#also can someone write a fic about this please i have the entire au mapped out in my head i just cant write. ao3 users dm me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

royallyprincesslilly · 4 years ago

Text

Title: Crown For Two {1}

Henry Cavill AU x OFC Xari Thornton AU

Warning: Plot, Mild Cursing, Cheesy Christmas Themes,

Words: 6.1k

Summary: Xari Thornton is a travel photographer with a blog and social media that garners some heavy-duty traffic. People tune in to see where she is and what she’s doing there, all in hopes of either living vicariously through her or to plan their next vacation.

Her slogan; “Traveling the path to the most off-beaten places, so you don’t have to.”

Her next stop on her four destination travel itinerary of “Places You May Never Have Heard Of” is Sandvell, a small European country. When her plane makes an impromptu stop due to bad weather, she has no idea where she is. It feels like she’s stepped inside of a snow globe and back in time in a modern way. It leaves her fascinated.

This bad weather forces her to stay at an Inn, The Beaux, for the night. Rather than letting the hours tick by in her room, she explores and meets the friendly locals. While taking photographs, one local in particular captures her lens with eyes as blue as the ocean and a jaw that was chiseled from stone. They strike up conversation during their time drinking at one of the local bars, Ickles. Once they separate, she gets herself into a harrowing situation.

As soon as she awakens, she realizes she’s not in some fever dream, but a palace and the owner of the palace is none other than the local she met before with the piercing blue eyes, His Royal Highness Henry Wellington Leopold Danglishton, First of his name, Crown Prince of Brexendor.

Note: All right, all right people, the ride begins. I really, really hope you enjoy this. As a note, it’s going to be fast-paced a bit, and I am gonna overload you with pictures because why the hell not, it’s a Christmas Fic. 😁 Feel free to come by and tell me what you guys think.

As always, thank you all for reading, I appreciate each and every one of you.

If you enjoyed this, please, LIKE, COMMENT, REBLOG!!! ❤️❤️

***Loosely Edited/Proofread***

***Interactive***

***Picture Heavy***

Chapter One

“You were supposed to be on your way home.”

You rolled your eyes as you scoffed. You’d mentioned nights ago that you thought you should just go home, but then you went to your next destination. It was a moment of weakness or it could have been loneliness. Your schedule took a lot out of you. No one saw it because it was all behind the scenes. All anyone ever saw were the incredible places you went to, the fun things you experienced, and the culture you soaked up. What they grasped was whatever you posted in your pictures.

“You know I can’t. I started this series, and it’s gotten the eye of a lot of sponsors, and one of them is even talking about some really big ideas at the end of it if it goes really well. that could be incredible for my brand,” you explained.

Anika sighed loudly. You knew she was annoyed with you right now, especially it being December.

“I know you’re disappointed. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Whatever.”

“Attention, ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. It looks like we’re headed right into a storm. We’ll be experiencing a little turbulence as we veer off course a little bit as we try to evade this thing. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts.”

You sighed while buckling your seatbelt, preparing for what was coming.

“What’s happening?”

“Going through some turbulence. It should be fine,” you assured your sister.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to hang up.”

You nodded to the flight attendant and promptly ended the call promising your sister that you’d call her back when you landed in Sandvell. As soon as you hung up, the turbulence began. It started out with slight bumps, that you could sip your drink through. Then graduated to bigger bumps that had you gripping the elbow rests. When the entire plane started to shake, your heart leaped into your throat. One minute passed, then two, and after five minutes or so, the speaker came back on.

“Ladies and gentleman, your captain again. We’re going to be landing shortly. This storm is not one to be messed with. I apologize for the inconvenience, folks, but on this airline, we choose safety above all else.”

You weren’t going to argue with him. You definitely didn’t want to risk your life over getting to your next destination. What was a one or two day delay? Once the pilot got to a lower altitude, the majority of the turbulence subsided. It was another ten minutes before the plane landed, but when it did, all you could see from the window was white overcast with darkness.

When you had your belongings gathered and began walking off the plane along with the other fifty or so passengers, you tried to find cell service, but you had zero bars.

“Excuse me, where are we?”

“Uh—I’m actually not sure, ma’am. Patricia, where are we?”

The two flight attendants looked puzzled. The second asked a third, and that third asked another. None of them seemed to know. That was not a good sign, you thought. Once you’d walked down the long corridor that served as the connection between the airport and the plane, you found yourself in one of the classiest airports you’d ever been in, and you’d been inside quite a few as a travel blogger. As far as the eye could see, it was class, with the exception of the floor.

You looked around you and marveled at the detail in the design that was around you. Where most airports were mainly logically designed without lavishness. This one looked like lavishness was the first priority. The floors looked to be made from the finest paonazzetto marble. You remembered the name because of the substantial time you’d spent in Italy trying to capture architecture through your camera lens. Reaching for your camera around your neck, you began snapping a few frames of the floor. Getting lost in picture taking, you found yourself at one of the many glass windows snapping pictures of the airplanes on the tarmac.

Hearing the commotion of raised voices behind you, you looked back and saw the passengers of the plane you’d just disembarked from gathered in a huddle. You walked back toward them in time to catch a question from a concerned passenger.

“How long are we delayed? When will we get back in the air? I have to get to Sandvell.”

A man wearing a mixture of royal blue and white colors cleared his throat then spoke. “I apologize, ladies and gentlemen, for the delay. There is a storm heading right for us on the path to Sandvell. Continuing through it would be lunacy. Our only viable option is to wait it out.”

No one seemed to like that answer. All the questions flew out at once. All their voices overlapped, and you could tell that the gentleman was overwhelmed by not only the volume of questions but also their voices.

“According to our team here, we’re expecting possibly a twenty-four to thirty-six-hour delay.”

Everyone groaned in unison, everyone but you. You’d traveled enough to always expect the unexpected. Things like this didn’t bother you so much now, three years into your career. The only thing that bothered you now was that you’d have to rearrange your hotel plans as well as finding somewhere to sleep tonight.

“You said here,” you began with all eyes trained to you. “Where exactly is here?”

The gentleman cleared his throat again. “Brexendor.”

The crowd murmured as they looked at each other. Clearly, no one had ever heard of Brexendor. Some even pulled out their travel map to scour it for the country.

“So what are we supposed to do now? Where do we stay?”

“We are in the process of arranging accommodations at one of the inns within the capital. If you all would work with us so we have your names to get your luggage to you in a timely fashion so you can be shuttled over to the Inn, that would be appreciated.”

Everyone filed into a line in front of one of the four airport staff, hoping to hurry matters along while you searched your phone for any information on where you were. When you typed in Brexendor into the search engine, the first thing that popped up was a map of the country. Apparently, it was next door to Sandvell. They were considered sister countries.

“Population three million, run as a monarchy, considered one of the wealthiest countries in the world. Average life expectancy one hundred and ten years. Well, damn.”

Someone clearing their throat brought your attention up in front of you. You were next in line.

“Sorry.”

The woman with brown eyes and blonde hair smiled warmly. “It’s all right, Ms--.”

“Uh, Thornton, Xari Thornton.” You handed her your passport and boarding pass and waited as she scrolled through her tablet.

“Ah yes, Ms. Thornton. Here is your paperwork. On it, you will find where you can retrieve your luggage and the shuttle number that will be taking you to the Inn. Once at the Inn, just provide your name, and you will find everything has been taken care of. On behalf of Brexendor Aviation, we humbly apologize for this snafu.”

Her customer service training was on point, you thought. Her smile was warm, as if she really meant the words she’d just said. Finding it refreshing, you took the paperwork and proceeded to where she was motioning. Everyone you passed as you walked the fancy halls had a warm smile plastered to their face and even warmer words of welcome. You felt as if you’d stepped through into some alternate universe. You made a voice note about everything you encountered. You wanted to make sure you captured your authentic feelings and reactions in real-time. It made writing about your experience on the blog page easier. You’d even found that readers and supporters liked the play by play with your added thoughts. They commented it added personality.

Once you’d made it to the baggage claim area, your jaw dropped at the change in décor. There were Christmas trees that sparsely decorated the space, and they were all lit with the same blue, silver, and white theme. It contrasted with the latte color of the leather seats and the cream offset tables. The design gave the space an elegant but also comfortable vibe. When you slipped into one of the chairs, you released an audible moan. It was like sitting on a cloud.

After gathering your luggage, you followed instructions through a hall lined with Christmas trees, stopping every so often to take a few pictures before you made it to the front of the airport. As you stepped outside, your eyebrows shot up seeing the fresh snow cascading from the sky. The bite in the air had you bundling your jacket tighter, but it did not stop you from snapping a few pictures. One turned to ten and ten to fifteen until another person clearing their throat brought you back to reality and to the waiting bus ahead of you.

You took a break from pictures and called the hotel in Sandvell, hoping to alter the dates of your stay. What you expected to be a hassle and a long drawn out process ending in them saying they were booked and nothing could be done, turned out to be quick, easy, and painless. The Luxembourg Hotel assured you that your room would still be available and there would be no charge for the altered dates. You made another note on your phone, a point you had to stress when you wrote your piece.

You continued snapping pictures from the window of the bus with an easy mind. Everything you passed seemed like it didn’t belong. It all looked so old fashioned but so modern all at the same time. The buildings looked to have been standing since the beginning of time in the materials they’d been built in, but the displays were from the twenty-first century. It was the most exciting contradiction. The only word you could think to describe it was—quaint.

When the bus drove over a bridge, you got a semi-bird’s eye view of the town across the water, and your jaw nearly dropped.

“Brexendor? What the hell?”

The entire drive had you widening your eyes like a child seeing an insane amount of presents on Christmas morning. Buildings were decked out in Christmas lights, and every door had a wreath with blue and silver Christmas ornaments. Almost every few feet, the sidewalks were decorated with poinsettia trees that were half the average human’s height, and the way the freshly fallen snow-dusted their tops only made it even more perfect.

By the time the bus stopped, you’d taken so many pictures, and part of you was dreading having to go through them to choose the ones that would make the cut. You knew it was going to be a next to impossible decision. As you stepped off the bus, you felt like you’d walked right into a snow globe.

“Holy shit!”

You spun, taking in a full three-sixty view of your surroundings. all the glistening lights and the falling snow only made it feel even more magical. You didn’t know where the hell Brexendor was or why the hell they rolled like this, but you were excited to see more. When you stopped spinning, you realized several other people were snapping pictures and looking just as marveled as you were. After gathering your luggage, you followed instructions and walked across the street to the building that a friendly looking man with slightly greying hair was standing before beckoning you inside.

For the second time that night, you felt as if you’d stepped into a Christmas movie set. The interior was set so cozy. It felt like a Christmas cottage, and you loved it. Instinct had you reaching for your camera and taking a few shots of the Christmas tree in the corner by the fireplace and the plaid decorations on the leather couch. Even the pictures on the walls got a snap.

“Miss?”

Looking back to the owner, you smiled and approached the desk.

“Hi, I’m so sorry. This place is so gorgeous.”

“Thank you. I wish I could take the credit, but it is all my wife.”

Just then, a beautiful brunette came out wearing a bright red sweater and one of those spoof reindeer antler headbands that bounced with every move.

“Hi, there darling. Welcome to The Beaux. I’m Anita, and this is my husband, Borik. I heard all about your ordeal. I’m so sorry.”

You shrugged but kept your smile plastered on your face.

“It’s all right. Can’t control the weather, right?”

Anita smiled and nodded. “Definitely not in Brexendor.”

“I have never heard of this place before, and I am lost how. Everything is gorgeous and so quaint. How have you stayed under the radar?”

Anita and Borik looked at each other with an all-knowing look that you wanted in on.

“Guess it’s just happened,” Anita cheerfully said.

You knew they knew something. Staying this under the radar, including from America, didn’t just happen. This took work. You wondered who in charge in their right mind would make a stupid decision like that.

“Okay, what’s your name, darling?”

“Uh, Xari Thornton.”

“Ah-ha, I told you, Borik. Once we were contacted with a list of names that would be checking in, and I saw your name, I told him I just know she’s gorgeous and look. You are a vision.”

You couldn’t help but smile widely while trying to keep your head under proper proportions.

“Thank you.”

“You must have quite the many suitors where you’re from,” Anita continued.

You snorted and shook your head. The reality was you were as single as the number one with no prospects.

“No suitors here.”

Both Borik and Anita looked shocked, as if you’d said the most appalling thing.

“That can’t be true. Borik. She’s single and at twenty-eight. Even our Kennedy was at least engaged by the time she turned twenty-seven. Here that is unheard of. A woman is usually married by twenty-four, especially if she’s a looker.”

You pinched your lips, trying to keep your laughter in. this was not the first time you’d been called an old maid. Hell, your mother said it often, especially since you flat out turned down Maurice’s proposal three months ago. She was livid.

Anita must have sensed the awkwardness of the moment because she cleared her throat and brought all her attention back to the reservation.

“Well, your room is prepared. I took the liberty of giving you one of our prettiest rooms. Would you like Borik to carry your bags up?”

“Uh—no, I’m sure I can manage,” you began.

Borik stood, shook his head, and came around to you.

“I won’t hear a thing about it. I’ll happily carry your luggage up. Follow me.”

“That’s my Borik, ever the gentleman,” Anita filled in with an enamored smile before Borik walked off, leaving her to check in a few of the other passengers from the plane.

You listened to Borik tell the story of the Inn and how it got its name. You kept one ear on his story while you took in every detail around you. The wood looked so rustic, and you guessed that was what gave the place such a warm and welcoming feeling. The higher you climbed, the more you saw, and the more you saw, the more you liked. You followed Borik down a hall, noticing that all the doors you passed had mini wreaths decked out in the same blue and silver ornaments like at the airport and throughout the streets.

“Ah-ha, here we are,” Borik said before he put the key into the lock and pushed the door open. Once he did, the scent of cinnamon and pine hit you in the face. It was like the hand of Christmas came out and smacked you.

“My wife loves the smell,” Borik explained as you stepped inside. You smiled and thanked him for his help.

“If you get hungry, you have a few options. There are plenty of places nearby you can eat some authentic Brexendorian food, but also my wife cooks every night, and dinner usually is at eight o’clock, but tonight Anette has agreed to keep some heated for anyone who would like some. It’s stew, rabbit.”

“Oh, thumper. Wonderful.”

Borik laughed loudly with that one. ��I know that one, Bambi, the children’s cartoon. Good one Ms. Thornton.”

You smiled. “You can call me Xari, Borik.”

“Well, have a good night,” he said before he walked out.

Finally alone, the first thing you did was text your sister to let her know not to worry and give her an update on what was happening. After you let Anika know what was happening, it didn’t take long for your phone to ring. The next ten or so minutes were spent talking to Anika and telling her how amazing the things you’d seen so far were. You could not shut up about the decorations, the way the snow looked to have been groomed to lay on things perfectly. It was that damn picturesque. Since you couldn’t stop talking about it, Anika was the one to suggest you go out and enjoy it before you got back on the plane. It was a suggestion you fully intended on listening to.

Fifteen minutes later, you were back downstairs bundled with your camera and your purse, ready to explore. When you told Anita your intention, she gave you a map of the city and highlighted places to look at but cautioned you to hurry because stores would be closing soon, and nights during Brexendor winters could be brutal. You promised you’d be quick and careful, then stepped out, ready to explore like Dora.

Your first stop was a block down, a children’s toy store. It was decked out with all the latest toys along with some traditional things that Santa would have brought specially made from his workshop. While you were snapping pictures outside the window, a kid ran up to the window and pressed his nose to it. His eyes were wide, and his mouth matched their size. You asked the adult with him if you could take a picture. When they approved, you got one or two from a few different angles before they walked off.

As you walked through the city, enjoying the scenery, you took pictures of everything that caught your eye, ornaments, trees, people, stores, even pets. Christmas wasn’t your favorite holiday, but it was your second favorite, and being here really as inching it higher on the list.

When you felt a strong wind hit you, it stopped you in your tracks. It was strong enough to have you stagger backward a little, allowing a chill to sweep through you. You looked around and saw a few feet away was some sort of bar, and behind it was swirling snow that looked like a tornado. You hurried toward the building, being careful not to slip on any ice that may be hiding underneath the snow. Once to the door, you walked inside, and the sound of Christmas carols filled your ears.

“Jesus.”

If the scent of the Inn felt like Christmas slapped you in the face, the look and sound of this place was the one two-hitter that settled that you were in a whole nother world here. You looked around and found a coat rack along the left wall. After placing your jacket and scarf on the hook, you walked to the bar and slid onto a stool. As you waited for the bartender to come over, you looked around. Here it didn’t smell like cinnamon, but the pine was present, along with the smell of alcohol and licorice.

There were several small dark wooden tables around the bar with chairs and even booths that decorated the walls. The floors matched the tables, and those matched the walls. This place looked like somewhere you’d find in the middle of nowhere. The window to the back of the establishment showed the dark woods with tall snow-covered trees and that howling snow tornado.

When you turned back to the back, the huge elk head above the wall lined with alcohol bottles had you gasping.

“Jeez,” you said as you snapped two of three pictures of the creepy looking thing.

“That is Hogan’s prized possession.”

You looked beside you where the voice came from to see a very attractive man there. When you’d sat down, you didn’t notice anyone beside you, so to see his piercing blue eyes boring holes into you. Your eyes traveled lower to his awkwardly shaped nose. It looked like it had been broken once or twice and never quite went back to normal. You didn’t mind it, though. Who liked a perfect face, especially when looking at him, seemed like that was about the only thing that was not absolutely perfect. His jaw was carved to precision like he was specially crafted and not born. When your eyes fell to his lips, you purposely forced yourself to look away.

“Is—is that right?”

“Yes. I bet you cannot guess why,” the stranger said in a crisp European accent that was very close to British. You weren’t one hundred percent sure if it was or not, he just sounded proper as hell, and it was actually a bit of a turn on.

You shrugged while looking at the bottles that lined the back of the bar. “Enlighten me.”

Just then, a large man with blond hair in a man bun walked over. He had to have been over six feet tall, and if this were America, he’d definitely be a shopper at the store Big & Tall. The man looked to the one seated beside you, ready to speak but suddenly closed his mouth.

“Hogan, Ms--,” the stranger began waiting for you to fill in your name.

He thought he was so smooth; you thought as you smiled to yourself.

“Xari.”

His eyebrow shot up, and he smiled sweetly. “Wow, what a beautiful name.”

You smiled, and as you felt it widening, you bit onto your bottom lip to stop it. “Thanks.”

“Ms. Xari would like to know why Shandoe is your most prized possession.”

“Shandoe?”

Hogan looked behind him at the Elk’s head then smiled. “It’s been in my family for generations. It was the first thing my great-great-great-great-great grandfather ever killed for himself to feed his family. They ate everything but the head and decided to keep it as a reminder of where we came from.”

You were expecting some weird manly story but what you got was a wholesome and heartwarming tale. You smiled, raised your camera, and snapped Hogan, and as he stared at the Elk’s head with such a loving look on his face that was such a contradiction for his large frame.

“Are you a reporter?”

“No, no. Not at all. I’m a travel influencer and blogger. I go around and soak up what the world has to offer while taking pictures and writing about it on my blog for others to read about.”

The man beside you nodded, then raised his glass to his head.

“What can I get you?”

“Uh—what is he drinking?”

“The Mistletoe Bomb.”

You snorted, unable to contain yourself any longer. “What in the world is that?”

“You laugh now, but it is a blend he makes special for me. It is not for the faint of heart,” the man beside you informed.

“Oh no, well looks like I’ll be having one of those.”

Hogan looked to him, then back to you. “It is all right, Hogan. Give the lady what she wants. I am assuming fell strength is also what you require?”

“Yes, full strength. I want all the mistletoe and all the bomb.”

Hogan went to work, making the drink while you continued looking around.

“Em, I’m Henry.”

You looked to him to find his hand outstretched to you, waiting for you to place yours in it. When you did, you repeated your name as you noted how soft his hands were. It felt like he’d never done a day’s work with them. Henry rose your hand to his lips and placed a soft kiss on the back of your hand. It was one small action, but that action had butterflies flitting in your belly and your cheeks heating as if a heater was aimed directly at your face.

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” Henry uttered while looking into your eyes.

“Same,” you whispered.

Henry released your hand and turned back to his drink at the same time Hogan placed a mug before you.

“One Mistletoe Bomb for the lady.”

You looked at the large mug then to Hogan, who waited expectantly. When your eyes drifted to Henry beside you, he too was watching and waiting. No matter how much you felt like this was a setup, you persisted, not wanting to back down. When you took your first full mouthful of the drink, your eyes immediately bugged. Your tongue was on fire in seconds, and it seemed the longer you held the liquid in your mouth, the worse the burn was. You gulped it down and instantly knew the mistake. Not only was your mouth on fire, but now your throat and chest as it burned a fiery path to your belly.

“Holy fucking shit!”

The two men boisterously laughed, the sounds booming off the wooden walls before filling the entire room. You looked around, noticing for the first time it was completely empty.

“What the hell is that?”

“Something that will put hair on your chest,” Hogan teased.

“No, shit.”

Henry seemed to like that response; he laughed again then finished his mug.

“How can you drink this?”

He shrugged, then turned his body to you. You gave him a well-paced once over, taking in his furry winter boots, dark pants, and dark sweater to match the pants. Underneath the sweater, though, you saw peeks of a crisp white shirt. He dressed like he had money, you thought.

“I have done it for half my life. I do not even feel the burn anymore. Do you know why he calls it Mistletoe Bomb now?”

You giggled and nodded, pushing the mug away. If you drank that, you’d need to be carried out of here. As Hogan appeared to take the mug away, Henry reached for it, insisting he’d finish it while Hogan placed a beer bottle in front of you.

“Would you like a straw?”

You looked at Hogan as if he were crazy. Who drank beer with a straw? You shook your head and raised the bottle to your lips to take a swig. This was more your speed, not pure petrol.

“So you are new in town,” Henry began.”

“Kind of. My plane had to detour because of the storm, so here I am in a place I’ve never heard of and cannot figure out why.”

“Is it strange to never have heard of every place in the world?”

You thought about it for a moment as you took another mouthful of beer then nodded.

“Yes. I’m from America,” you began.

“Ah, American. Let me guess. Everything has to be discovered, and if it is not, then either it doe not exist, or it is being hidden.”

You snapped your mouth shut. He’d guessed American thinking in one try. “Well, that’s not fun,” you added. Henry laughed and took his mouthful of fire.

“I am sorry. I know America well,” Henry informed.

“Oh, so you’ve been?”

“No. I do not need to. I have spent my entire life learning it.”

You looked back at him, confused by what he meant.

“Every country gives lessons on other countries of the word, especially powerhouse countries,” he explained.

“Well, your studies have paid off.”

“Do you really believe that everything has to be discovered?”

“No. where is the fun in that? I believe that the world has to have some mystery.”

“Then welcome to Brexendor,” Henry said with a smile.

“Brexendor. What’s it’s deal?”

You leaned closer, resting your elbow on the wood of the bar as you watched him.

“Deal? I am afraid I do not understand.”

“What I mean is, the people are nice. Everyone I have encountered, including at the airport, is nice. You know airport staff can be so mean, but not here. The people who own the Inn I am staying at are so sweet. Even strangers I bump into don’t;’ seem to mind. Not to mention, this place has the whole snow globe effect down. It’s incredible. What is the deal? Is the president some fantastic guy who pays everyone well and gives them ample vacation time for them to be so happy?”

Henry smiled, dipped his head lower, then rubbed the back of his neck.

“Would that be unusual?”

“Yes. Compared to what America has going on—highly unusual.”

“Well, the first thing to know about Brexendor is, a president does not run it,” Henry clarified.

“Ah right, it is a monarchy. So does that mean there is a king, and queen, lords, dukes,” you began, then gasped, remembering more. “Princesses?”

Henry smirked, gulped his drink, then nodded. “Yes.” He continued to take another swig from his mug.

His words slowly resonated. “What!? You’re serious?”

He nodded, then placed the glass onto the bar.

“Wow. How interesting. So this King and Queen are they the good kind?”

Henry’s smile turned somber before it disappeared altogether.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no. Yes, the King and Queen are the best kind,” he filled in before he took the last mouthful of his drink. “They would like you.”

You laughed loudly and shook your head. “Me? I doubt that. While all the mothers of my boyfriends have loved me, I don’t think the King and Queen would care for me.”

“Boyfriend, so uh—you’re involved,” Henry said as he avoided your eyes.

His words sounded like a statement rather than a question, so you remained quiet. After a few moments, he looked at you expectantly. You pinched your lips before you finished your beer.

“Are you involved?”

Henry took a deep breath looked forward to the bottles at the bar as a pained and confused expression washed over his features.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you replied.

“I am not—involved,” he answered.

“You said it like you weren’t sure.”

“It is complicated.”

“Well, I am a stranger in a bar—an empty bar. You’ll most likely never see me again, and I’ve been told I’m a great listener.”

Henry smiled then turned back to you, resting his elbow on the bar mimicking your stance.

“You have not answered my inquiry.”

“Inquiry?”

Henry smiled again, then bit his bottom lip. That is where your eyes went to. He had nice lips, you thought.

“On if you are involved,” he clarified.

“I am not involved with anyone. If you ask my mother, she will tell you I’m an old maid with no prospects.”

“I do not believe that. You are funny, intelligent, fun to be around, and quite beautiful. There is no way you have no admirers.”

You smiled and began toying with your necklace.

“I’m sure you say that to all the girls you meet in deserted bars during a snow storm.”

He snorted, and you felt his breath across your cheek. It was then you realized how close the two of you were to each other.

“To be honest, I have never found myself alone with a woman in a bar. You are my first.”

You bit your bottom lip feeling more flirtatious than usual as you gazed into his hypnotizing eyes. He was gorgeous and becoming even more so with every passing minute. The two of you ordered more drinks, then drifted off to one of the booths on the wall that was more hidden and even more comfortable. You talked about nearly everything and nothing at the same time. He spoke a lot about philosophy and astronomy and the sciences that motivated a lot of the earlier theories. It was fascinating just listening to him speak. There was something about his mouth and the properness of the words he used. Never once did he use slang or even a contraction. You’d never met anyone who didn’t use contractions. The longer you sat there, the more you felt like never getting up.

“There is something about you that is so comfortable and easy,” Henry began.

“You too.”

“I feel like I can talk to you about anything. I even want to.”

You smiled, “You too.”

Your eyes lingered, and you saw him sway forward, but then he stopped only to do it again and again. With your faces were centimeters from one another, it was then you noticed the slight speck of brown in his left eye. You felt Henry’s hand gently cup your cheek; then, his thumb slowly stroked your skin. The heat from his palm seared your cheek, and every stroke of his thumb send heat tendrils down your jaw to your lips, making them tingle and yearn for his.

This had never happened to you in your entire life. You’d known this man a few hours and were ready to possibly bring him back to the Inn with you. Henry didn’t move. It was like he was giving you the last few centimeters to make a decision, but you didn’t make it. A phone went off, but you both ignored it until the sound went off. You raised your hand to rest on top of his. Once your skin touched his, Henry lightly sighed out. Before either of you could make another move, a phone rang again. This time Henry groaned before he looked away just as you did.

You cleared your throat and slid from his body as he checked his phone.

“I have to go,” he announced.

Frozen, you sat there trying to understand if you’d read this entire thing wrong.

“I am sorry, something—urgent has come up.”

You snapped out of it, then nodded. “It’s fine. I should probably get back to the Inn anyway. They say a storm is brewing.”

Both of you stood from the booth while straightening your clothes.

“I really enjoyed tonight,” Henry added.

You smiled and nodded. “Me too. It was—nice.”

Your eyes lingered again, and your bodies drifted closer. It was you who looked away first and stepped back. You reached for your purse, but Henry stopped you.

“It has been taken care of. Let us call it a tourist special, right Hogan.”

“Right your--,” Hogan began before Henry looked at him, cutting him off.

Henry ushered you to the coat rack on the wall by the door then helped you into your jacket.

“Can I drive you back to the Inn?”

“No, please. I am more than capable of getting back,” you assured.”

“Are you sure?”

You nodded then turned to walk out, but Henry pulled you to him. “I want to see you again.”

“I don’t see how. I leave tomorrow as soon as the storm passes.”

Henry looked to be thinking before he sighed. “I guess it was not meant to be,” you whispered, a tinge of sadness filling you as reality set in.

“In another life,” Henry softly said.

He came closer then placed a slow, chaste kiss on your cheek before he released you. The two of you stared at each other for a few moments, and in those moments, anything felt possible. When you faced that anything could have been possible but not for you, you sighed. A few seconds later, you turned and walked out of the bar.

Once outside, the rough wind caught you off guard. You took a few moments to bundle yourself, then continued walking back to the Inn. The swirling snow in the air made it a little challenging to see, but you tried the best you could. Several times, the wind picked up and shoved you where it wanted, forcing you to grab on to something to hold until it passed.

Suddenly a big gust of wind blew you to the right and knocking you off your feet to roll for several feet. When the wind slowed, you rolled over onto your back to spit out the mouthful of snow that you’d managed to ingest. It took you several tries to stand, but when you did, you tried to see where you were and what direction you needed to walk in. That was when the wind picked up again, making you scream. When you turned, you saw two headlights coming right at you, then all you felt was pain before you were out cold.

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

***If you want to be tagged/untagged please SEND AN ASK SO IT WILL BE EASIER FOR ME TO KEEP TRACK OF. Thank you for reading!!!***

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

TagList:

@caramara3 @chaneajoyyy @caplover22 @shinebrightlikeafanbase @queenoftheworldisdead @liquorlaughslove @night-of-the-living-shred @dangerouslovefanfic @areubeingserved @maxcullen @jovanaprime @pananegra @bakarilennox @littlepreciousangel @shar74nett @pananegra @laketaj24 @blackgurlkillinit @maeleeme @live-laugh-love-ki @mary-ann84 @mery-be

@jamesbarnesappreciationclub @momobaby227 @naturalthrone22 @emjayewrites @kikimiyazaki @minton131 @aar-journey @sincerelyglowing @theonewithherheadintheclouds @livinglifeformemyselfandi @kittykatlow @munteanhorewrites @give-me-a-million-dollars-pls

@simply-heaven @winchwm @maximumninjavoid @offrostandstarlight @angrybirdcr @maxcullen @xsweetdellzx @sausagefest1996 @tenaciousperfectionunknown @bellaamor88 @alyxkbrl @hello-therree @mery-be @that-chick212 @smuttywriter @ljstraightnochaser

@mrsbarnes-rogers @melanicia @live-laugh-love-ki @deadpixie22 @asiaaisa77 @queenshikongo3 @queenreignssupreme @cltex84 @helenasmirkedno @areubeingserved @petty-bitch-akira @rynabarnesrogers-reading @themeforanudebeach @i-just-like-fanfics

@october505 @msblkfire84 @msbrightsidestuff @youremysuperstar @storiestoldbyjazz @themeforanudebeach @i-just-like-fanfics @titty-teetee @wellthirsted @t3mporaa @jd-now-jq

#crown for two fic #henry cavill #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill x you #henry cavill x black reader #black fanfiction #royalty au #slow burn fanfic #christmas fanfiction #henry cavill x black ofc #cheesy christmas fic

254 notes · View notes

lilfellasblog · 3 years ago

Note

I tried to choose a question but, I'm pretty interested in answers to all those tbh

You. I like you.

Talk about the first ship you ever had. - Tiencha (Tien Shinhan/ Yamcha), which is why I'm very sympathetic to those also suffering in rarepair hell.

Talk about three of the most important ships throughout your life. Destiel, Tiencha, Analogical

What’s your current OTP? Oof, I think I gotta go Prinxiety! So much potential for angst with hurt/comfort.

What’s your current NOTP? You know, I honestly can't think of any tbh.

Do you have any poly ships? For my OTP question, I originally answered LAMP/CALM, so definitely that!

How do you feel about love triangles? I think they can be intriguing if done well. If there's cheating involved, it would be pretty difficult for me to feel sympathy for the cheater.

How do you feel about RPF? It's fine, do whatever you want. Fanfic has always been for fans, not for creators. Purity culture and entitlement needs to stop. It's like seeing a sign that says "Snapping Turtles", jumping in the pond anyways, then yelling at the people who put up the sign after you lose a couple pounds of flesh.

Have you ever shipped yourself with a character? Tbh, the closest I've gotten is wanting different characters to adopt me and take me from my home. But I don't think I've ever romantically shipped myself with someone.

Do you have many ships that never got together at all? *cries in All Of Them*

Do you ship any characters that have never met? Huh. I don't think so tbh.

Talk about your favorite first kiss. Well in college there was- Oh! You mean fictional characters! :3 I think Virgil's first kiss with Roman in Healing Broken Wings is my favorite.

Have you ever been disappointed when your ship finally got together? *cries in It's Never Happened*

Has a ship ever broken your heart? In fanfic? Yeah, I've read some sad endings before and that's usually not my jam.

How do you feel about will they/won’t they? I'm fine with it so long as it ends in "Yes they will!"

Have you ever “shipped at first sight”? Analogical, actually!

Talk about a ship you initially disliked. I think when Remus first appeared, I had a hard time imagining him with anyone because of what a gremlin he is. I've come around to the trash rat tho.

Talk about a pairing you’ve stopped shipping romantically. Destiel.

Talk about a moment which made you question an entire ship. Season 6 of Supernatural. Destiel. >:(

Have you ever shipped something despite yourself? Kind of? I've done spite fics with spite ships.

Talk about a ship you feel alone in shipping. Tiencha, or Tien Shinhan/ Yamcha. They'd be so cute together!

Is there a ship you just don’t get, but have nothing against? Any ships that are part of fandoms I'm not in. I guess maybe Tony Stark/ Steve Rogers? They have such different values and ethics. They literally need a threat to the entire universe to come together.

Which of your ships have the best chemistry? Oh Analogical, easily. Royality too I think.

Which of your ships deserve better writing? Tiencha :(

Do you mostly ship canon pairings? Lmao no.

Have you ever shipped a pairing before you even started watching the show/movie simply because of gifs and graphics or similar? Yes I have! Crowley/ Aziraphale.

Have you noticed a pattern in your shipping? Is there a romantic dynamic you’re more drawn to? Not really, it's kind of all over the map.

Is there a ship you’ve shipped for most of your life? Tiencha.

Does shipping come easily to you? Yes, I am trash.

Do you need to ship something to really enjoy a movie/book/tv show/comic? Definitely not. I was a Potterhead, and I still don't really ship anything there.

Name a couple of fandoms in which you have no ships. Harry Potter, Marvel, DC Comics. I'm not in those fandoms tho.

Talk about one of your favorite headcanons for a ship you love. Roman is playfully protective of Virgil, and Virgil teases him by dramatically swooning.

Share five must-read fics. "Unexpected Destinies" was my first fic that I got into. Destiel fic, very complex and interesting AU. I think it got deleted during a LiveJournal purge tho. I got really into the "Battle Scars" series for a hot minute. Disabled Goku/ disabled Yamcha. "Perfect Attendance" by Periwren is great hurt/comfort starring Roman and Logan. "Welcome to the Neighborhood" by LeFay_Strent is absolutely hysterical. Shenanigans with Remy and Virgil, background Prinxiety, baffled Logan, it's a good time. And "War is Hell (but crushing is way more awkward)" by Jasper01 is incredible in so many ways! Funny, tragic, accurate, romantic, sweet, heartbreaking, all the things!

Name your favorite fanartist(s). So many fanartists have moved away from Sanders Sides, so I'm having a hard time thinking of many. To make sure I cover everyone, if there are any recs please let me know and I'll signal boost!

Share your favorite fanmix for your OTP. *Googles fanmix* It would appear I have none.

Recommend 1-5 shipper blogs. Gosh, so many of the shipping blogs I follow have become inactive in the Sides fandom. So! If any of you shipping blogs would like a shout-out, lmk and I'll signal boost!

Do you create fanmixes/gif sets/fanart/fic/fanvids and so on for you ships? Fic. So much fic.

Do you have a favorite trope and/or AU for your OTP? I mean I'm partial to Healing Broken Wings AU. As for trope, I'm a sucker for angst with hurt/comfort.

Do you like and use ship names? Definitely! Much faster to type.

Is there a fictional relationship you’d really want for yourself? I'm taking the word "fictional" literally here, because there is someone I'm in unrequited love with that I'm working on dealing with and I would really love a relationship with this person even though I know any hope is fiction.

If you could change one thing about your OTP, what would that be? Prinxiety, and that Roman would get some goshdang therapy!

#roman sanders #logan sanders #prinxiety #virgil sanders #patton sanders #supernatural #dragonball z #remy sanders #this took me an hour I think

12 notes · View notes

todoscript · 4 years ago

Text

Corps-à-Corps [ 1 ]

Parts | one ; two

Corps-à-Corps (“body-to-body”): the action of two fencers coming into bodily contact with each other that is deemed an illegal move

Genre | Sports AU. Slow Burn. Angst. Fluff. Future Smut.

Pairing | Fencer!Todoroki Shouto x Fencer!Reader

Words | 10.7K+

Warnings | Pining. Mild cursing. Characters are aged up. Insecurities and expectations. Research was done in order to accurately convey the action of the sport in this fic as I am not a fencer. Whole fic will be two parts.

Author’s Notes | Oh wow, 10k words. I was debating whether or not to just write the entire story in one go and post everything together, but at the speed I’m going, along with my assignments harassing me in the background, I decided to upload as a two-shot. Also please read the ending author’s notes when you’re done!

Also a special thank you to @sadistiks @natsuosfairy and @pat-writes-stuff for being my beta readers! <3

The thought of being late to your very first practice at the fencing academy you’ve admitted to is nothing short of an insult to your former coach, who was the one who recommended you in the first place.

You tell yourself this, yet here you are, running as if your life depends on it. Ragged breaths are ripping from your throat, accompanied by the slick sweat dotting the skin of your temples and a pair of lungs positively burning through every arduous step you compel yourself to tussle through.

“Dammit, why’d I have to be late today?!” you groan through gritted teeth, glancing at the map in your hand to verify the correct path forward to the Tokyo Fencing Center. As you clutch the strap of the duffel bag hanging off your shoulder, you seethe over your lack of time management skills, knowing full well you can’t blame anyone for this disorganization but yourself.

You persevere through, despite the dizzying heat flushing your skin and the fatigue piling in your body, awarded with the fencing center coming into view. You grant yourself only a second of rest before you’re rushing forward again. If you were a track athlete, then this would be the last hurdle.

Finally, with a fierce slam open of the double doors enclosing the facility, you’ve crossed the finish line. The relieved heave of your breaths practically topple you over in exhaustion but you regain your balance by adjusting yourself next to a wall. Little do you know there was still another impediment you needed to face.

The noises that lightly ring and echo throughout the hallway emit down from the main room, indicating to you that you’re definitely past due punctual. Steps heavy and hesitant, you cross into the threshold. Everyone has already clad themselves in their fencing gear, scattering into their respected fencing disciplines to practice amongst each other. You’re left standing there in high contrast compared to the white uniforms dispersed in the room. At this point, you just hope to speak to the primary instructor without disturbing the vibe.

However, your goal is cut short by a quick thrust of a saber. Your eyes view over and behold the fencing match before you, where two combatants ready their blades on opposite sides of the piste—the extended playing area the game takes place on. Their bodies are encased in the standard protective gear, faces obscured by the dense masks covering their heads to the napes of their necks.

“En-garde... Prêtz?” The referee utters two distinct French words before starting the bout—one meaning “on guard,” the other “ready.” Each participant raises their weapons in preparation.

“Allez!”

At the signal, their movements advance into nearly triple time, feet light and flexible as their steps shift across the mat. You’re familiar with this particular fencing discipline known as saber fencing. It’s fast; in fact, it’s the second-fastest sport at the Olympics after rifle shooting. The aim of the game, of course, is to hit your opponent anywhere from the waist up with your sword. It may seem simple enough, but there’s another layer of complication factoring in the game’s speed, for this sport is calculated in as little time as milliseconds.

The fencer on the left side of the piste lunges forward, attempting to draw the momentum. Sadly, it’s a sloppy pursuit; his form is unstable and his efforts are in vain due to a missed strike. He swiftly backs up.

At this error, the opposition takes the reins and progresses forward, forcing his competitor back and back across the mat from his utter retaliation. In an instant, he spots a chance to win priority by taking over the impetus of the battle, and makes no hesitation in slashing with his weapon. Every movement he commits to is as swift as wisps of fire in the wind and burns nearly as fast. His opponent tries following the hit out of sheer panic. In the end, the exchange of strikes is so quick that even a simple blink could deter you from the actions at hand.

The two attacks make simultaneous contact on their lamé—the electric conductive jacket hugging their upper bodies—causing the machine in front of the referee to glow two colors. Left is indicated by red, green for right. If both colors concurrently light up, it’s the referee’s position to decide who earns the point.

Though the battle proved to be hasty and expeditious, you managed to observe every detail as keenly possible. From your basic understanding of the rules of saber fencing, the point should belong to—

“Right,” the referee promptly states, his arm lifted toward the corresponding side. By controlling the initiative of the fight, the right-sided fencer gains priority, meaning he’ll receive the point even if both players hit. The moment his competitor had made a mistake, the opposition had the right to steal the momentum along with priority.

The gush of air that heavily tightens your lungs eventually releases into a breath you hadn’t realized you’ve been holding in the spur of the match. The complication, as well as the speed of saber fencing, has always made you appreciate the aspect of the game, despite how different it was from your own fencing discipline.

“And so the victor of this match is Todoroki,” the referee congratulates as everyone around sounds with applause, at which you can’t help but join in. The triumphant fencer brings his blade down by his side before running a hand over his mask to reveal himself.

You glimpse at a head of white and red tresses that flair elegantly upon layers, sticking to the sweat glistening across his forehead. His pretty heterochromatic eyes gleam at his victory, and exuding nothing but effortless confidence, he stands tall above the crowd. However, there’s frigidity in his expression, an underlying cold beneath frosty irises of turquoise and gray that’s difficult to comprehend.

Movements like fire. Spirit like ice. And together, they collide into an enigma that rattles your thoughts in that infinitesimal moment.

Staring at his form, you can’t help but compare this scene to a shot right from a movie, what with the man’s handsome looks, glowing charisma, and athletic ability. He’d definitely make for a killer male lead—

“Ahem.”

The panorama view is pressed on pause when you hear an abrupt clear of someone’s throat in your direction. The referee greets you, a slender man possessing messy, shoulder-length hair and an unusually worn-out appearance despite his young age.

“Can I help you, miss?”

Everyone’s actions are on hold after the match. They peep over to the commotion surrounding you and their instructor, exchanging choruses of whispers and curious looks. You can’t suppress the urge to cross your arms and nervously rub your skin over the uncomfortable amount of eyes boring into you. After all, it doesn’t take a detective to comprehend how you stick out like a sore thumb in this sea of white.

“Oh, um, I’m a newly admitted fencer… My coach recommended me, and I’m here to attend my first practice,” you manage despite an embarrassing red creeping up your cheeks. The only physical bearings you can hold onto is the strap of your duffle bag, which you grip firmly in hopes of not potentially floating away like a hot air balloon. Though at the same time, you’d also wouldn’t mind drifting off, or perhaps even bury yourself into solid ground if it meant escaping the stares.

While exhaling an arduous sigh, the man’s flat and tired eyes sink into your existence. You honestly can’t tell if he’s annoyed with you or perhaps just having an exhausting day. Maybe it’s both. In that case, you might be fucked.

“Well, you’re about twenty minutes late and not dressed in fencing gear. Though I suppose explanations are long overdue,” says the instructor, adding more heat to the squealing teakettle that is your mortification, “Your name?”

“L-L/n Y/n,” you reply. Let’s hope he’s not asking for it to kick you out of the academy.

“L/n Y/n...” He flips through a page, scanning the contents, “You’re an… épée fencer?”

“Yes, sir.”

As the man continues looking over his clipboard, you notice blue and gray eyes peering right from behind him. Your face lights up, perceiving them to belong to the saber fencer—Todoroki—from the earlier match, and your eyes are drawn to his as if they’re glaciers glimmering in the moonlight. The boy, however, averts his gaze the moment the two of you make brief eye contact. He returns to the mat and brandishes his blade for another bout.

“L/n if you want to stay here,” the instructor’s voice nudges your attention back to him, “I suggest you go get changed in your fencing gear. And quickly. I have an assignment for you.”

Your only reply is a prompt “yes sir” before you hurry to the locker rooms, bag smacking against your side at every step as if it’s physically reprimanding you for getting in such an unpleasant predicament. All you give it is a violent throw into a locker. Your hands rummage inside, hastily scouring for your gear to don on.

The thin clothes you’re currently wearing allow you to slip your long fencing socks over them, along with white trousers that hang onto your form thanks to two straps hooked over your shoulders. Next comes the safeguard for the upper body—a plastic chest protector first, followed by the plastron or the underarm protector. Finally, a white jacket sports over all the upper layers. Everything afterward is self-explanatory, what with only the gloves and shoes left. You won’t need the mask until later, so you grip it next to your hip, leaving the locker room with haste.

By then, everyone resumed their usual business for today’s practice. The swoosh of blades accompany you when you return to the training hall, sights set back on the shaggy-haired man standing on the side waiting for you. His wary expression is a chasm you can’t correctly discern.

“Though you’re not punctual, you dress fast at least,” he says just as you approach, “Now if you want to secure your spot here, there’s something you need to do.” You follow him to a piste occupied by only one other fencer. Assuming the player is also an épée fencer like yourself, you can guess what this “assignment” consists of now.

“If you’re going to be training here, I need to evaluate your skills and see where you currently stand,” he declares and hands you the corresponding weapon to your discipline: The épée, the largest and heaviest sword used in fencing. Compared to foil fencing, it dons a larger guard and is broader and thicker. But unlike saber, which has more slashing in play, this weapon is designated for thrusting.

“So I’m having you perform in a small, quick match right now. I’m only giving you one chance to prove you should stay here and train amongst us, so I suggest you play to the best of your ability.”

You nod, enthusiastic, and ready for the bout. Your opponent wordlessly walks off to the opposite end of the piste, their épée blade prepped at their side while you do the same, also wearing your protective headgear. Due to their dense mask, you can’t distinguish any prominent features or emotions on your contender, but you’re sure the sensations crossing their body are parallel to your own.

“En-garde.”

Inhale and exhale. Your even breaths lull your nerves, and every hindrance you faced today is buried in the back crevice of your mind. Right now, you focus your energy and spirit into this small match, let yourself envelope the vitality of fencing that drives your movements.

“Prêtz?”

Your knees are bent, steps light on your toes while your grip remains steady on the handle of the épée, the shine glossed from the hilt to the tip of the blade points you toward a new adversary standing in your way.

“Allez!”

Even with the signal, the small spring in your step ushers you only a bit forward. Unlike saber fencing, the pace is quite different. Whereas saber is fast and flashy all within as little as a speck of a second, épée is methodical, slow, and plays defensively. For in épée, any part of your body can register as a point. So the discipline focuses on maneuvering cautiously to protect yourself, being wary of your stance, as well as deflecting and parrying attacks.

Saber fencing is equivalent to a real-life scenario. If two people are equipped with knives and face off to see who wins, then the one who makes the quickest move and cuts down their opponent first is victorious. They don’t just trade blows with each other; they go in for the kill. It’s basic survivability. Meanwhile, épée fencing is reminiscent of a duel—a show. The competitors give the crowd a performance to enjoy, watching through every meticulous move and observing their blades clash in a struggle. Similar to the exaggerated fight choreographies seen in action movies and animation.

Every step an épée fencer performs is calculated and strategized in their heads because there are so many vulnerable factors an opponent can exploit. Knowing any part of your body is a target for your opponent’s blade, the most sure-fire way to avoid receiving a hit is to take extra precaution in your form while monitoring the enemy’s.

You regard every movement, every muscle, your competitor makes, indicating how fast or slow they shift when not attacking. Suddenly, the opposition proceeds forward, easing slightly into your range. You grapple yourself, ready for the fencer as they swiftly advance at a possible opening, their épée is thrust in an unyielding path to take you down. However, you foresee the hit, bringing your blade up to parry the attack. When the metal swords collide, you detect a break in your opponent’s defenses and launch your counterattack known as riposte—the offensive action carried after a clean parry.

The point of your blade hits home against the fencer’s chest. With the electric conductive lamé pierced, a high-pitched squeal rings in the air—a distinct indication that you have rightfully gained the point in the bout, winning the short test match.

Typically, a regular bout would continue until one of the contenders reaches fifteen points, but in this case, the coach had already held his hand up to halt your actions only after one round. You remove your mask, vision adjusting to the light, and hearing faint sets of claps in the vicinity. Glancing around, a small ring of onlookers commend your swift demonstration. While it is not on par with the garish applause you witnessed earlier, you appreciate the praise with an elated grin lining your lips. Your eyes cross into the threshold and notice Todoroki sparing a brief glimpse over the laudation, but doesn’t pay much mind.

“Hm, at least your former coach didn’t make a mistake recommending you here. You’re not half bad. Could touch up your technique a bit more, but I suppose that’s what you’re at this academy for,” the coach calls out, but his tone quickly submerges into deep waters. Out of instinct, your back straightens when he nears.

“However, I don’t have time for slackers, and tardiness is not something I tolerate. Here at this fencing academy, we don’t waste our time dawdling. We get in, make the most of every minute, and get our jobs done. So I better not see you twenty minutes late again, understand?”

A creeping veil of severity slithers down your spine, jolting nerves in your body you had no idea existed. If you stared into the man’s eyes long enough, they might shift into a threatening hue of red that could swallow you whole. Your fear over that has you shaking your head up and down in rapid succession, and surprisingly, the oppressive atmosphere disperses instantly like smoke scattered by the wind.

“Good. With that said, I’ll be your coach, Aizawa Shouta.” His narrowed brows soften when he speaks, reverting to his downbeat appearance. “If you have any further questions, you can ask your fellow fencers. If not, then get to practice.”

He walks off to inspect the other fencers on their progress, allowing you to conduct your business. However, before you can conjure any thoughts on how to proceed next, a hand finds its way into your peripheral vision. A girl with onyx black hair tied in a high ponytail comes in view, a singular thick lock framing the kind smile adorning her face.

“That was a great match, I enjoyed every bit participating in it, even though it was so short,” she says. It’s by her statement and when your eyes scan across her form briefly that you recognize her to be your opponent, now no longer concealed by head protection.

You take her hand, grip settling into a light shake while you return the smile cordially, “Ah same, I hope we can play a full bout in the future.”

“Agreed,” she giggles amicably, which you find soothing, “My name is Yaoyorozu Momo, and as you witnessed, I’m an épée fencer like yourself.”

“L/n Y/n, though just Y/n is fine.”

“Well, Y/n, that was quite an entrance in the beginning, coming in twenty minutes late to your first practice,” the girl teases, a playful hand over her lips that leave a pout on your own.

“Yeah, that was my fault…” you drawl, rubbing a hand over your head. Your eyes avert to the ceiling upon remembering the chagrin, “It’s an excuse, I know, but I lost track of time…”

“Haha, don’t worry. Coach Aizawa may seem like a hostile man, who arguably doesn’t get enough sleep, but I assure you he has his soft spots. You just have to get to know him a bit more.”

Your face droops, finding the claim hard to believe when testifying for the man’s daunting character that left your nerves shivering. At this point, all you need to do is not get on his bad side, and you’re good to go.

“Rather, if I did have to point anyone to look out for, it’d be fencers like him,” she gestures off to the side, your eyes following the movement. The person in query is a boy of slick, blonde hair whose lips draw into a smug grin that somehow irritates you enough for your face to gaunt.

“That’s Monoma Neito. Fencing is a chivalrous sport, but he’s as arrogant as they come, all talk and no action. However, his family funds and supports the academy, so he was offered a place here with little regard. Luckily he fences saber so we won’t be running into much of him anyway,” she describes a type you’re fairly familiar with. They’re the kind of people that throw their money at their problems, reaching undeserving plateaus thanks to their authority and status. It’s frustrating to think a prestigious sports academy can still be touched by people like him, considering the lengths ordinary folks like yourself need to extend to reach the same level. In this cruel world, some arrive at the top with a simple touch of a button on an elevator while the rest must burn and sweat and suffer to climb mountains that span the same peak.

Despite that, you’re glad this place still harbors some exceptional skills, judging by the abundant competence surrounding the room in the form of rigorous training and practice. You should join in the grind soon. However, your curiosity piqued at the last second as your eyes have subconsciously been trailing the saber fencers, seeking peculiar tresses of red and white. It’s not long until you spot him again—Todoroki. He’s stepped off to the side, relieving his thirst with water and wiping the lingering sweat dotting his face.

“Hey, Yaoyorozu,” you call, eyes unwavering, “can you tell me about that boy over there, Todoroki?”

She gives a mildly surprised look, “You don’t know who he is? I thought the last name would ring a bell, especially as a fencer.”

“Um, should I?” You raise an eyebrow. Even when you spare another glance at the boy, hoping your mind would jolt with a distant memory, nothing clicks. Only a blank greets you.

“That’s Todoroki Shouto, son of Todoroki Enji, who’s a former saber fencing Olympian. He’s one of the best fencers here. They say he rivals his father in skill and is aiming to participate for the next coming Olympics, but Todoroki doesn’t talk much about it,” she finally answers. Your gaze fills with intrigue, processing the information through a filter that quickly fathoms the different planes you and the boy of ice and fire live across. Little do you realize that your worlds will soon collide faster than sword to body, and mar just as bad.

It’s by the next practice at the Tokyo Fencing Center that you genuinely take Coach Aizawa’s words to heart and let it show in your actions by committing to managing your time that day. Even with university classes and studies before another rigorous training session, you arrive with no commotion, no irritating looks, and no sweat. One thing’s for sure, the coach won’t be biting your head off this time.

You start to consider the notion that you could potentially be the very first person here; if not for a sound you begin to discern louder and louder the more you walk down the hallway toward the training room. You surmise it’s too early for anyone to be here when practice does not officially start until two o’clock sharp. Lighting up your phone, it reads 1:40 PM, twenty minutes ahead of schedule.

A ghost? No, you don’t believe in such things. Unless it’s maybe Coach Aizawa’s exhausted spirit coming to punish you for last time? In that case, perhaps you should be more mindful of specters after all.

You decipher the noise as a swoosh carried by thin metal slicing across the air and resounding in swift successions. Your steps careful and silent, you enter the training hall to peek upon the lone entity. It’s there you spot a white figure, however it’s not a ghost. Instead, it’s a fencer. A saber fencer at that, and one whose form is in peak and perfect condition as they jut their blade out with such a keen technique, you’d want to capture the shot within a sculpture of ice to admire every angle. But, under every chain of moves is a fire that melts and burns the previous images’ glaciers.

Before your thoughts can catch up to you, the fencer stops and lowers his sword.

“Do you usually spy on people while they’re practicing?”

The figure evokes a husky voice from beneath the meshed mask. Had it not been only the two of you here, you might not have heard the muffled words that nearly have your feet stepping on top of each other from how sudden they resonate in the air. You gather yourself and find your balance. When your eyes reach the boy’s again, he’s already swung off his headgear, revealing his heterochromatic eyes peering at you. Todoroki waits silently, expecting an answer.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to gawk at you or anything,” you sputter while unable to look directly at him.

“You kept glancing at me the first day you came in for practice too,” he mentions, his voice relaxed despite the detail making you out to be some attentive fangirl, maybe even a stalker if you stretched it. Surprising to you, however, he furrows his brows.

“Did I do something to bother you?”

You swing your hands up fervently to deny the question and assure to him that was not the case.

“Oh no! I just, uh…” your splayed utters have you fumbling to reach for a response that won’t come off too garish for your standing, “I just�� admire your fencing. Saber has always been a discipline that’s fascinated me, considering it’s so different from épée.”

“Right, you’re an épée fencer,” he says.

You nod genially, “Hehe, that’s correct. I’m L/n Y/n, by the way, the new girl, but you probably already knew that when the coach scolded me last week for coming in late,” you chuckled, offering a strained grin to lighten the dreadful memory.

Noticing he’s about to return the introductions, you stop him with a wave of your hand, “Don’t worry, I know who you are, Todoroki Shouto.”

He lifts a brow, and you have to giggle at the perplexed expression etched on his face when comparing it to the icy demeanor he usually sports on pause.

“I watched a bit of your match last week the moment I walked in,” you explain, “Plus, you’re quite the talk around here at the fencing academy.”

“Am I?” Todoroki questions, a hint of inquisitiveness edging the tip of his tongue.

“I thought you’d already be the one to know that. You’re the skilled saber fencer here,” you tease. “So do you usually come so early just to do warm-ups and swing your saber around by yourself?”

His eyes avert to the blade handled in his right hand, then return to you, “I follow a training routine. In the morning, I work out at a gym, and then I come here afterward.”

Your eyes blink twice, interpreting his words, “Wait, so you’ve been here since..?”

“1:00,” he finishes for you. Your mouth hangs open in an almost cartoonish manner.

“You seriously stayed here for a whole hour doing fencing drills before the actual fencing? And that’s after working out?” you relay the questions in a way that expresses the details to be appalling, yet he simply shrugs.

“Isn’t that a bit much? Don’t you want to hang out with people for a bit or relax somewhere else?”

He pauses for a minuscule moment, glancing at the saber’s shining edge that reflects the fraternal twins of his irises across the metal. It’s as if the sword imparts him with an answer to your query, which drops weight in his next statement.

“The way I see it, there’s not much time to waste if I’m going to go for the top. If I’m going to beat him, I need to keep up this momentum, or else I’ll stray off course.”

You stare, eyebrows knitted, and unable to recognize if the words coming from his lips are genuinely his own upon sensing the candle flicker of anguish lit behind his glacial facade. The heat threatens to melt it off at the emphasis of “him.” Whoever “him” is, you aren’t too sure. Unfortunately, Todoroki does not allow you to ponder any further.

“Sorry, but I have to get back to my training,” he says before turning his back to you. The proximity left behind stretches into a tension you know you shouldn’t trifle with, lest risk snapping a nerve that must be left untouched.

“Right, it’s almost 2:00, and I need to get changed anyway,” you offer back, though truthfully, it was a way to excuse yourself and not suffocate under the tense atmosphere.

By the time you’ve entered the locker room and gotten changed, the other fencers have trickled in along with Coach Aizawa. Practice proceeds as usual, and everyone scatters evenly into their disciplines. You train in sets of matches with the other épée fencers, going through the ropes and trying to polish your technique—advice given to you by Aizawa that you needed to improve on.

It’s by the third match that the thoughts lingering in the back of your mind start to surface and cloud your motions, evident when you teeter in your stance and receive a thrust right against your torso you surely would have dodged in time. That bout ends in your defeat. Continuing with practice like this won’t do, so you seize the loss as a sign to take a water break and settle the haze in your head.

“Got something on your mind, mademoiselle?” a voice chimes in, airy, flamboyant, and not a tone you recognize, “You’ve been staring at that bottle of water for an awfully long time.”

The boy that approaches the bench is slim, blonde, and possesses an aura, both foreign and confident. He draws attention to the scrunched bridge of your nose and the pointed crests furrowing your features that you fail to notice you’ve been harboring.

“Well, er,” you’re hesitant to admit it at first, but you relent with a nod.

“Would you like to talk about it with me? I am always willing to lend an ear to any of my fellow fencers.”

You don’t say anything, words trapped in your throat as if lost in an abyss. Instead, you answer with a small nudge in a general vicinity. The boy turns in that direction and bemuses that you’ve ushered his gaze to where all the saber fencers are practicing. There’s a twinkle glimmering in his eyes now, a look that sparks uncertainty for you.

“Ah, some boy trouble?” he inquires playfully. Grasping his words, you fluster and your cheeks color pink. You vigorously shake your head.

“N-No, it’s not like that!” you start, voice rising slightly in volume, “I’m just worried about… OK, this guy. He seems like he has no room to breathe, practicing all the time.”

“Ah, you must be speaking of Todoroki Shouto.” His finger points to him, and you observe Todoroki is diligent as ever during practice.

“You see it too, don’t you?”

The boy you’ve come to know as Aoyama Yuga exchanges an inquisitive look, “Well, I suppose I wouldn’t blame him for living like that, considering the situation he’s in.”

Your eyes perk up, puzzled by his statement as you spare a confused visage, “Huh? Why not?” you ask.

“His father may have been a renowned saber fencer, but he was only runner-up to Yagi Toshinori while they were in their prime. Ever since Toshinori started competing in fencing tournaments and competitions, Todoroki Enji has always placed second since,” he remarks, shifting his gaze back to the dual-haired boy while he tells the story. “People say the youngest of the family was trained to rectify that error.”

Now you’re able to put two and two together, joining the pieces to view the full picture.

You draw a memory in the long film of your life. It’s an old clip from the Olympics you watched when you were only a small child, and from it sparked your ambition to fence in the first place, watching the athletes display their skills and passion on the piste for the entire world to behold. Little did you realize that the men participating were rivals whose bitter strife exists even to this day in the form of Todoroki Shouto and his father’s will carved into him. The will to carry out a petty dream that is not even his own.

You fight against the notion, “But shouldn’t he think about himself rather than his father?”

Aoyama shrugs, “It’s up to him to decide how he creates his path. And if he chooses to walk on it, who are we to stop him?” is his response before walking off, finishing the chat, “Well, it was nice talking to you, mademoiselle, but I must be getting back to my practice. Au revoir~”

The conversation leaves an odd sensation in you that you can’t shake off, with remnants of Todoroki’s struggle swirling. As you glance toward the boy one last time that day, your heart aches for him.

It’s the weekend, and you’ve made some plans to stop by the mall and head to the sporting goods store to replace some of your fencing equipment. Lately, the sneakers you’ve been using have worn out, making it challenging to keep your feet light on the piste, so you thought it’d be about time to purchase some new ones and break them in before the next practice.

When you enter, you’re greeted by the usual cashier at the register, who doesn’t pay much mind to you coming in, his attention glued to a volleyball game playing on the television. You instinctively head to the fencing section of the store, located around the back area where equipment such as blades, safety gear, and other fencing goods are sprawled and laid around for the average consumer to gander.

You navigate through the aisles, but soon discover another patron in the distance, hovering around the section—which to you was strange. Fencing is a sport a majority of people have heard before; however, it isn’t a sport that generates as many fans as basketball or baseball. People who follow the game take the time to understand the swordplay and make a note of what happens during the action, as well as touch upon the complicated rules. An average sports fan would find it hard digesting the contents of fencing, with many regarding that the pacing and action is too monotonous for their liking. Plus, fencing does not harbor as many active players compared to other popular sports littered with sponsorships, so because of all that, this section of the store was usually vacant whenever you visited.

Approaching closer, you decipher the figure obscured by the rows of equipment and goods, and to your utter astonishment, tresses of red and white hair come into view.

Your first instinct is to duck and dodge between the rows, an act which you’ve been repetitively doing as of late. To run into Todoroki outside of fencing practice is appalling to you; though, it seems fitting that if he were not working out at a gym, training at the fencing center, or staying at home, he’d take root in the fencing section of a sports store.

Your head darts out. Man, what am I doing? You gingerly think, relaying to yourself that you’ve already been called out for spying on him the first time you’ve encountered each other. It’s better to act natural and not give the security cameras the wrong idea that you’re potentially stalking this boy.

You ease out from behind a rack of protective gear. Todoroki does not detect your presence in the slightest as his attention is on the variety of premium shoes lining the shelves. So when you suddenly tap your finger against his left shoulder, he turns in haste and is bewildered to be greeted by your stiff facade.

“Oh hey, Todoroki, didn’t expect to run into you here,” you wave, and his expression mellows upon perceiving that it’s you—the épée fencer he spoke with before.

“Likewise,” he replies, then rotates around again to scan through the shoes. Luckily for you (or perhaps unluckily), your reason for coming here is to get your sneakers replaced so you establish yourself next to him.

Todoroki starts a conversation, despite his quiet self, “What are you here for?” he asks.

“I need to get a new pair of shoes, mine are a bit worn-out at the moment,” you answer, following down the rows of footwear to find your particular size and desired brand. “Since you’re in this section, I’m guessing you might be needing some new ones as well?”

He shakes his head, “My current shoes are fine. However, I’ve been thinking about trying out this new brand,” his finger hovers in front of him, drawing his sight to specific footwear, “Been told they’re better for fencing.”

Your eyes go from tracing the shelf to glancing at the boy, curiosity dancing. “Oh? Think I should try them out myself?” you ask while your hand grazes against the natural texture of the shoes you’ve been accustomed to, “I’ve been using these specific pairs for a while now, maybe it’s time to switch it up.”

“From what I hear, the cushion on these makes it easier for your feet to walk across the piste,” is his response before he spots said shoes on a particular row, about to draw them from their display board to inspect closer. However, subconsciously, your hands brush up next to each other while wandering through the litter of footwear among the walls. You’re both quick to separate as soon as they touch—like the sensation singes your skin—creating a distance between your hands.

“Sorry about that,” the two of you murmur your apologies. Upon hearing how in-sync your words sound between one another, you giggle and the boy next to you can’t help but hide a grin beneath his hand, amused.

Then you watch as Todoroki resumes analyzing the pair of sneakers. They’re fresh and matted in white with slick black streaks etched across the material. You nudge the boy to let you have a look, and he passes it to your palm. From a glimpse, you can tell these models were created with excellent quality and attention to detail.

“Wow, these are quite the shoes. A bit fancy, don’t you think? Wonder how much they—” the rest of the question does not leave your lips. You’re hushed the moment you turn over the white price tag strung around the holes the laces weave into, attempting to process the confounding amount of zeroes printed there. It only concludes with your eyes widening and your mouth hanging open. You ask yourself, how can mesh material molded into two simple pieces of footwear cost this much? Baffled, you merely twist the tag back around so you wouldn’t have to read the price anymore, and ease your spirit.

“I think I’m good with my current shoes…” your voice deadpans, swiftly gathering the box of reasonably priced sneakers into your arms.

Todoroki doesn’t make much of your reaction. He pulls the shoes off the shelf and ends up accompanying you to the register.

“It was a surprise to see you here, Todoroki,” you tell him.

“It’s my free day today, so I thought I’d run some errands,” he says.

A free day, huh? Your mind conjures the thoughts of last practice, recalling the rigorous routine the boy performed every other day, memorized into the fiber of his muscles down to the marrow of his bones.

You had to ask, “What do you usually do on your free days?”

“Rest,” his response is blunt and straightforward as expected, “sometimes get ahead on my studies,” he adds. By this point in the conversation, the two of you have arrived at the cash register.

You haul the box onto the counter, an action the cashier isn’t particularly fond of, forced to divert from the game airing on the screen. He scans the shoes, issues the price, and gathers the box in a plastic bag before doing the same for Todoroki, enacting the bare minimum amount of manners throughout the process.

Your purchased goods in hand, you’ve essentially finished your business here. Yet your eyes blink back, mind swallowed by the fact that after you leave the store, both of you will return and go about your day as you always do, likely not sparing a glance at each other until the next coming practice. You trail behind Todoroki, crossing through the exit with your gaze keen at the back of his head as if mustering a thought out. Soon, an idea emerges almost similar to a fast flicker of a light switch. Your voice calls out to him, and he turns back to you as a result.

“Say, Todoroki, since you mentioned today is your free day, how about we go grab something to eat together?” you ask, noting that the clock is currently ticking to lunchtime.

He narrows his brows, expressing uncertainty, “I don’t need to be back home until later, but I’m not sure if—”

“What? Are you gonna tell me you have homework to do or something?” You tease the boy for his overly-strict attitude. “C’mon Todoroki! Hanging out for a bit and eating with a friend shouldn’t hurt,” you chide, tone light, and persuasive.

Friend. You repeat the title in your head, wondering if it was right to designate that status on your own when you haven’t interacted much with him. In the end, you push the tricky thoughts aside for now.

“In fact, I know a pretty neat café around here. It’s right next to this popular soba restaur—”

His entire demeanor reacts in a flash the instant the last words depart from your mouth. Suddenly, he dons a faint, spirited expression, approaching closer as if he had heard wrong.

“Did you say soba restaurant?” His tone conveys an intense zeal at the word soba. You gawk before blinking in quick succession, the almost uncharacteristic gleam in his eyes taking you back. Then, your pupils dilate at the pieces assembling in your head.

The icy, diligent, handsome saber fencer, Todoroki Shouto, has a great weakness for soba noodles.

A smile curls across the line of your lips, “Would you like to come eat there with me?”

There’s a brief pause between you, but surely enough, Todoroki agrees with a nod. You verify with an exchange of smiles—yours wide, welcoming, and his subtle, yet still simmering warmth—before tugging him along with you to the soba restaurant, humming in tune with your steps that the boy can’t help but be amused by. When you arrive there, Todoroki’s quiet enthusiasm is evident while he scans through the menu filled with an assortment of food.

“They even have cold soba served in baskets here,” you hear him mutter beneath the menu. It ensues an amused grin on your lips. You try your best to contain the giggle threatening to chime as you watch the boy’s fervor for the noodles take on its most prominent form when presented and served within a woven basket, the bowl of dipping sauce on the side.

You opt for a hot bowl of udon, a contrast between the colder, thinner noodles on the opposite end of the small table. The two of you eat across each other, slurping your food with gusto to truly appreciate the restaurant’s well-cooked meal that soothes your bones. Just as Todoroki smothers his soba in the flavorful sauce, you speak to him to ease the atmosphere with more small talk.

“Todoroki, you mentioned earlier that you do some of your studies on your free days. Do you attend university?”

He swallows his noodles down to issue a response, “I do.”

“Interested in any particular majors?”

Todoroki shakes his head, “I’m undecided for now,” at his answer, he sets his bowl down for a moment and his sight lines down to his basket of soba.

“I haven’t had much time to think about where I’d head during university. Or what I’d do afterward.” The stare he evokes on his food could delve a fissure through the plate, considering the intensity over the troubling thoughts you’ve accidentally allowed to settle.

You frown, the udon noodles hovering above your bowl, twirled in your chopsticks. “It’s likely because you’ve been fencing all your life, huh?” you quietly surmise yet it’s loud enough for him to hear judging from the pensive look that crosses him. He doesn’t carry a response back because deep down, he knows it’s true. All he’s ever known throughout his young adult years of living is fencing. It has got to the point where the sport is second nature to him like it’s all he wakes up for, all he breathes for.

The shift in the air is apparent as you watch him silently resume eating his soba, but you don’t let the change deter your mood.

It’s up to him to decide how he creates his path. And if he chooses to walk on it, who are we to stop him? Aoyama’s words stir the depths of your subconscious. They ring through you until eventually activating an almost visceral reaction.

With your hardened fist wrapped around your chopsticks, a determined slam rattles the table. Todoroki, along with the nearby patrons encompassing the restaurant, rouse when it connects.

“Hey, look, you’re a great fencer. You should use your skills and talents to mold your future if that’s what you want to do,” you affirm, vigor in your voice, “It’s OK if fencing is integrated into your life. What matters is how you make your abilities your own and how it shapes you as a person.”

Todoroki blinks over your words. You scrutinize his face, searching for a reaction within the delicate seams of his handsome features before your chopsticks meet the broth in your bowl again.

“What I’m asking is, ‘Why do you fence?’” you ultimately inquire. That is the most important question after all, isn’t it? People who live this long in their path as athletes wouldn’t burn so much sweat and energy into a sport without so much as a reason—a goal.

Todoroki swallows the last of his soba noodles while contemplating. “I guess, to put it simply, it’s to become the best. To compete with the best and to go where... my father once stood.”

Your eyes flicker at the note of his father, perceiving the falter in Todoroki’s tone before the mention.

“Maybe even higher,” he adds, setting his utensils across the edge of his depleted bowl of sauce. You understand the reference at the attachment of higher. To head towards the upper step that his father could never achieve on that podium. It’s a weighty, arduous, and grandiose ambition, but the boy is determined to go to any lengths to get there, for the flare beneath his eyes quavers into a blaze too powerful to be doused by even a torrent.

“That would be quite a feat, Todoroki,” you whistle, “I just hope you remember, you’re allowed to go at any pace you want. You don’t need to be running all your life to get there.”

Saber fencers are fencers who live on the speed and adrenaline of the game, and only seem to increase their acceleration as time goes on. People who thrive on the discipline compare it to Formula 1 racing as it’s aggressive, fast, and requires split-second decision making. In a way, these traits reflect the boy’s story—the vigor he feels, the rapid-fire swiftness he tackles his life to attain that one point further to win the bout and achieve his dreams, his glory. He’s forgotten that he’s allowed to go at any pace he desires to accomplish something like this. He doesn’t need to keep his body in a full sprint all his life to make it to the finish line. He’ll get there eventually, and certainly doesn’t need his aspirations to be handheld by someone on the sidelines. He just needs to realize he can make those decisions on his own.

The breath he respires inward, along with the silence that drags amidst the gap enclosed among you two, is enough for you to know he’s absorbing your words. However, you’re blindsided when he leans forward on the table, chin resting on his palm with poise in his gaze.

“Why do you fence, Y/n?” He redirects your question right back. It’s not a move you expected, for you don’t respond immediately, attempting to conceive a reply through a trance in your head. Ultimately, you are scrounging for an answer that doesn’t exist.

“I’m... I’m not sure myself,” you say, returning empty-handed at the question.

Unlike Todoroki, you don’t harbor any challenging or earnest dreams and ambitions. Whereas he strides through his life, steered down a clear, concise path, you course through your existence like a nomad, and wander with no map and no specific directions to guide you except the wind and stars.

Perhaps the “stars” that led you here was that Olympic video you watched long ago, the one that spurred you to fence, and now collided you face-to-face with Todoroki, where he continues his venture to the top, and you’re still settling at the bottom with no particular outstanding talent or skills. Maybe the reason you could never drive yourself to achieve such feats is because you know, deep down, you’d never attain the results you desired. You’re just... average.

He observes as you shroud your figure in a stiff stance, your visage cast down to your own hands intertwined together beneath the table. You do not meet his eyes. Like an épée fencer, you are slow and defensive, putting up a wall hoping that it will be enough to repel the pierce of the deafening question away, along with the sear of his fixed stare.

However, he relieves you of the tension when his hand journeys across the table to tilt your chin up. Your walls teeter down as he allows your eyes to meet his once more, except at glance they do not burn. Instead, they are warm, soothing—parallel to the smile on his lips—like a kindle of fire you could sit by and revel in peace and tranquility.

“It’s OK, Y/n. I know you’ll find it eventually,” he assures. His words comfort you. The stiffness in your nerves mellow upon hearing the smoothness of his voice.

When the waiter abruptly drops off your bill on the table with a palpable clunk, your gazes remove themselves from one another at last, aware that you’re in the restaurant and have cleared your plates and bowls of noodles a while ago. Now was about time you vacated the spot for another set of people to occupy and enjoy a meal.

Your hand rummages into your bag to pluck out your wallet to help pay; however, Todoroki already allots his card atop the tray retaining the receipt, telling you that the food was on him. Even when you deny the offer, he still firmly insists.

“Consider this a thank you for showing me this place,” he asserts, “and for spending your time with me. I enjoyed talking with you.”

You wane, your hand easing out from your bag to wholly accept the proposal upon hearing that he relished your company—that the moment between you two meant something to him within his usual monotonous routine. It was a change, one he realized that, despite his uncertainty in the beginning, proved to conclusively recollect his thoughts and perhaps made him judge his ideals.

In the end, you lug your purchased shoes at your side as the two of you leave the table after paying the bill, now standing beside each other outside the restaurant.

Currently, the sun hangs above the clear sky scattered in the bright azure of late afternoon. You check the time on your phone, grumbling over how fast the hour flew by during your meal. Todoroki simpers, waving a hand out in front of you.

“I think it’s about time I headed back,” he says. You nod in agreement, knowing well you’ve intruded into his free time today, but are glad he enjoyed himself nonetheless.

“Can I borrow your phone, though? I need it to call someone to come pick me up.”

You pass your phone over to him without hesitation. He punches a few buttons through the call app, and the tone rings two consecutive times before he speaks into the mic. From where you’re occupying, you distinguish a muddled feminine voice talking on the other line.

His mom probably? Or maybe he has a sister? Either way, he concludes the call with a click sooner than you can debate further, returning your phone after his fingers dial across the screen longer than necessary. The swift series of motions bemuses you just as he places the device back into your palm.

“I’ll see you next practice, Y/n,” he farewells with a flourish of his hand as he walks off.

“Wait, what was it that—” your question pauses when you gesture your eyes down at the answer in front of you. The light emitting from the screen displays a newly added contact information with an attached number, and interestingly, it’s indicated by a single given name.

Shouto

Due to your inclination and inquiry, the contact rallies you to press your thumb above the series of numbers, clicking the message icon in the submenu. You type a quick text and push your finger on send without delay.

⇒ [ 4:13 ] — shouto?

Oddly enough, a gray bubble of ellipsis materializes as a notion that someone is typing on the other end, and it disappears just as fast as it emerges.

⇒ Shouto [ 4:13 ] — yes?

Of course, you’re surprised by how instantaneous the message appears, noting Todoroki had just utilized your phone to call home a minute ago. But at a tilt of your head, you pinpoint the boy hanging by the lamppost in the distance, turning back at you with—lo and behold—his phone right in between the slips of his fingers, a teasing grin gracing his lips. Your taunting nature quips a similar smirk in response.

⇒ [ 4:14 ] — you sly dog

“My, seems like you’ve been in an especially good mood lately, Y/n,” Yaoyorozu notes the way you hum upbeat melodies in the tune of a song one improvises on the spot, unique and unheard on any radio station, while you clasp the straps of your trousers over your shoulders in the locker room. The beam cast prominently on your face is enough indication that her remark is spot on.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you jest in a dulcet tone, fully aware of your jovial complexion. It’s almost as if a luminosity glows within your ambiance.

Since your run-in with Todoroki three weeks ago—resulting in your furtive exchange of numbers—you’ve been sending messages to one another, holding conversations outside the confines of fencing practice. During these texts, you grasp more and more of each other—your lifestyles, personalities, and interests. Todoroki even mentioned his older siblings to you in one exchange. His sister, Fuyumi, taught children at an elementary school while his brother, Natsuo, worked in the health department. However, his oldest brother, Touya, he wasn’t too sure about though he insisted he must be doing fine on his own, so you didn’t pry, surmising the brother to be free-spirited or some sort. Despite the generous dictions Todoroki spoke about his family, he still maintained a strained effort to not mention his father anywhere in your chats, presumably not to taint the conversation’s mood or flow. Especially considering his mother and his father are not on good terms.

However, through every delicate shift, you made a point to him that if he ever needed to open up to anyone about these sensitive topics that you’d always be willing to listen.

“You’ve even been on fire with all your matches during practice recently. Care to explain?” the onyx-haired girl questions, but you continue to wave her insistent queries away, latching on your last piece of fencing gear. Yaoyorozu quirks an eyebrow as she follows your splendor outside the locker room and into the training hall.

As you enter the room, now hectic with work, you catch sight of Todoroki only a little distance across from you, who’s preparing for a match. When your eyes meet, a smile unconsciously spreads on your lips cheek to cheek while he acknowledges your gesture with his own. Unknowingly, the reciprocation does not sneak past Yaoyorozu’s keen, peripheral vision as she soon emerges by your side with a witting glint in her eyes the moment Todoroki turns away.

“Oh I see now…” she begins musing, her hums pitching toward a chafing inflection, “You and Todoroki Shouto are seeing each other.”

“Momo!” you shrill. Despite Yaoyorozu passing on her remark through a bare murmur, your senses spike into acute awareness, jutting your head side-to-side behind you to perceive if anyone heard. Though your cheeks bloomed a dainty pink, the tips of your ears were suffusing a much more noticeable red that the girl can’t help but giggle at.

You release a sigh after composing yourself. “Shouto and I are most definitely not a thing,” you insist.

“Hm, but you’re already on a first-name basis with each other.” Yaoyorozu is as observant as always. You furiously shake your head, continuing to deny every accusation.

“Look, we’re just good friends! Besides, he doesn’t have time to get involved in things like that,” you tell her, and thankfully, Yaoyorozu does make a point that the boy seems more pressed about fencing than seeking a relationship at the moment, so she waves it off for now. All in all, you’re merely happy you could befriend him and offer your support whenever he needed it. Well, that was a summary of your relationship anyway. With Yaoyorozu mentioning the possibility of you and Todoroki being an item, it does find its way into your mind.

Holding hands, going on dates, exchanging—

But as soon as the idea transpires with vivid imaginations, you drive them away through an impulsive slap of your palms against your cheeks.

What am I thinking?! Shouto has too many things he’s working towards right now. He doesn’t have time for love and relationships! You scold yourself and immediately rush into training to distract those thoughts from appearing again.

On an average day of practice, the schedule follows along the lines of everyone scattering into their respected areas to warm-up before transitioning to drills and matches, mixing it up against different opponents to grasp a broader skill level. Today, you occupy your time as much as possible, taking breaks only when necessary to maximize the session and not allow your eyes and mind to wander towards a certain dual-haired young man again. And you’ve nearly succeeded this feat to the very end if not for said boy popping up at your side unexpectedly while you were placing your épée down.

“Oh, whoa, Shouto,” you sputter, about to tip off balance had Todoroki not caught you through a grip on your arm.

“What’s up?”

“Sorry, Y/n,” he apologizes, “but I wanted to ask if—”

“Todoroki.”

He’s cut short by a call, and when you two turn around you’re greeted by your messy-haired coach standing behind you.

“I need to speak with you real quick.” Coach Aizawa nudged his head toward the sideline. Obliging, Todoroki nearly dismisses himself from your side, but leans into your ear at the last second to mutter in a hushed voice, “Wait for me when you finish changing after practice, I’ll tell you then.”

Your sole response is a swift nod before Todoroki walks along Coach Aizawa. Whatever they’re speaking about is far beyond the curiosity of your mind because instead, you’re pondering the last bit of Todoroki’s words that edged off, making you wonder what he wanted to ask you. At first, you speculated the query to consist of trivial topics, like perhaps he was going to ask for another restaurant recommendation to show his family or whatnot. However, it didn’t take long for you to dive into the depths of your overarching thoughts. You surmised that maybe the other fencers have also speculated the two of you are in a relationship, and the boy came to you to clarify the matter by drawing a clear, defined line between you to rectify the misunderstanding.

“God, I’m just paranoid,” you mumble under your breath. While you do agree with not letting the others misinterpret your friendship, you’d rather it’d be through a means that wouldn’t have to hinder something between you two.

All you can do for now is fend off the rest of today until you’re finally hastening to the locker rooms to get dressed.

You tug the white uniform off to replace it with your casual apparel, shoving the gear back into your duffel bag and latching the strap onto your shoulder before closing the locker much more abruptly than necessary. As you’re about to make your leave in an evidently impatient manner, you still made sure to slip a remark to Yaoyorozu that you’ll be waiting outside the center for when she finishes.

By the time you headed to the exit, Todoroki had already situated himself beside the door, scrolling through his phone until he noticed you approaching.

“Hey, Shouto,” you greet, and Todoroki locks his phone to turn his attention to you. “What was it that you wanted to ask me earlier?” you ask, hoping he didn’t notice how eager you sounded.

“Right, I was recently invited to watch a fencing exhibition, and I wondered,” he starts, his hand brushing against the back of his head, “if you wanted to come along with me.” He averts his gaze to anywhere but your face, stance surprisingly stiff and a dust of pink blotting his cheeks that you don’t catch.

Oh, it was only that. At all your overrun thoughts and misunderstandings that built up beforehand, a grin arises, and you inevitably can’t suppress the laugh that gradually trembles in your gullet. Stumped, Todoroki scrutinizes your sudden animated expression like he’s left out in the ending of a joke.

“What? Was it something I said?” He squints his eyes, deliberating if he somehow said something humorous. You flit your head back and forth while the quivers resonating from your throat cease.

“No no, it’s not that. I’ve just been overthinking things is all,” you explain. Todoroki tilts his head.

“‘Overthinking’?” he repeats.

“Yeah, like I’m looking into certain details too much...” you trail off, voice running toward a dead-end that forces you to shift the tone of the conversation, much to your chagrin.

“Shouto, has anyone… said anything today?” Unknowingly, your fingers fiddle with the hem of your shirt when you ask the question, nervous.

“What do you mean?”

At the response and his narrow brows, you shake your head, almost lamenting even asking something so ambiguous. “No, never mind, it’s nothing.”

Todoroki discerns the faint stir in your expression when you wave off the query. However, you’re quick to transition back into the subject at hand before he can even attempt to pry.

“Anyways, to answer your question, yes, I’d be glad to come with you, Shouto,” you answer, but a finger rests beneath your chin, “Though I’m a bit curious as to why you chose to ask me instead of someone else.” If Todoroki was invited to observe an exclusive exhibition match, it’s likely to consist of many other competent players within his league, meaning it’ll be an advantageous way to size up the competition. To invite you of all the people from the academy to tag along with him may be a waste compared to the other talent nurtured in that training hall. You understood your skills that much, at least.

The dual-haired boy raises his shoulders, nonchalantly, “I don’t see why I wouldn’t invite you.”

“I mean, wouldn’t it benefit another fencer better?” you reason. Todoroki remains unchanged in his stance.

“I don’t care about anyone in there. You’re the person I want to go with, Y/n,” he declares, firm with weight beneath every word that you don’t even think to oppose his fortification. So much so that those over-analytical inferences jointly possess your senses once again—the gears in your head beginning to speed up through a motor of hypersensitive nerves that drive your thoughts into ambient fantasies—until you will yourself not to let his words run over you, no matter how unwavering they may sound, or how saccharine they may be. You cannot indulge in cloying mirages, because you tell yourself those word don’t mean anything. They shouldn’t mean anything.

“Alright, alright, I’m going with you,” you ultimately yield, and Todoroki grins like he’s beaten you in a longstanding debate.

“Good.” You hear a car pull up outside the fencing center, right as he finishes. At that, he makes his leave, calling out to you that he’ll see you again for the exhibition between an empty expanse that increases more and more as he walks to the vehicle. Your voice is only a distant holler when you utter back that you can’t wait, tone dying down. The moment his car drives through the broad horizon across the sky soaked in brilliant hues of reds and oranges, your hand reaches into your duffel bag to draw out your phone out of a deep longing for something you can’t properly discern.

An odd pang ripples your cognition, inciting you to unlock and push buttons that lead you back to your texts with Todoroki. You thumb across the keyboard in a gradual process to type a message you have little idea of the repercussions behind.

⇒ [ 5:34 PM ] — shouto what would you think if you and i|

“Oh, Y/n, thanks for waiting!”

Yaoyorozu’s preppy voice disrupts your motions, eluding your attention from the text message that is impulsively transcribed by the emotions running through your fingertips.

“Oh, Momo, you’re done,” you respond, feigning a sprightly tone in your reply to help waver the sensations playing at hand before cutting them off entirely by your thumb squeezing the backspace, suffocating the incomplete message away from your thoughts.

It is better to stab the heart now before it can beat any faster.

You try to ingrain this into your head, yet the lingering sensations you fail to extinguish produce the electric shock that prevents that heart from dying, and you head home, not realizing that it swells back into aching throbs.

Ending Notes | We made it to the end! Hope it wasn’t too boring or anything. If you liked to be added to the taglist for part 2 (which is basically the final part), just ask. However, I just want to warn you now in case you did not read the warnings and genre at the top, that this twoshot will contain smut. While it won’t be super explicit, it is still NSFW content so beware under 18 aged readers, especially since I haven’t posted any explicit content before this aside from sexual undertones and implied stuff on Syndicate. As always, comments and feedback are welcomed!

#bnha #bnha x reader #todoroki x reader #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #todoroki shouto #todoroki shoto #todoroki shouto x reader #todoroki shoto x reader #mha x reader #bnha scenarios #mha scenarios #bnha imagines #mha imagines #shouto x reader #shoto x reader #my writing

227 notes · View notes

bqstqnbruin · 5 years ago

Text

Two times you knew where you were going and one time you didn’t

So that Matthew fic turned into a Matthew Tkachuk one (thanks @hockeyfutbolkpopyeah !). It just didn’t fit with Gryz when I started writing it, but I have a Gryz reqeuest it’s just 3:30 in the morning and I’m teaching in less than 7 hours so I should probably be going to sleep if I want to teach them the correct stuff. This is longish though, I hope you like it!

_____________________________________

“We need to plan a vacation. I’m tired of being stuck inside with nothing to do.” You throw your book that you’ve been staring blankly at to the other side of the room, it sliding across the floor before hitting the wall. “You’ve been going on trips all year while I’ve been here, working, like a boring normal person.” Your boyfriend, Matthew, was in the kitchen, not even thirty feet away, making you dinner while you were ninety percent sure he either wasn’t listening to you, or couldn’t hear you. “Can we take a road trip? Like, go all cliche college girls with the snacks, the playlists, the Airbnbs around the country?”

“Well,” he puts down the knife from whatever he was chopping up, “Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know” you shrug, walking to the kitchen. He turns to you, putting his hand on his hip, one eyebrow raised, giving you a look that says, ‘really?’ “You look ridiculous with your hand on your hip.” You can’t help but laugh as you try to move his hand off.

He snaps it away, a smile growing on his face as a laugh leaves his lips. “What do you mean you don’t know? You’re the one who brought it up.”

“Oooh!” you say, draping your arms around on his shoulders while he pulls you in by the waist, “I saw this thing on Pinterest where -”

“No, not Pinterest.” Matthew groans.

“Yes, Pinterest, shut up,” you snap. You were female who loved aesthetic, how could you not be on Pinterest all the time? “But I saw this couple was trying to decide on their next vacation destination, kind of like you and me, and they got this map and threw a dart at it, and they just went where the dart landed.”

He stares at you for a moment, brow scrunched as he’s thinking. Either that or he’s questioning what other crazy ideas you can think of and why he’s with you in the first place. He’s said stuff like that before, sarcastically, of course, so you wouldn’t be shocked if this was one of those moments. “That might not be the worst idea. Then we don’t have to deal with your constant, ‘I don’t know’ stuff.”

“So, let’s get a map?”

The map and darts came in two days later to your apartment. As you hung up the map on the wall, Matthew started, “Aren’t we going to put wholes in the wall if we throw darts at it?”

“Yeah, and? You paid the security deposit, not me,” you joke.

“Oh, shut up.”

You stand back, dart in hand, “Who’s throwing, you or me?”

“You can’t aim for shit.”

“Ok, Mr. Ten-Goal-Season.”

“The season just started! Ten goals is good!” he defends himself, his cheeks turning red.

“Can I throw it?” you beg, giving him the puppy dogs eyes that get him to say yes to you always.

“We’re gonna end up in the fucking ocean,” he mutters as both of you stand back for you to throw the dart.

“If it lands in the ocean then you better learn how to swim because this is the determining dart,” you say as-a-matter-of-factly, winding up to throw. You chuck it, just praying that it sticks so Matthew will shut up about your inability to throw things.

“And we’re staying on land!” he yells, running to the map.

“Where are we going?”

“We’re going to New Orleans!”

One

The entire drive was spent with you and Matthew switching off driving every six-ish hours, six shifts total, three shifts each, playfully criticizing each other’s driving at least four times per shift. The only time you stopped was for food, the bathroom, or to switch drivers. The two of you sang off-key to every song for hours on end.

“Babe, where are we even staying?” he asks you. You had programmed the address into your phone for the Airbnb, but you guess you forget to show Matthew where it was.

“We’re staying in the French Quarter: we get the entire villa, there’s Wifi, parking, a kitchen, only one bed.” He gives you a quick glance as you do that annoying flirty eyebrow wiggle that makes him laugh every time.

“Ooo, you should have told me about the one-bed thing before. That seems like a real deal-breaker for this trip. I think we have to turn around and go home.”

“Oh, shush, you know you love me,” you tease.

“Well, duh. You think I would put up with your crap if I didn’t?” That stupid smile that makes you melt shows up on his face. “I think we’re here?”

“We are!” You leap out of the car, leaving Matthew to get the bags while you follow the directions the host left you to get the key. You burst through the door, Matthew following suit, “J’adore!”

“You know that just means ‘I love,’ right?”

You turn to him, shocked, “You know French?”

“Vous seriez surpris de ce que je sais.” He winks, pushing past you to go explore the rest of the villa.

“What did you say?” you yell to him, trying to find where he went.

“You’d be surprised what I know.”

You follow his voice and find him in the bedroom. “And what do you know?” you ask him, leaning against the doorway.

“Well, I know that we both want to go explore New Orleans, but we’re both too tired right now.”

“Well, yeah.”

“But,” he starts again, “I also know that there is at least one activity we aren’t too tired for.” He walks up to you, putting his hands on your waist, leaning down to press his forehead against yours.

His lips ghost yours, you doing everything you can to let the teasing last a little longer, “What’s that?” He knows how much you love this.

“This,” he lets out, lifting you up and kissing you, you wrapping your legs around his waist as he stumbles to the bed. He throws you down, climbing over you, starting to tug at your shirt as he leaves a trail of kisses from your jaw down to your collar bone.

The two of you spend the rest of the night in bed, going to sleep more exhausted than you were when you got there.

The next morning, Matthew wakes you up by starting to jump on the bed. “It’s early, we need coffee, and we need to start exploring!” he yells like a toddler, jumping off the bed, landing so hard on the ground you were sure he broke something.

“You’re fucking annoying.”

“Yes, but I’ll be less annoying once we go to Cafe du Monde, which I know your mother loves, and you two have the same taste, so I’m like ninety percent sure that you will love it, too. Plus you said you wanted to go there, so might as well do it first so we can get caffeine and energy!” he practically yells from the bathroom.

“You don’t need any more energy!” you yell back. He could go from being a child to being how he was last night in 0.2 seconds. You really did love this boy, despite the pest that he always was.

You get up out of bed and try to get ready with Matthew practically on top of you, forcing you to get ready fast while he hands you dry cereal to eat so you’re not as cranky when you have to interact with more people. You put on olive green floral shorts, a plain white top, and some sandals, and try to find your bag in the mess that Matthew made of your stuff trying to unpack at some point last night.

“Are we driving or walking?” he asks, turning around to face you as you meet him by the door, “Fuck,” he whispers, “If I didn’t want to explore the city so bad, I’d want to explore you right now.”

You throw your head back, letting out a cackle that would cause any other guy to break up with you. “That was disgusting,” you say, taking his hand, “and let’s walk. Decatur Street is like ten minutes away, and it’s gorgeous out.”

“Not as gorgeous as you, though,” he flirts, trying to keep his corniness going.

“Shut up,” you say, not hiding the smile on your face.

The two of you leave, ready to explore New Orleans in the summer heat, walking in the morning to the world-famous cafe. Your parents had gone to New Orleans a year before you were born, and your mom bought a Cafe du Mondo mug that she still uses all these years later, faded, chipped, and probably going to fall apart if she even looks at it the wrong way.

“We have to get her a new mug. The next time she sees us, we will definitely be bumped up on the ‘favorite children list.’” You start rambling and walking just a little faster, doing a little skip on the sidewalk as he tries to keep up with your pulling him towards the cafe.

“Am I one of her children?” he asks.

“She probably loves you more than I do, God only knows why,” you tell him, rolling your eyes, him knowing that it’s probably true.

“Well, I am pretty great,” he says, kissing your cheek as you approach the cafe.

“Wow.” You admire the already busy cafe, the people sitting outside under the green and white awning, laughing, smiling, reading, eating, drinking. “Can I be annoying?”

“You need permission?”

“Can I get a picture of you in front of the cafe? Please?” you beg him, taking out your phone. “You know how much my mom would flip if she knew we came to her favorite place in the world?”

“Why don’t we get someone to take a picture of the two of us? Excuse me?” he stops a stranger walking by, “Would you mind taking some pictures of me and my beautiful girlfriend? It’s for her mother.”

He hands the person his phone, pulling you towards him. He stands behind you, his arms wrapped around you, kissing your cheek as you can’t help but blush and smile by how loving he was being. The stranger hands back his phone, you two thanking them profusely as you go to get into the long line and figure out what you want for your breakfast.

“So do we want to be cliche and get what they’re famous for, or do you want to get something else?” you ask him. “The beignets are to die for and my mother has never shut up about how she’ll never have anything as good as them, so we kind of have to get those. And then the cafe au lait is supposed to be great and I think you would love that, but I need black coffee, so I might just steal a sip of yours?” you spit out at him as you get closer to the front of the line.

“I have no clue what you just said. You’re ordering for us and I’m trusting you this time.”

“Ooo, that’s dangerous, isn’t it?” you tease him, getting up to the front of the line. You order the beignets and coffees, stepping off to the side since all the tables were full. If you had to walk and eat, you didn’t really care. You got to be with Matthew, your probably crappy aim bringing you into what was quickly becoming one of your favorite places on this planet, even though it had only been about an hour.

You get your beignets, taking a bite as you walk around and explore more of the area. “Holy, fuck,” you say, mouth full, “this is amazing. I want to marry this beignet.”

“That’s going to be pretty hard if you eat it.”

“I want to marry the person who made this beignet.”

“As your boyfriend, should I be offended by this?”

“You have competition. Become a beignet boy and I’ll reconsider.”

He throws his head back, laughing. “Where to next?”

Two

You spent the rest of the day exploring the French Quarter, roaming aimlessly, getting strangers to take pictures of you everywhere you went. Every photo you took was your new favorite.

“Let’s go to the French Market tomorrow,” you tell Matthew, settling into bed. You two were exhausted; way too exhausted to do anything else. The two of you had walked like twenty miles during the day. You actually probably didn’t but it felt like it. The sun had drained you, giving Matthew a little pink on his cheeks, you knowing to reapply sunscreen enough times that you were fine.

“Sure,” Matthew mumbles, falling asleep.

-----

“Three centuries of history, six blocks of shopping?” you exclaim as you get to the French Market. You had been googling the history of the market the entire Uber ride over, talking Matthew’s ear off about it, him pretending to listen because he really doesn’t care as much about history as you do. You were excited for another day of walking. If you weren’t here, you would probably be just sitting on the couch, reading, watching Netflix, and complaining to Matthew about how you were bored.

“So, do we want to do food or shopping first?”

“Shopping we need to work up an appetite,” you tell him, dragging him into the market. You wanted to walk all the way through first, pass each place, then go into the stores on the way back to the entrance when it was time to leave. You pointed out so many places that you wanted to go into; Evan’s Creole Candy Factory, Head to Toe, Pop Shop, Cella’s Boutique, Matthew only really caring about the first one, but he came with you because he knew you wanted him to.

“Sports!” he yells, trying to drag you to the only sports-themed shop in the market: N’Awlin’s Sports. He starts running towards the store, faster than a kid running to a candy store, both of you almost dropping the bags of stuff you had purchased in the meantime.

As soon as the two of you enter the store, he stops, takes in a breath, and says, “I love you, but if you can marry beignet’s, I’m marrying sports.”

“You’re already married to sports, babe,” you say, smiling because of how happy he was. You knew that you were dragging him around. But every time you looked at him with a smile, one grew on his face, too. He loved seeing you happy, and you loved seeing him happy.

“I don’t see any hockey stuff.”

“There’s no hockey in Louisiana. The closest team is probably Dallas?” you guess.

“That’s dumb.” He just stands there, looking a little defeated because his beloved sport wasn’t represented in the store.

“Let’s go outside, I’m sure we can find something you like to look at,” you say, pulling him out of the store.

“I like to look at you.”

“Gross,” you laugh, “Let’s have someone take our picture like we did yesterday!”

Doing the same thing as he did outside Cafe du Monde, Matthew convinced a stranger to take your picture. This time, he insisted on hugging you, kissing your cheek while you looked into the camera, beaming. You both loved the photos from yesterday, especially the cute lovey ones, so why not take some more?

Plus one

“I’m stuffed,” you say, trying to stretch out as much as you can in the chair of the restaurant without risking hitting another patron or a waiter.

“You picked a good place,” Matthew admits, raising his glass to you to finish the last bit of his drink. This was the only place you had been today; after the last two days of running around and exploring, you two had just decided to take a lazy day. When you realized it was dinner time and the only food you had was snack food, you knew you had to go out for dinner.

“I’m marrying the chef,” you say.

“No, I am,” he spits back.

“Guess we both are.” You shrug, finishing the last bit of your drink as the waiter comes back with Matthew’s debit card.

“Ready to go?” He stands up, reaching out for your hand to lead you out of the restaurant.

“Sure, where?”

“Oh, you’ll see.”

“You don’t know this city well enough for me to trust you when you say that.”

“Will ya just shush and trust me?” A smile sneaks onto his lips as he leads you down the road.

“Where are we?”

“The Moonwalk.” The two of you start walking down a long path, overlooking the Mississippi. It was gorgeous, buzzing with people, lit up by the street lights and the shine of the nearly full moon overhead. There was something magical about it, you had never seen anything like it.

“And to think, we came here because of a dart.” You approach some musicians playing a song you swore you knew, couples dancing to the slow beat. Matthew took you by the waist, you draping your arms around his neck as you followed the rest of the couples.

“Never thought I would say thank god for a dart,” he says in a low voice. “I love you.”

The music stops, and so does the dancing. Everyone around you claps as they start to play a faster song.

“Let’s get our picture in front of the river,” he suggests, motioning for you to give him your phone.

He flags a couple down, handing them your phone, taking a minute as it looks like he handed something else to them before coming back.

“Everything ok?” you ask.

“Couldn’t be better,” he says, beaming, putting his arm around you.

The two of you smile as they take your pictures on what you’re pretty sure is also Matthew’s phone. You start to head towards them to get your phones back when Matthew pulls you back.

“Wait, wait, not yet.”

“What’s up?”

Before you know it, he was getting down on one knee.

“No way,” you say has he takes your hand in his, a small box in the other.

“I had a plan to ask you this before you suggested the road trip, and honestly, it was me throwing the ring at you because that kind of fits our personalities. But this I think is much better. I want to be the beignet boy, I want to be your mom’s favorite child, I want to be yours and I want you to be mine. Y/N, will you marry me?”

You’re a mess, crying and thanking yourself for wearing waterproof makeup today. Even if he had proposed to you with his original idea, you would have said the same thing. “Yes. Yes of course!”

He slides the ring on your finger, everyone around you cheering and clapping, the musicians playing a new song. He kisses you, lifting you up at your waist, your leg popping like Mia in the Princess Diaries.

All of this because of a dart.

#matthew tkachuk #matthew tkachuk imagines #matthew tkachuk fic #nhl #nhl imagine #nhl fic #hockey #hockey imagines #hockey fic #calgary flames #calgary flames imagines #calgary flames fic #flames #flames imagines #flames fic

261 notes · View notes

goldeneyedgirl · 4 years ago

Text

jaliceweek20 day 2: soulmate au

JaliceWeek2020 Day 2: Soulmate AU

Untitled

Notes: I’m so mad this got so long because I was going to write this as a continuation of the Angel/Demon, but I wanted something shorter, and then this would. not. end. I think the premise was far too big. But alas, we have fic! No title is coming to me, so I’ll think of one tonight. If I get the other prompts done, I might even finish off the Angel/Demon version.

Words: 6581

They meet like this:

The new girl, her hair hanging in her eyes, darts out of the classroom like she’s on fire. She runs straight into him, bounces off the wall of vampiric-muscle and hits the floor.

It’s hardly the thing of great love stories or cinematic meet-cutes, but it is the beginning.

He mechanically offers to help her up, but she looks away. That’s when he begins to notice - he doesn’t know how it feels for her, but it’s like someone injected ice into his side, where the mark has been for eleven years. She stares up at him for a moment, her hand fluttering at her collar bone before she’s back on her feet and hurrying down the hall like she’s running away.

—

The soul mark appears when Alice is six.

It is a twisted ribbon of a mark, from the inside of her left elbow, up her arm, over her shoulder, along her clavicle, over her right shoulder and down to her right wrist. It is enormous for a soul mark, especially on such a small child. And perhaps that would be okay, if it wasn’t for the colour - deeply and unmistakably red; dark in the middle and light on the outside, like she’s been slashed violently with a knife.

Alice’s mother screams when she sees it, expecting blood to follow, until she realises what she’s seeing. Lillian stares at her daughter, who seems delighted by her positively disfiguring mark. Her little sister has one, her cousins each have one, there’s only her and Uncle Fred that don’t and now she does.

But Cynthia’s is an elaborate knot of yellow on her right hip that looks more like an abstract flower. Lillian’s own is yellow and mauve, fanning out like sunburst on the back of her neck. She has never seen a soul mark like this, and she feels disloyal when she allows herself to think it quite hideous as she lets her daughter babble away in joy.

What ugly, soulless individual could inspire such a mark?

(Then, of course, there is the social faux pas that Alice is obviously older than her new soulmate - just old enough for people to talk. It’s still not really acceptable in Biloxi society for the female half of the couple to be older, but it can be overlooked if its only a year or two. Don’t even get Lillian started on same-sex soulmates; she’ll worry about that if it ever comes to pass, pray to god it doesn’t.

Thankfully, Cynthia was born with her mark, and Lillian with hers.

It’ll be years before Alice herself understands: the soul mark has less to do with birthdays and ages, and a lot more to do with the path you find yourself on - there’s no point having a map to a place you won’t be visiting. That day when she was six years old was the very day that the seeds of the Great Brandon Feud were planted, and her path was gently diverted into that of another).

—

The official reason they move to Forks is because Brandon Shipping is expanding, and the newest office and facility is in Port Angeles; Lillian thinks the small logging town is charming and a more socially palatable place to live, plus she is excited by the idea of renovating an old house (Alice is positive that every Pottery Barn in the Pacific Northwest is standing-by for her mother’s legendarily dull sense of interior design).

The semi-official reason is that Alice punched her cousin Marcella at the last family Fourth of July barbecue, and both Lillian and Michael are leaving in shame. Alice resents this justification to her bones because one, Marcella deserved it, and probably another one or two. Two, if it had been any any cousin Marcella had said those words to, it would be Marcella who would be punished. And three, the unspoken reason.

The unspoken reason was that Michael and his brothers have reached a peak in the Great Brandon Family Feud where ultimatums have been made that can’t be taken back, but all of them are focused enough on wealth and status they aren’t stupid enough to actually break up the company. So Michael is - depending on who you ask - either banished to the newest, furthest outpost of the company, or removes himself and his family from a ‘disturbing, irrational, and toxic environment.’

The only one who is actually relieved by their arrival in the dreary little town is Alice; wearing neck-to-wrist clothing all year around will be much more comfortable in Forks than in Biloxi. She might actually get to be normal. No sunshine, no swimming pools, no weddings or volleyball or spiteful, nasty little cousins.

Just school and home and peace of being left entirely alone. That’s been her plan for years now - hide away and not find whomever branded her like this. She can almost see the disappointment in their eyes when they glimpse her, and all that she is.

Forks seems like a really good place for someone to hide.

—

The mark hasn’t changed in eleven years - bright red, enormous, and always there. Lillian has tried every kind of make-up and cover-up, every form of medication, every skin treatment but the red still bleeds through insistently. And until Alice was twelve, she didn’t really notice anyone recoiling from her mark - though Lillian always insisted on high-collar dresses and dainty cardigans, even in the summer heat.

It was Cousin Grace’s wedding that changed everything - Grace was always a sweetheart, and everyone was pleased for her. All the little cousins would be bridesmaids and flower-girls, of course - that’s how it was down in their family. Alice was so excited - Grace was the oldest, and it was the first wedding she’d actually get to be in. They’d arrived at the bridal store, and everyone was gathered, and the dresses were there on the rack, and everyone laughed at how excited little Mary-Alice was to climb into her bridesmaid dress.

Lillian was distracted, not thinking, as she accepted champagne and talked to Grace’s mother Susan. Cynthia was already being hustled into a fitting room when Alice emerged, already spinning in the pink lace creation with the sweetheart neckline.

And all went silent. The bride, the children, the mothers, the store attendants - all of them froze at the sight of Mary-Alice in her candy pink dress with a soul mark that looked like she’d just climbed off an autopsy table half-way done.

Grace managed a sickly smile, “you look so pretty, Mary!” she manages in the same voice she uses for her kindergarten class. “It fits well, not too long.”

“That’s all we need, Alice, put your clothes back on,” Lillian manages in a faint voice before she is swept into a corner with Grace, Aunt Susan, and Grace’s wedding planning.

The dressing rooms of wedding boutiques are not fortresses of solitude and silence. The murmured and slightly panicked conversation between the four woman about Alice’s Mark, about its hideousness, and the photos, oh my god, everyone will be forced to look at it.

No, make-up won’t cover it - they’ve tried everything they can find.

She just can’t be in the wedding. She’ll ruin it.

Alice stares into the gilded mirror in the dressing room, at the dress she was so excited to wear. At the red slash that she has always loved but… it really is terrible, ugly to look at. Not like Mama’s or Cynthia’s or anyone else’s she knows. It’s so awful.

She puts on her sweater and her skirt, and hangs up the bridesmaid dress she’ll never get to wear, and she’ll sit quietly as the rest of the cousins try on dresses and she won’t even cry when Grace lies to her so sweetly, and tells her that she’s got too many bridesmaids and would she mind terribly if she was just a very special guest instead.

She wears a long-sleeved navy blue dress to the wedding and hides in the bathrooms when the photos are taken, not that anyone comes looking for her. She stays quiet and good and doesn’t complain about how hot her dress makes her. Cynthia spins on the dance floor in her pink tulle dress, and Alice tries to push down the jealousy. It’s not her little sister’s fault that she’s too ugly to wear a pretty dress. At least one of them gets to enjoy it. Then she wonders what she did to make her soul mate hate her so much they’d mark her like this before they’ve even met.

—

Twelve is the year she stops complaining about her clothes, stops having to be reminded to cover herself up.

Twelve is the year she finds she prefers oversized clothing, clothing she can hide in, so nothing but her face and finger tips can be seen.

Twelve is the year she doesn’t ask even once to go swimming with her friends (even though she’s never been allowed before) - and when she swims in their pool at home, she wears a long sleeved shirt over her swimsuit every single time, and only swims just before it gets dark, where no one can see her.

Twelve is the year that she thinks, maybe if she was skinner, the mark might get smaller. Her mother compliments her on her diet as she fades away, but the mark just seems to get brighter.

Twelve is the year she successfully convinces her parents and her fancy school to excuse her from gym permanently, because she’ll faint exercising in all those layers, and none of the other students should be forced to see her. (It takes a depressing lack of effort to secure that privilege, everyone praising her for her maturity and practicality, as if they’ve forgotten how much she had always loved gymnastics and volleyball.)

Twelve is also the year she works out that she can’t cut or burn the stupid thing away, and no one seems upset with her attempts when they get a good look at what she’s working against.

Twelve is a horrible year.

—

The day she runs into the tall boy at school, it all goes to hell.

She hasn’t really made friends at Forks - she sits next to June in Art, and Katie in History, and they’re both nice to her, but they really leave the new girl alone - she’s too quiet to be befriended. All her report cards have said the same things for years now - she’s polite and diligent but just so shy that perhaps her parents should get her help.

They don’t, because Michael Brandon prefers his eldest daughter to remain silent and unresistant to his will. Plus, what would people think if they found out Alice needed a therapist?

So, she continues on her quest for complete invisibility, like a rabbit in the underbrush, and that leads her into running into the handsome boy she’s seen roaming the halls, and she falls flat on the floor, stunned but unharmed.

It happens almost immediately, a burn in her chest that is running down both her arms and … no. No, nope, nada, nyet, nein. No way in hell. The burn is increasing and she gets to her feet, ignoring him entirely to go and hide in the library and wait for the pain to ebb.

It still hurts when the final bell rings, and she stumbles to the bus, head down and headphones on so that no one can call out to her and have her hear. It feels like an inside-out sunburn, and she’s going home to take a cold bath and cry.

No one else is home, thankfully, when she barges in the back door and straight up the stairs, pausing only long enough to grab the omnipresent tube of aloe vera gel from the fridge - she couldn’t bare to deal with the expected afternoon niceties with her mother right now. She’s got to get the burning to stop.

Her bathroom is a tiny ensuite to ensure her privacy - her father has made no secret of how disgusting he finds her mark, and her mother only encourages her extreme form of modesty. She almost regrets all the layers - heavy sweater, turtleneck, camisole, bra, skirt, shoes, stockings, underwear - as she sheds them, wanting to scratch the skin from her body out of sheer frustration and discomfort.

And then she looks up in the mirror and freezes.

There’s no doubting he’s her soulmate, not an ounce of doubt in her mind. Because her mark has changed, and it is… like nothing she’s ever seen, not in all her research on the topic. Not in endless scrolling on social media of people boasting ‘before’ and ‘after’ soul marks, in delicate little love knots, and spiralling patterns and bursts of colour.

This is something utterly unique. The ribbon-like shape is unchanged, but somehow, it looks almost faceted like crystal, like under her skin there is the inside of a geode, colours shifting in ripples of scarlet and gold. It feels no different to touch, but no longer does she look like she’s been murdered. And the very ends, on her wrist and arm, they have darkened to a deep and unexpected violet.

The heat still rolls under her skin but is slowly dispersing again, as if it was just insistent that she had to take a closer look. And for the first time in a very, very long time, Alice feels… well, not beautiful. But not monstrous.

So she climbs into the bathtub and starts to cry.

—

She stays in bed the next day, unable to face school. Lillian indulges her claims she’s sick, everything below Alice’s chin tucked firmly under her duvet, and leaves her daughter to rest.

She can’t do it, can’t face the idea of having to see that boy again, that truly handsome boy, and let him know that when life was dealing out soul mates, he drew her card. Because she hasn’t been made suddenly beautiful by their inevitable meeting. She’s still a tiny, bony, and pale little creature - her own grandmother assures her every Christmas that she’ll never win any prizes for beauty.

That doesn’t stop her from peaking under the blankets every so often just to see the impossible glitter of her mark, the way it somehow shifts from ruby to crimson to scarlet, with little veins of gold threaded through. She doesn’t understand - it’s just skin, still flat and smooth, the most remarkable of illusions.

In the end, she kicks off the blankets and throws on a dress and leggings and boots, and leaves the house. Finds herself walking to the school, hoping that maybe she’s lucky enough to one, not get caught by either her parents or teachers, and two, find Him before he leaves for the day.

Apparently, she’s just the right amount of lucky. She finds him sitting on one of the benches outside the school, running his hand through his hair and looking stressed. He’s surrounded by others, no one she recognises - one guy appears to be reassuring him; they’re all looking for someone.

A brunette girl catches her eye and points to her, and apparently the person they’re looking for is her. She tries not to shrink under their gaze, as she crosses the carpark and wondering why on earth she’s here, and not still in bed, why she’s even tempting fate by approaching him. It’s going to go horribly, and everyone in town is going to find out about her mark, and her parents will just outright destroy her.

She falters, and looks up at him. He looks almost hopeful, as he stares at her, raising his hands in peace when he thinks she’s going to back away.

She approaches slowly, her arms crossed over her chest as she finally reaches the group.

“Hello.” The boy stands up to greet her and he is so, so ridiculously tall, it’s not fair.

“Hi.” It’s awkward. All those soul-meeting stories she read online, they all sounded so lovely, and hers is at a bench at school and… this.

“We’ll leave you to it, man,” one of the other boys says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

The blond boy nods and looks at her. He has kind eyes, which is good, she decides.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” he offers suddenly. “Just around here? Might make it easier.”

“Yes. That sounds okay.” Her voice sounds small, and they move away from the benches, from the witnesses, towards the oval.

—

His name is Jasper Hale, and he’s eighteen. He lives with his aunt, uncle, twin sister, and his adopted cousins. They only moved to Forks a year ago. He likes American History, motorcycles, and horses. He plays the guitar. He’d like to get to know her.

She fumbles through what to tell him. Her name, of course, her family. Why they moved. She likes… that’s a weird question. She’s spent so long hiding everything about herself that she can’t remember what she actually likes and what’s just become routine.

She can do this.

Her name is Alice Brandon - Mary Alice Brandon - and she’s seventeen. She lives with her parents and younger sister. They just moved from Biloxi. She likes drawing, she likes fashion, and she likes dancing.

“I don’t know if this is inappropriate,” Jasper begins, as they take a seat on the ageing bleachers at the back of the school. “But, could I see the mark?”

She visibly flinches from the request, but he’s been very patient and seems to actually be invested in this, and she can’t be outright cruel. He’ll leave her alone soon enough. “C-can I see yours?” she manages, hoping to delay the inevitable.

He nods, looking at her with concern, but hikes up the side of his shirt. It runs down his side, even underneath the waistband of his jeans, all sharp edges and thin lines jerking out, like a spiking heart rate. It’s mostly a dark gold colour, but with violet and scarlet bleeding into parts of it. It’s the most perfectly normal soul mark she’s ever seen, and she’s not sure whether to be disappointed his doesn’t match hers better so they can be freaks together, or if she’s grateful no one else has to live like she does.

“It’s beautiful,” she says, and it’s true. Beautiful colours, the visible representation of a beating heart. It suits him.

He nods, a slight smile hovering at his lips. “Yours?” he asks, and this time she knows she cannot get out of it. But she also can’t whip off the dress she’s wearing, in the middle of the school oval.

“Um, I can’t,” she began, looking at her shoes. “Not here.” She makes a gesture towards her chest. “Not the whole thing - but I can show you some of it.”

He’s curious as she rolls up her right sleeve to her elbow, and holds out her arm. He positively gapes at it, and reaches out to stroke it, making them both jump at the unexpected contact.

“I’m sorry, that was inappropriate. That’s… incredible,” he murmured.

“Incredible?” she echoes, pulling her sleeve down. He’s staring at her like she’s performed a miracle in front of him, and she doesn’t know how to act.

“It’s beautiful. But you said you couldn’t show me all of it? How far up does it go?” he asks, furrowing his brow.

She wordlessly and mechanically draws the path she’s been branded with - for him - and his eyes get wider.

“I’ve never heard of such a … prominent mark,” he manages.

“It’s pretty … dramatic,” she admits before sighing and shaking her head. “Before we ran into each other, it was… awful. Hideous - the ugliest thing possible.”

He looks shocked, and moves closer. “Why do you say that?” his voice is low, encouraging.

“It was so big and bright and everyone hated it, hated looking at it,” she gestured to her chest. “You’ll understand when you see the entire thing. It’s… it’s nicer now, but it’s still everywhere.”

Jasper studied her a moment longer before looking out at the field. “I researched soul marks once, as a bit of a hobby,” he began. “American research on the topic is only very recent, and focused on the science of it rather than the meaning. But you begin to look abroad, or back through history, and what we know or believe it gets interesting.

“For instance, in India, they believe the length of the soul mark determines the length of your time together. Hundreds of years ago, they had a special way to measure a soul mark to determine how many years you would have together. It’s been lost to modern history, but it was once incredibly important a couple to have their soul marks measured and calculated.

“And then in Ancient Greece, any mark was a sign of great pride. They would cut down their clothing - sometimes quite indecently - to show off - the more prominent the mark, the better.

“And some of the Slavic tribes, they believed that the shape and size and placement of the mark held great significance to the relationship the soul mates would have - the depth and strength of love the pair would carry for each other; that a great size implied that one half of the couple was taking on a burden of pain or suffering from the other, to help them through life.”

She sat there, almost breathless, as he so easily detailed the different things he had found and read. All of them full of acceptance, of hope, and of how… special such a thing was supposed to be.

“What do you believe?” she manages to ask.

He looks at her and reaches out to take her hand, gently squeezing it.

“That there’s nothing you could show me that would scare me away,” he said, and she can feel herself blush. “And that I would very much like to get to know you better, Alice Brandon.”

—

He walks her home, still holding her hand, and they talk about nothing. Movies they’ve seen, music they like, places they would like to visit. He makes it easy to talk, to find things to say. The walk is a lot shorter on the way back.

Lillian Brandon is not amused to find her so-called ‘unwell’ eldest daughter has snuck out, but is bamboozled and gracious enough to hold back her displeasure when she sees Alice hand in hand with Jasper.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me, Alice?” Lillian rebukes her daughter, and watches as her daughter appears to shrink back against the tall boy with his gaze permanently fixed on her.

“This is Jasper Hale,” Alice manages, ducking her head. “He’s a senior.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Jasper replies respectfully, eyeing the uncomfortable girl at his side. “I’d like to thank you for doing me the favour of bringing my soul mate to Forks.”

Later, Alice will laugh until her eyes are watering over the look on Lillian’s face when she computes what Jasper is saying. That this tall, handsome boy who can’t take his eyes off her daughter is Alice’s soul mate. Lillian’s face goes through the full spectrum of emotions - confused, shocked, completely blank, incredulous, and then vaguely dazed.

The late reveal of Alice’s soul mark is hand waved away with Jasper informing the pair his own didn’t show up until he was seven - that late appearing soul marks aren’t as uncommon as people think. Lillian is utterly flabbergasted and Alice only gets to enjoy it for as long as it takes Lillian to get to her favourite topic - complaining about Alice’s ‘disfigurement’.

“It’s really quite gruesome to look at - you said your uncle was a surgeon? Perhaps he might know of someone who can tidy it up a little,” Lillian prattles on as the pair sit stiffly at the kitchen table.

“I think it’s quite lovely, myself,” Jasper responds coldly, but Lillian doesn’t notice the change in his mood.

“Have you seen the whole thing? Run up and put a camisole on, Alice,” Lillian waves a hand at her daughter. “You’ll understand. We’ve tried everything, but nothing works.”

Jasper looks furious as she leaves the table meekly at her mother’s bidding. Maybe Lillian is right, maybe Jasper will back away when he sees the sheer expanse of all, all that research be damned.

It feels quite strange to walk around wearing so little clothing, and she’s slower going back downstairs, her face hidden by her hair, as she returns to the kitchen. The camisole is cut low enough to show her barely-existent cleavage, and she really feels like she’s just walking around naked.

Jasper stands as soon as she returns, and for a split second, she thinks he’s going to walk out, that Lillian was right and she was right and it doesn’t matter it changed, it’s still awful.

But he moves closer to her, reaching out to gather her hair and push it away from her face. And for the first time since they’ve met, he looks at her. At the faint freckles on her nose, the tiny scar on her cheek, her slightly sunken cheeks, her sad grey eyes, down to the faceted expanse of soul mark that twists up both her arms and meets over her collarbone.

Lillian shakes her head in despair at the family shame revealed so openly, not remarking - or maybe not noticing - the change of it.

“I think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

Jasper’s voice is firm and clear and appreciative and Lillian looks scandalised, and Alice starts to laugh and cry at the same time, and somehow she finds herself in his arms, clinging to him like a lifesaver because she can’t remember ever being told that in her whole life.

(It’s a quiet dinner at the Brandons that night, after Lillian reports to her husband what has transpired. The only comment Michael Brandon makes is right before he gets up, staring at his eldest daughter, and rudely congratulating her on catching a doctor’s son. Alice can’t find it in herself to care.)

—

Nothing worth having ever came easy.

Meeting the Cullens goes… fine. She wears a dress with a high neckline and elbow-length sleeves, but then puts a cardigan over the top because old habits are hard to break. She puts her hair up though, because it makes Jasper smile when she does.

Dr Cullen seems vaguely horrified at the sight of her (Jasper reassures her later that it was how terribly, terribly thin she was, and nothing more), but Mrs Cullen is delighted by her, clasping her in a hug and insisting Alice call her ‘Esme’.

Jasper’s twin sister, Rose, seems guarded but very polite to her, whilst Jasper’s adopted cousin (and Rose’s soul mate, which explains the very specific description) Emmett is all fun and games, and at ease with her right away.

“Jas said you had issues with your mark,” he says within the first minutes of meeting her. “Get a load of this.” He pulls his t-shirt up, and turns around to show Alice his back. Like Alice, his spine appears to have split perfectly down the middle to reveal a faceted crystal effect in deep pink and forest green. It starts at his hairline, running down his neck and stretches across his shoulders before narrowing again.

“Very appropriate timing, Emmett,” the other cousin, Edward, sighs.

“What? Jas was pissed she was upset,” Emmett tugs his shirt down, and Alice isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry that the whole family knows something she’s been ashamed of for so long. “We thought it might be, like, a freaky genetic thing but then Edward’s girl showed up with one like it on her leg. Some people just get lucky, I guess.”

“Ignore him. He’s got the tact of cinderblock wall,” Edward says to her. “He’s never had a moment of self-doubt in his life.”

That makes her giggle a little, and everyone relaxes. It’s a nice visit after that, but both Dr Cullen and Mrs Cu- Esme look at her with worried eyes, and that makes her worry more.

At school, apparently being Jasper Hale’s soul mate is a scandal of the highest degree. Her locker is defaced twice, and one girl body-slams her into the wall as she walks past. Everybody suddenly knows who she is, and she has a place to sit at the cafeteria, and it’s not as bad as she thought it would be because the Cullens don’t eat much either.

Jasper fusses over her a lot; he picks her up for school every day in a shiny black truck, and he walks her to every class. He takes her back home every day, and most days they sit in her room and talk. Nothing inappropriate, especially since she has to keep her bedroom door open whenever she has guests. She asks him about college, but he is dismissive of it - entirely focused on her and her plans. He helps her with her homework, helps her move her bedroom furniture - nothing is too much trouble.

He only leaves at dinner time, when her father comes home. Sometimes she wonders if he’d ever leave her if he wasn’t forced to.

She knows she runs hot and cold. Some days she clings to him like a limpet, reluctant to seperate even for their respective classes, quiet and solemn. Other days, she is distant, uncomfortable with being touched. Those are the days she drags the turtlenecks and heavy sweaters out, the ones that cover her right to her hands. And then there are the days she is her best self, when her smile is bright and she can wear a top that bares her forearms and forces herself to ignore people staring at her soul mark. Those are the days she can relied to eat lunch, to have a conversation with his family, to be the person she was shamed into not being.

And Jasper stays for all of it. He doesn’t get mad, he doesn’t insult her, he doesn’t yell. He’s just right there, by her side, right up until graduation. They don’t go to Prom because the idea of wearing an evening dress makes her feel woozy and hide in the immense fabric of one of his hoodies and watch bad movies with aggressive focus. Instead, they stay at the Cullens house, and Mrs Cullen makes them crepes - she eats more than Jasper, she’s sure of it, but they’re very good - and he plays music in his bedroom and they dance there, instead.

That’s where he admits he’s putting college off for a year and working for Esme - a very successful architect and interior designer - for a year. And not for college money; apparently that isn’t a problem. No, because he wants to wait for her, so they can go to college together. He doesn’t care where - it’s her choice. That she’s letting him tag along is all he needs.

It’s all very romantic and it’s also their very first kiss, and then their very first make out, and nearly their very first time except she’s still messed up in the head, and the idea of getting really naked with anyone is so bad she hyperventilates and he has to calm her down.

She’s not sure what he gets out of having her as a soul mate, but she hopes he knows that he’s saving her life.

—

It’s late August, just before she starts her senior year with Edward and his girlfriend, Bella, when Jasper brings her to the house to tell her something.

She worries the entire trip to his house, piling anxiety on top of anxiety. It’s definitely her - they kiss sometimes and it’s nice, and she doesn’t mind when he sees her in her bra now, but anything else is too much and maybe he’s tired of waiting?

Or maybe he’s realised waiting around for a whole year in a town like Forks for a girl like her is actually really dumb, and he’s going to college after all.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

The thing is, in all her catastrophizing, she thought she had everything covered. Every single thing, from a break-up, to terminal illness, to joining the military, to world collapse. She feels like her head is spinning by the time she gets to the Cullens, and she’s positive she’s either going to faint or vomit by the time he tells her whatever he wants to tell her.

“We’re vampires,” is absolutely and most certainly nowhere on her list, and she bursts into tears, and the entire family freaks out, and then she has to admit she thought she was being dumped, and both Emmett and Carlisle burst out laughing because apparently Jasper has been mooning over her since the day she ran into him, without exception, and the idea that he’d choose to leave her for some petty human reason is the height of comedy.

She has to lie down after that revelation, as Jasper and Carlisle slowly explain to her that all those ‘quirks’ she evidently didn’t pay attention to where indicative of being a fucking vampire, with various interjections from Emmett that are unhelpful but funny.

The end result is that she starts her final year of high school with the knowledge that her soul mate is a vampire - one that hunts animals but is physically unable to drink her blood thanks to soul mate biology; that they will respect her choice to remain human if that is what she wants, but that allowing him to change her will give them forever together.

It’s a lot of pressure. She loses some of the hard-won weight she has gained, and she’s not sleeping well, and Esme - when she finds out - is fairly pissed they’ve rattled her to that point. When she goes to Esme for advice, the woman is more than happy to offer counsel, to listen to her hopes and fears and dreams and all the things that rattle around in her brain that she can’t stop thinking about.

It’s Rosalie who helps, who finds her in the Cullen’s kitchen inspecting the calories on the peanut butter jar.

“You know, I didn’t want this,” Rose says brusquely, taking the jar out of her hands and shoves Alice out of the way to make the sandwich for her. “I hated Carlisle for years for changing me without consent - I was dying, he made a choice,” the blonde girl says, slicing up the banana. “Then I got my mark, and found Emmett.” She cuts the sandwich likes she’s stabbing a dead thing.

“Eat. There are a lot of things I regret and I resent about this life. We all have them - I know for a fact that Jasper has sanitised most of his own history to ‘protect’ you, and I disagree with that. But never have I looked at Emmett, had Emmett beside me, and regretted that. I love him more than I thought possible.

"We’re given these damn marks for a reason. I’ve never seen Jasper as… at peace as he has been since he found you. There’s never going to be a time - not today, or next month or even in the next twenty years - that he’s going to look at you and not see his entire world. Stay human, become one of us - only you can make that choice. But don’t make that choice because you think that it will change how it will make him feel. Because that’s not happening,” Rose finished, putting the peanut butter in the fridge. “You’re smart, you’re pretty, you clearly love him. Anything else is just your own neuroses. Eat the damn sandwich.”

She eats the whole thing.

—

‘Nothing worth having ever came easy.’

She reminds herself of that over and over again when things get hard. When she goes up a clothing size, when she wears a t-shirt that fits for the first time since she was twelve, when she’s staring down a perfectly ordinary bowl of fruit salad.

When she lets him put his mouth on her soul mark, her chest bare, and her breathing only a little bit panicked. But it feels kind of nice and she makes a few sounds that are embarrassing but Jasper seems to like them a lot.

When her mother drives her to Seattle to pick out a dress for prom, and she immediately reaches for a blue one. A vintage-style strapless cocktail dress in deep blue that she’s immediately in love with. It fits like a glove, and as she spins in front of the mirror, she chooses to ignore the look that Cynthia shoots Lillian, and Lillian’s wince. She loves it and she’s going to wear it.

And she does. She nearly hyperventilates, and changes into her back-up dress twice (one that covers her from wrist-to-throat-to-knee) before she commits. It’s what she wants to wear, it’s how she wants to look for him, and he loves her soul mark. He loves her. He’ll love her in any dress, but she wants it to be this one.

And as she comes down the stairs, to go to her senior prom, in a dress that exposes every inch of what she’s tried so hard to hide, his eyes widen and he gapes. He loses all composure for a moment and that makes her laugh and he calls her beautiful, just like he does every day, except she’s almost started believing him.

And decades later, when she remembers that night, it’s not the snide remarks she recalls. It’s of being in his arms as he dances with her; it’s her hand in his as she tugs him along. The way he looked at her, and the way she looked at him. It was the pride in his gaze, and the love, and the promise that no matter what, they would always be together.

—

A few years later, her soul mark has changed again. Carlisle affectionately calls her a chameleon before delving into an academic recitation on the biology of soul marks and how great upheavals - physical, mental, or spiritual - can affect their appearance.

“Duh,” Emmett says after a moment of silence, and even Edward and Rose are sniggering at that.

Her soul mark has not shrunk or changed shape, as she once wished so passionately. And the beautiful crystal effect has remained, even more beautiful not that she truly sparkles in the sun.

But the scarlet has faded away, giving way for swoops of gold and violet that twist together in a way that she adores.

It’s the very same gold of Jasper’s eyes.

The very same gold as the diamond in the ring he presents to her, down on knee, and she knocks them both to the floor in her delight and rush to accept.

It’s the same gold she hopes her eyes will be.

Someday.

—

#jaliceweek20 #alice cullen #jasper hale #twilight #my fic: untitled soulmate fic

26 notes · View notes

sincerelyreidburke · 5 years ago

Note

please tell me more about boy scout dex

My friend, let me firstly apologize because I know I did sit on your ask for a little while. I think it’s been a month (?) since I posted that original random text-post about Boy Scout Dex, but as I mentioned in this brief PSA, I haven’t forgotten about him. I come to you today with a bullet-list!

As an FYI, I am definitely going to write actual prose fic about this in the future, so stay tuned. For now: let’s talk about Dex’s Boy Scout backstory.

- The first thing we should establish is that this is in the CCU. If you don’t know what the CCU is, it’s just my understanding of the canon universe. CCU stands for Cromwell Cinematic Universe, named for a stuffed lobster Dex has named Cromwell. Given that canon has never directly contradicted the idea of Dex having a stuffed lobster, I elect that this is the closest I’ll come to being canon-compliant. Prove me wrong. :D

- Anyway, the CCU is a series on ao3; you can read it here. Boy Scout Dex is simply another part of Dex’s colorful history.

- It’s really not that colorful, actually. I mean, he’s Dex. He comes to college afraid of baking.

- Anyway. Let’s talk, shall we? (This is going to get long, so under the cut we go.)

- In the CCU, Dex lives in Bar Harbor, which is one of Maine’s more famous towns, tucked into the east side of Mount Desert Island, which is just off the coast, and is the largest island in Maine. This is not a geography lesson, but since we’re here, here’s a visual. The little marked location is MDI, and then Samwell would be in the center-left bottom of the map.

- Anyways, with that digression aside, I’m bringing up Dex’s hometown/home island for two reasons: one, because I went and looked it up, and there is a Boy Scout troop there (Troop 89, though I was prepared to invent one if there wasn’t one on-island), and two, because the natural world around the island will become important later for Scout reasons.

- In order to proceed, let me introduce you to a few members of the CCU Poindexter-family expanded universe. MDI isn’t so small that everybody on the island knows everybody— the population is 10,000, which is just around the same as my own hometown, and I definitely don’t know everybody here. But what is true about my hometown is that there are certain families who have prominent roles in the community, and I would absolutely say that the Poindexter family is well-known on the island.

- They’re a very blue-collar, Irish Catholic, patriotic American family. Dex has cousins, aunts, uncles, and extended relatives galore. Dex’s uncles are notable enough in canon for him to mention them multiple times; in the CCU, he has 6 uncles on his pa’s side and another 3 on his ma’s. We’ll focus mostly on the Poindexter side for the purposes of Scout Dex.

- I have a feeling that the 7 Poindexter brothers (aka Pa and the 6 uncles) were probably all involved in one way or another with Scouts or at least some other community-building activity as kids. The one who rose to the top was Uncle Ronny, who is now the Scout Master for the troop on the island.

- Yes, I learned a copious amount of Boy Scout terms to make this post.

- Anyway, Uncle Ronny is a carpenter by day, and he takes the scouting stuff seriously; he sees it as a sort of civic duty. He has one son and three daughters (the female Poindexter cousins probably do Girl Scouts, but that’s a discussion for another time), and all his kids participate.

- Dex’s Pa, Will Sr., definitely also was super into this growing up. (In the historical AU I’m writing, Pa was in the Navy, and I cry every day thinking about how he can’t be in it in the CCU. This, as well as his general nautical lifestyle, is my consolation to myself.)

- Okay, so what do they actually do?

- Dex and his cousins grow up in the program. I feel like tiny redheads make up a solid fifty percent of the MDI Cub Scout troop in the late 90s and early 2000s. Dex is extremely outdoorsy even from a young age, and he loves Scouting, through and through— from the camps in the summer to earning badges and working his way up in ranks to even just spending time with his cousins. Cub Scout-era Dex sort of comes before all the repression, self-deprecation, and regression into the hardened, temperamental person he shows up at Samwell as. So in other words, Cub Scout Dex is a generally happy kid.

- Cub Scouts are from around kindergarten to fourth grade, or ages 5-10. Once you’re about 10 and a half, you move to general Boy Scouting, aaaaand this is where the fun begins, because in my research, I discovered…

- Sea Scouting.

- Sea Scouting is essentially a subdivision of the general Boy Scout program, and it’s exactly what it sounds like: Boy Scouts but with more nautical themes. Look… you guys… they wear fucking sailor suits… I’m physically deceased… I don’t think you understand how much I need this in Dex’s life.

- Has you or a loved one ever thought, hey, Mel, (that’s yours truly), do you by any chance have a thing about sailor suits? You may be entitled to the knowledge that you’re right…

- Pretty much every Poindexter who did Boy Scouts was also involved in the Sea Scout program. Why? Uhhhhh… they live on the ocean and have a fishery and also just think about all that sweet sweet oceanic Dex symbolism—

- Right, okay, so things that are important to Dex during his time as a Scout: oceanic conservation, also conservation on land because Acadia National Park is right on MDI, boating safety, actual sailing. Fun fact: they have sailing competitions.

- Through the entirety of his Scouting life, Dex is really close with Uncle Ronny. He’s one of probably three cousins who are the most active in the program, and I’m jumping the gun a little on myself here, but he definitely does get Quartermaster. This is the highest rank you can get in the program, and it’s taken very seriously by everyone involved. It’s the Sea Scouting equivalent of Eagle Scout, which is probably much more familiar to most of you.

- Uncle Ronny is his go-to uncle for all things Scouting and also probably all things outdoorsy.

- Some time later, when Dex comes out to his family, Uncle Ronny will take it very, very hard. Although other uncles will come around, his relationship with Ronny will never really recover.

- Anyway! We are not going down that road at this moment in time. Let’s move on.

- By the way, the entire troop is definitely really closely tied with the island’s Catholic church. They very likely wear religious emblems on their uniforms. There’s a lot about God in the general guidelines of being a Boy Scout, and the troop is all over this. Because New England Irish Catholics.

- Okay, Dex gets Quartermaster. It’s the highest honor a Sea Scout can have. The core tenets/skills, fun fact, include: swimming, safety, marlinspike seamanship (???), boat handling, ground tackle, navigation, weather, and environment. He’d be getting this right around the same time he’s graduating high school. To get Quartermaster, you have to physically take control of a boat for like 40 hours, with other Scouts as witness. That is super badass.

- Also, I need you guys to see these uniforms. If someone drew Dex in this, I’d die.

- This is getting so long; I’m so sorry. Okay, some other time, remind me to talk about Dex’s internal struggle in response to the Boy Scouts homosexuality controversy. (I won’t go super into this right now, but essentially, until recently, gay men couldn’t be troop leaders. Gay youth membership has also been… generally discouraged, without being directly prohibited. There’s a lot to unpack there.)

- But, y’know! Poindexter family tradition, right???

- Aside from all the nautical skills, Dex’s Scout background translates to this at Samwell: he’s always prepared. The Boy Scout motto is literally Be Prepared. I think it’s easy to see, from all our canon knowledge of Dex, how this kind of background could factor into his character.

- I mean, the boy is constantly volunteering himself to fix things.

- Okay!!!! At the risk of making my longest text post ever, I will stop here for now. But please know: my ask box is open. There will be fic about this, and probably more of these bullet-list text posts. Ask or send me anything you’d like.

Thank you very much for the ask, and thank you for your patience while I put this together!

#omgcp #omgcheckplease #william poindexter #boy scout dex #cromwell the stuffed lobster

78 notes · View notes

gascon-en-exil · 5 years ago

Note

"I could go on a long tangent here about this and why it irks me that the Eagles have the fandom reputation for being the “gay house,” but that’s a major digression." please spill the tea, as someone who finds the eagles "gay house" thing byleth-centric and kind of stupid

Ok, I’m back in town now and able to write out a response to this properly.

In an interesting coincidence, there’s been some back-and-forth in my corner of the fandom this evening about how the nations of Three Houses are not sufficiently distinguished from one another, with the concession that of the three Faerghus easily fares the best in this regard thanks to its cold and unforgiving climate just ignore that there’s no snowy maps in this game and its strong tradition of knighthood that heavily prioritizes Crests and Relics above and beyond the other nations and also encourages deeply intimate bonds between men that come into play in almost every relationship between the Lions characters as well as in the development and themes of Azure Moon as a whole. The Empire and Alliance are comparatively lacking in both worldbuilding detail and characterization through lines that would make these nations more readily distinguishable. The most common descriptor of the Eagles in fandom is that they’re the gay house, with almost every Byleth same-sex S support coming from their ranks or from originally Adrestian characters like Mercedes and potentially Yuri. Moreover, they’ve got the most same-sex paired endings not involving Byleth overall, so quantitatively the Eagles come off as the most queer-friendly house.

But what does that tell us about Adrestia? Even one of my critics who complained that I’m too dismissive of the value people place on Avatar romances was willing to concede that I had a point in the post linked above about Faerghus’s homosocial culture, so can you apply a similar approach and learn something deeper about the Empire from its many same-sex pairings? These being:

A conquering emperor who is Hot for Teacher on all routes, possibly because they have the same Crest as her

Pride and Prejudice if Elizabeth was a man and Darcy was an unrepentant murderer and vampire cosplayer

Thespians who swing both ways for the right price, or because they fear being old and alone

FE10 if Ike and Soren had no chemistry but still ran off together, or Ike and Ranulf if they still had no chemistry but they raised cats together instead of one of them being a cat

A lesbian nun - haven’t heard that one before

A catatonic serial killer into bloodplay wants to kill and/or have sex with someone because they have a certain sword

Whatever Yuri’s deal is, and with the caveat that as it stands it might also include Balthus

Even if you toss out the Byleth pairings and narrow all that down to the core Eagles there’s nothing in the way of a unifying theme to all that. The closest I could come when writing that down was that most of these pairings have a certain amount of deliberate artificiality to them. Ferdibert ignores the war and Hubert’s...everything in favor of genteel letter-writing and tea dates, Caspar’s two same-sex pairings run entirely off allusions to Radiant Dawn, Dorothea and Manuela are borrowing from a rich and storied tradition that spans multiple cultures of theatrical performers being sexually flexible - of sex being part of their careers (which FE dabbles in too via the dancer class) - and of course all of Byleth’s romance options feel artificial when the self-insert can’t speak or express any kind of personality...and that goes double for the canon-favored Edeleth backed by some kind of subconscious Crest bond. The Mittlefrank Opera provides the most frequently recurring looks into same-sex relationships as they exist in the Empire, but that’s not saying all that much when it accounts for so few of them altogether - and even then the Doropetra ending in particular says more about the culture of Brigid than of Adrestia.

I will say that the lack of a cohesive cultural context for the Eagles’ gay pairs makes them easier to slot into AUs than those of the Lions, as so many of the Lions characters are defined by their martial upbringings and wartime trauma that it bleeds over into their relationships with one another. Not so with the Empire; in fact, if I had to guess Eagles AUs are probably a bit more popular than canon fics so as to sidestep some of the less pleasant realities of Crimson Flower and its dubiously happy ending...and also Hubert being Hubert. One can only imagine how Ferdinand sleeps at night knowing the truth of his lover’s personal body count and the running checklist of all the war crimes he still needs to commit.

#Fire Emblem #FE16 #Fire Emblem Three Houses #Black Eagles

54 notes · View notes

opulentcherries · 5 years ago

Text

hey there, eddie [reddie au] 1/3

pairings: reddie, stenbrough,

warnings: fuckton of cursing, angst, lots of sad shit, underage drinking,

words: 1.7k

extra: this is a playlist fic. each part is based on a different song, and the fic as a whole is based on the song hey there delilah by the plain white t's.

song of the chapter: no idea by all time low

synopsis: the losers are off to college and richie is inexplicably upset that he’s staying in derry. with his best friend and secret love of his life moving to new york, richie can’t help but dwell on the fact that his life is not at all moving in the right direction. so richie does the only thing he knows how, he writes it all down and picks up his guitar.

please don’t hesitate to send me an ask or leave some feedback in the comments <3 it motivates me to write and makes me feel like i’m not totally terrible so enjoy!

richie felt alone.

it was unusual for him to feel like this while he was with the others, but the heavy feeling in his heart was too strong to ignore.

the losers all sat in their typical hangout of the quarry, hair wet from swimming, voices hoarse from screaming. they sat on logs around a campfire, roasting marshmallows and telling stories of old adventures, smiles littering their faces.

richie sat on a lone log, watching all the others with hooded eyes. he coasted over them sadly, knowing that soon, none of this would be here.

graduation was in a measly three weeks and within a month they'd all be scattered about the map; bill and stan in boston, mike in new jersey, bev in philadelphia, ben traveling a ways away to toronto, eddie in new york and richie, well richie was gonna be stuck in derry.

the thought rested heavily in richie's mind as he twirled the marshmallow clad stick lazily in the fire, eyes set on his group. it had been the seven of them always, ever since they banded together in the seventh grade. best friends forever and ever is what they promised, but richie knew better. he knew that people never stay.

as this particular thought weighed in his mind, richie's dark eyes settled on his favorite loser, who was lost in a story that beverly and mike were reciting animately.

eddie kaspbrak, the boy that managed to steal his heart with a single look. the boy he annoyed constantly with the crude comments falling off his chapped lips. the boy who meant more to him than anyone in the entire world.

richie heaved a sigh, knowing that he'd never be able to tell eddie how he really felt. in four weeks time eddie would be in a big city with so many different people that eddie would soon forget about his old best friend in his childhood town.

you see, richie tozier knew he wasn't special. he knew he wasn't smart, and he knew that he would be stuck in derry for the rest of his life, in a dead end job that he hated. he wasn't nearly good enough for eddie kaspbrak, no, not even close. this richie knew.

eddie was someone so special, so extraordinary. he knew that the small, snarky boy would grow up to do great things, and if richie was truly the best friend eddie believed he was, he couldn't bring himself to hold him back.

richie wasn't sure what hurt more, knowing that he wasn't good enough for the boy he was so desperately in love with or knowing that in order to let him be the happy he deserved, he had to let him go.

"richie!" the lanky boy's thoughts were interrupted by the very boy always clouding them. "are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"what?"

bev looked him over in suspicion and confusion. "your marshmallow is completely fried, rich. the stick is nearly blazing.”

richie looked down at the charred marshmellow and shook the fire out. "oh. sorry."

the group stilled at the feeble apology, looking at their friend with confused eyes. this wasn't the richie they knew. no, their richie made the most disgusting comments at the worst possible times. their richie never shut his mouth, and their richie made them laugh like no other ever could.

this version of richie looked down at his shoes like they were the most interesting thing he'd ever seen. he was quiet and sad, and it didn't sit right with any of them.

stan cleared his throat, "richie? what's wrong? find out your iq is the same as your age again?"

richie knew it was a joke, and he knew that stan was baiting him so they could have their usual snippy banter, but all richie could think of was how far away he'd be from them all because he wasn't smart enough to go anywhere else.

they'll forget you in no time, his subconscious reminded him cruelly. you're nothing compared to them.

when it seemed like his sad expression only deepened, mike spoke. "you know you can always talk to us, rich. we're here for you, always."

always.

richie shook his head and plastered a much too fake smile on his lips. "I'm fine, really you losers. jeez, you'd think I died or something the way you all look."

from across the small fire, eddie kaspbrak glanced over his best friend with worried eyes. this wasn't his richie, the boy that annoyed him at all times. he didn't like that richie was quiet and seemingly sullen, it was unnatural.

he also knew, that there was way more to richie's feelings than he was letting on. he was lying, and eddie knew he'd never let his guard down in front of the others. for this reason alone eddie waited for richie to look up, because no matter how much the troubled boy his feelings from the group, he could never hide them from eddie.

like expected, richie looked up when feeling eyes on him, and fell into the trap of eddie's chocolate colored eyes. eddie raised an eyebrow, question in his eyes. richie only shook his slightly in response, and eddie stared harder, almost daring him to lie.

beverly had been watching the encounter between eddie and richie, and she noticed how he was keeping his feelings from not only the group, but even eddie. it was unusual, because no one in the world was closer than eddie and richie.

she realized there must have been way more to the story than she knew, so she decided to jump in and save him.

"hey rich," the dark eyes slid from eddie to her. "you have your guitar right? why don't you play us something?"

richie breathed a laugh, "oh god no,” he says. “i'll probably fuck up your ears.”

ben snorted, "richie tozier being modest? never thought i'd see the day."

richie rolled his eyes. "i'm not being modest, I'm just not that good.”

eddie rolled his eyes then. "you're the best that i know, rich."

richie's heart could have melted right then and there, and all of a sudden, the overwhelming need to get his feelings out seemed to take him over. he nodded, and bev clapped, bill, stan, ben and mike smiling. eddie let his lips turn up slightly, but just simply watched as richie reached behind him and grabbed the guitar case.

"um..." richie paused, wondering what to play. he wanted something that would make him feel better, but he didn't want to give anything away. he couldn't afford for someone to catch onto his feelings. "okay."

richie lined up his fingers up to the correct chords and let his fingers do the rest, his voice coming out soft and small.

I was dreaming we were running

from a city burning down,

down, down, down

eddie felt his heart flutter at richie's deep, calming voice singing the familiar song, and he instantly sat up straighter in his seat.

richie continued to sing, letting his emotions pour into the lyrics, voice growing stronger.

now there's a piece of me

tells me I shouldn't leave

everytime I see your face

as if he was being compelled to do so, richie looked up at eddie, only to find the other boy already looking at him. their eyes connected and while richie knew the smile on eddie's face was purely platonic, his heart began to pound anyway.

because everytime

you come around

love, you take my breath away and i just wanna breathe until,

i take you in

i never want you to leave until

i take you in

but the truth is,

richie felt like his heart was being torn in two as he sang, the words hitting far too close to home. when he felt the tears start to build he looked down, hand still strumming away to the song.

she has no idea, no idea

that I'm even here

she has no idea, no idea

that I'm even here

the remaining losers somehow felt, looking between eddie and richie that they were intruding on an intimate moment. regardless of how much richie buried his feelings, his love for eddie was too strong. they all knew how deeply richie felt for the other, and they hated that he did nothing.

some of them weren't sure if eddie felt the same and the others were convinced that he did, but either way, richie had the potential to be happy and he was denying himself the opportunity because he didn't feel like he deserved it.

she's so close when i'm so far away

when i'm so far away

let me dream

let me stay

she's so close when i'm so far away

when i'm so far away

i can sleep

i can dream

i can change

richie slowed his movements as he neared the end of the song, his voice slurring slightly as he placed more emphasis on each lyric. he looked up at eddie once more as he sang.

she has no idea, no idea

that i'm even here

she has no idea, no idea

that i'm even here

she has no idea, no idea

that i'm even here

he has no idea

that i'm even here...

then suddenly it was quiet. richie could feel his heart pound in his ears and no one said anything. he fucked up, god, he fucked up. he had changed the pronoun without even realizing, while singing to eddie.

eddie felt his face warm as the word dropped from richie's mouth. he. was it supposed to mean eddie? was richie trying to tell him something?

his mind spun with questions and he wanted so badly to talk to richie, but the boy was already up and moving.

"richie-" bill tried to stop him, but richie rushed away, mumbling a half assed excuse of needing to get home, not sparing even the slightest glance to any of them.

especially eddie.

68 notes · View notes

fandomss-girl-genius · 6 years ago

Text

Monday-8th girl genius event week: space age AU

@girlgeniusevents my first time writing a fic so sorry if it’s no good. Zeetha and Agatha go to the moon to search for Skiffander in Outer Space.

Word count: 1,909

Warnings: none

“Hand me that wire cutter Zeetha!” Agatha called. She had been working on something big, and it was almost finninshed.

Wiring some of the last pieces together, Agatha looked up. There it was, the machine that would take her to the moon and back.

“Ah.. my lady, are you sure this will work? You have yet to produce an heir, and I will not permit the Heterodyne line to be wiped out.”

“Tch, you worry to much. Besides, I’m implanting your consciousness into the rocket, so you’ll be there with me.” The Castle had been nervous for a long time, and the only way Agatha had been able to go was to bring it with her.

“The systems should be calibrating. Do you have control?”

“Yes my lady. How ever delightful to be in a weapon of mass destruction!”

Agatha groaned. The Castle was adamant that after the test, it be launched into space so she could fry enemy towns off the map. It also wanted to be in the rocket forever, but she would make sure that didn’t happen.

“We talked about this. The rocket can’t be salvaged, but I promise I’ll make you a new, more terrifying object of annihilation. OK?”

“Of course, my lady. But still...”

“I’ll give it a death ray.”

“You do build the greatest death rays,” commented Zeetha, “but at this rate, we’re going to miss the deadline!”

“Alright Zeetha, that should be it. Hopefully we’ll be able to see Skiffander from there.” Searching for Skiffander had been the reason for the trip, which was why Zeetha was coming too. On the moon they would have a better chance at seeing if it was on Mars, due to the fact there was no atmosphere.

“I know, but I have to get to the moon before the earth passes in front of it. This is my one chance to see my family. I can’t blow it.”

“Castle, contact Gil and Tarvek, tell them I’m going. I don’t want them to worry.”

“Yes my lady. Would you like me to contact Mr. Higgs as well?”

“No!!” Zeetha practically shouted. “Err... I mean, no, that’s fine, I don’t want him to worry.” Ever since Zeetha had been badly hurt on a mission, he hadn’t wanted her out of his sight. Zeetha had to pull some strings to make him go away for a bit.

“Alright Castle, everyone’s strapped in. We can leave now.”

“Yes my lady, I’m priming the ignition sequence now.”

“5.... 4.... 3.... 2.... 1....”

The rocket had been designed to reach speeds of 29,000 kilometers an hour in order to get through the atmosphere. Even then Agatha had put failsafes into the rocket, but she knew that if anything happened, she was dead.

“My lady, there appears to be a problem. I cannot fix it, and we are very quickly approaching the thermosphere. If we cannot fix it in time we will have to remain in orbit until the problem is solved.”

Zeetha was angry. “No! Not after all of this time! We have to fix it. Castle, what is the problem?”

“While we were entering the mesosphere, a meteor appeared to crack one of the windows. The ship is quickly losing pressure, and if we go into space now, you will die.”

“I think we have bigger problems,” Agatha shouted from the other side of the ship, “Something’s happened to the wiring. The manual controls are not responding.”

“This can’t be happening! I’ve waited so long for this moment. I can’t fail now. My family is counting on me.” Zeetha began to shout. She was dangerously close to crying, and when she cried, she tended to break stuff.

“Zeetha, don’t worry. We can fix this. We have an hour before we enter the exosphere, we can fix our problems here.” Agatha tried to calm her down, but Zeetha was still unstable.

“Castle, can you identify the broken window?”

“Yes it appears to be the one to the right of Zeetha. My lady, I can help you with the control unit, one of the wires seems to have fried. I will direct you to it.”

“Good. Zeetha and I will put on the suits. See if you can keep the air pressure in the cabin stable for the moment.”

“Yes my lady.”

Zeetha sighed. She was trying to be strong, but Agatha could see right through her.

“Are you OK?” Agatha asked. Zeetha was her best friend, looking out for each other were their jobs

“I don’t know. When I first met you, I was so happy to hear that someone actually knew about Skiffander. I’ve lost hope I’d ever find it so many times, I can’t do it again. This trip meant so much to me, and I thought maybe I might actually see it.” Zeetha sniffed, and zipped up the front of her bottom layer.

“Zeetha, I promise you, no matter what, you will see Skiffander again. No matter what it takes.”

Agatha began to step into her top layer, and pulled up the strong polymer. It was of her own design, crafted to be strong and durable. It was heat resistant, and it blocked radiation. She had made it all herself, and planned to explore the bottom of a local lake with it.

“Wow,” said Zeetha, changing the subject,” these suits are great! I can’t wait to spacewalk.”

“You like them? They took days to make. I had the construct a sewing clank just to finnish them.”

“My lady, I have found the issue with the unit. The resistor that controlled the flow from the batteries to the rest of the inferstructure was destroyed.”

“Worse and worse,” muttered Zeetha,”I remember that was in the back. We’ll have to reconstruct the whole panel.”

“It’s going to be OK. Castle, change in plan. Direct Zeetha on how to replace the window while I get to work on the unit.”

“Yes my lady.”

“Zeetha, you’re going to have to keep calm. We can do this, but it will be tight. You need to follow The Castle’s instructions to the letter. One wrong move and we’re both dead. If you can’t do it, let me know. If you ever need any help, I’ll be over here.”

“I think I have it. If it’s any chance to see my home, I’ll take it.”

“Good. Castle, where are the tools?”

Zeetha day in front of the window and took a breath. She then began to get out the tools, and strapped them to the walls so they wouldn’t float away.

“OK Castle, what first?”

“Take the power ratchet and use it to remove the bolts.”

Zeetha placed it over the bolts one at a time, and soon there were none left on the window.

“Next, get out the cutting torch and use it to remove the window from the metal. If you have any issues, please tell my lady, because the torch can operate at up to 3,480 ° Celsius.”

“Thanks Castle, but I think I got this.”

Zeetha slowly removed the glass pane, cutting around the entire outside of the window, and then popped it out.

“There. What next?”

“You must do this as quickly as possible. You have not gotten rid of the nitrogen in your system, so you could get the bends. Leave the space craft with the replacement panel. You will experience lack of gravity. You may have problems moving. Take the welding torch and first weld the outside of the window. Make sure there are no gaps, and be careful.”

Zeetha took the torch and the window, and floated outside. The safety tether kept her secure, but she hated the feeling of not being able to control her body.

Slowly, she began to weld. She knew her time was limited, but if it was done sloppy, they would all die. She was halfway done. “Halfway done,” Zeetha muttered,”halfway done. Soon I will see Skiffander again.” The glass was 4 centimeters thick, and strong. She was almost there. She could feel it.

“Hey Castle, I’m done. Open the hatch so I can get back in.”

“Of course.” The hatch slid open, and Zeetha moved back into the rocket, and began welding inside too.

“Hey Agatha, i finnished up the window. How’s the control panel going?”

“Not good. This could take an hour before I’m done.”

“We don’t have an hour.” Zeetha was getting impatient. “Let me help. What’s holding you up?”

“The resistor we need,” explained Agatha,” is not on board. I had thought we packed one, but we didn’t. I’m repurposing some others right now, but I’m worried I won’t have the controls up in time. Castle, how much longer until we exit the thermosphere?”

“I am predicting around 25 minutes my lady.”

“No! Agatha, can’t we slow down?”

“Not with the manual controls down.”

Zeetha was dangerously close to crying. “No,” she said, her voice getting softer and softer. “No, no, no, no, no! We can’t give up! We were so close.”

Agatha sat on the floor of the shuttle, repurposing the resistors. “Zeetha, please don’t cry. I would never give up. This is your dream, what kind of friend would I be? We will make it to the moon before the deadline.”

“Agatha, we’ve met so many challenges, and we can’t step forward without taking to steps back. We’ve been up here, working like mad trying to survive. I’ve lost hope. Agatha, I think we should call it off. I think-“

“Yes! I did it! The resistor should work now. Castle, how is the air pressure doing now?”

“The window was patched nicely my lady.”

“Zeetha you’ve done it! We’ve done it! Quickly, help me reassemble the panel! We’re going to the moon.”

Zeetha quickly wiped her face and joined Agatha at the front. “Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me. Maybe, I’ll find a clue too Skiffander up there.”

“My lady, we have 10 minutes before the ship exits the thermosphere. We must move quickly.”

“Zeetha, hand me the wrench!”

“Give me those screws to your left!”

“I need the pink wires!”

“Good now hand me the blue ones!”

Agatha assembled the manual controls in 7 minutes, and soon she had screwed on the front and was brushing herself off.

“OK Zeetha, we’re entering the exosphere now.”

“Got it Agatha.”

The two made sure their suits were in order, and began to drive the rocket. They drove towards the moon, and began to engage landing protocols.

“Zeetha, we need to lower the feet of the lander,” Agatha shouted.

“Got it,” Zeetha called back, and began.

As they got off the lander, they set up their equiptment and began to study the moon. Agatha had created a telescope big enough to create images of stuff billions of kilometers away. She began to inspect Mars, while taking samples of the moon.

“Who knows when we’ll be here again,” Agatha said, “We should colect all we can from it.”

“Look! There! I think I found it!” Zeetha was looking at a small, green dot on Mars, most likely the only vegetation on the planet.

“You’re right Zeetha! That must be it! We found it.”

Zeetha began to cry. “I’ve finally found it. I really did it. I found my home. Maybe one day, I’ll be there again.”

“Zeetha, I promise, I will do my best to get you back,”said Agatha,”you are my teacher, and my friend.”

#girl genius event week

7 notes · View notes

mittensmorgul · 7 years ago

Note

1) I saw your tags on that post of Lizbobs about Twist and Shout and I am so happy that clear thinking meta writers like you agree that it in no way should be as popular as it is. It makes me cringe whenever someone brings it up as if it is actually a ‘beloved’ fic. I’m sorry if this sounds hateful, and I don’t mean to bring hate on the writers who put effort into it, but at some point this fandom has gotta realise that this fic being the ‘flagship fic’ for Destiel is a really REALLY bad thing.

2) Consider this fandom: We are close to getting canon destiel. That could put this show on the map, get real media interest. There is no doubt therefore that some media will dig further into the ‘fandom phenomenon’ behind destiel. Imagine just how CRINGEWORTHY it will be for mainstream media to discover that the most popular destiel fan fic is nothing more than poorly written tragedy porn rip off of Forrest Gump with the standard ‘kill your gays with aids trope’ at the end?!?! It is actually

3) disgraceful and we should be ashamed of ourselves for trying to push this fics popularity. Imagine how, on the chance destiel DOES become canon (which in my mind is rather likely) the writers, creators and actors on this show would feel that their beautiful love story about an angel and a hunter was butchered and turned into something frankly AWFUL?

4) How would Misha feel to know that a so called majority of destiel fans actually idolise a fic where his character dies from aids thanks to his decent into drug abuse?! What the HELL fandom?! WHY is this such a popular fic? It is a disgrace to the show, a disgrace to the characters and frankly an insult to our intelligence as a fanbase looking for LGBT+ representation. We don’t need more gay tragedies. That is pretty much ALL we get in mainstream media.

5) Yes the aids crisis was a horrible tragedy, but after decades of mainstream media giving LGBT people basically NOTHING but tragic stories where there are no happy endings for us, isn’t it about time that this trope DIED? Yet here we are, a modern and at least somewhat progressive fandom, still glorifying a fic that falls under that same tired miserable category. Not to mention that the fic is terrible written and the characters are absolutely nothing like their canon counterparts.

6) Sorry, I know this is getting rather mean, but years of pent up anger about this stupid fic is bringing it out of me in your inbox. Lets all be honest here. Twist & Shout is our ‘My Immortal’. It needs to die. Just like ‘My Immortal’ did for Harry Potter, it gives all other destiel fics a bad name. Can we PLEASE stop glorifying it and admit how shitty it is already.I know this is a harsh message, and I am sure that a lot of people would be upset by me saying these things, but it’s the truth

7) and I’ve spoken to enough people in fandom who silently agree with me. Though we all live in silence for fear of offending this mysterious majority of destiel shippers who apparently adore this fic? I’m sorry, but I am convinced that if we were to do a survey of peoples actual opinions on that fic, it wouldn’t come up positive at all. Popularity grows popularity. That’s the problem here. New people search for the most popular fics on AO3, and they become more popular, and those same new

8) people then believe that T&S is the standard to live up to in destiel fandom. That is an embarrassment for all of us. I just really want the obsession to end. Its not a good thing.

Oh hi. I see you have Feelings™ about this, and since I largely agree…

I’ll start off by linking the post you’re referring to, with my attendant tags on it, here:

http://mittensmorgul.tumblr.com/post/163613335445/hey-lizbob-i-was-watching-12x03-and-i-noticed

as well as a few other tag rambles I’ve gone on over the years here, going all the way back to 2015. So that at least gives readers an idea of how I personally feel about it. And now on to the disclaimer section of this post:

I’ve always been, and will ALWAYS be a proponent of fanfic being a “ship and let ship” environment. I will NEVER assume to dictate what people write, read, or find enjoyment in. I will NEVER judge what “should” and “shouldn’t” be written or enjoyed by ANYONE. FULL STOP.

I am also a fierce advocate for “if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all” when it comes to discussing fanfic. And that will never change.

But that’s not the issue when it comes to the inexplicable fandom “popularity” of this particular fic. If you read it and loved it, that’s GREAT! I’m glad. More power to you. It’s not the fic itself I have an issue with. I just wanted to make that clear. I am not here to dissuade people from enjoying it, nor to speak ill of the story itself.

It’s the nature of the story itself, versus the nature of fanfic, versus the fandom mystique surrounding it– the fact that it has somehow become the Flagship Fic Standard for ALL destiel fic, and the fact that for some reason the fandom itself seems to push it at the actors and creators and crew members of this show over and over again.

I’ve often wondered if some of Bob Singer’s cavalier attitude about having killed Charlie Bradbury wasn’t directly rooted in the fact that the entire production staff seems to be aware of T&S, even if they haven’t actually read it for legal reasons, but at least know that this particular fic that is apparently glorified in this fandom is founded on the Kill Your Gays trope.

Like, we constantly yell at TPTB to be better than that, and yet THIS is the story we’ve chosen as a fandom to elevate to the highest pinnacle of fanfic glory?

It’s just… depressing.

(and honestly, this fic is THE reason I refuse to read ANY fic that’s tagged “period typical homophobia.” I just… refuse to torture myself with that damn trope anymore)

But from everything I’ve read about it (and from the half a chapter I managed to struggle through myself before noping out), the only thing necessary to make this an original work of fiction would be to change the names of the characters. It’s not even a “file the serial numbers off” job. It READS like original fiction where the characters and plot share little other than the names of our beloved Dean and Cas.

And to me, that’s not why I read fanfic. If I wanted to read about entirely different people, I’d read original fiction, you know? Not struggle to identify with characters that bear little to no resemblance to the characters I actually care about.

It’s not just a problem with AU fic, because I’ve read HUNDREDS, if not THOUSANDS of AU fics that don’t seem to have this problem with keeping the characters “in character” even in entirely different situations. If they can feel like Dean and Cas in a Firefly AU, or a Regency Romance, or a Gothic Horror, or Ancient Rome, or in a fantasy AU where they’re witches or dragons or a freaking octopus, then yeah, they can remain in character in ANY AU. HECK I ADORED AN AU WHERE DEAN AND CAS WERE FREAKING CHICKENS. LITERALLY CHICKENS. And it was more in character than T&S.

I’m not going to presume to suggest the sort of fic that I believe is more representative of the best of our fandom, but having read far more than 5000 fics (I’ve got over 4k in my AO3 history, and I read fic for over a year before I got an account there to start tracking my history, PLUS all the fic I’ve read on LJ, FF.net, tumblr, etc… I mean the real number is probably closer to 10k or even MORE if you count all the little drabbles and things), I have to say that the MAJORITY of fic I’ve read has been far better at representing Dean and Cas as I know and love them.

We as a fandom don’t have to agree on what the “best fanfic” of the lot of them is, but can we at least agree to stop pushing THIS PARTICULAR FIC so forcefully and directly into the faces of the actors, writers, crew, etc.?

If we want THEM to do better by our characters, if we want our shouts of STOP KILLING OUR QUEERS to actually hit home, maybe we need to stop glorifying this particular fic to TPTB at every goddamn turn.

(and second disclaimer: In all my years in fandom, aside from anon messages praising the fic, I have spoken to exactly TWO people who admitted to enjoying this fic. Talking privately with hundreds of others, people express a far less enthusiastic opinion of it. I firmly believe that the vast majority of hits on it are from people just like me and others I’ve talked to about it, that the only reason we ever clicked on it was due to this very fandom mystique, the controversy about its popularity, and curiosity over what all the fuss was about. It’s become a self-sustaining enterprise of generating more and more hits, you know?)

Newbies to fandom and fanfic are often encouraged to go to AO3 and search the ship results by either hits or kudos to read “the best stories” first, and of course T&S is the first result either way.

But as a fic WRITER? Can I just speak for all of us when I say getting a comment that our story was “just as good as T&S” doesn’t really feel like a compliment? Most of us don’t WANT to think we’ve written an OOC Kill Your Queers tragedy porn, or to really be associated with it in any way.

Honestly, we need to stop hating ourselves this much.

#Anonymous #fandom problems #standard disclaimer blah blah blah

216 notes · View notes

fheythfully · 7 years ago

Text

fanfic author meme

my friend tagged me to answer all the questions in a fanfic author meme, and it is primarily for the Final Fantasy XIII fandom, so it’s located under a read more. :)

Fanfic Ask Meme

A: How did you come up with the title to [fic of your choice]?

Most of my fic names come from lyrics in songs that have to do with the story content, no matter how vague. Poetry also makes its way in there, and on the very rare occasion, something I come up with that sounds pleasantly appropriate.

A Series of Firsts was the only one in the past five or so years to get a title that accurately and simply described the story, something which I typically never do.

B: Any of your stories inspired by personal experience?

No, actually. I write primarily angst and I have a very satisfying and healthy life, so… it all just comes out from somewhere? I am not entirely sure where.

C: What character do you identify with most?

Most recently, maybe Makoto from Persona 5? Growing up I felt that I had all these expectations on me from my family and the adults in my education (which I totally dug myself into by being smart and eager to please) and I always wanted to just say “fuck it” and stop caring about pleasing others and being the perfect student. Which took me until my third year in university to actually achieve but hey, better late than never.

D: Is there a song or a playlist to associate with cause I’m a vampire smile (you’ll meet a sticky end)?

The title comes directly from the song ‘Vampire Smile’ by Kyla La Grange and it entirely fits so well for that fic. I definitely had it on replay the entire time I was writing.

E: If you wrote a sequel to Serendipity, what would it be about?

EDITED because I wrote for A Series of Firsts instead oops.

Serendipity would have a much shorter sequel - just lots of the gang being happy, of Fang and Vanille traipsing around the world, Yeul living in a big city and being amazed by all of it, Serah and Snow in a small French village with rose bushes and a kid or two and Light living in the same village with Hope being the Cool Aunt. Snow would have a motorcycle (and try to modify it to have a baby seat). Sazh would have a farm with chickens and livestock and live with his son and finally get the life he deserves. Maybe he runs into the reborn version of his wife and she remembers him. And live happily ever after.

F: Care to share a favorite hurt/comfort fic?

I don’t have one :( I even went through my favorites on both FFnet and AO3. I just like anything that makes me cry, and I cry easily, and sad fics make me happy.

G: Care to share a favorite crack fic?

I rarely read crack but an amazing one I’ve been reading is Sincerely, Me by Ignis_Sassentia and SharkbaitHooHaHa on AO3. It is a FF15 texting fic and just phenomenal.

H: How would you describe your style?

Lots of run on sentences and disjointed narration. I prefer writing drabbles because I feel like that format lets me get away with using the style better. I like using metaphors and a good balance between simple and more flowery language.

I: Do you have a guilty pleasure in fic (reading or writing)?

Angst. All the angst. Also, if a fandom has some sort of divine figure in it, then you can bet it’s gonna be worked into my fics – usually as either a passive or active antagonist. This is a big reason why I still love writing for FF13 so much, because thank you, Bhunivelze. And Etro. Mwyn too. I need to write more Mwyn.

J: Write or describe an alternative ending to any Bhunivelze!Hope and Etro!Light fic.

I said to the sun, tell me about the big bang is my favourite out of the few (two?) I’ve written where both take after the divinity. Alternate ending to that one would be, their friends catch on and end them before they can succeed in destroying and recreating the world.

For just Bhuni!Hope, of which I wrote more, eve as my latest one – I considered Light actually realizing what’s happening within the fic itself and being the one to kill him. She would realize this in the midst of a relationship Bhuni!Hope has succeeded in constructing with her, and there would be lots of tears, and horror, and the symbolic knife stuck in Hope’s torso.

Gosh, I just can’t give you guys happy things, can I?

K: What's the angstiest idea you've ever come up with?

The premise in A Series of Firsts, where Hope and Snow have to come to terms with failing the world, and Light dying and becoming the Goddess, and then having to witness Light and Serah as children and then take them in, and do all in their power to prevent Orphan, and having them be family and Hope has a child with Light and then… they fail. And have to start all over again.

I’ve always appreciated time loops.

L: What's the weirdest AU you've ever come up with?

I discussed an idea with RainbowSerenity about a texting crack fic in the new world about the gang placing bets on how long it will take for Light and Hope to get together, and just being little shits in general (with a very liberal use of emoticons) and then Light and Hope are just there, like… should we tell them? When do you think they’ll realize we’ve been together for months now?

Also, an appearance by Bhunivelze via repeated friend requests to Light’s Facebook through a multitude of accounts. The sentence “how the hell does he have service in the deep ass of space!?” is written down in my phone.

I have to be in a very specific mood to write something of this sort, haha.

M: Got any premises on the back burner that you'd care to share?

The AU fic above. Hope finding the temple with Light’s statue in 13-2, and ritually visiting it before it becomes inaccessible. Also, a fic I will shortly be releasing on – once again – Bhuni!Hope.

Outside of the 13 fandom, I have further ideas for my 14 OCs and how they meet, fall in love, and then go their own ways. An idea for an original fantasy story I’ve been sitting on (I have the entire plot written out, too…).

N: Is there a fic you wish someone else would write (or finish) for you?

If someone could read my mind and finish that one FF8 fic I started in 2007 and never finished, despite rewriting like three times, it would be a miracle. The OC I created for it has grown alongside me all this time and I treasure her deeply, even though her story will never be properly finished.

O: How do you begin a story--with the plot, or the characters?

I usually start with a plot idea I want to write about and then the characters usually write themselves.

P: Are you what George R. R. Martin would call an "architect" or a "gardener"? (How much do you plan in advance, versus letting the story unfold as you go?)

The way I write my oneshots, the most planning I ever do is I have the final sentence in mind and then I have to write to get to that point. When I write (wrote) multi-chaptered stories, I typically had the plot mapped out and sometimes things would just write themselves in the process.

Q: Do you have any discarded scenes/storylines/projects?

That FF8 fic. I don’t even want to talk about it, haha. Also a Narnia fic I was writing and had like, two sequels planned for. I am just horrible at finishing things.

R: Are there any writers (fanfic or otherwise) you consider an influence?

Not really? I always write however and whatever I want. I really admire attica on FFnet, though – their writing takes me breath away.

Also Sylvia Plath and E.E Cummings make my heart skip a beat.

S: Any fandom tropes you can't resist?

Bhuni!Hope, and Etro!Light. As has been made obvious.

T: Any fandom tropes you can't stand?

Whenever Snow is being written as useless or dumb. That’s my biggest one.

U: A pairing you might like to write for, but haven't tried yet.

…Light and Snow, very brief in the original 13. I actually had something written down when the game first came out, but never properly wrote it.

Don’t kill me. It would be very sad where they share their angst over Serah and then realize what they’re doing and part ways.

V: A secondary (or underrated) character you want to see more of in fic?

Yeul. YEEUUULLL. I love Yeul. So much.

W: Do you like more general prompts, or more specific ones?

Specific ones.

X: A character you enjoy making suffer.

All of them. Primarily, Light, Hope, and Yeul.

Y: A character you want to protect.

All of them. From me.

Z: Major character death--do you ever write/read it? Is there a character whose death you can't tolerate?

I love reading it if it’s written well, and I’ve never written specifics just background plot. There aren’t any deaths I can’t tolerate, because if done well, it can throw things into a nice twist.

#aloice #here u go #non ffxiv

2 notes · View notes

smoakmonster · 7 years ago

Text

The Queen Identity

A/N: Well, at long last, my Olicity / Bourne Identity AU is finally complete! This is the longest and definitely most researched story I’ve written to date. That being said, there are still a few instances where I brushed over accuracy for the sake of maintaining the flow of the story. (I also drew inspiration from Knight and Day and Blindspot.) Thank you to everyone who has expressed interest in this fic since the summer movie AU challenge from two years ago, and then after my recent fic announcement. I hope the wait has been worth it. This has been a privilege to write, so I hope you enjoy the journey, too! Special Thanks To: The darling @mel-loves-all for all of her kind words and cookies in gif form! *kiss emoji* Rated: Teen and Up Word Count: 25,959 (That’s right! Better strap yourself in, cause this is 25K words of pure, intense Oliver POV.) Read below or on AO3.

I’ve broken free from those memories I’ve let it go, I’ve let it go And two goodbyes led to this new life Don’t let me go, don’t let me go ~Let Me Go, Avril Lavigne

xxx

His first conscious thought is more of a feeling.

Cold. Searing cold.

The kind of cold that bites so potently it burns his skin raw.

His whole body throbs with aches--needles prickling at the ends of his fingers and toes; ice scraping along the inner walls of his lungs; razor wire wrapping around his joints and squeezing, splintering out along his back, startling his muscles awake.

He’s just barely cognizant enough to recognize the strange, wet sensation running down his spine. The slight yet acute paralysis in his hands and feet means he’s on the brink of frostbite. Slowly, perhaps too slowly, he realizes...he should be dead. He can feel his heart having trouble keeping areas beyond the chest cavity warm. Even as his body remains lethargic, even as his head grows heavy with a cloud of nausea, his mind begins to rise and stay alert. Gradually, his ability to inhale the rough air becomes more bearable. Gradually, the shock of waking up wears off.

Sharp movement catches him off guard. His insides shiver against a new, foreign chill, one that’s keenly different than before. This chill penetrates deep into his flesh. But some internal force--whether sheer exhaustion or intense self-control--keeps him from stirring, even as metal prongs slice through his upper back, tearing his flesh apart. It’s only when the prongs begin to retract that he starts--not from the pain, but from the distinct awareness of someone pulling something out of his body.

The relief of having a toxin removed is instant and overwhelming, and he can feel himself already deflating when...

A small metallic object clangs loudly against a tin tray.

And he comes unhinged. He doesn’t think. He just acts, the numbing cold forgotten. His mind is now fully caught up.

He’s off the table with untapped fervor and pushing the large, would-be surgeon up against the nearest wall in two seconds, the stranger’s throat already smashed against his forearm. He can see the man’s terror in the whites of his eyes. Good. He should be afraid. He doesn’t know what he wants to do to this man first--a litany of death blows rolls through his head like a rolodex. Strangling. Stabbing. Neck snapping. And as the brief moments fly by, he’s already crossing unfeasible options off his list.

The ground beneath his feet suddenly sways, and he quickly adjusts his weight to maintain his footing. Even with a series of equipment laid out on a table before him, stabbing isn’t a safe bet in these conditions. Not that it matters. He doesn't need tools. He is the weapon.

“Please,” the man gasps, struggling for air. “I am a friend.”

Friend? The word sounds alien to him, so it gives him pause, his grip against the man’s throat loosening ever so slightly. He doesn’t know much about himself, but he knows he doesn’t have friends. The longer he stares into the man’s terrified yet sincere eyes, the more he begins to wonder...why exactly is he so angry? Why does he feel threatened by someone not fighting back? Other than, he’s very particular about what it is he puts into his body and whose hands he allows to touch him. He doesn’t trust this stranger, but he also doesn't trust himself.

“Who are you?” the man barely gets out, now that he’s able to speak.

He hesitates again, his grip loosening even more. He tips his head, expecting the answer to be right there at the forefront of his mind and yet...there’s nothing but a blank, dark canvas. He spends the next eight seconds digging, scouring into the recesses of his head for the last thing he can recall. And the last thing he can recall is waking up on that table. No matter how hard he tries, everything else--everything before this moment--comes up empty.

He swallows, an iron weight sinking into his gut. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly, unsure about the sound of his own voice.

The man gives him an odd look, before glancing briefly to his chest. “You are from Moscow, my friend?”

He frowns as he realizes the man has changed languages. He opens his mouth to answer, but for a moment all he manages is a heavy sigh. “I don't...I don't...” he tries to explain, matching the stranger’s speech, replying in the tone he knows he’s supposed to. Somehow, he distinguishes the seamless transition from Russian to English, and yet he can’t even recall his own name.

Alarmed, he releases the man, his arm dropping to his side as he takes a step back, trying to process what is happening to him. He scrapes a hand through his hair, attempting (and failing) to ignore the way his heart kicks into a higher gear. He feels himself heaving. He thinks he might be going into a panic, but just like with everything else, his body already seems to know how to combat the terror.

As though trapped in a trance, his legs robotically propel him forward. He finds a chair and plops down into it, finally taking a moment to survey the small, grimy, windowless room for the first time. Instinctively he spots the only exit, a small ladder maybe twenty feet away. He notes the small dips in gravity below his feet, the way the entire room tilts and rocks. He’s on a boat, and for some reason that thought causes his stomach to flip, sending another unexpected wave of nausea through him.

He hates boats. He doesn’t understand why that is, either, but he just does.

A keen shiver rakes through him--whether it’s from the knowledge of where he is or the fading adrenaline or just the fact that he’s still so cold, he doesn’t know. He picks up movement in his periphery and instantly stills. When he sees the man he attacked holding out a gray hoodie to him, like a kind of peace offering, he feels himself slowly calming down again.

Cautiously, he takes the hoodie, nodding once with gratitude. “Thank you,” he says in English. He winces through the entire process of putting the hoodie on, his back muscles stretching with agony. If the two bullets nestled in the tray on the makeshift operating table are any indication, he was clearly shot at some point. But that’s not his biggest concern at the moment. There are too many other important questions nagging at him, so he asks one he knows this stranger can answer. “Where am I?”

The man hesitates, assessing him with a concerned eye, as though expecting him to snap again at any moment. To be honest, he’s not entirely sure what might set him off again either. So he tries to relax his posture, to silently assure the man he has no intention of hurting him again. At least for right now he has no intention.

“We are roughly eight hundred kilometers west of Japan. In the North China Sea,” he tells him through his thick Russian accent.

He does the math in his head, easily converting to miles. Again, he doesn’t understand why he needs to know the distance in miles, but he feels more comfortable that way. Like knowing miles is his default.

“What happened to me?” It takes everything in him to sound as casual as possible, as though his entire past, present, and possible future doesn’t depend on the stranger’s response.

The older man huffs once in what he assumes is meant to be a chuckle. “I was hoping that you would tell me.” The man then moves across the room to a small table housing a world map. Stiffly, he rises from the chair and follows him. “My crew and I found you yesterday, floating in the waters here.” He points to a patch of blue along the southeast coast of Japan.

After introducing himself as Viktor, the man spends the next half hour reiterating all that he can, telling how he and his crew pulled him out of the stormy waters, how they found him because he had a flashing red beacon light strapped to his chest. He listens in rapt attention to all the details Viktor so graciously supplies, hoping, waiting for some sliver of recollection to return to him, but his mind remains a blank slate. The list of things he knows about himself is only as long a Viktor’s exposition. There are no papers, no forms of identification, nothing among his few recovered effects that could lead to figuring out who he is. It’s like he never existed before today. With every lack of fact, he feels his worry grow.

That is until Viktor shows him one last piece of evidence.

Viktor drops a small metallic capsule into his open palm. He raises one questioning eyebrow, to which Viktor calmly replies with, “I found that in your hip.”

Whatever look he shoots Viktor has the man shaking his head. “I know. I do not understand it, either. This technology is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It is too small for bullet yet perhaps too large for tracker.”

“How did you know it was there?”

“I recognized the surgical scar,” says Viktor. “I’ve seen similar stitching during the war.”

He wants to pester him about which war, but his mind makes a different and seemingly more important connection altogether. “You think I’m some sort of spy?”

Viktor shrugs. “I said nothing.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The grim silence that follows is pressing, more tension-filled than relieving. Finally, Viktor speaks again. “All I am saying is that a man who has been through as much as you have and survived clearly has something to live for.”

He wants to argue, because he seriously doubts that. But he’s become far too enraptured by the curious little object in his hand. He runs the thin object between his fingers for a while, until he catches a slight lift in the texture along the surface. Somehow he knows to tap the near-invisible button. As soon as his thumb rests over the button, a laser shoots across the room, displaying a first real, tangible truth along the wall. The laser emits a bank name and a routing number. And it’s based in Hong Kong.

Finally.

One answer. One clue. One starting point.

He’ll take it.

As much as he wishes that visualizing a proper location on a map or seeing a series of numbers would trigger something meaningful inside him, he’s still feeling rather uncertain. After a while, the panic faintly subsides, but the mental emptiness lingers, as vast and restless as the nighttime sea.

xxx

Languages roll off his tongue.

Every evening he speaks to the wanderer in the mirror in a new vernacular. French. Greek. German. He tries to marvel more than tremble at the way his mind easily makes the jump from one language to the next. The act feels as natural as breathing to him. And yet, this face with tired eyes staring back at him is one he does not recognize. He doesn’t know how long he’s been growing this scruff or why those blue eyes seem so hollow.

He spends the next two and a half weeks assisting the crew with catching fish, practicing his Russian, though he really doesn’t need the practice. When he’s not sorting fish or reading all the books he can get his hands on or playing cards with the fellow crew--he’s a good poker player, he’s discovering, and the men don’t seem to appreciate his affinity for reading other people’s bluffs--he spends the majority of his time working out. He uses whatever equipment he can, slanted beams for pull-ups or lifting crates as makeshift weights; he usually exerts himself into exhaustion every evening just before sundown. He even offers to take on extra labor, because the exercise relaxes his mind. He’s starting to convince himself that this also aids with sleep. The constant activity is the only thing keeping him from going crazy in this confined space.

When he’s alone, he examines his body like a map, running his hands over each and every scar he has no recollection of receiving. He knows the long, diagonal stripe across his chest is from a knife wound. He knows the smaller dots on his shoulder came from a small caliber bullet. The spiraling red chain around his left hip clearly resembles teeth marks, from a shark, he guesses; and he wonders how he survived that. If the rough, pinkish blemishing is any indication, it happened long before his recent sea recovery. Maybe this has something to do with why he detests boats so much.

Three of the men on the crew recognize the star tattooed on his chest as symbol of the Russian mob, an organization based out of Moscow, which explains why Viktor initially thought he was from there. He may still be and perhaps only learned to disguise his dialect to sound more foreign than he actually is.

But these are mere guesses. Questions only lead to more nagging questions, and he still doesn’t have a solid answer to any of them. He has no idea when or where he got any of his markings. He has no memory of the agony that must have been inflicted upon receiving them either. Maybe that’s one benefit to losing your mind. You forget the pain.

Mostly, he feels callous and cut off, as though he’s a ghost of a man merely existing, someone with no past and no future. While the other men aboard often speak of home, his heart feels nothing at the mention of the word, other than disappointment. He can’t help but wonder what he’s missing. Is there anyone out there who misses him?

He doesn’t belong with these men. But he suspects he doesn’t really belong anywhere else either.

Since he has no name, Viktor takes to affectionately calling him “friend.” But the rest of the crew don’t seem to care for that fonder title, referring to him instead as “the strange one” or “the hood guy,” since he’s always wearing the gray hoodie. What the others say in jest he considers complimentary. After all, the hoodie Viktor lets him keep is the first official gift he’s ever been given, so of course he wears it all the time. He treasures it, because the item remains his only connection to human life outside the wasteland that is his mind.

One day he’s studying the four Chinese symbols stacked along his abdomen when Viktor enters the room. He can feel his presence behind him, and for a moment he has to remind his reflexes not to react. This is a friend. He doesn’t have to fight.

He runs a calloused hand over his stomach, fingers rubbing each symbol in circles, trying to pull memories out of the black ink.

煉

獄

善

行

“Your tattoo. What does it say?” Viktor asks.

“It’s Mandarin,” he answers automatically. He touches the top two symbols, meaning Purgatory, followed by the bottom two, meaning good deeds. A phrase suddenly comes to mind, a connection he hadn’t made before. He hears himself saying, “One's good deeds are only known at home. One's bad deeds far away.” He chants it like a prayer, like he’s said this proverb before, like it’s a code for something.

“What does that mean?”

He just sighs, shaking his head. “I have no idea.”

The constant not knowing is becoming almost familiar territory for him.

xxx

The morning they make port in Hong Kong is a dreary one, with dense fog settling in. But he’s grateful to finally have solid ground beneath his feet. For the first time, really. He feels more sure of himself on land.

Saying goodbye to Viktor proves to be more difficult than he anticipates, with Viktor calling him friend to the very end, shaking his hand and wishing him luck. Viktor insists on “loaning” him some money. While it’s not much, it’s enough to get him a train to the part of city housing his supposed bank account. He still has no idea who he is or where he came from or why he survived, but it’s nice knowing he does have one friend in the world.

With the fishing vessel behind him, the entire world in front of him feels all the more numbing and bleak and foreign. And yet, what other choice does he have? He can’t stay hidden aboard a boat the rest of his life, nameless and anonymous, always wondering what the routing number that came out of his hip means. He needs answers. He needs to try.

Opting to save his small stack of cash, he decides to walk the long route to the bank, and it barely takes him two hours to reach the lofty skyscraper. It's only as he's passing through the main glass doors that his mind drafts a plan. As soon as he's inside the sleek, modern lobby, he immediately makes note of each and every camera in the room, the ones placed well within anyone's line-of-sight and those more discreetly disguised, tucked away in corners or camouflaged as art. He counts no less than five security guards as he casually makes his way toward the nearest open teller.

When the middle-aged woman behind the counter asks him a question in Chinese, it only takes a moment for his brain to click through the right gears. He slips naturally into the appropriate dialect. He really shouldn’t be surprised by that ability at this point.

“Welcome to the Hong Kong Banking Firm. How may I help you?” the teller asks him sweetly in formal Chinese, almost robotically, though he can already spot the wheels of speculation churning behind an otherwise calm persona. And truth be told, she’s probably right to be a little wary of him. One brief glance around a grand but mostly deserted lobby informs him that he’s not a part of the usual demographic. He knows his clothes are conspicuously casual and carry a lingering spoiled fish aroma with them.

What kind of life did he lead that sent him to this place?

Doubt starts to creep in. Maybe it was a mistake to come. Of course, even he does belong here, like everything else, he just doesn’t remember.

Feigning more confidence than he feels, he approaches the counter swiftly but quietly. “I would like to view my account,” he answers the teller.

“May I have your account number and name on the account?”

He can’t give her both, because he doesn't know both. So he gives her what he does know, effortlessly writing down the 15-digit number he memorized two weeks ago. He hopes it will be enough. It has to be enough.

When she asks him to verify his identity, he doesn’t even falter. “The last time I was here, I was not required to give my name up front,” he lies smoothly, finding himself easily slipping into a cool, authoritative role. When he senses that she maybe doesn't quite believe him yet, he decides to flash her an easy and--what he hopes appears to be--a natural smile. The task is up to him to convince her that he does belong here.

And it works.

After a moment, she takes the bait, nodding once before proceeding to enter his number into the small computer. A strangely warm sensation rushes through him at his success. He feels...powerful, like he can persuade anyone to do anything, like he’s done this sort of easy manipulation before many times. Whoever he is...he knows how to charm people, so that’s something.

His secret elation only lasts a second, however, because whatever the teller reads there on the screen suddenly has her eyes widening, though she quickly tries to recover and maintain a casual expression. Quietly, the teller excuses herself, escaping to the back room, leaving him alone. Except he’s not alone. He can feel those cameras burning into his back now, and it takes every muscle of self-control that he possesses not to turn and look. If he’s busted, then he can’t afford to give away his face. Not now.

He’s considering leaning over the counter to see what she saw, to prepare to make a run for it.

Except the teller’s coming back, this time walking around the counter, followed by an older gentleman dressed in an expensive business suit, possibly the manager himself.

What could possibly have been on that screen? Is he that much of a threat? He swallows deeply but otherwise doesn’t let his concern show. If this doesn’t work...he has nothing. He’s already plotting a swift escape, when the man stops and bows once, out of respect. Instinctively, he bows back.

“Forgive me for not coming to meet you directly. We did not expect to see you again so soon, sir.”

“Yes, my trip took an unexpected turn,” he plays along, not missing a beat.

The manager accepts his flat excuse without demanding further explanation. So clearly he has been here before, and this man seems to recognize him. Whether he’s truly an intimidating person or the local culture demands a solemn timidity towards clients, he doesn't know. But he suspects it’s a bit of both.

Still, they maintain a rigidly amiable interaction, as the manager escorts him to a private elevator near the back of the bank, decidedly out of the camera’s eye. With every step, he can feel his heart beating a little bit faster, a little more anxious to finally learn the truth. It’s the longest elevator ride of his life. It’s also the first elevator ride of his life.

When the elevator finally stills and the ornate, reflective doors slide open, he comes to yet another test. A large, black screen on a pedestal waits near the entrance. He stares at it skeptically, while keeping his facial expressions in check.

“Place your hand on the reader, sir. To verify your identity. Strictly routine.”

He complies, splaying his calloused, worn fingers across the cool, onyx glass. His hand looks severely out of place there, too rough, too marred. He tries to relax as he waits for the scanner to finish. Lying is one thing. Knowing a random account number could be considered lucky. But having to prove his identity--even though he doesn’t know it yet--is something else entirely. Everything rides on this fingerprint analysis...his name and his future.

The machine finally stops scanning, giving off a slight ding, and the box turns a bright neon green in affirmation.

He releases a heavy breath. He’s passed all the checkpoints. He’s not a ghost after all.

Anyone can look like anyone. But a machine knows him. He has a permanent record.

If nothing else, this certainly confirms that. For some reason, a verified digital record of his existence strikes him as solid evidence, more so than a bank manager recalling his face.

And so he waits in a designated alcove, behind the curtain, like a sinner in a confessional. All his tightly wound nervous energy finally comes pouring out, as he fidgets and paces and bounces his knee and cracks his knuckles. All this waiting and finally his gnawing speculations will be answered. It seems to take an eternity for the man to bring in his safe deposit box.

When the box finally does arrive, everything in him stills...not with serenity but with a sense of foreboding. He gulps as he stares at that sleek, silver box. His Pandora’s box, he thinks. While he still doesn’t know much, oddly enough pieces of Greek mythology keep coming back to him, like broken shards of glass forming a mosaic. He just has no idea how to put the pieces of his life together.

This box could be his only key to freedom.

Or maybe it’s a curse, a trap designed to ensnare him further.

What if he’s lost his mind for a reason? What if he doesn’t want to know what kind of man he really is? As evidenced by his interactions with the bank staff and their reactions to him, he’s clearly a person of wealth and power. Does he have a prominent family out there looking for him? Or worse...what if no one’s looking? What if no one cares enough to find him? What if he’s come all this way only to hate himself when he walks out? What if…?

On and on, the nagging flood of demands beat down his self-esteem.

Until he can’t take the uncertainty any longer. The contents of one narrow metal box have to be better than the suspended hell of never knowing. He needs to know who he is.

Slowly, carefully he opens up his time capsule. He pulls back the lid and stares and studies and tries to make sense of an entire history of an outlander. Except that outlander is him.

Everything in the box seems to serve a purpose, but nothing is personal. An expensive, cumbersome watch that ticks off the wrong time by an hour. An assortment of tools and technological gadgets. Credit cards and two small stacks of money--one is United States currency and the other he assumes is the local Chinese currency. Renminbi. His mind pulls that word out of the abyss.

Finally, his eyes settle on the navy blue passport resting in the middle of the box. It reads in English.

Surname / Nom / Apellidos QUEEN Given Name / Prénoms / Nombres OLIVER Nationality / Nationalité / Nacionalidad UNITED STATES OF AMERICA Date of birth / Date de naissance / Fecha de nacimento 16 MAY 1985 Place of birth / Lieu de naissance / Lugar de nacimento STARLING CITY, USA

He studies the passport for a long moment, letting the words in ink slowly wash over him.

He takes a deep breath, and then begins, “My name...is Oliver Queen.”

He tests the words out, waiting for the name to ring true in his ears. While four syllables do not exactly settle in his chest with the same certainty that gravity settles his feet to the earth, this name is a start. He allows himself a small smile, because he’s not completely lost after all. This picture is proof.

While the face in the faded photograph is his own, he looks significantly younger than he is now. Lighter, slicked-back hair. A clean-shaven face. Eyes that seem too dark to be happy and too hollow to be genuine. He looks...kind of like a serial killer.

As soon as he thinks it, a knot settles in his chest, like a key locking into place. The thought of him being a serial killer feels...not as impossible as it probably should. His body doesn’t rebel against the idea the same way his mind does. Instead, when he steals another glance at the gun, an eerily familiar sensation comes over him.

He thinks about Viktor. His very first reaction--his instinct--to human contact after waking up had been to kill. And he had almost succeeded in ending a friend’s life--

He shuts his eyes and shakes his head, attempting to shake away the rising panic.

After what feels like several minutes, maybe hours...when he finally opens his eyes again, he catches his right thumb twitching, circling and circling around his index finger, almost desperately, with a will of its own. The hand seems to taunt him. He has to concentrate, to will himself to stop moving, and as soon as he thinks it, he does; yet he hadn’t even realized his hand had been moving in the first place.

It’s another sign that his distress goes so much deeper than a simple memory wipe. While his mind may be a wasteland, his body remains on edge, brimming with uncharted habits he has trouble keeping up with, like this body belongs to someone else, someone who doesn’t exist anymore.

As though to taunt him further, his body rebels against him, and his hand starts to shake uncontrollably, causing the passport to slip from his grasp. He tries to take a moment to just breathe, to identify what the trigger was amidst the pulsing panic within his veins. But, as usual, he has no idea where to begin.

Needing a clean distraction, with a trembling hand, he reaches back into the box, aimlessly brushing the smaller items around, until his fingertips hit a latch he hadn’t seen before.

As he lifts the latch and carefully removes the top tray, his heart races...and plummets just as quickly at the contents of the hidden chamber beneath the top tray.

Stacks and stacks of other foreign bills, totaling thousands. Possibly millions. A dozen or so passports from various countries. Blueprints to a large yacht. And there, tucked in the corner, the outline of a small revolver, concealed in a bag.

He stills upon seeing it, like the weapon calls to him.

While he may not remember much, a chill runs down his spine at the site of so many passports. This safe deposit box is… not normal, is it?

On a whim--because that’s really all he has to base his decisions on anyway--he picks up the top passport from the pile. Thomas Merlyn. CANADIAN. He reaches for the next book in the pile. And the next. And the next. Andreas Diggle. GERMAN. Alexi Leonov. RUSSIAN. Name after name stamped next to the same hard and hollow face he’s slowly learning to call his own.

So which one of these names belongs to him really? Who is he? What is he?

He had come here in search of answers, and instead he feels...so much more helpless and unsure.

The longer he lingers here, the more unsettled he grows. In a panic, he reaches for the empty bucket bag sitting innocently in the corner and begins shoving the entire contents of the box into it.

He tries to maintain a calm demeanor as he exits the bank, but he can practically feel the bank security personnel watching him keenly, can hear the minute shrills of them whispering to one another. As he leaves, he can feel the cameras inside and outside burning holes into his back. As he turns the corner, he knows he’s being followed.

He doesn’t know where he’s going now, but he senses he can’t stop moving.

Is this how the world was supposed to work? Or does everyone appear this strange only to him?

The longer he walks, the more his whole body tightens. His pace quickens. On edge, he taps into some unknown athletic training, channeling all of his fear into a single act. He does what he somehow instinctively knows he does best.

As soon as he hears the police sirens, he runs.

xxx

He weaves through a local park a couple of blocks later. Sending a silent apology to Viktor, he ditches his reliable gray hoodie on a nearby park bench--hopeful that maybe the item can be as useful to someone else as it has been to him--which leaves him in a thinner blue shirt. The bitter cold nearly knocks the wind out of him, but he presses on. He's used to being cold.

He realizes very quickly that as much as he wishes to lose himself within the crowds of Hong Kong, demographically he does stand out. He cannot run forever.

Which means he needs to hide in plain sight.

He turns a random corner, ducking his head again to avoid the litter of cameras along the street. As he allows himself to get swallowed up in a throng of pedestrians, he quickly glances around, searching, plotting his best escape strategy.

And then his eyes land on a stale concrete building on the other side of the road bearing in big letters the words CONSULATE GENERAL OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

Something stirs inside him at seeing those words. Despite the fact that the building resembles a prison more than a sanctuary, surrounded by tall white fences and containing barred and small windows, he knows he needs to go in there. If he’s truly an American, he should be safe on what is legally considered American ground.

Whether he’s truly an American or not, he whips out his U.S. passport and confidently shows it to the security guard, who waves him through without question. Once he’s inside the sharply quiet lobby, he lets out a breath of relief he didn’t realize he’d been holding, as he attempts to blend in like a mindless drone.

He's so intent on blending in that for once he lowers his guard just enough to be taken by surprise.

It's dangerous how little he sees her coming.

He blinks, and a flash of red suddenly crosses his path, almost running into him, her rapid heels punctuating the silence with an aggressive tap-tap-tap.

She doesn't even notice him.

In her flurry, a few pieces of paper slip from her grasp and flutter to the ground. He's already kneeling to pick up the documents--filled with equations and computer language he doesn't understand--before she turns around. When he looks up, his gaze locks with bright blue eyes behind sleek, elegant frames. Eyes that are both startled and somehow inviting.

He slowly extends his arm to give her back her papers, and she starts before taking them from his grasp.

“Thank you.”

He nods, as he slowly rises to his feet, with her watching him the whole time. He makes quick note of her black, decidedly feminine heels, her black-and-white polka top, and her vibrant red coat. She stands out like a rose in a desert.

She looks like she maybe wants to say more, but then she scurries away, her golden ponytail bouncing as she goes and takes her spot in front of the only open teller.

He lingers back in the crowd, but shifts his body just a little to follow her conversation. Even in the mass of people, her clear voice stands out, easy to recognize.

“Mr. Li, I know you have an important job to do here, but so do I. I mean, not here here--but I am the Vice President of applied sciences for a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate, who are basically responsible for self-charging smartwatches. You wouldn't be able to tell time without me.”

“That may be, Miss Smoak, but I cannot allow you to travel without proper identification.”

“But I just told you who I am. All of my papers were lost. It’s my not fault my passport was stolen.”

“Then you need to speak to speak to Department of Transportation.”

The woman in red makes a noise he can only characterize as a pained whine. “I already spoke with the Department of Transportation, and they told me to talk to you--well, not you specifically, more like a general you.”

“Well, you will have to fill out the proper paperwork, and it will take thirty days to process--”

“Thirty days?! No no no no. I do not have thirty days. I need to be back in Starling City, United States, tomorrow afternoon.”

His heart beats wildly at the mention of Starling City. His supposed place of birth.

“This is the 21st century. And you’re telling me that I have to travel all the way to Beijing to sort this out?”

He follows her lively, though troublesome conversation with the teller for some time, watching with rapt attention as she talks with her hands in an animated way, so different than the calm manner of everyone else here, so effortlessly charming.

There's just something about her that leaves him feeling different. Intrigued. She's neither a threat nor a target nor a drone like the rest of the world. She's something else.

He stays fixed on her, until he senses a shift in power in the room. Just in time, his peripheral vision catches a guard coming towards him.

He’s been spotted.

Immediately, his body stills, every muscle tightening like a strained rubberband, preparing for the inevitable. He waits, frozen like a caught prey. The rest of the world fades into the background. Time slows as a guard whips out his handcuffs and calmly approaches him.

Slowly, he shifts his body away from the guard as he obediently raises his hands.

He’s drawn the attention of some of the crowd now, and there’s nowhere to run. He doesn’t have to look to feel additional guards coming at him from all sides.

At the last second he thinks, he could surrender. Tactically, maybe he should avoid causing a scene. He could let them take him...take him where, though? He has no idea, but something inside him also knows he can’t relinquish his control, even if what’s about to happen could get very ugly.

His mind wrestles with strategies for the span of about three seconds.

He’s seriously considering taking the easy way out...

But then the first guard lays a hand on his shoulder.

And his decision is made.

For once, he stops fighting the beast raging inside him, and gives himself over to instinct.

It’s like a switch goes off inside him. He doesn’t think. He just reacts, his body responding before he even has time to plot. His mind can barely keep up. He feels both out-of-control and yet perfectly in control at the same time.

He twists the guard’s arm and elbows him hard, just as another guard makes his approach from the front. He kicks him down.

Two more men come after him--armed--but the first security guard falls before he even has time to grab his weapon. He wrestles with the second guard in a suit, but he uses a trick he knows to easily snap the revolver out of his hands, throw him to the ground as well, and turn the weapon on both fallen men.

Now that the gun’s in his hands, the crowd goes wild, diving under tables, ducking behind counters, and racing out the doors.

But he doesn’t care about the crowd.

He turns around at the sound of calm, paced, well-tuned steps, only to find two more guards. He keeps the gun set before him.

Thankfully, the gun gives him power. The guards back away. The people stay on the floor, avoiding eye contact, trembling in fear. Already, he’s paying the price for unleashing the monster. And yet, something inside him likes it.

The people in the building part for him like ants in a rainstorm, and he makes a break for the nearest stairwell, dumping the gun into a trashcan on his way up. A loud alarm goes off, flooding the building with a different level of panic.

He races to meet the first guard who appears at the top of the stairs, throwing the man aside and down the stairs with ease. At the last second, he turns around and head back to where the man now lies on the stairs unconscious. He snags his radio.

With new access to radio intel on which route the reinforcements are taking, he presses on, leaving the eastern stairwell and moving to the western one down the hallway, all the while exerting an appearance of calmness to any passersby.

He keeps going until he reaches the top floor, casually kicking down the door that says DO NOT ENTER.

He makes it out onto a fire escape...with no ladder. His initial reaction is fear, but his reflexes quickly suppress that in favor of tactical scheming. With nowhere else to go, he hops on top of the railing and quietly scales the side of the building, all the while carrying a strange feeling that he's done this sort of thing before.

xxx

He stows himself away in the backseat of her car to avoid the police. And it's only as she’s opening the driver's door that he considers perhaps hiding here was not the best idea. Too late now, he thinks as she spins around, her blonde ponytail flipping over her shoulder.

“AHH!” she cries, twitching with surprise, her eyes going wide with terror. Her whole body stiffens, shifting as far back into the steering wheel--as far away from him--as she can go.

Fair enough.

Desperately, he holds up one hand in peace, trying to calm her fears, even though he realizes everything about this situation must be terrifying for her. “I'm not going to hurt you, Miss Smoak.”

She frowns, confused certainly, but he notices some of the tension leaves her shoulders. “How do you know my name?” she breathes. “And how did you get into my car anyway?”

He doesn't really want to respond to either of her questions, because he expects his answers will upset her more than appease her.

He just tilts his head a bit, studying her features intently, trying to figure out the best way to start this conversation, and then--like a flicker of lightning--he sees the moment of clarity spark behind her eyes, the moment she recognizes him. Even more startling is the way the rhythm of his heart changes at that, at the quiet ease of being recognized by someone at all.

Instinctively, like he's being pulled by some invisible thread, he shifts ever so slightly nearer to her.

And immediately she freezes. “Hey! Don't come any closer or I’ll...” She stops to quickly fiddle around in her purse, pulling out a small tub that she grips so tightly her knuckles start to turn white. “I will have to pepper-spray you,” she declares casually, tipping her head as she does, almost playfully, almost flirtatiously.

His lips twitch at that.

“What? I will,” she repeats a little louder, noticing his reaction.

He smiles briefly. “I believe you.”

Like a lion trying to befriend a lamb, he gentles his own breathing, giving her a minute to further adjust to his presence. When she realizes he's not going to attack her, she slowly lowers the pepper-spray.

“I need your help, Miss Smoak. We can help each other.”

“How?” She watches him skeptically, like he’s truly a puzzle that she wants to solve, those big eyes of hers filling with concern...but also curiosity. Following his training, he preys upon her curiosity.

“We both want the same thing--to get out of Hong Kong and fast.”

“Okay...” She narrows her eyes, clearly waiting for him to elaborate.

“I can pay you 30,000 yuan, if you buy me the next train ticket out of Beijing.”

She frowns, an adorable little crinkle forming between her eyebrows. “You do realize Hong Kong is not the same thing as a Beijing, right?”

He sighs, a little exasperated that the details she’s concerning herself with are not the priority. “What about 50,000 yuan?” he asks, sweetening the pot. “I can pay you 25,000 in cash. Right now.”

He opens his bag to show her, and watches her jaw drop with shock. “You’ll get another 25,000 after you buy me a ticket. And bring me to the train station,” he throws in at the end.

Something in his chest--something new and odd and wonderful--secretly delights in watching her eyebrows unclamp themselves and rise to meet her hairline. “Oh, now you want a lift? Do you know how much gas it's going to take to get to Beijing? Granted, this is a company rental, but I am about as eco-aware as the next person and--”

“And you’re already going there,” he finishes for her, startling her into silence once more. He suspects that doesn't happen a lot for her.

She looks him over again, those bright eyes silently demanding a question of him.

“I have ears.” He shrugs--shrugs. Where did that reaction come from? He may have lost his memories, but he knows enough about human behavior already to understand that a shrug is meant to exude casualty and friendliness--neither of which he has ever felt up until this point. Does he truly feel casual right now? Is that what this soothing, easy feeling like honey flowing through his chest means?

After some time, her posture softens, and she studies him with more sympathy than before. “Look,” she says gently. “Even if I were willing to help you--which, I'm not...I’m not saying that I am--all the money in the world is not going to fix this issue I have of needing appropriate documentation to travel--”

“I can get you the documents you need.”

“How?” Here comes that crinkle again.

“Trust me.”

“Can I trust you?” she asks, so faintly, he almost doesn’t catch it. And he starts, surprised and a little impressed by her ability to turn everything he does back around on him. She shouldn’t trust him, he knows. No reasonable person would. And yet, in spite of everything, as they watch each other in the silence, he can sense that she’s not entirely afraid of him, and he feels a very different kind of warmth come over him, realizing that his initial instincts about her are right. He can trust her.

He swallows, waiting until he has her full attention again. “Yes, you can trust me.”

Whatever she sees in his face, whatever minute trace of goodness he has in him, she must recognize it, because then she nods. “Okay so, you want to pay me to buy you a train ticket, bring you to the train station, and you’re going help me get home?”

“Yes.” He releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, feeling as though he’s passed some sort of test.

“Why? Why me? And why can’t you just buy it yourself?”

He’s genuinely unsure if she truly wants him to answer her first two questions. And he doesn’t know how to answer them either. So he settles for answering the one he definitively can.

“Because I can’t let anyone know that I’m here.”

“And you can’t take a plane because...?”

“Because they’ll be watching the planes.”

“Right. Of course.” She smacks her lips, making a slight pop. “Is this drug-related?”

“What?” He honestly had not seen that one coming.

She rolls her eyes, like this sort of thing happens to her every day. Does it happen to her? Is this what normal life is like? “Who am I kidding, it’s always drug-related.”

“This is not about drugs. This is about safety,” he replies.

“Said every addict ever...” she mutters, mostly to herself, he thinks. “Look, everything is online now, so technically you don’t need me to buy you a train ticket.”

“Maybe,” he concedes. “But either way, I do need access to your laptop.”

“How do you know I…? Do you have x-ray vision, too? Because you don’t exactly look like Superman.”

He frowns, not sure what she means by that.

“Oh, please tell me you know who Superman is.”

He grimaces. “Look, we really don’t have a lot of time here. Do you want to get home or not?”

She groans. “I am so going to regret this... Fine. It’s approximately a seventeen hour drive to Beijing, and that’s an optimistic estimate, so make yourself comfortable. But you stay back there. If you so much as move, I am stopping this car and throwing you out of it.”

He smiles, buckling his seatbelt like a good passenger. “Fair enough.”

“And make it 70,000 yuan,” she says while straightening the rearview mirror. “If I’m risking going to prison, it better be worth closer to 10,000 U.S. dollars.”

He frowns, intrigued and a little amazed by her quick math capabilities.

“What? I may be blonde, but I’m not that blonde.”

“Fine,” he agrees.

“Also, promise me you won't do to me what you did to those guards in there.” When he doesn’t immediately answer, she just fills in the silence for him. “I have ears, too, you know.” And this time she shrugs.

As they leave the parking garage and disappear into the herd of cars, he smiles briefly despite himself, regarding her in a new light. Felicity Smoak is tougher than she looks.

xxx

“So where are you headed?” she asks three hours into their drive, after one bathroom stop for her and a quick shift to the front passenger seat for him, because apparently she did not want to “feel like a chauffeur” the entire trip. And in truth, as much he knows it’d be best if he kept himself hidden, lying down on the back row, he prefers being closer to her, beside her, talking with her. Or at least, listening to her.

He quickly flips through his small stack of passports, choosing the one with the closest residential address. “Moscow,” he says curtly.

“So you’re from Russia?”

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly.

She frowns, and he secretly relishes seeing that sweet, predictable little crinkle making an appearance on her forehead once more. “What do you mean you don’t know? Oh, are you an orphan or something?”

“Or something.”

“Don’t tell me you’re the long lost heir to the Romanov line, and I’m your Dimitri.”

“What?” He can tell by her tone that she’s teasing, but he honestly has no idea what she’s talking about.

“You’ve never seen...?” She stops herself, refocusing on the road with unusual zeal, as though she has to physically restrain herself from continuing to talk. “Never mind. It’s not...important.”

And yet, he can’t help but disagree. While everything she’s sharing may not be important in terms of life-and-death and espionage and...everything else he’s had to deal with these past few weeks, somehow everything she says feels important, feels better.

He clears his throat, realizing he needs be the one to break the silence this time. “So...” he starts casually. “You need to be back in the United States tomorrow?” he asks, wondering how he might nonchalantly bring Starling City into the conversation.

Unfortunately, she doesn’t take the bait that easily this time. Instead, he watches, intrigued, as her shoulders scrunch up with tension and obvious discomfort and her cheeks flame with a slight shade of red. “Um, well, actually I don’t have a conference with the board until next week.”

She pauses, gauging his reaction, as though she just confessed to mass murder. Suddenly, she starts talking very rapidly that there are times he has trouble keeping up with her.

“But I mean, I do still need to be back home asap”--his heart also does a strange flip when he realizes she referred to Starling City as home--“because I have so much research I still need to do. I have a powerpoint presentation to finish, and I need at least a couple of days to get settled back in my environment before you know...waltzing into a conference room and basically begging the shareholders to let us try to earn a decent profit overseas without firing people.”

She huffs, effectively ending her rant.

“So you lied,” he surmises.

She laughs, giving him a strange look. “Really? Out of all of that, all you can say is...” She shakes her head. “Yeah. Yeah, I lied.”

“Well, you certainly fooled me.”

“Really? Cause I could barely convince myself to go through with it. I felt like I was gonna throw up the whole time. I’m not...I don’t want you to think that I’m someone who just does this on a regular basis.”

He frowns. “This?”

“You know, illegal activities.” She whispers it, like someone else besides him might hear her. He can’t help but smirk at little at her concerned tone. Of all the people he had to choose, it had to be someone like her, someone so...pure. “I mean, there was this one really stupid thing I did in college with my boyfriend--oh, not like that,” she finishes hastily.

He’s not really sure what that means, but judging by the way the pink in her face darkens and starts to spread down her neck, clearly whatever she’s inadvertently implying makes her...uneasy. Somehow though, her carefree, flustered nature makes her all the more endearing.

As though he needed the reminder, she says, “I’m not really sure why I feel the need to tell all of this to a complete stranger. I mean, it’s not every day that I get accosted by men to do odd favors for them for money.”

He swallows. Oh, he understands that comment, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing.

Her eyes go wide, even as she blatantly avoids looking at him. “Just ignore that last part. My brain thinks of the worst way to say things. And I'm babbling. I'm sorry. Please stop me anytime. Honestly. I'm just going to shut up now.” And then she sucks on her lower lip, as though to prove it.

But the enduring silence the comes is not peaceful, not for him. He likes the sound of her voice too much. He likes her talking. He hasn't talked to anyone in...well, maybe his whole life. Certainly no one like her. Listening to her is relaxing. That constant pounding inside his head begins to lessen the longer he dwells in her company. Is it too much trouble to ask her to keep going?

And miraculously, as though she can hear his twisted thoughts, she does go on. “What kind of music do you like?” she asks, turning up the radio.

“I don't know,” he says quietly, like always. I don’t know. It’s the current catchphrase of his life. He knows next to nothing about himself, nothing personal. Meanwhile, everything that he can recall hits him in instinctive tidal waves--washing away anything remotely emotional, wiping the slate clean, leaving him empty every time.

She stumbles through a dozen or so channels, before settling on a more upbeat song. Everything is in Chinese, and even though she clearly doesn't know the words, her fingers drum against the steering wheel, following the beat.

He can follow most of the lines, though there are still a few nuanced phrases that he has trouble deciphering. Not that it matters. He's far more interested in watching her and watching their progress down the road.

There’s a part of him--a bigger part than he would like to admit--that doesn't actually want this roadtrip to come to an end. As much as becoming friends with Viktor was a relief, this woman is...something else. And even though she’s made it abundantly clear that she is at least somewhat aware of his capabilities, she has yet to look at him like she’s afraid of him. She looks at him like he’s a person, too. And that alone satisfies a nameless craving in his heart, filling him to the brim with a warm, bizarre comfort that is utterly unfamiliar to him.

There is just something about her. Something good. Something he knows he doesn’t deserves but desires anyway.

Maybe he’s been deprived of real human contact for so long, that at the first taste of it, he’s instantly addicted for more.

Or maybe this is just how Felicity Smoak behaves around total strangers, and he’s nothing special.

Either way, the world she lives in seems so much brighter and hopeful compared the world he awoke to.

He wants to be a part of her world.

xxx

As soon as they park at the train station, he senses trouble. Every hair along his skin seems to stand up straight, every nerve ending in his fingertips tingles with anticipation.

They beat him here. They’re already waiting for him. Whoever they are.

Calmly, without turning his head too much, he studies the crowd and notes at least five agents in business suits scattered around the train station entrance. He doesn't understand how he knows these people are agents, but he spots their stiff, false aloof behavior--some pretending to be on the phone, some pretending to read a magazine, some even playing the tourist.

How did they find him? He’s been so careful. He’s searched his body a dozen times over for any sort of tracking device and found nothing. How did they know which direction he would head towards?

Felicity, he realizes with a jolt. Even if they didn’t see him get into her car back in Hong Kong, they must have spotted him on some unknown camera when he’d foolishly decided to move to the front of the vehicle. Or maybe they spotted either of them during one of those few pit stops. He was always so cautious, on the lookout for cameras, but it's possible even he missed something.

It would be enough. One mistake. One shot at her license plate. That’s all they would need.

A chill he hasn’t felt since waking up that first day runs down his spine.

How could he have been so reckless? He’s risked her life just by waltzing into it. He needs to get away from her and fast. It won’t be long before someone recognizes this car.

When she starts to open her door, his hand shoots out and locks around her wrist. “Don’t get out of the car.”

She gasps, “What?”

“They’re here,” he says without tearing his focus away from the main entrance, ensuring that the men after him haven’t moved in the past twelve seconds.

“Who’s here? Who’s after you?” she whispers, following his gaze.

“I’m not entirely sure, but I suspect it’s the government.”

“As in, the U.S. government?”

He swallows, finally daring to turn to look her in the eyes. Oh, those eyes. He’s going to miss them--which is odd, because up until this point he didn't think it was possible for him to miss anything. His heart sinks a little at the thought.

“Felicity, listen to me very carefully. When I get out of this car, you’re going to wait thirty seconds--exactly thirty seconds, do you understand?--and then you’re going to get away from this car as quickly as possible. Take a bus to the airport. Keep your head down. And forget you ever met me.”

She stares at him, stunned speechless for only the second time since he met her. “But...what about you?” she asks in a quiet, unsure voice that pains him in a way he can’t explain.

“I’ll be fine,” he quickly assures her, as he pulls out the stack of cash he promised her. “Take this. You’ve earned it.”

“But--”

“I have a contact here in Beijing. His name is Yao Fei Gulong. He can get you the help you need to get home. Papers, a passport--whatever you need. Just tell him Snapdragon sent you.”

He has no idea where this fountain of information is suddenly coming from, but his gut tells him it’s accurate. And if he can’t trust his own mind, then he has to trust something, right? And yet, something else deep in his core stirs at the idea of sending this woman out there with nothing but the word of a stranger to keep her safe. Can he entrust her with his hazy memories? He barely trusts himself with them.

He tells her the address anyway, waits until she nods her consent before pulling back. He didn’t realize how close he’d gotten to her. “I’m sorry, Felicity. I wish we had more time.”

He indulges a few seconds to study her face one last time, and he notices that his hand is still an iron clasp around her wrist. Slowly, he loosens his grip, but not before doing something very, very foolish. He lingers--just for a moment--just enough to run his thumb once across the back of her hand, to feel the soft ridges of her veins, to memorize the shape of her hand, to imagine what it would be like to hold and revere her warm skin for hours on end.

Reluctantly, he finally drops her hand and forces himself to leave the car without so much as a backward glance, before he can stop himself from doing something even more crazy--like begging her to come with him. Leaving her stings more than he expected, like he’s abandoning something important before it even has the chance to start.

He disappears into the fog, armed with the ticket she printed out for him in his hand and his gun stuffed into the back of his jeans. Slipping onto the train with a gun is complicated, but not impossible. He easily evades his hunters and in the process avoids saying a real goodbye to Felicity the way she deserves. It’s better this way, he thinks.

At least she didn’t grow too attached to him.

At least he didn’t grow too fond of her.

The non-stop Trans-Siberian Express from Beijing to Moscow takes approximately six days, which leaves him plenty of time to construct a plan for infiltrating Alexi Leonov’s supposed place of residence undetected. He buys a small tablet at the train gift shop, but after two hours stumbling his way through a few lines of code, he comes to realize that while physical warfare and exit strategies come very naturally to him, he is far less comfortable wading through search engines and traffic camera videos.

He does manage to do some digging on one Felicity Smoak, however. He learns what he can through the Palmer Technologies public website and through a few MIT announcements. By all accounts, Felicity Smoak appears to be...a genius. Perhaps she would have been able to help him. Perhaps letting her go was a missed opportunity.

But if he’s truly being honest with himself, he misses her more than he misses whatever skills she could have offered him.

After spending a couple of hours in the dining car, he makes his way back to his private, two-person car in first class. Somehow, Felicity managed to get him a first-class car at the last-minute. That fact alone should have let him know how brilliant she is.

As he pulls open the sliding glass door, he swears he almost sees that familiar golden ponytail. Has she made that much of an impression on him that his mind is already conjuring up her existence, just to prevent his own loneliness?

He blinks, shaking his head, slowly pulling the door panel...

Her head shoots up, those eyes staring, boring into his expectantly.

His heart starts to race in his chest, as though it understands what is happening before his mind can make the connection. It takes him a moment to realize...she's real. She's here. A sudden, irrational flare of anger shoots through him.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, more gruffly than he means to be.

“Tracking you,” she answers brightly--too brightly for his liking. “That makes me sound like a stalker--which, for the record, I am not.”

He's pretty sure he growls, because she flinches a little as he shuts the door behind him. Still, she doesn't relent, and that makes him even more terrified. He hasn't felt this shaken since waking up.

She starts talking with her hands, ignoring the way his own clench into fists. “Well, I was just thinking Moscow might be a great place to set up another international subsidiary. So I decided to cash in that two-week vacation I’m always threatening my boss with.”

When he doesn't respond, other than to maintain the glare he's sending her, her smile fades.

This time, he finches, because it hurts to be the one to snuff her light. But if he can't make her see reason, can't talk her into leaving him, then he has to drive her away. He has to show her why she should be afraid of him, why she should never wish to be near him.

“And don’t worry,” she continues. Oh, he's already so far beyond worried. “I may have hacked into the train station cameras and erased any trace of you getting on board--even from underneath. Also, strange coincidence, the cameras on this train suddenly went out--accidentally--and won’t be fixable until we reach Moscow. Oops.” She shrugs, and then tries to wink at him, though it's more of a delayed blink.

He starts when her words finally hit him. Hacked? She's committing major crimes for him now?

As though she can hear his thoughts again, Felicity spins around the laptop resting on her legs to show off her handiwork. And if he wasn't so livid that she's here, he might be able to act more impressed.

She tips her head in that carefree way of hers, a little too pleased with herself, especially for someone who supposedly has never committed anything so much as an illegal parking job in her life. He swallows heavily, as he intently studies the computer screen and then her; and he begins to wonder if she hasn’t been playing him all along. What other instincts does she have stashed beneath a deceptively innocent exterior?

Perhaps they have more in common than he thought.

And it's this notion that somehow causes him to relax. As much as her surprise appearance should keep him on edge, he begins to draw some comfort from knowing he’s not the only one in the world that is not what he appears. Or maybe he’s even more lost than he cares to admit, and this innate trust he has for Felicity Smoak is just part of her charm.

“So what do you think?”

He can't risk trusting her. He can't risk her. “You need to leave,” he finally says.

“What? Nooo. I already bought myself a train ticket and everything. You’re officially stuck with me.”

“I’ll reimburse you.”

She shakes her head. “You can’t just ask me--”

“I’m not asking,” he interrupts roughly. Hearing the gruffness in his voice, he takes a moment to soften his tone. “Look, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. You’ve gotten me this far. I can take it from here.”

Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. “Can you?” She gives him a contentious look he can’t decipher. “What I mean is...I single-handedly am the reason the cops are not all over your tail right now--or, drug lords or spies or whoever exactly is after you, which you are going to need to explain at some point by the way.”

He just takes a deep breath, prolonging the silence.

“Please, I want to help. I’m not abandoning you.”

“Felicity…” he breathes, suddenly feeling all the fight drain out of him. He sinks down onto the bench across from her.

He wants to say that she's not abandoning him, that he doesn't need her. And maybe twelve hours ago that might have been true. But somewhere along the way between Hong Kong and here, he...he has grown attached to her.

He doesn't need anyone or anything. He shouldn't need her. He can't want her.

“Thank you, but this is personal. And dangerous. And I need you to be safe.”

“Well, what if I don’t want to be safe? I’m not afraid.”

He shakes his head gently. “You should be. These people, whoever they are...they aren’t like me. They won’t hesitate to hurt you. And I can’t let that happen.”

She sets her laptop aside and leans forward, calmly invading his space, invading his heart. “Well, it’s not up to you. It’s my life. It’s my choice. You can’t make me go.”

He shoots her a look.

She just rolls her eyes, flippantly ignoring whatever threats he's capable of making. “Fine. Maybe you can. But what are you going to do? Toss me out the window at the next stop?”

“I am considering it,” he mutters. Ultimately, it would be better for her in the end, to be thousands of miles away from him.

Felicity just smiles, her eyes sparkling with a false admonishment, picking up on whatever teasing she hears in his voice. Already, she reads him better than he knows himself.

“The way I see it, you can either tell me who's after you. Or I can find out through other means, using the powers of the internet”--she waves towards her computer--“and basically lead the bad guys right to you.”

His lips twitch. Is she threatening him?

“And what makes you think I'm not one of them?” he asks.

She narrows her eyes as she reaches into her business purse, and then holds out the stack of bills he just gave her. “Here.”

His whole body snaps back, like she's burnt him. “What? No, Felicity, that’s for you…”

“Lot of good it’s gonna do me. I can’t even deposit it once we cross the Mongolian border. Consider it a down payment. We can split it, once we figure out what happened to you.”

He stills. How much does she know? Is she really that smart or is he just not as good of a pretender as he hopes? “We?” he asks quietly.

“You can't honestly expect to do this all by yourself. Let me at least do some digging before we get to Moscow, give you some ammunition to fight back...you know, digitally speaking.”

He sighs, folding his hands together. “Why do you want to help me?”

She pushes up her glasses, suddenly a little uncomfortable, like this the first time she’s really stopped to consider the implications of what she’s doing. “I don’t know. Because despite your efforts to convince people to the contrary, you’re actually a pretty guy? I mean, pretty nice guy.”

He’s neither, but he can’t help but appreciate the way she blushes in the meantime.

“Because you're a good person,” she finishes, her words determined. Final.

“How can you be so sure?”

She shrugs. “You just seem...a little lost. Besides, I hate mysteries. They bug me. They need to be solved. And you, my friend, are the biggest mystery I’ve ever met.” She purses her lips contemplatively. “So...that is my offer.”

It is dangerous, realizing he how much he wants her to stay with him. Still, he hesitates. “Are you just going to keep hawking me about this until I say yes?” he asks, his tone conveying more tease than he originally intended.

She nods happily. “I am a hawker.”

Seconds tick by, minutes, hours seem to pass...in the blink of an eye. And then, somehow, he’s holding out his hand to shake hers. Her touch is so soft and inviting, and he soaks in the contours of her skin; it takes him far too long to release her. “Okay. But we do this my way.”

If only it were that simple.

It takes him another twelve hours to fully open up to her about everything that he knows--very little, but he tells her anyway. In the safety of a secluded train car, he tells her. He shows her the passports, sharing his fortnight lifespan with her, still grasping at names that don’t make any sense.

And through it all, she listens. She doesn’t look at him like he’s crazy. She asks for detail. She babbles and makes him feel normal. At times, he feels like a sinner in a confessional, bearing his soul to a perfect stranger, a stranger whose eyes never turn to condemnation, never tell him hateful things he's sure he deserves.

Felicity studies the pile of passports splayed across the small table between them, with a few booklets tucked in her hands like a deck of cards. She’s biting her lower lip in a way that he should not find so alluring. “So, who are you really?”

He takes a final sip of the bitter black coffee from their late breakfast, staring aimlessly at endless Mongolian forests flying by their window. “I don’t know. Pick one.”

She starts. “What, me?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” He shrugs.

“I don’t know. Doesn’t one of these names...speak to you more than the others?”

He frowns grimly. “Not really.”

She nods very seriously, as though he's given her some truly life-altering information to consider. And in a way, he supposes he has. “Well, personally, I don’t think you look like an Alexi.”

He smiles a little, strangely pleased to hear her say that. “Yeah? So what do I look like then?”

“Hmm.” Her eyebrows pull together again in their endearing way as she flips through the passports, before finally settling on one. Her entire face changes when she finds the one--finds him--her gaze lighting up like a soft, easy sunrise.

Slowly, he takes the little booklet from her outstretched hand, his fingertips brushing against hers. When he opens it, he huffs a short laugh, feeling oddly relieved. Oliver Queen.

“Maybe I’m just partial to it, because it’s the only name I can pronounce, but...I don’t know, there’s just something about it. I think Oliver suits you.”

They stay quiet for a long moment, studying each other in the easy silence. And it's strange how quickly this sort of thing is starting to feel normal to him now--letting someone watch him so openly, letting her see all the worry and confusion gnawing at him below the surface, letting her goodness wash over him. This act should terrify him, but instead this feels right and safe. She makes him feel safe.

Ever since she walked into his hazy life...or he showed up in hers, she's changed everything. He doesn’t tell her that Oliver Queen was the name at the top of the safety deposit box in Hong Kong. But out of a stack of strangers, she chose the name anyway. She chose him.

Oliver it is then. Chances are, it’s the closest he is going to get to a true identity, to his true self, whoever that man may be.

“Are you really from Starling City?” she finally asks.

“I don't know,” he answers honestly, his voice hoarse with some unknown emotion. “Do I look familiar?”

She frowns a little dismally, as she shakes her head no. “Sorry. But I only just moved there recently. Why not start there? Why go to Moscow?”

“Call it a hunch.”

“Well, do you want to be this...Alexi guy? Is that the kind of person that you are?”

He sighs. “I don't know what kind of person I am.”

As soon as he says it, his mind jumps to another time, another place; and he sits in quiet, quivering fear as Felicity’s bright features begin to fade into black, swallowed up in the slow onslaught of darkness flooding his vision. In an instant, their warm, soft cabin transforms into a cold, hard basement.

A scream rings in his ears--but it’s not his voice; he’s not the one afraid or in pain.

He watches in frozen horror as a man crouched in the shadows twists the knife deeper into his victim's leg, a man beaten and bloody and bound to the chair. Something in him instinctively wants to tell the man to break his own thumb so he can escape from those zip ties.

“Please...I'll tell you everything you want to know,” the man begs in Russian.

But the torturer doesn't relent. “I know you will. This is just me practicing.”

His hand twitches when he recognizes his voice, and his whole body turns ice cold as he trembles with newfound horror...and newfound acceptance.

He shuts his eyes, wishing he could make the grotesque scene that lives inside his head disappear.

He remembers.

He finally remembers something...something horrible and real. This is the kind of man that Alexi is...the kind of man that he is. His worst fears about himself are true.

He grows even more quiet for the the rest of the day, retreating further into himself, watching his hand twitch as he cowers against the demons that now roar inside him.

He lingers on his side of the car, unable to eat, barely able to even think, wondering if he could--if he should--find another way to push Felicity away from him. She fills the oppressive silence with her usual chatter, and he nods and tries to smile at the appropriate times. But everything she says is muffled within the thick fog of his mind. And yet, her voice, her gentle babbling, is the only thing keeping him from be swallowed up by memories he wishes would stay away. She is a beacon in the night, calling to him in the silence.

He doesn't sleep. He can't sleep. So he watches her lying on the bench-turned-bed, watches the calm rise and fall of her chest, the way she so easily surrenders to the night; he likes studying the little ways her face has changed without her glasses on, how much younger and even more innocent she appears.

And he knows it's wrong to want her goodness, to seek shelter in her sweetness. As much as he convinces himself that he watches over her to keep her safe, the truth is watching her is what keeps him sane.

xxx

On day 5 of their excursion to Moscow, Felicity has migrated to his side of the cabin and remains splayed out across the entire bench, her panda-socked feet casually crossed on top of his lap. She frowns in concentration at his tablet that she insisted on “borrowing,” while sucking on a stick of red licorice.

He sits stiff, though content, relishing the warmth of her feet seeping through his clothes. He gave up trying to move either of them nearly half an hour ago.

“Ugh,” Felicity finally groans, dropping the tablet onto the bench in frustration. “Well, there's nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“It's like you don't exist. The FBI has never heard of you, and you have no birth certificate. Outside of that passport, Oliver Queen doesn't exist.”

“What does that mean?” he asks.

“It means that whatever you're in, you're in deep,” she states, as though he’s supposed to know what it is. “Oh, and you were in prison. Once. And not like in prison, prison. Just...you visited a prison in Russia recently. See?” She turns the tablet screen towards him, and--sure enough--though the camera quality is poor, he can barely make out himself through the grainy video, walking quickly and calmly out of a less prominent, almost invisible exit, and vanishing into a black sedan.

He replays the video a few times, trying to trigger something--anything--but his memories currently remain as coarse and blurry as the video feed. It’s both a blessing and a curse.

“How did you get this?” he asks.

Felicity shrugs. “If it’s on the internet, I can find it. According to the timestamp, you were only in there about half an hour. Do you remember what you were doing there?”

“No idea.” He shakes his head...and then something else strikes him. “Did...did just hack into a Russian prison system network?”

She just gives him one of her classic are-you-really-questioning-me? looks. “Is that judgment I'm hearing?”

And whether it’s the sassy way she utters the word ‘judgment’ or the fact that in less than a week he's already categorizing her expressions, he feels himself smiling--a real, easy smile, one he hasn’t used in a long time, perhaps never. “Pride,” he tells her plainly.

As expected, her cheeks turn a slight shade of pink under his honest gaze; and then she shyly pushes her glasses further up the ridge of her perfect little nose.

He likes complimenting her, putting her at ease. He likes telling her the truth about herself. Once again, he wonders how he managed to get so lucky, finding someone who appears as much a natural at this unnatural game as he is.

xxx

“Is this it?” Felicity asks him, bouncing on her toes as she shivers against the crisp Moscow air. She's wrapped up in a red scarf and wearing a dark purple hat with a little felt flower attached on one side. Despite the chill and her pale skin, she looks ever as vibrant in her bright array of colors and with her long blonde hair flowing down her back and over her shoulders.

They're standing in front of a pristine, white building with hints of Romanesque architecture along the trim and doors, mixed with a more classic contemporary windows and railings. It's an odd building from his perspective, but it also seems to blend into the surrounding buildings just fine.

He nods to Felicity when he spots the name ALEXI LEONOV on the middle buzzer.

“Do you want me to hack the security?” she whispers.

Before he can reply, an older tenant suddenly emerges through the entrance, brushing past and leaving the gate open for them.

His lips twitch as he says, “I don't think that'll be necessary.”

His apartment is on the third floor, and he can't help but think that he chose the location intentionally--some place that's hidden in plain sight and inaccessible from the outside to the average person, while still a safe distance that he could easily scale down the outside of the building should the worst happen. Whatever the worst may be.

The loft feels more like an abandoned museum than a place to live. Everything is white, and it’s overwhelming--white painted walls, thin white curtains, white wood furniture. The mostly empty room that he supposes is meant to serve as the living room is anything but living. And with its floor-to-ceiling glass pane doors that let in far too much light, the spacious, echoing room seems all the more hollow. It is a haunting mixture of shabby vintage and contemporary minimalism, decorated with only the barest essentials. A desk and a chair. Ten books stacks on high bookshelves, unopened, untouched, a mere façade of a life that doesn’t belong to him. No rugs. No carpet. No signs of actual dwelling.

As he surveys the room, all he can think is cover. Everything about this room screams cover. Just what kind of life does he lead?

The bedroom is just as minimal, no decorations on the wall--why does he feel like he should be expecting that, some evidence of personality, of choice, of anything other than a mundane, robotic existence? There is some workout equipment in the corner of the bedroom, and of course he knows exactly how to use it.

Is there anything he doesn’t know? How to be human, apparently.

The industrial kitchen is equally as disappointing. While the wide counters and high shelves contain the finest stainless kitchenware, this place is starting to feel more like a prison than a home.

He must somehow make his way back to the living room, because the next thing he knows is the sound of Felicity’s gentle tap-tap-tap heels on the wooden floor. He almost starts, almost forgetting that she was even here, so absorbed in putting together the pieces of a barren life.

“Ummm, where is your bathroom? Because I've had to pee for the last hour.”

He slowly sets down the book he’s perusing to turn around and look at her, as if to make sure she’s really real and not some voice in his head he’s been dreaming up this entire time. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he says.

She nods, smiling a little, but it fades from her face soon enough. Too soon. He misses that smile already, wanting to make it stay. Is it possible to be wistful for something you’ve never had before? “Anything coming back?” she asks quietly.

He sighs, glancing down at the book again. “I think I like archery.”

“Never really understood the appeal. Looks utterly ridiculous, if you ask me. Which you didn't. I'm just...gonna go that way...” She doesn’t give him a chance to respond before disappearing into the hallway.

In the uncertain silence that she leaves behind, he finds himself staring at the phone on the desk. He stares at the taunting device for ages before finally, rashly picking it up. He has no idea what he’s doing until he does it--he hits the redial button.

The voice that answers is female and polite, surprising him by speaking in Turkish. “Hello and thank you for calling the Çırağan Palace. How may I help you today?”

“Hello?” he asks right back.

“Yes sir, this is the Çırağan Palace. How may I direct your call?”

“And where are you located?” He hopes he doesn’t sound too desperate. And if his Turkish comes out a little rough, well then, perhaps that’s just how he speaks.

“In Istanbul, sir.”

Istanbul? What was he doing there? His heart begins to race as he plays the only card that’s dealt him. “I’m looking for someone...a guest there. Alexi Leonov.”

“One moment, please,” the hotel receptionist answers calmly, like he hasn’t just given her a deadly secret.

He waits, pacing in front of the desk--his desk--for several, long moments, until she finally comes back with, “I’m so sorry, sir, but I currently have no one here registered under that name.”

He halts. What? He was so sure. Could his instincts have been wrong? But just as he’s thinking of hanging up...another idea strikes him. “Can you check another name for me, please?” he asks as coolly as possible, meanwhile he reaches into his bag to yank out the stack of passports and sifts through them hurriedly. Which one...which one would go to Istanbul? Something inside him urges him not to say the name Oliver Queen. Finally, he settles on the only other non-European in the mix. “Thomas Merlyn.”

He waits again, shuffling on his feet, as he listens to the endless, grating classic music over the line.

When the voice comes back, it’s changed somehow...softer, slower, a little unsteady. “Sir, are you a friend of Thomas Merlyn?”

“Uh, yes,” he answers.

“I have some very bad news for you, sir. I’m sorry to tell you this, but Mr. Merlyn passed away almost three weeks ago. There was an accident.… I do not know all the details myself. When they came for his things, people made note for us--”

“Who?” he interrupts, growing uneasy. “Who came?”

“His brother.”

“Did his brother leave a way to get in touch with him?”

“No, sir.”

As soon as he hangs up, the atmosphere in the apartment changes. He can feel something is off. Someone is here. The mystery of Thomas Merlyn is forgotten as his mind shifts into defensive mode. Slowly, he makes his way back towards Felicity, trying to maintain a normal demeanor--whatever normal is for him. He tiptoes closer, hearing the running water coming from the bathroom.

Whether it’s impeccable timing or Felicity just has miraculously good hearing, she calls out to him as he reaches the bathroom door. “Hey, Oliver? The water in here is freezing! Which, I know that cold water is supposed to kill more germs, but I don’t think frostbite is the price I should have to pay to not get an infection, you know?”

He might smile if he wasn’t so on edge. He glances to his left, relieved to find the side hallway empty. “Oh...okay. Can you just...stay in the bathroom? And I’ll go check the water in the kitchen.”

He’s already moving, walking with the finesse of a panther, pressing his back against the long hallway walls. He turns the water on in the kitchen, letting the white noise muffle the sound of his own movements on the wood floor. He grabs the first thing he can--a chef’s knife, longer but manageable. He spins in kitchen, looking for any signs of unwanted activity, any indication that someone else has been in this room. And then he carefully makes his way back toward Felicity. Except she’s not in the bathroom.

His heart kicks into higher gear, until he turns and--there she is, standing in the middle of the living room, a sweet, welcoming smile on her face. “Hey,” she says, moving closer to him.

“Hey,” he answers, forcing a smile. He shuffles, leaning against the side of the doorframe, quickly stowing the knife behind his back and out of sight. And for a moment, he feels utterly foolish, that he’s so paranoid he can never shake away the feeling that someone is always chasing him. And yet, his instincts are what have kept him alive. Have they been wrong this entire time? Seeing her standing there like that, so at ease in an empty loft, his instincts feel wrong.

“You okay?” she asks, coming to stand directly in front of him.

He starts but manages to keep his expression calm. “Fine,” he says, striving for casual but knowing he’s failing.

“Really?” She tips her head, reading him far too easily. “Because you seem...tense. God forbid you just relax.” She tugs on his shirt playfully.

He laughs once, though it still sounds forced. He swallows when she leans in closer, their noses almost brushing, and his heart plummets for a different reason. The knife behind his back loosens a little.

“Water still cold?” he whispers.

“Mm-hmm.” She nods, licking her lips, and his eyes latch onto the movement.

In that second, he realizes...the water in the kitchen has stopped.

Felicity sees whatever change comes over him, her lips parting, her eyes asking him a question he doesn’t have an answer to. “Did you hear that?” she breathes.

That finally makes itself known.

He blinks, and then a man with a machine gun comes crashing through the window behind him, sending a rain of bullets at them.

He doesn’t think. He just acts. He spins, ducking down as he pushes Felicity behind him and deeper into the room, just before throwing the knife at the invader. His aim is on point, but the man knows how to fight back, dodging the blade’s tip at the last second. In that brief window when the gunfire stops, he charges, throwing himself at his attacker, taking them both to the ground.

They wrestle, rolling back and forth against the floor, struggling to be the one in control. The assassin tries to shoot him three times, but every time he shoves the gun out of the way, sending a stream of bullets into the high ceiling.

He elbows his attacker in the jaw and knocks the gun out of his hand, sending it sliding down the hallway, out of reach of both of them.

The assassin wastes no time, lunging for his neck, squeezing, cutting off his air supply.

But he knows how to repress the panic that will make him lose air faster.

Instead, he locks his arms around his neck, using the man’s own weight against him, and manages to get him to loosen his grip just enough elbow him in the chest. He hits the man in the face. He dodges the next punch. He hits him again. And again. And again. But the enemy won’t back down.

He strikes again...and his enemy dodges that punch, grabbing his arm and tossing him backwards onto the floor.

On impact, he gasps as the wind nearly goes out of him.

Suddenly, Felicity is right there, standing in the doorway, looking at him with panic in her eyes and a piece of floorboard in her hands.

Run, his eyes scream to hers.

But she’s not listening. And now it’s too late.

The assassin approaches them. Time seems to slow down...and it becomes apparent that his enemy is moving towards her this time. NO! his heart cries. He hauls himself off the ground, putting himself in between them, blocking her from the attacker with his body. Something shifts inside him, something hot and fierce, as he lunges himself at the assassin once more.

This time, when he goes to strike, he doesn't aim merely to harm or to stop the fight. He aims to kill. He will kill this man for wanting to kill her.

Revived with a new sense of deadly purpose, he dodges every hit sent his way, and every hit he sends back sticks. He quickly overpowers his enemy, sending him tumbling into the living room. When the man rises back up, slowly, he catches the flicker of the small knife in his hand.

He easily makes the tactical switch to defense, dodging every thrust of the knife, all the while working to regain the upperhand.

As they shuffle around the living room, he finds himself near the desk. As the assassin regains his bearings, he reaches around the table for something he can use as a weapon. He almost smiles when his fingers wrap around the small arrowhead paperweight. On the next attack, he hits with the added weight in his hand, striking his opponent in the places he inherently knows will do the most damage and slowly weaken him. He stabs him in the hand. He smacks him in the nose. He goes for the spot just under his arm.

The knife falls to the ground with a clang.

He kicks his opponent, sending him tumbling backwards over the desk.

As expected, he gets back up soon enough. But this time when attacks, he’s even more ready.

He doesn't even bother trying to retrieve the knife. He doesn’t need it. He is the weapon.

He fights with his bare hands, kicking him where a bundle of nerves comes together in the leg, striking back by yanking his enemy’s arm taunt, twisting it in an unnatural way that will only prolong the pain.

And when the assassin finally hits the ground with a groan, he makes one last move to ensnare him, wrapping his arms tight around the man’s neck. And even as he squeezes, watching, feeling the man’s life slowly drain out of him, he also feels the weight of Felicity’s presence at his back.

“Close your eyes, Felicity,” he orders roughly, grunting through the strain of the chokehold.

“But--” she whimpers quietly.

“Dammit, just do it!” He turns his body, angling away from her. He curls himself tighter around his victim to shield her from what’s about to happen...from what he has to do.

He shuts his own eyes tight, suddenly dreading what he had before been willing to do in a heartbeat. Still, it has to be done. He’s doing this for them. In a twisted, unfathomable way, a part of him is doing this for her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “But no one can know my secret.”

He can almost feel her flinch when he snaps the man’s neck, letting his body slip out of his cold, bloody hands with a thud.

He lingers there on the floor next to a dead man for far too long, but it takes him several moments to bring himself to turn around and face her.

There she stands, her back pressed into the corner of the room, her eyes obediently clamped shut, tears and streaks of black mascara running down her face. She listened to him, but she also heard everything anyway. How much did he really protect her from in the end?

This is the moment that will haunt him forever--not the one just before it, not the one where he actually took a life--but this one right here. Where he took something precious, some sliver of innocence from Felicity Smoak.

She must hear him approaching, because she whimpers a little when he’s back in her personal space. He chooses the hand with the lesser amount of blood to touch on her cheek. She gasps at the contact but doesn’t pull away.

“Hey,” he breathes, waiting until she finally opens her eyes and looks at him again. He waits for the judgement to come, waits for the inevitable moment when she finally recognizes the monster inside him and runs away, waits for the inevitable goodbye.

But the judgement never comes.

And even though he’s unsuitable for the job, he tries his best to soothe her. “It’s alright. You’re safe.”

Somehow, she whimpers again and leans into his palm against her cheek. “You…?” Her lips tremble; for once, she can’t even finish her thought. She doesn’t have to.

He just nods in quiet affirmation. “Please don’t...” he hesitates, unsure of what he could possibly say to make this situation better somehow. Please don't what? He doesn’t know how to ask her not to be afraid of him; she should be afraid of him.

Please don’t hate me, he swallows.

She stuns him by coming closer, by touching his shoulder. “You were shot.”

He follows her line of sight and is a little surprised to find that, yes, his upper arm is covered in blood, and there appears to be a gunshot wound near the center of the mess. He didn’t even realize it had happened. He’s completely numb to the pain. All he can focus on is her.

“Hey,” he says again, finally closing the thin gap, cupping her cheek more firmly, drawing her desperate eyes back up to his. “It’s nothing,” he gently assures her.

Her lips quip for a moment. She almost smiles, and then suddenly she throws her arms around his neck, hugging him close. What else can he do but pull her in tight, as hard as he can, before he crosses the line into hurting her. Her nails dig into his shirt, scraping his back, and he mirrors the act by fisting the fabric of her shirt, pulling her closer still. Maybe he hurts her a little. He can’t tell. She doesn’t let go.

“Thank you,” she mumbles against his skin.

He sighs, nuzzling his chin into her neck, deepening the hold, clinging to her like the life raft that she is. He absorbs her compassion, breathing in her floral scent. He accidentally dips his head into her shoulder a little too deeply, scraping his scruff against her skin. He stills. Except she doesn't pull away. The little moan she lets out instead makes him realize she likes it. So he does it again. And again, brushing against her like he's a cat displaying affection. The quiet sounds she makes are enough to drown out her earlier screams of terror.

They linger in each other’s embrace for a while, too long really. Sirens alert him, waking him from this brief reprieve. They don't have time to dwell on what just happened. They have to keep moving--he has to keep moving--in order to survive.

She’s only in danger in the first place because of him. And it’s that one thought that drives him as they flee the apartment.

xxx

They rent a car under one of his other pseudonyms. This time, he does the driving, weaving them through Russia, ignoring her soft cries of fear as the car flies around cliffs or maneuvers backwards through crowded streets. He makes the drive with one hand, because both of her hands stay latched around his like a velvet but iron glove.

She is uncharacteristically quiet the whole way, even when they cross the border into Ukraine and enter Kiev. Still, she never releases his hand. The further away from Moscow they get, the tighter her grip seems to become.

“I've never seen anybody die before,” she finally says, avoiding his gaze.

He has another flash. Some voice in a thick accent is barking orders at him as he hurries through the heavy, damp forest carrying some kind of equipment on his back. The accent is Australian, he thinks. Maybe New Zealand. He's in the middle of the woods, sweltering and weary.

“We are the sin eaters, kid. We carry the sins of others. We bleed so the rest of the world can live.”

He frowns. Is that what he is? Does it excuse the darkness that lives inside him, consuming him?

He knows now that he is fighting a war. He just doesn't know which side he’s on or who the players are. And he’s brought her to the frontlines.

He parks the car outside a small hotel in Kiev and takes a long look at her, trying to gauge her mental state. Considering everything that’s happened, he’s impressed she’s not more startled.

Shifting towards her in the car, he says, “Last chance, Felicity.” He’s half-urging her to leave and half-hoping for her to stay. Last chance to get away from me. Last chance to say goodbye. Last chance to ever have a normal life.

She takes a long breath before she finally looks at him. And he reads the determination in her eyes before she even speaks. “If you're not stopping, I'm not stopping,” she declares boldly.

He’s proud to have her on his side. But if she becomes a casualty in his crusade...he’ll never forgive himself.

xxx

At the door to a small and somewhat seedy hotel room in Kiev, he knocks the allotted four times to signal to her that he has come back. Entering their tiny room, he deposits the bag of groceries--cheap clothing and even cheaper food that he purchased at a local store--on the cramped bathroom counter, gritting his teeth against the stretching of skin in his arm, reminding him of the bullet he recently extracted from his own flesh.

He pulls up the sleeve of his shirt, noting the spread of blood beneath the white bandage, which means he might have accidentally torn his stitches. Without thinking, he whips the bandage off. He works in the silence, patching himself back up again.

“Does it hurt?” Felicity asks around a mouthful of toothpaste.

He’s just finished restitching the last thread through the top layer of his skin. He doesn’t have to turn his head to feel her watching him, just outside his peripheral vision; he can almost picture her staring with pinched eyes and clenched fingers, wincing with him, wincing on his behalf, making little gasps and pained, reactive sounds that seemed to have been bred out of him. He wonders how much torture he’s had to endure in order to dull even the sharpest pain reflexes.

“Not as much as some things,” he answers simply, dully, as emotionless and dead as he feels.

Once he’s finished putting a fresh bandage on himself, he reaches for the grocery bag, pulling out his recent purchases: boxes of hair dye.

“Alright. Your turn. Black or brown?” He holds out the two choices in front of her, watching the way her eyes flicker back and forth between them.

She bites her lower lip contemplatively. “What, no purple?”

“Felicity, that’s not exactly low profile--”

“I know.” And then he sees--the tiny quiver of her lips, the faintest lightening behind her eyes. She’s teasing him. Even after everything that’s happened in the last few hours, she’s still making him laugh, still making this corner of the world a slightly brighter place.

Maybe he was wrong to think that this kind of life would make her tainted somehow. Maybe she’s untaintable. Maybe nothing can touch her--and all the while, she can’t help but touch everything in her path and make it better. Selfishly he knows...she’s already made him better.

Felicity finally settles on black and patiently stands before the mirror as he cuts her hair. He tries cutting in as straight a line as possible, but his hands start to tremble at the feel of silk slipping through his fingers. He can’t help but feel that he’s stealing something precious from her once more.

After losing several inches, her hair now stops just barely above her shoulders. Somehow, even through his haphazard cutting job, she still looks vibrant and captivating.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers against her head, as he gloves up and mixes the hair dye.

“It's okay,” she says, keeping his gaze in the mirror. “You know, I went through a goth phase when I was at MIT. And blonde isn’t even my natural hair color.”

He frowns, suddenly curious about what exactly is her natural hair color. Out of some odd desperation, he leans in close just to study the very ends of her roots one last time, which he’s realizing are a slight shade darker than the rest of her golden hair. It’s one secret about her that he’ll never get to learn.

He swallows deeply as he dyes her hair, watching her head of sunshine slowly transform into a moonless night, like experiencing a raw sunset up close. It’s a strangely intimate experience, feeling his hands press deep into her scalp, feeling her body relax into him, even as he feels his own being coil tighter and tighter.

Twenty minutes later, she's stepping out of the bathroom with a small smile and a towel around her shoulders, catching the drips of her wet, much shorter, much darker hair. Her cheeks are still slightly pink from her obviously recent shower. Without her glasses or makeup, she looks so...young and fresh and pure that it takes his breath away.

The black color seems harsh against her fair skin, and at the same incredibly suited to her clear blue eyes. Selfishly, perhaps, he was worried the changed my make her look...different, like not the Felicity he knows. But she still looks like his Felicity, because she’s still looking at him like she trusts him.

Ditching the towel, she strolls across the small room to him, and the closer she gets the faster his heart seems to beat. He notices for the first time her pajamas pants, decorated with colorful Russian dolls. He smiles briefly, because they are very much a Felicity choice.

“Night, Oliver. And thanks for letting me be here for you.”

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs solemnly, trying to focus on regulating his breathing, but she’s suddenly standing very close to him, and she smells like springtime and some kind of satisfying fruit he can’t name. “I didn’t have much of a choice though, did I?”

“No.” She shakes her head, teasing him again. And then she pats his shoulder, his uninjured one, like it’s a habit, like they do this sort of thing all the time. Except this feels anything but habitual. It's a plunge right into the deep end of a pool. There is no wading with him. It's all or nothing.

As her hand slides down his arm, he finds himself reaching out to grab it, to stop her, to keep her close just a little while longer. He doesn’t understand why he does it. He just doesn’t want her to leave him. He...he doesn’t want to be alone anymore.

He is firm, unyielding, his eyes trying to force her away with their hardness. Except she doesn't see what he's trying to say to her. She sees through the charade as always, right to his heart, to his soul if he has one, and the dangerous island living there. She studies him in that inquisitive way of hers, and it’s not until she steps even closer, her body just barely brushing against his chest, that he realizes he’s been holding his breath for a long time, waiting for her to come to him but too afraid to dare hope that she would. And so he decides to finally let her see him completely, to see the relentless haze he calls his mind, the nightmares that don’t make sense, the fears that won’t stay buried...and into the uncharted ocean of longing to feel human and whole again.

He waits for her to turn away, to babble and lighten the mood, to do something. Instead, her eyes drop to his lips, and he feels himself leaning down to her, the pull of her anchor too strong to overcome; even he’s not strong enough to stop this. He wants it too much. He needs her too much.

Her lips are warm and soft and gentle. Oh, so gentle.

He restrains himself enough not to touch her, even as her hands come up and stroke the veins of his arms, even as she kisses him back fiercely, throwing herself completely into his mercy. His ears start ringing, and his entire body feels like it’s being swallowed up into the sea again...only this sea feels different. And it frightens him even more.

He pulls back suddenly and pressing their foreheads together, their collective, mixing breaths ragged and loud in the dark, silent hotel room.

He swallows. “I shouldn’t...I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I trust you, Oliver,” she answers immediately.

He pulls back a little to look her in the eye, to study the way the dim lights from outside filter in through the blinds and highlight her features, somehow making her look all the more pale and fragile and angelic. All the more undeserving of someone like him.

“Why?” he hears himself say, unsure of what he’s even asking.

But Felicity seems to understand like always. “I don’t know. Same reason you got into the backseat of my car, I suppose. I mean, not that it was my car. It was a rental that...the company...paid for...”

She tips her head, her gaze dropping back to his lips, and it’s then that he knows he’s lost. The look she gives him is so reminiscent of their first encounter, a day that feels like a lifetime ago and yesterday at the same time. He swears he’ll never forget this look as long as he lives.

Deep down, he knows he shouldn’t, but he does. Because he needs her--not for her brains, not as a partner, not even for the screeching desire to hold another person and just be held in return. No, he needs her.

So he cups her face, pushing back a few loose strands of ebony hair. “Felicity,” he breathes, smiling a little, just before he kisses her, drawing her body close, so soft and yet a furnace to him.

Suddenly, she’s helping him pull his shirt up and over his head--he winces a little against the rush of pain in lifting his arms, but it comes and goes just as quickly. The eternal second of separation from her is more excruciating, and he kisses her again with renewed fury. And somewhere in that haze of bliss, he realizes he wants this more than he wants answers. For a few, peaceful hours, his name doesn’t matter, and the war outside is forgotten. He sees the truth here and now, in the way her eyes smile at him, in the way her hands caress wounds he’s afraid to know the stories behind.

She studies his scars without judgment, running her hands over the markings of his hidden past. He sees the way her eyebrows draw together. In response to her silent questions hanging between them, he quietly tells her, “They don't hurt.”

She nods once in return before wrapping her arms around him completely, making him feel safe.

Through it all, he just wants to protect her, this one person in all the world he doesn’t see as a threat or a target. The one he...he loves? Does he love her? Can he love her? Is there room in this hollow shell for a heart that screams wildly for life?

Everything is strange and wonderful at the same time. Because clearly his body remembers doing this before, and yet his mind still feels like this is the first time. And he’s so glad his first time is with her. They fit together like lost puzzle pieces. His larger body should swallow her whole, but he lets her decide where the boundaries lie. He takes his time. All the running they've been doing, he wants them to savor this. He wants her to feel secure with him. He wants to cherish her the way she deserves.

And as he loses himself in the art of loving this woman, he’s pretty sure he’s found himself. Hands that have been trained to kill are relearning to touch another’s skin with tenderness and not violence. Lips that have been trained to speak dozens of languages are learning simply to communicate with hers. His only friend in the world. His partner. His...something else.

She moans the word Oliver against his neck, and for the first time, that word doesn't sound as empty as before. Somehow, hearing her say that name like that makes it sound true. Real.

Oliver.

If that's what she’s going to call him, well then, that’s what he’s going to be called.

Oliver’s first conscious thought is more of a feeling.

Heat. Soothing heat. The kind of warmth that permeates his skin so deeply it relaxes his muscles and seems to seep into his very bones.

And when he wakes, it’s not a startled awakening; it’s more like a long exhale. All of his joints seem to whisper with ease.

He feels himself sinking deeper into the mattress as his whole body hums into a gentle awareness. Very early sunlight streams through the blinds directly into his face, but it’s not harsh like it was before; this sunlight feels gentler somehow. He feels like for the first time in...forever, he can take a full breath.

The beast inside him lies dormant as she presses her head against his shoulder.

The next time Oliver wakes it's more painful.

In his dreams, he screams. He doesn’t remember if he screams himself awake or not. All he knows is he’s sitting up in bed, sweating, heaving, feeling himself choke on his own fears.

He jumps when a cool hand presses to his skin. Realizing who it is, Oliver sighs, feeling his racing heartbeat instantly begin slowing down, feeling the nightmares receding into the outer darkness from which they came.

“Hey, where did you go?” she asks, running her palm in soothing circles over his bare chest.

“I don’t remember,” he lies. Because unlike so many nights before, he does remember this time. He remembers being in a sterile, white lab and being injected with clear medication. Over and over again. “Thank you for your service,” says a muffled voice. He remembers feeling isolated and numb, and yet...loyal to some cause he has no name for. Just what kind of duty has he given his life for?

After a few minutes, he finally falls back against the pillows, and Felicity falls with him, her hand still splayed over his heart. He likes her touch on him.

Now that they’re both wide awake, they spend a few minutes selfishly soaking in the silence, in the rest they can only seem to find together.

“It looks kind of like the star of David.”

“Hmm?” he asks, running his thumb over the back of her hand.

“Your tattoo.”

She’s talking about the Bratva mark. He still has no idea why he has it--could be something he did undercover, as a means to an end. No doubt someone else’s end, knowing his bizarre set of skills. This is one of those rare times he is grateful to not be able to remember.

“I think I've been to Israel once,” he says out of nowhere. “I don't really remember. I just...have a feeling about it.”

“My mom's Jewish. Well, I guess, technically I'm Jewish too. That's why I...” she hesitates.

“Why what?” he gently urges, wanting to know more about her, wanting to know everything.

“That’s why I was in Hong Kong,” she finally says.

He frowns. “I don't understand.”

She sighs. “I don't work during the Rosh Hashana. And my CEO insisted that I be the one to represent the company at the Hong Kong conference to make up for lost time”--she lifts her hand just enough to make appropriate little air quotes--“Whatever that means. He knows I work overtime on a regular basis.”

She wears an adorable pouting expression, puckering her lips just a little, as she goes on. “But if I didn't take that time off, then I wouldn't have been in Hong Kong. And we wouldn’t have met. So really I should be thanking him, I suppose.”

Oliver chuckles. “Sounds like be thanking your mom for raising you the way she did.”

Felicity smiles. “Oh, she would like you.”

“Yeah?” He’s so pleased by that notion that his hand unknowingly starts a thumb war with hers.

“Yeah. Still, being Jewish. I've never been to Israel.”

“Well, maybe I can take you sometime.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hmm.” He leans in closer.

“It's a date.” Her eyes widen in dread as soon as she utters the words, and he wants more than anything to wipe that fear from her eyes. “Or not. It's...whatever you want it to be, Oliver.”

His lips twitch. “It's a date.”

Since traveling across Asia seems to be their thing, he wonders what playing tourist with her would be like...as a normal couple. He’s starting to wonder a lot of things now that were incomprehensible before, things like traveling for fun, taking a vacation, the future. Is this what people think about when they’re not chasing the very thing that’s trying to kill them?

If it were only possible for them to just...stop, to disappear, to never have to be constantly looking over their shoulder, always wondering when the next attack is coming. But there’s no freedom in what they’re doing now. That’s no way to live. Felicity deserves so much more from life than he can currently offer her.

xxx

“This is hard for you, huh?” she asks him on the ferry ride across the Black Sea.

He looks down at where their hands are intertwined on the railing, the way her small, smooth fingers so obviously contrasts with his rough, calloused ones. In a dark hotel bedroom, it’s easy to pretend those differences don’t exist; but in the harsh light of day, all he can focus on is every minute detail that makes them unusual...makes him unusual.

“What, hypothetically dating someone?” Even now, he is unsure that's what they’re doing. The word sounds small and inaccurate to convey what they are to one another.

She chuckles, pressing her head deeper into his shoulder. He’s gotten so used to feeling her there that he dreads the day she’s not there. “I just mean...being like this. Being happy.”

Oliver sighs, staring out at the endless still waters. This boat ride is so very unlike the one that woke him up, the one where his memories truly come to a halt. Is this what happiness feels like, this fluttering on the edge of the unknown? He may be better than he was before, but he doesn’t deserve happiness; he knows that much.

“This might sound strange, but I don’t think I’m capable of being happy,” he says.

“Oliver…hey, don’t shut me out. Not now.” Felicity reaches for his cheek, turning his head towards her, but he shuts his eyes tight. He just can’t...look at her right now. The weight of his dark but limited past is too much. The weight of their unknown, out-of-reach future is too much. He just feels like he’s still stuck in the middle of an ocean, reacting helplessly to wave after wave, like he’s only half a person, half alive.

Somehow, in the peaceful stillness and on quiet waters, with just the two of them, he finally dares to linger in the darkest, most unsteady cavern of his mind and admits his deepest secret. “Felicity…” he whispers hoarsely. “I don’t know who I am.”

Of course, with no hesitancy, she meets him in that somber place. “I know who you are. No matter what happens, no matter what we find out, you’re a good man, Oliver. No one can take that away from you.”

He swallows. “I wasn’t always a good man. And I’m not so sure I am now.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve...I’ve killed people, Felicity. I killed that man yesterday. I didn’t even think. It just...happened.”

“You were protecting me,” she pleads.

But he shakes his head, reluctant to accept that, cringing at the new memories he wants to push away but that will never leave him. “There’s more to it than that.”

“Maybe before, you didn’t have any choice. Besides, if you don’t remember doing it, then it’s not really you, is it?”

“I don’t know,” he huffs, wondering what it will take for her to finally see him as he truly is. Why doesn’t she hate him? Maybe she’s incapable of hate. Just like maybe he’s incapable of happiness. Except, sometimes, in rare, precious moments like this one, he thinks he could be happy, if he just tried hard enough. But if she is the exception for him, what does that mean for her? If she can still rely on strangers, maybe he can, too?

Finally, he turns to face her completely, to tell her at least something true and real. “But I do know two things, Felicity. Whoever I am...I am someone that will do whatever it takes to stop what’s coming.”

“Well then, we stop what’s coming.”

He smiles at how easily and naturally she’s adapting to this existence. Whatever this is exactly.

“And the second thing?” she asks, clearly not letting him get away with anything.

Despite the calm waters, the wind is fast and constant. Reflexively, he reaches up to push a few blowing strands of ebony hair out of her eyes, tucking the few short ones that will stay in place behind her ear. It’s silly, perhaps, but he’s already starting to miss that ponytail of hers.

“When this is all over, I want to be with you.”

It’s as much a promise as he is capable of making right now. He wishes it could be more. But Felicity doesn’t seem to mind, as she rises up on her tiptoes to kiss him sweetly. And what’s quickly becoming his favorite variation of kissing her is keeping his eyes open for as long as possible, as if to make sure this is really real, just until her lips touch his. He soaks up the scent of her like a sponge. Being with Felicity is...healing. She gives him something to fight for beyond himself. What is he giving her in return? A life on the run. A fragmented existence. There is no buoyancy with him. He doesn’t know how to keep himself afloat without drowning her...without drowning in her in the process.

xxx

When they arrive three blocks west of the entrance to the Çırağan Palace and Felicity pulls up images of the hotel, it becomes very apparent that is not the sort of place Alexi Leonov would venture into. Resting on the border of the wide Anatolia River, the Çırağan Palace is a lavishly large hotel, decorated in ostentatious Byzantine architecture with imported palm trees and dozens of ornately tiled pools filled with crystal clear blue water, the kind of water that satisfies you just by looking at it. This place is, in a word, a palace.

And it is so obviously designed to attract wealthy tourists, while paying false homage to the local culture. The palace holds too much flare for Alexi Leonov and maybe even for Oliver Queen, though evidently it's not too much pomp and circumstance for Thomas Merlyn.

They walk side-by-side, hand-in-hand down the crowded street, ducking down the hidden side alleyway used by staff to dodge the main regal entrance gate. Felicity is dressed in a bright red dress and heels, standing out just enough that she actually blends in here.

“Talk to me, Felicity. How many exits?” Oliver asks as they keep walking, his palm pressed at her back, whether to guide her or keep himself grounded, he doesn't know.

“Four,” she states automatically, and then she begins listing off verbatim the blueprint he had her memorize yesterday. “Two side exists, one on the southwest side, one on the northeast--which is right and left from the main lobby area. The front door--but only if the other two aren’t an option. And this one, obviously. Which is the best option...for us.”

He nods. “Good.”

She takes a breath, and he can almost see the wheels turning in that beautiful head of hers.

“Oh! And if I think I'm being followed, I put my purse over my right shoulder. Keep walking, don’t look back until we make contact.” Her voice drops to a low register, in what he assumes is meant to be a very poor impression of him. “Why do we say ‘make contact’--why not just...meet up? That way it doesn't sound like an alien abduction. Not that I believe in aliens--”

“Felicity--I need you to focus.”

“Sorry.” She pushes up her glasses nervously. “I still don’t understand why you won’t let me just hack the hotel security and records from the past month.”

He gives her what he hopes is his best no-nonsense look. He thinks he might be losing his ability to read others’ reactions to him, since nothing he does seems to ever shake Felicity. “We’ve been over this,” he reminds her. “I can’t risk that they aren’t monitoring this hotel. And even with your skills--”

“I mean, what kind of hacker would I be, if I couldn’t breach lame hotel security undetected?”

Her quirky attempts at humor are not enough to set him at ease. This time, it’s his turn to take a deep, unsteady breath, as he surveys her from head to toe, secretly hoping something, anything will be out of place so they can postpone the inevitable.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing, just...you don't have to do this.”

A strange look of determination crosses her face. “Yeah, I do.”

“Okay. If anything happens, I'm right outside.”

“I know.”

His eyes drop to her lips. He wants to kiss her again, but they both don’t need that distraction right now. She needs a clear head, and he needs to be a soldier to keep her safe.

He keeps his gaze fixed on her retreating figure. At the door, she gives him a quick backward glance and small smile before disappearing.

The wait is agony.

He waits and paces and scrapes his fingers through his hair and checks his watch; but every time he does, mere seconds have gone by, not the hours that he feels. He knew he should have taken the time to invest in some comm units. What if something happens to her, and he’s too late? What if something goes wrong and--

A soft hand tap on his shoulder nearly has him falling over in shock. He’s never allowed himself to be snuck up on before, and here she is...a dove startling a lion. He’s so relieved to see her that he almost pulls her up into his arms, but he manages to restrain himself at the last second.

“You got it?” he breathes.

She nods, evidently pleased with herself.

He checks his watch again--it’s only be a fraction of the time he estimated for this endeavor to take. “What did you do?”

Suddenly, she’s talking very fast, and her voice carries a strange tone of underlying guilt that he doesn't understand right away. “Well, the guy at the counter was kind of smiling at me--not smiling like serial killer kind of smile, but it was more than simply being polite; kind of like ‘Hey, I think I could flirt with you”--honestly, it reminded me of this guy I met freshman year--

“Felicity--”

“Right. Well, anyway, I just thought, all this trouble...why not just ask for the papers?”

He blinks. “You just...asked for them?”

“I told him I was your Executive Assistant--not you you, obviously, but the other you. This you.”

She hands him a small stack of papers, revealing details about Thomas Merlyn that were unattainable before, filling in the gaps of his past lives one piece at a time. Apparently Thomas Merlyn works in international business for Merlyn Global, and he’s clearly in a lucrative field, as this is his third visit to this exact hotel. He’s beginning to understand why he hoards so many names. Names have power. Some names open doors that other names would not.

“Oh, and I got this.”

He looks up to see her playfully waving a green flash drive at him, practically beaming at him with glee. “Another mystery in the Oliver Queen saga. I cannot wait to plug this into my laptop.”

Whatever look he sends her has her pausing, doubting herself. “So, did I do a good job?” Felicity asks.

He laughs once, shaking his head, because she’s done more than that, so much more, in ways that go beyond that tangible. She sees the best in people. Even him. Whereas he trusts no one. Except her.

What a fine, messed up pair they make.

He can’t stop himself from running his thumb across her cheek, just once, relishing the freedom that he gets to do that sort of thing now. “Felicity, you’re remarkable.”

She blushes in that radiant way he’s come to expect and cherish. “Thank you for remarking on it.”

xxx

He stumbles on the stairwell up to their cheap hotel room on the third floor.

“Hey, are you okay?” Felicity helps him keep his balance on the landing, and he feels bad for any added bodyweight of his she has to support.

“I’m fine,” he groans.

“You are not fine. You’re having some kind of panic attack.”

He doesn’t panic, though. That’s not who he is. Which means something's wrong.

Oliver remains cognizant just long enough to collapse onto the small bed in the corner of the room. As soon as his head hits the mattress, seconds and hours and days begin to bleed together. He has no idea where he is. He’s back in the middle of the ocean, lost and helpless and cold. He stumbles inside the mazes of his mind, spreading like vines with thorns.

He dreams of being in the lab again, this time surrounded by masked, faceless surgeons in dark scrubs, all hovering over him like he’s some sort of lab experiment, poking and prodding him for hours. He screams against the pain, but the pain doesn’t stop. It never stops. It keeps biting him, consuming him, making his whole body tremble restlessly. He spins into the abyss, his mind nauseous and numb.

And then...out of the fog comes a beacon. A light. A voice. She sounds too good to be real. Through blurry eyes, he can just barely make her out, wiping his damp forehead, placing another cool cloth on his stomach. Somehow he feels better, just knowing she’s here.

Sleep the voice patiently urges.

And he does.

xxx

His fever breaks in the morning. His body quivers with the aftershocks as he slowly emerges from the fog. He spots Felicity sitting on the other end of the bed, taking up the only spare space he left, her gaze intensely focused on the computer in front of her.

In his struggle to sit up, Felicity’s head pops up. “Hey.”

He sighs in relief, at the way her voice is like a balm to his mind after the war he feels like he’s just fought inside his head.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m good,” he croaks out, his voice raspy from sleep and whatever else...that was.

“Not even close, but the fever seems to be gone at least.”

Oliver groans, stretching his arms to push himself into a sitting position. He heaves with relief again when his back is resting against the wall.

“What was that?”

“Well, I don’t know much, but I think you’re going through some kind withdrawal.”

“Withdrawal from what?”

She gives him a sympathetic grimace, hinting at something he doesn’t pick up on right away. “Told you it was the drugs,” she mutters, before handing him a glass of water which he downs instantly, grateful for the cool taste.

When the entire glass is empty, he asks, “Why hasn’t this happened before?”

She shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine. Medicine is not exactly my forte.”

He shifts, scooting down the bed to sit close to her and look at the screen on her lap. His hand comes up to run in slow circles along her back, a habit he’s picked up since Kiev. It’s then that he notices the green flash drive sticking into one of the USB ports. She’s already working on his behalf, already buried herself in research that he didn’t ask her to do. While he is proud to have her help in all of this, he’s also...worried. It’s one thing for him to sell his soul to this crusade, because he’s pretty sure he already forfeited his soul a long time ago. But it seems so much worse for her to lose herself in the process of trying to save him. Why should she be the one stop the demons that he helped create?

“What did you find?” he asks, ignoring his growing concern for her, gnawing in his gut.

“Not much,” she answers, resuming her typing and not bothering to look back at him. “There’s a file. It’s the only one I could get open, and that was after a significant amount of hacking.”

He frowns at that statement. Has she been up all night hacking? He can see the bangs starting to grow under her eyes, and his hand seems to press more deeply, more gently into her back on a will of its own.

“The whole document has been redacted,” Felicity continues, “except for this one word: MIRAKURU. I think it's the name of the black ops group that you're a part of. Have you ever seen this before?” She points to the screen.

“No,” he answers honestly, but knowing what the word means. Miracle. And yet, it’s more than that. It’s another code, the very tip of his iceberg of secrets.

“Oliver.” The new change in her tone has him on edge, especially when she twists to look at him. “Based on what I’m seeing, I think you were going to expose this...program. Don’t you see? This proves that you’re not a bad person.”

He grimaces. It hardly proves anything. He’s still killed. He’s still the monster in all of this. Whatever information she’s found, one good deed does not a lifetime of misery erase.

His mind suddenly fills with another scene...a memory, murky at first but slowly becoming clearer. He sees clearly for the first time--he sees himself with long hair, a wig, getting the Chinese tattoo painted on his abdomen. Somehow, he knows that getting this tattoo is essential for some infiltration purpose. He’s rehearsing his Mandarin inside the base of operations. Instinctively, his hand covers his stomach where the markings reside, as the words that didn’t make sense before finally click into place. And a new connection seems to fill his whole head with new energy, as the broken bits of his past self are gradually put back together.

One's good deeds are only known at home. One's bad deeds far away.

“There’s a base of operations in Greece,” he hears himself saying.

“H-how do you know?”

“I...I just do.” He doesn’t know yet how to tell her that he remembers. Because the more he remembers, the less he feels worthy of being in her company. His memories could change things between them. They could change everything. What if he remembers enough to...become the person that he was before?

Oliver groans into a standing position and stiffly trudges across the room to his backpack on the table, combing through it until his hand wraps around the pistol buried at the bottom.

Felicity hops off the bed and rushes to his side. “What are you doing? You can’t go out there in your condition.”

He swiftly loads the pistol and stuffs the weapon into the back of his pants. “I have to stop this. I need answers.”

The intel on the flash drive is still not enough. Why isn’t it enough? Just what exactly is he chasing? Answers? No, he knows it’s something much deeper than that. Freedom. But the only way to get that is to cut ties completely with whatever agency has him captive. He has to go into the lion’s den.

He hesitates, dreading what’s to come but knowing that it’s necessary. Keeping her safe is necessary. He finally turns to look at her, already memorizing the way her eyes flicker as she studies him right back. “And you need to stay here.”

“What? Why? You can’t just ask me--”

“I’m not asking.”

She shakes her head no.

He sighs. Despite knowing that she was going to be stubborn about this, it doesn’t make the task any easier. “Felicity--”

“No, not unless you tell me why.”

“Because I need you to be safe.”

“Well, in case that wasn't apparent already, I don't want to be safe, Oliver. I want to be with you.”

The way she whines you, prolonging the sound, and reaches for his arm sends his heart dropping.

He swallows, feeling the remnants of his soul already starting to crumble at the thought of sending her away from him. “If I'm not back in twelve hours, you lay low and then you take the first train out of here to Berlin. Do you understand?”

She licks her lips, and watches in agony as the silent tears flood those warm eyes. “Oliver, my dad left me and my first and only boyfriend in college left me. And just the thought of losing someone that important to me again…”

“Hey,” he soothes, unable to stop himself from cupping her face and giving her whatever shards of comfort he has left to offer. “You're not gonna lose me. This isn't goodbye. This is...a pause.”

“You can't know that for sure.”

“l’ll come back.”

“Can you promise me?” she breathes.

He can’t promise her that, and they both know it. Suddenly, he feels very heavy, weighted to the earth, as he feels her slipping away from him. Even as she stands before him, he can feel the distance separating them growing wider and deeper. He senses the walls she’s putting up between them, because he’s well practiced in this tact of survival, too. He’s just never been on the receiving end before. It hurts more than he thought it might.

Since he doesn't have an answer for her, he settles for kissing her forehead.

He pulls away far too soon and checks his supplies one last time. He decides to take only the barest amount of money, just enough for transportation to get to Greece and maybe some food, if he feels up to eating later. He leaves her the rest.

Felicity’s voice is barely above a whisper but it strikes him harshly all the same. “I...I won’t be here when you get back.”

He spins. “What?”

Her lips are trembling, and she looks ten shades paler than before. “I'm sorry. And I know that there’s no way of avoiding this. And I wish I could change your mind...but I know I can’t. Just like I know leaving you is going to destroy me, but…I just...can’t wait around for you to die.”

Oliver moves to stand before her, to be in her orbit just a little longer, his ridiculous resolve instantly forgotten. “What are you saying?”

Her hands come up, her palms pressed gently into his arms, like she’s trying to memorize him one last time, too. “You know, Oliver, I wanted to come along on your awesome adventure, because I wanted to help you. But I realize...we have to let each other go. I hope you find the answers that you're looking for.”

“Please don't...” he begins gruffly. Don’t go. Stay with me. Yet he’s unable to go on. How can he ask her to stay, when he’s the one leaving? “You know, in the beginning of was just gonna do all of this by myself. But now...I rely on you.”

She smiles briefly, but it’s a haunting, hollow smile, nowhere near the same beaming smile that he’s grown used to. “Oliver, I’m just afraid that whoever these people are, they’re going to use your humanity against you. This could be trap.”

He shakes his head, not disagreeing with her. But what other choice does he have? “Felicity--”

“Oliver, I know you say you don't what kind of person you are, but...all of this--you--it's changed my life for the better. And I don't know...if I'll ever see you again, but...I do know two things. You are not alone, and I believe in you.”

Oliver feels in his heart the moment it’s decided. This moment. They’ve both made their choice. Now they have to live with them. He cups her face once more. “You know there's no going back to your old life,” he breathes.

“I know,” she says. “And for whatever it’s worth, I don’t regret a single moment.”

His lips twitch at that, hinting at a smile, reminiscent of a life they almost had. “Be careful. Avoid any major intersections. Don’t get on a plane, whatever you do. I'm sorry I can’t protect you and be with you at the same time.”

“I don’t accept that. And you shouldn’t either.” She sniffs. “You won’t forget me, will you?

How could he forget about her? She's the only person he knows. “I will come and get you when this is all over,” he assures her.

She nods sadly, staring at his lips.

“The only way that I’m gonna survive this is if I know that you’re out there, living your life. Happy.” His grip on her face tightens just a little, as if to make her feel his resolve through his fingertips, as if to demand that she be happy. Even without him. Especially without him.

With his thumb, he swipes away the streaks of tears on her face, before letting her kiss him one last time, letting himself indulge in the feel of her skin and strength just a few precious seconds more.

And then he does the unthinkable. He lets her go.

xxx

Either no one expects his coming or the European base of operations is too easy to infiltrate. The facility is dispersed throughout ten floors of a run-down apartment complex, by all appearances completely harmless, hidden in plain sight. He counts six guards stationed throughout the winding staircase, and he takes each of the men out easily, wasting no more than single round a piece.

Finally, in the very last room on the very top floor, at the very end of a dim, narrow hallway, he enters a room filled with screens and no analysts. The room is deserted except for one large figure standing directly in the center of the room, his back to the door, like he was waiting for him.

“You move and you die,” says Oliver, tightening his grip on the gun.

“That's fair, though I was hoping you'd hear my end of the story first before jumping to conclusions.”

Oliver stills. He knows that voice. The deep voice with the accent. It’s the voice from his nightmares.

“I thought we were on the same side,” the voice continues.

“And whose side is that?” barks Oliver.

The man abruptly turns around, and something inside Oliver starts to buzz, because he swears he almost recognizes this man, a little older than he is, with broad shoulders and a heavy beard. But what really draws Oliver’s attention is the ominous patch over the man’s right eye. Oliver wants to ask him how he got it, but curiosity is not a luxury he can afford right now. He cannot let his guard down.

“So it’s true,” the man says. “You don't remember. All the years we’ve spent together, training, as brothers. Gone in an instant.”

“Who are you? Why are you trying to kill me?”

“I’m not the one who’s trying to kill you, kid. It’s the people we work for. And it’s thanks to me that there haven’t been more misfired attempts on your life.”

Oliver hesitates. “Why should I believe you?”

“I haven’t attempted to harm you yet, have I?” The man spreads his arms wide, showing off his empty hands, glancing around the room, as if the walls hold the answers they’re both searching for.

But Oliver isn’t fooled by this act of armistice. And his instincts prove correct in the next moment.

“How’s the girl with the glasses? What’s her name? Fe-li-ci-ty?”

Every alarm inside Oliver goes off, and it is only thanks to the rigorous level of self-control he has obviously been programmed for that he maintains his composure and doesn’t just lunge to snap this man’s neck right now.

“She’s dead,” he declares.

The man just tips his head in false sympathy, and Oliver can’t tell if he believes him or not. This man is yet another exception to his rule--neither a target nor a threat, exactly, but someone he remains wary of.

“You want to tell me how this happened?” his supposed brother-in-arms asks. “What happened with Maseo Yamashiro?”

On the surface, he sounds like someone concerned for his friend. But Oliver easily reads this stranger's underlying tone--the man just wants intel. And for once, intel is something Oliver does have, which makes him want to cling to it even harder. Pieces have started coming back in the last few hours, so he thinks he knows the answer to this one.

“You sent me to kill him.”

“NO!” The man roars, suddenly invading his space, that for one Oliver flinches a little. “I sent you to be invisible! I sent you, because You. Don’t. Exist.”

Oliver shivers, not from the words but from what the words are triggering inside him. He shivers at the onslaught of...memories. So many memories. He remembers everything.

He remembers getting the tattoo so he could infiltrate the Yamashiro gang. He remembers spending almost a week on board the freighter, waiting for his opportunity. He remembers putting a gun to Yamashiro’s head, his finger just over the trigger... And then he sees the little boy running onto his target’s lap.

He knew Yamashiro had a son. Akio. He read the file. He studied Maseo Yamashiro for weeks.

And yet...seeing a child in the midst of a war... That sent him reeling. Oliver doesn’t recall exactly, but he somehow senses that he has a connection with this boy. He knows but doesn’t really remember watching his own father shoot himself in the head to save his life.

He remembers hesitating, lingering on the brink of a choice. How can he derive this child of his father right in front of him? Does he want to create more ghosts like himself? Why does he continue to work for these people who turned him into nothing more than a weapon? He’s never had a choice about being the loaded gun. But he does, for once, get to choose where he puts his aim.

Impulsively, Oliver lowers the gun he carries now, unloading it and tossing the useless weapon on the ground, listening to the projectiles clang against the wooden floor, rolling, their echoes filling in the loaded silence.

“I’m done,” Oliver breathes.

This only serves to make the man before him all the more angry. “No, you’re done, when I say you’re done! I created you, kid. I can uncreate you.”

He senses the second the atmosphere between them shifts, the moment just before his enemy strikes. Oliver is faster. The man goes for his throat right away, but Oliver swiftly blocks him, before throwing his weight fully into the fight. They wrestle for some time, but eventually Oliver regains the upper hand, pushing his enemy to the ground and swiping his gun from his waist. He holds barrel right to his temple, letting the man feel the cool ring of the muzzle next to his brain, letting him feel how close he is to death.

“I swear to God, if you touch her or if I so much as feel another soldier at my back, I will come for you, and I will kill you. Do you understand?”

He doesn’t wait for the man to answer. He prolongs his grip on this man’s life just a little longer, letting him see that he could choose to kill him if he really wanted to. But he doesn’t want to. Not anymore. Not ever again.

He swallows and then unloads the gun, sending its parts scattered across the room.

Standing up, he declares, “Oliver Queen is dead. He died on that boat in the North China Sea.”

And then he does what he does best--he disappears into the night like the ghost that he is. He remembers running on the freighter deck and being shot at and...then a blank. The next thing he remembers is waking up with Viktor standing over him. Just like that night everything changed the first time, he vanishes. Only this time, he doesn’t run. He walks away, calm and cool and collected and...free.

He thinks about Viktor. His very first reaction--his instinct--to human contact after waking up had been to...to kill. He had almost succeeded. It was pure confusion that had stopped him from making himself a murder.

Perhaps this is his destiny after all.

Everything that has happened has led him right here, to this moment. And if that’s true, then what is it all for? He doesn’t know.

I do.

He can hear her voice inside his head, his one constant in the storm, the beacon calling him to the shore.

xxx

It takes him four months to clear his identity, to wipe the slate clean, to start over.

He grows anxious when it takes him nearly as long to find her. She is better at covering her tracks than he originally gave her credit for. Of all the people on the planet, it’s her he had to run into in Hong Kong. They have so much in common. And yet nothing in common.

He finally finds her in the last place anyone would think to look--right at the epicenter of her former life--a small, downtown computer store of a dying urban community called The Glades. It's quite brilliant, actually, the way she's buried herself within a new identity.

“Felicity Smoak?”

She spins, golden waves swishing around her shoulders. Her hair has grown a little since he last saw her, though it’s not nearly at the length when he first met her.

He feels like he’s meeting her all over again.

Her eyes widen as she plucks a red pen out of her brightly-painted lips.

“Hi, I’m Oliver Queen.” Off her shocked expression, he can’t stop the smile that easily spreads across his face, nor does he try to. Now that he seems to have rendered her speechless for the first time ever.

She recovers quickly, playing along. “Of course. I know who you are. What can I do for you, Mr. Queen?”

“I’m having some trouble with my computer, and they told me you were the person to come and see.” He produces the computer in question, placing it slowly on the desk.

“They?” she manages to squeak out, as her eyes drop to the bullet-riddled laptop. She starts rubbing her lips together, and that adorable little crinkle is already starting to form between her eyebrows. Oh, she is breathtaking.

He’s so enamored seeing her again, he tells her the first lie that comes to his head. It’s a bad one, but he doesn’t care. “I was at my coffeeshop surfing the web, and I spilt a latte on it.”

“Really?” Her teasing look alone nearly breaks him. “What do you take me for, Mister…?”

“Queen,” he answers with a smile, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Right. Mr. Queen.”

They pause, taking a moment to regard one another. And he feels his soul come alive watching that easy smile grow, brightening her entire countenance.

“You know, for an ex-agent...whatever you are, you really suck at lying.”

“Well, I guess I’m a little out of practice.”

She’s darting around the counter and leaping into his arms before he can say anything else. His arms come up and around her back, pressing against the softness of her frame, pulling her body as close as he can. And he sighs. For the first time in forever, he can finally breathe. Sinking into her embrace, an overwhelming yet freeing sensation comes over him. It takes him a long time to realize that what he’s experiencing is peace--the feeling that he’s been craving. He belongs here, surrounded by her warmth, dwelling in her presence.

“You know, I think I want to go to Bali.”

She pulls back just enough to look up at him, thankfully staying within his embrace. His hands are already reacquainting themselves with the little dips in her lower back. “Bali?”

“Mm-hmm. Want to come with me?” He leans down to brush the tip of his nose against hers, watching her lips pinch together as she pretends to consider his offer.

Then she smiles. “Yeah. I'd go anywhere with you,” she answers brightly.

“Yeah?”

At last, he’s finally found the place he’s been secretly searching for all along. He nuzzles her neck, drinking in her springtime scent, letting himself accept this newfound freedom. And when he kisses her--softly, gently at first, but deepening as she kisses him back with a kind of ferocity that nearly takes his breath away--that’s when he knows for sure.

“Oliver?”

His name on her lips is both a dream and a beacon, waking him up, calling him home.

“Just one question.”

Anything, he thinks.

“Is there email in Bali?”

And he laughs, really laughs, before pulling her close to kiss her again. And he doesn't let go. For a very long time, he doesn't let her go. Thank you, he seems to say as he kisses her deeply. They were the first words she ever spoke to him, and they are the words pulsing inside him as he holds her in his arms again. They have become his quiet anthem to the universe since the day he ran into her...or she almost ran into him.

They end up taking a private boat to a private island in Bali. One boat ride may have rescued him from the brink of death, but this boat ride is the one that brings him back to life.

While he never really stops looking over his shoulder, eventually, he comes to accept that the ghosts of his past are always going to be his shadow. It's up to him whether he will constantly dwell in the past or keep moving forward.

xxx

His first conscious thought is more of a feeling.

Hope. Quiet, searing hope. The kind of hope that fills him to the brim that he nearly chokes from happiness.

And when he wakes in a beach house bedroom, drowning in a sea of golden curls, it’s not a startled awakening. It’s more like a long exhale. His grip on the person sleeping next to him tightens just a little, pulling her body just a fraction closer to his, whether to keep her warm or keep himself warm, he doesn’t know.

All he does know is that at last Oliver Queen has found himself. Because he found her.

Tag Team: I’m tagging my usual squad, plus anyone who expressed interest in being tagged after my recent fic announcement. If I missed anyone, I apologize! This is the most requests I’ve ever gotten. Thank you so much for reading!

@1106angel / @almondblossomme / @andjustforthismoment / @astoryreader / @bekaoperetta / @candykizzes24 / @dust2dust34 / @emmaamelia95 / @felicityollies / @geniewithwifi / @god-lock / @holysmoaksoliver / @hope-for-olicity / @it-was-a-red-heeler / @jedichick04 / @kmart1885 / @lovejesusarrowavengersblog / @mel-loves-all / @memcjo / @millennialfangirl / @minny28 / @mochababychristy / @mogirl97 / @nishtanight / @olicityotp-always / @redpensandgreenarrows / @scu11y22 / @sovvannight / @spaztronautwriter / @stellahellaviola / @the-silverforked-sky / @wherethereissmoak

#olicity #oliver x felicity #olicity au #olicity fic #olicity fanfiction #olicitysquee #arrow au #my stuff #shelley does fic #the queen identity

158 notes · View notes