? Why can’t you get someone else to do this? Anyone else would be better than me! Fury, I can’t do that!” You were beginning to lose control of your emotions and your bullet scars felt like they were on fire under your shirt. You took some breaths and calmed down. “You know how I feel about this” you stressed again almost in a whisper. “I know.” he replies. You sighed and looked back at him. “I…I will think about it.” you said looking back up at his face. He nodded and you were both silent for a minute when he pulled a folder out and laid it down in front of you. You looked at the manila folder staring back at you. The big red letters read “Highly classified” were off colored showing how old it was. It had worn edges and some papers were sticking out from the sides. You knew that when you opened it, you weren’t going to like what you saw. “I will stay in touch. Contact me by the end of this week. We will discuss more of this later.” You nodded as he rose from the table and looked at you one more time. You gave him a fake smile which he could see though. He pushed in his chair and you saw him walk away disappearing though the passing crowd. Your skin felt hot as you turned your attention back to the folder. After a couple minutes you stood up, your tea in one hand and the folder in the other. You didn’t sleep that night. You lied there awake. You really didn’t know what you were thinking, you just kept replaying the conversation you had with Fury over and over again. “He is going to he woken up soon. And we need someone to watch over him” thats the sentence that you kept hearing. Fury knows what happened to you and he still had to nerve to ask you to supervise him. You felt angry for that, and to be honest a bit scared. You raised your head and looked at the folder that was sitting there on your night stand where you had thrown it earlier that day. You bit your lip. You couldn’t do this, you didn’t want to do this. But for some reason you felt a wanting to help. Your mind was thinking to fast and you sat up and shook your head. You finally took a deep breath and you turned on your lamp and opened the folder.

[rickq178]

Happy Birthday, Miami Rick!

So, like a total dork, I wanted to do something special for my muse’s birthday, which happened on Friday. x3 Guess I dropped the ball a bit. Even though it’s belated, I’m going to post this birthday drabble I just wrote. Enjoy!

Rick stepped through the portal and into the living room. A sweet scent wafted from the kitchen that caught him off guard. Surely, Diane was baking cookies for Beth. She hadn’t been happy the last time he bailed, but his memory was spotty. He’d been on the bender to end all benders. After all, he had turned thirty today. He could kiss his youth goodbye. Dying young would have suited him, but apparently snorting line after line and drinking enough vodka to fill a liquor store shelf couldn’t do that for him. Maybe if he’d dipped into the Fractal Dust as a sleep aid he wouldn’t be here.

The multiverse had a sick sense of humor.

The horribly hungover man stumbled into the kitchen.

“Daddy!” Beth chimed, a big smile lighting up her face. She sat at the kitchen table with her mother decorating a cake. Her little legs swung from her booster seat. “Daddy’s back! I told you, Mommy! I told you he would be.”

Diane forced a smile only for Beth. She rose from the table and walked over to Rick, heels clicking enough across the linoleum to make his headache worse. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss.

But her kisses were never kisses anymore. She used them sparingly as means to detect the liquor on his breath. “Welcome back.”

“Good to be—URRRP—back, sweetie.”

She didn’t linger long enough for Rick to get a chance to hug her. Instead, she broke away and retreated to Beth and the cake.

“Uh, you girls didn’t have to do this.”

“Beth wanted to.”

The little girl wiggled happily in her seat. “It’s Stir‘n Frost! When a big cake’s more than you need, you need Stir‘n Frost!”

Rick sauntered over and mussed up his little girl’s hair after a moment’s hesitation, mindful to steer clear of the stitches on her forehead. “Huh. Look—Look at you. Could be the next spokesperson for Betty Crocker. You—You’re cuter than those mule twins and that mom from the ad.”

Beth giggled but Diane rolled her eyes. She lifted her daughter from the booster seat and set her down. “Sweetie, why don’t you go play outside for a minute?” She opened the sliding glass door to the backyard.

“Okay! Can I pick the flowers from the garden?”

“Of course.” Diane watched Beth toddle out before closing the door. She turned her eyes to Rick, narrowing them. “Why do you go home to him?”

“What?” Rick asked, confused. The room seemed to get darker.

“Him. Why do you go home to him every night?”

Suddenly, he was a sixty-one-year-old man and backing into a corner. His heart raced. “Diane, baby, you—you—you can’t bring Ricky into this.” He swallowed hard. “You’re dead.”

His wife corned him, slamming his back into the wall and pinning his shoulders. Her manicured nails sunk into his pink jacket. “Who do you think put me in that grave?”

Rick grimaced, the little color he had draining from his face. ��Th-That wasn’t my fault!”

“Don’t you think we could’ve had a life?” Her nails dug in deeper. “If you’d just come home every night?”

“You—You know I don’t do apologies, baby. I-It’s not really my thing.”

“Oh, is that so?” Diane wore a cruel smirk. Her nails were like knives. They tore his layers of clothes, piercing his skin and drawing blood. “Then why did you used to say ‘sorry’ for every little thing when you were back in high school? You think you can reinvent yourself? Fool me? I know you, Rick Sanchez. The real you. Not this sad eighties cookie cutter version of you.”

“D-Diane…” His eyes moistened with unspilled tears. “You—You’re hurting me.”

“I guess you could never grow out of that speech impediment. Or being a crybaby.” She pulled away only to push him to his hands and knees, the cold linoleum making him ache upon impact. “Grovel. Beg for forgiveness.”

“D-D-Diane, D-Diane… Diane, I—I’m—”

Rick sat up and gasped, naked body soaked in cold sweat. His eyes darted around blurred surroundings. He breathed laboredly, chest heaving up and down. It took a few minutes to realize he was in the master bedroom of his Miami mansion. The sound of the ocean from the opened window registered belatedly over the hammering of his heart.

He fumbled, eventually locating and grabbing the flask off his nightstand and downing all of what remained.

He looked at the spot beside him. Ricky was gone. He checked the clock. Already late afternoon. Made sense. He had little Morty to look after and a life of his own.

“Th-The nightmare begins,” he mumbled to himself humorlessly. The real one, anyway. Diane had never hurt him in like that in reality. Or known Ricky. It had been a memory mixed with a recurring nightmare and a slightly varying script.

He knew what day it was. And he had to meet Miami, Beth, and the rest of them in a couple hours.

He forced himself out of bed.

Steeled with liquor and just one bump to get himself going, Rick stepped into the upscale steakhouse near Paul’s hotel. The hostess at the counter informed him of how his party was already waiting for him.

Rick found the table. It consisted of Paul, Beth, Jerry, Summer, Miami, and a vacant spot for him. Jerry’s attendance was bullshit since he never lived in Florida. Must have been for the free meal and spring break and a desperate attempt to win back his wife despite her being married to her new husband for a few years now.

“The nightmare continues,” Rick muttered under his breath.

Jerry nudged Beth. “Is he talking to himself now? Could be the beginning of early dementia.”

Beth rolled her eyes. “Jerry, please.” Paul took her hand from under the table, giving it an affectionate squeeze.  

Miami rose from his seat. Even though that stupid school made him cut his hair and almost look like any other Morty during the week, he still maintained his tan and dressed how he pleased on the weekends. He currently sported an eighties style floral print dress, a platinum blond wig, and a full face of makeup. He pranced over and draped his arms over Rick’s shoulders.

“Hey, Rick. Way to keep in touch.”

“Oh, Miami, baby… I-I know.” His lanky arms looped around his grandson’s waist.

Miami stood on his tiptoes and pecked his grandpa on the cheek, leaving a lip print. “Happy birthday.”

Rick pulled him into a fierce hug. “You look bitchin’. Wish I could take you back to the club right now.”

“What’s stopping you?” Miami whispered into his ear.

Jerry cleared his throat. When that got no reaction, he spoke loud enough for the entire restaurant. “See, this isn’t normal. I thought that school you sent him to was gonna make him into a real man. People probably think Morty’s Rick’s hooker.”

Rick only broke the hug to storm over to the table and draw is laser gun from his belt. He grabbed Jerry by the collar of his wrinkled shirt and pointed it at his head. “What’d you say?! Wh-Wh-What would you know about real men since all you are is a real piece of shit?!”

Paul stood, putting a hand on Rick’s wrist in an effort to make him lower the gun. “Rick, be sensible! It’d be foolish to act like an animal and get kicked out of this fine establishment. Beth made the reservation a month in advanced.”

Rick’s blood boiled, but Paul’s comment was enough to make him look at his daughter. Instead of seeing her as a thirty-four-year-old woman, he saw the sweet, little cherub sitting in the booster seat. Even with her makeup on, he remembered exactly where the scar on her forehead would be from the airplane accident. He swallowed hard, recollecting how he’d been holding the girl in his arms one minute and seeing her in a hospital bed in what felt like the next. Diane told him he’d thrown her.

Rick put the gun away and let go of Jerry, who cowered at this point. The sack of shit probably wet himself. “Yeah, whatever.” He clipped his sunglasses to the front of his shirt and sat down. “You—You didn’t have to do this, Beth.”

Beth smiled. “I wanted to, Dad. Have some wine.”

Miami took his seat and giggled despite the recent scene. “Yeah, Rick. You’re gonna need it.”

“Totally,” Summer said, also smiling. “Happy birthday, Grandpa Rick.”

The evening was still young. Even after dining on steak and lobster, he still drank enough to get tipsy at the restaurant. And now he was totally shit-faced in a booth at his club. Like every night. Instead of having a glass of water after each cocktail, he did a line, purple powder dusted under his nose. As flamboyant of a Rick as he was, most would have expected him to make a scene and throw an even bigger party on his birthday. Instead, it was old hat, the club playing out the same way it did every night, eighties dance songs blasting over the sound system, shuffled but the same.

He danced the night away until his body felt too heavy and could no longer stand. The alien bartender politely helped Rick steady himself. She encouraged him to take the party back home and promised how she’d lock up for the night. She playfully said how maybe Rick could catch his young boyfriend if the stars were in alignment.

Rick just barely stumbled through the portal back into the bedroom, a bottle of vodka in his hand. He collapsed onto the bed and took a swig, though the majority of it made it onto his shirt. And he coughed like an amateur, though it stemmed from choking a bit rather than from the burning sensation his throat had grown numb to long ago.

“H-H-Here’s to you, you old bastard,” he slurred upon regaining his breath, watching as the room spun around him. “Happy fucking goddamn birthday.”

He started snoring then, the bottle falling out of his hand and rolling onto the floor.

[radioactivepeasant]

Encounter (The First of Many)

An "Imperial Problem Child" story (takes place not long after Bespin, further describing the incident mentioned in one of @shimmer712 's additions)

All things considered, they probably could have avoided going to Adras if they had really tried. The fuel tanks for most of the squadron were worryingly low, and they had a few techs filling in for injured pilots who were less experienced in the field, but if they'd made a conscious effort of it they might've been able to make one more jump. As it stood now, of course, it was a little too late to worry about might-have-beens.

Wedge cast a swift glance around the fuel depot and feigned scratching his nose so that he could whisper to Luke, "We're catching a lot of eyes, boss."

Luke winced. "I know. They're suspicious of us."

"Gee, I wonder why?" Wedge hissed sarcastically, "It's just an entire squadron of X-wings landing in their backyard, nothing weird about that!"

One of the two substitute pilots, Kora Spirz, jogged up to them with her visor pulled down to hide her face. "We're almost done refueling," she said in a low voice, "But I think we should leave now. This isn't a good town to stop in."

Luke frowned. "What's wrong, Spirz? You're more on edge than usual."

The tech fidgeted with her belt and Luke could feel apprehension rolling off of her. "Yes sir. Um...do you remember when we were, um when we were talking about family on the other side of the war?"

Wedge's eyes widened. "Carabast," he whispered harshly, "This is your hometown, isn't it? You could've said something, Spirz! We wouldn’t have made you come along!"

"What good would it have done? We needed the fuel!" she answered, crossing her arms over her middle protectively. She glanced over her shoulder at where some of the depot employees were watching them. "I don't think anyone's recognized me, and it would take a while for them to get word to my dad anyway, but just to be safe we might not want to hang around."

Luke leaned back against his ship and closed his eyes for a moment in thought. Considering the rather obvious rebel insignias on their clothing and ships, it was a matter of time before someone reported them to the Empire. And attempted reassurances of his comrades aside, Luke wasn't sure he was ready to face his father yet.

“Okay,” he sighed, opening his eyes again. “Let’s say, worst case scenario, we’ve been reported and stormtroopers are on their way. There’s not a large military presence on this half of the planet, right? How long do we have to get out?”

Spirz shrugged. “Depends on how fast they move. If we don’t end up surrounded, I’d say we’d have twenty, thirty minutes to get out of the depot.”

Wedge grimaced at the answer and started scanning their surroundings. His eye caught on a cluster of ramshackle buildings just under a mile away. “There,” he tapped Luke’s shoulder, “If we can’t take off, that might do for cover.”

They all hoped it wouldn’t come to a shootout. The civilians in the nearest towns might have been loyal to the Empire, but they were still civilians. The thought of killing them -- even in self-defense -- was an unpleasant one to the Rogues. The pilots began shifting nervously, debating whether to run or to wait it out. As it happened, the decision was made for them. 

Luke sensed a wave of approaching hostility from the direction of the city, and noticed the depot employees beginning to gather on their other side. He elbowed Wedge and raised his eyebrows, nodding in the direction of the approaching hostiles. Wedge understood his signal and, placing two fingers in his mouth, gave a piercing whistle.The other members of Rogue Squadron dropped what they were doing to gather around Luke and Wedge.

“We’ve got hostiles coming up from the east, towards town,” Luke spoke quickly, as he wasn’t sure how much time they had before the group arrived. “I don’t know how many, or if they’re armed, but be prepared to fight. If they outnumber us, make for those buildings behind the depot.” He pointed to the structures Wedge had noticed earlier.

Blasters were loosened in their holsters, helmets were adjusted, and the Rogues filtered back little by little to somewhat strategic places behind and around their x-wings. “Boss,” Zev Senesca called up in a hoarse whisper, “I’ve got two flash grenades in my cockpit.”

Luke threw a thumbs-up gesture over his shoulder. “Grab ‘em while you can.” He eased forward towards the end of the long, duracrete platform and glanced down the winding path as the sounds of approaching speeders filled the air. He hoped he would be able to talk whoever-it-was out of whatever-it-was they intended to do.

Four landspeeders pulled up, each carrying between four and five people -- which left the rebels outnumbered by a good seven or eight bodies. Luke heard Wedge whistle again, softer, and sensed their squadron withdrawing, further towards the back of the depot in case Luke gave them the signal to retreat. There was a spike of dismay from Spirz, and Luke guessed that meant that one of the mob was her father. His suspicions were confirmed when the leader of the group, a wispy, frail-looking man in his sixties, jabbed an accusatory finger at them.

“Kora!” he shouted, “I warned you, I warned you what was to happen if you came back here with your treasonous ilk.” His face was red, but his voice trembled as he raised a short blaster pistol. “You broke our hearts, girl. We’ve got no choice left.”

Luke raised his hands placatingly and stepped out in front of the mob. “Easy, we don’t want any trouble,” he said, as soothingly as he could manage with a dozen or so blasters pointed at his face. He took a deep breath and tried to layer his words with the Force as he added, “You don’t have to resort to violence, we’ll be on our way.”

Seven of the men and women lowered their weapons falteringly, influenced by his words. The others exchanged confused or annoyed glances and tightened their grips on their guns. With barely a second’s warning, Luke ignited his lightsaber and blocked a sudden shot, sending it careening off harmlessly into the trees.

“Okay, nevermind then,” he grunted, letting the blade redirect another blast as he quickly backed up. “Rogues, time to go!”

Zev darted up next to Luke, relying on his commander’s blade to keep most of the shots away from him, and lobbed one of the flash grenades. “Rogues, down!” he shouted.

Luke and the others ducked and shielded their eyes as best they could as the device detonated, emitting a blinding flash of light. While the mob staggered and blinked, Zev and Luke ran back to the others.

“If you’re refueled, take off!” Luke ordered. “We’ll meet up at the next rendezvous point!”

Two Rogues were refueled, and took to the sky without protest. The rest of them made for the dilapidated shacks and storage units. As the two who had escaped disappeared into the atmosphere, Luke felt a strange sense of foreboding. It was like ripples in a pond, warning of something larger coming. Oh please don’t be who I think it is, Luke thought, then he dove into the storage unit the other Rogues had pried open.

It was, surprisingly, pretty decent cover as far as hiding went, though perhaps not so much as far as fighting went. Five of them positioned themselves to keep an eye on the mob, which was beginning to recover, and the other five kept an eye out for the depot employees or stormtroopers, in case they were to suddenly turn hostile as well. The storage unit had been made to deter robbers, and so the walls repelled most blaster shots. That being said, of course, the same narrow openings that the Rogues were using to aim through also meant that the occasional shot from the enemy slipped through. In the forty-minute siege that followed, Jansen barely missed a stray shot that would’ve caught him in the back, and Orczy caught a bolt that grazed her cheek.

With Orczy down and in considerable pain -- though Hobbie joked that she’d have a wonderfully rogueish scar to impress potential love interests with -- and several others stressed and tired as the firefight wore on, Luke almost missed it when the star destroyer entered the system. Almost. Being in any kind of proximity to Darth Vader was rather difficult to ignore.

Wedge saw him stagger and left off trying to fire through their limited windows. He hopped down from a crate and caught Luke’s arm, steadying him. “What’s up, Luke?” he asked in a low voice.

“It’s Vader,” Luke gasped, “He’s here.”

Wedge swallowed hard and chuckled weakly. “Well. When we worried about them ratting us out, I didn’t think they’d go so far as to call your dad.”

Luke leaned against the wall heavily. “Don’t joke about this, please,” he groaned. “I don’t know what he’s going to do with -- or to -- us. The last time I saw him was--”

“Bespin. I know,” Wedge sobered. “Well if this mob leaves anything of us alive, we can worry about that when he gets here. But either way, at least you won’t be alone when it happens, right?” When Luke looked up, Wedge attempted a smile. “We’re with you, boss. To the end of the line.”

There was a sudden lull in the sounds of the blasters outside, and the two pilots frowned. In instances like this, silence was usually suspicious. Hobbie stepped up onto one of the crates they were using to get to the windows and peered out.

“Hey guys?” he sounded nervous. “They’ve got fire.”

Spirz’s father’s voice rose above the noises outside and echoed around the storage unit. “Right, you in there! We’ve got soldiers on the way to sort you out! Surrender now, or we’ll burn you out of that box!”

The ultimatum was answered in the spirit it had been given as the mob was introduced to Hobbie Klivian’s infamously foul mouth. Even the Rogues, who were accustomed to his commentary during fights, were cringing a little.

“Well I guess that concludes negotiations,” Wes said grimly. He looked over at Luke, but their commander was...distracted.

“Should we risk making a run for it?” Orczy asked, clutching the burn on her forehead.

Luke shook his head and pushed away from the wall. “The odds of us making it to the treeline without losing anyone aren’t good. But this box is about to become a death trap, so we can’t stay either.” He let out a heavy breath. “If I act as rear guard, I can deflect some of their shots, but we’ll have to move fast. We’re gonna get hurt, no two ways around it.” A wave of cold washed over him, drowning out the directions he had been about to give. The rest of the pilots shivered, either reacting to his mood or somehow instinctively sensing that they had just gone from the frying pan to the fire.

They heard him before they saw him. Armored feet slapped against duracrete and there were a series of clicks as the stormtroopers who had just arrived surrounded the mob and the Rebels both. In the brief silence that followed, echoing, mechanical breaths rose above the crackling of flames. 

“Lower your weapons and step away from the shelter!” an officer shouted.  The Rogues glanced at each other, fully prepared to go down fighting, but then they heard the officer add, “And put that fire out!”

The mob muttered in confused tones, then heavy footsteps almost drowned them out, coming to stop just two feet shy of the storage unit.

“Skywalker!” the unmistakable voice of Darth Vader cut through the air, and inside the unit, Luke cringed.

“Stay here, whatever happens,” he murmured, clapping Wedge on the shoulder. “Don’t do anything unless I signal you.”

Ohhh I don’t want to do this. He gritted his teeth and stepped out of their temporary shelter, easing around the back to stand in full view of the mob and the Imperials. There were a lot of stormtroopers.

“I’m here,” he said quietly, almost challenging him. Don’t run, he reminded himself as Vader stormed across the lot, it’ll be worse for everyone if you run. 

“Are you injured?” Vader demanded, looming over him.

Shocked, Luke spluttered and came up with an eloquent “Huh?” That had not been what he was expecting, considering their last interactions.

With a frustrated growl, Vader took hold of his shoulder and propelled him over to the mob and the stormtroopers. Luke was too startled to fight back. “You are fortunate your presence was reported to me so quickly,” the Sith snapped, then turned to the mob.

“Who gave you the order to fire on the boy and his soldiers?” he asked coldly.

Luke had a bad feeling that someone -- Rebel, Imperial, or civilian, he didn’t know -- was about to die. Spirz’s father shuffled forward, a look of confusion wrinkling his face.

“Why, they’re Rebels, milord,” he said, surprised, “We thought it our duty as Imperial citizens to bring them down!”

“They’re just pilots, anyhow,” said another man, scratching his head. “What’s one dead Rebel, more or less?”

Without looking at him, Vader directed his next words to Luke. “Assemble your squadron.” When Luke stared incredulously at him, he turned, conveying an air of menace despite the stillness of the mask. “Now, Luke. They are in no danger.”

He could refuse, of course, but that likely would not end well for Rogue Squadron. It would do no good to show his nerves in front of the mob. Luke exhaled, then called out, “Rogues, you heard him.”  He met the eyes of his pilots with a wordless apology as they slowly gathered at the front of the storage unit, glowering at the crowd.

Someone with remarkably little self-preservation instinct tilted their head, looking confused. “Why do you protect these Rebels, Lord Vader? What is the life of one traitor to you?” 

The unfortunate soul soon found themselves a bit short of breath as Vader calmly placed both hands on Luke’s shoulders. “Even you should be aware that my orders are, and always have been, that Skywalker be apprehended alive and unharmed. Consider yourselves fortunate he remains so now. I would not have been as forgiving if you had injured my son.”

Luke almost choked at that, and couldn’t help attempting to twist around in the iron grip to send a questioning look up at the man. Well that had been a surprisingly informal -- and unexpected -- acknowledgment. How many people knew about their...connection? Luke had a sudden mental image of Vader casually telling other Imperials, “ah yes, that troublesome rebel, yes unfortunately that’s my son. Very sorry, I don’t know where he gets it”.

Mr. Spirz turned as white as a sheet and stumbled back. “Forgive us, my lord,” he gasped, “We had no reason to suspect that a....a prince would be among rebels.”

“That’s fair,” Luke commented, “We’re a motley crew.” A few Rogues muffled snickers behind them. Then he blinked. “Wait, prince?!”

Vader ignored him and gestured to Rogue Squadron. “You are dismissed,” he announced. Shock rippled through the crowd again. This time, Luke wondered if he had done this intentionally, to make the civilians doubt that Luke and his Rogues were truly rebels. That would, he supposed, save Vader trouble if rumor spread that he’d saved a band of rebels from a fiery death. 

Wedge took a shaky breath and boldly asked, “And the Commander? Is he also dismissed?”

Vader tilted his helmet as if considering. “That remains to be seen.”

Months later, when the endless game of cat and mouse had become more of a game of catch-and-release, Luke would wish he’d demanded more of an explanation from his father there on Adras before getting swept up into the strange, strange world of Coruscant politics.

[mystery-moose]

FIC: Angus McDonald and the Flight of the Flying V (5/?)

[AO3 link]

They’ve come a long way, but even ten years after the world was saved, they’re still not quite where they should be. A whim, a missing painting, and a handful of near-death experiences help a flip wizard and his apprentice bridge the gap.

Taako does his best. Angus takes some risks. Introductions are made, bonds are tested, and lessons are learned — better late than never.

The route Angus chose led them to a big square near the center of Neverwinter, a crossroads of a dozen different streets converging onto a central marketplace packed with people from every corner of Faerun. There was a clock tower here, covered in ornate golden filigree, stretching up into the sky. It was one of the tallest buildings outside the noble quarter, and besides serving as an easily visible landmark, kept excellent time.

It was a little past eleven, now. Angus knew the schedules well enough to figure they'd be able to score tickets easy enough, but he wanted to avoid the afternoon rush.

Taako wasn't exactly cooperating.

"How much?"

The aarakocra merchant pointed to the sign hanging from his cart. "Fifty gold, sixty for the shawl."

Taako blanched, the cloak he'd been admiring draped over his hands. "Sixty?! I wouldn't pay thirty for this thing!"

"Price is the price, wingless," the merchant said firmly. "You wanna haggle, go bother the rakshasa."

"Why would I haggle?" Taako scoffed, rolling up the cloak. "Stuff ain't worth my time, anyway."

Angus stood behind Taako, glancing around. He always kept one eye open and a hand on his coin purse whenever he traveled through the market square; getting his pocket picked one unlucky afternoon had taught him that lesson.

Good thing, too, since he was attentive enough to see Taako slip a scarf from underneath the cloak he was replacing on the cart. He tucked it behind his back with the practiced ease of a petty thief.

"This is all fine-count Calimshan silk, dunce," the merchant shot back, his feathers ruffling. "You won't find better prices north of Memnon!"

"Don't bullshit a bullshitter, thug," Taako drawled with a smug grin. "This is a big-ass brand-name markup for chumps, and we both know it."

"Markup?!"

"This is some cast-off outlet shit you got from a thrift store in Tethyr, my dude! You're tripling your money at thirty gold."

Angus touched Taako's shoulder. "Sir? We should really get moving."

As Taako turned to face Angus, he reached over and discreetly pulled the scarf from Taako's belt. Taako's eyebrow twitched, but he grinned and laughed it off.

"No big shakes, boychik," he said casually. "Nothing here worth these prices, anyway."

The aarakocra grumbled, his wings unfurling slightly. "Forty five!"

"For the shawl?"

"No, the cloak!"

He turned away again, disinterested. The merchant made a disgusted noise.

"Fine! Forty five for the shawl!" He grumbled. "You're scaring off my business."

Taako turned and grinned. "Deal!" he said triumphantly, reaching for his coin purse while Angus tried to stealthily replace the scarf on the cart.

Suddenly, Taako spun and his ears pricked up visibly. Angus was about to ask what was wrong when he heard it himself — a sudden crash, loud and clattering, followed by the sound of screams almost drowned out by the noise of the crowd. He barely had time to react before Taako tackled him to the ground.

A wagon, small and built for city travel, crashed through the market stall behind them. People scattered in every direction as it raced through the square, heedless of pedestrians, bouncing over the cobblestones and coming within two feet of where Taako and Angus lay. They watched as the aarakocra took to the air while the wagon splintered his cart, then, accompanied by the screeching crash of wood and metal, it was suddenly stopped by a spell — Bigby's Hand, glowing a neon red, had appeared in front of the wagon and blocked its path.

Angus pushed himself to his feet. Taako was alongside him, dusting himself off. "The hell did that come from?"

"Alright, everyone, please step back!"

A woman, tall and broad shouldered with a long braid wrapped around her neck and a scar on her forehead, marched out of the crowd. She wore shiny full-plate armor and a tabard bearing the sigil of Neverwinter. Angus recognized her instantly as Dierdre Boudicca, Lord-Commander of the militia.

"This isn't a show!" she shouted, marching forward towards the wreckage. "If you need medical attention, speak up! Healers are on their way!"

"Hey! You still have to pay for that!"

He glanced over his shoulder — Taako was halfway through stuffing a shawl into his purse, smiling innocently while the merchant perched with his arms crossed on the ruins of his cart. Angus gave him a look, and Taako rolled his eyes before pulling out his coin purse.

Angus turned back to the crime scene. Militia men and women swarmed around Boudicca, pushing people away and trying to establish a cordon. The massive spectral hand disappeared as another woman he recognized stepped out of the crowd — shorter, younger, and clad in typical militia leathers and longcoat rather than heavy armor. Angus waved and managed to catch her attention.

He liked Silvia a lot. She was clever, compassionate, and had a strong sense of right and wrong. They'd collaborated on a few cases together, and though he'd been prepared for obstinacy, she'd helped as much as she could. It was more than he'd expected from anyone in the militia; private detectives weren't exactly popular with law enforcement. Angus had come to think of her as a very good friend, and he appreciated her help.

(He also appreciated her hair, thick and curly and tied behind her head. And her eyes, hazel brown set against mahogany skin. And her nose, a bit bigger than his, which scrunched up when she laughed. He didn't make any particular judgments about these things, of course. He just noticed them, that's all.)

"McDonald!" Silvia said with a grin as she approached. "Don't tell me this is one of yours?"

Angus smiled back. "No such luck. Can't expect every crook to just fall into your lap."

"You'd be surprised," she said, glancing back towards the wagon. Boudicca was directing others as they hauled the driver out. "Just sort of stumbled into this one, believe it or not. Wanted thief rounds a corner right into the Lord-Commander doing her weekly inspection. He bolts, hijacks a wagon, and there I am doing my rounds when he peels around a corner into the market."

"Jeez. Talk about bad luck."

"For him, sure." She turned back and smirked. "It's all a matter of perspective, right?"

Angus chuckled. Then his eyebrows rose. "Oh, hey, can I ask you for a favor?"

"Sure. What's up?"

He pulled out his notebook, tore out half a page and handed it to her.

"I'm working a new case," he explained. "Nothing I can talk about, yet, but if you happen to hear anything about a noted thief in town, or run into any seventh-level Evocation, could you let me know?"

"Real hush-hush, huh?" she drawled, taking the scrap of paper from him.

"Sorry," Angus said sincerely. "Client privilege."

"It's cool. I get it." Silvia stuck it in her pocket. "I'll keep an ear to the ground."

"Thanks, lieutenant. Really."

"No problem." Silvia leaned around to look past him. "Who's your friend?"

Uh oh.

Taako shoved Angus to the side as he stepped forward. "Hail and well met and stuff," he said, tipping his hat and grinning his Cheshire cat grin. "Name's Taako. What's your handle, maydl?"

Silvia's eyes widened as she glanced briefly at Angus. "So you're Taako, huh?"

"That's what it says on the merch! Why?" Taako leaned in conspiratorially. "Has Agnes been telling stories? Because I can guarantee at least half of them are true. Which half is up to you!"

She laughed, and extended her hand. "Lieutenant Silvia Hayden, Neverwinter militia. Nice to finally meet you, Taako."

Taako shook her hand firmly. He cocked an eyebrow. "You moisturize?"

"Got to, in this climate."

He nodded approvingly. "Nice."

Angus cleared his throat. "We're, uh, actually in a hurry, so—"

"News to me, my dude!" said Taako. Then he turned back to Silvia. "Why don't we do lunch? Boy's rail thin, needs to put on some ell-bees."

Angus sputtered. Silvia grinned, but shook her head.

"Can't," she said apologetically. "Got some legwork of my own to do. Angus isn't the only one who has to work for a living."

"Yeah, speaking of—"

"How about dinner then? His place." Taako leaned forward. "I make a mean risotto!"

"We should really get going—"

"Sounds great," Silvia said, barely restraining a laugh as she glanced between the two of them. "But I've got a thing. Rain check?"

"Sure, sure! Anytime's cool for us!" Taako said cheerily, elbowing Angus in the ribs. "Ain't that right, Angarang?"

Angus got between them and started to push Taako away. "Sorry, really gotta go! Talk to you later, lieutenant!"

"Give us a buzz!" Taako shouted over Angus' shoulder.

The moment they were through the crowd and out of the market, Taako burst into laughter.

"That wasn't funny!" Angus said, stamping his foot like he was eleven years old again.

"Au contraire, mon frere!" Taako managed to gasp. "That was fantastic!"

Angus moaned and rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses while Taako steadied himself on his shoulder.

"Oh, kiddo," he sighed. "What a gift."

"To whom?"

"Me, mostly," Taako said honestly. "But don't worry, we'll get you that date yet."

Angus took off his cap and hit Taako over the head with it, which only made him laugh harder. "She is a friend and colleague!"

"Oh, don't play dumb!" he retorted, grinning wickedly. "She's your fucking crush, dipshit!"

Angus continued to hit Taako with his cap as the elf cackled maniacally. The final blow knocked his hat off. With a harrumph, Angus slammed his cap back on his head and stomped off down the street. He heard Taako follow close behind, still giggling, and the telltale sound of his umbrella wooshing through the air as he swung it idly.

In all honesty, that had gone about as well as he'd expected it to.