#also i’m pretty much back from finals i just need to recalibrate myself back into a creative mood 😔💖 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wishiwasntstillhere · 4 years ago

Text

and when the world is crashing down on you, will you give me a call?

Kyouya makes a different decision, and does not end up threatening someone he cares about.

Kyouya-centric for his birthday!! Episode 8 fixit fic, no ships but also im clearly in love with all three of them so :) also on ao3!

Haruhi bursts into his room and goes straight for the bathroom, never even seeing him. Heaving noises ensue from within. He winces. Too much crab, then. He lays the towel down, grabbing his glasses so he can stand, but-

Should he go check on her?

For the hundredth time, the waves crash against that jagged rock and Haruhi plunges silent into dark water. He blinks it away.

Instead, he sits, toweling his hair, and wonders at her. Will she be awkward once she realizes he’s just finished showering? Hmm. Probably not. Oblivious or indifferent, Kyouya can never tell which, but Haruhi never seems flustered by that kind of thing.

That thought should be intriguing, but today there's only a churning in his gut.

“All done?” Kyouya asks, once his bathroom door opens again. He doesn't look up.

“I’m sorry for intruding into the room of a stranger-"

“How rude. It’s me.”

"Kyouya-senpai? Oh. I’m sorry, I seem to have gotten everyone worried about me.”

He refuses to let it play again. Yet in crashes the sea, the fall, the silence of that terror. He just can't shake it.

And so, the Shadow King must act.

Kyouya glances past her to the lightswitch and draws up the words he needs.

“I wasn’t particularly worried.” He stands, then drinks out of his water bottle. Cool, casual. That’s the key to this ruse.

He lays out the bait, recounting Hikaru and Kaoru’s scuffle with her attackers. Pinning his focus on his destination across the room, he spins some nonsense about bouquets and apologies to the girls. Kyouya doesn’t look at her once, even as he positions himself for the catch. In a way, it’s hosting. A careful dance made to look careless, subtly guiding her to the right outcome.

“I’ll pay for those flowers myself,” Haruhi promises, of course.

And his timing is precise. In the exact moment he lays out her six-figure mistake, he flips the lights off, and finally, Kyouya can turn to face her.

Something about the ruffles on her dress sends cold water splashing frantic up his insides. He takes another breath. He reaches down, drawing up the calculated cruelty he needs. He doesn’t like playing the bad guy, but he is best equipped for it. And someone has to.

“Why did you turn the lights off?”

She’s stepped in the snare, the cold teeth of the trap must snap shut around her now. Now, or she’ll never see the danger as it should be.

But his eyes catch on her face, blurry in the dark but watching, open, patient—and the teeth don’t move. He doesn’t move.

“Senpai?”

She fidgets, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. Surely she senses the strangeness in the air.

“Senpai, you’re starting to worry me,” she starts cautiously.

Is he? Is he finally? He can hardly breathe, only he knows this isn’t enough. He grasps for his plan, the words that will make things right-

“Senpai, I’m sorry about the expense. Please don’t worry about it, I really will pay it off,” she tries, and he knows that she really means it. She gives him a look, gentler than a smile, something surreal and infuriatingly comforting in her very Haruhi way, and he chokes.

“Why didn’t you call for help, Haruhi?” he asks, relieved that his voice comes out so indifferent.

Haruhi sighs. “So you were worried.”

A Kyouya with the lights on would fill this space with words, flooding it with hurtful meaningless things. As a member of the host club, you are but an asset to me at best, commoner. Don’t presume your own importance. You are obligated to stay out of trouble until your debt is paid, at least.

There are yet other things he could have said in light, things that would have been kinder, truer, and yet just as deceptive. You scared Tamaki. You drove the twins to violence for you. Don't you see how they worry for you?

But they’re in the dark, and Haruhi’s not dumb, and his hand is already shown. Kyouya has an infinite capacity for unkindnesses––but for once, he’s willing to admit that he doesn’t want to go through with this plan.

“Why didn’t you?” he repeats.

She cocks her head, answering frankly. “It didn’t occur to me.”

And the cold inside him wails.

He clenches his jaw to keep from shouting at her, how completely unhelpful that would be. But still more iron leaches into his tone than intended.

“And just why didn’t it occur to you?”

Haruhi’s chin jerks, eyes sparking. Oh, no.

“Well, those guys weren’t listening, so I didn’t have time to worry about how my gender would impact things. I had to act.”

She’s not listening, and the water is growing more agitated. Careless. Disrespectful. She should be afraid, and he can make her fear him.

Stomach lurching, he holds that thought in place. No. He doesn’t want to hurt her. He doesn’t want her to fear him.

This isn’t about Kyouya. It’s about Haruhi, and her safety.

How can he make her understand? How can he understand?

“I don’t disagree that something had to be done,” he starts. “Those girls were in real, immediate danger, and your intervention allowed Kurakano-kun to get the rest of the club to help. And Tamaki was being unreasonable by making the issue about your gender.”

Even this much is exhausting, so he sits down on the floor.

When she follows suit, her shoulders have settled a little from their taut hunch. Progress. He searches the dark and blurry bedroom for the next right words. But Haruhi finds them first.

“I know that rushing in to fight those guys was reckless,” she murmurs. “But the girls were scared. If I didn’t act, right away, they were going to be hurt.”

Kyouya pauses. She won’t like his next question. But he holds her gaze, intending to understand.

“Had you considered that you could get hurt, by intervening?”

Haruhi frowns. “After I hit the one, I knew they would focus on me. That was sort of the point, to get him to let go of Momoka-chan. But…” Her tone shifts into something more contemplative now. “I suppose I didn’t guard myself well, but how were my actions any different from Tamaki-senpai’s? He dove straight off the cliff to get to me, wasn’t that just as dangerous?”

She does have a point there. However good a swimmer he is, Tamaki had dived off the cliff without even looking. And yet...

True, Tamaki rushes into many reckless things to help others, but it’s never quite filled Kyouya with the same cold dread as Haruhi’s tumble off the cliff. And Tamaki has taken many a tumble. Kyouya would know, after all.

Ah.

“Haruhi, if you were robbed in a foreign country and you didn’t speak the language and you had nothing on you but your cellphone and 1000 yen, what would you do?”

She startles. “Huh? I would… search for the embassy, I guess?”

“And if you had no idea where the embassy was?”

“I would... try to find a map?”

Hmm.

“And if you got locked out of your home at 3 AM in the morning?”

“Senpai, what is this about?” Her confusion has shifted into mild irritation.

“Humor me,” he says, unsmiling.

She throws her hands up in resignation. “I would… wait until my dad got home.”

“And if he was on a business trip? Or if it was storming?”

“I would break in somehow.”

“And if someone at school was stealing your books and writing slurs on your desk?”

Rolling her eyes, she sighs out, “I would let the teacher know I needed new books, and clean off my desk before school. Senpai, this isn’t very funny.”

There’s a knock at his door. “Kyouya?” And it opens. “Do you have any lotion? This sunburn is worse than I-”

Tamaki freezes in the doorway. Kyouya can’t see the look on his face, but he hardly needs to, with the perfect replica hissing steam in his mind. He has approximately three seconds to derail this explosion. Luckily, he has just the thing to reroute the wildly careening train that is Tamaki’s mind.

“What are you-”

“Tamaki, after you got scammed and you were stranded on your own in Taiwan, what did you do?”

Tamaki blinks, recalibrating.

“Uh, I think I went to the embassy?”

“And how did you get to the embassy?”

“Hmm... Oh! I called you to ask for directions.” Walking over, he drops down to sit with them. His eyebrows are pinched––he wants to ask why, but still he lets Kyouya lead on.

“Yes. In the middle of an investor meeting,” he adds to a perplexed Haruhi. “And what about that time when you tried to climb from your window to the roof and fell out of your bedroom, when you were too embarrassed to call for a maid to come unlock your own house at 3 AM?”

“I… called you and stayed over at your place.”

Haruhi makes a face at that, which is fair. Nonetheless.

This last one is a little more delicate. He softens his voice, and inclines his head toward Haruhi by way of explanation. “And when you were bullied by our xenophobic peers in middle school?”

“Ah,” Tamaki says, realization smoothing his brow. “I told you about it. And you blackmailed them within an inch of their lives, of course.” He grins at the memory, at Kyouya. It’s easy to smirk back, warm and wicked in equal measure. That plan he has no regrets about.

Haruhi looks back and forth between them. He knows she’s still turning it over in her own mind. She is certainly smart enough to get it herself. But Kyouya decides anyway to take a page out of her book and be blunt, lest a mistranslation lead to regret later.

“The difference,” he explains, “is that whenever Tamaki is in trouble, he calls.”

They sit in silence for a while, Haruhi with her face downturned, Kyouya watching, patient. Considering both of them with his own discerning gaze, Tamaki settles, too.

“I’m just not like that, though,” Haruhi concludes, at last. Her voice is a touch wistful.

Tamaki is very, very gentle with his next words, Kyouya notices. “You grew up pretty lonely, didn’t you, Haruhi? You had to deal with a lot on your own.”

She shrugs, though all three know it’s true. And then all at once, they’re thinking of mothers and childhoods lost, and the melancholy sets in heavily over them.

“You know, Kyouya grew up much the same,” he says.

Haruhi turns to look at a bewildered Kyouya, who pushes up his glasses on reflex. But Tamaki smiles, continuing.

“Yes, he’s someone I can always depend on. But he’s not very good at asking for help, either.”

Kyouya glowers at the sheer audacity, only to startle as they both look at him with eyes far too affectionate. He shifts in place and looks down instead.

“But he has the whole Host Club looking out for him. So that even though sometimes, he doesn’t ask out loud, we can see it. And we’ll help.”

Here’s a pause. Tamaki swallows, leans forward, and bows.

“Haruhi, I’m sorry I yelled. I was angry because I was scared. That was my own fault, and you have every right to be upset.”

She rocks a little in her seat. “I’m sorry, as well. I don’t want to worry you guys.”

An absurd feeling grows in Kyouya’s chest. Half mirth, half despair.

Because he realizes: he doesn’t want her to be sorry at all anymore. She shouldn’t have to be sorry, she did nothing wrong . She acted to help, because it was more important to her than any consequence.

And now it’s clear: Haruhi has somehow become someone he truly cares about. Like Tamaki. Haruhi is something precious. Completely an agent of her own, and so trusting, and so kind. She’s earnest. She’s inherently good. He just wants her to be safe.

And he will never have any control over that.

The hysteria swells, threatening the structural integrity of his ribcage. All of the understanding he’s earned still won’t stop the fear that’s been crashing through him this whole night. He chokes down the laughter bubbling up and in his sheer desperation, looks at Tamaki.

It takes only one moment for Tamaki to read Kyouya’s distress, and in the next, he’s grabbing his hand, squeezing tight. And then he extends one to Haruhi.

“Haruhi, you don’t ever have to face things alone again. Will you let us be there for you?”

Kyouya has no control over how hard he squeezes Tamaki’s hand as they wait. He watches Haruhi’s own hands curl on her lap.

"I won’t be very good at it.”

"We aren’t either,” he says. She huffs. “It’s about the trying. Together .”

When she looks up, he's ready. Her eyes are searching, so he makes sure his own gaze is steadfast. He almost missed ever having this opportunity, he's fully aware. He won't let her down again.

“Okay,” she whispers. And takes Tamaki’s hand.

Relief blooms tangibly in the air. Haruhi’s eyes crinkle at Tamaki's relieved laugh. She opens her mouth to say something else, and-

Thunder shatters the room. Haruhi squeaks, yanking on his hand and hunching.

“Haruhi?” Tamaki leans forward, but-

Lightning strikes again, closer this time, and Kyouya feels the thunder slam into his eardrums. Haruhi yelps, trembling violently. She looks around the room, spots his dresser, and stands.

“Sorry! I- I uh- have to go now!”

“Don’t hide in the dresser,” Kyouya says, then feels foolish. Where had that thought come from? Why would she-?

But then she actually starts climbing into his dresser, and he and Tamaki have to hold the doors open.

“What- why would-? Haruhi, are you afraid of thunder?”

“It’s fine, I’ll be fine, this is how I always get through it,” she stammers, curling up inside.

“Not anymore,” says Tamaki, fiercely, and pulls her out into a hug.

“We have an American-style basement. It should be soundproof there, and there won’t be any flashing. Let’s head down now,” Kyouya decides. She’s trembling, clutching hard at Tamaki.

“I can’t- I’m not going to make it.”

“Close your eyes and cover your ears. We’ll get you there safe,” promises the Host Club prince, holding her even tighter.

“Okay,” she whispers.

Somehow they make it, the three of them hobbling to the basement. And somehow, the others find them, and they play games and music until they're almost all asleep on the various couches.

Kyouya’s turned off the lights and is just throwing a blanket over the twins when he hears her.

He’d thought she was asleep when he’d passed to drape a blanket over her on her own couch. Maybe she’s sleep talking, or maybe she woke up again. Either way, he stills, hoping she won’t spot him.

“You guys are even nicer than I thought,” she murmurs to the dark room. “Thank you, Kyouya-senpai.”

Despite himself, he smiles.

#kyouya ootori #kyoya ootori #haruhi fujioka #tamaki suoh #ouran #ohshc #fixit fic #episode 8 fixit #ouran au anybody #the bisexual in me rly came out writing this #man episode 8 screws up haruhi AND kyouyas characterization im just so glad fanfiction exists :)#lai is out here

28 notes · View notes

myatuesday · 4 years ago

Text

You know there's a lot going on

When there's so much going on

I don't even know how to talk about it

Because I don't even know

How or where to start.

But, basically, everything has been turned upside down.

And a recalibration is necessary.

I'm extremely worried about money now.

As in... I need to be making it.

Due to an emergency and unforseen set of circumstances

Even tho we were :this fucking close:

The new apartment situation has been put on hold, basically indefinitely at this time.

Um...

That relationship is kindof a trainwreck at this time.

Not due to relationship issues

But issues he's dealing with that are frankly life altering for him

Which, of course, effects me by proxy for as long as I remain in the relationship.

So very difficult times

Very hard decisions to make

I'm caught btwn loyalty

And my NEED to do what's best for me rn

In an ideal situation, the two could co-exist

But... that seems devastatingly impossible at this time.

Idk wtf I'm going to do.

I just know, I entered this year w a new attitude and new energy

This type of motivation and spike in confidence in my own gifts/talents/whatever doesn't happen much

I need to capitalize on it NOW

I can't squander it trying to solve everyone else's problems, unfortunately.

There is just no time.

And bitch need $$$ now.

Right FN now.

So...

Plan A is fucked

Plan B is fucked

Plan C is... who the fuck knows

Plan D is needed

Smh.

Lord have mercy.

[Well, no. I take that back.

I still have the same plan for me.

My *personal* plans, particularly where bringing in finances are concerned, hasn't really changed.

It just looks like... I'm on my own now.

No partners. No support. No shared expenses.

So... that is a game changer. Obviously. Smh.

Idk wtf I'm going to do.

I know what I want -

Money wise/career wise/hobby wise, whatever.

I just...

I'm afraid pursuing something like that fully on my own, just me, myself and I... might end up being kind of a wash.

I guess that's my biggest concern.

What's the point of bringing in new income, if I can't stack cash and instead it's all going to support me/pay bills?

That's the current dilemma in my financial house. ]

But I'm also ready for independence

I want my life back

I want to make myself a priority again

ALL of this was sort of a subconscious goal for 2021

But... it wasn't really even a goal, just the energy that hit me this year.

But, now, 2021 is here...

And it's a goddamn fucking nightmare.

Is my actual life?

Me, personally...

Not the circus and monkeys around me

But my actual life?

No, not really.

It felt/feels like it, at times, because my life is so connected/intertwined to the people around me

Or because I'm constantly absorbing their energy.

(Which is seriously slowly fucking killing me and has to fucking stop. Immediately.)

But, best I can tell,

Aside from my car issues (yeah, pretty big deal)

My internal personal world

Me, myself and I...

Is still intact.

Which... is just something to consider/for me to not forget, getting lost in the sauce of everyone else's bullshit.

I'm terrified.

I don't want to do things 100% on my own

For a multitude of reasons

(And, say I do succeed, what's the point of having money, if I've got no one to share it with?)

But, I've got to do SOMETHING.

I've been waiting on this boy for 3+ goddamn years

Yeah, it was F I N A L L Y so close I could taste it

(So to say this goddamn fucking SUCKS is a huge understatement)

But, now, it's fucked.

(For now anyway. Sigh.

Granted, there's nothing saying that a year from now, everything may be better. Idk.)

But it's extremely hard.

And idk what I'm going to do yet.

Somebody gets hurt either way.

But, after 3 goddamn years,

I'm kindof tired of it being me.

I have to move forward w my own goddamn life at some point, with or without him.

It just sucks.

And doesn't sit well with my conscience

At Fucking All.

But... sigh

I'm dying here.

I'm tired of being broke.

I'm tired of feeling stagnant.

I just...

It is what it is

And I have to figure it out

I'm constantly looking to the universe for answers

I have been for months now

I'm definitely praying on this issue

Ever since everything changed.

Do I want a clear path to magically appear to me?

Um... honestly, yes.

But even though I can't see a clear path

I can certainly see goddamn giant roadblocks, saying NOT HERE.

That's in relationship to pretty much every relationship I have. Atm.

So... everything that's happening, best I can tell, is insisting I must move forward independently in order to get to whatever this next chapter is.

Heartbreaking? Yes.

Terrifying? Absolutely.

But what else can a bitch do?

And... the Carter thing

Well, that's a whole other issue

But, equally fucked atm

Totally different reasons

(Mostly being, uh, idk... who the fuck he currently is as a person)

But that relationship, all in all, feels pretty untenable atm.

Maybe I take a year for myself

Fall flat on my face, come crawling back begging for mercy (I certainly hope not)

Maybe I take a year and come back, and we're all in a better fucking place

And have a fighting goddamn chance to make something work.

That's the gamble.

But I know I can't just sit here and rot

Holding everybody else's hand

While I watch my fucking life pass me by

That much, I know.

How and when I'm going to make those necessary changes remains to be seen.

But... hopefully, time will tell.

And my willingness and drive to reorganize my priorities and put my life (and I pray to god, my money) first will... somehow finally allow the path I'm looking for to magically roll out before me afterall.

I can hope and freakin pray.

4 notes · View notes

mollydollyjournals · 4 years ago

Text

April 6th; 156lbs. I'm not completely certain what happened. I was over 157, then I drank a shit ton of wine, next day I was 155 which would definitely have been from dehydration, then today 156. I recalibrate my scales every time these days, just in case. I feel a lot less bloated in my waist as well. Could be more toilet issues. I don't even wanna think about that though. It grosses me out so much.

On Sunday night, after I drank a ridiculous amount, I felt so terrible. I was lying in bed just thinking 'i don't like this, I really don't like this,' and wishing I hadn't drunk anything. In those states, it's not just a hangover, it's so much worse. Yet again, I'm lucky I haven't made myself seriously ill for a week or more.

So yesterday I was very hungover. Couldn't stand up much, super tired, etc. I ate two normal sized meals, which is not my usual at all. I felt colossal but I also knew it's the only way to get over the hangover. Then today I was expecting to be back over 157 but I was 156. It's good because I'm smaller than I expected. It just also feels like a taunt again. 156. I can never get away from that number.

I felt kind of okay when I got up. I just wasn't looking forward to returning my mum's multiple missed calls, because it's just draining. Of course it was even worse than I expected. She obliterated my okay mood and I was reminded that she idolises my stupid little brother and doesn't really think about me as a full person. She doesn't even realise. I've pointed things out to her before. Over and over. I even told her I want nothing to do with my brother and today she just goes 'i know you don't want to hear about it but' and proceeds to give me loads of details on his situation. She'd started to realise another point that I've been making for years, now that it's affecting him. So I chose to use the opportunity to tell her to look into that more. Now I kind of wish I'd told her to shut up. I don't have many explicit boundaries at all with her - one is that I hate phone calls, and one is that I want nothing to do with my brother. So of course, she always phones me, and proceeds to tell me all about my brother.

Now I'm worried she'll think I've "calmed down" or some shit, and "got over" whatever I said when I was angry. But the fact is I think things through and I only say things like that if I mean it. I cut all contact with my dad for years and only reconnected out of necessity. We're still never going to be close. But she just expects me to be fine with my brother because sibling rivalry is cute I guess?? I'm not even going to go into all the reasons I finally decided to tell my parents I want nothing to do with him. But I'm annoyed that as expected, but not even subtly, my mum is completely disregarding that. I'm upset that yet again my welfare comes last. I knew hb was downstairs doing his usual and also is going for a fairly big medical thing tomorrow. So I knew he was going to either not talk to me, or talk to me about his stuff and then go away again. Which he did. And I knew then I'd just be by myself.

I wanted a drink. Then I saw that the friend I'm always jealous of because she has so many things that I want just had something else pretty exceptional happen to her, and I feel even more worthless. I've been battling with the feeling of wanting to drink all day because of all that. I feel so disregarded. The only way I ever get any validation or attention is by posting if I've done something that takes a good picture, and I can't do that much, and it's not exactly a lot of attention. it's not true company. Just a couple of notifications that take a second to show some kind of tiny interest in something I probably spent hours on.

Alcohol is the only thing I have that will make me feel safe and okay. I stop thinking so much about everything that's wrong with my body and how I'm alone and everything else. But of course it makes so many things worse as well. It's only Tuesday - a month ago, I could easily go a week between drinks and was going to try for longer. Now I'm just getting cravings this quickly. It's been 2 days.

The only thing that's really stopping me from drinking is the memory of being in bed thinking 'i don't like this' and regretting drinking. I feel like shit. But I'm going to feel like shit if I drink as well. I don't know how people quit drugs or alcohol saying that being sober is liberating or whatever. For me the only thing that's worked is to resign myself to suffering. Sounds dramatic but if the whole thing wasn't dramatic it wouldn't be a problem in the first place.

I know for a fact I'll feel better if I can lose weight. There are a lot of things that make me feel shit about myself, but my weight is by far the biggest (pun not particularly intended but certainly particularly painful). It's also the thing that others around me haven't managed. I mean, there are people who are into fitness and have changed their bodies etc, but nobody I know has particularly managed to get a body that works for modelling. I did. I want it back. And I want to do better this time so I'll look good in any pose from any angle. I know I look better smaller. I know I could have one thing about me that other people don't have, if I could get a small waist again.

There are so many reasons I want to lose weight. Today makes me feel more resolved to do it. I just also still have that urge to drink. I'm also booked for an antioxidant shot tomorrow so if I drank today I'd have to cancel it. I don't want to. I just wish I didn't feel so shit right now.

I'm hungry, and I'm not sure what to do about food for the rest of today. I'll probably have to cook in order to make something healthy and low cal. That much is annoying. With all this stuff in mind, I kind of want to take the PS2 downstairs and try DDR. But I can't fucking shower properly while hb is asleep. I could go for a walk again but I don't really want to leave the house. And again, if I get sweaty at all I wont be able to have a shower until tomorrow. Or I deal with the crappy shower tonight. I have to do something though. I hate how easily I sweat. It's another reason I need to lose weight. I'll have to do something that won't quite make me sweat. But then is that even worth it. Idk. I'm tempted to say I won't bother and I can just create that calorie deficit by eating less, but I know from experience that doesn't really work with me.

I don't know. I just feel really shit. Really really shit. I need to feel better somehow.

2 notes · View notes

littleoldrachel · 5 years ago

Text

i am burned out (i smell of smoke) - part three

you are all TOO NICE TO ME i can’t cope with how kind you are!!!

here is part three!

(i'm having a pretty hard time with my own bad brain at the moment so pls don't hate me for the typos, etc. i will fix them when my brain is less yoghurty, pls forgive me)

good news: the next chapter will only be a bit more angst and then it's all comfort from there on out i PROMISE he's gonna be okay <3

i am burned out (i smell of smoke) [on ao3]

summary: in which virgil falls apart, learns how to put himself back together, and realises he doesn’t have to do it alone.

word count: 6.7k ish ( part 1/5 | part 2/5 | part 3/5)

warnings: mental health issues - look so there is some pretty intense mental health stuff in here so please. go careful. also trigger warnings for some super brief suicidal ideation. you are loved and i am here if you need a reminder of that <3

timeline: i suppose this is set in early TAG verse? jeff is missing and nobody is Coping Well.

happy belated birthday, nutty!! <3

iii.

The days that follow are an enigma.

Later, in therapy, he'll struggle to remember a single detail. There is simply a gap that promises pain should he poke it too hard, and he will shy away from reliving a single minute of it.

At the time though…

It’s a waterfall of suffering; he is cascading down, down, down, and every time he grabs a hold, his hand slips on smooth rock and agonising memories. Relentless misery beats down on him until he stops even trying to raise his head, because it is always stronger than him. Hitting the bottom, he is submerged, unable to distinguish the surface from the floor because of the murky grey all around him, and he can’t breathe down here, he’s alone down here, he’s going to die down here.

So. The days that follow feel a lot like drowning - and Virgil would know.

He can’t breathe and his limbs are too heavy and everything is muted, grey, useless, but himself most of all. He cannot feel much of anything at all beneath this crushing despair, but he knows that he is utterly sick of himself, beyond exhausted of feeling so terrible, desperate for a way out but unable to communicate this to his family.

He spends a lot of time thinking about his parents. Not a day goes by where he doesn’t remember them, but it’s usually memories of their lives, rather than grisly and traumatic thoughts of their deaths. But now, he can’t seem to stop himself from fixating on the way his mother turned the snow around her berry-red as she first stopped shaking, then speaking, then breathing. Nor how his father’s final moments must have been elation-turned-fear, how the heat of the flames must have engulfed him all at once, if there was any relief that he would once more be with Lucy -

He never allows himself to think these thoughts. They're too upsetting, too raw, too painful.

But now, he is powerless to stop them.

On the fifth day of this new low - though it is fast becoming Virgil’s norm and that terrifies him - the klaxon sounds and Virgil can barely drag himself to the lounge. He does so anyway, arriving in time to see Gordon disappearing down his chute. Scott casts a glance in his direction as he makes his own way to his ship, concern blossoming at the sight of Virgil’s blank eyes.

“Go to bed, Virg, you look rough.”

(Virgil doesn’t argue, which only tightens the knot of worry in Scott’s stomach, but he shoves it aside in favour of the rescue).

Virgil returns to bed, avoiding all reflective surfaces he can. He knows how terrible he looks and he cannot stand the sight of himself, but he also can’t seem to bring himself to get in the fucking shower.

He’s disgusted with himself - it’s no wonder Scott didn’t want him on the rescue.

Or any rescues, apparently.

“You’re sick, Virg,” Scott begins, when he arrives home late that night to find his younger brother hasn’t moved from his bed.

Virgil protests (hardly, weakly), though he can’t find the conviction for the words. It’s like he’s going through the motions of a well-rehearsed play. “I’m not sick. I’m fine to fly.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely not.”

Virgil sighs, rolling away from his brother and that horrible mounting worry.

“You see, the fact you didn’t call me out on that language tells me just how horrible you must be feeling. I mean it, Virg. Grounded until you’re recovered. And I want you to have a medical first thing!”

It doesn’t feel like there’s any recovering from this sickness.

Not having the distraction of rescues is punishment enough, but worse is the knowledge that Gordon keeps falling asleep over breakfast because Virgil can’t pull his fucking weight. He feels completely fucking useless - is being completely fucking useless - and yet, he still can’t bring himself to get out of bed. His brothers parrot concerned, loving questions he can’t answer and show him a kindness he certainly doesn’t deserve, and Virgil -

Virgil is a paradox: on the one hand, he is too empty to feel a single damned thing, no matter how much he wants to cry, no matter how hard he tries to put a label on these experiences, there is nothing there and therefore he is nothing. But on the other hand, Virgil is overflowing with raw, live misery so heavy he can’t take a full breath and so awful he stops caring about the fact.

He’s not okay.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong and he doesn’t know why, but he’s so far from okay, it’s laughable.

Only, he hasn’t laughed in weeks, and Gordon has stopped trying to make him.

That realisation burrows into his heart, a sharp nasty sting of guilt and loneliness. He misses his brothers and he knows it’s his fault that they’re withdrawing - isolating yourself from them will do that - but it hurts all the same.

It hurts because when Scott had started to count on neat whiskey to get him through the day, Virgil had dug his heels in and refused to let it be so. It hurts because when John had been relying on study drugs and no sleep to get through his PhD, it was Virgil who refused to let him hide away in shame. It hurts because Virgil has been there for more of Gordon’s panic attacks than he wants to remember, and yet he remembers them all the same. It hurts because Alan is too young to have lost so much, but Virgil refuses to let him shoulder that alone.

Virgil loves his brothers with every single drop of Tracy blood in his veins, and he isn't afraid to show it by any means necessary.

But he's so, so tired.

Not of loving them - never that - but there's something so lonely and sad about this feeling and he’s exhausted by it and terrified of it and it all just hurts.

“There’s nothing wrong with him,” says John hesitantly, and Scott looks sharply at his younger brother across their father’s desk. “Don’t try and tell me this is fine, John,”

"I know it's not fine," snaps John, “but I’m telling you that physically, he’s fine. A few bruises, but nothing some rest won’t fix.”

Scott begins to pace, frustration thrumming through his body. “He’s not eating properly,” He runs his hand through prematurely greying hairs in a motion learned from his father. “He’s just not Virgil.”

“I know.”

“I haven’t seen him paint or play piano in weeks, hell he isn’t even trying to get me to talk about my feelings. He’s alone all the time, constantly tired...”

“I know.”

“I just - are you sure? Nothing cracked at all? No signs of-”

“I had Brains run three separate scans, Scott. I’ve checked the results myself.”

“Could it be a concussion of some kind? He took a pretty big beating in Gen-”

“Scott. For God’s sake, listen. Physically, he’s fine.”

Scott stares at him, wishing not for the first time that the cogs of his brain moved at the same velocity as John’s. “Physically… so you’re saying this isn’t a physical thing?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Scott swallows - this is okay, unexpected, but he can recalibrate and work out what it is that Virgil needs, this is fine. “So it’s a mental thing.”

John smiles in spite of the gravity of the situation. “I don’t think that’s the correct term, but yes, I believe so.”

“What specifically?”

“I’m not a doctor, Scott. Virg’s the one with medical training.”

“Yes, but he’s not telling us anything.” Scott stares at John, fear clawing at his throat, at the thought of his brother - his best friend - hurting so much and yet seemingly unable to voice it. “What do I -” his voice cracks and he clears his throat hurriedly. “What do I do?”

“This isn’t all on you, Scott,” John says, his turn to be sharp now. “He’s my brother too.”

Scott takes a deep breath; the weight of his one thousand responsibilities have never felt so heavy on his shoulders, and yet, they may as well be feathers for how unimportant they are compared to this bombshell. But. John’s eyes reflect his own concern, but there’s a determination in the set of his jaw Scott has come to rely upon - his younger brother has never met a problem he couldn’t solve.

“Fine. What do we do?”

“I… I’m working on it.”

“John. This isn’t all on you.”

“Yeah yeah, Kettle.” John rubs his eyes. “EOS and I are researching. There’s a lot out there and because he won’t tell us how he feels, I don’t - I don’t know if we should get him a therapist like Gordon had or meds like me or… I don’t know what. And our lives aren’t exactly normal, so it’s hard to say what will actually help.”

EOS pipes up, her lights dancing somewhere between turquoise and green (Virgil would know what to call that): “The recurring theme across research is ‘being there’ for the patient. A strange concept since humans are so limited by their physical forms.”

John smiles again, but it’s strained. “I’ll explain later, EOS. But it’s like how Virgil always checks in with me after a bad day.”

The words bring a lump to Scott’s throat that he can’t explain.

“I see. So, you need to ‘check in’ with him now?” EOS asks.

“Something like that.” John catches Scott’s eye again. “Normalcy is also good. Being active.”

“So I shouldn’t ground him?” Scott says, though the thought of Virgil piloting his ship in a poor mental state terrifies him. He’s not afraid of his brother’s skill - that has never been in question - but how is he supposed to protect him from something none of them can even see?

“I don’t know.” John says it like it’s physically painful - perhaps it is, John is always loathe to admit lack of knowledge on a topic. “Maybe not? Though I don’t want him flying a ship if he’s feeling like, well -”

Scott slumps back into his father’s chair - his chair now. “Exactly. I don’t know what to do, John.”

“Me neither.” Uttered quietly. Helplessly.

Scott hates this.

Silence stretches between them - uncomfortable, worried tension that neither of them know how to handle.

Eventually, John sighs, “I should go, Scott. Duty calls and all that.”

“John…” His brother pauses in reaching to cut the commline. “You - he’d tell us if he was feeling really bad, right? This is Virgil we’re talking about. He loves all that feelings stuff.”

“Yeah. Yes.”

But John’s voice is laced with an uncertainty that curdles the worry in Scott’s stomach.

Virgil's not sure exactly how long it's been but it must be weeks and he's losing his fucking mind.

Every day is the same and it’s all one neverending nightmare.

With the morning birdsong, he locks himself in his rooms and sleeps - or at least tries to, because it doesn't count as sleep when he wakes even more tired. He rejects his brothers' concern and ignores the trays of food Grandma has taken to leaving outside his door.

Where he's able to, Virgil still attempts to check in with them all after difficult rescues, still tries to fulfill his role as resident caregiver, but it's becoming increasingly hard to field their nagging questions.

He almost caves, when Alan slopes into his room and practically begs him to tell them what's wrong. His brother's wide blue eyes are a weapon all of their own, and it takes all of Virgil's resolve to shrug his worries off. He steeps in self-loathing for hours at the hurt in Alan's eyes.

Virgil doesn't understand why it's so hard to say the words out loud. For someone who has always championed self care and mental well-being, this inability to communicate his own suffering is as unexpected as it is unmanageable. He doesn't know where it's come from, nor how he's going to fix it; all he knows is that he cannot bear Scott's judgement, John's worry, Gordon's probing, Alan's disappointment -

It's too much.

It's all too much.

And he despises himself for that.

He endures John’s insistence he has a physical - and a second and third when the results are inevitably fine. He allows Scott’s anxious hovering as he answers Brains’ questions without complaint - another wrinkle to add to his brother’s worry lines, but he doesn’t have the energy to fight it.

For some reason, the medical proof that he is, in fact, fine, is damning. At least if there were some physical cause for his current state, he thinks it would be easier to bear (easier rather than fine, because he’s Virgil goddamn Tracy with a mile-wide stubborn streak) but instead he’s just falling apart with a single good reason.

(He hates himself for it).

Scott watches his brother brush past his piano like he doesn’t even notice it’s there, flinch from the sunlight like it burns him, grow skinnier and more hunched beneath those tatty plaid shirts, and his heart aches.

If their positions were reversed, Virgil would know what to do. Virgil knows Scott better than he knows himself, would have probably been able to resolve this before it even started.

But Scott isn’t Virgil - he cannot untangle emotions and comfort weary souls like his brother can.

He doesn’t know what to do with this shell of a man.

Scott spends what little time he has researching, learning, planning, but nothing he tries seems to help at all. Each time he broaches the topic of having someone to talk to with Virgil, his brother simply shuts down. He whines and begs Virgil to play him something but Virgil just sits before the piano, working on muscle memory alone. He stares at the medical reports until they blur and fade into restless sleep.

But he loves his brother just as fiercely as Virgil does him, and so it’s in sheer desperation that he tells John Virgil is back on duty. His brother blinks, schools surprise into an unreadable calm, and Scott feels the need to justify himself.

“I just - maybe giving him a sense of purpose will help. Some structure back, you know?”

“Sure, Scott,” John says, though his tone is anything but.

Scott’s announcement that he’s back on duty is a surprise to Virgil. His brother goes from you're not flying Two again until you're fit to, and you're not fit to until you goddamn talk to me to we need Two, now, Virg practically overnight. Alan and Gordon exchange similar looks of confusion, and Virgil is doubly aware of what a burden he has been to them all.

In Scott’s defense, they do need Two - and all of the ‘Birds to be honest.

Virgil pushes through the foggy exhaustion that has become his waking state, and drops into his chute like he’s never been gone. By the time he’s adjusting his uniform, the fog has cleared a little, and when he’s settled in the pilot’s chair - his chair - he feels better than he has in weeks. Gordon flops down beside him, feet somehow already propped on the dash, and Virgil shoves them off automatically.

He feels alive.

Rescues help. For all the pressure and pain they bring, rescues give him a purpose. Even though rescues drove him to - no. Virgil doesn’t want to think about that now. All he knows is that without rescues - well. Actually, Virgil doesn't want to think about that option either.

It’s been a while since he’s flown his ‘Bird, but she’s the same reliable dream she always is (a little worse for wear in her left thruster perhaps, from Gordon’s overeager antics, but nothing some tinkering won’t fix later. The fact that he is even interested in tinkering speaks volumes). The thrum of Two’s engines is practically medicinal and he revels in being able to breathe freely, think clearly - it’s been so, so long.

The journey to the rescue zone is quiet, updates from John and occasional witticisms from Gordon are background noise to the beloved sound of Two responding to his lightest touch. Alan and Scott - speed junkies till they die - are far enough ahead of them that Virgil and Gordon exchange their usual eye rolling at Alan’s antics (“and the youngest Tracy takes the lead, a swift manoeuvre from Mr Alan Tracy proving once and for all that he is the true champ- hey, that’s not fair-“) and for a minute, it’s like none of the last few weeks had happened.

Gordon bounces out of his seat as they begin their descent, practically vibrating with adrenaline as he dashes to his own ‘Bird. Virgil drops Pod 4 with a grin at Gordon’s whoop, catches a glimpse of sunshine yellow cutting through murky water, before sweeping round into landing beside Alan’s rocket.

In spite of the carnage around the Thunderbirds, Virgil feels the adrenaline stirring in his own chest, because finally, something he knows how to do, how to help, how to fix.

It's an earthquake, the second one in this area in as many months. The hastily-reconstructed housing never stood a chance against tremors that tickled six on the Richter scale. In places the ground has cracked in two, dark zigzagging lines snaking across the desolate landscape. Piles of rubble, pools of dirty water, clouds of dust, and among them, people staggering hopelessly through the remnants of their houses.

Families who have already lost everything are once again homeless. Virgil’s heart aches at the injustice of it all.

International Rescue's task is simple, in theory. Virgil and Alan are to get the survivors out from the rubble nearest the epicentre, whilst Gordon takes Four up to the dam and assesses the damage done to the wall’s defences. Scott will be assisting with rescues from the sinkhole on the edge of the town - the result of overtaxing the land and the force of nature. And John, of course, as their ever-seeing eye in the sky. Simple.

As simple as it can be when you’re surrounded by desperate people and their frantic hopes that you’ll save their loved ones. A quick word with Alan and Virgil dons his exo-suit, grimacing a little at the familiar weight of the Jaws of Life on his limbs. He’s reluctant to use the Mole given that it is likely bodies will be distributed at different depths in the wreckage - and Jesus, what a bleak thought that is.

Alan begins tackling the top layers of rubble, using a combination of grappling hooks and jet blasters to clear the smaller chunks of rock, wood and dust from the area. Watching Alan work so efficiently and professionally sends a jolt of pride through Virgil’s chest; in many ways, Alan is and always will be their baby brother, but at times like this, it’s impossible to deny the man he is becoming.

Whilst Gordon is Virgil’s usual partner on rescues, Alan is equally capable and hard-working, and between them and John’s careful scans, they begin locating some of the missing. Something loosens in Virgil’s chest at the sight of the first dust-streaked hand reaching towards them through the rocks - bruised, filthy, but unmistakably alive. As much as he tries to avoid superstition on rescues, beginning with a corpse is never a good omen.

(Of course, this isn’t to say they don’t find bodies. A mother wrapped around her child, body misshapen from the weight of the rocks. An unrecognisable man, head bashed to a pulp - Virgil sends Alan to get some water at that point, nausea making them both shaky).

As is always the way, human kindness prevails, and soon the local people are involved in the rescue efforts. Virgil knows from experience that it’s best not to fight it, but he asks in a broken attempt at their language (that John then delivers flawlessly) that they stay away from the more dangerous sites.

As if it’s not all one big danger site.

Still. He’s busy and sweating and focused, and there is no time for self-loathing or guilt in his head at the moment. His arms are aching a couple of hours in, but he keeps going - has to keep going - because there are more people who need him and he needs this. It feels like it takes an age to clear just the stretch of what was once a row of houses, but once they have, Alan and Virgil barely stop for a rest before moving to the next place they are needed.

Virgil forces Alan to eat an energy bar, watching closely despite Alan’s glares to ensure it all goes down, but can’t bring himself to have more than a few bites of his own.

Eventually, God knows how many hours later but late enough that there is but a slither of sun left on the horizon, John’s murmurs of heartbeats in the rubble grow further and further apart, and the number of bodies only continues to rise. Things deteriorate further with the aftershocks that rip through the land and Virgil clings to the person he’s in the middle of rescuing, willing them not to slip from his shaking grip.

(He manages, just, though they have gone ragdoll limp by the time the earth resettles).

(But he keeps going).

Gordon has come to join them, tired but satisfied that reinforcements are in place, and Virgil smiles like it’s normal for him, claps him on the shoulder. “Good job, Gords.”

The grin he gets in return is a little bemused but bright and Virgil feels alive.

The sky is velvety black now, tiny pinpricks of silver piercing it, and up there, one of those lights is his brother. Even with Two’s floodlighting, Virgil has to squint now to see what he’s shifting, his arms are leaden, and his head aches with dehydration. The end is in sight though; as brutal as it is to admit it from this point on, they will mainly be pulling bodies, and despite Scott’s insistence that International Rescue will continue their efforts, the local authority is equally stubborn that their crews can take it from here.

(Virgil hears a mutinous, “fat lot of good that did last time,” muttered into Scott’s comm and can’t help but agree).

He sighs, pauses for a second to stretch his muscles, and taps his own comms.

"John, status update?"

"Two more life signs in the vicinity. To your left. Signal's faint… are they beneath that building?"

'Building' is a generous word for the structure that John has identified. Its stone walls are cracked from ground to roof, angry black tears through stone that has started to crumble. In places, the rock has already given way, revealing open sky and starlight through the gaps. It’s been reinforced with wooden shafts, which are crippled under the strain. The building is practically swaying in the breeze: a Jenga stack one block from collapse.

“Building integrity?” Virgil asks, though Virgil the Engineer is already running calculations on structural integrity and coming up with big flashing red NOs. Not even with the proper equipment - there isn’t enough of a structure to even hold onto, let alone hold up.

No way in hell is Alan going in there. Nor Gordon.

But someone has to.

“No way,” John says sharply, just as Virgil knew he would, but he’s already moving, squeezing through the space where a window once was. “Virgil - Virgil, no - at least wait for backup-”

Virgil swipes the connection away - he’ll pay for it later, but for now, he needs to focus and John’s audible yet uncharacteristic panic isn’t conducive to this.

It’s even darker inside, and Virgil makes a mental note to thank Brains for installing the headtorch in the suit. Eerie shadows bounce off the walls but at least he can see where the stairs have semi-collapsed against an internal wall - where the two victims must be buried.

“Hello?” Virgil tries, picking his way through the damage as best as he can in the gloom. “Can anyone hear me?”

There’s a pause, and then - unmistakably - a sob. A stream of words in a foreign tongue, far too quick for Virgil to understand, but he knows the universal language of fear and he moves.

He grunts as he begins shifting rocks. “I’m Virgil, I’m with International Rescue. I’m going to get you out.” He repeats it in a clunky version of their language, and gets a further panicked babble.

John appears again as he spots the leg of one of the victims - torn trousers and tiny feet, a child - and he does not look impressed. “Firstly, Virgil, what the fuck? Second, Scott is on his way and he will kill you for not waiting for backup-”

“We might not have time for that, John,” Virgil pants, shoving slab of the wall away. It has uncovered the whole lower body of the child and it’s a sharp twist in Virgil’s chest to see the duck patterns so dirty and ruined.

John pinches the bridge of his nose and breaths out noisily. “This is incredibly dangerous, Virgil.”

“So let me do my job and get out of here,” Virgil snaps back, and John recoils. Virgil regrets the words the second they leave his mouth - he’s tired and dehydrated and stressed and he didn’t mean it, of course he didn’t - but John’s already gone blank with carefully-concealed hurt.

Virgil hates when he does this.

“John, I-”

“Don’t, Virgil. Do your damn job.”

As John closes the connection, Virgil swallows down his guilt and focuses on the task at hand. There will be time to make it up to his brother later.

They’re both children, it turns out, wrapped up in each other’s arms, tear stains tracking their cheeks, and scared shitless, but alive. The boy has a head wound that’s bleeding sluggishly and the girl is cradling her arm protectively, but it’s okay, Virgil got them out, they’re going to be okay.

“I’m Virgil,” he tells them, kneeling before them and tapping his chest. “What are your names?”

“Faroqh,” the girl says, pointing at the boy and then at herself. “Leila.” She adds something on the end - a plea, he thinks, though it’s too quick to catch anything.

“I’m going to get you out,” Virgil says, keeping his voice calm and soothing. He holds out his hands and the boy reaches for it, scrubbing at his eyes.

John pops up again and the girl leaps back in shock. “Virgil - get out, aftershocks incoming, get out-”

The ground is already moving beneath them, juddering, groaning, and Virgil seizes the boy, scooping him against his chest, tries to reach for the girl through the clouds of dust rising -

Quiet.

For a split second, he thinks they’ve escaped it.

And then it all goes wrong.

The ceiling caves first, then the walls, collapsing inwards like dominoes. There’s no time to think, Virgil just reacts, throwing himself blindly in the direction of the girl, cushioning both children as best he can against himself as the rocks rain down.

In his mind, he’s vaguely aware that this is more of a Scott-move than a Virgil-move. Scott is the one who’ll fling himself into danger without a second thought, if it means someone else gets theirs.

And yet, here he is.

Even with the suit, it hurts. Jagged lumps crash into his back, pelt his already aching arms, bash his head further into the rocks.

It doesn’t matter, he doesn’t care, just let them live, take him instead -

(Wait, what-?)

He doesn’t remember losing consciousness, but the next thing he can recall is a ringing in his ears and the realisation that the ground around them is still.

“Virgil, get out of there!” John’s voice cuts across his comms, and Virgil opens his eyes.

“Faroqh?” he murmurs. “Leila?”

He feels one of them say something in his chest, senses slowly coming back online. Unfortunately, the fact that every single part of his body is in agony also makes itself known, and Virgil groans, shifting against the weight on his back.

“Virgil? Jesus, Virgil, talk to me. Scott - do you have eyes on him?”

“Almost,” Scott’s voice is tight with poorly-concealed anger and concern. “Virgil, do you copy?”

“Y- yeah,” Virgil manages, then coughs harshly.

“Status?”

“I think - I think they’re both fine. One is definitely c-conscious.”

There’s a pause and then Scott says, even more tightly. “And you?”

“Nothing broken I don’t think.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Scott says grimly.

Virgil closes his eyes again, because he’s so tired and he doesn’t have the energy for Scott’s hypocritical bullshit right now, but he must have lost more time because the next thing he knows, the weight on his back has lifted and strong arms are dragging him upwards.

His older brother is there, eyes a battleground between worry, fury and yet more worry. Virgil loosens his grip on the children, looking up at Scott. “Scott, I had to, they’re just kids-”

Faroqh stifles a cry and Scott’s eyes snap to him. “Give them to me.”

“I just - can you - Leila wasn’t speaking - is she-?”

Scott presses his fingers to her throat and there’s an agonising pause. “She has a pulse.”

“Thank God,” Virgil murmurs, slumping back and releasing his grip on the children.

“Thank God?” Scott repeats incredulously. “Virg - I don’t - I -”

“Don’t do this now, Scott,” John’s voice is quiet but authoritative. “Wait for me, please.”

Scott closes his eyes briefly. “Deal,” he mutters, and then picks up Leila’s body, stretching his other hand out to Faroqh. “I’m going to take these two out to Gordon and Alan. And then I’m coming back for you. Don’t you dare move.”

Faroqh accepts Scott’s hand but looks anxiously at Virgil, who does his best to smile encouragingly.

And then Scott is gone and Virgil is alone in the mess he’s created.

The weight of realisation comes crashing down around him, even harder than the building fell, and it’s a punch to his already fragile ribs. He does his best to focus on breathing rather than the swell of shame and self-loathing that’s ballooning in his chest because he really fucked this up. Virgil can feel his control beginning to slip and digs his fingers into the bruises on his legs. The pain grounds him momentarily, but only leaves him emptier when he stops. And so he only stops when Scott’s silhouette fills the entrance once more.

As Scott approaches, furious concern has him practically vibrating with emotion. Virgil takes a deep breath, choking down his own self-loathing for now, accepts the hand up and staggers into his brother’s side as the pain hits him in full. He may not have broken anything but his entire body feels like it’s been used as a punchbag and it hurts.

Scott’s grip tightens around his waist and the worry intensifies. “Can you make it out?”

“Yeah,” Virgil says. (Probably is more honest).

Leaning heavily into Scott, they make their painfully slow way to the door, out to where a pair of anxiously-hovering brothers are waiting for them.

Alan barely restrains himself from lunging at Virgil, eyes overly bright. “Virg - are - are you okay?”

“Fine, Allie,” Virgil says, pointedly ignoring Scott’s irritable snort of disbelief.

Gordon’s expression is caught between relief, worry and anger, but the former wins over and he hurries to Virgil’s other side. “What were you thinking, Virg? Going in without backup?”

“Not now, Gords, I promised John we’d wait for him. Let’s just get this moron home first.”

Virgil’s mind is struggling to compute the words whilst also concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. “Wait - John’s coming.”

“Yup.” Scott’s mouth is so thin it’s a grim slash.

Well, shit.

“You’re not flying home. No fucking way.”

“She’s my ship.”

“I. Don’t. Care. You just got injured and you’re not fit to fly.”

“Scott, it’s just bruising-”

“And a probable concussion,” chimes in Gordon, standing his ground when Virgil shoots a glare at him.

“You’re not flying and that’s an order.”

It’s not often that Scott pulls rank on him - it’s a cold day in hell when he has to - and it’s the shock of it that causes Virgil to spit “yes, Commander” with such venom. He loathes himself for the hurt he knows will be in Scott’s eyes but stalks to the passenger seat without meeting his gaze. Scott watches him for another few seconds and the stare burns right down to Virgil’s soul, scorching across his anger and burrowing right into his guilt.

But he still can’t meet his brother’s eyes.

Scott turns, leaves and Virgil sags in his seat. He doesn’t say a word whilst Gordon starts Two’s engines, not even when he revs a little harder than is necessary. He can’t bring himself to answer a single one of Gordon’s attempts at humour and eventually, Gordon lapses into silence too.

Virgil’s head is in turmoil and his chest is heavy - heavier than it’s ever been. There’s a mounting dread about the screaming match he’s about to have with his brothers (because he knows it’s coming). Guilt and shame over what he put his brothers through with his antics (because that haunted look is back in Scott’s eyes and Virgil hates that he put it there) battling a self-righteous assurance that he did the right thing in rescuing those kids. Embarrassment that he fucked up the one thing he thought he could do. Gnawing anxiety over nothing he can place specifically but it’s there and it’s overwhelming. Misery that he failed, yet again, sending him straight back to the pit he’d been stuck in before all of this happened.

Above everything though, spreading insidious arms and draping its poisonous cloak over all, is an exhaustion so intense and so absolute that Virgil does not want to exist.

(God, he’s so tired).

In the infirmary, Scott helps Virgil out of the exo suit at last, sucking in sharp breaths at the sight of his brother’s skin mottled purples and blues.

(“Jesus fucking Christ, Virg”).

Scott is as gentle as possible whilst checking for cracked bones and yet Virgil still has to grit his teeth not to wince at his touch. Eventually, Scott seems satisfied with his findings - as satisfied as it’s possible to be when his younger brother looks like a messy oil painting of angry bruising - and allows Virgil back into a sitting position to run through some mental exercises.

It’s as Virgil is answering Scott’s questions without complaint that John bursts through the doors, heading straight for Virgil like a missile.

John grabs him by the shoulders and shakes, uncharacteristic panic blazing in his eyes. "What the hell, Virgil? It's never you! You're supposed to be the one I can trust not to pull stupid shit!”

“Johnny, you - you shouldn’t be up yet,” Virgil says weakly, “gravity-”

“No, you don’t get to tell me to take care of myself right now-”

“Less of the shaking please, John,” Scott cuts in. He’s taken a step back, arms folded.

John nods, releasing Virgil apologetically, but the verbal assault continues. “What were you thinking? No, scratch that, you obviously weren’t thinking at all.” In contrast to Scott’s, John’s anger is quiet. Virgil would rather be shouted over by Scott than reprimanded by John any day; John knew exactly how to let you know that you had disappointed him.

Virgil takes a deep breath in spite of this. “I was thinking that there were two people who needed to be saved.”

“Are you being serious? That’s your excuse for going in alone, without telling anyone where you were going or waiting for backup? That aftershock could have killed you, Virg.” John’s voice trembles and he swallows viciously. “For a moment, I was so afraid it had.”

There’s a pause, in which the guilt might swallow Virgil whole, chew him up, spit out his bloody remains before his brothers. There’s nothing he can say but Scott and John look so expectant that he feels compelled to justify himself.

“I didn’t know there would be an aftershock.”

“That’s not the point, Virgil, and you know it!” Scott explodes. “You didn’t tell us what you were doing, you had nobody watching your back-”

“They were children. They were children and they needed me.”

“We need you.”

“Stop acting like you wouldn’t have done the same, Scott!” Virgil doesn’t know when they started shouting but now he can’t stop. “Don’t act like you haven’t pulled this shit on me a hundred times! Stop being such a goddamn hypocrite-”

“It’s not the same, Virgil. It’s just not.”

“Oh sure, because you’re Scott Tracy, you get to do whatever you like, fuck the consequences-”

“Because I have you watching my back,” Scott yells.

It all goes very quiet and Virgil’s mind is blank.

“What?” he whispers.

Scott looks physically pained, forcing his answer out like pulling glass from a wound. “I’m not saying it’s fair or right, Virg. But I know that whatever stupid thing I do, I have you stopping me from going too far. Pulling me out when it goes wrong. And I know it puts too much pressure on you, and I am sorry for that - I am. But what you did today - you didn’t let us help you. You didn’t let me help you.”

(This is about more than just today and Virgil can feel it in every exhausted cell of his body but fuck, he doesn’t have the energy to hash that out now. He just wants to go to bed and sleep and sleep (and never wake up?)).

John speaks up now, holding Virgil’s gaze with the same anger, only it’s not really anger, Virgil realises. It’s love, marred by fear and stress. “Going into that situation without backup was suicide, Virg.”

A pause.

“I’m not - you don’t think that I’m -” Virgil splutters, though he doesn’t know if the denial is more for his benefit or theirs. They’re wrong, he’s sure of it, they have to be wrong.

“We - we know there’s something going on with you,” John says, glancing at Scott. “And - and after today, we’re even more worried.”

“We care about you, Virg.” Scott’s eyes are wide, pleading. “Why won’t you let us help you?”

(Because I despise every single thing about myself, but most of all how much I’m burdening you all. Because you deserve better than my weakness. Because it’s not worth it).

(He says none of that, obviously. Even if he wanted to, his throat has gone dry and his brain seems to be stuck on John’s words like a scratched record).

He needs to get out.

The realisation sucks all the air from his lungs.

Anxiety rising so fast he thinks he might be sick, Virgil stands. “I - I can’t -” (breathe)-

Shove past Scott and John who are looking at him with such lost expressions Virgil can’t bear it. Inhale around the tightening band of guilt and panic-

Almost at the door and they haven’t tried to stop him - he’s not sure why this hurts more than their protests would have. Exhale and feel lungs constrict even further-

He makes it to the door, and now, exit strategy in his grasp, he can breathe. He stops, one hand on the doorframe and half-turns. Scott’s eyes take on a hopeful gleam and Virgil feels terrible for being the one to stamp that out. “They were children. Tell me you wouldn’t have done the same.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, stumbling on autopilot back to his room, sinks down into his duvet and succumbs at last to the panic attack.

When it’s done - for now, at least - he lies in his own sweat and taut muscles, drained in every sense of the word.

What the fuck is he doing?

Virgil doesn’t understand why he’s pushing away all the people who love him, nor why the thought of exposing this ugly, aching part of himself to them is utterly unbearable. Existing like this - so miserably and shamefully - is unbearable and he can’t face it anymore. He wants to cry. His chest aches with it and yet he can’t even muster the energy to do that.

Instead he lies there for hours, mind racing with reminders of his uselessness, body aching from his failings, soul longing for an endless sleep.

#thunderbirds are go #virgil tracy #littleoldrachel writes #happy belated birthday nutty!

15 notes · View notes

callioope · 5 years ago

Text

I’ve been vague about what has been going on in my life intentionally, both because I needed to tell some people offline first and because it’s a lot to process.

But here is what happened: I am in the process of miscarrying.

I thought it might help to share my story. Miscarriage is more common than people realize and rarely talked about. If someone can benefit from my story, all the better, but mostly this is to help my grieving and coping process.

This is pretty detailed, so trigger warnings and all that.

Exactly one month ago, I read the results I had longed for: pregnant.

Today, I’m sprawled out on the couch in the most excruciating pain I’ve ever experienced.

They don’t tell you that miscarriage is a process.

We’ve been trying to conceive since the end of last June. It was taking so long, I was convinced I’d be scheduling a fertility consultation this coming June. They tell you if you’re under 35, to give it a year. Before we started trying to conceive, I’d tell anyone about how time speeds up the older you get. It makes sense logically, of course, when a year is 1/5 of your life, it sure seems long, but went its 1/32, well...

But this has been the longest eleven months of my life. The first month we started trying, I had an unusually long cycle. 39 days. I was so sure I was pregnant. My breasts had been hurting for two weeks. Husband and I were vacationing in Minnesota to see Aston Villa play. I bought a pregnancy test, beaming, excited, and was puzzled by the negative result. A week later, when my period came, I cried to my mother, and she said something about the universe saying I wasn’t ready or something. Whatever it was sounded bleak and ominous to my ears. It sounded like it meant I’d never be ready.

The fall was busy and stressful, and despite all the tedious ovulation test strips, nothing happened except somehow, my period got lighter month by month. I was pretty sure something was wrong with me. I thought I had a UTI. (I was actually stressed and dehydrated, which I eventually remedied.) While I cried at a Sara Bareilles concert in November, my mother told me that her OBGYN said it can take as much at 9 months for the body to recalibrate after being on the pill.

Speaking of which. I’ve been taking the pill for over a decade. For the most part, I took it correctly. There is some leeway to taking it incorrectly, for the record. You can miss two pills in a row and it still has instructions for what to do (while cautioning to be safe and use extra protection). Maybe only once did I ever have to throw out a pack for missing too many in a row.

(This is maybe neither here nor there, but rebelcaptain accidental pregnancy fics have become a bit of a pet peeve for me. Jyn and Cassian are far too careful and intentional to let that happen, and it is so easy to be responsible since there are so many birth control alternatives these days that don’t even require reliance on routine or memory.)

So, of course, the concern lately is that clearly 10+ years on birth control has messed me up. I do not know this objectively (what I do know is that I have OCD and anxiety and obsess over Everything That Can Go Wrong), but the point is that birth control really can have consequences that I don’t think are necessarily fully understood or studied. DO NOT GET ME WRONG, USE BIRTH CONTROL. My only regret is what I didn’t know.

I learned too late, but a lot of conception advice articles tell you to quit the BC as soon as possible. Even if my mom’s OBGYN is wrong, the general advice does seem to be that it can take up to 3 months for your body to recalibrate. So, if by any chance someone reading this is thinking about conceiving soon, if you take nothing else away from this rant, take this. I wish I had stopped taking the pill a few months before we actually intended to start trying.

After ten months of all this worrying, I finally got what I’d longed for. The moment I saw that positive result, it felt so surreal. There had been little things leading up to that moment, strange hints and signs, like I knew subconsciously even before a test would have been positive. I wrote that Howl’s Moving Castle pregnancy fic before I knew. I started learning “Here Comes the Sun” on my ukulele before I knew (it’s... silly, but I decided I wanted to learn the ukulele because I wanted to be able to play that song for my kids some day). It involves finger picking, so I’d been putting off learning it, but one day I just decided it was time. And finally, I decided to watch the latest season of Brooklyn 99. I’d avoided it because I knew Amy & Jake were also trying to conceive, and it was too emotional for me to watch that when I was so frustrated for how long I was taking. (Of course I didn’t realize they also had trouble, and watching it actually felt cathartic for me.) I got that positive result literally the next morning.

I spent Monday, April 20, making checklists and spreadsheets. I set my first prenatal appointment for May 8. Those two and a half weeks were the slowest of my life. They stretched out like a rubber band. I couldn’t really focus on anything except this pregnancy I’d waited so long for. That’s probably why time moved so slowly. I wasn’t filling it with the hobbies I enjoyed, writing and playing my ukulele. All my overwhelmed brain could handle was the hilarious distraction of Community. Yeah, this is also around the time I disappeared from fandom. It was originally for a happy reason, I was just too excited to focus!

I know many women who have miscarried. The data seems to vary from source to source, but anywhere between 10% to 20% of pregnancies end in miscarriage. I couldn’t wait to get to the doctor to confirm everything was okay. I wondered if they would do an ultrasound; I dreamed of seeing a fetus on that screen.

We started talking about how we were going to tell our family. We wrote a pretend promotion letter for my sister, promoting her from “sister” to “aunt” (she’s a badass at her job and we had recently been talking about her promotions so it was thematically relevant). We planned to do a video call with my parents where we played Quiplash and created custom answers related to the pregnancy.

But we never got that chance. On May 8, I went in for my first appointment. I’d spent the last three days sewing a mask because the ones we ordered still haven’t arrived yet. So all the time I would have spent preparing myself for the worst (as is my way) was spent instead distracted by sewing and finishing up Community.

They took me to an office first and went over medical history questions. “Any morning sickness?” the nurse asked. “Not at all,” I said. “Should I be worried?” “No,” she answered. “Consider yourself lucky!”

(For the record, many women who carry to term do not ever get morning sickness.)

(It was just one of those unfortunate exchanges.)

Then the exam with the doctor. All in all, it’d probably been 30 or 40 minutes by this point, all of this excited talk. I was going to tell my parents on Mother’s Day. My due date was Christmas.

I video call my husband just in time for the ultrasound.

There was no embryo.

The doctor said a lot of women are ovulating later in their cycles due to the stress of the pandemic. At the time, I thought maybe. Hope is funny like that, in the face of logic. It started to grow like a weed in the cracks of my breaking heart.

But the thing is, even with that stubborn hopeweed, I knew. I’d been doing this for ten months. I knew when my last period was, I knew when I ovulated. I was 7 weeks and 1 day, and there was no embryo, and that was it.

The beginning of the process of miscarriage.

Technically, it’d started a few days before that appointment, but I was distracted at that time. I’d noticed one morning that there seemed to be more hair in the shower floor than there should be.

Dots started to connect. My breasts had stopped aching. Now, they started to shrink back to their original size.

This happened over several days. I felt certain I would miscarry on Mother’s Day; fortunately, that did not happen. No, enough days had to pass for that hopeweed to prosper. Only then, when it whispered maybe would I start spotting and cramping.

On Tuesday, the second ultrasound confirmed what I already knew. Not viable. Missed miscarriage. Technically, the prescription the doctor hands me reads “missed abortion.” “It’s just the technical term,” the doctor explains, acknowledging that many women might find this triggering.

I don’t cry as much as I did. I only cry when I tell people. It seems important for people to know, just in case. Just one person in the relevant circles of my life. I had to tell my boss to explain the sudden uptick in unexpected doctor appointments. (I’m Rh negative, so I needed to go to the hospital to get bloodwork and a Rhogam shot -- and being in a hospital these days in anxiety-inducing enough without this trauma.)

It still feels surreal. All of this happened in one month. Somehow my life has changed completely and then reverted back. This is just a blip in my life, relatively, and yet it seems the longest month of my life.

In movies, in stories, miscarriage seems to go the same way: a flash of bloody sheets, a shout of shock and pain, and then grief. I never knew how it really goes: that it would stretch out for weeks, from the moment I saw that first ultrasound to now, twelve days later, just starting to bleed. I’ll have to go back for another ultrasound to confirm it’s done, and if it’s not, then I’ll need surgery.

This speaks nothing of the grief.

And then it’s back to square one, a whole year later: ovulation tests and endless waiting.

It’s been a whole month; it’s been only a month, and miscarriage is a process.

#tw: pregnancy #tw: miscarriage #the latest with liz #this is detailed and specific #not for everyone #it's part of my grieving process #it's been a month and i thought it might help to say something

9 notes · View notes

absollnk · 5 years ago

Text

Absol's Journey's End progression, act 1: prehardmode

(this post contains sarcasm not marked with /s because a., I'm not targeting any real people and b., It's for emphasis. I will also be explaining things that may not need to be explained to seasoned players in order to make this a little more accessible. Tw for sparse cursing)

wow

I'd like to call myself good at Terraria. I've played across several platforms since patch 1.1 and know way too much about this spectacular sandbox's intricate details. I can blaze through most bosses effortlessly if I'm prepared. I've done playthroughs of every class in expert mode (except summoner, couldn't find a slime staff even after farming :/).

It's so strange to be bitch slapped all the way back to square one just because I've never touched a keyboard before.

I don't remember what my initial key layout was, but currently, the important ones are-

WASD for movement

C for inventory

R for mounts

F for quick heal

B for quick buff

Space for jump

LeftAlt for smart cursor toggle

M for map

Left click for action and right click for interaction, and

Mouse 3 (scroll wheel *press* for grappling hook.

You should've seen my hour-one gameplay. It was sad. I couldn't change directions while jumping. I was regretting choosing expert mode difficulty. If I wasn't using journey mode's research system as a crutch, I'd probably still be pre-skeletron. I didn't even have enough skill to use the step stool accessory, which literally just requires holding up.

But, in the long run, I got better way faster than I could've anticipated. First, however, on irl day 2, I killed the Eye of Cthulhu on my fifth try after being torn apart by its last-resort Wacko Mode 4 times. At that point I was decked out in full gold gear with the fast and piercing jester arrows, so I really felt that the keyboard was holding me back considering that I usually do the eye armorless (admittedly I only had 100 life, but I usually do that too.)

The next day, slime rained. I thought that the king would be free gear, so I warped back to the surface to bring him out. He wasn't. He spawned on top of me, dealing 50+ damage immediately, wiping out half my total HP. I instinctively tried to use the shield dash to get the hell out of there, but I hit the inside of his body, which made me bounce back, which made me get hit again, resulting in death. The fight lasted less than 10 seconds, and I could only see the fucker for two of them.

With my spicy new tendon bow from the eye, I thought in my tilted rage that it would be a good idea to go and beat up the Brain of Cthulhu. I was itching for beefier armor and it was the gateway between me and crimson/molten gear. I set up an arena above the crimson made of two long rows of platforms covered in health regen-boosting campfires. With a stack of its spawn item (thanks journey mode), I brought in the first one to size up what I was dealing with.

I died pretty well. In fact, this is where I died the best out of the whole run so far.

The first attempt went surprisingly well. My lovely and incredibly sexy jester arrows made dealing with the creeper hoardes *relatively* easy. Phase two did not apply to that. I had brought along a burning mace because it had the dual functionality of circling the player or being shot out and coming back again like a baseball on an elastic string. This would theoretically allow me to attack the brain if it was far away and defend myself if it was too close to me. I did not know that the mace had very little knockback while it was spinning. This plan did not work.

ELEVEN atempts of trial and error later, I won. By that point, the creepers alone had dropped enough materials to make the crimson armor without ever actually killing the boss, which is pathetic. But I won, and I didn't cheat. I'm still in the easy baby phase of the game. At this point I'm starting to realize why most players statistically chop down a tree and ditch the game forever.

It's irl day 3. Next up on my blood feud against the children's video game was skeletron, the next step in progression that makes the final boss of prehardmode a little bit easier and the thing preventing me from seeing my hair. I set up and even longer 3-layer arena and prepared to not have fun, as skeletron is known in my head for being a dumb bitch who cheats with fast, homing projectiles and an un-telegraphed chain attack that will instantly kill you if you can't grapple out.

He took two tries. I don't get it. I was probably getting better at the controls by then, but *that much* better? Like, the successful attempt wasn't even that close. Whatever. I was annoyed that the stupid brain gave me so much trouble, and I seemingly couldn't be happy after a boss fight even if it went well. But, since we take those, I proceeded into the dungeon to find a bunch of disposable weapons and, more importantly, the cobalt shield. I didn't have to take knockback anymore. If I rematched the king slime then he was fucking dead.

The clothier moved in and I bought the familiar wig to reveal my luscious locks.

Queen bee is next. The fights were standard, but I learned that she apparently enrages on the surface? I always fight her there, except for this time when I stayed underground for funsies. She was so much easier underground. Good to know, I guess. I could've probably done her before even the Brain.

Because I'd never been able to before and because I happened to find the tavernkeep after the bee fight, I tried out the old one's army which logically and appropriately kicked my ass. It was a reality check for sure (things were going smoothly since after the brain minus movement) but it was also a neat experience.

I mowed through the gobins, finally maxed my hp, and then it became Wall Time. My loadout was now molten armor with the Molten Fury bow and the Sunfury flail (which for some reason has like ninety base dmg??? This is a PREhardmode weapon? It has NO business doing 90+ but hey I'll take it). I was also rocking the blizzard in a balloon, band of regen, fledgeling wings, lightning boots, and shield of Cthulhu. I felt like I was finally strong enough in-game and competent enough with the controls to advance to hardmode. I was finally good enough at the video game to change directions while jumping.

I built a roughly 1,900-block long bridge in hell out of the blast-proof dungeon bricks. My plan was to run far ahead of the wall and just kill it with dynamite. I grinded for a voodoo doll and yeeted it into the lava, murdering Andrew the guide with questionable morals and bringing forth the wall of flesh. Little did absol know that they forgot to pack the main part of their plan, dynamite. I realized this, contemplated in-game self murder to end the hopeless fight early, but then I had an epiphany. What if I didn't cheese the boss and fought it legitimately?

With my epic gamer status and pride on the line and expecting nothing more than failure, I whipped out my good ole 100-gotdamn-damage Sunfury and tore through the Wall's hungry appendages.

This is all cool and good on paper. I'm doing consistent damage and I'm not dying. That's how you kill bosses. Things are going well, life is good.

I check the map and learn that I've already used up two thirds of my hellbridge and that the wall was only just below half health. Oh no. Things are actually not going well and life is bad.

I switch to the bow, hoping that the speed and accuracy result in better DPS. Better it was, and I would be all set if it weren't for the Wall's gimmick. I was indeed doing more damage, but as it loses health, it gets faster. I'm at a point where I have to be running at full speed almost constantly to stay a safe distance away. The Wall's health still isn't in the dark red zone and I'm almost out of road. I'm starting to take steady damage from the exponentially faster eye lasers and leeches. I run out of bridge and have to hop from lava lake to building to lava lake in order to not burn alive in the infernal orange juice. New areas are being revealed on the map because I'm fighting in an area I've literally not been in yet. I'm too busy focusing on not being deep-fried that my aim suffers tremendously. I fumble while switching back to the flail for quality over quantity, costing me precious seconds. The wall now moves faster than my top speed. I mis-time a jump and right before the wall disintegrates me between itself and a building, it dies.

I audibly moan in real life.

I go and check the treasure bag after a few seconds of mental recalibration. I got a laser rifle and a ranger emblem, along with the standard demon heart which I immediately wolf down to slap on the emblem. I guess I'm a ranger now.

Recap:

King Slime: still alive

Eye of Cthulhu: five attempts

Brain of Cthulhu: twelve attempts

Skeletron: two attempts

Queen Bee: two attempts

Wall of Flesh: one attempt

The spirits of light and dark have been released and my gamer status is intact. Absol's next victim-victim relationship is with the Queen Slime, but that'll have to wait until the hardmode post :)

Thank you if you've read this far!! Lemme know what you think about this kind of thing, it was fun

#.txt #Terraria #journey's end #absols write #long post #i wish I could add a cut

6 notes · View notes

alpacannot · 5 years ago

Text

So, I made some miniscule changes to the first chapter, mainly introducing Tris’s two dogs (Marlow, her Alaskan Malamute, and Blake, her Siberian Husky), working them into the story more, and editing a few things, but here’s the rest of chapter 1 (also unedited)!

“See you tonight!” he called out as he all but skipped through the doors. I sighed as I watched him leave—we’d been inseparable during school, but I felt like I hardly ever saw him anymore. He lived across the hall, but with my hours, I was always working during his free time. By some stroke of luck, he was assigned to me after we both graduated. We had resigned ourselves to the reality that we would basically never see each other again, so we were both overjoyed to discover that we would be working together—of course, that glee was short lived. Aside for the occasional dinner together, work kept us apart.

Thumbing through the background information, I began determining initial judgements for today’s Reapings. Live, Limbo, Heaven, Limbo, Live, Hell, the list went on a on, and I scribbled down a note on the tops of their files. Of course, HR would determine exactly what part of the Afterlife they went to—those in Limbo had the option to work here instead of spending the rest of their lives fading away in the realm in between Heaven and Hell. Depending on your beliefs, sometimes those destined for Heaven had to work off a debt with their deity, and they were sent here as well—usually as Runners. HR sorted the rest into the right parts of Heaven and Hell, where their respective gods and goddesses would take care of the rest. In comparison, my job was easy: if their time was up, I looked at what they’d done in life and decided if they deserved to continue living. After all the office work was done, it was my job to go collect their souls. Sometimes mistakes are made—Reapers are given the wrong file, we’re interrupted, or someone on Earth intervenes. Other complications can arise during someone’s life, but the outcome is always the same: if someone on Earth becomes aware of the Afterlife prematurely, their soul is immediately harvested, and they come to work here. Through some cruel twist of fate, that’s exactly how I ended up in this particular hellish cycle.

Before long, all the necessary paperwork was done, and I began to gather my things in preparation for crossing over to Earth. Grabbing my clipboard, several death certificates, and a pen, I stuffed everything into my bag, snatching up my keycard on my way out. With Blake and Marlow helping me along, I slowly made my way to the exit, waiting for security to check my bag. Scanning my keycard, I glanced at today’s route. I’d be jumping all over the the Mid-Atlantic area today, starting in Pennsylvania. I fastened the buttons of my coat, gritting my teeth as I braced myself for the icy wind. The door in front of me opened, revealing nothing but an empty black abyss. Steeling my nerves, I stepped into the oppressing darkness, feeling the weight on my chest pushing against me. This part is always the worst.

After what seemed like an eternity of fighting against the inky black tar, I forced my way through the veil and onto Earth. The frigid wind bit at my cheeks, and I clenched my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. It was always a huge shock to go from the climate-controlled office to the real world. Forcing my frozen fingers to open my bag, I pulled out my clipboard, checking for my first stop. I unhooked Blake and Marlow, letting them run free until work was done—I would need them to support me later. Putting the address into my phone, I began the short walk through downtown Johnstown. The sidewalks were full of people on their way back to work after lunch, and I quietly slipped between the crowds.

It didn’t take me long to find little Bethany Jones, playing happily outside. Her mother bustled in the kitchen, busy fixing lunch for the two of them. My heart clenched. I hate this part. I moved closer to Bethany, reaching out for her. Make it painless. I grabbed her shoulder, pulling her soul out in one fluid motion. Cradling her now limp body, I felt a warm tear run down my cheek. Turning to face the new shade, I forced myself to put on a brave face. “It’s gonna’ be okay. I promise,” I murmured to her. Gently laying her cooling corpse on the grass, I took her hand and led her to the nearest Afterlife office. I drug her away from her old house, trying to block out the wailing of her mother and hold on to the struggling child.

*********

There were so many children today. I’ve never collected that many young souls, I thought. Marlow nuzzled my shoulder, and I buried my face in his thick fur. A sharp knock echoed through my apartment, and Blake ran over to paw and whine at the door. PJ pushed his way through, coming to sit next to me on the couch. “Rough day?” he asked.

“There were so many children,” I moaned. “Almost all of them.” I felt him shift uncomfortably.

“I know,” he sighed. He traced soothing circles around my calf, knowing there was nothing he could say. “I’ll make us something to eat.” I wanted to protest, but he knew as well as I did that today had been one of the worst days I’d had since I’d come here. I hated that suddenly everything was about me, but I couldn’t block out the wailing of those poor kids’ mothers.

“Peej, why were there so many kids today?” He stopped opening the cupboards and turned towards me.

“I don’t know.” He deflated, and I moved towards him, his arms gently cradling me. “We could ask Alex,” he murmured. “He might know more, being so high up.” I weakly nodded. Blake nudged my leg, and I leaned against her warm, stable body. I slumped into a barstool.

“So, tell me about this new prospect of yours. Anyone we know?” I was desperately trying to move on to a more light-hearted subject. PJ lit up like a Christmas tree.

“I’m not sure if you’d know him—I think he might be a transfer from another branch. He came to give me a Summons yesterday, and he was totally flirting with me.”

“Well, what’s his name?”

“Chris Kendall.” I choked.

“Peej, we know Chris. He’s totally straight.”

“What? No way! He was totally coming on to me yesterday—he even winked at me when he passed by this morning. I know queer, and Chris is definitely it.”

“I’m pretty sure your gay-day needs recalibrated. I know he was dating Christine this time last year.” I hated to burst his bubble, but it was better than seeing him get his heart broken again.

“Say what you will, but I don’t believe you. I never saw them together.”

“PJ, they went to your department’s Christmas party together last year.”

“I’m pretty sure I would have noticed him if he’d been there.” I sighed, exasperated, and gave up, putting my hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“Just you wait, Tristan Sieghard. Come the next Christmas party, you’ll be seeing him on my arm.”

“Alright, alright. You’re the boss.”

“And don’t you forget it,” he said, sticking his tongue out at me.

*********

By the time PJ and I had finished catching up, I was exhausted. I’d been emotionally drained all day, but I all but collapsed into my bed when we finally called it a night. I curled up under the covers, relishing in their warmth. Marlow and Blake settled in next to me, and I closed my eyes, hoping for a peaceful night’s rest.

I didn’t get it.

The soothing hum of Alistair’s voice lulled in the background of my thoughts. It was a beautiful day, and the walk back home from school with my brother was always a source of joy.

“Do you have any homework?” he asked.

“Not much—just a math worksheet and my cursive practice book.”

“Want to rent a movie? Blockbuster’s right over there.”

“Only if I get to pick.”

“You always do,” he laughed, ruffling my hair. I playfully stuck my tongue out at him, as I started to cross the street.

“Tris, look out!” He shouted, reaching for me. I turned to see what he was yelling about, but the scquealing tires told me everything I needed to know.

1 note · View note

hekate1308 · 6 years ago

Text

Timey Wimey

Drowley Doctor Who AU. Doctor!Crowley, companion!Dean. Enjoy!

Dean Winchester was once again working late in his home office. He’d decided he might as well finish grading the papers was working on.

“Leave it to an Austrian to finally write comprehensively about art restitution” he mumbled to himself, “Good girl.” At least she would hopefully get the attention she deserved once he published his piece on her book.

His thoughts were interrupted by one of the strangest noises he had ever heard; a grinding, scratching, yet somehow comforting noise. It seemed to come from the garden. He couldn’t see anything in the darkness outside his window, but decided to check just to be sure. He grabbed a flashlight and went outside.

He blinked, then rubbed his eyes.

It couldn’t be true.

And yet there was a big blue box standing in his rocket salad. It looked like a telephone box he’d once seen in an old British film –

“Hello there, Professor Winchester” a voice said. He reeled around.

A bearded man was watching him, looking bemused. “In short, name’s Crowley, this is a time machine and there’s a bit of a problem I have to solve. Fancy a ride?”

“What?” He stared at the stranger who had somehow found his way into his garden and was now asking him if he wanted to take a ride... in a telephone box.

“Alright, once again for the slow among us... time machine, time travel, you in or out?”

“Wait a second, who are you –“

“I just told you” he said impatiently.

“Crowley’s not a name.”

“You’re one to talk, Mr. Rifle.”

Dean huffed. “Still, you are in my garden, so I get to ask the questions, I’d say.”

“Technically there might be a point in what you say, but time is of the essence.”

“Not if you have a time machine” Dean pointed out.

“Good, so you’re smart after all. That will be useful. Now come on, into the snogbox.”

“The what?”

“Oh, don’t flutter those pretty eyelashes at me and don’t expect me to notice.”

“I wasn’t –“

“Whatever you were or were not doing, no time to explain it now. Come on.”

He was so surprised that he actually let himself be dragged to the box. “Now, listen, buddy, I have no idea what –“

Crowley snapped his fingers. “Juliet, welcome our guest.”

The doors of the telephone box opened. Dean’s eyes widened.

The man simply strolled into the huge room as if it was nothing while he followed him, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. “But this –“

“I know. Now can we –“ he sighed when Dean ran outside before returning. “Alright, say it, everyone does –“

“It’s much smaller from the outside!!!”

He blinked. “Alright, I just heard that for the first time, I’ll give you that.”

“But how –“

“This is a TARDIS. Time and Relative Dimensions in Space. She prefers to be called Juliet, though.”

“I see.” To his evident surprise, Dean took this explanation in stride; but he could hardly fault him for naming his... vehicle, for lack of a better word, thinking of Baby. “Hello, Juliet.”

A strange sound emitted from deep within the console. “She seems to like you” Crowley said, clearly annoyed.

“I’m very likeable. So, now that we have established you have some freaky different dimension thing going on...”

“How do you know that?”

Dean shrugged. “I’m into science fiction.”

He studied him, then nodded. “Oh yes. You’ll do.”

“I’ll do how –“

He snapped his fingers and the doors closed. “Hey!” Dean ran back to the door and tried to open it while the machine made the same noises that had originally lured him into the garden.

“That won’t work; they don’t open whole we’re in motion.”

“In motion!? Where the Hell are you taking me –“

“Where do you think? Hello? I just kidnapped an historian in my time machine, and considering your last publication was about the Elizabeth Armstrong case, I got to thinking about all those girls who mysteriously vanished –“

“Oh God, are you talking about the Vanishings? Many believe today that Colin Wilson invented them for his book, he never even had a –“

“Please, can we do this without the indignant historical rant? I have to focus here –“

“Oh what, you’re just pressing buttons –“

The noise stopped. “There we are” Crowley commented.

“What do you mean –“

“I mean, London, 1887. A year before the Ripper murders, two years after the Armstrong scandal, William T. Stead is still on his crusade to save the poor girls from a life in corruption” he explained sarcastically.

“You can’t tell me we just went to London in the year 1887.”

“You can check it yourself” he drawled, pointing at the doors.

Dean told himself that it was absolutely ridiculous to feel afraid. Of course they were still in his garden. How were they supposed to have moved –

The door opened on its own – maybe Juliet was desperate to show off as well? – and Dean hastened to look outside.

What he saw did astound him – but probably not in the way Crowley had hoped.

“And?” he sounded smug.

“Well, we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

“That’s all you’ve got to say, Dorothy?”

Dean decided to keep it casual. “I don’t know, I was promised London in 1887. Not pre-revolutionary France. Not that this is not impressive in its own way, you know, but –“

“What?” Crowley shoved him lightly to the side to check the market place they had landed on. He sighed. “You’re right.”

“I know my pre-revolutionary wardrobe.”

“So it would seem, professor.” Crowley closed the door. “Seems like I have to recalibrate Juliet’s chronometer...” he mumbled to himself.

Dean had to suppress a smile.

Their next attempt was more successful. Dean opened the doors and all he saw was fog. He immediately started to cough. “What the –“

“Ah, the good old London fog” Crowley said, strolling up to him. “You’ll get used to it.”

“But how –“

“Time and Relative Dimension in Space. I told you we were going time travelling, and you recognized France just a few moments ago...”

“I see” Dean said weakly. His head was spinning. They couldn’t possibly – and yet –

He was dreaming. That was the only explanation. He had fallen asleep over his work, not for the first time, and now he was dreaming about a pretty good-looking guy who had whisked him away into the London of 1887.

The Victorian Age had always fascinated him, and Eliza Armstrong’s case had awoken his curiosity by pure chance, if he was being honest. But it had been an interesting project, and he had enjoyed the work he’d done on it.

And if this was just a dream – why not enjoy the ride?

Sadly, his hypothesis couldn’t stand for long. “Down the corridor to your right, third door on the left, then the second one on the right, and then straight ahead” Crowley said, pointing the way.

“What?”

“You’d gather a bit of attention, walking around in your twenty-first century clothes, wouldn’t you say?”

Dreams weren’t that... lucid or logical. But this couldn’t be real, he told himself as he strolled down the endless corridors of the TARDIS... Juliet... whatever.

And yet he found a wardrobe with everything he needed. Luckily, he knew all there was about the wardrobe of then late nineteenth century; figuring out how to put it on was still a challenge, however, and by the time he’d made it back to the console room, Crowley was already leaning against the door in his own dark tail coat, looking bored. “And here I thought you were supposed to be an expert.”

“Doesn’t mean I spend my time putting on dresses from bygone time periods” Dean said.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “You look rather good for your lack of practice, I have to see.”

Dean knew he was blushing, and hated himself for it. Why did the garments have to fit Crowley so well? It was unfair.

“Let’s go, then.”

And he opened the door with a snap on his fingers and strolled out as if walking into 1880s London was no big deal. “Hey, wait for me!” Dean called out, and yet he still hesitated on the step. He was a historian; he had dreamt of this possibility all his life.

Juliet gave a hum that Dean thought was meant to be reassuring – if she was indeed sentient, that was – and he took a deep breath and ventured forth.

“I was wondering if you’d decided to stay inside after all” Crowley drawled.

“It’s not every day you travel into the past:”

“For me, it is. And every night. But that happens to Time Lords, so I will forgive your usual human babbling.”

“Time... are you telling me you’re not human?”

“Exactly that” Crowley said matter-of-factly and began walking. Dean hurried after him.

“Wait! You can’t just tell me you’re some kind of... alien and expect me to follow you as if it is nothing!”

“Considering what we’re here for, it is nothing. It’s of no importance to the Vanishings...”

“But – how do I know you’re telling the truth, if I’m not hallucinating all of this?”

Crowley stopped and sighed. “You won’t let this go, I see.”

And, without further ado, he drew Dean’s hand to his breast. “Feel that?”

He could indeed feel Crowley’s heartbeat and blushed. “Dude, we’re in 19th century London...”

“And in a world where Conan Doyle could happily write about Holmes and Watson walking arm in arm” Crowley replied, the moved his hand.

Dean frowned. “What are you...” he trailed off and his eyes widened. Then, he moved his hand back to Crowley’s left breast and to his right again.

“Two hearts. All Time Lords have them.”

“Two... hearts. You have two... hearts.”

“Correct. I also happen to be immortal. And now, come on. The Vanishings won’t solve themselves.”

And he would again have walked away as if nothing had happened. This time, however, Dean listened to him and he certainly had more to say on the subject, now that he had to accept that his companion was... if not an alien (how?) then very strange indeed.

“Look, I am telling you – the Vanishings are just a myth. I was disappointed myself when I found out; I loved Colin Wilson’s books as a kid. Part of my reason for wanting to become a historian was so I could write like him, and then I found out he barely paid attention to sources, invented a serial killer, and believed himself to be a genius.”

“So what happened to Eliza Carter? Why was Charles Wagner found near the Thames, but had not drowned? And who killed Amelia Jeffs?”

“Granted, I would like to know too, but I only ever found evidence of Eliza Carter actually existing, and the other two – I have no idea where they come from. Maybe Colin Wilson found some obscure mention in an old penny dreadful and freaked out because he took it seriously. He actually believed Suetonius, can you believe it?“

“You will love Madame Vastra” Crowley said sarcastically.

“Madame Vastra?”

“Yes. She’s a Silurian. Her and her wife Jenny – and Strax have decided to live here.”

“But – what – are you telling me there are other aliens in Victorian London!?”

“Oh yes. You don’t know half of it.”

Now Crowley sounded decidedly smug, and Dean chose not to pay him more attention. Instead, he focused on the world around him.

His whole life, it seemed to him, he had studied the past. He had seen pictures, and daguerreotypes, and paintings; he had read diaries and newspapers and old files that were so dusty they’d made him cough for days; he’d thought to understand the passions of a man who killed both his wife and her lover with a sword upon finding them in bed together, of a young girl who had been crowned queen and had yet started a romance with her husband’s courtier, of a woman who would throw herself under the horse of her sovereign to ensure those that came after her would be allowed to vote.

And now he was here, now he was actually in the past, and it was so much more than he had imagined.

A few dirty children passed him, loudly singing a nursery rhyme. On the next street corner, a woman solicited him, and he hastily moved on, Crowley sniggering behind him. “Not quite what you thought it was like, hm?”

“I just didn’t think it would be... natural.”

“But of course. As large as life, and twice as natural.”

“Do you come here often?”

“Now and then when Madame Vastra calls for help. She knows I’m the best.”

“I see being humble isn’t one of your virtues.”

“I don’t have any but if I had, this would definitely not be one of them, you’re right about that.”

“Then why are you trying to solve some old murder cases that no one even knows where cases to begin with?”

“It’s fun” Crowley said simply, “And I’m easily bored.”

Dean was left to stare after him as he went on. Fun? Solving a murder? Then again, he thought somewhat guiltily, it’s not like he wasn’t being entertained right now.

He hastened to catch up.

“Here we are” Crowley said suddenly. He turned around. “A few ground rules. They might time travel from time to time, but they are living here, so no mention of the future, that just confuses things. And especially not Jack the Ripper.”

“Why not Jack the Ripper?” Dean asked, somewhat disappointed.

“Because Madame Vastra is going to eat” Crowley said.

“What!?”

“You heard me. One way of getting rid of the problem.”

“But... who was he?” Dean asked, at least desperate top hear a name.

“A nobody. No one had ever heard of him, his name wasn’t in any of the files.”

“You’re kidding me.”

Crowley’s expression made it clear that he was not, in fact, kidding.

Damn it.

All the research he had done over the years, and it was all for nothing.

“Don’t look that downcast, just remember that Stewart thought it was a crazy midwife and be happy you didn’t write his book on the subject.”

“That’s barely a compliment. It’s one of the worst –“

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s hope they’re home.” And without further ado, Crowley rang the doorbell.

“But –“

The... person that opened the door could best have been described as a living, breathing, talking potato and Dean did his best not to stare.

“Crowley. We weren’t expecting you.”

“That’s because I didn’t tell you I was coming, Strax” he said smoothly. “I need to speak to Madame Vastra and Jenny. It’s important.”

“They are not at home at the moment, but please, the girl and you are welcome to step in.”

“The girl?” Dean asked.

“They have never thought it necessary to learn about the human obsession with gender” Crowley said, stepping in.

“Would you like some blood of the enemies we slaughtered as a refreshment?” Strax asked.

“Sorry, what?”

He looked disappointed. “I mean, would you like some water or wine?”

“Water, please.” He thought it better to keep his wits.

“A good decision. You don’t know what that Silurian wine can do to you” Crowley said, stepping up to inspect a painting hanging in the living room. “Turner. Original.”

“What?” Dean stepped up to him. Art had never been his are of expertise, but he thought he was right. “So Strax is –“

“Another alien. Naturally.”

“And... Madame Vastra and Jenny?”

“Jenny’s human, Madame Vastra a Silurian.”

“A what?”

“Oh, you’ll see” Crowley smirked.

Strax entered with a tablet. “I have also brought the beverage made out of loose leaves these Londoners are so fond of.”

Dean decided he definitely could use some tea. “Thank you.”

Strax looked at him, then briskly informed Crowley, “Your boy is more polite than you” before disappearing again.

Dean flushed at being called Crowley’s boy, but the Time Lord didn’t appear to be affected in the least. “Is he always like that?”

“Oh no, normally, he threatens anyone he meets with violence. He must like you.”

“I see” Dean said somewhat weakly. “But...” he trailed off.

“Yes?” Crowley asked, sitting down and taking a book from a nearby shelf.

“Look” Dean tried, “not that I am not grateful – how many historians do get such a chance? But you are trying to solve a Victorian criminal case. And you’re waiting for an alien detective and her wife to help you do so. I get how they can be helpful, but... what about me? I’m just a historian.”

“Just a historian who, as you just so rightfully pointed out, travelled back in time. Most of what we know from this time period is because we have had various adventures during it, but you have studied this, somewhat obsessively, might I add.”

“It’s interesting, alright”? Dean mumbled.

“Whatever you say, but my point is, a historian is always going to be useful in the long run.”

He nodded. It was as good a reason as any. And he would have lied if he had said he wasn’t looking forward to meeting the alien detective.

Madame Vastra, when she returned with her wife a few minutes later, proved to be a... giant lizard-person. Thankfully, Dean had at least known she was an alien, so he didn’t react.

“Crowley. This is a surprise.” She looked at Dean and narrowed her eyes. “You have never been known to take on passengers if they couldn’t help you. So who is this?”

“Dean Winchester, a historian” Crowley introduced him.

Jenny’s eyes widened. “What, the one whose entire oeuvre you’ve read at least three times?”

What happened next was something so incredible Dean at first wasn’t sure he wasn’t imaging it, but he was right.

Crowley was blushing. “That has nothing to do with this. Dean is an expert on the Victorian age.”

“That is true indeed” Madame Vastra agreed. “And may I say, Professor, that your books are meticulously researched.”

“Thank you, and it’s Dean.”

“Really” she said, studying him, “Quite an unusual companion for you...”

“He’s not my companion” Crowley said quickly, as if the word meant something special – and it probably did, Dean didn’t speak alien, after all. “He’s just helping me on the case. The Vanishings.”

“The Vanishings?” Jenny asked. “but those are just stories, am myth invented by Colin Wilson.”

“Told you” Dean said simply as Crowley rolled his eyes.

“You might wish to ignore what’s going on right in front of you, but I don’t have that privilege.”

“On the contrary, you usually have” Madame Vastra said, “So what is it? Why are you here?”

“You usually don’t need a reason –“

“But this time, you brought an expert with you and you seem rather eager to take on the case” she observed calmly, looking at Dean once again. “I would say something’s afoot.”

“Yeah, well, but that is not what this is” Crowley dismissed her concerns, although Dean couldn’t help but feel there was more to it than that. Victorian London or not, he should definitely keep on his toes around the Time Lord, just to make sure.

“So what do we do now?”

“Well” Crowley drawled, “First of all we have to talk to the police and see the evidence. I am sure Madame Vastra can help us with that.”

She nodded. “Inspector Abberline owes me a favour.”

So at least she seemed to trust Crowley, his motives for taking this case notwithstanding, Dean reflected. That had to be a good sign.

And then he realized something else. “Frederick George Abberline!? He spluttered. “Detective in White Chapel? Soon-to-be the most famous hunter for Jack the Ripper there ever was?”

“Yes” she said calmly.

“Rule number two for time travel: no fanboying” Crowley snapped.

“I wasn’t, I just admire his work –“

“Sure. You do realize he’s over forty by now and slightly overweight –“

“And how old are you?”

Crowley shut up. Jenny sniggered. “You should keep him around. Could use someone to keep you on your toes.”

“What I need and do not need is none of your concern”.

“If you say so” Crowley said smoothly, having regained his equilibrium. “Do you think you could... stay calm around Inspector Abberline?”

“Of course. I’m a scientist, remember=”

“Historian.”

“Same thing, different subject.”

“If you say so” he repeated.

“Do you have anything else to say?”

“Not at the moment, but if you give me a second, I am certain I could come up with –“

“I will get ready to introduce you to Inspector Abberline” Madame Vastra interrupted them, looking vaguely... amused? “And I will ask Strax to bring the carriage.” With that, she and Jenny swept out of the room.

Crowley walked to a window so Dean couldn’t see his face as he said, “You took the introduction to alien life forms rather well.”

“I was kidnapped by one and brought to 1880s London, what could possibly surprise me anymore?” Dean asked.

“Good point.”

“There is something you are not telling me, though.”

“I have lived for hundreds of years, there are many things –“

“No. About the case.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because Madame Vastra is right” he announced with more certainty than he felt.

Crowley turned around and suddenly his eyes looked much older than before. “You think so?”

“Yes. Professor, remember? How many students do you think have lied to me over the years to get an extension on their due dates or a better mark?”

Crowley didn’t smile, despite Dean’s attempt to lighten the mood. “There are more things between Heaven and earth...”

“If you insist on quoting Shakespeare, I shall insist on meeting him.”

His smiled slightly. “Could be difficult. Queen Elizabeth I isn’t exactly a... fan of mine.”

“Why?”

“Almost lost the English their war against Spain.”

“How did you manage that?”

“Long story.”

“So. Will you tell me?” When Crowley didn’t answer, Dean sighed and stepped up to him. “look, I know how this is going to sound, but... I’ve decided to help you out. But I can’t do that if you leave me in the dark.” He did his best to give him Sam’s patented puppy dog eyes.

To his surprise, it worked. “That’s why I don’t go for companions. They are annoying.”

“You know I’m right.”

“Fine. But if you’re overwhelmed, it’s not my fault.”

“Again, time travel, aliens, Victorian London. Don’t think I can be that easily surprised anymore.”

“Fine. We Time Lords are an old race. We know many secrets. And when I read about these cases... I noticed something immediately.”

“What?”

“Especially the autopsy reports.”

“There was not a mark on him” Dean remembered, “and no one could find the cause of death.”

“That’s because his life force was drained. That was all.”

“His life force was drained?”

Crowley nodded. “Children have more of it than adults. I think the other suffered the same fate.”

“But...”

“It’s a very old and very dangerous technique, but it creates a lot of energy. Enough to run the New York city of your time for a million years.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “And you are here because...”

“Because, if someone is desperate enough to try it, he is desperate enough to do anything, and God knows what this would do to the fixed points in time.”

“There are fixed points?”

“Yes, points that can’t be altered. Bit with such an energy as this...”

“What’s in it for you?”

Crowley sighed. “There’s no question you won’t ask, is there?”

“Historian here. We never tire of questions.”

“Fine. Let’s just say me and the... council of Time Lords have had our differences, and solving this case would allow me to return to Gallifrey. “

“Gallifrey?”

“My home planet.”

“So you want your home back –“

“I could make a few wonderful deals there with everything I have learned” Crowley said with a smirk.

This man – alien – whatever – was a walking contradiction, Dean decided. He had sounded sincere when he had spoken of his home, but then he went ahead and talked as if it was a business transaction. Still...

He took a deep breath. “Alright, that makes me even glad to help. It’s important to have a home.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Perhaps it was for the best that at this moment, Madame Vastra and jenny returned and told them the carriage was ready. Dean immediately volunteered to sit beside Strax to see better.

After all, he was on his way to meet Inspector Abberline.

“Hello” Strax said when he jumped up, “I hope this one will brave.”

“You have more than one horse, then?”

“Only one at a time. And like I said, this better behave. I am tired of horse meat.”

“Horse meat?” Dean asked.

“The punishment for not obeying their orders is execution.”

“Of course” he said weakly. Unsure of how he should react. Certainly – well, maybe Crowley would have let him sit next to a homicidal maniac, but Madame Vastra and Jenny seemed too careful to allow him to walk to his doom.

“How long have you been Crowley’s companion?” Strtax asked and Dean blushed before he remembered that the word seemed to mean something quite different.

“I don’t think I am.”

“Crowley has never brought anyone with him before” he said matter-of-factly. “It seems clear to me that he must be interested in having you as his mate.”

“Woah” Dean said, colouring once more, “there is no mate-ing going on... mate.”

“If you say so. I never quite understood other species’ need to copulate.”

“How do you...” Dean started before he realized he was probably being incredibly impolite.

What followed was an explanation he’d rather have avoided, if he could.

“Dean Winchester” Madame Vastra began in the carriage. Crowley didn’t answer. “He seems... special.”

“Why, and why should that interest you?”

“Because it means he’s special to you”.

“I only met the man, for God’s sake.”

“And yet you took him with you.”

“And you’re a fan of his work, you can’t tell me otherwise” Jenny piped in.

“I will admit he writes well, and sometimes I get bored.”

“And yet... you have never willingly looked for someone to travel with you for a case” Madame Vastra said.

Crowley shrugged. “There’s a first time for everything. I don’t see why Dean Winchester is so important. Or special, as you say.”

“I’m a detective. Any aberration from the norm is important to me.”

Crowley stayed silent.

Alright, Winchester, play it cool. You have read about this age all your life, you can act like someone from here. You’re about to meet Inspector Abberline – be polite but distant, and let the others speak. That’s the best course.

Dean’s prep talk to himself did little to calm his nerves as they walked the steps towards the door of Scotland Yard’s headquarters. How often had he looked at pictures of this time period?

“Calm down” Crowley hissed, “This is hardly becoming for a gentleman.”

“You brought me here as a historian, and the historian in me is understandably freaking out” he mumbled back, ignoring Jenny’s giggle. After all, this was what he had lived for fro years – decades, even.

“Can I trust you to keep it to a minimum, at least?”

“I will try” was all he could answer as Madame Vastra was giving a PC instructions to tell Abberline they were here.

“They know me well” she said simply and Dean wondered just how long they had been living here.

Eventually, they were led into Abberline’s office, and Dean was confronted with the great man. Granted, he was already balding and a little stout, but still – this was Inspector Abberline. The man who knew more about the Jack the Ripper hunt than anyone – well, than Madame Vastra would, he had to admit. Still.

Crowley stood back as Madame Vastra greeted him and introduced then, but he didn’t seem as oblivious to the existence of time lords as Dean would have thought him to be. “Ah. Mr. Crowley. I assumed I would meet you eventually.”

Dean grinned a bit at the thought of Mr. Crowley, but was all respectful again when Abberline turned to him. “Inspector.”

“Mr. Winchester. You don’t happen to be related to the Winchester of Surrey, are you? I know a few of them.”

“I hope not professionally.”

“Oh, you know” his eyes glanced towards Jenny and Madame Vastra for a moment, “One can’t always have our... extraterrestrial friends nearby when something goes wrong.”

“I am more terrestrial than you, Inspector” Madame Vastra observed calmly.

Crowley cleared his throat. “May we talk about the case at hand?”

“Of course, Mr. Crowley. Now, as I understand, no one has of yet connected these Vanishings... But if Madame Vastra sees a case, there usually is one.”

She nodded.

“And you think there might be something... not quite human involved?”

“Isn’t there always when I’m about?” Crowley asked.

“That seems to be the case. Now, then...”

Abberline had the sharp mind Dean had always suspected him to possess; to use a cliché he would never have allowed one of his students to write down, he was a man before his time. They had soon worked out that the disappearances seems to centre around a specific three mile radius in East London – not far from where the Ripper would strike, but Dean was careful not to mention it – and even though he seemed downcast since he couldn’t order his men to help them, considering they didn’t even have an official case, it was a pleasure to work with him.

“And here I thought” Crowley drawled as they left, “He was married with children.”

Dean blushed, even though there had been nothing – they had simply talked pleasantly – there was –

“Jealousy? That’s a new one” Jenny commented drily.

“Please, you humans are merely mayflies for me, darling.”

Madame Vastra hissed.

“Who’s jealous now?” Crowley asked smugly.

“Nice save” Dean said.

“I can assure you –“

“I tech young students. Do you really think I don’t recognize ELEPHANT when I hear one?”

Crowley fell silent.

“So why those three miles?” Dean asked when they were standing in the middle of Whitechapel (and he admittedly had to restrain himself lest he go off on a tangent on his favourite topic). “I get that this place is densely populated, so it’s probably easier to snatch people of the street, but still.”

“There must be an explanation, there always is” Crowley said. “Maybe it’s some form of alien technology...”

“Why do I get that’s always your first answer when problems like this arise?”

“Because it’s true” Jenny said.

“We could just round up every inhabitant of this place and torture them in order to give us answers” Strax suggested.

Gwen they turned to look at him, he quickly said, “I mean we could ask them what’s going on.”

“Rather impractical, I am afraid” Crowley said smoothly. “No, we need to find the source of all of this – before it spreads.”

“What do you mean, spreads!?” Dean demanded. “Until now I thought we were just working a case –“ When he caught Madame Vastra’s eyes he continued, “not that that is not important, but I think we can all agree that more disappearances would not be a good thing.”

She simply nodded. “It will be best if we split up, then.”

Dean didn’t quite understand how he and Crowley had ended up looking for clues together – surely the experienced detectives should have been each in one group? But here they were, slowly making their way through the city Dean had read so much about.

“You should stare a little less, people tend to notice.”

“You’re an alien, and nobody notices that” Dean pointed out.

“That’s because I’m me.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Abberline didn’t notice anything being the matter with me.”

“And you actually think that had to do with your performance being convincing and not three other aliens stealing the show?”

“Why do you care, anyway?” Dean changed the subject.

Crowley’s shoulders stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“Madame Vastra seemed to imply this wasn’t your usual gig. So why do you care about The Vanishings?”

“Juliet sometimes has a mind of her own. She wouldn’t let me go anywhere else.”

The lie was so blatant, considering he had managed to pick up Dean, that it silenced him. All he could have done was accuse Crowley of lying, he would deny it, and that would be that.

Still, seemed like there was more than one mystery to solve here.

And yes, Dean knew that that sounded rather strange since he was in the middle of solving a crime with three aliens and a human married to a big lizard.

“What exactly is it that we’re looking for?” he asked as they walked past yet another gin shop. E had often wondered if the number of those had been exaggerated by the studies about the drinking habits of the people of the Victorian era. It hadn’t.

“Something out of place, something that doesn’t belong here.”

Dean gave him a pointed look.

“Something that is trying to hide the fact.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Something malicious.”

He snorted.

“What more do you want?”

“Alright, alright. Something out of place in London in 1887. Got it.”

Dean was starting to understand why Crowley had taken him with. He needed an expert. If whoever was responsible was as good at hiding what they were than the Time Lord...

Good God, yesterday my biggest problem were the many papers I had to grade, and now here I am...

Dean decided not to worry about it and concentrate on the task at hand.

In the end, he almost missed it even though he was doing his best to be watchful.

“Crowley” he said, reaching out and grabbing his arm to gain his attention, forcing himself not to notice how his muscles moves under his hand, “That gaslight.”

Crowley looked at it. “Yes?”

“It has gas mantles.”

“Yes.”

“They were invented in 1891” he hissed.

Crowley blinked. “Are you sure? Could have been 1791”.

“Are you confusing years now?”

He huffed. “Never.”

“You brought me here because I am the expert,. And I am telling you this gas light shouldn’t be here for at least another four years!”

“Alright darling, calm down.” Crowley was studying the lantern. “Do you feel something... off?”

“Off?” Dean asked, stepping closer. “Aside from the lantern that shouldn’t be –“ a cold queer feeling passed over him and he touched his forehead with his right hand, shaking his head. “What was that?”

“That” Crowley said “Was the sign that this is a trap street.”

“But trap streets are –“ Dean tried to explain for the third time that, if aliens wanted to use an English word to describe technology of theirs, they’d do good to use one that wasn’t already in a wholly different sort of use, but Crowley wouldn’t listen. He was scribbling down in something that looked like a notepad.

“Before you ask, you curious menace, I’m letting the others know what we found.”

“Curiosity is part of my job” he argued, “And what do you mean by –“

Crowley looked up and grinned that grin of his that Dean refused to think of as charming. “Oh, this is a special sort of notebook. It also doubles as my permission to do anything, as you can clearly read here.”

He passed it to Dean. He squinted down at the page Crowley had been writing on, confused. “Where did the writing go?”

When the Time Lord didn’t answer, he looked up to find Crowley staring at him, his mouth hanging slightly open. “What?”

“Nothing” he said quickly, taking back his notebook. “Nothing”.

But as he turned back to look at the gas lamp once more, Dean could hear him mutter, “Not since Will...”

The others arrived quickly. Madame Vastra looked at the lamp and her eyes narrowed. “Excellent observation. I couldn’t have done it better myself.”

“Thank you” Dean said politely while Crowley just hummed.

“so there are aliens hiding here? In the middle of Whitechapel?” Jenny asked.

And for the first time, Crowley looked decidedly uncomfortable.

“What is it?” Dean asked.

He turned to look at the gang, but they all seemed wary, as if they didn’t expect Crowley to explain anything.

“Crow –”

He cleared his throat. “We should check –“

“Crowley!”

“What?”

“You can’t expect us to just barge in there without having a clue what’s going on, not while you obviously have” he argued.

Crowley stared at him. He stared back. Silence settled over them.

After he didn’t know how long, Crowley looked away and said, “There is only one person in this galaxy who I could imagine would be clever enough to create a gas lamp to hide the entry to their trap street, but careless enough to get it wrong by just a few years.”

Dean ignored the astonished looks the others bestowed on him to ask, “And who would that be?”

Crowley looked at him, then, and now there was something like defiance in his eyes. “If you really have to know – my ex.”

“So Time Lords have wives?” Dean asked. After Crowley’s confession, they had repaired to a nearby tavern. Knowing all too well that several diseases that were still around could probably kill him, he’d declined to have a drink.

“The institution of marriage is common amongst many life forms, but I didn’t mean that kind of ex.”

“So you just had a little fun on the Time Lord Planet?”

Crowley raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “It’s called Gallifrey, I told you. And it was over as soon as it begun – not that it matters, since it was rather long ago too. Several regenerations ago, in fact.”

“Regenerations?”

“That’s not the point here.” Crowley’s gaze seemed to go straight through him and back into a different time. “She was clever. Very clever. She had plans, and for a while I thought we wanted the same.”

“Intergalactic dominion?” Madame Vastra’s voice was detached. Dean turned his head to stare at her. Surely she didn’t mean –

“There was a moment in time where I thought it was a tempting prospect” Crowley agreed.

Suddenly, he looked different. Older, more dangerous than before. Dean slid a little back with his chair, and was surprised when Crowley actually seemed pained at the gesture.

Jenny looked between them, her eyes widening.

“Galactic domination is a praiseworthy goal” Strax said.

“Not if you want to then proceed to burn everything” Crolwey answered simply, as if this were a normal conversation. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“And so you ended it.”

“And so I left Gallifrey... After telling the Council what Lilith had been planning. I assume she won’t be happy to see me.”

“You knew it was her” Dean said quietly. “Or at least you suspected.”

Crowley shrugged. “One thing she was fascinated by was the use of life force to make her more powerful.”

“Life force?” Jenny asked

“Yes, that intangible energy that makes everyone scramble about.”

“But – you can just take that away?”

“Yes, and the victims of that are currently lying in the morgue.”

Dean shuddered, remembering what those poor children must have gone through.

“And that’s why we should probably stop her. God knows what Lilith could do with so much energy.”

“Crowley” Madame Vastra said suddenly, “A word. Outside?”

Dean watched them go. “What couldn’t they possibly talk about in front of us –“

“Oh, when these two get together, there are usually quite a few fights” Jenny said. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Dean knew she was probably right. Especially since they had other things to worry about – Strax had just decided to duel one of the servers.

“Crowley” Madame Vastra said as soon as they were out on the street, “What are you doing?”

“Trying to keep Lilith from –“

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Dean has more life force in him than I have ever seen in a human adult except for Jenny. And since he doesn’t have her combat skills, he’ll be easier to grasp.” After a pause, she added, “You knew that, of course. His skills as a historian were not the only reason you brought him here. Are you counting on him to distract Lilith?”

“You have to admit he makes quite the distracting side” Crowley argued.

“Not just for Lilith. Think about it Crowley – if you break your own heart, you help no one.”

He told himself he didn’t know what she was talking about.

By the time Crowley and Madame Vastra returned they had managed to calm veryone down, although Strax seemed disappointed he hadn’t gotten his duel. Dean was starting to wonder how they ever kept the existence of aliens a secret.

“Everything clear?” he asked.

Crowley sat down and nodded, but wouldn’t catch his eyes.

“There were some things we needed to discuss” Madame Vastra said smoothly. “Now, Mr. Winchester, I think I speak for all of us when I say you should best return to the TARDIS. You’ll be safe there.”

“Are you saying I’m supposed to stay behind while children are in danger!?”

“Mr. Winchester” she said again, glancing at Crowley, who was doing his best to give the impression that nothing that was happening had anything to do with him, “We both believe you could be a target, if Lilith should become aware of you.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Too much life force” Crowley suddenly pressed out. He finally looked at Dean again. “You don’t think Time Lords just get randomly interested in historians, do you? Especially since we witness a lot of history ourselves. You are... special, Dean Winchester, and by God it’s annoying.”

His tone suggested that it was anything but, and once again he couldn’t say how long they were staring at one another when Jenny cleared her throat and Strax began to complain that they weren’t doing anything.

“So you see Dean, if Crowley says...”

2I’m not going to be safe and sound while children are being killed off by a crazy Time Lady” he decided. “You can try and stop me.”

“We could” Madame Vastra sounded amused, “But I think having you with us might actually be a tactical advantage”. She was studying him with a look that told him he’d earned her respect by insisting he stay on the time.

“Yeah. I can play bait, if my life force is as strong as you think it is.”

“This might actually work” Crowley said with reluctance. “Lilith could never resist the chance to find another victim.”

“Seems like she’s got problems focusing” Dean answered. “If she –“

“Can we please not go nice university professor on the Time Lady who wants to burn the universe?”

He raised his hands. “Just saying.”

Jenny laughed. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here.”

Dean winked. “Trust me, that’s what they all say.”

As soon as they entered the trap street, Dean started to wonder how no one could have noticed it. There was a feeling of wrongness, of this being not right, permeating to his core.

The others didn’t seem to notice or care. Then again, he assumed they were used to that kind of thing.

Burn the universe. Lilith actually wanted to burn the universe. He shuddered. In contrast to the others, he didn’t think Crowley would ever have gone that far; there was just something about him that told Dean he’d never give up the opportunity to make deals just to destroy it all. It wasn’t exactly a nice thought but it was good enough.

“Where do you think she is?” he whispered.

“Most likely at the heart of it all” Madame Vastra answered. “Snakes usually hide in the heart of their den.”

“Or in their TARDIS” Crowley supplied.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Come on, you’re not a snake. A bit eccentric maybe, but not a snake.”

“Many would disagree with you.”

“University professor, remember? I get paid to be right.”

“These two are engaging in what I believe usually leads to this disgusting habit of –“ Strax began but Jenny hushed him.

“What is our plan, anyway?” Dean asked; it had occurred to him that he probably should have asked that before.

“Ambush. Lilith is wonderful at coming up with all kinds of convoluted ideas for how to get things done, and she usually plans long hand, but give her some real opposition and she doesn’t know what to do.”

“Alright. So I’ll play bait so you can come up from behind?”

Crowley nodded.

“Okay. Just... make sure you get her before all my life force is drained out of my body, okay?”

“Don’t worry” Strax replied. “We shall conquer her lair and fill the room with acid so she may slowly dissolve under excruciating pain.”

“That’s reassuring.”

Strax grinned. “Isn’t it?”

Walking down a trap street. Dean decided half an hour later, was much less exciting than it sounded. In fact, it was a whole web of streets just going on and on – and completely empty, too. “What does she need all of this... place for anyway?”

“To confuse her enemies, of course. If they’re caught in a labyrinth, they are not going to –“

“Wait, are we lost?”

“Oh no” Crowley said, “We have to go to the right twice and once to the left, and we’d come back out. A time Lord never loses his way.”

Dean was rather sceptical of that due to their experiences, but Crowley sounded sure as to where they were. “Okay. So –“

They should have known, he would later reflect,. That things couldn’t be so easy, especially if Lilith was indeed the piece of work Crowley had described.

Dean would never completely recall the ambush (which, as would eventually be explained to him,, had to do with the neuroagent Lilith had sued to knock him out).

When he came to, he was fettered to what looked like a pretty decent reproduction of a medieval dungeon. Dean should know; he had once spent a semester working on a project on those with his students.

Seemed like playing bait had worked out a little too well, he decided.

“Ah, Professor Winchester. I am a big fan of your work – not as big as Crowley, of course, but then he does have this unfortunate weak spot for humans in his hearts –“

Dean snorted. It was difficult to imagine Crowley having any weak spots.

“Well, not that it matters. You have a brilliant mind for a human, but I am afraid that means nothing when compared to your life force...”

A woman stepped in front of him. Like Crowley, she looked human – and then she blinked and her eyes turned white. Dean jerked away.

She smiled. “Not that brave after all, are we?”

“Sorry, I’m not used to evil skanks showing their cards so openly” he sneered.

She studied him, obviously not in the least bit intimated.

“What have you done to the others?”

“Oh, don’t worry – all their life forces are strong as well. I would never waste such powers. And Crowley... well, there is always hope he will see sense.” She was still smiling that unsettling smile of hers.

“Crowley will never work with you. He made that mistake once.”

“My my, you seem to have a higher opinion of him than most.”

“What can I say? I’m a people person.”

“And putting on a brave facade. They usually do. Well, the adults. It’s part of why I began to work on children...” she reached out and put a finger under his chin, forcing him to look into her eyes. “It’s so much more enchanting when you can see the open fear. And, of course, fear carries a lot of power in itself. Don’t worry, we’ll get there.”

Good God. How had he gone from grading papers in his study to a trap street in the London of 1887 where crazy aliens could and would win power out of fear and your very life? Dean, however, was determined not to show that he was scared.

As crazy as it was, as little as he knew him, he trusted Crowley. Word on the street seemed to be that this was a mistake, but so it was.

He would have to wait and bide his time. And try not to die.

What could go wrong?

Crowley would never have imagined that Lilith was nostalgic, for so it seemed. If he had captured her, he would have stopped her hearts and then made sure regeneration couldn’t set it. After all, as his witch of a mother had always said, better to deal with problems thoroughly.

Instead of starting to decompose, however, he was now sitting in a cell, and it seemed that he was here to stay for quite some time. At least according to Lilith.

Needless to say that he had other plans.

Lilith and her obsession with details. The cell looked pretty accurate.

But, remembering the gaslight...

Her impatience. That’s where he’d always got her. Granted, patience wasn’t one of the virtues he had never possessed in the first place, but he knew when to get a job well done to avoid complications. And Lilith didn’t.

Unless this was all just a rouse to get him to break out and trap him again, much more permanently... He wouldn’t have put it past her.

Still – He had to get out of here quickly.

After all, there was no telling how desperate Lilith was to get her hands on Dean’s life force.

He sighed. Madame Vastra had been right, of course – he’d known the second he looked into those sparkling green eyes for the first time that Dean Winchester was something very special indeed, and not just because of his expertise – which was indeed something for a creature with such an unfortunate small life span.

A part of him knew he shouldn’t have brought him here, knew that the temptation for Lilith had been too great. But then, she wasn’t the only one who had been tempted, was she?

He had long ago given up all work on the experiments they had once embarked on; one of the reasons had been that he would undoubtedly have run into Lilith again if he had persevered; another had been that the High Council had told him quite clearly that, if he wanted to live out his regenerations travelling around with Juliet and not in a prison cell on Gallifrey, that was the way to go; and the last one he had never admitted to anyone, had in fact barely allowed himself to think about –

The truth was that one day he had looked into a mirror, had realized what he was turning into, known that he would soon surpass Lilith and that he would then be able to control the universe as he liked –

And then, to his mortification, he had found that he had some form of moral backbone. He had always assumed he had no conscience, and now it had suddenly reared its ugly head.

And that very conscious made itself known once again as he thought of Dean in Lilith’s clutches. He had to get out and help him. If it wasn’t already too late.

“Actually you should be flattered” Lilith lectured him, “Not many get to understand the scientific breakthrough they are helping with their deaths.”

“Maybe if you didn’t kidnap children – that could help” Dean replied sarcastically, watching her work on several scientific instruments that seemed rather... benign. Not what he imagined at all.

She sighed. “I already explained – small wonder you and Crowley get along so well. He can be dense when he wants to be as well.”

That was one way he would never have chosen to describe him, he had to give her that.

“Funny. The only one dense I’ve seen since I set foot here is standing right in front of me.”

She slapped him across the face then, but he barely even flinched. If she seriously thought a punch to the face would silence him, she was wrong.

“Hm” she hummed appreciatively, “Seems like this is going to be even more fun than I thought.”

A weak spot. There had to be one. Lilith was never careful to ensure there wasn’t. And so Crowley began to look over the cell as carefully as he could.

An exact replica... Lilith would never manage to do that. Crowley knew she’d most likely have gotten distracted while working on his cell. And then, who said she created it for him, specifically? So far he’d made a conscious effort to get as far away from her as possible. He had long ago decided trying to stop her wasn’t worth the trouble.

And yet, here he was.

That speck of conscience was certainly annoying.

Alright. Concentrate on the task at hand, he told himself. After all, he had gotten away with a lot of things back at Gallifrey before the Council decided it was too dangerous to keep him around, so either going away or to jail it was.

There had to be a way out. There always was, unless he himself had designed the –

And then he realized. Of course Lilith would put him in a cell built after the plans he himself initially conceived, when they were still intent on ruling the universe together, or so he thought.

But then, he hadn’t been the strapping clever experienced Time Lord he was now back then, hadn’t he. For one, he wasn’t entirely sure he’d even been a he. Or had Lilith not been a she? It had all been so long ago.

Lilith had measured everything from his pulse to his temperature and Dean had come to the conclusion that her madness had at least some method in it.

Unlike Crowley’s, which seemed to be all over the map.

He knew which one he preferred.

“You are still not very scared. Pray, tell me, where does this trust in Crowley come from?”

He didn’t have an answer to that, just as she knew he wouldn’t.

Then again, whatever this... whatever he and Crowley were supposed to have after a day in which they had time-travelled, found a trap street, and finally ended up in the dungeon of a madwoman –

And why was he worrying about this now, anyway? He needed to escape.

In the end, it was his knowledge of quantum mechanics that helped him to his freedom. He was not in the least surprised when around the next corner he found Madame Vastra, Jenny and Strax, intent on rescuing him and Dean.

“She only had one snake pit” Strax informed him, sneering. “And not even a single trench filled with acid. This Time lady knows nothing about real –“

“Lilith has always been rather basic when it comes to the more rudimentary pieces of furniture” Crowley informed him courtly, deciding he didn’t have time for any of Strax’ insight on battle grounds. “We need to go!”

He never saw the looks Jenny and Madame Vastra shot each other.

Dean was an idiot. At least that’s the only conclusion he could come to, considering he hadn’t noticed she was already draining his life force away until he started to feel faint.

“Ah” Lilith said, “There it is.” She flashed him one of her dangerous smiles. “I have to say, you are exceeding even my wildest expectations. My first one was already gone at this point –“

“Glad to be of service – if I actually wanted to die” he muttered, spurring at her, but she only smiled wider.

He garnered his strength.

He would get out of here, if it was the last thing he did.

“But...”

“I said, we don’t have time –“

“That is hardly a reason to storm in without a plan” Madame Vastra hissed. “Normally you would be the first to point that out. Don’t make me and Jenny tie you up so you can’t do anything stupid.”

“You wouldn’t dare” he answered, clearly taken aback.

“Don’t tempt me, Crowley. You know Lilith better than anyone, and we need you to keep your head straight if you want to save your friend.”

If he thought anything about her use of the word friend, he didn’t say.

This was not as painful as Dean had thought it would be. He was simply growing weaker and weaker as time went on.

Granted, of course he was freaking out. He supposed he had the right – he was dying here, after all.

Sammy will never know what happened to me. The thought came unbidden and didn’t help in the least.

Until it did.

Because God damn this – Time Lady if Dean was going to allow her to get the best of him. He had not been born in Kansas in 1979 to work his way up to become a renowned professor to end up dying from something as impossible as the draining of life force by an alien in the year 1887, for God’s sake.

No. He would beat this.

Lilith gave a squeal. “I thought you were almost drained, but look at that! You are still fighting!”

Damn right I am, woman, and I am going to win this.

“What kind of protections would Lilith put up?” Jenny asked.

“Probably not much. She probably thinks her cells are impenetrable” Crowley answered.

“Seems like thinking too much of oneself is common among the people of Gallifrey” Madame Vastra remarked.

“I will have you know that I have no flaws, thank you. And Lilith was always considered something of an outlier.”

The look she shot him could at best be described as unimpressed.

At worst – well – he had more important things to think of.

“Dean is still alive” he said firmly. “His is one of the strongest life forces I have ever seen.”

“You wouldn’t have happened to scan it as soon as he entered your TARDIS, would you?”

“It’s Juliet” he said indignantly, mostly to hide that he had indeed done just that. Not to steal it or anything – but it was always good to be informed, wasn’t it?

What he hadn’t been prepared for, however, had been the sheer effect this life force could have when paired with a sparkling personality and amazing beauty.

Oh dear he had first thought of Dean’s personality and then his looks. He would almost have been inclined to think he was in trouble, if he’d had the time.

“Alright, here’s the plan –“

None of the gang seemed to be particularly in favour of it, but then – they didn’t have much choice.

Dean seriously hoped Crowley would show up soon. And that he would have a way to pump all that strength back into his muscles, because he didn’t think the alien was the heroically carrying people back to his ship type.

Juliet. Whatever. It wasn’t like Dean could object to her having a female name. Baby was still his pride and joy, after all.

He really hoped she wouldn’t be jealous because he had ridden in a time machine.

He blinked, realizing his thoughts were getting all jumbled up. Hell no. If he allowed that to happen, God alone knew if we wouldn’t just give up and die.

“That’s so much imagery!” Lilith exclaimed, looking at the machine he was rather sure all his life force was being drained into. “If I had known where to find you... Once I have dealt with my little problems here, I really have to travel around a bit. Why keep a low profile when I could have such rewards?” She looked at another instrument of hers. “You’re from Kansas, beginning of the 21st century, in fact. Still a little primitive to my liking, but –“

“You do realize you’re saying this in nineteenth-century London, right”? Dean bit back. Anger was useful; anger wasn’t giving up, and it wasn’t indifference. Sure, it took some of his energy, but that was still better than to just gently slip into that good night.

“Yes, but the Victorians were your ancestors in more ways than one.” She smiled.

“Please don’t start about how Jack the Ripper was a link between this and modern times...” Dean sighed. Being an expert of the Victorian era had sadly exposed him to his fair share of nut bags who thought the son of a bitch who would cut up defenceless women in one year’s time was some sort of harbinger of modern warfare.

Once, a student had tried that angle during a lecture of his. He’d quickly dressed him down.

“Please, of course not. I am just saying – the Victorians, for all their repression, don’t hide who they are. You don’t find violence displayed so openly on the streets in the twenty-first century.”

“And thank God for that.”

“Pah. I have never seen a point in hiding who I was.”

Now that,. Dean could easily believe. Otherwise she’d hardly have had to hide herself here.

“As opposed to your darling Crowley.”

He rolled his eyes.

“He wanted to do everything in secret, can you believe that? And all the other Time Lords... You wouldn’t believe how annoying they were.-“

“Because they didn’t want to burn the universe?”

“Because all they wanted to do was watch! Can you believe it? The whole of history art their fingertips, and they just wanted to watch!!!”

So that was her problem. And Dean could even understand it, a little. Who knew, if they had ended up in 1888 instead of 1887, he might have been busy trying to save Mary Kelly, despite all objections Crowley would undoubtedly have had.

“You really are an interesting specimen” she said leaning towards him again, “I would consider consider leaving you alive to study you some more, if I wasn’t busy –“

“Sorry Lilith, but that’s my human. Get your own.”

“Not anyone’s human” Dean mumbled before he realized that it was Crowley who had spoken which meant that Crowley was indeed here. And so where the others.

He was hoping that Strax would simply blast Lilith of the face of the earth when a crushing sound rang out and dust flew into his eyes.

When it all had settled, Lilith told him cheerfully, “Sorry you couldn’t see everything. Let’s just say, your three friends just fell down to the basement. They’ll need hours to work their way out of there... and then of course I’ll be waiting.”

“Simply but effective.”

Dean definitely didn’t like that Crowley sounded impressed.

“Thank you, Crowley.” She strolled up to him; her back was to Dean so he couldn’t see her expression, but he could see Crowley’s, and again – he didn’t care for it one bit. “You know, I have been thinking in the past few centuries...”

“Oh, has it really been that long? You can’t have passed more than one regeneration since our last meeting.”

Dean made a mental note to find out what the hell that so-called regeneration was once he got out of here.

She giggled. “I have to say, your current incarnation doesn’t disappoint, either.”

“I never said I was impressed with yours” he pointed out smugly, but it was all too much like flirting to put Dean at ease.

“Say, Crowley...” Lilith reached out and trailed her hand down his tie. “I will admit I have spent a considerable amount of time since our separation imagining how to kill you...”

“Must have been quite the pastime, we’re not easy to kill” Crowley said matter-of-factly and Dean couldn’t help but wonder whether this was a message for him – an explanation why he wasn’t currently strangling Lilith. Not that Dean condoned violence, but he’d rather not be entirely drained by her.

That reminded him... Ever since Crowley had shown up, Lilith had stopped handling the machine, and he already felt stronger again. Was that even possible? Maybe Crowley was trying to buy him some time...

“And I can also assure you” Crowley continued smoothly, “That I too have in fact fantasized about doing away with you.”

Lilith sighed. “Oh all these years... but you know, now that I’m looking at you... we were a good team, were we not?”

“Oh yes, I don’t think anyone on Gallifrey would have disputed that.”

“Our experiments were the stuff of legends.”

“I am rather sure they still are. You know how Time Lords like to gossip.”

Dean was pretty sure she was giving him a seductive smile. If only he could see – but then, Crowley didn’t even glance his way. He seemed to be completely focused on Lilith.

This could either be a good thing – or a pretty pretty bad thing. They had been together at one point, and Crowley had freely admitted that he had voluntarily undergone the experiments with her.

Dean decided he had enough. “Hey!” he complained. “I didn’t get dragged all the way too old-timey London to watch you two make out!”

Before he cold blink, Lilith had whirled around and punched him in the face before turning back to Crowley. “Now, where were we?”

“Careful” he warned her, “You don’t want to harm the specimen.”

The specimen? Dean really hoped he was only playing with her, but it was difficult to tell. And really, despite feeling like he did, he hadn’t even known Crowley for a week – how should he had been able to tell?

“You don’t have to worry, he’s remarkable, really. Kansas, that’s where you found him, right?”

Crowley nodded. “Of course I already knew his books.”

“Yes, he is smart for a human” she said. “Almost amazingly so. In fact, I just now had an idea...”

She was still – or again – playing with his tie.

“And his life force is already replenishing itself!” Lilith aid, pointing at another one of her instruments. “So I thought we could keep him around – for experiments, you know. And I won’t spoil his good looks – that’s what you like most about him, I expect.” She laughed, and Dean understood with the clarity born out of desperation that she had never seen anyone in her life as equal, not even Crowley. In Lilith’s eyes, she alone was a genius,. And everyone else mattered as little as a beetle a collector had pinned down with a needle.

And now, this whole thing with Crowley – it was just another whim of hers. But he couldn’t say if the Time Lord realized that as well.

“Crow –“

Another punch. “Silent, little specimen.”

Oh great, now he wasn’t even allowed to keep his own name?

“Do you think we should turn on the machine again? I think he’s getting too strong... he’s starting to annoy me.”

And somehow, in that moment, a decision was made. Dean would never know the particulars, and indeed he would eventually come to decided that he didn’t care to learn them; but somehow, Crowley suddenly shot him a glance and he knew exactly what was going to happen.

He froze, hoping that Lilith would mistake his reaction for fear.

She did.

“Let me just make sure he’s strapped in properly” Crowley said, smirking at her, “and then we can get back to your offer...”

“I knew you wouldn’t refuse.”

“I know better.”

He walked up to Dean and leaned down. “Are you ready?” he hissed.

“Yes” Dean answered.

And then everything happened very fast.

Dena hadn’t actually been sue that he would be able to stay on his feet, but thankfully he could; he learned that little fact as Crowley walked up to Lilith and suddenly grabbed her to shove her in the constraints that had held Dean and he dived to the side.

“What are you doing?” she shrieked.

“That’s always been your problem” he said casually, switching on the machine to drain her instead of another anonymous victim, “You only ever saw things from a scientific standpoint. You believe in rules and logic, and think they can never be beaten. You never believed anyone capable of change, Lilith.”

“You can’t –“

“Of course I can” he said smoothly. “Dean, we should probably get the others out of that hole. I activated the self destruction countdown –“

2You what? People actually have those?”

“Of course” he said as if that was normal.

Dean cursed. “We need to hurry!”

They left Lilith there without another glance.

If someone had asked him whether he believed they’d ever get out of there in time, Dean would have said no. But as it was, he, Crowley and the gang were standing in front of the trap street, slowly watching it burn down while not a single one of the passers bye even turned their heads in their direction.

“That was... unexpected” he finally managed to say.

“I have to agree, Professor Winchester” Madame Vastra answered.

“We could hear everything that was going on” Jenny added, “I thought for a second Crowley had decided to join Lilith after all.”

“Thank you for your trust” he replied sarcastically, but Dean saw guilt in his eyes and realized that he had indeed been tempted. He reached out and squeezed his arm.

“Well, all’s well that ends well, right?”

“I hardly think this is the end” Crowley said simply. “Lilith might have got away.”

So he had given her a chance, after all. Dean didn’t quite know how to feel about that. “Yeah, well... We got her this time, at least” he finally answered.

“So, you will be returning to your own time, I presume?” Madame Vastra arched an eyebrow. They’d invited Dean and Crowley back for tea at their place.

“Yeah” Dean said, but he wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic at the prospect as he happened to be.

“Pity” Jenny said, “You did great.”

“You might actually live through five minutes of battle against one of us” Strax said proudly. Dean assumed it was a compliment.

He shrugged. “Yeah, well...”

Crowley had gone off to look at the other paintings they kept in their house.

“It is indeed a pity” Madame Vastra echoed her wife without paying attention to Strax, “There are certain Time Lords who shouldn’t be travelling alone. I believe Crowley is one.”

Dean stared at her. “I can’t – my whole life is back in Kansas!”

“And here I thought” she replied calmly, “That a history professor would understand the purpose of a time machine.”

A little while later, they had returned to Juliet. She had hummed excitedly as they entered.

“Back to Kansas, then” Crowley said flatly. Dean couldn’t tell whether he was sorry to see him go or not.

And suddenly, he was equally as sure that if he was, he would never admit to what he perceived as a weakness.

And Dean thought of everything he had seen. Madame Vastra. Jenny. Strax. Abberline. Lilith. Almost dying. All in a few short hours.

And he made a decision.

“We could go the long way round, though, right?”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “The long way round?”

2Yeah. See the sights. I mean, I might be the first human history professor to set foot in a time machine – how can I pass that up? And of course someone needs to keep an eye on you... I’ll need more information, of course. That regeneration thing, for starters... And then I’m really only a newbie when it comes to time travel.”

Crowley slowly walked up to him, a smirk on his lips. “You think you could look after me?”

“Oh, I think I know how to take you” Dean said, moving closer as well. “Alien or not alien, in the end I know how to treat my men.”

“Are you –“

Dean grabbed his tie and dragged him into a kiss. “And?” he asked when they broke apart. “Ready for the next adventure?”

Crowley was grinning – slightly maniacally, really, but then, Dean suspected, so was he – “Oh darling, you have no idea.”

Juliet hummed and took off.

#spn #my writings #doctor who #drowley #dean winchester #crowley

29 notes · View notes

livelivefastfree · 7 years ago

Note

100% need a masterpost of your fics cause you've been drawing them and I love everything. But recs would be appreciated too!!

ALRIGHTY THEN. One……VERY large post of my fics and my Motorcity recs, coming up. ^v^ 50+ fics for y’all’s consumption.

Let’s start with my fics, because I know them better, haha.

–

Save A Horse, Ride A Dragon

One of my fav fics I’ve done to date in any fandom. Mike is a mercenary dragon trapped in the shape of a human, wandering the Michigan wastes in post-apocalyptic magical America, when he and his Burners get an offer from the mysterious Lord Vanquisher. T+ at this point for suggestive moments and makeouts. Polyburners/Muckles. Warnings for the Duke being The Worst, and for Mike being the DUMBEST oblivious thirst-lizard.

The Officer Present//Director Absent series (AKA Live Free and Welcome To The Kane Co Family)

A love letter to the Season 2 that never was, co-written by me and my twin sister toastyhat/HeatedHeadwear! :D Live Free chronicles the appearance of a new, menacing super-soldier in Motorcity, the shadowy machinations that led to his appearance and an overarching plan from Kane that could destroy Motorcity–once and for all!!!!!! Welcome to the Kane Co Family starts shortly after the fallout from the first, with both cities struggling to come to terms with their new reality–but the world is changing and there are new threats on all sides, and if they thought their status quo changed in the first fic, BOY THEY’VE GOT A BIG STORM COMING!! >8Dc Also Julie punches multiple people and generally kicks ass, it’s fabulousBoth fics are gen, they’re both rated T+ for violence, Evil Science, angst, etc. Warnings for copious Deluxe worldbuilding, egregious amounts of backstory, a couple OCs I’ve been reliably informed are extremely fun, and chapter titles in the style of anime episode titles, because why not. :D

Supersynesthesiac

Originally created solely to fill a prompt from a sexy prompt generator, this fic and the world it’s set in both spiralled wildly out of control, and a much more plot-heavy sequel is in the works. Supersynesthesiac follows Mike Chilton, a vigilante superhero in Detroit Of The Future, as he finally meets his elusive, telepathic partner Blonde Thunder under the most dramatic circumstances possible. Rated M for psychic makeouts, mind-melding and also there’s sex happening, probably. It’s not nearly as lovingly described as the mind-meld porn going on in the foreground. Polyburners is happening in the background, but this fic is basically entirely Muckles. Warnings for Red being awful.

Rest In Pieces (Come Apart)

Mike is getting entirely out of control, and needs to burn off energy before he can get himself (and everybody else) in trouble again. Fortunately his gang has a Plan.Rated M for sweet, loving and totally relentless polyburners gangbang. Warnings for everybody being absolute dorks. Also bondage and edging, if that’s not your thing. UoU

Werewolves Of Detroit

A series of vignettes exploring the world of Mike Chilton, rogue ex-commander werewolf, his vampire best friend, his highly unconventional pack, and the world they live in. EVERY section is illustrated and I’m very proud.Rated T+, mostly gen with mentions of Dutch/Tennie. Warnings for Kane being a huge bigot, mentions of KaneCo-mandated surgery, and Texas being an asshole about vampires.

Exposure Therapy

Mike has a cool idea for a cool present for his cool boyfriend to totally cure Chuck’s fear of going fast in Mutt. Rated M for dumb, fluffy smut and implied sex toys. Warnings for unsafe driving practices.

Kiss And Tell

Somebody came into my askbox and suggested polyburners–but the rest of the city doesn’t know that’s their relationship, just that SOME configuration of Burners is together, and it seems to change CONSTANTLY. Rated T+ for vaguely-implied possible sex at some point off-screen. Warnings for nothing, this fic is a perfect warm fluffy representation of my poly-burner feelings and I love it.

Wreck

A little snapshot from an AU I’m not really planning to flesh out–I mostly wanted to capture a certain kind of bittersweet emotional conflict. Chuck’s doing his best to keep his head down and live through college when a face he hasn’t seen since The Accident shows up at his door. Vaguely Muckles-ish. Rated T+ for reference to a nasty car accident and the aftermath, warnings for Kane being, just, Not A Good Dad.

Override 0

Not exactly an AU, more of a speculative fic about the Burners finding out that Chuck’s enhancements go a lot further than just the weapons systems in his arms. A realization prompted, of course, by the Duke of Detroit’s thirst for drama. T+, no pairings. Warnings for, in the words of AO3′s tag system, “#Loss Of Limbs”, mind control via brain-hacking, and mentions of unethical scientific/surgical procedures.

So Real In The Dark

I challenged myself to write people pining for each other while simultaneously being in a relationship, and a sci-fi AU with an artificial amnesia hookup service turned out to be the solution. Half a fic about boys being incredibly dumb, and half a fic about trauma, bigotry, coping mechanisms and communication, and how you can love somebody and know them incredibly well and still not really understand them. Explicit, Muckles, background Dutch/Tennie and Claire/Julie. Warnings for brief stranger danger, aphrodisiacs, more poor treatment of cyborgs, and emotional gut-punch.

–Stuff I Post About That Isn’t Posted/Finished Yet–

Burnerswap

A universe where the Burners are grown-up villains, and the former villains of the canon series are our new teenage heroes. They’re dysfunctional and weird, but they’re doing their best to protect the clean, orderly, shining city of Deluxe from the gangs and bots and nasty, climbing bots that Ms. Kane sends up from the city below. UoU Likely to be rated T+ if I ever post it. Not much in the way of pairings except Ms. Kane’s right and left-hand man are VERY married and VERY tragic because you know I gotta fit Muckles in there.

–Collab Fic / Gift Fic–

Chilton 2.0 by me and LaughingStones

The Kane Co. super-soldier program needs a volunteer, and who better to be superhumanly enhanced than the rising star of the Security program, Commander Chilton? He’d never betray Kane Co, or need to have his brain overridden! There’s no way this project can possibly go wrong! Rated M for some pretty fucked-up treatment of cyborgs, and also for sexy future reasons. Warnings for Mike getting really messed up physically, emotionally and psychologically by bad programming and free-will overrides, and also for dumb boys stumbling awkwardly through impromptu sex-ed together. Muckles.

i’m not the same kid from your memory by roachpatrol and also I helped

Kane Co. captures Chuck and manages to do some nasty shit to his brain before the Burners come and re-capture him. Chuck does NOT appreciate being held captive by Burner Scum. Emotions!!! Angst!!!!! …it’s rated T+ on AO3 but there’s sex so just, be aware of that. UoU Muckles!

Experiments In Cross-Species Makeouts by LaughingStones

This one is very hard to explain, because Jem and I like to bounce of each other’s AUs and fics and write derivative fics of fics–there’s an OC in the Live Free/Welcome To The Kane Co Family universe who has what is essentially a nasty brainy kismessisitude/hate-love relationship (not fully explored in the fic, but very fleshed out in my mind, haha) with Chuck. And this is….those two, but with the races/species from Werewolves of Detroit. So…supernatural AU Chuck/OC hate-sex. M, obviously. Warnings for vampires getting drunk on siren blood and Live Free/WttKCF spoilers.

Recalibration Nation by HeatedHeadwear

!!!! A fic for my picture of Chuck as the Duke’s cyborg bodyguard, because toasty is great. A+ hurt/comfort and recovery and bittersweet life-goes-on vibe, aslkfjsadf I love it. T+, no pairings, warnings for anxiety/panic attacks, ear trauma, violence, emotions.

Proper Disposal Of Project Materials by LaughingStones

A scene in Chilton 2.0 I didn’t get to write; Chuck is a Failed Project, and Kane Co. has no used for Failed Projects. Fortunately, the techs he grew up working with have his back. T+ for (yet again) unethical treatment of cyborgs.

Making Friends The Superhero Way by LaughingStones

Set before Supersynesthesiac; Mike’s good at his superhero job, but sometimes everybody needs help. In this case, help just happens to have cat ears. Gen, rated G. Warnings for trouble breathing and also Mike being a doofus.

The Space Shenanigans series by LaughingStones and roachpatrol

Loosely related to/based on the Forget Me Not, but set much later. I’m not sure FMN is going to be poly or not, but these fics are inspired-by, so they go in this section. :D The various sexy shenanigans of space-captain Mike, cyborg Chuck and Julie the terrifying space princess. M for sexy shenanigans. Warnings for (acted/fake) dubcon for the benefit of an asshole, and…..just various sexual shenanigans, I would check the warnings on the fics, haha. :D

–Aaaaaand some non-me recs!–

(((I’m going to have to speed through these a little bit more, but I love them also, this post is just getting VERY long)))

All Steamed Up by Gumbridge

Gen, G: coffeeshop AU, technically. Chuck would REALLY like a new espresso machine, he has done the MATH, it’s GOOD BUSINESS, MIKE!!!!!

Artificial Nocturne by Icka M. Chif (mischif)

Gen, T+: Mike accidentally trespasses on the territory of a mysterious guy who calls himself “Hound”. Mike immediately sets about pushing past the emotional barrier of standoffishness and the physical barrier of giant, repurposed KaneCo HOUNDbots, and ends up with two awesome new friends out of the deal. (The “Chuck is a constantly-terrified badass with an army of bots” AU)

Atlas and Copernicus by charcoalmink

Gen, G: A piece about how Kane can think of Mike and Julie both as his children, but feel so completely different about them. Hurts so good, ahhh ToT

Behind The Throne by intravenusann

Duke/No. 2, Explicit: Number 2 would never really leave. But sometimes it’s nice to be reminded why she stays.

Bittersweet by EnsignCelery

Gen, G: Sometimes they get stressed. Sometimes you just gotta lie down and cuddle.

Chicken Soup For The Burner Soul by renquise

Gen, G: Mike’s immunity boosters start to wear off and he goes down like a tree. Good old-fashioned soft sickfic hurt/comfort.

Constantinople And Timbuktu / By(zantine) Any Other Name by (orphan_account)

Mike/Chuck, G: oh my god, this fic is strange to explain but so fun?? Historical AU–Chuck’s an orphan who ended up a body-double for russian royalty in like 1500, until he ends up kind of ambiguously kidnapped by a Tatar horseman who doesn’t speak his language but has a really nice smile and a fun come-and-go family of other riders from other countries. In the words of the author, “ [the Russian nomad!au] “

Degreaser by Gumbridge

Claire/Julie, T+: Claire can tolerate getting dirty down in Motorcity, but it has to be under the right circumstances. Julie provides those circumstances.

I Thought You Were Dead by Caligraphunky

Gen, G: Jacob thought all the androids he created for KaneCo were scrapped. But here’s unit CHUCK, back again.

In The Lost Age Where The Jewels Hide by roachpatrol and LaughingStones

Chuck (Lord Vanquisher)/Mike (Smiling Dragon), Explicit: The LARPing group plays WAY crazier games than Mike is used to, but he could really get used to in-character Never Have I Ever if it always ends with stuff like this. WOW. Sex is GREAT.

Loaded Up And Truckin’ by RaccoonDoom

Gen, T+: Smokey And The Bandit AU–AKA Jacob has a truck and uses it to run illegal goods; Mike and Chuck run interference and keep the cops off his tail. Trucker AU, heyyyy. :D

Love Free by Prim_the_Amazing

Multi/Polyburners, G: KaneCo has the algorithms, the expertise, they determine the most perfect possible partner. So what do you do when the person KaneCo chooses isn’t the person you wanted?

Never Quite Thought We Could Lose It All by LaughingStones

Mike/Chuck, Explicit: It’s not weird for a KaneCo tech to have a huge blank spot in their memory, but it is unusual for one of their childhood friends to show up at their cubicle dressed as a physical relief technician, looking stressed and desperate and acting like Chuck should know him. Warning for implied/referenced noncon.

The Obligatory Fantasy AU series by LaughingStones

Mike/Chuck, G/T: Chuck’s a Mage On A Mission, and he’s not going to be derailed by the fact that his bodyguard is definitely a dragon who definitely considers Chuck his beautiful, golden-haired treasure.

our guts can’t be reworked by roachpatrol

Mike/Julie, Chuck/Mike, T+: Mike finds out he’s bisexual in the most confusing possible way: BODY-SWITCHING.

Pyrrhic Victory by Clementine

Mike/Chuck, G: I live for Mike and Chuck LARPing dramatic emotional scenes and being dumb, dorky boys and that’s what this is, and I LOVE it.

Quiet by deanon

Mike/Chuck, Explicit: Mike makes the mistake of wondering about Chuck and sex and being noisy, and get catapulted abruptly into terrible, flustered pining.

Quit or Retry by Caligraphunky

Gen, T+: a really short but really nicely done piece that slowly illuminates more and more of a single scene until you get the full picture. fear. android Chuck.

Riding Shotgun by Oisiflaneur

Polyburners, T+: I’ve never smoked pot but I’m all for the Burners hanging around being chill and kissing and occasionally also Mike does shotguns and people make out.

rise if you’re sleeping (stay awake) by RaccoonDoom

Gen, T+: Another cyborg fic, this time about Mike and Chuck and insomnia and nightmares. Sweet hurt-comfort. UwU

Rule Number Eight by drown (teii)

Chuck/Texas, Chuck->Mike, T+: the fic that got me into Chuxas–starting with the aftermath of one-sided Chuck/Mike and chronicling Chuck’s descent into weird, Texas-related madness.

Scars by corelton

Claire/Julie, G: Julie’s line of work puts her in enough danger for her to actually have scars, like, old-fashioned scars from actual injuries. Claire is fascinated by them.

searchlights in the parking lots of hell by roachpatrol

Gen, T+: I don’t know if it sounds like a compliment to say this is one of the most subtly, gorgeously horrifying fics I’ve ever read, but that’s basically how I feel. Mike is a kid in a cyborg program, and he keeps ending up in sparring matches with the same kid, over and over again; it’s a different kind of unsettling every time. There’s something about seeing a scenario that’s obviously intensely messed up, through the point of view of a character who thinks it’s normal and good. It gives it a special, extra punch.

Sex Level: Texas! by LaughingStones

Texas->Mike, Texas->Burners, Explicit: Texas has some totally cool and sexy thoughts–mostly about Mike. WHAT? It’s not like it's weird.

Spend Life Fighting For Your Sanity by roachpatrol

Dutch/Tennie, T+: Deluxe has no patience for rebel scum, free-thinkers or artists. Unfortunately for Dutch’s continued health and well-being, he’s all of those things. Even if he can’t really remember what he did. AKA: Deluxe re-captures Dutch and comprehensively fucks him up, but SUCK IT you can’t take away the colors in his SOUL.

Sprouts by renquise

Gen, G: a fic about Dutch finding ROTH, and Dutch and Chuck becoming ROTH’s weird programmer dads. ROTH is adorable and the characterization is great, A++

Test Drive by renquise

Mike/Julie, Explicit: Julie and Mike have a fun adventure in pegging together.

thursday’s child has far to go (and they go so very, very quickly) by thinkingCAPSLOCK

Gen, G: Kane loses one child, but at least he still has the other.

Walls Twice As Strong by deanon

Mike/Chuck, T+: in the words of the original summary: “When Mike and Chuck fight, everybody knows.“

We Are Golden by renquise

Polyburners, T+: Mike kisses everybody, and it’s soft and good and makes my heart feel all happy.

We Can’t Punch Good: A Love Story by heartsinhay

Dutch/Texas, T+: Texas is pretty sure Dutch has just gotten immune to Texas’s sweet Texas Moves, but that’s okay. Texas has got more than one trick up his sleeve, and he knows what Dutch likes. Probably

yellow highway lines (that you’re relying on to lead you home) by renquis

Gen, G: A delicious exploration of the world that might exist outside the dome, and also THE BURNER ROADTRIP FIC YOU’VE BEEN WAITING FOR. The kids take a package from Rayon and go on the road, headed for San Fran come hell or nuclear superstorm.This is one of the first Motorcity fics I read, and It’s a big part of why I started making things for this fandom in the first place. :D Very recommend, A++

#Anonymous #Motorcity #Fic Recs #Writing Is Hard #y'aLL THERE ARE SO MANY FICS OH MY GOD #JEEZY FUCK

117 notes · View notes

dashinberlin · 6 years ago

Text

The First Day of the Rest of My Life in Berlin

Welcome to my diary. I have been meaning to keep one of these for the whole of my twenties but I never got around to it. I’m currently 26 years old and today was the day that I moved to Berlin. It was a decision i made one year and ten days ago on the 13th of November. IT came about because my dreams and career have been stagnating for a while [4 years] In London and I really wasn’t happy anymore, especially after moving back in with my dad because my previous residence was too full of dogshit and used needles. I got up at about 8 I think. Dean, my ex boyfriend and best friend came over about 9, and we spent the morning sorting out a bunch of my last belongings. It was all very frantic and rushed, but I left the house in a state my dad was relatively pleased with.

We went to the post office first to mail some rubber to my crush in America. It was rubber from my passed away Sir. We were such a scene trying to fix the broken granny trolley full of stuff for dean with parcel tape in front of a busy post office. We got on the tube. It was a nightmare trying to navigate with three things on wheeels and about 5 or 6 back packs or bags. It was really strange and busy the whole things. Given that I had given myself a year to plan all of this, the fantasy-land version of myself had dreamed that everything would have been packed up and put to bed months ago, however the real version of me new I would be a qausi ,but never ever complete disaster as usual. In my head I think of myself as being one on a team of rag tag misfit kits who save the day wearing inventive but destroyed outfits, and brandish effective yet fucking weird and unconventional looking weapons.

So yeah we got to the airport and checked in, nearly burst into tears telling the lady on the desk i’d been planning this day for a year. my mate Bill works at heathrow and he came and joined us at the whetherspoons to see me off. When we’d drank and the time came for us to leave I decided now was the perfect time to record a video with Dean where we read off and performed our list of completely fucking weird and abstract foiles-es-deux language memes from the stickynotes app on my laptop. “blabble fish” “octoboyfriend” “Hatch distress call” and “pacman around the shop” were all memes that we re-enacted for this video. it was LOLZ.

And then the time was upon us. We walked to the gate, and we said goodbye. I pretty much instantly burst into tears telling dean good bye and how much i loved him, whilst holding him. We’ve been joined at the hip seeing each other at least two times a week for four years so it was a bit tough. We said we loved each other and were thankful for the times we had. I gave bill a “come here Bill!” and pulled him close.

Got through security and put my head-phones on. Next song up on my list was Foals- Spanish Sahara. This track is a work of art. It progresses so slowly I had to skip the first minute to be able to skip to the part where you could actually say it was a beginning verse. I walked to my gate (A26) as the song progresses. .... This whole time, the last year I knew was going to be year of closing doors behind me, some shut easy, some shut with the sound of broken hearts bittersweet wishes. When I decided to leave London it was like suddenly my 3d interaction with the city and all the people in it had become a massive one way track labyrinthine palace and at every step where i knew it was the last time i’d be in one place, or talk to one person, I neatly and quietly closed the door of this memory behind me. At first you’re zig zagging all over town shutting doors, but when it gets closer to things like, your leaving party, and your last ten tube rides, and then last time you see people you see every day, and then suddenly you’re listening to Spanish Sahara (a song about abandoning a foresaken place) and you’re looking through airport glass at the plane your about to board and you let out a great big silent scream because the fucking plane door now not only represents final closure of the palace of your life in London, all the hopes, failures dreams, tears, memories, laughs, blood, semen, and ambitions of this place. It staggeringly also carries the weight of being a portal to another dimension. At this point the plane ceases to be a plane, but instead is now a vessel that carries you from your neatly shut-down city of failed dreams, through time and space, to your future in a world that you really don’t know that much about, apart from that there was a big wall that cut it in half, and that it is currently the stunning playground of Gay Angels, Neo Nazi Demons, and all those in between... oh and by the way, they’re all dancing to techno and fucking on the dancefloor.

So I board the plane. I go to my seat I booked, its by a window at the very back. I’m sitting there with tears in my eyes and a woman turns around from the seat in front of me and asks in german if the lighter she has just found on the floor is mine. I tell her no its not, an eventually in german “Dass is nicht mein feuerzoig” and we strike up conversation. I tell her very quickly this is my moving flight to berlin that i’ve been planning on for one , and she’s instantly overwhelmed with compassionate amazement. Her name is Ingrid. She was super sweet to me, and told me numerous times that she had huge respect for me making this gigantic leap, and the guts it took to make it, and how much fun berlin would be, and how so many people never listen to their gut instinct. Over the cours of the flight she tells me over her story, how she lived in Berlin for 10 years, in Schoneberg no less, and how she thought she’d be happier becoming a sister in a convent, and how her dream led her astray, and how it had hurt to leave everything to start again and it not worked out. She explained how she worked in finance for a bit, and then a hospice which was a her true calling in life, and now how she was doing finance work again....and was very unfulfilled. I told her more of my year, how the dogshit needle house and years of london stagnation had made me so anxious sometimes at work I just wanted to sit there and cry and scream at the blank wall in front of my desk. And how something drastic needed to be done. I told her how I lost Michael in Berlin and how is death affected me, nd how I believe in magic and the amazing energy of the universe that will help and guide you if you are good, and you believe, and if you ask nicely and you yearn, and you work hard it will heLP YOU THE FUCK OUT. Ingrid supported all my additions with points of her own, and I think in that moment she new that like me, her life had become derailed from it’s path towards destiny and that it was time to get off of this path of pointlessness and back on one which makes her happy. That vessel. The wormhole to another life. Was a magical place to be. The plane flew over a beautiful wash of white clouds the whole way to Germany, and their textures changed from bright sunshine to darkness very quickly as sunset speed was enhanced by the plane’s cruising speed of threehundredandX MPH. With the ground obscured by smokewaves and light switch of the earth being flicked off so quickly, it was the transition from one path to another was practically audible. It was like the closing palace was actually my universe collapsing into a singular hyper dense singularity, and this new state, one even smaller than an atom was where I was in the vessel in that moment. The changing of the sky and the earth around me was actually the visual signs that my new future was being rotated and recalibrated around me, so that when the door of that fucking plane opened, a new palace and a new universe and a new future would burst out in front of me, sprawling infinitely. The name of that future is Berlin.

The plane lands. I get my bags with Ingrid. We take a selfie, proclaim the importance and sacred of our meeting and we move on. In the cab ride back to my place the driver welcomes me to Berlin and we instantly start talking about the insane nightlife. By the end of the cab ride he has revealed to me that he has always wanted to go to berghain and i give him some ideas of he could look cool and get in. and he is very thankful. He also told me how when he’s having sex he loves speaking in english because he finds it super fucking hot...like seriously, he spoke so emphatically that from what i can tell, english sex is to him what bondage fisting is to me.

I hang about for ten minutes waiting for Alis excited as fuck. When she arrives and opens the foor and screams “welcome to your new chapter!!” she looks slightly concerned at me for second because a few seconds has passed now and I’m so fulll of amazement and awe at those words my mouth was a big jar with a small lid, and filled with big word pickles and none of the eighty word pickeles could come out. . . So I just sort of jumped in the air and screamed a abit. We climbed about 7 flights of stairs up to the flat with my HEAVY Fuckng bags where she let me in and showed me my new room. Which. just. oh. my god. It’s. just. so fucking big. I can’t even believe it. I have the best room in the house! It’s long and tall, you could get about two and a half of my old bedroom in brixton into it easily. Suddenly I was here, The sparks of my new life palace constructing itself in front of me. All I could think was that it seemed so easy in a way. Like I had asked, and yes i did work, and save, and put in love and money and effort, and it just appeared in front me and now I can just go walk over, and pick it up and hold it and it’s mine. MY DREAM IS MINE AND ITS COMING TRUE EVERY SECOND THAT PASSES.

#bLOG #BERLIN LIFE #I MOVED TO BERLIN #MOVING TO BERLIN #ROAD TO BERLIN #I LOVE BERLIN #BERLIN BLOG #LONDON #NEW LIFE #DIARY

2 notes · View notes

whittynovels · 7 years ago

Text

juliette & nazeera fic

My suggestion for this fic is to give it absolutely no context. It’s set in NZ, and somehow Nazeera is there, but that’s all I’ve got for world-building. But after Restore Me I think we can all agree that Juliette is bi and Nazeera is a lesbian, and if this scene hadn’t been written, I don’t think I could’ve survived it. So, here we are.

I don’t need to turn around to recognize her footsteps. I hadn’t quite been anticipating them, but my indifference at being disturbed doesn’t shock me. My eyes had blurred from staring in the same place so long, so lost in my own head I had nearly forgotten where I sat. The noise of boots crunching on sand recalibrates my pulse, and my vision clears. It clears to lavender and ash mountain peaks dusted in snow flurries coral the landscape in a semicircle. The peaks climb so tall that the secrets and friends and societies beyond them are lost to their jagged tips and the clouds. The gentle, lapping waves of the lake look the same as they have for the past three hours, the foam leaving a rim of froth just inches from my feet. Sitting on the shore, arms wrapped around my knees, it still shocks me to revive my senses and remind myself where I am. The numbness in my limbs recedes a fraction, just to climb back under my skin as soon as the footsteps stop beside me. Neither of us speaks, and she doesn’t move to sit next to me, either. If I embed myself into this earth and become a tree, she’ll go away. Solitary and life-bearing. It must be nice to a tree. I can hardly suppress the chuckle. “Here,” she finally says, and a beige flutter enters my peripheral vision. My fingers have been clasped to my knees for so long, they must have become stone by now. When she realizes I’m not going to turn to her or accept whatever she’s offering me, a gentle sigh erupts from her chest. I wait for her to turn and retreat; instead, she joins me on the sand. The warmth of insulated nylon falls over my shoulders, the empty sleeves of a jacket draped across my back flapping in the breeze. Afterward, it’s graciously silent between us. I hadn’t noticed how much I must have been growing colder in the sinking sunlight until tickles of warmth runs its fingers down my back and some numbness lifts. For a long time, the gentle caress of water occupies the only noise between us. And then-- “I wanted to tell you,” Nazeera says. “So much.” I try to laugh with what little bitterness I can spare her, but the sound erupts from me like a scoff nevertheless. But it’s this, this admission that finally makes my spine crack, my head turn toward her. Nazeera doesn’t meet my gaze. She’s staring solemnly at the water with just the barest wrinkle in her brow as if trying to decipher a message written at the bottom of the sand. Her brown face is creaseless, devoid of a single ripple of emotion. “You knew,” I finally whisper. The words pummel into my heart like rocks tumbling down a storm drain. My ribcage expands and aches with the invisible wound, the betrayal. For the first time, her chin snaps in my direction, her face already transformed into misery and her lips already parted. “El—Juliette—” “Please,” I protest, my voice catching. I have to turn away back to the water again, counting and breathing and digging my fingernails into my palms. Nazeera quiets dutifully, but her face is still turned to me. Waiting. I’m hardly breathing. My head, my heart feels heavy. I don’t know how to walk away from this. I don’t know if I can. I look up at the mountains, at their ferocity and imposing stature. “Do you remember it?” She asks, her voice low and mournful. “At all? Do you remember me?” And I want to close my eyes to savor the few images that surface with spotting like frayed edges of a photograph, but I don’t trust myself to decipher what’s real. And yet, I don’t want to lie to her. “I don’t know,” I admit helplessly, perching my chin on top of my knee. My eyes grow unfocused again as they gaze across the water. Nazeera shifts, not quite closer to me, but somehow more angled toward me than before. I don’t know if she’s looking at me or away when she next whispers, “Do you want to?” The answer to this question takes me more seconds to find. I think of the photographs in my pocket, the relics of a past life that is still so new it doesn’t feel real. The sundresses and bikes and smiles all belong to an imaginary girl, although I’ve seen the dress hanging in the closet and the bike in the garage. I’d been too afraid to verify if the smile remained the same. I now allow myself the clearance to marvel over Warner’s propensity to avoid mirrors. For the first time, I think I understand. A smile can’t possibly be hers and mine simultaneously. I spend so long contemplating this that Nazeera must assume I’m declining. She must have been watching me, then, because the sun catches the gleaming folds of her burgundy headscarf as she turns her face away. I stand abruptly, the jacket nearly slipping from my shoulders before I remember to slip my arms into the sleeves. Nazeera stands beside me, brushing errant sand from the back of her leggings while watching me cautiously. I dig in my back pocket. Her eyes study the movement, calculating my nerves. Calculating me. Calculating the photograph I produce. I bite the inside of my cheek instead and stand up straighter, though Nazeera is easily four inches taller than me without the heeled boots. When I produce the little stack of pictures, I select the third picture without needing to shuffle through them. I turn it to her, hating my hands for shaking. Nazeera only glances at it briefly, however, before returning her gaze to my face. Her eyebrows are pulled together. Concern for me, not for the contents of the photograph. My lungs collapse. “What is this? When was this?” I ask, the words spilling from me. “Do you remember this? Is this—here?” I gesture wildly to the trees and diameter of purple peaks around us, and the louder I become, the firmer Nazeera’s lips settle into a grimace. “Maybe you should discuss with—” “No,” I interrupt, emphatically shaking the picture at her to recapture her attention to it. “I need you to tell me. I need you.” She looks down to the polaroid once more, but her expression stays the same. She doesn’t take the time to inspect its creases and the smiling expressions of the girls and the way their eyes lit up as they regarded each other. My arms fall to my sides in defeat, the revelation slamming over me like a weighted blanket: she doesn’t just remember, but she’s also seen this picture before. None of this is new for her. “I—” she begins, seemingly unable to decide between staring at my watering eyes or my shaking hands clenching the pictures at my sides. She seems to take a moment to collect herself before locking her eyes onto my face. “I refused to forget,” she finally finishes. I slide the polaroid back into place among the others. Though I’ve been successful at refusing to look at the pictures constantly, especially the ones I know I shouldn’t be carrying, an unnamed instinct reaches for the final picture in the stack. My eyes have traversed its contents for so many hours that each dust mote in the air and grain of wood in the stairwell bannister are imprinted behind my eyelids. I turn the picture to Nazeera, but still hold it close to me so that she doesn’t try to take it. “And him?” I ask. She shakes her head and backs away a step. “It’s . . . complicated. I think it’s best he tell you in his own time.” “If he’s alive!” I shout, incredulous laughter lacing fingers with my strained vocal chords. As her light brown eyes assess me, the diamond of Nazeera’s lip piercing sparkles in the setting sun. Nazeera watches me watch her, and when I return the pictures into my back pocket, her gaze lingers there for a second too long. “This is bullshit,” I continue with a choke, abandoning the numbness and solitude, damn sounding like a petulant child. “Everything’s been a lie. Everything. I don’t even know who I want to be anymore. Which girl am I? The Supreme’s daughter or the Supreme Commander?” Tears are overflowing freely, and my boots are creating deep treads in the sand where I’ve begun pacing. “I don’t know if I can be both and I don’t know who would let me and, God, I don’t even know if my entire staff is alive and—” “Hey,” Nazeera interrupts, and before I can turn and wipe my eyes, her hands are clasped against my cheeks. The suddenness of the touch startles me, her unflinching resolve to touch me bare-handed even more so. My eyes are freshly watering, warm tracks of tears navigating in rivulets down my cheeks. I wait for her to continue speaking, my chin quivering between her thumbs, rapt. She’s silent. Instead, her fingers slide up my cheeks so that her thumbs sweep away the chill of fallen tears. The panic that had risen in me is dulled to the sensation of her warm hands cradling my cheeks and the comforting shadow of her nearness. Her fingertips, damp with the evidence of my misery, caress the edges of my face. You’re so strong and so pretty, I had said to her. So strong and I want to be like you. Up close, she’s every bit as otherworldly as she had seemed when I was half-dead. Radiance uncontained. Her skin, the shade of the sand beneath our feet, only warm, and smoother than a coat of paint. In this heart are stampedes, I think. My pulse beats beyond my control, swept up in an inevitable tide. My feet move with the momentum of my racing nerves, my weight rising onto my toes, and through the blurriness of my own emotions I can only hardly register the anticipatory parting of her lips as my mouth seeks hers. For a moment, the taste of her is so debilitating that I can only breathe her in. The intoxicating sweetness of her mouth coats my lips and the tip of my tongue. I wait for her to still, to push me away, for my heart to realize this is not what I want, but she steps closer and parts her lips against mine, and I’m captured again by the sweetness of her. Those candies, I realize. How she always offered one to me. Always seemed to have one on her person. Sure enough, as I slide my arms around her waist beneath her jacket, I hear the crinkle of wrappers through the inner fabric of her pocket. My hands are so unaccustomed to the new curves they encounter, I can’t help but marvel at the shape of her. She is the precise balance of softness and angles; the soft dip of flesh before the hard ridges of ribs; the sensuous dip of lower back before the hard ridge of her spine. Her mouth is eager against mine, insistent and prying in a way that isn’t at all invasive. I keep waiting to be overpowered, but every new incline of her head is mutual, reaching new depths in my capacity for exhilaration. She breaks away to breathe, inclining her forehead against mine and letting me sink back to my heels. I don’t realize I’m clinging to her, my arms wrapped around her in a tight embrace until her own slide around my shoulders. “I missed you,” she whispers, her voice crackling like static on a radio. “I’m so sorry.” I lick my lips, savoring the aftertaste of sugary sweet strawberry staining them. Even her breath makes my mouth water anew. I feel so dizzy, the hollowness in my chest feels for a moment without a source. Intoxication drives my fingers to caress her ribcage once more. “You found me,” I murmur, opening my eyes. Hers are looking back into mine, our faces so close that our eyelashes are practically skimming. Nazeera runs a single hand from my shoulder blade to the base of my neck, cupping my face close to her. A laugh escapes her, incredulous, and as her lips navigate across mine again, the pull of our smiles slowing the tempo our heated embrace. She finally pulls away to press a kiss to my forehead, and I breathe in the herbal undertones of the scarf wrapped beneath her chin. “And now,” Nazeera says with a note of finality that signals I should drop my arms from her. I’m quickly growing colder with the absence of her body heat, but she extends a hand to me, an unwavering hardness in her gaze. “We have to find Emma.”

#the ending of this is sloppy but oh well #i couldn't wait until book 5 for a f/f ship #fanfic #fanfiction #restore me #tahereh mafi #nazeera ibrahim #juliette ferrars #shatter me book 5

19 notes · View notes

fourthlinefic · 7 years ago

Text

Diversions IV

It’s been 84 years,,,

Sid should have known that something was up when Kris invited him round for lunch straight after practise. Usually, he gave Sid at least a day’s notice of any social engagement. If Sid had taken time to think about it in the sudden recalibration of his day, he would have realised that it was one of the places that Kris knew that they wouldn’t be interrupted by cameras or any of the five guys who had ‘emergency’ keys to Sid’s back door.

He was halfway through a ham and salad sandwich (on rye, no mayo) when Kris sprung his trap. But by then, he already had an Alexander in his lap and nowhere to run.

“So,” Kris started, spearing a cherry tomato with his fork. “How are things with you and Jamie these days?”

“Is this- is this is an appropriate topic for little ears?” Sid said, nodding at Alex's dark head. He didn't appear to be listening, instead straining across the kitchen counter to try and reach his juice cup. Sid handed it to him and got a broad smile in return.

“Who's Jamie?” Alex asked, after he'd taken a long pull of juice.

“Just a friend of Sid's. You met him at the rink remember?” Kris said. Alex shrugged. “Hey, why don't you go find mama, eh? See what she's up to.”

“Why?”

“Because me and Sid need to have a chat about some grown up things.”

“What sort of things?” Alex asked.

“Things for grown ups,” Sid said, hoisting him under his arms and depositing him gently on the floor. He and Kris watched as he toddled off, though at nearly five years old, you couldn’t really call him a toddler anymore. Kris found he never felt older than when he noticed how big the kids were getting. He turned back to Sid.

“So. Jamie.”

“I told you before,” Sid sighed, taking another bite of sandwich. “We’re just messing around. It’s just fun. And none of your business.”

Kris wrinkled his nose at Sid. He would have thought that at thirty years old, someone would have taught him not to talk with his mouth full. “I mean, it kind of is my business since you started up with a teammate. And no offence, Sid, but,” he paused, because Sid was right. This was not a conversation he wanted being overheard by little ears. He cast a quick eye around and dropped his voice anyway, because you never knew. “But you're kind of a slut, and not everyone is used to the Sidney Crosby Treatment.”

“That’s not fair,” Sid frowned. “It’s not like I’ve had much of a chance at dating long term, y’know?”

And maybe Sid had a point, except Kris knew his friend, and he knew that Sid felt no remorse at his perpetual single-hood. Kris sighed. “I’m just trying to look out for you, Sid.”

“I know, bud,” Sid smiled. “And in my defence, you were there when I swore off Seguin. And the thing with Giroux doesn't count, we were in Prague.”

“I was there the last time you swore off Seguin, but you say that after every Dallas game,” Kris pointed out. Sid glared at him, and Kris stared back. He should be glad he wasn't bringing up his history with Ovechkin, or Weber, and he was pretty sure Taylor Hall was involved at one point. Sid sighed resignedly and shrugged.

“It’s different now. He’s got this regular thing going on with Benn,” he said, wrinkling his nose at the thought of exclusivity.

“You know, most people would call that a healthy, monogamous relationship, Sidney.”

“No, because then that would mean me and Jamie are in a relationship.”

Kris blinked. “I'm sorry, What?”

“Having sex exclusively with one person doesn't mean you're in a relationship,” Sid said with a shrug, and maybe if it was anyone else saying that, Kris would have been inclined to agree with them. Except.

“No no no, wait. No. You're sleeping only with Jamie?”

“I mean, it's not like I have many options these days. Most guys are either too young or married,” Sid shrugged. Kris sighed, rubbed his fingers against his temples. He had long ago come to the realisation that Sid was a special kind of emotionally emancipated. He had accepted that. It was just a Sid Thing, like so many other Sid Things. But Jesus, did he worry about him sometimes.

“That is so far from the point I'm trying to make here, Sid. When was the last time you were seeing only one guy?”

The long pause before Sid could answer would be enough to make his mother weep. It nearly made Kris weep. Just when he thought he was going to have to spell it out for him, Sid’s eyes suddenly flashed with realisation. He put his sandwich down on his plate, and blinked at Kris.

“Fuck. We’re dating.”

Sid eyed his phone as it started buzzing along his kitchen counter. Flower's grinning face beamed up at him, the top of Estelle’s head just visible in the frame of the photo. The ache of Flower’s drafting wasn’t as painful as when it was fresh, not since Flower had found a decent phone plan, but Sid couldn’t help the half sigh that escaped him before picking up his mobile.

“Whatever Kris told you, it's a lie,” he said as he put him on speaker, and Flower's laugh crackled down the line. Sid felt his own mouth twitch upwards in response. It was still so easy to fall into the familiar patterns of chirper and chirpee, the distance doing little to diminish Flower’s ability to verbally destroy Sid any chance he got.

“Hello to you too, Sidney.” Flower said. “I hear I should congratulate you? That you're finally growing up?”

“Don't you guys have better things to do than gossip about my love life?” Sid asked, going back to stirring the chili on the stove. He'd remembered to leave out the bell pepper this time, how Jamie had picked all the pieces out and left them on the side of his plate. And okay, yeah. He could see how maybe this whole thing had turned into dating.

“Sid, you know you're the most interesting part of all of our lives,” Flower said, and Sid could still pick out the teasing edge in his voice.

“Duper’s maybe,” Sid allowed, smiling at Flower's snort of laughter. “You and Kris should still be thinking about hockey.”

“Well the thing is, Sidney, we actually do have interests outside of hockey unlike-”

“How am I an interest outside of hockey?” Sid demanded. “I am about as hockey as you can get. I am literally dating a hockey player.”

“Aw, you said the D word!” Flower cooed and Sid seriously considered just hanging up on him. “We only gossip because we care. I’m just mad I’ve had to hear about all this second hand from Tanger. What’s he like?”

“Tanger? Uh, he’s about six foot, very pretty, great ass. Spills all my secrets to the French-Canadian mafia.”

“Sid…”

“Oh, you mean Jamie. Yeah, he also has a great ass.”

“Is he good to you?” Flower asked, and he sounded so concerned and exasperated and fond, all at the same time that Sid couldn’t help but feel a little bad for being such a dick about the whole thing. He turned the heat down on the chilli so that he could turn his full attention to Flower.

“He’s great, Flower. He’s very sweet and thoughtful. And he gave me his instagram password.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ here. What’s up?”

And this is what Sid loved about Flower. Kris and Olli treated this whole thing like something with an expiry date, something that Sid was going to get bored of and drop as quickly as he had picked it up. And Sid couldn’t blame them really. A precedent had been set years ago, a pattern that had been traced over and over. So he couldn’t blame them for being more concerned with Jamie’s heart than his own. But Flower had never put up with Sid’s love ‘em and leave ‘em outlook on life. As much as Sid claimed he hated it, hated the judging eyes of his friend, he knew that Flower just wanted him to be better. It mattered to him what Sid’s heart was going through.

“I dunno,” Sid sighed. “He’s just young, and probably way better to me than I deserve. I just can’t help feeling like it’s going to fall apart. And I don’t even know if we have enough of something to fall apart. Sometimes I feel like it’s just sex, but then I look at him and I just feel. I don’t even know what I feel. It’s just, it feels good. And I’m probably gonna fuck it up.”

“I think you need to talk to Jamie,” Flower said after a second. “I know how much you hate that, but you need to figure out what you have here. I'm just glad you're moving on, you know?”

“Uh, no I don't know,” Sid said, caught off guard. “Moving on from what?”

“You and Geno. You had that whole thing-” Flower suddenly stopped, as if the line had been cut. There was a pause before, “you know what, it doesn't matter. Forget I said anything. What are you up to tonight?”

“I've got some guys coming over for food and PS4, but what do you mean me and Geno?”

“I just mean you were both really into each other for a while and nothing really happened and I don’t think you ever got over that. But now you’ve got Jamie, so it’s all good, right?”

“Wait, do you think I’ve never dated because I was waiting for Geno? Flower, me and Geno were always just friends.” Sid said, torn between laughter and horror. “He’s beautiful and he plays beautiful hockey, and yeah maybe I was a little bit in love with him once, but no. I sleep around because I enjoy it, not because I’m hung up on Geno. Which is some backwards fucking logic by the way.”

“Okay, okay!” Flower cried. “Crisse, sorry for thinking you have human emotions. So you're not in love with Geno, that's cool.”

Sid went back to stirring the chilli, pursing his lips when he felt it starting to stick to the bottom of the pan. Like his mother before him, Sid kept a bottle of cheap(ish) red wine open for cooking, and he slopped another half a cup into the pan.

“If I burn this chilli because of you, I'm flying down to Vegas to beat you up myself.”

“I'd like to see you try, Croz. You wouldn't be able to get past Reaver.”

“I think I could take him,” Sid hummed as he fished a tablespoon of out the cutlery draw to taste the chilli with. “I’ve seen him fight, could probably get in his head a bit.”

“And I’ve seen you fight,” Flower said, his tone of voice telling Sid exactly what he thought of his attempts at dropping gloves. “So, you’re not in love with G. Are you in love with Jamie?”

Sid almost choked on a mouthful of chilli. “Oh for-”

“Joking, I'm joking!” Flower cackled. “Man, I wish I could have seen your face.”

“You’re so fucking annoying,” Sid muttered, and swore when he noticed that he’d spilled chilli down his shirt. That Flower had made him spill chilli down his shirt. “I’ve gotta go change, and the boys are gonna be here soon. Can we talk later? Properly?”

“You just want to get out of talking about feelings,” Flower said, and then steamrolled over Sid’s protests. “No, I get it, you don’t want to talk to your best friend about the things that are most important to you. You’d rather talk to Mr Degrassi. Yeah, talk to Tanger about that.”

“Okay, I’m hanging up now,” Sid warned, his finger hovering over his phone’s screen. “If you have anything nice to say, now’s the time to get it in.”

“Have a good night, Sid. Be good to your man, eh?”

“I’ll try. And I’ll see you around.”

“See you in the fourth round, baby,” Flower laughed, and Sid hung up on him with a smile.

#hockey rpf #big rig n sid #sidgeno #ish #sc #kl #maf #my writing #lots of feelings being had

20 notes · View notes

feelingfolegandros · 4 years ago

Text

Day 7 - Day 13: November 2 - 7 2020

Greetings from the end of November.

I hate the feeling of falling behind… It makes me feel like I’m back at school c. 2012 and I’ve been procrastinating on readings, or studying, or research, and all of a sudden it’s the end of semester and I have to cram everything into hours that are becoming scarcer and scarcer when really all I want to do is go to a warehouse party with my friends and split my soul up into a billion pieces with lord knows what and

Alas, I am the master of my own fate; the captain of my own soul, so fuck all of that. There were things that happened this month that I couldn’t write about right away. And then after all that I needed some time to just LIVE and recalibrate and watch Love After Lockup and meet new unexpected friends and get an exciting project with an exciting company and then days later experience said opportunity evade my grasp like sand through my fingers.

I feel like being dramatic this evening, as I “catch up” on the last month of my “life.” Henceforth, I am banning myself from using the word “dramatic” as it was already used in my previous post. Expect everything through a lens of drama or something like that from now on.

There was an interesting echo of the beginning of November, November 2 to be exact, on November 17. A man died on the island. I don’t think anyone thought he would. If I understood correctly, he had a brain aneurysm and / or stroke on or near a beach. He was 65. Decisions were made about whether or not he needed a helicopter to Athens, but perhaps not fast enough. According to a local source, there is some controversy over the speed at which he was helped. Maybe if a helicopter picked him up sooner, he’d still be alive. Who knows? What we all know for sure here is that not having a hospital on the island comes with consequences, and the stakes are extra high when someone has an accident or sudden thing go haywire in their body. So on Monday, November 2, B.W. had a sudden thing go haywire in her body. I will not go into details, but it was something outside the expertise and capability of the island’s doctor, who is a kind, brilliant woman around the age of B.W. and I (late 20s, early 30s). She waited in pain for hours before the emergency boat ambulance arrived. To me, the boat ambulance appeared to be a small yacht that otherwise transported rich tourists c. 2008. Later that night into the next morning, we took an “air ambulance,” which, in a similar vein, was a private jet for rich tourists c. 2008. I remember joking with B.W. that we were on a private jet. It feels crazy, not to mention insensitive, to say much more about this situation. Most importantly, B.W. was fine in the end, and she is back in Germany now. She spent from Monday - Friday in a clinic, first in Santorini and then Athens. I was with her the whole time, running around, trying to figure things out and support her however I could. Greece was going back into lockdown that week, a lockdown I have half-lovingly, half-jokingly nicknamed “Lockdown 2.0.” In Athens, I could only get takeaway food, and masks were mandatory everywhere, even walking outside in the streets. It all felt so surreal… There were many layers of surreality. The first night / morning in Athens, I let the clinic staff help me book a hotel. I booked this fancy one that was 15 minutes from the clinic by foot. I remember drawing a bath at 5am and listening to the new Salem album (Fires in Heaven, highly recommended) in its entirety. Mere hours later, I went up to the breakfast buffet. It was on the top of the hotel, a decently high building. The view was gorgeous but the day was grey. Of course, the buffet was no longer self-serve so you had to ask the staff to put things on your plate. (“More pineapple… yep, still more, please”)

Once we were pretty sure of the day B.W. would be allowed to leave the clinic, I planned my boat back to Folegandros, leaving that Saturday, November 7. Hours after I picked up my ticket in person from a vendor, I had to go back and change it. The Prime Minister announced a lockdown restricting travel between islands. Because I’m not Greek and have no business being in this country right now, quite frankly, my boyfriend Z.X. urged me to leave before Saturday, otherwise I might not be able to get back. I walked back to the ticket office and changed it to one leaving the next day, Friday… from a nearby port town of Lavrio.

Friday, November 6… The weather wasn’t so great in the morning. I took a cab to Lavrio from Mona Stiraki in Athens. When I arrived, admittedly unnecessarily early for the boat, there was a rainstorm. I huddled under a not-so-sheltery shelter until I could board the boat. There were two main interior spaces. One was outfitted with grey vinyl seats, the other with red velvet ones. I opted for red velvet, and camped out in a corner that seemed like it would be quiet. As I mentioned, the weather wasn’t so great. If you’ve been paying attention, this phenomenon will likely correlate to a nauseating boat ride. And indeed, it did! After 3,4,5, who knows how many hours - a crew member told me we had to stop in Syros for the night, the boat would not be able to go on to any of the other destinations until maybe tomorrow, maybe Sunday depending on the weather. I explained my situation, not hiding my fear of having to go back to Athens and lord knows where after that because of the lockdown, but homeboy assured me it’ll be okay. He even said I could stay on the boat. No thank you! My frustration and heightened panic legible in my texts, Z.X. booked me a really nice hotel for the night. Thank God. I sometimes wonder what I’ve done to deserve this man, but really, everyone deserves a partner who will hold them down, especially in crazy travel situations in the middle of a global pandemic.

The hotel had a beautiful view of the water, which added to my ambient anxiety as I could see the boat and the incredibly choppy waves anytime I looked outside. The balcony was amazing, but the wind was smoking my cigarette faster than I could, reminding me of the very real possibility (to my panicked brain in that moment) that I would have to stay on Syros forever.

I remember walking around Syros that night, stumbling into a giant store filled with cheap goods. There were Christmas decorations, clothes, pots, pans, electronics, various weird objects. I felt like I was in a daze. I almost bought socks, but I don’t think I wanted any sort of souvenir of my time there. I think I just ordered room service to eat? A club sandwich with fries. The boat was there the next morning, and left on time. The wind was so strong that it knocked the fresh juice in a plastic cup out of my hand, spilling onto my backpack. My hat also fell off. I just wanted to get on the fucking boat and get back onto Folegandros. After another nauseating journey, although not quite as nauseating as the previous day, I finally made it to the island. Because of the strong winds, I practically had to jump off the boat onto the dock. It felt like something out of a movie. I was so relieved to be back, to see familiar faces, especially Z.X’s. “I’m not going anywhere for a really long time,” I said to him. Z.X. was sweet and tried to convey the romance and excitement in our situation, comparing it to a movie he suggested I write. There was a part of me, an internal compass or something, that was so confused that my body had taken a boat yet again, so soon, from Athens to Folegandros. Weeks later, that part has been soothed but is still feeling the effects of being uprooted and swirled around...Alas!

I will stop here, but continue with writing about the past weeks immediately! I promise.

Thank you for reading, wherever you are!

#greece #folegandros #greekisland #winteringreece

0 notes

ruffsficstuffplace · 7 years ago

Text

And The AWRD Goes To... (Part 48)

Note: I'll be honest, I hit a block with the recovery arc, but it should be smooth, if weekly update sailing from here on out as we start the final arc.

“Ikidakimasu!” Akko, Ruby, and Weiss cried, before they broke their chopsticks and began to dig into their dinners.

“Did you all go fasting before you were discharged? You’re all eating a lot.” Blake said as she had before her a giant bowl of noodles topped with nearly raw, whole fish.

“Studying’s hungry work!” Akko said as she shoveled some rice and burger steak into her mouth. “Especially with the ridiculous amounts of stuff they’re having us do! We’ve only missed a week, a week!” she cried, her arms and chopsticks flying upwards for emphasis.

Weiss shielded her plate from wayward bits of food. “It’s also really good to be back to the dining hall's offerings, too,” she said, checking a sliver of chicken breast, before dipping it into her sauce.

“Oh, but I thought Haven’s hospital food was supposed to be better than most?” Lotte asked as she slowly stirred in vegetables to her soup.

“It is, but the dessert choices are awful!” Ruby said. “Jelly, pudding, fruit salads—I had to rely on other people to get anything halfway decent! Thanks for doing that, by the way, Jas!”

“My pleasure!” Jasminka said as she continued to rhythmically put food into her mouth.

“So I suppose that’s why you’re having that for dinner?” Diana asked, pointing at Ruby's bowl with her fork.

“Yep!” Ruby replied as she grabbed a spoon, and shoveled a generous amount of ice cream, chocolate chip cookie bits, and strawberry slices into her mouth. “Mmm!” She chewed for a good long while, before swallowing, and sighing. “Haah… THAT’s the good stuff! Only way this could be better is if Yang and her team could join us…

“What’d they do for their detention to be that bad, anyway?” she asked, before she shoveled some more sweet treats into her mouth.

“I don’t know the full list, honestly, but they did try to plagiarize their first paper for Dr. Freya’s class, if that says anything,” Blake said.

Akko and Weiss reeled. “Yeah, that explains a lot...” Akko muttered.

“Is it really that bad to try to cheat in your grandma’s class?” Ruby asked Weiss, mouth full of frozen goodness.

“It’s what you do if you’re trying to set a record for how fast you can get expelled, Ruby,” Weiss said flatly. “That, or learn what indentured servitude looks like in a Huntsman Academy.”

“Huh." Ruby swallowed. "I guess that’s why Yang sounded so bummed when I asked her how bringing Bumblebee back to life was going.”

Constanze groaned heavily.

“Money troubles, too?” Ruby asked sympathetically.

Jasminka nodded. “She’s already budgeted her entire equipment budget for fuelling her exo-suit, and maintaining all her weapons.”

“Well why not put in a request for more funds?” Diana asked.

Constanze scowled and growled.

“She already did, but pretty much all requests for anything but graduate projects are on-hold, because R&D’s busy with all the material the Shiny Rod's been leaving behind each time you use it,” Lotte explained, now idly stirring the contents of her soup. “It’s been making it really hard for heavy dust-users like myself, too.”

Akko stopped mid-chew. “Oh. Whoops. Sorry about that!”

Constanze just sulked and stabbed the sausage she was eating.

Ruby's face had fallen, too. “Aw, man, I hadn’t thought of that earlier… that’s going to be a real problem!”

“A problem for what?” Weiss asked.

“My plans to upgrade all of our weapons, make improvements, and help us synergize with each other better,” Ruby replied, now listlessly prodding at her bowl of sweets. “I already built prototypes for paired magnetic anchor points for Crescent Rose and our weapons, make Kagari Expresses relatively easier, more stable, and just a tiny bit safer, but that’s going to be all I really can do without any increases in our equipment budget—we’ve already lost a good chunk from having our gear reconstructed, repaired, and recalibrated post-grave lord explosion.

“I’ll probably have better luck asking for attempting improvements to Shooting Star, and maybe an exo-rig for reducing injury risk with the Shining Star, but that’s about it!”

Constanze perked up at “exo-rig.” She reached for her tablet, tapped frantically, and held up the device to Ruby: “Can I help?”

“Sure!” she replied, smiling. “I was going to need an exo-rig machinist, anyway.”

Constanze nodded, looking a little better as she returned to her meal.

“Anyway, provided all my experiments go well—which might be a while, unless the Shiny Rod suddenly starts letting Akko form the Shining Star on command, or I can build an accurate enough substitute—I may be able to work in extra funding for our equipment on the justification of them being able to help decrease the collateral the damage of the Shining Star, or improve our overall effectiveness as a hunting party so it won’t need to be brought out in the first place.

“Ultimately, though, it’d be best if we had our own independent source of funding.”

Diana frowned as she chewed through her mouthful of pie. She swallowed, and said, “I hope you’re not suggesting we all get part-time jobs to fund your research; we’ve no more time for other commitments as is, not to mention whatever future unpleasantness will come our way and disrupt our schedules again.”

“I’m not, and we shouldn’t, anyway,” Ruby said. “I did the math: even if we all could take on stable, reliable, and predictable part-time jobs, we wouldn’t be nearly able to get the kind of funds I’d need in a reasonable amount of time. Practically speaking, we’re best off with giant lump-sums I can budget around, like a research grant, or the prize money for a really big competition.

“Speaking of which: any of you think we should be considering the Tsukimi Festival? It’s got competitions for almost everything, and the prizes they’re offering for some of them are pretty sweet."

“Where are you even going to get a sponsor?” Blake asked. “They are only that generous because it’s so hard to get in.”

Ruby shrugged. “Same place I always go to find things I normally can’t…? It’s all about finding a way, like back in the Bunker,” she replied, before she scooped up some more ice cream and shoveled it into her mouth.

“Actually...” Weiss started, a piece of chicken dripping over her rice, “I have an idea of how we might go about making money from Tsukimi Festival—just going to need a LOT of help putting a performance together for the singing competition.”

Akko stopped in the middle of picking up more rice. “Weiss, you can’t be serious…” she said as she turned to her..

“I am,” Weiss replied, looking back at her with a determined expression. “If fate is so intent on digging up every last terrible part of my past and sending it screaming at me, we might as well get some good out of it!”

“No, I mean, you can’t be serious about entering and winning any of the prize money,” Akko said. “At this bracket, you’re going up against people that have been doing this professionally for years, people massive followings on their CCT channels, or are signed up with big record companies--possibly even all three at once!

“No offense to your skill, but they’re on a whole other level and will wipe the floor with you, either with the judges or the hordes of fans they can get to vote for them whatever happens!”

“Oh, I thought of that already, actually, and my plan doesn’t hinge on winning any of the prizes.” Weiss replied.

Akko blinked. “Okay, now you REALLY can’t be serious...”

“What’s the plan, exactly?” Ruby asked, putting down her spoon and leaning in.

“You remember what I said about Aqua joining the competition as free advertising for her family’s restaurant, lure customers in?” Weiss said. “Same deal, except with me. I mean, it’s definitely not a guarantee, what with the history and all but... I think I might be able to convince them.

“Nothing was ever as lucrative and good for business as that was.”

“How soon can you ask?” Ruby asked.

“Assuming we can make excellent progress into all our schoolwork and we aren’t too bogged down by new assignments… Sunday, so I can see if I can even make time for it." Weiss said. "There’s a lot of work to be done; getting my vocal chords primed again aside, there’s going to be all the issues of stage production—someone for music, for wiring, for special effects, for props, for costumes, for stagehands, the works!”

“I’ve got most of the live show parts!” Akko said.

“I can help with that, too!” Ruby said.

“And I suppose I’ll pitch in whatever skills I can offer,” Diana said. “If we’re going to be doing this, we’re going to need Atlesian levels of efficiency, organization, and time management, at the least!”

Constanze cleared her throat, she held up her scroll: “Can we join?”

“I was just about to mention that, actually!” Weiss said. “The Urbinas were never shy about accepting seasonal help wherever they could get it.”

Blake’s ears flicked. “Would that include taking on new suppliers for ingredients?”

“Yes, so long as they’re not shady as all get out—they’re lower level, but they've stayed in business this long by knowing which deals to take, and who not to antagonize by switching over.”

“Oh, you have my word they’re quality, reliable suppliers, it’s just that it’s been hard for them to break into the market for all the oligarchies and unofficial agreements,” Blake said, a small smile on her face.

“Then I suppose we’ll see if we can’t set up a meeting between them!” Weiss said.

“Do you think they’ll let me into their kitchens?” Jasminka asked. “I’ve always wanted to get a chance to experiment with Mistral cuisine up close and personal!”

“The chefs there have very high standards, I’m warning you!” Weiss said. “They uh, also get really passionate, enthusiastic, and... shout-y about their work.”

Jasminka giggled. “You say that like that’s a bad thing!”

“Would they happen to work with a lot of local herbs and plants?” Lotte asked. “And do you think they’ll let me have some for my own experiments?”

“Maybe, we’ll see!” Weiss said. “Man, you guys are really intent on helping, aren’t you?”

“I don’t really see any way we can lose with this,” Blake said. “We’re not exactly hurting for grades nor time, and we could use the Lien and resources for our own needs and projects.”

“Then I’ll make sure to keep you guys posted!” Weiss said.

"Think we should start making plans now?" Ruby asked as she pulled out her scroll and her quill.

"Not yet, Ruby," Weiss said. "It's much more likely that the Urbinas will say 'No,' best not to waste that effort."

"Alright then!" Ruby said, putting them back into her pockets before she returned to her ice cream.

Conversation turned to much more casual topics, before they all finished their meals and headed back to their respective dorms.

“You guys still not going to bed?” Akko asked as she sat up in her futon, looking at Weiss and Diana hard at work at their desks, and Ruby already curled up and asleep.

“Nope!” Weiss said as she looked through her notes. “Had a little too much ‘me time’ earlier, and didn’t make nearly as much progress on the other things I was planning to do.”

“I don’t feel adequately prepared for tomorrow yet,” Diana said as she tapped away at her scroll’s external keyboard. "I want to be just as active and thorough in class, as if I hadn't spent most of the past week watching anime!"

Akko shrugged. “Don’t stay up too late, then! You especially, Weiss.”

“I’ve learned my lesson, don’t worry!” Weiss said, holding up the cup of moonbloom tea she’d brought back from the dining hall.

“Well, good night then, guys!” Akko said, before she laid down in her futon.

“Night, Akko!” Weiss said.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join us?” Diana asked as she looked over her shoulder. “I could use someone fact-checking details for me.”

“Nah, I can get anything done well late at night...” Akko said as she pulled her blanket up over her. "Besides, tomorrow can't be that bad, can it...?" she muttered, before she was fast asleep.

Diana sighed and turned to Weiss. “Has she always been this confident when it comes to her academics?”

“Always,” Weiss replied. “Don’t worry, though: her beginnings are consistently... bumpy... but she improves fast as soon as she gets an accurate idea of what to expect, and where to improve. She’s made it this far, and I assure you she’s not going to let anything stop her from achieving her dream now, not when she's in the final stretch.”

“She’s really determined to become a huntress, isn't she??”

“Ever since I met her!” Weiss said, nodding. “I used to think it was weird, her drive to become as close to Chariot as possible, before I realized I’m the same way with my grandpa. Everyone needs someone like that in their life, you know? Someone that makes them stand up and say, ‘That’s who I want to be,’ improve themselves, try to do good in this world, keep them inspired through the rough periods.”

Diana smiled a little. “True...” she muttered, before the two of them quietly got back to work.

5AM the next day, Weiss woke up, took her medication. She debated going back to the still open notebooks on her desk, before she decided to lie back down on her futon, quietly stare at the ceiling and wait for the others to wake up.

Ruby was first, tiptoeing past her on her way to the closet, stopping as she noticed Weiss’ eyes were open. “Hey,” she said softly.

Weiss looked at her. “Hey.”

“How’re you feeling?” Ruby asked, lowering herself beside Weiss.

Weiss paused for a moment. “Hesitant. Nervous. Kinda scared, honestly.”

“Want to take a mental health day?” Ruby asked.

“No,” Weiss said. “It’s how I’ve always felt whenever I need to go back to school after a big event--it’s normal.”

“You sure?” Ruby asked.

“As sure as I am that today’s probably going to really suck, but I’m going anyway,” Weiss replied, smiling.

Ruby smiled back. “Don’t be afraid to change your mind, alright?”

“I won’t, I promise.”

Ruby nodded, tiptoed off to their closet and changed, before she was at her desk, her brow furrowing as she looked through her notes and the ones she'd borrowed from the others.

Diana was next, sitting up in her futon and going through some stretches, before getting up and heading for their closet, too. "Don't want to spend this time studying?" she asked as she passed Weiss by.

"I'm good." she replied.

Diana nodded, and continued on without another word.

The sun was already peeking through the windows by the time Akko woke up, panicking and bolting upright in her futon. "What time is it?!" she cried as she threw her blanket off her, scrambled to get up.

"6:07, Akko," Diana said as she checked her scroll. "Still plenty of time to join the morning rush and make it to class still."

Akko sighed and relaxed. "Oh, good... I had this weird nightmare where I woke up and it was already the end of the day, and you guys were just coming back to get changed!"

Weiss smirked. "Now when have I ever let you oversleep if I could help it?" she asked, still laying down.

"I know, that's what was so weird about it," Akko muttered as she turned to Weiss. "You taking an extra day to recover?"

"No," Weiss said. "Just... mentally preparing myself, is all."

Akko nodded. "Take your time."

Soon, the four of them were all dressed, bags loaded, listening to Diana as she went through their agenda for that day.

"The recovery training session we all have with Professor Callistis at five concerns me somewhat, but I suppose we'll just have to wait and see how that goes,," Diana said as she got to the end of the list. "Any concerns?" she asked as she looked up from her scroll.

"Nope!" "Nada!" "None."

"Good!" Diana said as she slipped her scroll back into her pocket. "Akko, if you'd like to do the honours as our leader, please?"

"Don't mind if I do!" Akko said as the two of them traded positions. "Team AWRD to class?" she asked, hand up and grinning.

"To class!" the others replied.

They stepped out the door and rejoined the crowds of students in the halls, heading back to class, and whatever awaited them there...

#rwby #little witch academia #and the awrd goes to #white rose #dianakko #fanfic

3 notes · View notes