#also i forget if i’ve adequately expressed this on here yet but i LOVE my job!!!!!!!!!!

[starbuck]

the fact that i get predictably more productive when i’m working is SO funny… today (first day off since i started work) i’ve done ALL my laundry (four loads), read half a book, done more duolingo than i have all week, AND i went food shopping… who AM i????????

[spencerscoven]

— dreams of another

about ; Since that night in the office you wander onto Spencer’s mind at all times, like clockwork.

gif by saramichellesgeller

CONTENT WARNING: unedited, smut, oral sex (male&female receiving), choking, unprotected sex, cheating, angst

a/n: view part 1 here.

The second time it happens, it's only a week that passes before Spencer finds himself on the floor of the humid conference room, his limbs entangled with yours, while the cool air settles on the sheen of sweat coated on his forehead. In the corner of of the room, he watches the navy blouse discarded carelessly on the top of a chair, similar in color to the marks between your breast.

The third time it happens, he tells you it's the last time, with his back facing you and his eyes gazing at entirely nothing.

The fourth and fifth time, Spencer doesn't say anything in the tiny space of your bedroom as he overlooks the buildings surrounding your apartment, then all the way to the concrete foundation down below, studying how insignificant everyone looked. How unknowing they were to the moral wrongdoings happening all around them.

"You live so high up. I live four floors down from here in my own building." You listened as he said those fruitless words.

"What does that mean?" You questioned, lips pursing together while your finger nails caught on the creases of the cream duvet beneath you where he laid only minutes before.

“People like you are meant to fuck people like me.” He mumbles, smirking, the vibrations of his voice upheld by the enclosures of cheap plaster walls.

The only thing left to do was to watch as the muscles of his back contracted, dancing in the lines of the darkness with the patter of his feet coming towards you. You monitored the direction of his hand as it reached for the band of his briefs, the other already latched around your neck.

The sixth time it happens, it’s in the bounds of his own apartment where he presses peppery kisses along the sides of your face, assuring you in confidence that she wouldn’t catch the two of you there. And he reassures you the only way he knows how, his fingers plying at your zipper and kneeling like he would at an alter, guiding the arch of your hips closer.

Two weeks from then was when the phone calls started. You began to understand the pattern, laying awake until the sweet pinnacle of dawn where he’d whisper your name through the receiver, exhaustion tainted in Spencer’s voice when he’d ask, “how was your night?” before he began to speak. You’d listen to Spencer talk about the good and the bad. About his mother, vintage cufflinks, and the bookshelf he wanted. Sometimes about the glasses or earrings in the store had reminded him of you. Often about how pretty you looked latched onto his cock. You wanted him to want to keep you.

You wanted him to want you first, to touch you before you even had to lay a finger on him, to grab the back of your neck and kiss you first. Anything he could do to prove that he wanted this too. Something in your head told you it was wrong to long for such a furtive thing. But you found yourself willing to be second best anyways, head stuck below sub zero while you prioritized the taste of his lips along with everything else that made him, him.

So in the shadows this thing between the two of you remained.

And the team began to realize Spencer now had a thing with being late.

They also began to realize that you didn’t drink nearly enough coffee to warrant all of your disappearances.

JJ malignly embarked on the observation of the two of you during meetings, where you never met Spencer’s eye properly but unconsciously leaned your body towards him with each interaction. And all at once it made sense to her, why he was more drawn to his phone, departing from bed at night in preference of hushed ringtones, his growing fondness to late nights. They had never agreed to a proclamation of love, not even on the days she relaxed on his dingy apartment furniture. JJ figured it was his way of waiting on her to feel the same as he might’ve, when in reality it was Spencer’s way of making sure you still remained in his life.

It was a Tuesday when she let the structure of your sin unravel in the bleak corner of the hallway with Spencer, confessing “i know” and chastening him,

“How many people are you willing to hurt?”

With the unequivocal decision pinned to the front of his brain, Spencer told you he didn’t want to hurt anyone else during the last call the two of you shared at night. The words became lost from your ears as you feigned deafness, thinking about how stupid you were to take him in the only way you could, thinking one-third of him be adequate enough.

So you hung up before he said goodbye, and it was easy to do solely because if love couldnt suffice, hate would have to.

It was odd to overlook the call that came immediately after, your eyes unblinking at the white screen. The weeks after that only came to demonstrate that finding a home within someone was overrated, even if you knew who was behind the blocked numbers that caused your phone to viberate so often it would fall off your nightstand.

Little by little you figured you’d forget and move onto your own devices, exhausted by the ability that you still moved through life, yet experienced none of it without itching for him next to you. You lusted after the idea you’d wake up with the intensity of it all slipped from your mind, forgetting how his arms felt, skin, pulse, the sound of his voice, or the soft ringlets of his hair that continued to grow as you wilted.

A harder idea to get out of your head was if he was okay, followed by if he ever thought of you at the same time you thought of him. Did he know you wouldn’t have minded resigning to another team? Or that you considered doing it, even now?

Spencer spectated your life, the base of his throat becoming caught when he watched you get worse, speak less, become smaller. You’d shrunken within yourself. Months passed, with him having too many inquiries about you to Morgan, who always gave him a disappointing look, but told him about you each time. That you hadn’t been sleeping, internal clock stuck on keeping you up until the crack of dawn, your mind regressing backwards solely because of him. He gave up on leaving those stupid sticky notes in your books that said “call me!” or even the ones that asked if you were okay, asking if you able to stand on your own.

He watched you so long that he began to see you get better, more social as you expanded, becoming a part of the team again. You were different, but you were you again. It was a bitter pill to swallow when he took heed that your life no longer included him, keeping his lips sealed at any revelation that would show he was still devoted.

So it was dull-witted when he found himself outside the door of your apartment, swaying back and fourth because every night since the last call his world had been spinning faster and faster, trapping him inside as a prisoner. For weeks straight Spencer had awoken with the feeling of bile ready to rise out of his throat, your presence always lacking even if you controlled the beat of his heart.

He knocked. And thought about how angelic you looked when you answered, the confused expression not going unnoticed by him as a celebration sounded somewhere in his mind because you looked as if you weren’t expecting anyone else. And Spencer knows he’d collapse right then and there if you had been.

“I’ve been thinking— it’s not like I can really stop it— for months. It’s been around sixty eight days since we last spoke,” He began, taking you in, enstilling trust in his brain to get a photo of you so well that he could have it forevermore if you didn’t want him anymore. If that had ever been the case he’d leave. He’d leave the state if you asked him to.

“Why are you here?” You only had four words to say out loud, the rest buzzing around in your head safely, unauthorized to rise out of your throat.

“We never really said anything about it but I think we both knew how we felt.” Spencer leans closer just in time for his lips to land beside your ears, lighting a match inside your chest that had stayed extinguished for far too long.

“Speaking was never our strong suit, anyway.” You replied, your lips pursed while your arms took on a defensive stance, pushing him back gently.

You were shipwrecked inside, pushing him back again, this time firmly because you knew you couldn’t stop him from coming closer, even if you wanted to. You were at a standstill as his hands brought yours to his shoulders, drawing circles on your hip with the tips of his fingers. He was in your doorway asking if he was yours, not trying to eloquently wrap you around his finger.

Your limbs acted before your mind did, digits moving across his adam’s apple and holding tight, restricting his airflow like he had done to you so many times while he fucked you into the mattress. You gleamed at him with not much in your eyes, trying to remembering when you had tried to cross the thin line between love and hate for him. Spencer’s eyes were soft and adoring, a look which he had a tendency to give you. So you held tighter. And he did nothing, knowing you wouldn’t go far but willing to die in your hands if you truly wanted to.

“I don’t know if you deserve this anymore,” Your lips ghosted over his, reprimanding him that he’d forgotten that this had began in a game of adultery.

“I don’t.” Spencer’s voice came out as if he was parched and you had been refusing him of a drink. Your hands released his neck and instead grabbed at his jaw, allowing his lips to mend together with yours, unable to speak back.

“If I loved you any less, I’d be able to talk about it more.” He pulled away just enough to whisper those words.

“You love me?” You questioned, a bit timid in the way it came out.

“It’s more than that. I adore you. Worship, even.”

You felt yourself moving the both of you into your apartment, swapping the publicity of the hallway for the privacy closely afforded to you. Your bodies only got so far, pushing each other against the wall next to the enterence, Spencer’s hands helping to arch your body into his, hands pressing down the curve of your back.

You enjoyed feeling him subtly grind his hips against you while he let out little whimpers, remembering the way he was so vocal and sensitive, yet dominant when he laid between your legs. You drew in a quick breath as he bit down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw the red liquid that ran through your body, conflicted as to why it only drew you closer, want intensified.

“I missed you so much,” Spencer’s voice ghosted in the crook of your neck, kissing and sucking along your throat and collarbones, pushing the palm of his hand harshly against your damp cotton underwear, drawing a shiver from you. “Are lilacs still favorite flowers?”

His fingers played along your slit, the pads of his thumb pressing on your clit and rotating above the fabric, watching your hips jerk from the subtle pleasure.

“I think you missed me too,” Spencer held you, switching places so you now were encased between him and the wall, knowing that soon enough your knees wouldn’t be able to hold you up. His index and middle finger filled you up in a way only he could, the tips of them curving in his direction as he hit the bumpy ridge inside of you.

You held his shoulder, uncaring that your nails dug into the expensive button up he wore, admiring that he always preferred quality over quantity. Your face contorted in pleasure as his fingers only pumped faster inside of your vagina, only smirking at the sorry attempt of a nod you gave to answer him because he had rendered you speechless.

You felt the climb of your orgasm rise in your stomach, reaching all the way to the rest of your limbs, making them feel as if they were just static attached to your body until his fingers ceased, sensing how you clenched around them desperately. Your mouth opened, protests ready to fall out while he grasped the back of your knees, signaling you to jump so he could carry you to your bedroom.

“Why are you always such a tease?” You groaned, endearingly grabbing the hair at the nape of his neck.

“I can’t just let your greedy pussy swallow my fingers and cum from just that...” he tosses you into your sheets gently, leaning down to take your top off and throwing it somewhere to be rediscovered again.

He watches silently as you lift your hips off the mattress, panties sliding down your calves to your ankles, and finally off. Spencer gazes down at you, your jaw in his two hands, staring up with puppy eyes. He let a line of swears spring from his mouth, wondering why you looked so innocent when your hands were planted on his hips, licking the precum that made a wet patch on the side of his pants.

“Quite unfair that I’m the only one with my clothes off, don’t you think?” Your hands settled on his belt buckle, the jingle of metal filling the room as you undid the button to his slacks as well. Tugging him by the band of his boxers to lay on the bed with you, Spencer caught the cue and laid against the headboard. He trailed his left hand along your thighs, lifting you to straddle him as his right latched onto your breasts, squeezing.

“Please sit,” He said, taking a nipple into his mouth, “On my face.”

You sat in a slightly worried daze, Spencer catching the clue to just move you into the position. You found yourself facing the mirror at the foot of your bed, your ass in his face as he grabbed at your hips, trying to bring you higher and get a taste.

“Are you sure?” You apprehensively twisted your torso to eye him, taking note that the two of you had came across something you’d quite done before.

“Yes, I need you to.” Spencer reached his arm around, gently rubbing your clit, and feeling how your whole body relaxed from above him, as he repeated affirmations against your back.

You watched from the mirror, your ass propped up in his face and lips swollen. You could even see when you began the swivel of your hips into him. He didn’t need to say much else before you arched your back, planting your pussy right above his lips.

“You’re so pretty.” He whispered, before running his tongue flatly against your pussy.

Your hips jerked back and fourth, riding on the surface of his tongue that enveloped your clit, sucking on it harshly until he flatly ran it up. His fingers were back at work, touching the places where his tongue couldn’t reach. You determined that this position was now one of your favorites, your hands that were once placed on the tops of his thighs reaching for the bludge in his boxers.

You tried pulling them just far enough so you could begin to run your hands up and down his cock. Spencer’s tongue only assaulted your clit harder when you leaned down, allowing him a new angle so you could push him into your mouth, collecting the precum that had spilt, humming in delight.

Spencer couldn’t stop the thrusting of his hips upwards, burying himself deeper down your throat, both of your moans viberating off the atoms in your room. Your eyes wandered up as you watched, hypnotized at the reflection of you two. It made you wanna take his dick deeper, taking him to the back of your throat as you felt his cum ripple out.

Your orgasm only took a few more seconds to follow his, your moan muffled from your jaw expanded around his cock. Your hasty breaths harbored his while you saw stars. You were casted out of your stupor when you felt the palm of his hand rub circles into your ass, hand coming down in a smack.

“This fucking pussy has me whipped.” Spencer sighed, pressing a kiss exactly where his hand last struck.

When you positioned yourself back across his abdomen, you kneeled, kissing him. You felt him twitch under you from tasting himself on your tongue, reaching down to line up his cock to enter you.

Spencer stared up at you, his eyes wide as he took in the sight of you slowly descending your pussy on his cock. His hands traced the hickies that dawned on your chest, then to his on his lower stomach, watching how the two of you connected. These were marks of possession— ones that he could finally show off.

You rolled your hips against his, slowly circling them and allowing him to hit the most sensitive parts of you. You felt so much fuller than usual, the feeling taking your breath away. Nobody else could reach those heights that Spencer gave you. Maybe it was also because nobody else could occupy your mind like he could, either.

He pulled you down so the two of you could reunite your lips, wearing away at the callouses that had formed around your heart. His thumb drew slow circles on your clit, pulling your orgasm out so you could cum above him. It took a few more thrusts before he came inside you, continuing to fuck his seed back into you from below for just a while longer. When Spencer’s hips stilled, he kept inside, basking in the embodiment of you that wholly consumed him.

He silently traced the outlines of your features, your eye lids fluttering as he reached to them. His fingernails scratched your scalp im a rythem that lulled you into hazy exhaustion. You feel his stare on your face as it occurs to him that he was doomed from the start. You were a wonder to behold.

“Spencer?”

“Yes?”

“Did you forget all of the things I remember?”

“I don’t think I could even if I tried.”

masterlist

[lambourngb]

day 7 : cheerleaders, or the people who make this fandom thing fun

day 7 for @roswellnewmexicocreate - and this is the hardest day ! ❤️

My recent obsession is Ted Lasso, which thank you tumblr, so when I think about why I’m still involved in fandom, it boils down to the speech in 1x10 (that I recycled in a fic I love it so much)  there’s something worse than being sad, it’s being sad and alone.

2020 was a very bad year, and um, 2021 is actually fundamentally worse for me in so many ways, but I’m still here, still loving on this alien show. There are so many people that have helped me along, and I know I will miss someone, my anxiety almost guarantees I never feel like I’ve thanked enough people or supported those in my life adequately.

Anyway, here’s some people who keep me around or keep it fun for me, my village where I’m the idiot:

In no particular order:

@haloud - I cry in your DMs, like literally cry, so thank you for never turning me away. You’ve inspired so many stories, and I’m learning from you all the time when it comes to writing, when it comes to being a fan, and most importantly when it comes to being a friend. Anyway, I love you so much. All I can do to repay you is write endless Michael-on-his-knees stories for you, since those feels come from your work- along with Alex loving sweet coffee but torturing himself with black coffee.

@adiwriting & @litwitlady - you’re a package deal in my head, both of you are endlessly creative and always with a good insight on the show. ❤️ The fic output you guys have constantly amazes me with both pace and quality. I treasure our many conversations, and the way you both generously support me. 

@tasyfa - my wild writing sprees and comma abuses haven’t scared you off yet, so I’m endlessly grateful for that. Thank you for indulging my war with the past perfect, and looking forward to another year of sending you my crap so you can spin it into gold.

@arielana - I don’t know where to begin, first of all, thank you for hitting up my DMs that first time. You’ve been a wonderful cheerleader - always knowing the right amount of prompting to use on me, and then such a lovely feedbacker, but I think my favorite role you’ve taken on is author- thank you so much for sharing your writing with us, I can’t wait for whatever you write next. You’ve also made season 3 so much fun with your wry observations.

@bisexualalienblast - Amanda, I was just a star-struck fan of yours when we were matched for the RNM Big Bang, and now I’m still star-struck, so that hasn’t changed, but I love trading DMs with you about the show. Thank you for yelling about all things Malex, Michael, and Vlamis with me and producing some amazing gif-sets.

@manesframe - oh man, where to begin, I don’t know if you know but the encouragement you gave me in my ask box last fall while I was writing my big bang helped fuel me along. Secrecy meant I couldn’t share any of the writing, but just seeing a message expressing excitement was so amazing. Thank you for being such a great friend, and I look forward to picking your brain on my future put-Michael-in-therapy fic.

@christchex - you’ve been a real lifeline last year. I am always learning from you, you help me see new perspectives, balancing the Doylist with the Watsonian look at the show. Thank you for giving us Sharkey and Walt Sanders, and also for not yelling at me too much for my endlessly sad head canons. 💖

@faraway-stables12  - Forget the malex stuff, I had so much fun watching the Euro cup knowing we were going to discuss it later. But also, you’re a rockstar in your support of creators and feedback, thank you for being a part of this fandom with me.

@finckyoufreeky - I don’t know how many times you’ve picked up my spirits, they’ve been too many to count. The last forever-long pandemic year it has been hard, I’ve enjoyed our conversations from US politics to what’s happening in your country and I still am sending you so many positive thoughts after hearing what you went through personally. Your tags always make me smile.

@foggyfestival - I love your dash, how fiercely you love Malex, how generous you are with reblogging and boosting creations on tumblr, thank you for your efforts at creative a positive fan space, they are truly appreciated.

@soberqueerinthewild - girl, not sure where I’d be without you, but probably in a worse off place. Thank you so much for sharing your life events with me, filling my DMs with your questions about Deep Sky and plots, and I adore reading all your tags, they are spot on. And as soon as 911 /LS 911 restarts, I can’t wait to livewatch with you ❤️

@el-gilliath : babe, what more can I say? You’re a blast of good reason and salt and endless support. One day when travel happens again, I really want to get a drink with you, but for now let me love you from afar - because you are too cool of a person to be my friend.

and now here’s where my anxiety takes over because I know I’ve left off tons of people, both from discord, tumblr, and AO3 - and I’ve probably hurt your feelings because I didn’t name you, so I’m so sorry. Validation is important. It matters. I do write for others, I write to share it and so I can see everyone’s reactions, and if you’ve left a comment, kudo, reblog or just sent an ask, you’ve helped me continue to create in the last year, so thank you. ❤️

[I wrote this on a painkiller and way too much coffee, so forgive my overly emotional and lengthly entry on this day.]

[theonceandfutureking6481]

BBC's Merlin Season 1 Episode 4: The Poisoned Chalice Analysis

This is one of my favourite episodes, in this season, mainly for Merlin and Arthur. They are wonderful in this episode, and this is the first episode where you really see them starting to truly care about each other. This is a show fundamentally about love and the relationships between every character, and Merlin and Arthur are at the core of the show. Everyone in this episode though is so brave, and I admire them all so much. I talk a lot about a lot of different elements of Merlin on here but what I really love about this show is how much the characters inspire me, how much I admire them because I'm not sure I could ever be as brave as these characters, but I'd like to be.

Merlin's courage

There's not much in detail I can say about this but Merlin is so brave at the start of this episode. To burst into the king's hall and publicly accuse another king of attempting to poison Arthur. It's funny but one of the parts of Merlin's courage I most admire isn't his bravery to die for Arthur, it's his willingness to speak out when somethings wrong, his willingness to publicly embarrass himself, his willingness to be brave even when he could be wrong. It's a reachable form of courage, I don't think any of us frequently (or ever) have the opportunity to die for others, but in many ways the fact that we could all be as brave as Merlin in this way, that's what makes it feel so much more unattainable and thus more admirable.

The bigger courage though really is when Merlin drinks from the goblet, honestly even though Uther made him, Arthur probably would have drunk it but Merlin didn't let him. Merlin knew he would die if he drunk from that goblet, because he believed Nimueh to be telling the truth (which she was), but (as Arthur says) "he did it anyway." To meet death so willingly, it's not like jumping in front of someone in the moment in a battle, he had to make the choice to drink that poison because he is willing to sacrifice his life for Arthur's. And it hasn't got anything to do with destiny yet, he cares about Arthur, Arthur's his friend and Merlin's a good person. It's just a very noble moment for Merlin, Uther was making him but at the same time you could see Merlin choosing to drink from it, that's a choice and that was incredibly noble.

Arthur and Uther

There is tension between Arthur and Uther in this episode, between their views on the world and honour. It is, I think essentially summed up in.

Arthur: Because his life's worthless?

Uther: No, because its worth less than yours.

It's funny, you can see Uther's perspective here. He is right about one thing, Arthur is the future king, even if he's not inherently worth more than Merlin the stability of the kingdom rests on a secure succession and Arthur is Uther's only heir, there is more at stake here.

But Arthur's also right, a world in which any single person's life is protected more than others because of their social position is not a good place. It is not something Arthur believes in, but in Uther's world its just a given, it's not even a question that people ask.

Uther: This boy wont be the last to die on your behalf

Arthur: I can't accept that

Arthur never accepts this inevitability, he always seeks to risk his life first before any one else's and people follow him because of that, people (even his enemies) see the nobility in him because of that. His refusal to accept what to Uther appears to be an inevitability of kingship (Not a welcome one granted but one nonetheless) is what's going to make him a better king than Uther. As Morgana emphasises when she's persuading Arthur to go.

Morgana: And what sort of king would Camelot want? One that would risk his life to save that of a lowly servant, or one that does what his father tells him to?

Isn't this really just the point, Arthur will be a better king than his father because for him his right to rule is in some way always premised on his fulfilment of what he sees as right. Arthur is always trying to prove himself, especially in the early seasons. In Season 2 Episode 2: The Once and Future Queen when Arthur is fighting in a tournament under an alias so people don't know its him (and they will hopefully not let him win), you really see this.

Gwen: You have nothing to prove, least of all to me.

Arthur: I have everything to prove, to myself.

This is the fundamental point, Arthur is always trying to prove himself often to his father or others but always primarily to himself. Because he needs to prove to himself that he can rule Camelot, that he is deserving of it, so for the fact that he's going to be king to hold any weight he needs to do what he thinks is right, because if he doesn't then what sort of king would he be anyway?

This ties I think into what I mentioned in the last episode about Merlin and the greater good. The idea that Merlin never really makes the choice to kill Morgana or Mordred, except for in a moment where it was Morgana or Arthur, where it was a certain in the moment choice. Yes, he reaches a point where he tries to let them die but this is different to outright murder, and I think perhaps a Merlin who would have killed them is not a the Merlin we know, it is not a Merlin that could have formed Camelot. Arthur and Merlin's goodness comes from always trying to do the right thing, whatever the sacrifice to themselves, and if they hadn't been those sort of people then there is no way they could have been people who made a better kingdom.

Gaius: Arthur may give you a hard time, but at heart he's a man of honour. Not many people would have risked what he did for a servant

Uther

Uther's interesting in this episode, he has one of his worst moments in the show, not the worst thing he's ever done but certainly one of the worst things we witness. He purposefully lets Merlin die, we could understand it when he wasn't letting Arthur go after him, but to try to destroy Merlin's only hope for a cure to teach his son a lesson, that is cruel and so wrong. This takes valuing Arthur's life more than Merlin's to a whole other level, he values Arthur's obeying of him more than he values Merlin's life.

This goes to another feature of Uther's character I was just thinking about. He constantly mistakes control for love. He seeks to control both his children, he wants them to obey him, and if they openly defy him or disagree with him he punishes them. But he does love them, probably more than he loves anything else. When Morgana stages a coup against him and tells him how much she hates him he is broken, and he literally never recovers he does love them that cannot be denied but he spends so much of his life mistaking his controlling them for an expression of his love. It is an expression of his fear, he is scared of being out of control as he was when his wife died. Magic can be dangerous but mostly it caused him great suffering (although really it was him), so he seeks to control it absolutely, there is no nuance there and this is how he behaves towards his children. Hate and fear are terrible things to be motivated by, and Uther shows that. His hate comes from his fear, and his cruelty comes from there as well.

One thing, Uther does accept his fault at the end of this episode. It's not really adequate but its better than nothing and in its own way shows that Uther is capable of character development, and the fact that he will fail to do it in the most important ways is sad. His moment when he says to Arthur that Nimueh "is evil", it is so clear he is talking more to himself than anyone else. Isn't that a sign of trying to persuade yourself, he has to tell himself that Nimueh's evil cause ultimately she was just doing what he asked, and if he doesn't villainise her absolutely than its his fault too.

The one moment that really does redeem Uther a little in this episode is when he tells Arthur that "You did the right thing... I'm proud of you Arthur, never forget that." The last comment is telling, Uther knows he's not the best father, he knows that Arthur probably doesn't realise that Uther is proud of him. So the 'never forget that' is a reminder, I think, for when Uther inevitably forgets that himself. It is a reminder, for us, in its own way that Uther is trying to be a good father, and at least in this realm Uther realises that he very often fails.

Morgana

One interesting thing I noticed in this episode was how frustrated Morgana is with her life. I've never really noticed it before, but its in everything she says and does, even in the episodes before this. Even before she turns against Arthur and Uther and Camelot she is angry, not just at them, she's angry at her life. You can tell she feels like she doesn't have the power to do anything, like she's being controlled and perhaps like she isn't able to anything good or right because of Uther and her position, she feels pity for all the magic users but she is a part of the body that persecutes them. How do you reconcile that?

Morgana: Sometimes you have to do what you think is right and damn the consequences

There is so much frustration in that, and everything she says in this scene. I don't know exactly what this says about Morgana's character or her eventual place in the story but its interesting to note. Perhaps its to say her hatred of Uther and eventually Arthur isn't only because of her sympathy for magic users and eventually her own fear and feelings of being unloved but perhaps has its roots in her anger at this time, in Uther's control and her own powerlessness.

Merlin and Arthur

This is Merlin and Arthur's episode, so its kind of funny it took me so long to get to them, but there's really not that much to analyse in the wider scheme regarding them. They just are, and they are wonderful.

This is the episode where you see they do truly care about each other and they are truly good friends They risk their lives for each other with barely a second thought, and yes that is partially their own honour and decency but it is also fundamentally their care for each other that motivates them. You can tell when Merlin's thinking about destiny when he saves Arthur, it becomes such a huge part of his characterisation later on even though he loves Arthur more by that point he also admires him more so Arthur's destiny seems more important. Merlin doesn't really admire Arthur that much yet, he respects him and cares about him but the sheer admiration he will have for him comes later, and it is that admiration that makes him care even more about Arthur's destiny, because he believes in it far more. Right now though it is just their goodness and their friendship that motivates them.

The final moment between them though is beautiful. The moment when Arthur goes to Gaius' chambers just to check that Merlin's all right, even though he's obviously been told he is. He brushes it aside as usual, brushes how much he does actually care about what happens to Merlin (I mean Arthur did just go on a perilous quest that could have led to his death for him so I think Merlin gets it). But the moment at the end of that scene is lovely. There is just such mutual respect and recognition of each other and what they've done for each other, and the way they look at each other is just so wonderful.

Merlin: Thank you

Arthur: You too

Nimueh

One quick note about her. We will find out eventually what her motivations really are, that she's obviously not just evil. That she is angry at Uther and understandably so. And I wonder if in her there is a parallel for Uther I hadn't considered before. Both of them were involved in Igraine's death and Arthur's birth. And it was as a result of this action that Uther outlawed sorcery and began the great purge. She out of everyone knows best how hypocritical Uther really is. And in her own way, though it is obviously not her fault, it is her actions that set off the great purge. Uther made the choice to blame her and all magic but nonetheless it was a spell she cast that was the trigger, and I wonder if in her own way she feels guilty (just as Uther feels guilty about his wife's death) but like Uther she takes it out in anger rather than guilt. I'm not saying she should feel guilty, perhaps over Igraine's death but certainly not the great purge. However, she most probably does, and like Uther I think she's refusing to feel that guilt, and to avoid that guilt she chooses hatred and anger instead.

Bravery

Everyone in this episode though, is so brave. Gwen, Merlin, Arthur and Gaius all do risky, brave things that could get them killed, though maybe not killed in Gwen's case but certainly in huge trouble. Gwen sneaks into the dungeons and Gaius does magic. We will learn more about Gaius' character later but he is in many ways not a brave person, he is the sort who witnesses injustice and stays quiet, he's not brave. But he's brave here, he does magic, for Merlin, because he loves Merlin like a son. All the courage and bravery in this show comes from the love people have for others, and that's an important message, that the people we love and our own ability to love others can inspire us to be better people and to be brave.

Their immediate response to Merlin's apparent death moreover is guilty, they have nothing to feel guilty about, it's Uther's fault, but they blame themselves anyway. There is in that a contrast to Uther, who refuses to blame himself. They don't take their pain out in anger, they accept it and even though they have nothing to be guilty for the fact that their immediate response is guilt does say they are better people, braver people than Uther.

Other things

Morgana holding that butter knife ready to fight Bayard's men is the funniest thing ever. Like its an impressive butter knife, but it is still so clearly a butter knife.

Also so many bad guys plans in this show rely on Arthur or Merlin being fundamentally good people, like when your plan involves using people's goodness against them you need to re-evaluate your choices in life. I suppose its part of the point though- that they are willing to harm the innocent or take advantage of goodness in their anger. Uther punishes goodness in this episode.

My new motivational quote—> Gaius: "As the Old proverb says: Hard work breeds..........a harder soul." Merlin: "There is no way that's a proverb. You just made that up."

[nandalorian]

the gentleness that comes

Sometimes you just get thinking about random things like “what if Jaskier decided to Eternal Sunshine himself to get over the mountain breakup?” and then proceed to ruin not only your life but the lives of everyone else around you. 🙃

Jaskier/Geralt, PG-13

“No mage can do what you’re asking. Not even, I would wager, something as powerful as a djinn, or at least not in any way that would bring you peace,” Tissaia explains with more patience than Jaskier honestly expected. For all the fearsome tales he’s heard of the headmistress of Aretuza, she is either kinder than he deserves, or the stories have done her very, very wrong. Perhaps both. But her eyes are steady, her expression serene. Absolute. “Just as we cannot induce someone to fall in love, nor can we make them fall out of it.” She pauses to offer a sympathetic smile. “I am sorry. For you to have travelled such a long way, I suspect you do not make this request in haste.”

The compassion in Tissaia’s voice is terrible to hear. After all, sometimes kindness can look like cruelty before you’ve gotten enough distance on a thing. Certainly the opposite is true, anyway. Jaskier would know. He lowers his gaze to his hands, of a sudden fascinated by the calluses on his fingertips, the ragged skin around his nails. He has to take several deep, steadying breaths before he answers. 

“No, not in haste,” he manages at last. “I have prayed for it for some twenty-seven years.”

“Any man would be blessed to have captured such a loyal heart.”

Jaskier can’t resist a scoff. “Any man indeed.”

Several long moments pass, and eventually he must accept that Tissaia has said all she can on the matter. He forces himself to smile and climb to his feet, whereupon he sketches a bow fit for a queen. Tissaia doesn’t rise. She barely blinks, a statue rendered in green velvet and black lace.

“Mistress. I thank you for the tea, and your candor,” he tells her, still inclining his head with a hand pressed over his heart. “It’s not often a humble bard may boast an audience with the great Tissaia de Vries. If ever you are in need of musical entertainment, I proudly volunteer my services. I’m in your debt.”

“You are in no one’s debt, Lord Pankratz,” Tissaia answers, serenely as ever. At no point during their conversation did Jaskier tell her his full name, having introduced himself as Jaskier the Bard and no more. His title is useful to fling around in situations that call for it, but not here; Tissaia would see through any attempt at peacocking. “Nor are you merely a humble bard. You are most welcome here, as any friend of Yennefer’s is a friend of Aretuza.”

“Jaskier, if you will. And I’m not quite sure Yennefer would deign to call me a friend, but I’ll take it.” He smiles back and speaks through the tightness in his throat. “It’s been a pleasure.”

He is almost to the door of her study when her voice rings out again.

“Jaskier.”

He turns.

At some point Tissaia stood without making a sound and came around the desk to face him with her hands clasped together. “I cannot fulfill your wish as such. But I may be able to offer an alternative. One that comes at a great cost.”

Jaskier swallows and hopes the thrill of hope--and fear--elicited by her words isn’t completely obvious. “I’m listening.”

+

Her solution is quite simple, really, and so obvious that Jaskier isn’t sure how he didn’t think of it before. 

However, nor is Tissaia’s warning in jest: the cost is great indeed. So great that Jaskier cannot in good conscience be sure it is one he’s capable of paying.

Not monetary, of course, though he came prepared to empty his pockets and offer his soul if necessary. No, the cost is something more significant and precious than any coin or favour. Much more.

“A memory spell is a rather straightforward matter,” Tissaia explains as she and Jaskier walk the halls of Aretuza. Their destination is unclear, but where Tissaia goes, he follows. He’s not stupid enough to do otherwise. “It’s a spell even a novice can be expected to perform adequately, with the proper training, of course. One never knows when war might be averted by something as simple as a king forgetting an accidental slight, or a maid forgetting a conversation they were not meant to overhear.” She shrugs. “Not always the most elegant solution, but effective.”

A shiver crawls down Jaskier’s spine and makes the hair stand up on his arms and the back on his neck.

Magic, especially the kind taught at Aretuza or Ban Ard, is an ethical grey area, and mages have always played hard and fast with the rules, holding themselves above the trivialities and petty concerns of human morality. That’s why they’re mages: feared, awed, and resented in equal measure. 

That Tissaia speaks so casually about altering people’s memories, of mages’ power to decide the course of history according to their own values and interests, is a frightening concept. Most days Jaskier can’t decide what to eat for breakfast. And yet here he is, about to consider letting one of the most powerful mages in history stick her creepy magical fingers in his brain and give it a stir. He should consider getting his sanity checked instead.

Jaskier casts a sidelong look at Tissaia. “But falling in love isn’t like hearing something you shouldn’t, or being offended by a poor choice of words. It’s--”

“Complicated. Yes, quite. And even erasing the briefest of memories does not always go according to plan.”

Without warning, she stops in front of a heavy set of double doors, which she throws open with a flick of her wrist--a useless bit of pageantry, that, but one that distracts from Jaskier’s increasingly pressing urge to flee. Tissaia gestures for him to follow her inside and walks on.

Jaskier doesn’t immediately obey. Drumming his fingers anxiously against his leg, he leans over to peer inside, mind racing ahead to images of a frightening laboratory, potions bubbling away in vials, screaming victims strapped to tables or floating in giant vats. It’s--

Oh. A library.

Huffing to himself, Jaskier adjusts the strap of his lute on his shoulder and hurries to catch up.

The place is massive, far larger than it looks to be from outside, with soaring ceilings and giant stained-glass windows that reach several stories above their heads. Shelves upon shelves line the walls, stretching from floor to ceiling, and dozens more sit in neat rows upon multiple levels, staggered in tiers like a duchess’s birthday cake. They are filled to bursting with books, of course, interspersed with tables and comfortable chairs for mages at study. Jaskier can count at least four fireplaces burning merrily away. Right now he and Tissaia appear to be the only ones here.

With a theatricality he can’t help but admire, Tissaia turns and holds out her arms, encompassing everything and looking very like a queen showing off her kingdom. “What do you see before you?” she asks, voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space.

Jaskier furrows his brow. The question is almost certainly a trick of some kind, so he answers with the first thing to come to mind. “Uh… books?”

“Precisely.” Tissaia lowers her arms. “Tens of thousands of books, each of them containing spells, histories, first- and secondhand accounts of untold lifetimes, many of which have been forgotten but not lost.”

“Memories.”

She nods. “Yes. But memories are not like books. And magic, even in the hands of the most talented user, is not like taking a book down off a shelf. It is not a matter of selecting a few chapters to discard and letting the person continue on their merry way. The mind is a much more delicate and complex thing. If it were to be a story, it would be a very messy story indeed, with no clear narrative or plot, no chapter headings, and not necessarily even a single voice.”

“Sounds like some of my earliest compositions.” 

He titters at his own joke; Tissaia’s expression doesn’t budge. 

Unnerved, Jaskier clears his throat and has to break eye contact, looks around the room instead. After a moment, and with a smidge more gravity, he asks, “Why are you telling me this?”

Once again Tissaia regards him with that patient look from before. “Because you must comprehend that there is a price to what you’re asking, and why I do not suggest this lightly. If you are truly serious in your quest to rid yourself of Geralt of Rivia, and I sense that you are, there is a possible way forward. But to erase this one chapter of your life will require throwing out many more--whole volumes, whole books, shelf after shelf of memories. Possibly the entire library, if things do not go according to plan.” She pauses and steps forward to touch his chin, forcing Jaskier to look at her. “Do you understand what I am telling you?”

He swallows with difficulty, throat catching on the boulder suddenly lodged there. It wouldn’t do to ruin the moment by asking how she knows this is about Geralt, even though Jaskier definitely didn’t tell her and did his best to avoid thinking about him during their initial conversation. But his reputation precedes him, after all, and if not that, he really doesn’t want to know the extent of the mage’s legendary powers of telepathy. He also thinks to bring it up now would be missing the point.

“Are you saying I will forget my whole life?” he asks.

“Unlikely, though not impossible,” says Tissaia like that isn’t an utterly testicle-shrivelling statement. “That is the worst-case scenario. The best is that you will cease to remember everything since you met Geralt. That is, in essence, what you want, is it not?”

“I’ve known Geralt since I was barely eighteen.” Panic suffuses his voice without Jaskier quite meaning it to. “I’m forty-five years old.” 

Eighteen-year-old Jaskier is a mystery to him now. Oh, he vaguely recalls joints that didn’t creak and a back that offered him less trouble each morning upon rising, a cock that would swell at a hard gust of wind and balls that never seemed to empty. That boy could sing all day and dance all night in and out of people’s beds. He was loud, annoying, impetuous, drunk on the sound of his own voice, and full of love. So full of love that he could saunter up to a complete stranger with white hair and yellow eyes and end up following him around for twenty-seven years instead. Well… twenty-four, if you don’t count the last three since they become estranged. Which Jaskier absolutely does not.

His enduring muse and most steadfast friend; his life’s greatest and most unfulfilled passion. 

His most profound heartbreak.

Not much has changed about the last part, but Jaskier likes to think he’s grown wiser with age, less migraine-inducing. He lived enough to discover what pleased him before it was taken away.

Are any of those lessons worth unlearning, for any reason?

“Eighteen isn’t a bad age,” Tissaia remarks, breaking through his thoughts, or perhaps deliberately interrupting. She has been steadily taking in Jaskier’s internal struggle with that calm, measured gaze, though her attention is sharp. “By then most of us have some idea of who we are and what we want. Enough that you could begin again.” 

Jaskier slants her a look. “Mages are immortal, and you’re one of the oldest still living. Please don’t condescend to me that eighteen is anything but as unbearably young as it sounds.”

A small smile. Perversely, it reminds him of Geralt. “When you’ve lived as long as I have, forty-five is unbearably young too.”

Ruefully, unexpectedly, Jaskier barks a laugh and concedes the point with a nod. “Touché.”

They linger in that shared bit of humour for a moment, Tissaia’s smile widening and making her look abruptly more human since they met, and then she cants her head. She gestures, and from seemingly nowhere a book tumbles off some far-off shelf and flies into her hand. With an enigmatic smile, she turns it over to reveal the spine and hands it to Jaskier. The Songs of Jaskier the Bard is tooled on the front in gold, winking in the firelight. 

“You’re more fortunate than most: there’s an account of your life right here. Should you want it, that is.”

“I’m not sure I do anymore.” Jaskier peers at the book from the corner of his eye. It almost hurts to look at it directly, to think of the tales sung about in its pages, the joy, the adventure, but also the love and heartache couched beneath every note, every clever turn of phrase. The next words are a genuine struggle to get out, and he tries with everything he has not to cry. “No, I think that time has quite passed. I want peace. And if not peace, then at least blissful ignorance.”

“Hm.” The sound is neither pitying nor understanding, merely thoughtful. Tissaia regards him critically. “Then you may have it. You’re still a young man. Not a grey hair on you, and I’ve my suspicions you’ll live for a while yet.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes at her. What does that even mean. “What does that mean?”

She chuckles. “It means you have time. And time heals a multitude of wounds. Not perfectly, but… passably.”

“And--what? I can find love again, or some such tosh?”

“If you like.”

He huffs. “I used to think that. I did. Give it time, and eventually I’d meet someone new who would make me forget Geralt ever existed, blah blah blah--yes, I know, the irony of that isn’t lost on me.” Jaskier is quiet for a moment. “But I don’t know if that’s true anymore. It’s been three years. The wound hasn’t healed, only festered. The more I try to open my heart to others, the more it seems to close.”

“It is said people linked by destiny will always find each other.”

“Oh, I know that one. That’s a prison sentence, not a comfort.” 

“I didn’t intend for it to be.”

At last Jaskier forces himself to look down at the book in his hand. It has a pleasant heft in his hand, the weight of a life lived well. For twenty-seven--no, twenty-four years he gazed upon the face of the man he loved and loves still. Sang of him, to him, the way seabirds call to the sea, a song in their blood even when the crash of the surf is too far away to be heard. 

Is that enough? Can it be enough?

Perhaps it will have to be. Or perhaps he can simply wake up tomorrow and not remember or care what the correct answer is. Forget even that he asked the question.

He sets the book down upon a nearby table and pauses only to run his hand down the cover, leather supple beneath his fingertips. In his mind’s eye is Geralt--not spitting mad and vicious on a mountaintop, no, but as Jaskier first saw him, sitting quietly by himself in the corner of a tavern. Trying so very hard to escape everyone’s notice, and yet once he caught Jaskier’s eye, quite impossible to look away from. Impossible not to love.

Jaskier turns back to Tissaia and meets her gaze steadily.

“I understand and accept the risks,” he says, confident in a way he does not feel. That has always been his way. Even, it must be said, at eighteen. It’s enough. It will be enough. “Now tell me what I must do.”

[arwenadreamer]

I didn’t want to post anything about this whole unnecessary tantrum some people are throwing. Because I don’t want to give them and their “cause” any attention. Rather spread my love for the show and the finale.

But it seems I’ve reached the point where I can’t hold back anymore from typing this.

“THE MAJORITY OF THE FANS WANTED TO SEE DEAN/CASS ENDGAME!” (I saw several posts claiming that. Some saying that 90% of fans hated the finale.)

Well, I went on IMDB. Where every Heller gave the show a one star rating. At least, they promoted that as much, as they are now promoting to boycott the CW. Should we have a look at the numbers I’ve found there?

Thats 7462 one star ratings as of Nov. 26th. Let’s say the ones in the low ratings have a similar agenda. (Up to 3 stars.) Thats 7911 negative ratings. On the opposite end there are 7099 positive ratings (8 to 10 stars). That’s just about equal. (Let’s say all the ratings in the middle are genuine ratings. While I’m sure quite a lot of the 10 star reviews are a counter movement to Hellers one star attack.)

I’m sorry, but that’s not only not an overwhelming majority. It also proves that those who scream so loud are really a tiny minority, living in their own bubble. 7462 one star ratings. Out of 1.4 Million viewers. That is about 0.5%! 

0.5 %

I’m sure not everybody who hated the finale rated on IMBD. And not everyone who loved Cass most is throwing a tantrum that he isn’t in the finale. Not all Destiel shippers do this. Yet they might have wanted a finale in which Castiel at least appeared, if not reciprocrated. Let’s be VERY generous here and ad another 9.5 % (Another 133 000 viewers). That would make 10% of the viewers rooting for either Destiel or Cass or both. Still not even close to a majority. 

But we shouldn’t forget that most international fans don’t show up on the viewer count. And not only international fans watch on streaming services. Which makes the percentage of people who gave a one star review even smaller. 

So no, not EVERYBODY want’s Destiel canon.

(This is not against any Destiel shipper /Cass fan that wasn’t happy with the finale, but only expressed their dislike respectfully and in an adequate manner. I get it. I’ve done the same with episodes I don’t like. I just would never tag cast or crew, wouldn’t call people names. And certainly wouldn’t start (or participate in) any campaigns to hurt the show, network, actors, etc. So if you did any of this, then yes, I am criticising you.)

[sarahjtrash]

Confusing Connections

Jurdan, 2.1K, Rated T

Summary: “You had to get surgery,” Vivi explains while putting the straw in my mouth. “The doctor said you might experience some mild amnesia afterwards.”

A/N: This has sat on my computer for probably a month. I can no longer bear to look at it, so I posting it. There are some mild QoN Spoilers at the end. Enjoy!

-o-0-o-

“You’re finally awake.”

The voice rattles through my head. Opening my eyes feels like dragging them through molasses, but I am too vulnerable with them closed. Beside me is a ceaseless beep that makes my ears pound. As I spin my too heavy head towards the voice, my vision slowly comes into focus, and I find Vivi in the bedside chair. 

“Why do I hurt so much?” I groan with a surprisingly croaky voice.

Vivi stands, presses a button, grabs a glass of what looks like water, and sticks the straw towards me. 

“You had to get surgery,” Vivi explains while putting the straw in my mouth. “The doctor said you might experience some mild amnesia afterwards.”

I try to blink through the mind fog and move my dense limbs as Vivi sets the water back on the little side table. All of Vivi’s words slip past me, expect “Doctor?”

“The surgery was one that the faerie healers felt uncomfortable trying, so you and Cardan decided that it would be best for you to come to the human realm since it is a more routine procedure here.”

The name sounds familiar, but I can’t remember why. I open my mouth to ask just who Cardan is when the door opens and the most beautiful man I’d ever seen enters the room. He wears simple jeans and a flannel, with a little Styrofoam cup emitting steam in his hand. 

Vivi lights up at his presence. 

“Good news! Jude woke up"—the man whips around to look at me—“she’s going through some amnesia like the Doctor said.”

With him looking at me full on, I attempt to swallow but find my throat to be thicker than the water Vivi gave me. His cheekbones and jaw line are sharp, and his eyes pierce into mine. My cheeks heat the longer we look at one another. I know my life is in faerie and could identify that the boy is fae with his pointed ears and ethereal beauty, but I am certain I have never met him before. For a moment, I wonder if he knows about the electricity coursing through my veins. It flickers between us for a moment, and I swear he feels it too. 

That is, until he hands the cup to Vivi. 

Of course. 

This man is clearly not of this world. He is not mine to have. He is, in fact, Vivi’s. I wish it weren’t true, and I desperately hope to communicate that.

Instead, all I say, very quietly, is, “Hi.”

Still, he has the audacity to give me a small smile and reply very gently, “Hello, Jude.”

His voice is like a soft purr. This beautiful stranger is too much for me, and I lament the universe for even putting him in my presence. 

I must have been mooning over him too much because he turns to Vivi and asks, “Why is she so loopy?”

“It’s the drugs, I think,” Vivi says. “I paged for a nurse when she first woke up, but they’re not here yet. I’m going to go see if I can flag someone down.”

As Vivi stands, she and the man share a look before the man sits and Vivi starts to walk towards the door. 

She looks directly at me as she says, “Don’t get into too much trouble.”

I have no clue what that could even mean with my heavy limbs and this stranger, but I do note that when the door closes, the air in the room shifts. The man pulls the chair closer towards the bed, and we both cringe at the squeak it makes against the linoleum. 

“How’s my feisty wife doing?” He asks.

Vivi and this man are married. I try to repress my shock, but there’s no denying his words. I thought that Vivi preferred, if not was only attracted to, women. This drugged stupor was clouding my senses too much if I am to forget something like that.

“I don’t know,” I say because I can’t make adequate judgments about Vivi when she isn’t here, and I’m doped up.

The man frowns “How was the surgery?”

“I mean I was asleep, so I don’t know. If you want to talk about it, I would ask Viv.”

“Vivi and I waited together for hours while you got surgery. I already know how she feels. I want to know how you feel Jude.”

With that, he reaches for my hand. Despite the drugs that course through my veins, I whip my hand out of his. 

“What are you doing,” I hiss. 

He looks stricken and oddly defeated. “We’ve been over this, Jude—”

“Been over what? You can’t be touching me and being emotionally close when you’re married to my sister! I think you know that I find you somewhat striking, but I will never help you be unfaithful.”

The man’s mouth opens and closes a few times. His brow furrows, and his head tilts to the side as if he is trying to solve some complex puzzle. “Jude. Do you know who I am?”

I look him over as he speaks, really look at him. Beyond the uncanny attractiveness, he seems drastically insignificant to me.

“No,” I say. “And honestly, I’m very confused because Vivi definitely preferred women from what I remember. Am I supposed to know you?”

He looks like I’ve shot him, and he reaches to grab my hand before thinking better of it. 

“My name is Cardan Greenbriar.”

I gasp. Cardan Greenbriar. This Cardan was not just any Cardan. “Vivi married a prince of Elfhame? Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be in Hollow Hall doing princely things?”

Cardan releases a choking noise. “I’m not married to Vivi.”

“Then who are you married to? Because you asked about your wife.”

Cardan seems like he is trying not to laugh. “Jude. My full name is Cardan Duarte Greenbriar. We are married. You are my wife, and I am your husband.”

I throw my head back. “I’m married? To you?”

“Yes. And you married quite well.”

I roll my eyes as bits and pieces of Cardan’s misbehavior coming back to me. “That’s rich. I apparently married to the sixth to throne prince who is well-versed in debauchery.”

Instead of scoffing or showing any sign of be being perturbed about what I said, Cardan leans back in his chair and smiles. It overcomes his whole face, and while it is partially alarming, I can not ignore the butterflies that stir at that expression. 

“There you are,” he murmurs quietly, almost as if he didn’t mean to say it all.

I don’t think asking him to explain would really be beneficial to either of us, so I let his words hang. This left me to stare at him appreciatively and in doing so, my heart started to thump harder. The beeping of the heart monitor accelerated too.

Closing my eyes and licking my lips, I try to prevent the word from my mouth, but I just blurt, “I guess if we’re married, it’s appropriate for me to tell you that I think you’re distressingly beautiful.”

He looks stricken at my words, and before either of them us could respond, Vivi stormed in with what was probably my nurse in tow.

“I think she’s having more than slight amnesia,” Vivi explains.

The man hums at Vivi’s words and precedes to ask me questions about the date, my surgery, my relationship with people in the room. He seems fine with whatever my answers satisfactory as he begins to share my dispatch procedures. My head is still fuzzy, and I am grateful for Cardan and Vivi’s presence as well as the large packet the nurse hands me. They can remember the protocol on my prescriptions. As he talks, a few more nurses come in and help pull out my IV and sit me up. 

When I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, a powerful wave of vertigo sweeps through my body, and Cardan immediately moves to help support me. He gently leads me to sit in the wheel chair the nurse had brought. Apparently the unsteadiness triggered something in my husband because he grips my hand in his as he wheeled me towards the car. 

I want to tell him that the whole thing was really unnecessary, but his hand feels too nice in mine to let go. I also couldn’t find it in myself to complain when he lifts me up and puts me in the car. Although, when he reaches for my seatbelt, I wave him away. I may be loopy, but I am not incapable. 

Cardan closes my door and goes to return the wheelchair to the hospital.

“Hey Viv,” I whisper loudly. 

My sister turns around in the driver’s seat. “What’s up, Jude?”

“Am I really married to Cardan Greenbriar?”

Viv releases one sharp, loud laugh. “It only took you three years for you to question that decision?”

Before I could answer, Cardan climbs in the backseat next to me. “What is Jude questioning?”

“Her decision to marry you.”

He looks over at me and smiles. “I maneuvered our union so that it seemed to be that of political importance, but we both had been repressing emotions that supported a more loving marriage. It worked out in the end.”

I nod as if what he’s saying make any sense. 

Vivi and Cardan begin chatting about various courts and human related drama as Vivi puts the car in reverse. Some of the people they mention sound familiar as my memory starts to come back in slow blurs. It still feels like I’m wading through mud. So it serves as no surprise that when Vivi merges onto the highway, and their conversation becomes too difficult to follow, I drift off. 

-o-0-o-

I awake because broad daylight punctures the blinds, which is odd given that we don’t have those in the royal suite. A spring digs into my back as well, despite the bed being made of feathers. A small trill of panic courses through me, and as I attempt to sit, the arm wrapped around my waist pins me. 

  My head is nestled against a hard chest and an arm wrapped around my back. Though I cannot be sure of who I am lying with, I have a fairly decent guess. A quick glance around shows that we’re on Vivi’s pullout which eases my stress. I look up at my companion to find him looking back at me. 

I clear my throat. “How long have I been asleep?”

Cardan tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. “Just a few hours. The doctor said that you may experience headaches though as the anesthetic wears off.”

I agree with his assessment, so he reaches for the side table and grabs a few prescription bottles. With his arms over both of us, he scans all the details for probably thirty seconds longer than any human would need to before he selects a few pills for me.

“I don’t know if I want to take that,” I say, unsure of his hesitancy. 

“You are the one who used to poison herself for fun,” he retorts. 

I do not have an adequate response to that and choose to swallow the three pills he hands me without argument. When he takes the glass of water from me, I burrow into Cardan’s chest. He tenses slightly at my movements. Though I knows the doctor, nurses, and Vivi probably told him about anesthesia, I would not be surprised if Cardan didn’t really believe them. If he thought that he lost me forever.

“Cuddling with you is a lot better when you aren’t a snake,” I mumble, trying to conjure something from our history. 

He inhales sharply. “Has your memory returned?”

I nod into his chest.

“So you remember all of it? Am I more to your liking in this form?”

“Yes,” I smile.

With a gentleness I am constantly surprised he possesses, he rolls us so I am properly on top of him. For a while, we just lay there, our breathing matching each others. My hands draw little swirls on his chest, and I catalogue the pain in my ankle where I probably had surgery. 

I mean to ask him, before he says, “Do you really find me ‘distressingly beautiful’?”

I roll my eyes at my drugged statement, but I still concede, “Perhaps, but it’s not as if the feeling isn’t mutual.”

With the reminder of my surgery, I can feel the exhaustion drag through my body again. Cardan’s hands rub up and down my back, and the movement feels supremely soothing. It’s pulling me down into a sweet abyss. Though right before it drowns me completely, Cardan kisses the crown of my head. 

“It’s a lovely world that makes me find you equally distressing, my sweet nemesis.”

-o-0-o-

Masterlist

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: I really enjoy your cultured posts and especially about wine. I never knew that Roger Scruton wrote about wine! You tantalisingly talked in bits and pieces in past posts about your chateau vineyard in France. I understand why you protect your privacy but can you say a bit more. I was also hoping as a wine connoisseur you can explain to me what wine sommeliers in restaurants mean about wine having ‘terroir’? Are they just making stuff up to look down on us poor saps or is there something to it?

Your experience with the sommelier reminded me of the classic British television comedy, ‘Fawlty Towers’, where John Cleese’s perpetually hard pressed hotel owner, Basil Fawlty, says with his usual sarcasm, “I can certainly see that you know your wine. Most of the guests who stay here wouldn’t know the difference between Bordeaux and Claret.”

I’m sorry that you had from what I can surmise bad experiences with sniffy sommeliers when it came to appreciating wine. I have had one or two depressing experiences myself but it’s important to call out such rudeness so that others don’t have their dining experience spoiled. In Paris at least I can honestly say the spectre of the rude sommelier is dying out - and I have eaten in many great restaurants where I’ve had very lovely experience chatting with sommeliers versed in their wines.

These days sommeliers are positively jumping for joy if you show any kind of wine literacy. Don’t forget these men (and women) have worked extremely hard to hone a refined sense of their craft and they just want to share that knowledge and wisdom with you - otherwise it goes to waste.

Everyone likes to be appreciated and so I go out of my way to listen and appreciate their recommendations based on what I like or if I am looking to pair something interesting with the food I have ordered. If I don’t know I just ask. Indeed often I do know but I still ask because I’m curious to know if there is a better choice of wine and also because I want to learn. There is no shame in asking.  Remember they are there to guide you to have the best dining experience in their restaurant. So engage with them with kind civility and your palate will thank you. And tip generously (if applicable).

I do indeed have a chateau vineyard in southern France - south of Paris anyway. But it’s not just mine. I invested in a dream that belonged to my two cousins who are the real wine connoisseurs. Out of their request for discretion I don’t talk too much about it here on this blog (they follow my blog). I can say that I admire both my cousins hugely (I get brownie points for saying that) for their hard work, risk taking, passion, and their artisanal flair.

Both my cousins gave up lucrative corporate careers to follow their dream to owning and managing a small vineyard. In this case it was bought from the family of my cousin’s French wife; her very old traditional family had the vineyard for generations. They had fought off French revolutionaries who wanted to burn down their chateau because of their old roots but they managed to prevail and survive. They barely survived the Great French Wine Blight (the Phylloxera infestations) that was a severe blight of the mid-19th century that decimated many of the vineyards across France.  But times change. It’s not a romantic business but an unforgiving one. So rather than sell up to rapacious Chinese investors and other outsiders they instead sold it to us.

I have my day job and that keeps me extremely busy. My two cousins (and their French wives) manage the whole vineyard with other hired staff. They make all the decisions and I do the drinking (for quality control purposes, naturally). I help out when I can. This could be from business marketing advice or attending a few wine merchant trade shows. I often go to Shanghai and Hong Kong for my corporate work and my Chinese is passable; and so I help out my cousins who might be out there when I am there too. In fact one of my cousins was out in Shanghai just before the Wuham Covid 19 outbreak in China; thankfully he got out fine and didn’t suffer any symptoms after his trip.

More fun for me is actually spending time on the vineyard. Call me weird but I really do look forward to rolling up my sleeves and getting down in the dirt. It’s incredibly back breaking work - pruning or harvesting - but very rewarding because we’re all in it together. The camaraderie is immense.

I love escaping into the countryside and I just enjoy the easy bonhomie and companionship of my cousins and their French partners for whom wine is a passion and a way of life. Besides learning a lot more about wine, I also get to run, cycle, and hike in the surrounding hills, a world away from crazy city life.

Like many vineyards in France (and indeed vineyards around the world) the Coronavirus has made it an even more challenging environment to produce and sell wine. We did a lot of business in China and now, like many others, we’ve taken a hit. But we’re not down for the count. We’re fortunate that we are more robust with what we have in place. But like everyone else uncertainty of the future with an expected recession means we need to dig in deep and weather the oncoming storms. But we’ll be fine.

So what is this odd French word, ‘terroir’?

The French have this expression they use when it is clear they are tasting a true terroir wine - "un goût de terroir" - a taste of the place.

Terroir is a largely misused term, though the general understanding of the term of terroir is correct that it refers to the place of where the wine is made. Terroir is not something you pick up after tasting a few wines from one vineyard. It's more complicated than that, which of course makes it harder to use. Which is no fun, because people really like saying fancy French words when talking about wine.

A classical definition of terroir would be something along the lines of this: terroir is the aggregate factors that affect the physical vineyard site: geography, geology, weather, and any other relatively unique environmental conditions that might affect the process or final quality of the fruit.

Put simply terroir is the combination of micro-climate, soil, sun exposure, weather conditions and other environmental influences on wine. To Europeans in general and to the French and Italians in particular, terroir is a key indicator of quality in wine.

The best way to understand what what terroir means is to think of terroir as a different accent - an English accent sounds different from a Scottish accent which sounds different from a Welsh accent. Although the English language is the same, these accents have their own sense of place. Once you are fluent in the language of wine these different accents start to become a lot more pronounced. These ‘wine accents’ echo the terroir where the grapes were grown and the wines were made.

So what does this mean in practice? Take the Pinot Noir grape. Pinot Noir is a notoriously difficult grape to grow because it is very fussy with climate. With the grape being so fussy it is remarkable that the grape can be grown in many parts of the world. Its home is in Bourgogne (Burgundy), France, and yet the grape is grown successfully in Germany (where it's called Spatburgunder), Italy, United States, New Zealand and Australia, among others. So while Pinot Noir is a very fussy grape, it can grow in different climates. It's just the the way it expresses itself can be vastly different. This starts with fruit, whereby it will express a wide range from red fruits like cranberry (cooler climates) right through to black fruits like plum (warmer climates).

The key is the soil - and the sweat and blood that goes into cultivating it.  

Soils contain a huge array of types of rock, decomposed rock, and organic materials, in a seemingly infinite array of mixes of topsoil, subsoil, and bedrock. Grape vines tend to grow vigorously and this causes a tendency toward better wines emerging from counterintuitive places - places with relatively poor soils. Too many nutrients and too much water near the surface and the vines will not push down deeply into the ground, seeking out what it needs to live. The belief is, if it does so it will find a more complex variety of nutrients that lead to better, more nuanced wines.

Soil, however, is not the only facet that gives us a full sense of what terroir means.

It is not enough to have a great mix of soils. Vines grown for grapes have a range on Earth in which they will ripen. Champagne, for example, is near the northern ripening limit for growing grapes — around the 49th parallel. They usually do not achieve anywhere near full ripeness nor do they want it - they need lots of acidity - so a northern location works well for their purposes. Too far south, however, and relentless sun and warmth will yield over ripened, jammy, sometimes stewed tasting fruit, lacking acidity and possessing searing levels of alcohol, at times. So the parallel on which the vines are planted is important.

Next, prevailing weather patterns in the region, such as adequate, but not typically heavy rain is necessary. The further north the vineyard site, the more that frosts and hail will likely be factors in varietal planting decisions, as well as harvesting. Achieving full ripeness before vinification is generally the goal for winemakers, but in certain climates the likelihood of sudden rain and weather changes which would dilute or damage the fruit, all go into the perception of the terroir.

Where the vines are planted, even within a commune in Burgundy, can prove very important for several of the reasons listed above: a southeast facing slope in the Côtes de Nuits, for example, provides a poor soil (meaning a good soil for wine grapes,) making the roots grow down deep into limestone, searching for nutrients. The top of the slope to the vineyard's back creates a microclimate and gives a small rain shadow effect, potentially dropping a major portion of rain on the western slope away from the quickly-harvesting vignerons on the other side, before their crop becomes diluted or destroyed. Not to say it always works out this way, because it does not. The point here is that the position within the mesoclimate and even microclimate is important.

Further, the angle or aspect toward the sun in our example is tremendously important. In our example, facing southeast gives the grapes a higher average number of hours per day to ripen in the sun, without getting the stronger, sometimes-harsher evening sun directly. When there is rain, rot can be a problem which leads to yet another factor - slope. A well-drained soil is very important, and altitude is a factor, which will lead to variation throughout a vineyard on such a slope.

Finally, a very important factor in terroir that is not always mentioned is the hand of man.

In the local customs for wine growing, winemaking, cuisine around those wines, and traditions sometimes dating back thousands of years, there emerges a tendency to understand what works well in the local soil and climate. Based on those ideas, certain decisions are made in the cellars that nudge the wine in the direction of one style or another. Decisions can be made that completely mask - destroy - the sense of terroir. Yet decisions are made, nonetheless. They do influence the final product.

Two producers owning parts of the same few hectares of land produce products of two wildly different qualities. There are decisions to be made of using wild yeasts or cultivated yeasts, steel tanks or oak barrels, the type(s) of oak, where it is from, the amount of toasting.

A poor vineyard manager can plant vines in impeccable terroir, but fail miserably in their ability to farm the grapes appropriately, even assuming they planted the right grapes for that terroir. Equally, you can give an inexperienced winemaker the best grapes from the best terroir and he is still very likely to make a mediocre wine at best.

Now, this isn't to say that a great winemaker can take substandard grapes from a poor region and turn them into great wine. But it takes a knowledgable and experienced winemaker to make the best of the spectacular grapes that world-class terroir and impeccable farming technique provides.

So all in all, I would say that terroir, vineyard manager and winemaker are equally as important and there can be no weak links in that equation if quality wine is to be produced.

The point is that all of these factors affect the wine. The best winemakers are artisans who work hard to let the land and vines speak. Over time, some places on Earth have been identified as having very high potential to produce outstanding, unique wines that sing with a voice like no other. That is terroir.

Music is like wine. We appreciate different composers and their pieces more as we understand more of the context of each piece.

Most wine drinkers, no matter their level of knowledge and sophistication, are on a similar path of evolving understanding. Each mouthful whose flavours and aromas we drink, each bottle label we unconsciously imprint in our memory, each line-item on a wine list that we select for the evening’s meal is another volume in our own library of experience, and determines how we will experience the next. The more wine we drink and the more we learn, the better context we have to evaluate (or enjoy) every future glass. So wine drinking is not a race nor is there a prize. You go at your own pace. It’s your own journey of self-discovery. Ignore the pretentious twattery that so often hinders the enjoyment of good wine. 

May I add wine enjoys companionship. It makes love to fine food and good conversation. Yes, wine can be drunk on its own but it is more than just a balm to the soul. It is best appreciated when shared or paired - as one might with a cigar and a whisky - with good food. In the words of the late Paul Bocuse, who was a celebrated Michelin starred chef and father of French Haute Cuisine, “La véritable cuisine sera toujours celle du terroir. En France le beurre, la crème et le vin en constitueront toujours les bases.”

Thanks for your question

[theresa-of-liechtenstein]

prompt: “pilot.”  for the weeklong #ProjectTheresa fanfiction challenge!

this one ran away from me and got super long so I’m throwing it under a cut

“Douglas, if you could, would you mind checking on G-ERTI? I’ve got to see about these blasted NOTAMs...something about thunderheads over Dresden…”

“Certainly, Martin. No rush.”

Douglas closed the door. Walking down the ramp, he muscled a luridly-yellow safety vest over his shoulders. As he headed for the hangars, he absentmindedly ran the thin mesh between his fingers.

This, admittedly, ranked high in the listing of Strange Arrangements. Martin, though finally able to fly for a living, still considered aviation as a hobby—thus, the Arrangement. On the off chance that Swiss Air wasn’t busy sending him off on tours to the corners of God’s green earth, Martin would wheedle a jumpseat to England from a colleague, bring his royal girlfriend along, and fly with OJS to give Herc some semblance of time off. 

Douglas frowned a little as he passed by the first set of hangars. Speaking of...where was Theresa, anyhow?

He shook his head. She’d slipped away with a safety vest, expressing a desire to wander around the airfield. Douglas and Martin, meanwhile, had devoted themselves to filling out paperwork for the day’s flight—just like old days.

Passing the last hangar, Douglas looked both ways before crossing onto the apron. G-ERTI was on stand outside their hangar, gleaming in the morning light. Before, Douglas had definitely been the type of pilot to joke that he didn’t care so much about the plane’s exterior aesthetics since he spent most of his time inside of it, but now he had to admit: something as simple as a new paint job really did wonders. The old bird was nearly unrecognizable, looking half its age. Flying like it, too, if anyone was asking Douglas.

He crossed around to the fore of the aircraft, to start his inspection at the radome. As he went to face G-ERTI head-on, he noticed another figure in a safety-yellow vest, examining their number two engine.

Douglas peered intently at the figure before abandoning his walk-around and stepping closer. “Your Highness. Grüezi.”

Theresa whirled around and blushed a little. “Oh! Hello, Douglas.”

“You were interested in the engine?” Douglas indicated it with a jerk of his head.

Theresa nodded, looking back at it. She seemed a little embarrassed—or at least uneasy. The two of them hadn’t talked in person much since those terrible days when they’d thought that it was all over. And of course, he couldn’t forget the first time they’d spoken—over the phone at this very airfield—when he’d had a bit of a laugh at her expense.

But he also remembered that she—barely hours after they’d first met face-to-face—had covered for them when they were burning off fuel. She’d been there for the auction, gamely climbed into the back of Arthur’s van, and was currently here for Martin.

He sought to make her feel a bit more comfortable. “Martin’s told you about how we got this engine, yes?”

Her eyes lit up. “St Petersburg? Of course. Many times.”

Douglas stifled the urge to laugh a little. “I can imagine.”

“He also loves to talk about you. How you tricked...erm. Carolyn’s ex-husband.”

“Oh. Yes.” Douglas chose not to analyze too deeply, and managed a noncommittal shake of his head. “Well, I. You’ve seen it. I do have some tricks up my sleeve for such occasions.”

She smiled and turned her attention back to the engine. “You seem to have plenty of tricks up your sleeve for all occasions. Such is...such is what Martin tells me.”

Silence fell between them again. He focused on a Gulfstream taxiing to the runway.

“Er, Douglas…”

“Yes.” He pulled his gaze away from the plane and looked back at the princess.

“Is it okay if I touch it?”

“Touch what.”

“The...er. The blades?”

“You want to see if they spin?”

She blushed again, and this time the embarrassment was evident. “Yes.”

“Go on ahead.”

She reached up and pushed against one of the blades, startling a little when the fan began to spin slowly. 

“Didn’t expect that?” Douglas smiled at her surprise. 

“No, I didn’t. It’s that easy?”

“Yep. Now imagine it spinning at God-knows-how-many-revolutions-per-second at thirty-five thousand feet.”

She must have taken the command literally, because after a few long seconds, her eyes widened. “Wow.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you think of that...when you fly?” Theresa turned back to him curiously. 

“Want to find out?” Douglas shot back. She looked a little confused, so he clarified. “Want to learn how to fly?”

Her eyes lit up again. “Really?”

“Yeah. I’m sure I’ve got enough knowledge to indoctrinate—of course, I mean educate—someone who wants to learn.” 

“Really?” She turned up the voltage in her eyes. “I’d love to!”

“Well, but I can’t start now…” Douglas tried to bring her back down to earth. Enthusiasm. That was what she and Martin seemed to have in common when it came to aviation. No wonder, then, that they’d become close. “For starters, I’m not an instructor yet. A few classes, and I think I’ll be able to add the qualification to my license.”

Theresa nodded, looking a little chastened. “Of course.”

“And—well, there’s the arrangement,” he pointed out. “You’re not going to get a very consistent education, seeing as you and Martin only come here every so often.”

“Yes. That’s right.” She looked down.

“Oh, don’t look like that!” He hadn’t meant to discourage her, and he attempted now to rectify his mistake. “We can figure something out. There’s multiple ways to get a transport license, assuming that’s what you want. You could go about it in a modular fashion—no need to come into a classroom a set number of days per week or anything like that. In any case, you’d be smashing as a pilot. You’ve got Martin, first of all—I think he’d be happy to coach you through revising for theoretical examinations, so you’re basically set on that front.”

She nodded, fidgeting with the hem of her vest.

“We’ll figure it out.” Suddenly, Douglas remembered the task Martin had delegated him. “Actually, we could even start now, if you’d like. Have you ever been on a walk-around?”

—

Some months later, Martin and Theresa were back in England. By this time, Douglas had a flight instructor rating, a night instructor qualification, and  a multi-engine piston instructor qualification added to his transport pilot’s license and a fuel tester in his pocket.

They met in the main lobby of Fitton Airfield, fluorescent lights gleaming off the glass counter where logbooks and charts were sold. As Douglas warmed his hands with a styrofoam cup of coffee, Theresa picked out a black logbook with green pages. After bidding farewell to Martin, she followed Douglas out to one of the Cessna 152s the airfield kept for instruction.

“It looks so small up close,” she observed as they approached the plane. “So light.”

“That’s why we tie the wings down,” Douglas gestured. “The plane could, quite literally, fly away in a wind.” Noticing her shocked look, he smiled. “Yeah. The wings work, even on the ground. It’s not that noticeable in a bigger plane, like G-ERTI, and even more for the biggest planes. But the wings are working all the time.”

He walked her around the plane and explained what he was looking for, similarly to their last meeting. She pulled off the pitot cover as he explained to her that if the pitot was not adequately protected, the airspeed indicator could fail. Douglas pulled out the fuel tester and drew out some liquid from the bottom of the tank. He held it to the sky and called Theresa over to look for water with him, cautioning her against allowing water into the fuel tank. She nodded, eyes wide.

Finally, he opened the plane’s door. “Watch your head.”

Theresa climbed in eagerly, and Douglas set about untying the wings before following her inside. Until that point, everything had gone smoothly, but he somehow had a more difficult time squeezing himself into the small plane than usual.

“It’s not exactly G-ERTI,” he excused himself as he tried to find the room to place his legs without bumping into the yoke. Whoever had used this plane before was, evidently, either a hobbit or an instructor much shorter than he.

Theresa stifled a laugh, sliding on a pair of sunglasses.

Once he’d finally gotten settled, he got on his headset, handed the other to Theresa, and quizzed her on the instruments. Evidently, Martin had prepared her well—or she’d been waiting for this moment for most of her life.

They whipped through a checklist and had the engine started in no time, and Douglas decided it was about time to get into the air. “Let’s check the brakes. Push forward a little.”

“The throttle? I can touch that?”

“Go ahead.”

Theresa reached down for the throttle and gave the plane a little bit of power.

“Rolling forward. Good. Now take the power back. Brakes.”

Theresa did as she was told. “Good,” Douglas complimented her, and she smiled. “I’ll check the brakes on my side.”

They went over how to transfer control to each other, and at last, Douglas directed her to get the power up and turn onto the main taxiway.

Her hand instinctively went to her yoke.

“Rudder. Use the rudder,” Douglas advised gently.

“Oh. Yes, right.” She took her hand off.

“Good. Stay on the center.” He slung his left arm over the back of her seat and directed her.

“Okay.”

They taxied around the airfield until Theresa could comfortably turn and stay on the centerline without confusing the rudder pedals and yoke. “It’s not like driving,” he advised at one point. “The yoke looks a little too much like a steering wheel, granted, but that’s something you’ve got to overcome. Rudder pedal. You turn with the rudder.”

“So yoke for roll, rudder for yaw?”

“Precisely.”

Finally, Douglas directed Theresa toward the main runway, got in touch with Carl, and asked for clearance to take off.

Carl granted it with the bare minimum of dallying, and Douglas grinned. “Okay, Theresa, we’re going up. Follow the yellow line.”

“What! Already?” Her eyebrows climbed up her forehead as she looked at him.

“Yes. You’re doing wonderfully. I’ll help you. Keep following the yellow line.”

They checked that the horizon was lined up, and Douglas directed her to push the throttle forward. “Full power. Keep looking outside. Stay on the center line.”

“Okay.”

“Good.”

Their speed climbed. Forty knots, fifty knots…

“Sixty, sixty-five—Pull back. Pull the controls back. Gently. Go on.”

Theresa pulled back on the yoke, and the ground peeled away from beneath them.

“We’re off!” In Douglas’s headset, he heard a distant cheer from Carl in ATC—and, from the sound of it, Martin.

“I’m doing it!” Theresa’s exclamation sounded not unlike one Martin would make, and he suppressed a grin. He could feel them rolling a little, but before Douglas could tell Theresa to do so, she was correcting it.

“Good. Now adjust your pitch angle. We’re a little too steep and might stall. And as interested as I am in seeing how you handle your first, I’m not keen on doing it so low and so close to the airfield. Not to mention this is your first lesson.”

“Okay.” She lowered the nose.

“Perfect.”

They climbed to a thousand feet and went through the climb checklist. Douglas put his hands on his own yoke and adjusted for her. “Don’t forget to fly the plane, Theresa.”

“Oh, yes, right. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Just keep flying. Our goal now is to get this plane stable enough so that you could take your hands off the yoke, and the plane would just keep going on its own. They’re designed to be stable.”

They climbed further to about fifteen thousand feet, and after a good round of coaching, Theresa managed to keep the plane stable enough to take her hands off. After congratulating her, Douglas had her turn a few times, climb twice, and descend twice before taking control and bringing them back to Fitton to land.

Martin was there to meet them at stand, smiling in his luridly-yellow vest. “How’d it go?” he asked as soon as Douglas and Theresa had finished shutdown and piled out of the plane.

“The landing was smooth,” Douglas lazily passed the pitot cover to Theresa.

“You landed,” Theresa retorted, grabbing it out of his hand. Douglas laughed a little.

“Really, though,” he stopped her before they all went back to the portakabin. “You did well.”

She smiled.

—

Over their next productive (albeit sporadic) meetings, Douglas managed to help Theresa master slow flight. Though she was not what others might call a “natural” at flying, she could certainly absorb information better than most. After their sixth or so flight, Theresa could talk to Carl, work the trim wheel, manage a stall, recover from a spin without too much difficulty, and land visually.

Douglas, overall, was quite pleased with Theresa’s progress, especially for someone who was mostly restricted to ground schooling. 

He’d told her that she could very well find an instructor in Switzerland that could help her better—one who could teach her in German and be more regular with flight lessons—but she’d insisted on staying under his tutelage for the time being, which slightly flattered Douglas.  

And—more importantly—over the past few months, they’d gotten to talking between teaching moments, and by this point Douglas could, with certainty, call her a friend. 

They were going up today, in slightly poorer weather than usual, to review some of the concepts they’d covered thus far in less ideal conditions. As far as Douglas was concerned, and based on the relative ease with which Theresa had been able to manage previous challenges, this was going to be a simple review flight.

“Golf Mike Bravo,” Carl told Theresa from ATC, “Piper Cub three miles on final approach. Cleared for immediate take-off.”

Theresa flicked the transmit button. “Cleared for immediate take-off, Golf Mike Bravo.”

“Good,” Douglas rubbed his hands together as Carl signed off. “Right, Theresa. Let’s get ourselves out of here before that Piper comes in.”

“Okay.”

In no time at all, they were in the air—but today, Theresa seemed to have a little trouble getting the Cessna into stable flight. 

“Trim back,” Douglas advised her. “The plane wants to go up; notice how you’re trying to fight to keep the nose down? Remember, we can’t get any higher and enter Bravo airspace.”

“I know that. I’m sorry.”

“You’re porpoising,” he said gently a few minutes later, noticing how the nose kept rising and dipping. Theresa was probably still fighting the aeroplane. “Now you’ve got to trim forward.”

“Right! Right. Got it. Sorry.” Her tone had grown a little more prickly, and he noticed that the hand that reached back for the trim wheel was shaking slightly.

“It’s okay,” he tried to soothe, “relax, just correct yourself and keep on flying.”

He had her climb, descend, and turn for a while, then had her complete a checklist while he kept a hand lightly on the yoke. 

“Theresa, we’re rolling a little. Watch your attitude indicator. I didn’t ask you to bank.”

Theresa nodded, but kept going through the checklist.

“Theresa. You need to scan.”

“Right, I’m going to.”

“One of your wings is higher than the other.”

“What?” Her hand flew to the yoke, and she corrected the plane.

“You need to scan,” Douglas admonished. “Remember the T.” He pointed to the instruments he’d drilled her on months ago, forming a T on the controls. 

“Right, okay, I’m going to.” The prickle was back, and Douglas tried to stand down.

“Okay,” he directed in what he hoped was a calm tone. “I’ll have you do one last climbing turn, and then we’ll go and find a field we can practice spin recovery over.”

He’d thought it would be easy enough—she’d certainly done plenty of them before. But for some reason, today was different.

“Theresa! Your climb angle is too high. You need to scan!” he turned fully towards her in alarm as a stall warning began to blare.

Evidently startled by both his outcry and the stall warning, Theresa abruptly let go of the controls and screamed.

The plane, being a Cessna 152 and therefore the epitome of stalwart reliability, corrected itself and carried on happily scuttling across the English sky as if nothing had ever happened. Douglas was left to stare at Theresa, who’d buried her face in her hands, completely ignoring the panel in front of her.

He stared at her for what felt like thirty nautical miles before he cleared his throat, something like disappointment curdling in his chest.

“My controls. We’re going back to Fitton.”

“What?” She looked up at him, her eyes wide with shock.

“We’re going back to Fitton. I have control.”

And without waiting for her to confirm the handover, Douglas took hold of his yoke, dialed up the Fitton beacon, and began navigating back to the airfield.

—

“Hey, Martin.” Douglas opened the portakabin door, poked his head inside, and knocked on the wall—all while blocking Theresa from entering. 

“Douglas, what—” she yelped from behind, bumping into him. 

Martin took off his headphones and looked up from his charts, face brightening. “Douglas! You’re back? Where’s Theresa?” His face took on a confused expression. “Everything all right? That was rather quick.”

“Martin, get me my jacket.”

“What?” Martin stared, mouth agape. 

“Douglas, let me in!” Theresa tried to squeeze past him. Finding that difficult as he’d wedged himself between the door and the doorway, she thumped him on his back. “I’m not a child.”

“Theresa?” Martin called out. “What’s happened?”

“I’m going to borrow your girlfriend, Martin,” Douglas said calmly. “Get me my jacket.”

“What!”

“Borrow me—Douglas, let me in—”

“Douglas! What do you mean, what do you want—”

Douglas sighed heavily. “I need my jacket.”

“You’ve said that already, something like three times. Will someone please tell me what is going on? And did you just say you wanted to borrow my girlfriend?”

“I’m going to debrief the flight.”

“What do you mean? You can do it in here.”

“I mean, Martin,” Douglas burst out, suddenly losing patience, “something happened up there today, and we need to talk about it like adults, so I am going to bring Theresa somewhere nice and relaxing to have something to eat and drink and then we’ll talk it out.” He held out a hand. “Won’t take more than an hour. Now please. I need my keys. Get me my jacket, will you?”

Theresa stopped trying to worm past Douglas, and Martin’s expression changed into one of stunned shock. He rose, grabbed Douglas’ jacket off a hook, and handed it to him.

“Thank you, Martin. Theresa,” he turned to the princess. With a single shocked glance at Martin, she followed him down the ramp. 

“What exactly are we doing?” she dared to ask as he walked over to his Lexus.

“Exactly what I’ve just said to Martin. We’re going somewhere nice to have something to eat and drink and then we’ll talk about what happened today.” As he unlocked his car he realized that he was commanding a Princess; the humorous irony of this moment, however, would have to wait for another time. “Have a seat.”

“You realize this looks a lot like you’re kidnapping the princess of Liechtenstein.” She gaped at him over the roof of the sedan.

“You’re the one walking into the car, not me,” Douglas pointed out. “I am, in fact, very courteously unlocking the door and opening it for you as you gracefully sit in my car. Now come on. We should go. We have much to talk about.”

A former colleague from Air England had set up a coffeehouse a town over that sold food and drink at a reasonable price, having been declared unfit to fly by his GP due to worsening astigmatism. 

Which was where he was heading now.

As he turned into the car park, he remembered that he was not in an aeroplane and wrenched off his tie, tossing it into the back seat. “Let’s go,” he said without looking at Theresa.

“Okay.”

They silently crossed the car park and Douglas opened the front door for Theresa.

“Douglas! Haven’t seen you in ages.” The man was drying a mug behind the counter and waved eagerly as they walked in.

“Morning, Jeremy. Just dropping in.”

“Sure. Who’s this?” Jeremy indicated Theresa with a tilt of his head.

“A student.” Douglas kept his replies short. “I’m debriefing our flight.”

“Gracious, you’re teaching now?”

“On a limited basis.” Douglas offered a chair to Theresa in the back corner. “If you don’t mind…”

“No problem.” Jeremy turned away.

Theresa nodded distractedly and sat across from Douglas.

“I’ll get you something. What would you like?” Douglas turned to Theresa. “Something to drink, something to eat…”

She twisted around a bit to look at the display case of various baked goods. “I think...erm. An éclair?”

“Nothing to drink?”

Strangely, Theresa paled a little. “Just water.”

“You’re sure?”

“Just...water,” she glared lightly, and Douglas was vaguely reminded of her barking, “I am Theresa Gustava Bonaventura, Countess of Sponheim and Protector Extraordinary of the Cantons of Nimes!” into G-ERTI’s satcom. 

“Okay. Okay, sorry.” He put his hands up in a gesture of deference and headed to Jeremy’s post to get some food.

Some minutes later, he sat back in front of Theresa and handed her the éclair and water she’d requested. Jeremy went to talk to another customer in order to give them some semblance of privacy.

“Thank you.”

Douglas waited until they were both about halfway through their respective coffee/pastry before he started speaking.

“So. Let’s unpack what happened up there today,” he kept his tone low and calm. In front of him, Theresa clammed up a little, but he forged on. “Can you tell me, in your own words…”

“Who else’s words would I use?” Theresa interjected, then her ears turned red. “Well…” She thought for a second, then continued. “I didn’t have a problem getting off the ground, but I was having trouble...I was having trouble getting the plane trimmed to...to equilibrium. Then I did some climbing and turning, and that was okay, but then you asked me to do a checklist…”

“Right, and what happened then?”

“I wasn’t watching the plane, and it came out of its equilibrium.”

“That’s correct. And then?”

“You asked me to do a climbing turn, and I did, but I made a stall warning because I wasn’t scanning, and then…”

She trailed off.

“Right. That’s all true.” Douglas took a sip of his coffee. “Now. I know you knew how to do everything I asked you to. This was supposed to be a review flight, remember? I wouldn’t have let you go up in today’s conditions if you didn’t know how to do what I asked  you to—the bit of cloud and all. So.” He put his cup down. “What’s going on that you don’t want to tell me about?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what was on your mind? Has anything happened between...has anything happened between you and Martin?” He dreaded to hear the answer. 

“What? No. No, we’re fine! Everything’s fine with us.” Her tone had abruptly grown defensive.

“Okay, okay.” Douglas tamped down the relief. “What I’m saying is, something’s probably set you off...Theresa. It’s like driving.” A thought occurred to him. “Wait, do you know...do you know how to drive?”

“For emergencies, yes. I was taught the basics a long time ago.”

“Well, you know how you wouldn’t—you shouldn’t drive when you’re unwell? Not just physically. Emotionally, too? Mentally?”

She nodded.

“Same with flying. You shouldn’t be flying if you’re not well. You shouldn’t have been up in the air at all today on that logic. Which begs the question.” He leaned forward. “You seem physically well. You’re mentally sound. Theresa...what’s wrong?”

Suddenly, she couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Come on, Theresa,” he urged. “We’re friends—at least,” he tacked on hastily, seeing the look that passed across her face, “a friend of Martin’s is a friend of mine, and you’ve—you’ve really been here for us, on quite a few occasions…” He sensed that he wasn’t getting his point across. “What I’m trying to say is…” He took a breath, reached across the table, and grasped her hand, which was lying limply next to her éclair. Her gaze whipped to him. “You can trust me. You can trust us. What’s happened?”

“Oh. Oh...I...Scheisse.” Theresa ripped her hand away and covered her face again. Douglas sat back and bit his lip, letting her talk when she wanted to.

Finally, she gulped, sat on her hands, and looked at Douglas. “Douglas. I…”

“Take your time. It’s okay.”

“Douglas...I think...I’m not saying, but I just think...I might be...Martin and I...well. I...might be pregnant.”

His jaw dropped. When the realization kicked in, he gasped and then grinned. The thought of a mini-Martin or a mini-Theresa was, frankly, incredibly endearing. “Oh my God! Congratulations—”

“No!” She shook her head rapidly. “Wait, no, I meant, not that I don’t want the congratulations, I mean no, it is not good, this is not good. Even though I’m only thinking I might...oh, it’s just bad! It’s really, really bad!” With shaking hands, she clutched at her curling hair like she was about to pull it out and looked at him, her hazel eyes desperate.

“What? How?” 

“We’re...Martin and I aren’t married! If we’re having a child, right now, it’s going to be regarded as an illegitimate child since we’re not married! And my family’s already angry enough at me—”

“Why would they be upset with you, for God’s sake? You’re running a microstate in your teenage brother’s stead, I’d say that’s more remarkable than a given person of your age—”

“Let me finish!” Theresa hissed. Douglas knew her frustration wasn’t directed at him, but his interruption wasn’t exactly helping. He fell silent with an apologetic, deferential nod. “Sorry. Yes, I know I run the country, but I’m just waiting for Maxie to finish his education and take it over—there was a constitutional crisis just to allow me to become his regent—they were going to give the state to a ten-year-old! I couldn’t possibly let them do that—but there are older...more...more conservative members of the royal family that...that don’t like that I’m doing this. And...I’ve never actually wanted to be...listen, I just don’t want to be…I don’t like politics. I never have, and you know I wanted to be a pilot. But I do...what I do! Because I have to…” 

Shakily, she picked up her paper table napkin and began to fidget with it. “And what’s worse...Swiss Air...Martin tells me they’re debating expanding to a hub in London, and...I want him to apply to be domiciled there. There’s a good chance they’ll let him, since he’s—he’s English, no matter how many times he reassures me that he’ll try to gain Liechtenstein citizenship…”

“Hold on. Citizenship?”

“Another problem. We talked to the archbishop of Vaduz. Martin’s not Liechtensteiner or royal, so one of those has got to give if we’re going to marry—and if any of our children are going to have any sort of claim to the throne. It’s not like I care about that last part, but the family’s going to make us suffer for it…”

“Wait, why would you want Martin to be domiciled here if Swiss Air opens a hub?”

“Because...I think it might be better for him. He’d be close to family, away from the worst of my relatives...not to mention close to you all.”

“And what about you?” Douglas stared across the table at her.

She sighed. “I...I would want to come with him if that happens. I've had...I have plans set up but I’ve never told anyone about them, not even Martin…I haven’t told anyone except Martin about me possibly being pregnant...”

“Again. Theresa. You can trust me.”

She gazed at him, openmouthed, then gave a “might-as-well-get-it-over-with” sort of shrug and continued. “Well, my next sister—she’s only a few years younger than me—she actually wants political life, she’s actually interested in running a country. She’d be overjoyed if I passed the regency to her. But after instating a constitutional crisis, I’d be expected to see the regency through, and that wouldn’t happen for...a few years yet. My God, it’s all so complicated, and I’m making no sense at all…”

By this point, the paper napkin was worried to bits on the table. 

Douglas sat there for a while, trying to figure out how to respond. 

“Theresa,” he began at last. 

“Yes?”

“Whatever happens...whatever you choose to do, and whatever you and Martin choose to do. You...you have a home here. Both of you. Really.” It wasn’t about flying now, this conversation. It wasn’t about mistakes, it wasn’t about pilot licenses or anything of the sort. This was different. This was family. “And if certain family members are being horrible...who cares about them? We’ll be your family. You have a—you have a refuge with us. You’ll be fine. You and Martin both.”

She looked dubious, for just a second, and then she looked relieved.

“That’s better,” Douglas soothed. “You’ll be fine. You will be.”

“Thank...thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do.” He stretched across the table and grasped his friend’s hand again—and this time she didn’t pull away. 

They smiled. 

A week or so later, after Theresa and Martin had returned to Zurich, he received a message.

I’m not pregnant. I’m okay, turns out it was a scare after all. I am truly sorry for the dramatics that day. Theresa

I’m glad to hear you’re okay. You are fine. You can always talk if you need it. Douglas

Thank you. Theresa

—

“She’ll be fine.” 

As Douglas scanned the horizon on the day of Theresa’s first solo flight, Carolyn elbowed him lightly in the side. “Hello, Captain Richardson? Do you happen to be in? She’ll be fine.”

He looked at Carolyn, who had endeavored to put on a reassuring look. “You’ve taught her well. She’ll be fine.”

“If I can say,” Herc interjected from Carolyn’s other side, “she’s done well for someone whose flying education has been so sporadic.”

“Yes. Loosen up, Douglas,” Carolyn admonished. “She'll be okay.” 

Douglas had let her take him up around Fitton twice before leaving her in the training Cessna to complete her first solo around the traffic pattern. In the distance, he saw her talking to Martin through the open door of the aircraft. 

Since their conversation a month or so previously, Theresa had made the decision to maintain her regency until Maxie’s coming of age. She and Martin were still discussing the idea of the domicile and marriage, but Douglas had faith that they would make the decision that was best for them. 

But that wasn’t important now, not when Martin had leaned inside and kissed Theresa, his vest stirred by the breeze, before he closed the plane’s door and walked over to meet the rest of the group, standing on the apron in front of the main lobby.

The setting was ideal—commanding a view of both the apron and the main runway.

“How is she?” Douglas asked a Martin anxiously.

“Relaxed, mostly.” Martin had his hands shoved into his pockets as he came to stand next to him. Douglas resisted the urge to laugh—Martin’s face was still a vibrant shade of crimson. “I suppose...mo-more relaxed than me.” He laughed nervously.

Arthur came trotting over as best he could with a plastic bucket in his grip. Water sloshed over the rim. 

“Arthur, dear heart—pray tell me why you’ve got that,” Carolyn turned and pointed at the bucket of water. 

“Ah. Well...I may have told Arthur of the tradition of a pilot’s first solo,” Herc replied a bit sheepishly. “The Americans cut off the shirt-tail—but we douse the pilot in water.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, really?” Carolyn rolled her eyes. “And she’s got on a uniform for the first time too.”

“It’s a rite of passage.”

It was Martin—of course—that had suggested Theresa get a uniform for the occasion, citing his own experience going through flight school. Initially, Douglas hadn’t even considered it—until that point he’d just let her show up in whatever she wanted to wear. However, he and Herc had agreed with Martin, and they’d pulled together to surprise Theresa with a uniform much like the ones the three of them used for flights with OJS. Martin had had the honor of fastening Theresa’s epaulettes for her—one stripe for now.

Douglas knew he would not be surprised if that one stripe would grow to three or even four. 

“She’s starting up her roll,” Martin announced, ever the observant aviator. 

Douglas watched her initiate her checklist before pulling forward and taxiing towards the runway. 

Theresa paused at the mouth of the runway, and if Douglas squinted, he could see her take a deep breath before applying power. 

The Cessna rolled down the runway, leaving the piano keys behind, quickly gaining speed. 

“Rotate,” Douglas murmured under his breath. 

The front wheel lifted from the ground, and the little aeroplane rose into the sky. 

“Good start,” Herc assessed. Douglas saw him hold up his finger to form an angle with the ground. “Good angle.” Seeing Douglas watching, Herc looked over and sent him a grin. “You did well.”

“Hurrah!” Arthur jumped up and down excitedly. “That was brilliant!”

“Yes, well,” Martin said. “She’s got to come back down.”

Douglas nodded. The relief he’d felt upon watching Theresa take off was quickly replaced by a heavy feeling in his throat. Martin was right. For a novice pilot, taking off was easy enough—landing, not so much. 

They craned their heads upward. The little Cessna was following the standard traffic pattern for Fitton, turning and coming back to land. 

Theresa descended from the sky and approached the runway as Douglas had taught her. He envisioned her as he’d seen her so many times, as they practiced touch-and-go after touch-and-go after touch-and-go: correcting the side-to-side alignment, watching the PAPI lights on the sides of the runway, aiming for the touchdown zone...

“Flare,” Martin called out as Theresa tipped the nose up to increase the angle of attack. 

“Come on,” Douglas muttered to himself, watching her intently. “Power through the ground effect, don’t use up the runway—!”

Finally, the main wheels touched the runway, followed by the front wheel, and he knew Theresa was pushing the rudder pedals as hard as she could to get the plane slowed down.

Martin and Douglas cheered at the same time, and Douglas felt Martin cling to him and jump up and down. 

“She did it! She did it!” he chorused excitedly. 

“Well done to you too, Douglas,” Herc said warmly, thumping him on the back. 

“I must admit, that was exhilarating,” Carolyn added, a hint of pride in her tone. 

“Douglas, here!”

He turned to Arthur, who shoved the bucket of water at him. Some of it slipped over the edges and wet Douglas’s shoes. “You should have the bucket since you taught her! I’ll help you if you need it.”

“Arthur, dearest, I should think one is enough for that!”

Almost as if in a daze, Douglas accepted the bucket. Theresa had done it. Of course, there was a long way to go in terms of licensing, but the truth still stood—she’d defied everything that had stood in her way. 

She was a pilot now. 

Finally, she pulled in to stand and, after completing shutdown checks, left the aircraft to slip on the pitot cover and tie down the wings. 

Martin broke from the group and ran to her, and they followed. Douglas came last of all, heaving the bucket with him. 

Theresa came to meet them, accepting congratulations from Herc and Carolyn, laughing as Arthur tackled her into a soul-crushing hug, and kissing Martin on the cheek. 

Finally, she turned to Douglas with a brilliantly relieved grin, and he smiled mischievously at her. Luckily, she had her gaze concentrated on his face, and not the bucket he was trying to hide behind him. 

“You’ve done well, Theresa. And now, since you’ve shown proficiency as a pilot...I’ve got something for you…”

Splash!

“Agh!! Douglas!! It’s cold!!!”

[iwritethat]

Tim Drake: All Hallows’ Night

A/N: I’ve been waiting all year for this and love the Halloween story ideas and I hope you all do too.

🎃: Tim encounters a ghostly presence in the manner but it turns out you’re more than the folktales let on.

>>>>—————————>

Once upon a time, there was a mysterious ancient house. It was in the rumours, the city speculations and old wives tales that ghosts thrived in Wayne Manor. Of course, all that once lived there or continued to do so were no stranger to these mysteries although the current residents thought nothing of such folk lores as they had no proof to suggest otherwise and thus paid no attention to unusual tendencies.

That was at least until Timothy Drake had one eventful Halloween, one he would not soon forget. At first the odd occurrences weren't given a second thought, objects falling from shelves and peculiar echoes in the hallways were all a normal day to Tim, the single soul in the Manor at the time. That is until he returned to the Bat Computer, scrolling through the research he'd compiled linking to the newest case of underground dealings.

"Definitely a mobster, I'm thinking Penguin to be honest."

"Yes, it certainly matches his usual pattern." The vigilante replied without hesitation to whomever had commented on his case file despite being alone in the Manor that night.

"..."

"..."

It was an eery silence, one like no other, despite his focused state, Red Robin had realised the impossibility of having an unfamiliar voice answer the silence.

"Who the flip?!”

With his delayed startling, the stranger laughed, Tim scrambling to his feet only to find an unusual presence perched on the desk of the computer next to where he once sat.

"You're Tim Drake right?" Of course, the male was too bewildered to answer the unwelcome intruder, simply nodding whilst pointing his bo staff.

"I'm (Y/n) (L/n) by the way, thanks for asking."

"How did you get in here? The security systems are top of the range, they would've informed me of your access." He was astounded, tilting his head out of curiosity yet retained the offensive stance.

"Guess they're on the brink huh? No need to worry though mate, I mean you no harm~" The (h/c) beauty grinned with a wicked smile, offering out a hand for Tim to shake. The hero smiled in response, though still wary, met theirs in greeting - however instantly backed away upon doing so, their hands never met, instead his passed straight through (Y/n)'s own.

"Well then, I suppose you have your answer about security now." The entity smiled, hopping off of the counter and strolling towards him.

"What on earth are you?"

"Hmm, technically at this point in time I'm a ghost, wandering spirit? Although phantom has more finesse to it, wouldn't you agree?" The intruder brought a hand to their chin in thought before directing a smile toward him.

"I um, what?" Tim stared in confusion, closing his eyes as a break from the newest shreds of weird information.

"Oh no, you know what? Spectre has a nice ring to it too."

"No, I mean... wait, does that mean the stories are true? Wayne Manor is haunted? By you?" Tim was full of questions, just as expected by this latest phenomenon.

"For tonight it is, and for the unforeseeable future I'm afraid. Don't get me wrong, I had the full intention of keeping to myself but it's incredibly boring and this case seemed like a viable distraction." Was carefully explained, gesturing to the computer with a mischievous glint to their eyes much to Tim's fascination.

"Okay. Alright. Sure. For the sake of my sanity I'm not going to argue with a ghost... (Y/n)." Tim shook his head, once again sitting at his computer.

"Ah you're my favourite Robin already." Came the hearty response, the entity leaning on the back of Tim's chair as he scrolled through. They bounced ideas off of each other, methodology, motive, the next areas to strike and soon enough Tim was clad in his uniform readying to disappear into the night. The unlikely pair walked together towards the exit, planning a strategy on dealing with the Penguin and had the intent to carry it out - until Tim walked through the exit and the spirit clashed with an invincible force, curses spewing from their lips.

Red Robin was once again beside them, opting to offer physical comfort before he phased past them and had to settle for verbal inquiries.

"What happened? Is it some sort of barrier?"

"Damnit Constantine, tethering me to Wayne Manor of all places. Dumbass sorcerer..." It was only faint frustrated mutterings but explained your situation rather adequately.

"I'll take that as a yes."

"I haven't been completely honest with you, but in my defence you didn't ask. I'm verging between the spirit and living world and I'm relying on John bloody Constantine to pull me back from this purgatory. And since it's Halloween I'm guessing my spirit can manifest." The entity gave an exasperated sigh, rolling their eyes at the mention of their comrade.

"That's a lot to take in (Y/n), wheres Constantine now? I can go and lend my assistance, maybe I can -"

"No Tim, you have to help Gotham. You've known me no more than a couple of hours, you have more important matters to deal with." Despite their previous remarks it was obvious they had trust in Hellblazer and didn’t wish for their circumstance to interfere with Robins’ duties.

"Maybe so, but I'd like to think a couple of hours is enough to say you’re not so bad. I can't help but wonder what it'd be like meeting you in person." Tim wittily replied, raising a brow in their direction.

"Maybe one day, until then I'll stick to haunting."

"Hey RR, who are you talking to?" Dick Graysons voice rebounded off of the walls to the cave, Tim directing his gesture to his latest accomplice only to catch a glimpse of static where they'd once stood.

"Uh- no one..."

"Hah, for a second there I thought you were going to say a ghost. Anyway, I got an update on that case of yours."

-

(Y/n)'s presence lingered for a while after Halloween although it was not as strong as then, but there were the little quirks that Tim noticed around the Manor.

'Nice job solving the case detective~'

Was written on the dusty surface of the attic during one of his ventures, foggy windows also held innocent scrawling of which Tim happily replied to whether out loud or with his own scribbles.

Then there was the peculiar static on his TV if he ever watched it between 00:00-1:00am, one he'd grown to value.

"Hey Timbers.”

"Ah you're back, and still haunting the place I see." The male looked up from his laptop, crossing his legs and smiled at the TV.

"Yeah well Constantine is apparently taking his sweet time." The image of the spectre was slightly blurred and flicked every so often but remained viewable.

"He told me what you did to end up here y'know." He’d referred to the call he’d made a few days ago inquiring about the odd circumstance and if he could assist.

"He's lying." It was a confident and quick reply, (Y/n) unwilling to discuss such matters.

"About sacrificing yourself to bring them all back from Hell? Despite not being in the vigilante game?" Red Robin elaborated further, knowing a majority of the details beforehand.

"Yup, so hard to believe it must be a lie."

"Why did you-"

"Because they're my friends, they helped me out and I took on some damn demon curse to save them. Anyway, who are we looking into tonight partner?" With a brief smile, Tim flipped the computer screen in their direction as a visual response.

Tim also took to using the radio frequently whenever he was alone, making it easier for the  invisible resident to communicate with him.

"I miss food so much, it's rude of you to constantly eat in front of me you know."

"True but take out is just so amazing, I wanted to share the experience." He was being incredibly dramatic purely to get on his friends nerves though his playful side was rather endearing.

"I hate you right now." The guest replied, the radio crackling as a physical display of their words.

"Alright, alright, when you're back to normal I'm taking you out to dinner on me." Boy wonder instantly caved, but was truly sincere about his statement.

"Are you sure you can spare enough time to do that detective? Won't Gotham crumble without you?" The spectres sarcasm was heard even through the radio, and if he could see their expression Tim would bet they wore a smirk.

"I'll always take time out for you like I do now, but you have a point - I guess we'll have to take down some crime rings before dessert." It was accompanied by a shrug yet (Y/n) was grateful for his words none the less.

"Dinner and a show, I like it."

-

However it wasn't long before these daily instances Tim looked so forward to seemed nonexistent, the TV displayed the news without any interference, windows remained untouched of meaningful notes and the radio soon lost its appeal. Constantine was unreachable leaving Tim with no inclination as to what happened to the illusive guest and it seemed his family members noticed the sudden deterioration of his mood but chose not to pry quite yet.

It had been a week or two by his count, and he was currently packing for Titans Tower, shifting through his belongings and paperwork.

"Hey stranger, whatcha doing?" The voice held addictive familiarity, clearer to what it had been before, and due to this Tim answered like nothing had changed.

"I'm moving to Titans Tower, the Team thought it’d help our teamwork and I honestly can't wait."

"Hmm, when do you leave?" Their lovely tone held a hint of disappointment but was masked well for anyone but a detective.

"I'm aiming for this weekend, but don't worry I'll come back as often as I can to see you." He took a brief glance to the standing figure, lifting a box and walking straight through like he usually did purely to mess with them.

However, he hit a solid surface, the giggle following his actions causing him to almost drop his belongings but fortunaly the previously thought-to-be ghost stabled it with ease.

"Cool, I'll be able to visit you as well. But do you think you've got time for that dinner first? I'm starving after actually bypassing Manor security and climbing through your window." His realisation bringing a smug grin to (Y/n)’s lips as they finished.

“I- you- you’re back?”

“Yep, in the flesh although there’s some nice side effects... Nothing major though.”

“C’mon you’re telling me everything, the Manor is free tonight so how about take out and a movie?”

“Lead the way detective.”

Tim did so, however as the pair passed a hallway the former ghost halted before a beautiful oil painting and gently straightened the frame then turning to the questioning expression of Drake.

“Oh, it’s a half a centimetre off balance and it’s been winding up the ghost of the Manor for years. I promised to fix it once I returned.” (Y/n) nonchalantly explained, smirking as she passed an awestruck vigilante.

“...Ghost?”

“Who do you think told me about all your identities? Also, according to my recent conversation with the ghost, apparently you missed me Timbers~”

“Of course I did but how do you know that?!”

“Side effects, but don’t worry I missed you too.”

(Y/n) remained cursed for the rest of her mortal life, to become a spectre as the clock strikes, marking the Witching Hour for every Hallows' Eve to come until the festival was up.

~~~

"The End." You dramatically finished, accompanied by a spooky hand gesture for emphasis as you enjoyed the warm glow of the campfire.

The fellow hero's seated on surrounding logs remained silent for a few moments before cheering, thoroughly enthralled in the tale you bestowed upon them as per tradition of Halloween night.

"That's one hell of a story (Y/n), and basing the characters off of yourself and Tim was genius!" Cassie complimented, standing up with sheer delight as you smiled.

"Way to put a twist on a classic horror story telling, never would've thought of something like that." Conner nodded in approval, proudly smirking at the exchange of smiles between yourself and your boyfriend.

Tim sat beside you, nudging your shoulder out of the playful knowing you both shared and of course what came with the success of your tale. The chime of the cities bell tower echoed in the distance and with it you stood before your fellow hero's who had no intention of sleeping quite yet and wished them a good night. Tim followed your lead, gently brushing his fingers with yours as you strolled back to your room for the evening as the Team watched you both disappear into the eery night exchanging playful remarks.

But... if they had just looked a little closer....

Taken more notice...

Maybe they would have caught how Tim's digits effortlessly phased through your own as the witching hour had begun...

[hanniiesuckle17]

Little Touch of Heaven

A/n: So this was inspired by @luvknow one shot which I loveddddd!!! Its called ‘for your convenience’ its linked as well❤

Member: Lee Felix

WARNINGS: Mentions of abuse, abuse, swearing, violence, smoking, alcohol, angst, TRIGGER WARNING- cutting

Summary: Night shifts were becoming common for your part time job at the neighborhood convenience store. You were saving money for your college fund so the long hours were almost worth it. Nights were pretty boring until a boy with one to many mysteries walked in.

Genre: angst, strangers to lovers, romance, fluffish

Tomorrow’s school day would start in five hours. Where was I? Working the midnight shift at the convenience store for the third time this week. It wasn’t so bad other than the lack of sleep. Hardly anyone came in at this hour, so I could work on my homework and my music. The only reason I took this crap job was so I could pay my way into an arts school to become a producer.

I sat with my head phones in on low volume and wrote lyrics and notes down in my book. Occasionally I would tap out a beat with my pencil against the counter. I heard the bell ring and I glanced up to greet the customer.

“Annyeonghaseyo,” I said with a smile and the boy bowed his a head a little towards me. He was about my age with dusty blonde hair covered by a black hood. He wore a Jean jacket that was one size too big and his earrings flashed in the fluorescent lights of the store. He wore a stern expression as he walked along the aisles occasionally adjusting the backpack on his shoulder. I let my focus go back to my work while keeping a steady eye on him. A few moments later he walked up to the register with a small bowl of instant ramen and a water bottle. I took out my headphones and turned my attention to the boy with freckles sprinkled across his cheeks and nose. Without the slight frown I might have considered him cute.

“Pack of cigarettes as well.” His voice was surprisingly deep and smooth. I nodded and slightly grimaced at his request. Turning I took a pack off of the wall and rung up his total. “₩2400.” The look of shock was evident on his face. “No way!” I nodded and put my pencil behind my ear. “That’s the price you pay for lung cancer.” I said feeling cheeky. He sighed tossed a few bills onto the counter before taking the ramen and exiting the store. I put the pack of cigarettes back on the wall and returned the water bottle to the cooler before returning to my work for another hour or two. After my shift ended I locked up the shop and quickly began the walk home.

The next night around the same time the bell rang on the door. I looked up to see the same boy from before except this time he wore the same jean jacket with sweats and a hoodie. Was this boy constantly in winter? It was easily 76 degrees outside. He looked over at me when I said nothing but shook his head and went to look down one of the aisles. I ran a hand through my hair and I glanced over at him from time to time.

“You going to pay for that?” I asked as he walked past me and towards the exit. Shrugging he said with a smirk, “What are you gonna do if I don’t, angel?” I pulled my headphones out of my ears and raised an eyebrow at the pet name. “Call the cops.” I could see a brief look of fear flash in his brown eyes. “Or kick your ass myself. I haven’t decided quite yet.”

He sighed and tossed the Milk Way bar and and less than adequate sandwich wrap onto the counter. “There. Happy?” He frowned and pulled a cigarette out of his pocket before lighting it.

“No smoking in here.”

“So”

“So take it outside if you’re gonna screw up your life.”

He leaned on the counter with a smirk playing at his lips as he blew a stream of smoke near me. “But, then I wouldn’t be in here with you now would I, angel?” I scoffed and closed my book. “Stop calling me that.” With a laugh he blew another puff of smoke out into the air.

“Don’t like the pet names, love?”

“How would you like it if I called you names?”

“Quite nice actually.”

“Asshole.”

“I was think more along the lines of Daddy, but that works too.”

He smirked and I snatched the cigarette from his hands before putting it out. “You know it’s not nice to steal.” He said with another smirk. Was that all he knew how to do?

I could tell he took pride on the blush painting my cheeks, however it didn’t seem to matter whether it was from anger or embarrassment. My glare however softened when I fully looked at him. His face was thin and he was ten pounds passed skinny. It was only now that I saw the small bruise under his eye that I was sure wasn’t there yesterday. My eyes scanned him over and looked to the backpack he carried around with him.

“Just forget it. Take your stuff and go.” I pulled my wallet out of my bag and put the total cost in the register. I looked up to see him in shock. “Why did you- You don’t even know me. Why would you do that?” I shrugged and closed the register.

“What’s your name?”

“Felix…”

“Now, I know you. Okay?”

I gave him a small smile and sat back in my chair opening my book again. Hesitantly, Felix reached out for the sandwich and candy bar. He looked back at me once before leaving the store. My mind reeled with thoughts of Felix after he left. The small moment of vulnerability his eyes showed kept replaying in my head. Pure shock at someone doing something kind for him.

Felix didn’t come back to the shop until the next week. And I hated to admit it, but he crossed my mind more than once. I was shocked to see him standing outside the store when I arrived to switch shifts. His jacket was worn casually over another hoodie, but his blonde hair was uncovered and blew softly in the wind as he smoked another God forsaken cigarette. “You’re back.”

“Did you miss me, angel?” He smirked as I walked towards him and took another hit off the cigarette. “Maybe a little. It’s pretty boring without having someone to argue with.” He laughed, a rich sound that almost lit up his face. Almost. It didn’t quite reach his eyes.

I couldn’t help the smile from coming onto my face at his laugh. I turned on my heel and started to enter the shop when I saw him toss the cigarette on the ground and put it out before following me. “Look at you!”

“It’s only because you’re so anal about it, angel.”

“Just you wait and see. I’ll get you to quit yet!” He chuckled and held the door open for me as we both entered the bright store. He grabbed an instant ramen and I put money in the register. He stood at my counter and ate while I pulled out my notebook and started to work.

“What’s that?” Looking up I saw him motion to my book filled with my messy handwriting and loosely strung musical notes. “Nothing. It’s just some lyrics I’ve been messing around with.” Before I knew it, the book was in his hands and his slim fingers were flipping through the pages. “This is really good.” He had the smallest smile gracing his face. What? Y/n, he’s an asshole, what are you thinking? “You really think so?” He nodded and continued to flip through the pages.

“So, is this what you want to do? Make music?” I nodded leaning onto the counter stealing a bite of his ramen. “I want to be a producer. It’s my dream.” He handed the book back to me and I couldn’t help but notice when I accidentally brushed his hand.

“Your dream?” I nodded with a smile. “What about you?” He set the streaming cup of noodles back on the counter “What about me, angel?” A smirk crossed his face again, but his eyes looked sad. I then noticed the bruise near his eye was a darker purple. He also had a cut on the edge of his lip I hadn’t seen before. “My dream? Don’t have one.” He played with the left over noodles to avoid my gaze. “What? Everyone has something they love to do!”

“Not me.”

“Come on.”

“I’m just not good at anything.”

“Felix, that can’t be true.”

He looked up at me through his blonde hair. He could tell by the look on my face I wasn’t going to give in until he told me something. With a sigh he looked back at me once more before that tiny smile crept onto his lips. “I guess…I like to dance.” He looked down almost embarrassed. Suddenly the bell rang on the door signaling a customer. I looked up and greeted the three men that walked in. They weren’t that much older than us, maybe juniors at university. Felix’s stare turned to them and I saw him tense as the one with white blonde hair eyed me up and down.

“Felix, that’s awesome! I would love to see you dance!” He turned back to face me and quickly plastered that signature smirk of his face. “I bet you would, angel.” Seeing he was done with his meal, I took the carton and threw it away. When I returned the three men stood next to Felix. Despite his small stature you could tell they wanted to stay as far away from him as possible. The blonde one stood in front waiting to be checked out.

The boys had two cans of beer and two bottles of soju laid out on the counter. “Can I see your IDs?” They all obliged and I checked them thoroughly before handing them back and giving them a receipt. The blonde one smiled at me before exiting with his friends. They went and sat at the tables outside of the store while Felix and I continued to talk. 

Felix surprised me. Despite his cold exterior, the boy was quite sweet, although he did keep up that wall the entire time. My eyes kept wandering to the bruise and cut, but I knew better than to ask or he would shut me out. The time flew by faster than I expected and when I looked at the clock it was time for me to close up. “You want me to walk you home, angel?” I shook my head and packed up. “I don’t live that far from here.” “It’s not that I’m worried about. No one should be out this late at night.” I smiled and turned off all the lights. “Says you.”

“Yes says me. Also those guys are still out there and I don’t like the way they were looking at you.” Not being able to argue I looked to the three men outside to find them loudly laughing, obviously drunk. Locking up the door Felix and I both turned to start home. As we passed the men, I felt him pull me into him by the waist. 

Turning I saw Felix shoot a dark glare at the men when their gaze followed the two of us. He kept his grip tight on my waist until we turned the corner. I felt safe and protected in his arms. Felix walked me up to my door and released his grip on my side. “Thanks for walking me home.” I smiled under the porch light my parents left on for me. “No problem, angel.” Without another word, Felix leaned down and pressed a kiss onto my cheek. The next thing I saw was him walking down my sidewalk.

“Will you be at the store tomorrow?” 

“You never know, Y/n.” He called back over his shoulder.

Two weeks had passed and I hadn’t seen Felix since the night he walked me home. I hated the thought, but I had to admit to myself that I was starting to like Felix. Definitely more than I should. For the love of God, the guy stole from me! Well- the store, but same thing. Now I couldn’t get him out of my head. The third night he didn’t show up I started to worry. The reason behind those bruises and cuts….was that what was keeping him? Or maybe he was just a player like I thought he was and he was done with me.

With Felix gone, those three university guys started to hang around the store more. The blonde one, Han Joo I think, had tried multiple times to start a conversation with me but I was simply not in the mood. 

“Your little boyfriend didn’t show up again.” Han Joo said as I absentmindedly checked his ID. His friends were laughing and waiting for him outside. “His name is Felix. And he’s not my boyfriend.” I said without emotion.  He nodded and waited for me to finish scanning the soju. “You should come hang out with us after your shift is over.” I looked up at his words.

What in God’s name made this bastard think I would ever want to spend any time with him and his drunk ass friends. When I didn’t respond he simply left the store and passed out the bottles. Patiently I waited behind the counter for the remainder of my shift. When one a.m rolled around I knew Felix wasn’t coming yet again and I decided to shut down the store. Headphones in my ears, I locked up the convenience store and began my walk home.

Before I got far, I felt someone grab my wrist. I turned to find a tipsy Han Joo. “I thought you said you would hang out with us!” His words were slurred and he pulled me close to him so I could smell the cheap alcohol he bought just hours before. “I’m sorry, I have school tomorrow-” “So do we! Come on just a few minutes” I tried to pull away from him put his grip held tight on my wrist. I struggled with the drunk man for a few moments before both our attention was averted.

“You son of a bitch!” I turned to see Felix rushing towards him. His fist flew across Han Joo’s face causing him to stumble back. Punch after punch was thrown, most from Felix’s end. I stood frozen, not knowing what to do. “Felix!” I yelled just in time for him to turn around. Han Joo’s friend grabbed Felix by the collar of his jacket and tried pull him to the ground. All he really did was throw Felix’s jean jacket off to reveal his tan and surprisingly muscular arms. What happened to his hoodie? 

I was brought back to the present by Felix crying out in pain. Han Joo had gotten up from the ground and kneed him in the stomach making in fall to the ground, vulnerable to their attacks. “Get away from him!” I grabbed a soju bottle from the table and smashed it over the first head I saw. The man crumpled to the ground and Han Joo turned his attention to me. 

“You little bitch!” A burning sensation spread across my cheek and I saw him bring his hand up once more to strike. What was I supposed to do? My head started spinning as his fist connected with my chin. The next thing I remember was Felix kneeling over me.

“Y/n! Y/n? Wake up, please!” He looked close to tears and he held my face delicately in his hands, like I was made of glass and the slightest touch would cause me to break. “Oh god. You’re awake.” His breath was ragged and shallow and he leaned over me, still sitting on the ground. “Felix, are you okay?” Sitting up I took his face in my head looking at the new bruises on his cheek and the cut on his lip was reopened. 

“I’ve had worse.” He tried to smile but I saw right through it. I took his hand in mine to inspect his knuckles when my eyes trailed off to another spot. “Felix…” I tried not to cry at the sight. He had hidden in from me all this time. Long slits were made all the way down his right wrist and inside his forearm. He tried to pull away when he realized what I was looking at. He stopped when he looked into my eyes. 

I could still see that wall he hid behind, but now there was a small crack in it giving me a glimpse into the mysteries he kept secret. “Come on. Let me take you home.” He winced and I thought I accidentally hurt him, but I wouldn’t know the reason until the next morning. Painfully I got up and retrieved his jacket from the ground, then helped the blonde boy up and together we made our way home. He told me where he lived, but that I shouldn’t come in. We stood merely across the street from my house as he looked sadly into a one story house with a window on in the living room.

“Felix, why don’t I take a look at your cheek before you go?” I said already moving towards my house. I got the sense that he didn’t want to go home and in the back of my mind I didn’t either. He only responded with a smile and a shaky breath. I tried being as quiet as possible bringing Felix upstairs to my room. The two of us stumbled into the room and I settled  Felix at the foot of my bed before retrieving the med kit from the bathroom. Not wanting to wake my parents, I kept the lights off and closed the door.

The moon cast just enough light to work by as I set to cleaning some of the blood off of Felix’s face. There was a silence between us as I finished the work on his face. He just stared at me with those brown eyes. Like he was searching for something. My fingers brushed his lip with a cream that was supposed to help heal cuts and he winced away slightly. 

“You aren’t going to ask why I didn’t tell you?”

I simply shook my head.

“You’re not going to tell me what I’m doing is wrong and that I need help?”

“You should never be told what  you are feeling is wrong.”

Another silence filled the room. It was heavy, as if I was knowing seeing just how much weight Felix carried with him every day.

“You aren’t going to tell me it’s going to be okay?”

“Felix, I wouldn’t lie to you.” He looked up at me questioningly. It was as if he didn’t quite understand my answer wasn’t one I was supposed to say.

“This isn’t something you can fix overnight and I’m not going to lie to you and say otherwise. I won’t lie and say you’ll be okay because you won’t be. What I will say is….I…I love you…” His eyes widened at my words.

“I think I loved you before I knew, and it hasn’t changed the fact.” 

“You…”

His voice trailed off when my hands went fell from his cheek to rest on his chest. I could feel his heart beat beneath my hand. The vibrations through his chest felt like the perfect beat for a song. Hesitantly he brought his hand to my cheek. Instinctively I let my hands fall to his waist. He winced in pain at the touch and tried not to cry out, biting down on his lip.

“Felix, what’s wrong?” He shook his head, eyes shut tight. “I’m fine, angel.” “No, you’re not.” I carefully lifted the hem of his shirt up and gasped at what I saw in the moonlight. Despite protest, Felix let me carefully lift the rest of his shirt over his head so I could see the damage. I could see the shame in Felix’s eyes when I looked at his stomach and chest.

“Felix….”

Dark purple and yellow bruises scattered around his ribs and stomach. A few cuts were also on his chest. Something on his shoulder caught my eye and I couldn’t help but softly touch the skin. A large red gash ended on his shoulder and traveled down his back. Almost like a belt mark. Everything was old though. It didn’t look like any of these injuries were from the fight an hour ago. Felix easily had two or more ribs broken and maybe an infection from the gash on his shoulder. The thought of him being in pain made me cry.

“There’s nothing you can do about it. It’s okay.” His fingers brushed softly over my hand. The gesture felt so intimate…..so…..him. “There must be something I can do.” I wiped the tears from my cheeks and took a deep breath before looking at him once more. “Y/n, angel, there isn’t anything you can do now.” His deep voice filled my room like a symphony. Seeing me still distraught, Felix tried to think of something I could do to at least put my mind at ease.

“Kiss me…” 

His breath, still shallow was the only thing that could be heard in the room. My hands shook as they came gently to his cheek. The first kiss was gentle. It reminded me of the first drop of spring rain. The moment I retreated from his touch he pulled me back to his lips. I could only describe the way Felix kissed me like a symphony and they sounded like what you would greet angels with. My fingers tangled themselves in his light hair and I felt him lean back onto the bed.

The moment was so much more than words can describe. It was like Felix was letting me see every side of him. His lips softly left trails around my skin as his fingers danced across my body. I didn’t miss the fabric of my shirt once it was lifted over my head. Especially since Felix was there to replace its warmth. He had moved let his lips travel to the other side of my neck and I couldn’t help my smile.There was an unspoken agreement between the two of us. Neither of us needed to speak, anything he wanted I would give to him and it was clearly the same for him. A silent heeded oath shared between Felix and I.

Felix’s chest rose and fell at a steady pace. His arm was wrapped around me and stroking the bare skin of my back. His heartbeat was comforting under my ear and I felt warm and safe. The both of us stared out the moonlit window basking in its glow. Absentmindedly my fingers traced patterns over chest. Instinctively they became music notes matching his heartbeat.

I felt Felix nuzzle into my hair and place a kiss on my head. “I don’t want you to leave.” The words came out more like a sigh. I enjoyed the way his fingers danced across my skin. “I’ll have to eventually…” His voice was soft and sad. I turned to look up at his face to find a strained expression. He looked almost afraid as he looked out my window and across the street. His gaze came down to meet mine. “I don’t deserve you.” His deep voice was like the soft far away thunder of a spring storm.

 The only response I could give him was to press my lips against his. Sooner than either of us would like Felix left my bed and began the painful task of getting dressed. I did my best to help him and pulled on a pair of sweats and a shirt in the process. He pressed another kiss to my lips before walking out my front door. “Sweet dreams, angel.” I smiled and watched him walk to the only house lit on the street. As he reached the front yard I started to go back inside, but was stopped by the sound of yelling.

 I turned to find a man storming towards Felix. My heart stopped the moment I saw his hand go to Felix’s throat. I was paralyzed to watch the site before me. The man threw Felix onto the grass and began to kick him. Felix’s cries brought me out of my frozen state. “FELIX!” The man looked up at my words and I didn’t think twice about running across the street. Time seemed to slow as I watched the boy on the grass curl into himself. My legs couldn't carry me fast enough before another blow landed into his stomach.

 My mind didn't even comprehend the porch lights of houses turning on. All that mattered was getting to Felix. "STOP! YOU'RE HURTING HIM!" I screamed as I tried to pull the man away from Felix who lay defenseless and in pain on the dewy grass. The man was too strong and simply pushed me away despite my efforts. Desperately I clawed at his shoulder and screamed for help. He raised his fist once more and was about to hit Felix. Without thinking I dropped to the ground and launched myself in front of the boy.

 The last thing I remember was a red and blue glow across the man's face.

Masterlist

Requests are open!

Part 2

[lailannajacobs]

An Arrogant King and an Icy Prince (Handmade Thieves pt. VI)

Pairing: Loki x Fem!Reader

Summary: Reader unwittingly finds her way onto Asgard and has to deal with all the attention that follows being a mortal in the extravagant realm. To his surprise, Loki finds himself having just as much trouble if not more than reader in dealing with it. 

Warnings: None! 

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: Thank you all so much for your incredible patience, I know it’s been a while since the last update! To me this chapter marks a kind of turning point in the series and next week’s chapter is going to be from Loki’s POV. Hope you guys enjoy it! Let me know what you think, good or bad, I love to hear all feedback!! <3

Handmade Thieves | Part Six

The king sat, stiff-backed in his throne, lips drawn in a tight line. Whatever he was upset about, you had a feeling he wasn’t going to be in a forgiving mood. You could only hope it had nothing to do with you. Because if it did, there was a good chance you weren’t making it out of this throne room without an execution date hanging over your head. Or out at all.

For the first time since arriving on Asgard, you felt the fight seep out of you. Incessantly worrying whether you were going to accidentally give the king a reason to end your life had been draining your energy more than you had realized. Realistically you knew you couldn’t spend the rest of the year this anxious, but you couldn’t take the easy way out. The easy way out meant that you stopped caring, but to stop caring meant certain death. You’d be dumb to think you had stayed alive this long not by fighting for it.

So, you took in a sharp breath, rolled your shoulders back and waited for the king to speak. It wasn’t you place to speak first, you knew that much about royal etiquette. Yet it seemed that it wasn’t the prince’s either because he remained silent, his weight rocked back on his heels, still half bent in a mocking bow. If you didn’t know better, you might have believed his insouciant act. But you were standing so close that your fingers were almost touching his and you could feel the tension radiating from him in the barest space between your two bodies.

You resisted the urge to reach for his hand, knowing you barely had to move at all to do it. You told yourself you only wanted to comfort the prince, but deep down you knew it wasn’t true. Whatever was enough to make the prince uneasy only served to make you twice as worried as you were before. If you were being honest, deep down, you were the one looking for comfort. It was getting hard to shake the feeling that this was going to be the last time you were ever called into the throne room - and not because you were suddenly prone to good behavior.

Mustering every last bit of courage, you forced yourself to stop fidgeting and kept your gaze on the king. You refused to let anyone in the room believe they could intimidate you or that you couldn’t handle things on your own. Also, your steady gaze was the best way to fight the irritating need to look to the prince for reassurance. Luckily, the only way anyone could know how nervous you were was by taking hold of your sweaty palms. And the odds of the prince reaching out for your hand were as slim as the chances of the king immediately sending you back to Earth with a token of apology worth enough to buy you a new ship.

Odin’s jaw worked as if he wasn’t sure where to start. Every time you thought he was about to say something, he let out a sigh and remained silent. His eyes travelled between you and the prince, giving you the impression that he couldn’t decide on who to berate first. Feeling like a child about to be scolded, you almost burst out into a fit of nervous giggles, but the lurking thought of death sobered you up before you could get yourself into any more trouble.

“I have graciously allowed you to remain in my kingdom ambassador,” the king sneered your title as if he despised the fact that you had a one at all, “And this is how you repay me?”

The king’s voice, although not loud, echoed throughout the mostly empty room and resonated through your chest, leaving you with a sick feeling in your stomach. You felt the prince relax - you had no idea why - but couldn’t find it in yourself to feel the same way. Your heart rate picked up and you could feel it hammering in your throat. You couldn’t remember the last time you had ever been this scared.

You had to remind yourself that you had been in plenty of near-death situations and this was wasn’t any different simply because you were playing a long-term game instead of a short one. Normally you would have scoffed at the king’s words. He hadn’t given you anything, let alone having given it graciously. You were nothing more than a glorified prisoner here and everyone in the room was aware of it.

When you finished scolding yourself for getting so easily intimidated, you narrowed your gaze and slowed your breathing. It was about time you remembered that you had to play by the rules of a prisoner and a thief and not the those of a true ambassador. You couldn’t forget how to play the game if you wanted to win it. Not when your life was on the line.

“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” The king demanded, motioning for you to speak with a wave of his hand.

You grit your teeth, trying to leash your growing frustration. Anger wasn’t going to serve you any better than fear in this situation. What you needed was an emotionless mask, but your feelings always seemed to boil over faster than unwatched milk left on a stovetop. It was hard not to look to the prince for guidance when he was the one person you knew whose face would be a veneer mixed of boredom and amusement.

Odin tilted his head in a gesture that seemed to mean that he wasn’t going to say anything else until you did. The only problem was that you didn’t want to confess to a crime he wasn’t aware of, not that you were sure of what you had done to offend him in the first place.

You lifted your chin a little higher, “I’m a little uncertain as to what exactly I’ve done to offend you, your Majesty.”

The prince let out a sharp exhale. It seemed he hadn’t forgotten the intent behind your royal formalities.

The king’s fingers tightened on the arm rest of his throne, knuckles whitening. “Would a mirror be an adequate reminder?”

It didn’t take long for you to realize what he meant, and you felt the leash on your anger slip away as you growled, “The dress? You’re this upset over a ripped dress? Are my calves really so damn offensive to you and your backward 18th century ways?”

You wanted to take the words back as soon as they escaped your lips, but it was too late. Your heart hammered so heard in your chest you were sure the prince could hear it, but you couldn’t look away from the king. Not now. Not when you had just taken a stand. No matter how much of a stupid stand it was.

You had promised yourself a long time ago that you would stare death in the face until you were no longer alive to do it, so you squared your shoulders back a little more. You were too angry to be afraid now anyways. How dare he think it was acceptable to execute someone for altering a dress?

The fury rolled off the king in waves, and if Odin had the strength to crush the throne beneath his fists you were sure he would have. Despite all your anger and bravado, you felt something stick in your throat when you tried to swallow. If you hadn’t been sure today was your last day when you had first walked into the throne room, you were damn sure of it now.

You had just set your own death trap, and no one could save you - at least no one who wanted to could. You didn’t need to look over at the prince to know there was no concern for you on his face. If you were going to get out of this, it was going to have to be on your own.

But when the king opened his mouth to speak, and you braced yourself for whatever he decided to do next, the prince stepped forward, silencing everyone with his simple movement. It seemed the king had either forgotten his son was there or hadn’t expected him to interfere.

Either way, every set of eyes were now trained on the prince and the look on his face made you wonder how anyone could ever forget the prince was there.

From your position slightly behind him, you could barely see the expression on his face, but it was enough to send chills down your spine. The vicious smirk was so terrifyingly empty and cold it was almost as if the air around him had dropped several degrees. You shivered. It was hard to believe you were still standing next to the same person. You were suddenly glad you had ever been on the receiving end of that look, realizing that if you had been, you probably wouldn’t have been standing here now, alive.

“Father. I cannot believe you would be petty enough to find yourself upset over something so terribly minuscule. As you have reminded me multiple times, pettiness is a quality you so despise in your…” he paused as if trying to find the right word even if it was blatantly obvious he knew exactly what he was about to say, “son.”

The momentary surprise you had felt at the prince’s step forward - the surprise that had made you wonder if he cared whether you lived or died - dissolved the second you realized he was only seizing the opportunity to get a jab in at his father. You should have known what he was up to the moment he moved. He may have made a deal with you to help protect his life if the occasion arose, but not because he cared but because he saw an opportunity and he took it. You couldn’t believe fear had made you lose your wits enough to think otherwise. Not that you wanted it to be otherwise you reminded yourself. You were both using each other as means to a nearly impossible end - thought you still had no idea what exactly the prince’s goal was.

The king’s fingers loosened and smoothed across the gold throne as if his son’s disrespectful taunts were so familiar, they were almost calming. You didn’t see how anyone could be calm in the face of the prince’s terrifying sneer, and it occurred to you, as Odin let out a sigh saturated with disappointment, that maybe the king underestimated his son. You couldn’t decide whether that made the him ignorant or unwise.

“I’ll get to you later Loki. As for the Midgardian,” he turned his hateful eye back towards you, dissolving any relief you might have felt while the spotlight was on the prince, “The ruined garments are an act of disrespect but tolerable best. But threatening to undress before the palace guards and any citizen who happens to walk by is unacceptable and beyond disgraceful. I should have you executed for the disrespect you have shown my generous hospitality and my kingdom.”

You almost laughed in relief. He wasn’t going to kill you yet. The word should had never brought you so much joy in your life. There was a chance you’d live to see you ship again. Maybe the prince was right. Maybe you did have a knack at making it out alive.

But the happy thoughts died the moment the prince whirled to face you, creating a broad barrier between you and the king that might have felt protective if it hadn’t been for the dangerous flare in his eyes. Though it looked nothing like the look he had shot the king, it wasn’t anything good either.

“You did what?” The prince snarled, his voice low and dangerous so that only you could hear it.

You crossed your arms, annoyed that he was killing the joyous realization that you were going to live past today.

You spat back, “It was a threat. It’s not my fault the thought of seeing an earthling’s undergarments terrified him more than death. It was the easiest and most efficient way of getting what I wanted.” You could feel him trying to contain the anger bubbling beneath the surface, his eyes flashing with something that set those green emeralds on fire. “I don’t know why you’re so upset Wolf. And anyways, the guard is perfectly fine because someone interrupted me and gave me scissors instead.”

The prince gritted his teeth, his jaw working as he seemed to chew on a handful of different responses - none of them pleasant you were sure - but Odin interrupted before he could say anything else.

“Midgardian,”

Loki whipped back around to his father but must have quickly realized that he was anything other than the perfect image of a stone-cold, emotionless asshat and smoothed down his shoulders with a breath. You had no idea why he had gotten so upset. It wasn’t like he was the one being scolded by two the different men who had forced him to wear a ridiculous dress in the first place. The thought alone made you want to plant one of your knives into the broad back you were now staring at just to see how it would affect a god like him. And also, to piss him off. A lot.

The king interrupted your murderous daydreaming, “One more misstep and I will send you back to the dungeon to complete the remaining of your year, regardless of your position as ambassador.”

The king’s words were all the dismal the prince needed to grab your arm and drag you toward the exit. You wanted to shove him off, pissed off and annoyed at just about everyone on this stupid planet, but the prince still seemed so worked up that you didn’t think you could shove him off - not without hurting him at least - if you tried. And you weren’t about to make a scene after barely making it out of this scandal alive.

“Oh, and Midgardian,” the king called, freezing you and the prince with his voice as you reached the doors to the hallway.

You let out a sigh and rolled your eyes, wondering why he couldn’t say everything he wanted to at once. Did he really think it was necessary to stop you every time you left this damn place? The logical side of your brain told you that it was his way of constantly showing off the power he had over you and his son, but the emotional side, pent up with anger and the desire to stab someone, told you that it was probably also some male ego thing. “If you happen to find yourself in the dungeon because of your reckless, human behavior, don’t think you can manipulate my son into letting you out again.”

You felt the prince tense up beside you, the grip on your arm tightening to the point where it almost hurt. Glancing up at the prince, you noticed his face had gone cold, the only crack in his mask being the flaring heat in those green eyes. You could tell Odin’s absolute disregard for his son’s intelligence and cunning was killing him slowly, despite the fact that he probably knew it was best to be underestimated. You knew better than most how much the desire for recognition could outweigh almost anything. Even the desire for revenge. But the prince didn’t turn, rather tried to pull you out the door.

Now overcome with anger, you shook him off and faced the king instead.

“With all due respect your Majesty,” you sneered his title the same way he had yours, “If you believe that the prince could ever be controlled by anyone other than himself, then your arrogance has made you blind and deeply mistaken. I hope for your sake that you never fall on the wrong side of that wrath.”

You spun on your heel, head held high, not wanting to see the aftermath of your words. Everything was a gold blur as you strode out of the throne room, barely noticing the prince close on your heels. Sure you had forgotten how to breathe, you only took in a gulp of air when you had made it far enough away from the throne room that you no longer felt like you had just jumped out of a plane without a parachute.

Even though your heart still felt like it was hammering against a bass drum, the world around you finally came into focus and you felt like you could think again. But the more you thought about what you had just done, the less you knew why you had done it at all.

All you knew for sure was that you were practically shaking with anger. Sentencing you to a year of imprisonment was somewhat understandable considering who you were and everything you had done in your life, but watching the king behave in the same way toward his own son had touched a nerve in you that you hadn’t realized was there. It didn’t matter what part the prince had played in getting you into this mess, you had seen too many similar family situations on earth to even begin to think that what you had just seen was okay.

But the real question was: why had you defended him? There was no logical reason as why doing so would benefit you, especially that it had most likely only endangered you more.

Maybe you had done it because the prince had stepped in earlier, even if it had been for his own reasons. Or maybe you had done it because you had felt, a moment before walking in, that your deal meant the two of you were a team. You quickly dismissed the thought. Rather, it had to be that your intense anger meant you were itching for a fight and there was no one you wanted to use your knives on more than the king himself. That was why you had done what you did. It had nothing to do with the prince himself. Nothing at all.

Taking in a deep breath, you tried unfurling your hands after realizing they were fisted, but you couldn’t seem to calm yourself down. You didn’t have three strikes before you were out. This wasn’t baseball. These were the king of Asgard’s rules, and he was more intent on killing you than you had realized. No matter how angry it made you, you knew you’d have to start playing nice from now on if you didn’t want to end up in a dungeon. Or worse, dead.

“Are you trying to get yourself noticed by everyone in the realm?” The prince growled, snapping you out of your thoughts.

With a huff, you looked around to see what the hell he was talking about and noticed all the curious looks the passing citizens shot your way as you walked down the halls. “What do you think wolf? Of course not.”

“Then it would seem,” he steered you down a more secluded hallway, “that torn up Asgardian clothes make you more noticeable than your Midgardian ones.”

You stopped him by grabbing his forearm and stared at him in disbelief, “You’re worried about people looking at me funny? Are you serious right now? What the hell is wrong with you Loki? Did you not just hear what your father said to me about you?” You didn’t give him a chance to answer, not that it looked like he was going to judging by the slow blink he gave you in response. “Do you not care how he treats you? I don’t care that you’re probably plotting some way of getting him back, how could you just stand there and take it?”

He only watched your outburst with vacant eyes as if he wasn’t even listening. Out of breath and annoyed with him and his stupid, royal ass, you spun on your heel and stomped off, ready to be as far away from the throne room as was possible in your stupid prison.

[elderstiefel]

A Night to Forget - Miles Edgeworth x Phoenix Wright

Read also on AO3! Leave a comment & kudos if you want!

Summary :  Closeted gay man Miles Edgeworth decides to step out of his comfort zone for a night out on the town. But it all comes crumbling down when he bumps into a familiar face

The chain of events that led Miles Edgeworth to be standing in the middle of a gay club on a Saturday night was an interesting yet all too familiar one.

It started with the usual stress. Many sleepless nights mulling over cases; falling asleep on the office couch and waking up as the sun peeked through the blinds, ringing in another day of work. Rinse and repeat.

Stress can make you do some interesting things, many of which Miles thought he was immune to. Though he had come close to ripping his hair out from the root or throwing an expensive brandy glass against the wall, he always seemed to manage to calm himself down and be rational.

Managing the usual work-related stress was something that was second nature to him.

The stress of being a 25-year-old closeted gay man in the city with no time to do anything was something he was still trying to figure out.

It didn’t help when his two worlds collided, and he had to spend the day staring the stupidly handsome and annoyingly persistent Phoenix Wright in the face during a court session.

He convinced himself that his crush on Wright was brought about by the two sides of himself battling it out in his mind; his suave professional persona and the scared gay boy in the closet who just wanted to come out and have some fun.

Besides, he couldn’t seriously have feelings for Phoenix Wright. They were natural enemies. Wright was so annoying…brilliant, but annoying.

Going out on the town was one of those things way out of Miles’ comfort zone. He was rightfully accused of “not getting out much” but God, he didn’t think he was that terminal. It took a quick swig of vodka and a 20-minute pep talk to get him out the door.

He felt rather…sexy in his tight-fitting grey sweater and even tighter fitting burgundy pants. Not uncomfortably tight, more like made to fit his body just so. There was something about the way his clothes were tailored that made him irresistible to look at…or so he’d been told. He wasn’t planning on bringing anyone home tonight but he knew he definitely could if the opportunity came about.

This night spending too much money on drinks and pretending to know how to dance to popular songs was supposed to help him blow off steam. Let loose a little bit. God knows he didn’t have any opportunity while living in a Von Karma household, but being a grown man with a more than adequate income and one free night to himself, he wasn’t going to pass it up.

Forget the cases. Forget the court. Forget Manfred Von Karma. Forget that stupid Phoenix Wright. To hell with it. Tonight was his night.

Or so he thought.

He felt a vein pop in his neck when he spotted Phoenix Wright, dressed in a shirt and jeans that were impossibly tight, sitting at the end of the bar. He was wearing that stupid dorky grin on his face, and his stupid giggle as he cracked a joke with the bartender could be heard over the music. And My God, he looks so stupidly gorgeous-

It wasn’t until Phoenix was offering up an awkward wave that Miles realized his cover had been blown. Blown to absolute fucking smithereens.

It wasn’t like Miles could pretend he hadn’t seen Phoenix. He was still staring at him, wide-eyed, his feet glued to the club floor like a deer caught in the headlights of a semi-truck.

He couldn’t run, at least not that far. Sure the club was crowded but the shock of grey hair scrambling away would be easy to track down in the crowd.

The thump thump thump of the music turned into a dull buzz in the back of Edgeworth’s head as he tried to plan his escape. Panic made his vision go blurry, but he was quickly brought back from the void when that familiar voice called out to him.

“Miles? Hey, Miles!”

He was absolutely appalled by the greeting, his hands flying up to cover his mouth as if he was about to be sick.

Don’t scream my name in here you moron, I can’t be spotted in here, don’t act like this is so fucking casual why the fuck are you here-

“Edgeworth, are you alright?”

As soon as he noticed Phoenix had left his chair and oh fuck he’s coming this way, his feet finally let him move to hightail it out the door.

He didn’t create any scene at all, but Miles’ anxiety made it feel like every eye in the room was on him as he crashed out the door.

Everyone knows. Everyone saw me. Miles Edgeworth, the demon prosecutor, also a massive queer.

He held his head in his hands and tried to catch his breath in the alley beside the club. The dull thumping of the music bled through the brick wall he leaned up against.

Strings of words repeated over and over in his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe but the words grew louder and louder. That voice…

Von Karma might be on death row but his words would forever live on in Miles’ head.

Failure. Queer. Pansy. Degenerate.

“…Miles?”

He jumped when a warm hand rested on his shoulder. He peeked up through his fingers at Phoenix, who wore an expression that was the perfect mix of awkward and sympathetic.

As much as he hated being seen like this, especially by someone like Wright, he couldn’t find the strength to straighten his posture and make eye contact. His eyes remained pasted on the concrete.

“… Wright. I-”

“Didn’t expect to see me here? I could say the same thing to you.” Phoenix offered a warm smile, one that persisted he was being genuine and not trying to poke fun.

“…please don’t-”

“Miles, trust me…I won’t tell anyone. Not even Maya, when she starts pestering the life outta me, asking where I’ve been. If you don’t want anyone to know…I get it.”

Miles’ eyes darted up to Phoenix for a brief moment, and he felt a jolt in his stomach that sent his eyes flying back to the ground.

Bracing himself on the brick wall, Miles straightened his back and cleared his throat as if nothing was wrong and he didn’t just have a near mental collapse in front of his work rival.

“I just…I found myself free this evening. And this- it’s not something I usually enjoy but-”

“You don’t have to explain it to me, I get it. Work is, uh…it’s a bitch! Let’s be honest.” Phoenix chuckled, reaching to scratch the back of his head.

Miles hated himself for noticing the fabric of Phoenix’s shirt stretch over his chest and how the sleeves strained at the biceps.

Miles crossed his arms over his chest and cleared his throat once again as if that would help him assert himself in this situation.

“I didn’t know you were gay.” He said bluntly, his eyes darting back and forth between Phoenix and the wall in front of him.

“Yeah, well… being gay is one thing. Being a lawyer is another. I think I do a good job of keeping my personal and professional life separate. But…damn, being a gay lawyer, there isn’t time to do anything!” Phoenix threw his hands up in exaggerated exasperation, offering another chuckle that Miles warmly responded to.

“You’ve got that right…” Miles felt just the tiniest bit more comfortable, much to his surprise. Because God, this was awkward. He knew the working relationship he and Phoenix had would be forever changed but for some reason…he didn’t give two shits. Something about Phoenix’s openness made all the shame melt away.

“But when you’ve got time…you might as well use it.” Phoenix slid his hands into his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels. “And being a lonely gay in the club can be intimidating…”

“What are you implying, Wright?”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

____________________

Miles didn’t know what came over him, but he found himself, sitting next to Phoenix Wright of all people, at a gay bar, sipping on a $14 drink.

And it wasn’t his first $14 drink either. Phoenix started out getting them some cocktails that came with little paper umbrellas and candied fruit.

Experience tells us that these drinks are the most dangerous because they sneak up on you.

Miles twiddled the tiny paper umbrella between his fingers and sighed a bit more wantonly than he would ever care to admit.

“So…I never really came out to Von Karma, God knows I couldn’t. I thought I hid it pretty well but…he found my diary and…”

“Damn…I’m so sorry. I can only imagine how he reacted.” Phoenix rested his cheek in his hand and downed the rest of his drink.

Miles shivered a little bit as the memory flashed through his mind. “It wasn’t my proudest moment. I like to think everything he put me through shaped me into a better man but that was…terrifying. I thought he would send me away or…worse. All for writing about sneaking a kiss with a boy during lunchtime.”

Phoenix moved in a little closer to Miles. He could tell Miles needed a shift from cold memories to more awkward and funny ones. He wanted to see him smile.

“My parents never really suspected, y'know…I went through law school, and I never really had time to experiment or date. I had a few girlfriends in grad school but uh…well.” Phoenix gestured to the club around him. “You can imagine why those didn’t work out.”

Miles smirked and chuckled to himself, thankful for the change of subject. “Ah, the first girlfriends…I remember mine. Lovely girl.”

“Nice tits?”

“Oh, the nicest. And such a… curvy, womanly behind.” Miles tried his best to match Phoenix’s vulgarity.

They both snickered and simultaneously reached for their glasses, only to realize they were both empty.

“Ah, well…I’m outta cash.” Phoenix patted his pockets with a sad sigh.

“I’ll get the next round, pick your poison.” Miles reached for his wallet and pulled out $40 cash. Phoenix gasped and crossed his arms in such a childish way it almost made Miles lose it.

“Damn, Mr. Prosecutor came loaded! Why was I paying this whole time?!”

Miles let out a laugh that would certainly be deemed ungentlemanly and Phoenix melted a little in his seat.

“You offered the first drink. And you got so tipsy you just kept going.”

“What can I say, I can’t help but buy a handsome man a drink. Or two. Or four.”

Both of them felt the same flush in their cheeks, and they didn’t know if it was the alcohol or that they were both becoming aware of how much they shifted closer to each other during their conversation.

“Well…I can return the favor. I too enjoy splurging on handsome men.” Miles fiddled with his paper umbrella again, his eyes darting up to meet Phoenix’s.

The fruity drinks were certainly filling him with confidence, and he reached up and tucked the umbrella behind Phoenix’s ear, letting his fingers brush ever so gently across the skin of his neck on the way back.

The shiver that traveled through Phoenix was ungodlike and it nearly knocked him off his chair.

“I mean…maybe we could just take this back to your place? I know you have that good shit. The expensive stuff, aged for 40 years in an oak barrel and filtered through gold.”

Miles rolled his eyes and stuffed the cash back in his wallet. “It’s such a sophisticated drink, you can’t just down it like these subordinate cocktails.”

It wasn’t until Miles slipped his wallet back into his pocket that the reality of Phoenix’s question hit him like a ton of bricks.

He just asked to come home with me.

The next breath that left Miles’ lips was shaky. He glanced over at Phoenix, who was looking at his shoes and absentmindedly swirling the fruit in the bottom of his empty glass, staining it maraschino cherry red. He could tell he was just as nervous as he was.

“…it’s a bit of a walk.”

“It’s a nice night.”

____________________

Miles awoke the next morning on his living room couch, a painful crick in his neck and a pounding pressure swelling behind his eyes.

The first sight that greeted him, aside from the blinding sunlight that he immediately resented, was two empty glasses sitting on the coffee table. A few puddles of spilled brandy speckled the glass tabletop.

The night before was returning to him in bits and pieces. The club, Phoenix Wright, the paper umbrellas, the walk home…

He glanced down and drew in a quick breath at the sight of Phoenix sprawled on top of him, out like a light with a small string of saliva trailing from his lip onto Miles’ sweater.

Both of the men were fully clothed, minus shoes and socks, and both equally looking like absolute hungover messes.

A wave of relief washed over Miles as he realized they didn’t…do anything last night.

He’d never forgive himself if he and Phoenix Wright shared a night of passion and he couldn’t remember it.

As he lay there with Phoenix snoozing on top of him, a few more pieces of the night before came back to him.

They continued their talk about Miles’ closeted childhood. About how Von Karma drilled it into his mind that it was a phase he’d outgrow, and that if he didn’t, Von Karma would scare it out of him.

They talked about failed girlfriends, failed straight sex, and had a hardy laugh over that.

They talked about their first times with other boys…how liberating it felt. How good it felt to realize they weren’t broken.

After that, the night became a blur.

God, did Phoenix mention if he was a top or bottom? I can’t remember…

The sleeping man stirred on Miles’ chest and let out a rather loud yawn.

“Urgh… God damn it. This is why I don’t do this often.” Phoenix groaned, forgetting where he was and nuzzling into Miles’ chest.

“The aftermath certainly doesn’t seem worth it…” Miles tried to sit up but Phoenix kept him in his reclined position. He didn’t mind.

After sitting in comfortable silence for a bit, the gravity of the situation started to hit both of them. Miles cleared his throat and decided to break the silence first.

“Um… Wright.”

Phoenix scrunched his nose up and shifted to sit up. Leave it to Edgeworth to make things professional again.

“I know you mentioned you keep your personal and professional life separate…I strive to do the same.”

Phoenix rubbed his eyes and sat on the opposite end of the couch, distancing himself from the other man (as much as he didn’t want to, as much as he just wanted to snuggle back up with him and fall asleep).

“Yeah…you don’t have to tell me twice. This was… I had fun last night. But I don’t see how this has to change anything.” Phoenix offered a smile, to which Edgeworth returned.

“Yes, I agree. I had…fun.” Miles ruffled his hair, trying to smooth it out to no avail. “You’re right, this doesn’t have to change anything. I will remain vigilant in court and-”

“And I’ll be there to kick your ass.” Phoenix cut him off, smirking proudly.

Miles rolled his eyes and shot a look at Phoenix. And then another look. And then a sharp feeling rose in his stomach that was much more urgent than the hangover nausea that was cursing him this morning.

“What are you looking at? Do I have something on my face?”

His eyes were glued to the red and purple splotches left all over Phoenix’s neck and collarbone.

He swallowed hard as his eyes darted to the button of Phoenix’s jeans, his fly wide open just like his own. He shuffled his legs at his sudden realization.

Phoenix’s hair, instead of its usual spiky glory, was tousled like it had been previously ravished by hungry hands.

His heart in his throat, Miles returned his eyes to the messy coffee table in front of him. More memories of last night came seeping back into his mind and he felt his face grow hot.

“Uh… nothing. I had a good time with you last night. Good talk.” Miles’ hand flew to his own neck on instinct, and both him and Phoenix blushed wildly, knowing they were both sporting matching neck accessories.

It’s a good thing the next trial isn’t until Wednesday…

[namjoonchronicles]

projectile | namjoon

pairing: namjoon x reader genre: fluff, domestic namjoon, slight smut(?), suggestive shit word count: 4k author’s note: i just wanted to write a delicious fic of namjoon 

The house is filled with children's laughter and that’s how your aunt liked it. You have more nephews than nieces so it was inevitable that the living room was scattered with toy guns and cars. “Ow.” Your cousin, Sagi, winced as she made her way through the Lego field, barefooted, “I came through the battlefield to tell you that your husband called.” No, not again. You pressed the phone between your shoulder and ear, “Yes, darling, it should be there. I didn’t move any of your Japanese books. Did you leave it behind, in another country, perhaps? Or did you forget to buy it?” Pause, “You can’t log in? Use my account then. Careful not to buy two of the same books like before… Remember the hassle we had to go through just to return it? Alright, take care baby,” End call.

“How long did you leave him on his own?” Sagi asked. “Two,” you sighed, slicing the sausages to make lunch for the kids. “Two weeks? Days?” Sagi’s sister-in-law joined the conversation. “Two hours.”

Two hours ago.

Feet drag against the floor, and you know for certain that the sunshine of your life is finally awake. His silvery blonde hair bobbed up and down, while you turn your back to him, leaning your front against the sink, washing the dishes from last night, with a faint smile on your face. “Do you really have to go?” He groggily asked, leaning his shoulder on the wall that separates the kitchen from the doorway, in that apartment Namjoon bought when he was single. Glancing up to the side at him, you passed him a wider smile than the one you wore when you heard him going up the hallway.                                    Nod.                                                                     His lips parted, his cotton baby blue Ryan PJs and the way he leant his head on the wall. How could someone look so cute, it’s not even noon yet. You walked over to him, sighing, “How many times are we going to have this conversation?” Grinning mischievously at your husband, stepping on his feet, tiptoeing, you planted a kiss on his chin and the side of his jaw before moving away and he followed. He stared at your shoulders and back view as you fixed the curtains in the living room, tying it up to the side to let some light through. After the movie last night, you didn’t rearrange the throw pillows back to its position and thought that you would have more time doing that in the morning. You came back to your own promise and fulfilled it. Namjoon pulled out a tall stool and climbed on it, watching you dust up the living room. Knowing how tidy his wife could be, he didn’t find it odd. What he did find odd was the fact that he wasn’t given as much as attention as he is required. He had just returned from work outside the country, came back to reunite with his wife, after a whooping 3 months of parting…and she’s leaving to her home country. From his body language alone, you knew he was brooding. His usually full lips were thin, pressed together, and he kept biting on them, placing his hand over them, as if he was stopping himself from saying something he thinks you didn’t want to hear. Namjoon is upset. Like you knew he was calling for attention, you strode towards him, and got close enough to place your hand to cover his knees and he still didn’t look at you. Your palm ran up and down his capable thighs as you tried to coax him into returning the gaze, puffing your cheeks smiling but it only worked, briefly, before he turned to cast his eyes downwards then to the side, rocking his upper body back and forth slightly, like a child. Then he spoke in pouts and mumbled, “I just got home and here you are, leaving…” he sighed with his entire body. I’m not done compensating the times we’ve lost. You thumbed his chin, leaning your body further, in between his legs, pulling his face towards yours. His antics, although very endearing, challenges you. As you stare into his beautiful brown irises, you felt your heart clutched with the affection it was known to project, the softness of his skin against the pad of your thumb, and he stared intently in return; waiting, anticipating, hungry for more that you would care to bless him with. There will be times like this. Something so trivial, moments like these where you have to choose between family and love, are the times you dreaded to go through. Certainly, Namjoon had just returned from a lengthy trip and you hadn’t spent enough time with him to part again, so you could understand why he became so needy. “Last night wasn’t enough?” You threaded your fingers through his beautiful locks, speaking in a sing-song voice, in a slight higher tone and whispers. He fluttered his eyes shut, hooked his fingers around your waist band, nuzzled his face into your nape, brushing his lips as he spoke in hushes, “You know very well it wasn’t…” He bracketed his hand around your waist and lifted you so you could straddle his lap and deepened the kiss. You buried your fingers in the strands of his hair, while he leaves your lips to trail kisses down your jawline, and the soft skin of your throat, as his strong arms around your waist, holding you in place while you squeezed him between your thighs. He smelled of bedsheets in the morning, with an adequate amount of warmth, like a blanket. Parting away for a little, you looked down at him with glazed vision, and breathily said, “You hadn’t made the bed, did you?” “We can always remake it,” He hungrily kissed you, and lifted himself up from the tall stool and carried you,running down the hallway to the bedroom, where he threw you on the bed and slammed the door shut. Your laughter was well heard through the door as Namjoon’s pyjamas flew and landed to the ground next to your bed. Fun, intimate and breathless; is how you’d describe what being with Namjoon felt like. He liked making jokes while he made love to you, and he is such a giver. His words were naughty as they were light-hearted, and he knew the effects his sultry deep voice had on you, a love-making session with him was never dull and never short of explosive passion. Namjoon knew where to touch, where to put his lips and where his hands should be, to get the most from you. It is always so sensual, as it is harrowing to even be away from him for long. He had his goals on to making you addicted to his touch, and he’s succeeded every time. It was not one sided, he made sure you knew. By the way he threw his head back into the pillow, how his back arched away from the bed, gripping the bed sheet tight, his heaving chest and heavy breathes, the shudders in his body that he had, failed to hide the consequences of your love on him. Thunderous deep moans, the need to have more despite given everything, the greed he didn’t quite understand. Loving you was sucking him dry but was also nourishing him. Does it make sense if he wanted to be inside you all the time? Does it makes sense if he wanted you to be inside him? This was no longer lust, or love. It was something in between, an insatiable hunger. His lips tingles at the sight of yours, and they longed to be forever intertwined with your skin. From the first time you spent a night with him, his desire for you never waned, and it was mind baffling. He found himself biting his smile at the very pleasure you were giving him, and he memorises the swirl of your tongue to help him cope his many lonely days when you weren’t around. Being close to you, isn’t close enough. Sometimes, even those memories isn’t enough. The craving is so great, it could kill him. “We will never get anything done, and I have to leave before noon,” he hugged your waist in a loose grip as you were moving away. Walking out of the duvet, stark naked, you fetch for the baggage underneath the bed. Then you snatched his pyjamas from the floor and put them on, and nothing else. He watches, sitting in the middle of the messy bed, hair in all directions, rubbing his face and bare arms and shoulders, duvet pooled around his waist. The empty baggage is now placed on the bed next to his large bony feet, poking out the duvet. 

Unzipping them, you turned away to fetch some folded clothes from the wardrobe.

“We can always call…” you consoled him, as you shove your clothes into the bag, “Or text. Or video call. And you have my parent’s house phone number…” He wet his lips with a sullen expression and biting them. There goes the sulking.

“I have to show support to my aunt’s family. She’s done five cycles of chemotherapy now, and I’ve done nothing more but ask her through texts when I know she misses me,” you explained. Namjoon scooted closer to the bag, and took out the clothes you were putting in. “She’s been asking when I could come and visit her,” you continued to take some blouses from the hangers and folding them while standing up, still unaware that Namjoon is taking out the things you’ve packed. “I’ve cooked a lot in the fridge, and if you’re hungry you can heat it up. If you want something else, you can go get something from the convenient store, yes?” you turned your back to him, and caught his reflection from the mirror. Adorable. Cheeky but adorable. You caught him taking the things out of your bag. And pretending he didn’t do anything when you turned around. You had to drag your bag away from the bed and from him, to the floor so you could do a proper packing. “The faster I go, the faster I come back, I promise,” you reassured him. Namjoon fell on the bed, on his side, plopped, watching you. His eyes peeping through the wrinkled duvet. “That’s what you said the last time…” he pouted. You pressed your lips together and silently scolded him. It wasn’t what you planned either, and he could have been a little more considerate. Maybe you should tell him that. “These people are with me, when you weren’t. Because of your work,” you huffed, knowing that you’ve said something that would hurt him. He reaches for his stuffed animal behind him and hugged it tightly within his naked chest, decorated with your nail marks.  He buries half of his face into the stuffed dinosaur and stayed quiet. You clicked your tongue and reassured him, “Baby, you’ll be okay…” Two hours later. He was not okay. He had used up approximately $2000 to buy clothes online, almost logged into dark web, and almost purchased a car. He had eaten twice in the span of two hours, and watched seven movies, skipping from one channel to another. He had stared at his phone while the movie is playing and laying on his stomach, switching his head to the side at the screen. “I’m bored,” he groans.   Namjoon almost cut his own bangs just because it was poking his eyes. He lost two earphones in a day and about to finish the third series of a manga he recently started. He felt the need to call you whenever he started a new series, or watched something funny on Netflix or when he felt like he needs to use the kitchen without your supervision. He tried calling Yoongi and Jimin, but it all went unanswered. He played online games, instead of writing new songs just to stop himself from calling you. He purchased two of the same books from different retailer. He used your Amazon ID to search for weird things like, 100 live ladybugs or decals that make your fridge looks like a Game Boy. He may or may not have purchased another child-size KAWS figurine that have scared you in the past. In fact, he had moved most of his collections to the office because you got frightened of it. He placed them in random places because he thinks its funny. You pinched him by the forearm and made him remove them, at once. Raindrops trickling down the glass window, and Namjoon followed the trails with his index finger. He stood in front of it. He blew hot air on the window and wrote your name before taking a picture of it and sending it to you. With a little heart emoticon. Crippling boredom forced him to reach over the top of the wardrobe to take out your wedding album. He smiled at the side of it, and sat on the floor, next to the made bed. His languid fingers ran over the pages like he was reading a sacred scripture, eyes wide with awe. The sound of the rain hitting the roof and wooden shack outside was the only thing that accompanied him. He felt even more lonely despite looking at your picture. He didn’t know what you were thinking of when you look at him that way. In that wedding picture, he was talking to his friends but he kept holding your hand, not wanting to let go. You were looking up at the view of his back, with such big smile. And it was so intimate, the fact that it was a smile that you put on despite him not looking at you. It made him feel very much loved. This is not the first time he had looked through this album, but every single time he did, it felt like it was the first. Namjoon unknowingly smiled back, as if to return to that time and give you back as much as you gave him. All he remembered from that moment was to hold your hand and never let go. He has a habit of drawing circles inside your palm when you were holding hands, loosely; and it was the kind of habit he wouldn’t let go of, anytime soon. He does it mindlessly, when he sat next to you in the movies, or when you were sitting in a parked car by the sea, or when he lays in bed next to you in pitch darkness. Namjoon just wanted to hold hands. Your hands. Even though he had his back turned towards you slightly, although the grip is loose, he still wants to hold hands. And the photographer cum best friend, Kim Taehyung had caught the moment on camera. His overpriced work was really worth it. Namjoon was glad that he delivered. It was very difficult to find a good wedding photographer nowadays. Not that he ever doubted Taehyung’s skills. God forbid Taehyung got to know that or Namjoon would be damned with endless sulking from his loyal but sensitive friend. His work is amazing, and Namjoon would remind him that. Just look at this fine shot. Namjoon in this picture, was leaning away from you, while you were greeting a close friend, your smile was so vibrant, it spoke volumes and how important that friend was, to you. Namjoon cowers, with a fond smile, face full of pure adoration to his wife. He rested his elbow on the table, looking at you, while you were holding your friend’s hand far too tightly. You couldn’t hide your excitement and he couldn’t hide his love to you. “…She’s so pretty,” Namjoon thumbed your face, leaning his back to the bed leg, putting the album on his lap, extending his lower limb towards the bathroom door. And he wonders, “Have you ever regretted, being married to me?” Time was the biggest challenge. His shortcomings, his dreams, his ambition, his thirst for knowledge. Your desire, your ability, your drive, your demands for security. To others, both of you had every reason to not be together. There’s too much differences. But also similarities. Whatever he was lacking, you fulfilled. His dreams and your ability to make them come true. His ambition and your drive, complimented each other. Both of you had every reason to be together. Namjoon will never neglect you, not even for a second. Because he knew how much he had to go through to even find you. He had a side of him that he would like to keep a secret, a space for himself. And whenever he required time to be alone, he’d assure you that he would come back. That he will always come back. It doesn’t take long, knowing how much he needed you. When moments like these take place, when he and you couldn’t be together, he finds himself searching for something. Something that only you could fill. Like how he is looking through wedding albums for your face, or how he’s hugging your clothes for the scent that you leave behind. Namjoon can be this affectionate. And he wouldn’t have known this side of him, if it weren’t for you. He hasn’t called this hour. Had he gone to sleep? You searched for your phone while your nephews lay tired in your lap, making a human pillow out of you that reminded you of another big baby that would do the same if he was here. A whooping 72 messages from Namjoon. He sent pictures of the food he ate, of the foggy window with your name, crying emoticons, and random “I Miss You” texts, the view he is looking at and finally, your wedding album. Just then, a new message is received. Husband is typing… “I leave your side empty. I’m going to go sleep now. Love you.” You replied with a picture of you laying on the floor with your nephews drooling on your t-shirt, with the caption: I’m not exactly having fun here. Sleep tight, goodnight dimple bear. Your cousin helped you carry one by one of the nephews into their bed and tucked them in. Sagi wriggled her eyebrow and pointed her chin to the kitchen table where burgers were stacked one on top of another with the amount of fries enough to feed a village. Your eyes shrunk while you covered your mouth to giggle quietly and followed her to the kitchen after shutting the door. “The three musketeers are finally asleep, and we are finally free,” Sagi sighed into her chair and turned the television on, pouring a glass of orange juice for you and her. “I can’t believe we were going to make it out alive, today,” you shook your head. There’s trails of unused toilet tissue expanding from the second floor to the first floor of the house. The eldest of the triplets through his top over the ceiling fan and convinced his brothers to do the same. Your only niece was screaming at the top of her lung and peeing over the heap of unfolded clean clothes. You kept stepping on Lego pieces and Sagi kept on changing diapers. Not only that, the diapers ran out and you had to drive over to the closest convenience store, but before you could get into the car, you had to fight the triplets off. Then one of the kids took the car key and hid them. So you had to use your uncle’s car but he had to leave for work at 5pm and it’s 3pm so you couldn’t buy the diapers right away. Sagi had her hair pulled into a hairdryer and the triplets stuck gum underneath the kitchen table. Your niece licked the floor when her chocolate milk was spilled and you were trying not to lose your mind from cleaning everything up. It’s like having many Namjoons at once. “I am…never having kids,” Sagi muttered, her eyes bore into the television, nipping fries between her lips. “Namjoon would never agree to me saying that,” you commented. “Namjoon is different…” Sagi quipped, switching to her side to face you, “How on earth did you even find a guy like him?” “Like him? Like what?” You grabbed a burger with its wrap. Capable. Doesn’t smoke. Doesn’t drink that much. Super smart. “He just…walked in the room,” you shrugged with a smile, “And if I didn’t know better, we would have stayed as friends because he was so freaking shy and he doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, so the first few months I knew him, I thought he was a stuck up arrogant dude who doesn’t like the conversation we were having.” The pace you both were going at were slow. Acquaintance for two years, friends for another four, and it was only on the fifth year of your friendship that you finally give in to the lust you had over him, and it was embarrassing because when you confessed bleakly, Namjoon looked like he found out the universe’s biggest secret. You both were so comfortable with each other than it didn’t come across that you both loved each other. The lines between friendship and love are ever so thin and hazy, as time passes. The first kiss you had was in your car, and it quickly escalated to more than just hand touching, lips and straddling. The car windows got so fogged up, and he left his hand mark against the window. You were pretty sure who ever was walking past your car would have heard obscene sounds and the unnatural shaking of your car from the speed he was going for. Mid love-making, he said how much he loved you, and adored you and wanted you. And he didn’t have to say it because his hands and eyes were loud enough. You fell asleep on his naked chest, his hand rubbing against the small of your back, as he spoke in murmurs, staring up the roof of your car. “I have always wanted to have sex in a car,” he spoke seriously. And you hide your face in his nape, chuckling. “Me too,” you replied. Lifting yourself up from him, you wanted to see the outside but gushed, “Oh my goodness, it’s all fogged up!” He looked dazed, and managed to say, “You look beautiful.” Nipping your bare shoulder between his lips, his eyes searching for your validation. “Your eyes were filled with lust, you haven’t come down from your high?” you bit your smile and he shook his head. “I want this. I want us. I don’t think I’ll ever want enough of you,” he gave you a back hug, and held you tight. We’ve been friends long enough, haven’t we? Sagi froze. A stupid smile stuck on her lips, and “That’s so cute…” 3:17 AM Lurching sound filled the bathroom, bouncing from one tile to another. Namjoon had his head on the toilet bowl. He had been vomiting so hard that he grew tired from it.He leant his chin on the toilet seat, sitting on the floor as his knees gave way. Headaches, and the smell of anything triggered his nauseousness. He didn’t eat something bad, did he? He carefully rinsed his mouth and wiped his face. Taking his phone in his hand, he weakly dialled your number. He hates to wake you up but this was an emergency. “Babe,” he grumbled, “I can’t stop vomiting. Where can I get anti-nausea pills? I feel like dying...” Rubbing your eyes, you sat on your bed while Sagi stirs in her deep sleep. “Try checking the medication box, I wrote anti-nausea pills. You know where those are. What did you eat?” Namjoon dragged his feet down the hallway back to the kitchen, and opened the top cabinet where medication kits are, phone in between his ear and shoulder. His lips has washed away colours and turned pale. “Just instant noodles, and it tasted just fine,” he added. He unfastened the clips, and threaded his forefinger past the medicine envelopes until he gets to the anti-nausea label. “Take painkillers as well...and if it doesn’t go away in the morning, go see a doctor okay?” You advised him and he nodded, as if you could see him. The triplets mother walked in the room you shared with Sagi. She’s eight months pregnant with her fourth baby. And you remembered how her husband had couvade syndrome that hadn’t left until now. It’s a syndrome known for expectant fathers to experience symptoms that only pregnant women go through. You remember how he wouldn’t stop having weird cravings, sleep troubles and vomiting--in place of his wife. He looks like he was about to die. And then, you paused momentarily. Hold on. “Do you have a pregnancy stick test?”

[shestillhasherquill]

One Thousand, Four Hundred and Forty Minutes

Here's my contribution for @csmarchmadness. Thanks @xemmaloveskillianx​ for giving me a chance to write this doctor's AU. It's purely based on my many years of watching Grey's Anatomy, and a little bit of help from Google. So the errors are on me, and my lack of adequate research. Also, I tried a different writing style - which is to be more funny and less, ugh, dramatic and angsty and I'm not entirely happy with the result. So don't hate on me.

Summary: A day in the life of Attendings Dr. Jones and Dr. Swan, as they navigate their upcoming parenthood, their patients and their past.

Words: ~11.5K

Warnings: Mentions of past Alcoholism, Minor Character Death, my writing

AO3/FF.net

“Are you sure you want to start work again, love?” Killian meets Emma’s eyes in the mirror as he fiddles with his tie. She is sitting on their bed in her bra and her work pants, on but unbuttoned, the very picture of sexy and lazy, her now empty cereal bowl on the bed next to her.

Emma smiles at him, hoping that she looks reassuring. She knows where his concern is coming from, but there’s only so long she can stay in bed. “I have patients who need me. I’ve taken a week off already, because you and Ruby tag-teamed against me. But babe, I can’t watch another true crime documentary. I’m going stir crazy. ” Her eyes widen to emphasise her point, making Killian huff, his expression twisting into faux-sympathy, brows drawn together, and lips in an exaggerated pout. She walks up to him, turning him to face her and removing his tie. “Go without the tie. The open collar look is so in,” she teases, her blunted nails scratching his chest hair. “I also watched a lot of Project Runway,” she adds, almost as if she was talking to herself.

Killian waggles his eyebrows at her, throwing his tie on the bed absentmindedly and reaching for her wasit, pulling her closer to him. “Maybe we should play hookey and stay in today. No shirts, no ties. You can see more than just my collarbone, Swan,” he quips, sliding his lips down her neck. Emma’s breath hitches and the offer is incredibly tempting - they could just say screw it and stay in bed - but she has been stuck at home the past week, and she really does have patients to get back to. There is only so much she can push on to Blanchard’s service. It takes all her will power to push away from him. “Oh, Dr. Jones, I am not so easily seduced,” she chides, pressing a quick, apologetic kiss to his lips.

She twists out of his arms, shrugging on a floral shirt over her bra, buttoning it up swiftly. It takes a while, but she gets her pants buttoned as well, grinning up at Killian, feeling accomplished that she could still fit into her pants. But his earlier playfulness is once again replaced with concern, and he is not quick enough to school his expression. She lets out a soft sigh. “I am okay, Killian. I promise.” She holds her hand out to him, waiting patiently until he grabs them before pulling him closer. She rests her head on his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his waist, trying to hug his anxiety away.

He lets loose a long breath, the tension in his shoulders leaving as he relaxes against her. “I can’t help it, Swan. Watching you collapse like that-” he cuts himself off and closes his eyes, trying to push away the bad memory. “I never want to see you like that again, love,” he murmurs against her hair. He pulls back, one hand cupping her cheek and the other resting on her shoulder, rubbing soothing circles. He looks like he wants to say more, but chooses to hold himself back, trying to smile reassuringly at her.

Emma is not so easily fooled though. She can tell that there’s more to his worry than he is letting on; she can’t push him, knowing that it will just make him retreat further back. Emma cups his cheeks, trying to communicate all her love and understanding through her smile, and hopes that that is enough.

She worries about him too; he carries so much responsibility on his shoulders, it weighs him down when anything goes wrong. She worries when he forgets to take care of himself, because that leads down a very steep path. She worries that sometimes he focuses too much on protecting her, that he forgets that he needs protecting too. “Look, you need to stop worrying so much. It was just low blood sugar. I’m fine, baby’s fine. We both got a week off, and we’re good.”

Killian pulls in a shuddering breath, his hand coming to rest on her belly. She knows that he can feel the slight hardness to her abdomen, feel the smallest of curves there. His thumb rubs lightly against the curve, sending a rush of emotions through her, overwhelming her with how much she loves this man, and this baby that is theirs. “You promise to take it easy?” he murmurs, resting his forehead against her.

“I promise.” She nuzzles his nose, drawing a smile from his, almost despite himself. “There’s that handsome smile. Let’s go, Dr. Jones, we have lives to save.” In retrospect, she wishes she had taken a moment then, to see his smile fall the moment her back was turned, and his jaw clench tightly.

-/-

“Hey! You’re back!” Mary Margaret cries out the moment Emma and Killian walk - hand-in-hand - into the attendings lounge. Which just draws everyone’s attention to Emma, making her flush, brushing her hair away from her face self-consciously.

Mary Margaret Blanchard, her best friend since internship, when they were green as the grass and chanting carido, let’s go, is also extremely over dramatic sometimes.

“I was gone for a week. God.” Emma rolled her eyes, dropping her husband’s hand and going to hang up her jacket and grabbing her white coat.

“It doesn’t matter.” Mary Margaret pulls Emma into a quick hug, squeezing her tight. “I’m just glad you and the little duck are okay.” Emma meets Killian’s gaze, glaring as he stifled a laugh.

Little duck? she mouths at him, and he simply shrugs, dropping off his own jacket.

“I’m fine, B,” Emma murmurs, letting Mary Margaret get her fill of the hug.

Mary Margaret nods. She pulls back, suddenly excited as she bounces on the balls of her feet, her eyes glinting as she waves the iPad she was holding in Emma’s face. “You’re back just in time. Marco is on his way in. For his surgery.”

Emma’s eyes widen, her hands grabbing the tablet from Mary Margaret’s hands, scrolling through the patient file, just to make sure they are both talking about the same person.“What? No way.” She grins so wide, she can feel her cheeks twinge. “We got a heart?”

“We got a heart, baby! UNOS called this morning,” Mary Margaret confirms, her grin just as wide. “You think you’re ready for the surgery?”

Emma scoffs, grabbing the device. “Like I’m going to say no. I should call August.” She turns to Killian, shouting a nonsensical, We got a fucking heart!, stealing a quick kiss and rushes out the room, heedless to Killian’s call for her to be careful, Swan!

-/-

He chuckles at her retreating form, sharing an amused glance with Robin, who was lounging on the couch, a cup on coffee in hand.

“She seems to be doing fine.” Robin raises his eyebrows at Killian, when he doesn’t reply immediately. “What’s wrong?”

Killian shakes his head dismissively. “She says she’s fine.”

“And the baby?”

“Baby, too. Or so she says.”

“What, you don’t believe her? She is a doctor, you know,” Robin comments, getting up to rinse his mug.

“And yet, she didn’t realise she was having low blood sugar? Or that she was pregnant?” Killian signs, hating the bitter edge to his voice.

“You know how busy we get, Jones. She finished her fellowship year only a couple of years ago, she needs to put in the hours still. It probably just slipped her mind.”

Killian shoots him an incredulous look. Robin shrugs helplessly, patting him in an effort to cheer him up. “C’mon, Jones. Emma can take care of herself.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

Killian shakes his head, plastering a smile on his face. “Yeah, mate. I know.” Killian grabs his own white coat, shrugging it on.

“Jones?”

“Yes, Locksley?”

“Listen, I know the last week was hard on you-”

Killian feels his breath catch, his heart in his throat. He feels the rage course through his blood, just thinking about it. “Don’t,” he growled. He can feel the darkness at the ebbs of his consciousness, and it must show, because Robin takes a step back. “I- I don’t want to talk about it, mate.”

“Killian.” Robin’s tone is almost a reprimand, and Killian isn’t ready to hear any of it.

“We all lose patients, mate. It happens. I’m fine.” The word tastes like the bitter lie it was. He is so far removed from fine, but he has a handle on it. He doesn’t need coddling.

-/-

“I really am fine.” Emma rolls her eyes, insisting for the third time in the past half hour, leaning against the nurse station’s desk, fiddling with her iPad, checking up on the cases she had left in Mary Margaret’s care.

“How was your staycation?” Mary Margaret asks, resting her arms on the counter.

“Ugh, so boring. Killian has been coming home late, like, all of last week.”

“Huh.”

Emma’s eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What?”

“You just said ‘Huh’ like you’re surprised that he came home late.” Emma’s gut clenches at the uncertainty on Mary Margaret’s face. “Blanchard, what’s going on? Did Killian say something?”

Mary Margaret bites down on her lip, her gaze lowering to her hands. “B, c’mon,” Emma implores, slipping into the nickname. Her tone is softer, the worry clear as day. “Tell me.”

“He didn’t tell you?” Emma apprehension multiplies tenfold by the undercurrent of concern in Mary Margaret’s tone, shaking her head ‘no’. “Emma, he lost a patient on monday. Ava Turner.”

Emma is pretty sure she gasps, or something that was pretty close to it, her hand covering her mouth. “What? I saw Ava here two months ago for her check-up. She was fine,” her voice cracks on the word fine, and with it her heart.

Mary Margaret’s expression turns somber, and almost something like regret in her eyes, that she is the one who has to tell  Emma. “It wasn’t her heart, Emma. She got into a car accident.”

Emma stop listening the moment she hears that, her throat suddenly too tight. She has known Ava since her second year of residency; Dr. French might have been her surgeon, but it was a pediatric case; she had been Killian’s patient, for years. “He never said a word to me,” Emma whispers, unsure whether she should feel guilty or angry.

“Maybe he thought you had enough to worry about,” Mary Margaret tries to explain, but it sounded flat even to her, Emma can tell, by the uneasy expression on her friend’s face.

She needs to see Killian. Ava Turner wasn’t just any other patient, at least not to Killian.

-/-

Regina stops her on her way to the pediatrics floor, almost surprised to see her. “Dr. Swan! I didn’t know you were coming back today,” Regina comments with a pleasant smile.

“Chief Mills,” she says in lieu of a greeting. “Yep, I’m back. I’m pregnant, not invalid,” she rolls her eyes, feeling a twinge of impatience. “In fact, I’m scrubbing in with Dr. Blanchard on Marco’s heart transplant.” And in that moment, despite her worry and anxiety and just straight up need to see her husband, she can’t keep the smile off her face at the mention of Marco’s surgery. “Finally,” she adds, just for effect.

“Good for him.” Regina pauses, as if contemplating her next words. “Is Jones in today?”

“Yeah. I’m on my way to see him now. Why?”

“I just assumed he’d want to take a couple of days off, is all. After what happened with Ava Turner.”

“Okay, what happened with Ava? Killian is fine at home. I don’t know what everyone is worried about?” Emma’s worry only increases. Is she not paying attention to her husband? Did she not notice that he was in pain?

Regina stares at her for a moment, before she purses her lips. “I think you ought to talk to him about it. All I know is he has been passing on surgeries for the past week, so I told him to take some time off. Our patients come to us for the best care, and we can’t be turning away cases. Not right now, with Dr. Weaver here to evaluate us.” She rolls her eyes when she mentions Dr. Weaver.

“Dr. Weaver? Who- How long was I gone?”

Regina smirks. “Oh, you’ll meet him soon enough. He’s here courtesy of my mother, who seems to think our standards of teaching need to improve.”

Emma huffs out a laugh at Regina’s dry tone. “Well, she does own this place,” she retorts. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Chief… I should find my husband.”

-/-

Killian has been hiding away in one of the fourth floor research rooms, trying to work on his paper. Or... maybe he should accept it for the excuse that it is, to hide away from the rest of the hospital, hoping that no one would disturb him. He has sent his resident to do his rounds on the post-op patients, knowing that Dr. Jain can hold her own. He isn’t able to bring himself to operate; he can’t bring himself to get back in the OR.

Ava had come to him when she was five years old, with a rare and complex CHD, transferred over from another hospital. She fought like hell every single day for five years, undergoing multiple surgeries, always greeting him with a big smile no matter what. Three times she almost got a new heart and three times, it fell through. It was heartbreaking for her family to see their daughter in so much pain. There were days when it was touch-and-go for Ava. No matter how many surgeries they had performed, she needed a new heart. And with her rare blood type, it took ages. After years on the list, she was finally matched with a donor, and her transplant had been successful.

She lived to see sixteen, to go to high school. To learn how to drive and to get a license. And then she got into a fucking automobile accident. Both he and Dr. French tried their best to stabilize her but the damage that was done was too much, and she bled out on the table.

He has come to accept that death was a part of his job, but that never makes it any easier to lose a kid. He has worked with tiny humans his whole career, and he knows it is hard to not form a connection with them. But Ava had been special - it astounds him even now how she never seemed to lose faith. She might have had her own moments of weakness, but she never failed to bounce back.

Killian runs his hands through his hair, his eyes closed trying to push the images of Ava bleeding out from his mind. A knock saves him from the torment, his eyes flying open.

“Hey.” Emma lingers at the door, her smile something soft. She was like the sun to all his rainy days, worming her way past the numbness that has settled over his heart. God, that was awful and cheesy.

“Hey, love.” He smiles at her, his lips pulling up automatically the moment he sees her. But even that feels exhausting. He is trying really hard to keep a calm facade around his wife, but it isn’t easy when they always share everything - the good and the bad. But Ruby had been very clear - this was a high risk pregnancy as it is for Emma, she does not need any undue stress. She doesn’t need his problems on top of everything else.

She pulls up a chair next to him, grabbing the arms of his own and pulling herself close until their knees are bumping against each other. She has a crease between her brows as she frowns at him, her head tilted to one side as if she was trying to read his mind. When he doesn’t relent to her questioning gaze, she lets out a small sigh.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Ava Turner?” Her words come out in a barely audible whisper. The room suddenly feels like all the oxygen got sucked out of it. She isn’t supposed to know this, he never wanted her to.

He curses under his breath. “Freaking Blanchard.”

“Hey, don’t blame her. Mills told me, too. I would have found out eventually.” She drags his hands into her own, squeezing them gently. “The question is why weren’t you the one to tell me?”

“What’s there to tell, love? I lost a patient. It happens.”

“I’m sorry, I just don’t believe you, babe.” Emma shrugs, dismissing his words easily. “I might not have noticed your pain, but I can still tell when someone’s lying to me. And you, Dr. Jones, are a big fat liar.” She says all this sotto voce, not even a hint of anger or hurt.

He clenches his jaw tight, his throat burning something fierce with unexpressed pain. “What of it?” he snaps instead of confiding with his love. He could have told her how much his heart aches with regret from not being able to save Ava. From fear for her and their child, for her health and her safety. He could have told her how fragile his hold on hope is right now. He could have told her that he so desperately wants a drink right now, so much so that he can practically taste the burn and the spice from the rum; that he could give a flying fuck about five years of sobriety, four of which he has spent with her. Instead, he snaps at her and she recoils, her walls threatening to fly up.

“Nope,” she grits out. “You’re not pushing me away, Killian.”

Killian refuses to burden her with his problems. She doesn’t deserve this mess, not before and most definitely not now. “Swan, you don’t have to worry about me.”

“How can I not? You’re keeping things from me, you’re refusing to confide in me - your wife. You’ve been so worried about me this past week, baby. Let me worry about you, too,” she whispers, getting up from her chair and maneuvering herself into his lap. She cards her fingers through his hard, her touch soothing and making him close his eyes on a sigh.

Just as he prepares himself to bare his soul to her, Emma’s beeper goes off.  She curses under her breath, grabbing it and cursing even more.

“911 from Blanchard, I need to go,” she says on a sigh, sounding apologetic. “Killian-”

“Go on, love. I’m fine.”

She raises her brows at him, in no way or form believing him. “I’ll be fine, Swan. Go, save lives and such.

She searches his gaze for something, he wasn’t sure what. But she mustn’t have found it, by the way her face fell.

“I don’t need to be at the surgery, Killian. Blanchard can handle it,” she whispers, carding her fingers through his hair again, Blanchard’s 911 all but forgotten it seems. “I want to be there for you.”

Killian hums, pressing his forehead to her shoulders, breathing in deeply. The smell of her deodorant, clean and something mildly floral, calming him with its familiarity. “As much as I appreciate it, Marco has been waiting for that heart forever. You need to be there. August would want you there.”

Emma bites down on her lip, still uncertain. But a moment later, she nods. “Fine. I’ll go. But we will continue this conversation!” She points a finger at him. She gets off his lap, walking backwards and making his gut clench because his wife the clumsiest person when she can see where she’s walking. “Don’t think we aren’t going to circle back to this!”

And then she thankfully turns around and walks away, her parting words lingering in the air. He breathes in deeply, the scent of her deodorant still sticking to him, and gets back to working on his research - for real this time.

-/-

Killian’s day doesn’t get any better after Emma’s brief - but welcome - visit. If he was being honest with himself, in a way that he ought to be with Emma, this is about more than just Ava, or even about Emma’s pregnancy. For eight years, he was under the impression that he had a better handle on his alcoholism - but all it takes is one small misstep to send him back to day 1. The more he tries to hold on to his sobriety, the more he wants to have a drink. He has always been weak, he just got over-confident over the years, thinking he is a survivor, that he is stronger than his disease. But he isn’t.

He really needs a drink.

He opens his desk drawer, pulls out his old flask. He never threw it away, said that he kept it as a reminder of his failures. But that was never the case, was it? A part of him always knew he wasn’t strong enough to resist temptation. He runs his thumb over the engraving on the front - Milah had bought it for him at an antiques shop, back when she had still been alive and thriving. When they had just been interns, starting out in a world yet unknown to them. She had always been embarrassed about how much older she was than the rest of the class, a 40-year-old divorcee, just starting out as a doctor after years of being a nurse and putting herself through medical school. She was wild and something fierce; she had made him come out of his shell. Losing her had shattered him, and for years he had given up on love. He had given up on plenty of things, if he was being honest.

And if it had not been for Belle and her unwavering support, he would have been sacked from his job a long time ago. A high functioning alcoholic, that’s what they called him at his intervention. It took them five years after Milah’s passing to notice the signs, and a year or thereabouts after to approach him about it. In fact, it had been Emma who had brought it up first. She was scrubbing with him on a surgery, and just before they were about to go in, she turned to him, her eyes sharp and boring into his.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Jones, but I can’t let you in there.”

“Pardon me?”

“I said I can’t let you in there.”

“Dr. Swan, I know that this is your first solo surgery, but I am still your attending,” he growls, furious at the audacity.

“You might be my attending, but Mikey is my patient and I will not put his life at risk.”

“What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?”

She moves closer to him, almost toe-to-toe. Her words come out in an icy whisper, “You might think you’re hiding it well, under layers of cologne and mouthwash, but I know an alcoholic when I see one, Dr. Jones.”

He bristles. How dare she? “Dr. Swan, you are out of bounds-”

She sucks in a sharp breath. “You can reprimand me all you want - after the surgery,” she says firmly, and walks away, pushing the door to the OR open and leaving him speechless, shame and fury churning in his gut.

He had been tempted to write her up for insubordination, but what could he possibly say? That she had called him out for being an alcoholic? Because that would have gone well with the suits and the chief.

He started noticing the signs then, started trying to hide it. But once Emma said something, it felt like all eyes were on him. He couldn’t do his job anymore, and when Belle, Robin, Regina and David confronted him about it - he did not argue. He went to rehab, he worked the program, he accepted his suspension for what it was, and thanked God that he did not get his medical license revoked.

He had never been drunk while he was performing surgery; Emma had been wrong to think that. But if he had kept going on that path, it might have gotten to that stage. He owed her...everything.

She was on his service his first day back. It felt like some of kind of karmic justice.

“Dr. Swan, do you have a moment?” he asks, as they are both exiting the patient’s room after morning rounds.

She seems to stop short at that, clearly hesitant. “Of course, Dr. Jones.”

He tries to smile, building up the courage to tell her what he wants to. “I- uh. A few months ago, you confronted me about some- about my drinking problem. I just wanted to thank you. I’m working the program, you know, doing the steps and what-not. I would never- I’ve never operated drunk. I would never put a child’s life in danger.”

Swan remains quiet, waiting for him to continue. Her expression reveals nothing; she’s still as a stone, and closed off.

He clears his throat. “I wanted to thank you, for saying something. For confronting me.”

Swan stares at him, the silence between them stretching on for longer than he would like. He resist the urge to scratch behind his ear, knowing that would be an obvious tell about how nervous he is.

She nods, finally, a slight flush to her cheeks. “I’m glad you got the help you needed, Dr. Jones.”

He watches her walk away, and some part of him wanted to go after her. To fall in line, to get to know this resident who leaves him wanting to know more.

Over the years, he did find out more about Dr. Swan. He learnt that she was David Nolan’s younger sister, having changed her name so it did not seem like she got to where she was through anything else but her hard work. Especially, not her father, Dr. Robert Nolan’s influence in the medical community.

He learnt that she practically drowns her hot chocolate in whipped cream, adds just a sprinkling of cinnamon on top. He learnt that she has a good heart, even if she does guard it with iron walls and barbed wire.

He learnt that he could love again - because it was impossible not to fall in love with Emma Swan. She changed the narrative; she challenged him, she supported him. She was just a breath of fresh air.

It’s all these reasons why he has to stay sober now - for her. He does not want to put her through that, especially when she already has a lot on her plate.

He is pulled from his stream of consciousness by the incessant noise from his beeper, making him growl in annoyance. He is not taking any cases, and he has made that very clear to everyone, including the chief.

But when he sees the message from Blanchard, he’s on his feet and out the door in record time.

It’s Emma. OR 2. Hurry.

-/-

It had just been a routine heart transplant. Everything was going fine. They had been discussing Mary Margaret and David’s upcoming nuptials, joking about how much Emma intended to embarrass David with her speech.

The transplant went fine, and then it wasn’t.

The heart doesn’t start pumping, it does not pink up. Mary Margaret tries shocking it again, at a higher voltage.

Nothing.

She tries again, and again there’s nothing. The heart rate monitor shows just a flat line.

“Let me try massaging the heart,” Emma says.

“Emma, I don’t think-”

“It will, B. Hold on.”

Twenty minutes later, Emma is still trying to get the heart pumping. She can’t let Marco die - this is her best friend’s dad. August didn’t reach the hospital before they took Marco into surgery; he barely got to talk to his father on the phone. The last thing Emma said to him was to come and see his dad once he’s got a new heart.

God, she can’t let Marco die.

The only thing Emma can hear is the rush in her ears. The only thing that matters is to get Marco’s heart beating again. She just has to keep massaging it until it can work on its own. She doesn’t hear Mary Margaret’s voice, telling her to stop. She doesn’t hear her husband’s voice, doesn’t even realise that he is in the OR. She doesn’t feel the arms wrap around her, but she feels it when it makes her hands pull away from Marco’s chest cavity.

“NO! Stop it!”

“Swan, love. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

But she doesn’t register anything Killian says, pushing at the arms wrapped around her waist.

“Emma!” he snaps, pulling her around to face him. His hands cup her cheeks, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Swan, it’s over.”

“No, Killian. He was fine, the heart-” She bites down on her lip behind her mask. She can’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

“Dr. Swan, do you want to call time of death?” Mary Margaret asks her, a warble to her voice.

Emma swallows past the lump in her throat. She nods, pushing away from Killian and turning to face Mary Margaret. “Time of death: sixteen-oh-four,” she announces clinically, keeping a firm lid on her feelings.

She can feel her heart break, but she can’t let it show. Any more than she already has, at least.

“Swan, come on, love. Let’s get out of here.”

She shakes her head. “No, I need to tell the family. I need to talk to August.” Her voice is still restrained - a facade of professional indifference.

“Love, you don’t have to,” Killian inists. She bristled at his placating tone.

“I am a doctor. I do not need you to baby me. I can handle this.” She pushes past him, taking off her gown and gloves, stuffing it in the disposal. She looks past him at Mary Margaret, feeling enraged that she told her husband. “Dr. Blanchard, I’m guessing you can close?” She doesn’t wait for a reply.

She is halfway down the hall when Killian catches up with her, pulling on her arm and forcing her to stop.

“Swan, stop. I am not babying you.”

She turns around, pulling away from his grasp, her arms crossed across her chest. “Right. Sure you’re not,” she says wryly.

“Can you blame me for being concerned?” he snaps back.

“This is not about you being concerned. This is about you being so overprotective. It’s like you think I don’t know how to take care of myself. You have my friends keeping tabs on me, letting you know every time I so much as blink too much, Killian! What - do you think I don’t care about this baby as much as you do?”

He looks stricken, but Emma can’t seem to bring herself to feel bad. “Of course I don’t think that,” he whispers, and Emma can hear his voice crack.

Emma sighs, taking off her scrub cap and bunching it in her hands. “I need to go and see if August is here, Killian.”

She can tell he wants to say more, he wants them to talk. But she doesn’t have the patience for it. If there are going to fight, they can do so at home.

“Yeah, I understand, Swan. I- I’m so sorry about Marco. I know how much he meant to you.”

She nods stiffly, which makes his shoulders sag in defeat. He looks dejected, and she might be frustrated with him - hell, she is enraged, if she is being honest. He is being an overprotective idiot-man, but he is her overprotective idiot-man.

She reaches for his hand, squeezing briefly. “I’ll come see you after?”

“Sure, Swan,” he smiles tightly. She frowns, knowing that whatever he is going through, it’s just been exacerbated by this weird tension between them.

“Babe…”

“Go, love. We’re good.” He leans in to press a kiss to her cheek, his lips barely grazing her skin. He moves away before she can react or reciprocate, and is halfway down the corridor. Her eyes burn with tears, her throat tight. Everything was fine this morning - or so she thought.

Now, she has to inform her best friend that she couldn’t save his father. And her husband is keeping secrets from her.

She resists the urge to kick something, scrubbing her hand over her face, the braids she put her hair in starting to become painful, only adding to her headache.

She takes a moment to catch her breath, and prepare herself, before she walks into the waiting room. She prays that she doesn’t see August, just so she can have some time before she has to break the news to him. But she spots him the moment she enters the room, pacing restlessly, his jacket discarded next to his helmet on a seat nearby.

He looks different now, with a full beard and long-ish hair. More hardened after years on the road. God, she can’t tell him. She can’t, she can’t, she-

“Emma!” he calls out to her before she can actually run away. August is in front of her in three strides, faster than she anticipates. “How did the surgery go? When can I go see dad?”

Emma hopes that she looks more composed than she feels, because right now all she wants to do is cry. She’s known Marco since she was a kid, running away from home and just wanting to take a break. He’s one of the best people she knows...knew.

Marco’s house had been a sanctuary for Emma, ever since she was five years old. He lived right next door, and he had a son Emma’s age. August has been by her side through everything. It was not easy growing up as Robert Nolan’s daughter: there were always expectations. Her father was not cruel, but he had standards of behaviour that his children had to meet. They had to pick a path, and they were not allowed to deviate from it. Ever.

Robert  had been an imposing man, a hard to please man. But he never hesitated to do everything he could to get his children where they needed to go. But growing up without a mother, with just Robert’s often times overbearing nature - Emma needed the respite that Marco’s home provided. And August is the only person who understood her for a very long time. He is practically another brother to her.

“August,” she began on a stutter. “There was a complication during surgery-”

“No,” he breaths out, stepping back from her almost unconsciously.

She wants to stop. She can’t say it. She tries to make herself stop, but the words keep coming. “-we tried everything we could. But, your father- Marco died in surgery, August. I’m so sorry.”

She’s seen enough trauma come through in her life, and she remembers this one time a man came in with his entrails practically spilling out. She would never forget the look on that man’s face - that’s how she feels right now. She feels gutted, having to watch helplessly as August breaks down.

Over all these years of being a doctor, sensitivity training included having to tell the family of the patient’s demise. She’s seen a myriad of reactions - some people go right into denial, some people react in anger. Most of them break down crying, heaving breaths and ugly sobs, as if their bodies were not able to comprehend their loss, that the heartache was too much and it just spills over. She’s not a monster, she could never become immune to this. But she’s been trained to not react in the face of such utter devastation of the human spirit. She is the daughter of Robert Nolan; she ought to be made of sterner stuff.

All she wanted to do was break down with August, to mourn the man who was like a second father to her. It was supposed to be a routine fucking surgery.

August manages to compose himself long enough to ask her what happened.

“The surgery went fine, but the heart just did not take. I- I’m so sorry for your loss, August. There was nothing more we could do.”

She is hardly in control of what she is saying; half of what she says are rehearsed lines. Never tell anyone it’s your fault; tell them you’re sorry. Use the word: tell them their loved one died. Be firm, but compassionate. Be direct. Make sure you let them know you did everything you could. God, she wants to throw protocol out the window.

“I thought you said it was a routine procedure, Em!” he yells. Emma closes her eyes for a moment, pushing the guilt down, maintaining her composure.

She opens her eyes, forcing them to meet August’s. She can see the grief and anger swirling in their glass blue depths. Fuck.

“It was, Gus. It was; but there are always risks involved with surgery, especially at an older age.”

“This is my dad, Emma! I trusted you,” he hisses, his fists clenched at his side. “You said he would be fine.”

“Gus, I- I don’t-” She has no idea what she can say right now. She fucked up. She never should have said that. He was just upset that he couldn’t be there before they took Marco in for surgery, and she wanted to reassure him.

August lets out a deep breath, his tense shoulders dropping with the exhale. “It’s- it’s my dad, Em,” he murmurs, shuffling his feet and running his hand through his too long hair.

“I know, August.” She squeezes his bicep, offering him the only comfort she can give him.

-/-

It takes over an hour before Killian sees his wife again. She slinks into the research room, freshly showered and changed, wearing a sweater instead of the shirt she had on this morning. She closes the door, pressing her back against it and resting her head on it, her eyes falling shut.

He is out of his seat before her legs start wobbling, and he catches her as she collapses against him, her hands clasping the lapels of his coat in a white-knuckled grip.

“Swan!”

She manages to stay upright, but barely, half clinging to him. He can see the blotchy red spots on her cheeks and the redness in her eyes when she opens them. He can see her eyes begin to water again, but she keeps them at bay, stubbornly refusing to shed them.

“I-I’m fine,” she says, finally. The first words she’s said to him in hours, and despite the grief that tinges her words, he can tell that she means them.

He nods jerkily, unwilling to relinquish his hold on her, instead, guiding her to sit on the chair he had abandoned. She almost groans in relief, her shoulders shagging and head dropping over the back of the chair. He resists the urge to ask her how long she’s been standing on her feet.

He takes a seat on another chair, pulling it to settle facing her, knees bumping hers. “How is August?”

“Not good,” she mumbles, her eyes fixated on a point on the ceiling. “I don’t know- I didn’t know what to say.”

He can see her struggling not to cry, and it breaks his heart. It makes his worry sky rocket, too. But before he can say anything, she speaks, her gaze trained on the ceiling still.

“I’m sorry, Killian.”

Killian startles at that, his spine ramrod straight. What could she possibly apologise for?

“Swan, you have nothing to apologise for, love.”

Emma clears her throat, brushing at the few tears that have fallen, looking at him right in the eyes. “I’m sorry I snapped. I know you don’t think me incapable.”

He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face, the exhaustion setting in. “Yeah, you’re right, I don’t.” He hesitates, before he adds. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you are.”

She lets out a watery chuckle, pulling at the sleeves of her sweater, so they hang over her hand, covering them entirely. He hates it when she does that, stretching out the knit, but he will hate it more if she stops. It’s quirks like these that he loves about his wife.

“We’re just on an apology train today, aren’t we?”

“All aboard the self-pity express,” he adds, with a half smile, drawing a chuckle out of her.

She gets off her seat, easing herself into his lap with a dramatic sigh. She places her head on his shoulder, snuggling into him when he wraps his arms around her. Neither of them speak for a long while, the silence that envelops them comforting and one that they are quite familiar with.

“Killian…”

“Yes, darling.”

He feels her take a deep breath, and he knows immediately what she’s about to ask. “Why didn’t you tell me about Ava Turner?”

“Emma, it’s not important.”

-/-

Any other time, Emma would have exploded. She would have argued, or yelled. She would have raised her voice; angry that her husband is pretending to be so cavalier. But she is so tired - she can feel the bone deep exhaustion as it threatens to overwhelm her. She can feel the knots in her neck just as much as the metaphorical ones in her gut, telling her that something more was going on with her husband, something she ought to have noticed a while back. So, she doesn’t yell or even raise her voice. She tamps down on the urge to cry - it seems like every small thing is making her cry nowadays, and it’s already been an emotionally draining day.

She hums low in her throat, pressing her nose to Killian’s neck, inhaling the scent of his cologne. “Of course it is,” she whispers fiercely. “I have had people come up to me and express concern for you - my husband. I had no idea you were even- I know you’re worried about me, but that doesn’t mean you should keep things from me. Please, baby. Talk to me?”

She pauses, knowing that Killian needs a moment. He will talk, she knows he will. She feels his grip on her tighten for a moment before he deflated completely. “I- I tried everything to save her, Swan. She bled out on the table and I couldn’t stop it. She was lucid, when she came into the ER. She was talking to me, and she was just- Fucking dammit,” he cuts himself off, his jaw clenching as tears rapidly filled his eyes.

Emma shifts in his lap, reaching for his clenched fists and clasping them between her hands, her thumb brushing against his tight knuckles.

“She just turned sixteen, Emma. She was just a kid, and she was finally having a normal life. Her life slipped right out of my hands, and I couldn’t do anything about it.”

“Baby, you did everything you could.”

“You don’t know that, Swan. You weren’t here,” he argued, the anger in his voice scaring her. Not because it is directed at her, but because he seems more angry at himself.

“I know you. I know you would have tried everything.” When he does not say anything in response, and when he doesn’t meet her eyes, she makes him, gently turning him by his chin toward her. “I know you cared for her a lot. She is not just any other patient. You know as well as I do, sometimes there really isn’t anything we can do. Today is an example of just that.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Swan. Just drop it.”

“But-”

“Bloody fuck, Swan. I said drop it!” he yells, startling her out of his lap and on to her feet. He immediately looks guilty for the outburst, getting up and reaching for her, buts Emma steps back, almost involuntarily, her eyes wide and mouth agape, stunned.

“Darling, I- I’m sorry.”

Emma stuffs her hands in her jacket pocket so he doesn't see them tremble. She is not scared of her husband, but she knows what’s happening with him now. This is - God, this is about so much more than Ava Turner. “No, no, you’re right. I should have dropped it.”

She starts gathering her things, and she can feel his guilt radiate off of him. She wants to go to him, comfort him. But she can’t - her own fear and guilt are eating her up alive. She just- she feel a heavy weight on her heart, and she needs a moment.

“What’re you- where are you going?” he asks, a desperation to his tone and she is certain that she’s being split into two.

“I’m going home, Killian,” she says on a deep sigh. God fucking dammit, she is exhausted.

He shuffles where he stands, his jaw clenching and unclenching. Both of them stare at each other, neither finding the right words.

“Should I - Can I come home?”

Emma is pretty sure that her heart is in pieces now. God, he looks so lost. It breaks her, and she drops her stuff, reaching him in two strides and throwing her arms around his neck, hugging him to her.

“Always,” she whispers, against his shoulder. “You can always come home.” She pulls back, her hands coming up to delicately frame his face, swiping at the wetness under his eyes. “Killian, just tell me. I know you’re not telling me something. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.”

-/-

Tell her, you fool. Just tell her. Tell her you are slipping. Tell her you need help, tell her you don’t trust yourself to be alone anymore. Just fucking tell her-

“Emma, I-”

But before he can say another word, the door to the room bursts open, revealing Dr. Jain, panting for breath and looking terrified.

“Dr. Jones, we need you in OR 1.”

“Jain, I told you. I’m not-”

“Now, sir,” she demanded, swallowing thickly. “Please.”

Killian looked between Emma and Jasmine, feeling conflicted, not knowing if he can do this.

“Dr. Jones!”

“Okay, let’s go,” he says finally, the distress evident in Dr. Jain’s voice. She wouldn’t ask him if it wasn’t serious.“I’ll see you at home, Swan?”

She nods, and with a quick squeeze of her hand, he’s running out the door.

-/-

“Dr. Weaver, Dr. Fisher, I’m here. What’s happening?” Killian asks, walking into the OR, freshly scrubbed, and slipping into the gown and gloves.

Ariel Fisher looks up at him, panic evident in her eyes. “Dr. Jones, I’m not able to get the bleeding under control.”

Killian’s eyes widen, anger simmering in his belly. He turns to Weaver. “You let a resident operate on a kid?” he demands, pushing everyone aside to get a better visual, taking over from Dr. Fisher.

“It was just a routine surgery.”

“Dr. Fisher is a second year resident. She is not ready to fly solo on a child,” Killian grits out, trying to find the bleeder. “Clamp, clamp, now!” he barks, grabbing it from the nurse’s hand as soon as she hands it over.

“That is not how my teaching program works, Dr. Jones,” Dr. Weaver snaps back, assisting Killian.

“Your teaching program should not include operating on children, Weaver. You’re not a peds surgeon. You should have consulted with me.”

“Oh, forgive me, Dr. Jones, but you were indisposed and did not wish to be disturbed,” Weaver drones.

Killian can feel the utter disdain simmering in his gut. “Weaver, a kid isn’t like an adult. You can’t expect Dr. Fisher to be able to perform a procedure she has only practised on a adult before. I am the head of paediatrics here, and I should have been informed. Which you did not do.”

The machines around them started beeping loudly, making Killian curse under his breath. He can’t seem to find a visual still- there was just too much blood and he can’t seem to stop it.

“Dammit, her blood pressure is dropping.”

“I need to see, fuck. Lap pads, now!”

The machines were still beeping, without an end in sight. Killian knows that there is no coming back from this. The kid’s lost too much blood, and the more bleeders he clamps, the more that seem to pop up. He should have been here, he should have supervised the surgery.

He shouldn’t have handed the reins to Dr. Jain. He was the attending, and he should have been here. He should have prevented this. He can’t lose another kid, he just can’t.

-/-

Ariel is frozen, staring with wide-eyed horror as the attendings try and save the life that she was responsible for. She wants to move, she wants to do something, but from the moment Dr. Jones had pushed her to the side, she can’t look away from the result of her mistake. The kid - Maria, her name was Maria - she is going to die. She is supposed to be on a cruise with her parents now, but instead, she is going to die.

And it is all her fault. She should not have been so cocky. She should have voiced her concern when she had it - she should have told Dr. Weaver that she’s never performed this procedure on a child before. She should have listened to Jasmine when she told her to go to Dr. Jones.

She is unmoving, her gloved hands covered in Maria’s blood. She watches as Maria blood pressure drop, she watches as each blood drenched piece of cloth is discarded to the side. She made a mistake and Maria is paying for it with her life.

She swears her heart plummets to the ground when the girl flatlines, the long beep loud in the suddenly loud room. The surgeons have stopped - there’s nothing more than can be done.

“Time of death, twelve-oh-two am,” Dr. Jones calls out.

-/-

The three surgeons file out of the OR, their gowns and gloves discarded in the medical waste bin. Killian catches sight of Dr. Fisher, who was barely holding it together. He failed her - he should have been in the OR, guiding her. He is her teacher.

“I, uhhh. I- What did I do to her?” she whispered, horrified. Tears were welling in her eyes, and Killian can feel his heart constrict thinking about the little girl’s parents.

He turns to Dr. Weaver, waiting for him to answer her. But that man looks just as lost as he feels, but when he meets Killian’s gaze, he nods.

“We go and inform the family. We tell them we did everything we could, but there were some complications,” Dr. Weaver responded.

No matter how much he loathed the man a while ago, Killian respects that he did not throw Ariel under the bus.

“But I did that. I killed Maria,” Dr. Fishers stutters out, her lower lip trembling and she bites down hard on it.

“You made a mistake, Fisher,” Killian finally says. “And now, you will learn from that mistake. The next time you enter the OR, you’ll carry this memory with you and you will make sure that the next one survives. The next time, you will call me.” He tries to not sound too harsh; she doesn’t need that right now. She needs to know that she’s going to be alright.

“Ariel, Dr. Jones and I can go inform the parents,” Dr. Weaver offered, and Killian was about to protest. But Ariel surprised him.

“No, I should do it. You said it yourself, Dr. Weaver. I am Maria’s lead surgeon. I will talk to her parents.” Killian can still see her struggling to hold her tears at bay, but she has her head held up high.

It makes him realise that he needs to take up some accountability as well. He needs to make some changes.

“You got this?” he addresses Weaver, who nods wordlessly walking with Ariel.

Killian marches in the opposite direction, heading to Mills’ office. He needs to do something he should have a long while back.

-/-

Emma is struggling to keep her eyes open. She has been waiting for her husband to return for hours and it is well past midnight now. She is half convinced that he’s spending the night in the on-call room, even if he is, in fact, not on-call, just so he could avoid her.

It saddens her to feel so helpless when it comes to her husband. They’ve been together for ages, it should not be so hard. He can’t keep trying to protect her all the time; that’s not how their relationship has been. He knows that she’s strong enough to handle things by herself.

Ruby should have never told Killian anything about her blood pressure. Emma might not say it, but she is worried for the baby. She knew when they found out that they were pregnant, that it would be high risk. She’s not exactly young - she knows the complications that come with a late stage pregnancy. But she’s fairly healthy, and she can take care of herself - or so she’s trying to convince herself.

She rubs absent-mindedly at her chest, her heart heavy with worry. She does not want to think about it - she wants to believe that her husband will come to her if things really get that bad. But as the hours pass, her mind runs rampant with the worst case scenarios. She doesn’t want to think that her husband has fallen off the wagon, so to speak. But the more she thinks about his behaviour the past week, the more she starts to believe that Killian has started drinking again.

If he has, they will deal with it. She will ask him when he gets back home, whenever that is. And they will figure it out. They will be fine. She tries not to overthink, she tries to repeat over-and-over in her mind that they will be okay. She tries to remain calm, knowing that he has to be the one to come to her; that she can’t just jump down his throat.

It’s well past 2 am when she hears the locks click and their front door open. Emma sits up straighter on the couch, putting down the book she was only half-focused on, biting her lip in anticipation.

Killian is almost startled to see her, jumping a bit when he turns from locking up the door to see her sitting in the semi-darkness of the living room, the only light is from the lamp she has on.

“Swan, what’re you doing up? It’s late, love.” He sinks into the couch next to her, closing his eyes and letting out a groan as he stretches his arms above his head, his joints popping. “Gods, I’m exhausted.”

“Where were you?” She winces the moment she says those words, knowing how it might have come across.

His eyes shoot open, his lips pressed thin, she can tell that it came out exactly how she didn’t want it to. “At the hospital.” He sits up, facing her properly. “Where did you think I was?”

Emma sighs, reaching for his hand, letting him know that she didn’t mean to sound accusing. “I didn’t think you were coming home tonight.”

That seems to make the tension in his posture reduce, at least a little. “Yeah...I’m sorry we left things so, erm, uncertain.”

She smiles then, leaning against the soft fabric of the couch. “I know. Me too.” She pauses for a beat. “Let’s go to bed?”

Killian looks surprised, and she isn’t sure if he’s surprised that they aren’t continuing their conversation or because she wants him in bed with her. She doesn’t know what hurts more.

(The bed thing. Definitely the bed thing.)

“Let’s just sleep. It’s been a long day and I just want to crawl under the covers with my husband and fall asleep,” she says, almost a plea. She knows she sounds desperate to hold on to some semblance of normality but she honestly doesn’t care anymore.

She wants him to relent. She just wants them to close their eyes and pretend that everything is still fine. But he looks conflicted, and she almost groans out loud.

“Love, I need to tell you something,” he begins. The trepidation in his voice is not helping her stay calm.

“I know, Killian. Just - let’s talk tomorrow, okay?” she tries, tugging on his hand.

“Wait - You know? How?” His brows furrow, almost confused that she has figured it out. Almost as if he wasn’t sending out blaring signals.

“Killian.” She whines. She can’t help it. She’s several weeks pregnant, she’s had a long day and it’s past 2 am! Tears of frustration sting her eyes - why does he get to decide when they will and won’t talk. She has been wanting to talk since this morning and he choose now?!

“You’re not that discreet, buddy,” she snarls. “I don’t understand why you didn’t just tell me, Killian. You could have come to me and we could have figured it out.”

“Figure- Love, what do you think I wanted to talk to you about?” She wants to slap him. She really just might. How can he still keep pretending?

“Dammit, Jones. I know you’re drinking again.”

Okay, he looks upset now. Maybe she is wrong. Shit shit shit.

Fuck.

“You think I’m drinking again?” he asks, his voice quiet. He’s hurt, she knows he is. Well, she can’t take back what she said. And maybe, she’s not wrong.

“I don’t know what to think. I’m concerned. Just tell me - are you?”

The pause between her question is the longest one she’s experienced. The heaviness in her heart just grows more and more with each passing second, and she is so close to shaking him. Her hand subconsciously reaches for her bump, rubbing it like she would a worry stone, trying to calm herself down. She’s holding her breath, waiting for the blade of the guillotine to drop on their lives.

“No, I am not drinking again, Emma.” Every word rings true, and Emma lets out the breath she was holding. But...there’s an unsaid ‘but’ at the end of his sentence that makes her heart race and her gut clench, and God, how is she expected to keep her blood pressure from sky rocketing.

“There’s more to it.”

Killian nods, biting the inside of his cheek. “I wanted to,” he confesses, staring down at their entwined hands, his thumb running over her knuckles. “Gods, I just wanted a drink so fucking bad, Swan.”

“Baby-”

“After Ava…. I couldn’t do it, anymore. I couldn’t bring myself to get into an OR and operate anymore. I can’t save these kids from the everything out there in world, how am I going to protect our kid from it?” His words break her. It breaks him, too, apparently, because he falls into her arms, burying his face in the space between her neck and shoulder, tears hot on her skin.

She runs her finger through his hair, her throat tight and it’s so hard to breathe, and how the fuck can this day keep giving her reasons to cry, still. She can’t bring herself to say empty words of assurance, she can’t bring herself to lie, when she’s been asking herself the same question.

How can she be a good mom, when she didn’t even know she was pregnant? How can she be a good mom, when she wants to, in equal parts, be a hands-on mom and a hands-on surgeon? How can she be a good mom, when she couldn’t even tell that her husband was struggling?

“We will do the best we can, Killian,” she whispers against his ear, pressing her lips to the side of his head.

She feels him take a deep breath, pulling away. She swipes at his wet cheeks, her mouth turned down. She feels lost, but she’s at least lost with him.

“I took a sabbatical from work,” he blurts out.

“What?”

“Yeah. For six months.”

“When did you decide this?” She’s not sure if she’s upset or surprised.

“A couple of hours ago. That’s why I’m late. I was discussing it with the chief. I had paperwork.”

“Paperwork?” she repeats, because she doesn’t know what else to say. This is fast - and unexpected. She’s not against it, per se, but, she didn’t even know he was thinking about it. He didn’t even discuss it with her.

“Swan.”

“What?”

“I’d love to know what you’re thinking,” he says, a tremulousness to him, so unlike how self-assured he sounded moments ago. It was giving her whiplash.

“You’ve taken a sabbatical - so you’re not going to the hospital?”

“No, no. I will, for consults. I’m taking a break from surgery; focus on my research with Locksley.”

She hums in the back of her throat, because what else can she say. He should have come to her, the asshole. “Cool, cool. Also, what the fuck?”

He winces, and she doesn’t blame him. He should wince. She’s annoyed. And she’s...confused.

“I should explain.”

“Yeah, that’d help,” she snaps, even if she doesn’t mean to. She rephrases. “I’m sorry. Just - yeah. An explanation would be good.”

“I’ve been sober for a while, right? And I think that just made me cocky? Or something. When Ava died, it was right after your, ah, your fainting incident, and finding out I’m to be a father. It was just all so-” He shudders and she tries not to be too offended. He notices, of course. “That’s not what I meant. I meant that… I was scared. I was fucking terrified. After what Ruby said, I just wanted to stay at home with you and never leave your side until the baby’s here. And that’s impossible, I know.”

“Yeah, you better.”

He huffs out a laugh, and the mood lightens a tad. “I didn’t want to worry you, Emma. And for that, I’m sorry.”

-/-

She is kissing him, and he is mostly surprised, but he would be a fool if you think he doesn’t respond almost immediately. He’s pretty sure he even whimpered a bit. Her lips are soft and inviting against his, and it is just that simple. It’s simple, and neither of them wished to take it further than that. It is tender and sweet, and just what the doctor ordered apparently, because he feels like he can breathe again since that evening.

She rests her forehead against his a moment later, a smile dancing on her lips. “I just needed a moment,” she says, pulling back and drawing her knees to her chest, resting her cheek on it.

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“I wish you had just come to me. I wish you’d talk to me. When we got married, we promised that we’d not keep things from each other,” she says softly. He knows she’s trying not to sound disappointed, but he knows her well enough to sense that she is.

“I know. I was trying to handle it myself.”

Emma hums, but he knows she’s hurt.

“Hey, it’s not that I can’t come to you,” he says.

“It’s that you didn’t want to.”

He hates that it’s the truth. He didn’t. “Yeah.”

“I know that you don’t like talking to me about your drinking. I know that you don’t want to worry me. But you not telling me things, that still worries me, Killian.”

“Yeah, I know.”

She makes a frustrated noise at the back of her throat. “So, you’re on sabbatical?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you please say something else except, ‘yeah’?” she snaps.

“I love you.”

“Charming. But that’s not what I meant.”

“I know. But it warrants saying. All the time, forever.” She smiles at that, and that’s all he ever wants, in an ‘all the time, forever’ kind of way.

He sucks in a deep breath. “I think I need to go back to therapy.” It’s hard for him to admit, and he knows that it’s harder for his wife to hear it.

But in all these years of being together and a team, he has never found it easy to talk to her about his alcoholism. And it’s not because he thinks Emma will be disillusioned of him. She knows all the dark and gritty parts of him, and she’s accepted them as much as the rest. It’s just - it’s unnecessary to worry her with every single detail. To make her feel helpless.

“I think that’s a good idea,” she confesses. “But this parenting thing? We’re both in it together. We will make mistakes, and it won’t always be the best. But I still need you, okay? I need you to be okay, too”

“I know. And we are in this parenting thing together.”

And he knows that they have more to talk about. This isn’t the end, it isn’t going to be rainbows and sunshine. Emma’s still having a high risk pregnancy, and he’s still an alcoholic and he still very much needs a drink. But knowing the odds that they have crossed - his alcoholism, the hospital shooting, her father passing away,  her accident in her final year of residency, his father coming back into their lives - all of it, just shows that they’ve fought for their love every step of the way. They weren’t destined, real life rarely works that way, but goddammit, he’s unbelievably lucky that he gets to spend his life with Emma Swan.

He’ll be damned if he squanders it away.

“Ready to head to bed?” he asks through a yawn.

“God, yes. Can you carry me?” she requests, raising her arms at him.

“Yeah, no. That’s not happening. I’m far too exhausted. If I don’t drop you, I will probably injure you.” He pulls her up, letting her rest most of her weight on him, listening to her sleepy whining as they head to their bedroom.

Once they’re settled, her head on his chest and her bump resting lightly against his hip, sound asleep, he thinks once again about how grateful he is for having her in his life.

They’re not perfect. But they fit, they make it work.

And that’s enough for him.

[masterthespianduchovny]

Let’s Talk about Subverting Expectations

What happened in ep 8x05 was not a subversion of expectations, it was a fuck you to the art of writing and fans.

I’m a writer and, although I don’t get paid for my work, I’d never pull the shit D&D did and no one should be supporting that shit either.

Words don’t fucking magically appear on the page, that shit is plotted out even if it isn’t in excruciating detail. It takes minutes, hours, days, weeks, and even years for things to finally come together for a book, show, movies, etc. Great work doesn’t happen overnight and you can clearly tell that no love, thought, to attention was given to the storyline for S8 of GOT.

They had two fucking years to get this shit right. They’ve had the ending since the beginning. They had time to adequately plot out all of this shit and have character motivations make sense.

Because when you “subvert expectations”, the details are woven into the plot they just aren’t obvious. They’re inconspicuous, so we leave them alone for other plot points that are saying, “pay attention to me.” That’s why it’s a subversion: the clues WERE there.

Dany going mad/dark isn’t a subversion because 1. they clues were underdeveloped 2. The reason why she went mad isn’t the reason why people think she went mad.

People point to her not reacting to her brother getting killed, burning slave masters, the Tarly’s etc., BUT D&D flat out said that if Missandei and/or Jorah lived, things would’ve went differently. “Oh, those two were just the straws that broke the camels back!!!” 

NO.

Madness is said to be a gene for the Targeryens, but if all of that other shit wasn’t stoking that madness fire within her, yet watching the two people she trusted most LITERALLY DIE FOR HER, it says that her mental break was due to circumstance and NOT genes. 

Dany has been handed so many L’s for being merciful and listening to SHITTY advice and fucking snapped because “fuck this shit.” Fuck it ALL.

“bUT ThaT MAKes her BaD.”

I honestly don’t give a shit and I don’t want to hear shit about, “If she can’t put up with adverse as a Queen, she doesn’t deserve to be Queen.”

We’ve constantly see Dany put off her plans and fucking offer her resources to others who’ve backstabbed her and showed ungratefulness at every time. We want her to keep taking this shit on the chin because we (read: antis) fucking hate her. Tyrion was fucking incompetent for 2-3 seasons straight. Varys betrayed her. Jon betrayed her. Sansa stayed true to the snake she is (regarding Jon). She lost two of the closest people to her and we expect Dany to have the sanity of a saint???

People kept saying Dany would turn on Jon and kill him, but Dany still HASN’t done that shit even tho he HAS betrayed her. And please shut the fuck up about how it was his secret to tell. Why in the fuck would he tell it DURING a fucking war, esp to a sister that fucking LOATHES Dany?

Why???

Jon could’ve WAITED UNTIL AFTER THE WAR.

But, he had to do that shit know, which set off the entire chain of events. Although Dany is responsible for murdering the Red Keep, Jon, Tyrion, Varys, and Sansa all have motherfucking blood on their hands.

ALL OF THEM.

Dany KEPT fucking trying to bargain with them or hold her tongue and listen to them, but since the everyone (including the writers) wanted Dany to go mad so bad we got this shit.

None of their actions or motivations makes sense.

Do y'all know how much TV and shows I watch? Do y'all know how savvy am I about how shit works? I can accurately predict most storylines and characters due to intently focusing on the story, details, tropes, and constant analysis of what I consume. I already knew this shit was coming, but I wanted my expectations subverted so bad even if it didn’t make sense. I wanted to believe that D&D weren’t frauds playing at being great writers (I know, I know, this trend started back in S5).

They relied heavily on telling instead of showing. They relied heavily on having trusted characters express whatever pushed the plot forward even if it didn’t make any sense. They relied on our love for the Starks to sway us into siding against any and everyone who disagree with them or are against them.

I said before that Arya’s character doesn’t make any sense when she’s paired with and defending Sansa and she DOESN’T. Not only was that relationship not earned, it goes against who Arya is--not the relationship, how she behaves in regards to Sansa and her xenophobia.

Also, her character motivation doesn’t make sense when going back to KL’s or how easily she was persuaded to leave. Why didn’t we see any conversations between her and the Hound leading up to that moment???

Sansa doesn’t make any sense. People want to talk how she knows how to play the game well, but here’s how she doesn't: LF and Varys spent over a decade fucking manipulating the court while most were oblivious to what they were doing. They’ve been doing this shit longer than Sansa was alive. No one has ever flat out called out their shit at the beginning of their scheming careers.

Sansa starts her first true case of scheming in the game and Dany immediately knows it was her. “But, Sansa won!!!” I mean, yeah, due to shitty writing.

Just about every major and cunning player is never blatantly called out like this even if people suspect them. Why? Because you aren’t playing if others know your move and that's how you get dead.

By Sansa being openly antagonistic to Dany, she showed her hand and that’s why I’ve always said it was fucking stupid for Sansa to be openly hostile to her. Sansa Stans thought I wanted them to be friends or for Sansa to bend the knee, which is moot since Jon did it, and it’s not that. Fucking politically savvy people don’t do the dumb shit Sansa did. That’s how Dany IMMEDIATELY knew how Varys found out and WHO the information leaked from. But, since Sansa has plot armor and the writers are up her ass, she won’t reaped the consequences for being shitty at the game.

(and Varys would NEVER make such a mistake, but I’m glad he’s dead)

And Tyrion. This motherfucker has been useless for HOW long???

Are people forgetting how much BAD advice he’s given Dany or that he believed he could appeal to Cersei’s humanity, which got people dead. Cersei ain’t never give a fuck about him and that’s not tea, that’s all facts (no chaser). Tyrion has done so much fuck shit, I hope he dies as well, but that’s not going to happen. The writer’s love Tyrion too much.

Having Cersei die with Jaime and not by Jaime or anyone else is BAD writing. Nothing in the show or books supports that this would happen. Having Jaime die with Cersei opposed to him believing he needs to kill her is BAD writing. Having Brienne lose her virginity to him is BAD writing. 

And to further prove how shitty the writing is, D&D literally admitted that Arya was only in the episode so viewers would care about the people in KL’s getting seared--THAT’S IT! That whole plot point about Arya wanting to kill Cersei was bullshit, which is obvious as fuck when watching the episode. 

I can take stuff happening that I don’t like happening if it’s written well, but as a lover of shows and books and as a writer, this shit is downright infuriating. None of this shit was properly set up. NONE. 

Writing is a motherfucking discipline and should be treated with respect. I don’t know if D&D are obsessed with “subverting expectations” or shock or whatever the hell that consumes their minds, but THIS is how you destroy the legacy of a show that was must watch TV. This is HOW you show you don’t care for a well loved show, DESPITE HBO saying they’d give you as much time as they needed to tell a story.

I wouldn’t have liked Dany going mad, but if it was told well, I would’ve gotten it. This wasn’t. 

Arya’s character motivations this season, outside of Gendry, doesn’t make any fucking sense.

Sansa doesn’t make sense.

Jon-wtf.

Jaime--all of them.

How are expectations subverted by Dany becoming mad??? 

Look, I don’t give a shit if people like it, I give a shit about bad writing that was poorly set up. 

*barfs*