#and a new cupboard was opened revealing several pots

[if-loki-was-a-fox]

The video game development class I'm in has been doing a bit of a visual/environmental story telling study on the game Unpacking lately, with one student playing while the rest watch, and it's kinda funny because it's just a room full of highschool students all giving little cheers every time we discover a new drawer or an item is put away in a perfect spot

[ghost-bxrd]

The cat is fucking weird, is the first thing Jason thinks when he dumps the yowling ball of fur on the ratty couch. It’s weird, and it stinks like somebody dumped it in a heap of trash.

And honestly, that last part is probably what ended up compelling him to take the antagonistic little shit with him. Jason wouldn’t call himself some kind of animal whisperer, no. That stuff’s reserved for Disney Princesses, please and thank you. But something about the skittish black cat he’d spotted scarfing down the pitiful remains of an abandoned burger, smack dab on the filthy ground behind some diner in Crime Alley, had resonated with him.

It’s a new low, Jason can admit. Identifying himself with a stray cat. But whatever, ‘s not like the cat’s about to tell anybody about it. This can be Jason’s good deed for the decade or something. He’ll just treat the cat to some quality tuna, make sure it stops limping (he definitely saw it favoring its left front paw before it spotted Jason) and hope the thing doesn’t try to smother him in his sleep like he’d read in some obscure Reddit article.

The cat hisses at him, blue eyes glinting in the warm light of the singular light bulb hanging precariously from the ceiling. Jason considered getting chandelier when he moved in, but then thought better of it when he remembered that this isn’t supposed to be a home. Just a safehouse. And chandeliers look stupid anyway if you don’t have the manor to go with it.

“Crime alley born and bred, huh?”

The cat growls.

Jason snorts, unholstering his weapons to line them up neatly on the kitchen counter, “Yeah, makes two of us, buddy.”

He reaches into one of the cupboards, rummaging around until he feels the curved edge of what he hopes is something cat approved. He thinks he remembers Selina remarking on cats being strict carnivores, usually. But honestly if this one survived in Gotham until now it could probably consume Joker venom and still be fine, so whatever.

The can he pulls from the cupboard turns out to be sardines, not tuna like he’d hoped. But it’s fish and it’s definitely not expired, so it’s leagues better than whatever the cat had to survive off of until now. Probably. Who knows, with that size the thing might have eaten a couple dogs.

“Sorry,” he tells the cat, studiously ignoring the angry hiss and raised hair making the feline appear thrice its size as he puts the opened can on the floor, “‘S all I got for now. Nothin’ special, but I ain’t exactly planned on a guest tonight.” He huffs, “Or any night, really.”

The cat doesn’t move from its defensive position, its eyes wide and moonlike in the way they’re fixated on Jason, eerily intelligent.

He shrugs and turns to fill all shallow cup with water and puts that down too. Food and water, he can manage that much. It would be fucking embarrassing to try and nurse a stray back to health only to have it die because Jason forgot to water it. He does not need a repeat performance of the potted plant incident.

Now he’s just gotta figure out what to do about the kitty toilet.

“You’re already a pain in my ass,” he tells the cat conversationally, reaching up to press at the latches of his helmet, “I should call you Batman.”

The cat seems to narrow its eyes at him, whiskers twitching.

“Yeah, he always does that stupid thing where he looks like someone stuck a stick up his ass too. And, fuck me, you also got the color scheme down. It’s just meant to be.”

Jason pulls the helmet off with a sigh, taking a deep lungful of unfiltered air for the first time in several hours and runs a hand through his sweaty bangs.

He loves his helmet, he really does. It’s one of his favorite inventions hands down, but the breathability still needs some work before he sets his major plans in motion. He refuses to reveal himself to Bruce looking like a chewed up hedgehog.

The domino comes off next and is promptly discarded on the counter along with the helmet before Jason shrugs out of his well worn leather jacket and hangs it over the backrest of the barstool.

Fuck that feels good. Nothing like coming home after a hard day of work.

Jason turns back to the cat with a small grin, “Alright, Batman. Be a good kitty and don’t piss all over the furniture while I take a shower okay?”

The cat just stares at him, stock still. It’s a bit unnerving.

“I really hope that’s you agreeing with me here, buddy. Gutter trash gotta stick together. And I’ll even throw in a good tuna brand for you tomorrow. Or milk. Or whatever counts as a treat to a cat.”

The cat just stares.

Newly crowned Crime Lord Red Hood stops in an alley. There’s a black cat there, lots of fur where he looks bigger than a normal cat. It’s eating a burger on the ground. It reminds Jason a little bit of himself. All alone, fending for itself.

Jason takes it back to his primary safe house with him. And it’s a cat, so he takes off the helmet and the domino around the fluffy animal. He chuckles to himself when he named the cat Batman.

And for two weeks, he had no idea that the cat was, in fact, Batman.

[writingsbychlo]

it’s been a long, long time | bucky barnes

word count; 5,808

summary; you’re preparing to spend christmas alone, not expecting your soldier to make it home to you in time.

notes; this is a forties bucky fic, and it’s out of the normal mcu world, so he never falls off of the train, etc. he was just a prisoner of war. inspired by this song, take a listen, you’ll recognise it.

warnings; injury, reference to human experimentation, reference to death.

Staring blankly at the letter on the table, you ran your finger over the corner of the paper. The last letter signed from your lover, dated over fourteen months ago, a sigh on your lips, and the burning in your eyes came springing back to remind you of the tears threatening to fall once again. 

The box beside you sat open, several other pieces of paper spread out around you, the fire in the corner crackling weakly and you thought maybe you should get up and put another log on it, but you just didn’t have the energy. Your cheeks were stinging, skin raw and eyes puffy and red, your throat raw from sobbing, choking back your cries, although you were all burned out by now. 

It had been three years since you had shipped your lover off to the war, a kiss on his lips and a smile on his face as he was taken off to lead the 107th into battle. You’d written him every week, sending your letters to wherever he was, his own coming back to you in bountiful return, and you’d collected every single one in a box that you kept under your bed, close to your heart, to remember him forever. 

The clothes he’d left with you had lost their smell years ago, and as of a few months ago, the boxes form his apartment had been sent to you. You’d spent a week straight with his sisters and his mother, sorting through everything, comforting one another when that news had finally come.

You’d known something had been wrong the moment it had been over two weeks since you’d heard from the man you loved, that something must have happened, the trenches expanding, taking him closer to the front line. After a month, you’d taken a trip across town to visit Peggy, a woman who had been a stranger to you and was now one of your closest friends, only to find Steve hadn't sent her any letter yet either.

Two months later, you had received a letter, one from Steve, who had been battered and bruised and completely exhausted, and without a best friend, who’d been taken during a firefight, a prisoner of war, officially announced missing in action. Even so, you’d been strong, you’d kept your hopes up, writing to him, as he was in the medical bay, listening to him get better, and saving up all of the drawings he’d done for you while unable to perform his duty. The letters had become less frequent, of course, once he was back in action, leaving you once again to realise just how cold and empty everything felt now. 

You had run out of your favourite red lipstick a while ago, never bothering to replace it when you didn’t have paper to press kisses to as you wrote your lover back, and the cupboard door had fallen off a while ago, but you still couldn’t bring yourself to open up the boxes of Bucky’s things to find his toolbox and repair it.

A year to the day, an envelope with an army insignia on and a handwriting you didn’t recognise, announcing that ‘missing in action’ was now presumed ‘killed in action’, but you’d known it before even undoing the seal. That letter was in the box too, a tragic tale from beginning to end, following the first letter you’d received, shaky and jerky, written on the train, only hours after you had said goodbye and sent from still within America, before he’d ever been shipped away to his death in order to defend his country, to the final letter, confirming that the soul who’d perfectly matched your own would never be coming home to you. 

With a heavy sigh, you forced yourself up from the wooden chair, back aching a little, and the darkness outside told you just how long you’d been sitting there, and you became overly aware of the room you could barely see now. A chill swept over you, an orange glow from the dying flames keeping it alight, and a sad laugh took over you as you realised just how pitiful you’d become. If Bucky could see you now, you knew exactly what he’d say. What the look on his face would be like, or how he’d shake his head at you, before rolling up his sleeves and being determined to fulfil his role as ‘man of the house’. 

You were supposed to take on all roles now, you were supposed to look after your own household and future, and so instead, you rolled up the sleeves of the shirt that was loosely buttoned up the front that didn’t belong to you, and started by making your way over to the stove. Filling it up at the tap, you placed the metal down on the hob, lighting a match and flicking on the gas, watching as it sparked up. It left a glow throughout the otherwise dark kitchen, drawing out the pale moonlight that had been bathing the walls and tiles. 

There was so much to do, so much that you wanted to get done, and yet you had no idea where to start, feeling like you were drowning in your thoughts, your mind becoming your worst enemy. You flicked on a lamp, warm and golden light pooling over the room and casting out the shadows, making you feel slightly less alone as the dark was cast out. Windows went black, the outside no longer visible to you, except for the pale linings of now along the edges of the glass, snow still falling as winter closed in. 

It was cold, the chill in the December air making it so, and you knew you would be getting ready for bed within a few hours, and so in that light, you busied yourself with the fire next. Piling on logs, tinder, old scratching of newspaper until the glowing ashes had revived into roaring flames, the cage over the fire doing little to protect you, pops and cracks sounding from the logs. 

It was less lonely now, a warm fire and some lighting making you feel like you at least had some kind of will in the world to take care of yourself, to stop everything from slipping away as you felt like you’d died right alongside him, but rather to live your life, and keep going on in the way you knew he’d want you to. The kettle was whistling, and you followed the sound, turning down the flame as the water bubbled, and finding a rag to cover your fingers with as you unscrewed the cap. 

You had to search for the teabags, for the slightly fruity ones that always helped you to calm yourself a little, digging through the kitchen drawers, and pausing as you shifted through the boxes. Behind your teabags, an old box of cigarettes, ones you hadn't seen in a while but were painfully nostalgic, the edges of your lips flicking up in a smile. Your tea was forgotten, fingers brushing over the packet, before pulling it forwards. The tangible smell of the crushed leaves met your nose, and you pulled them out. 

It was an indulgence you were considering. The smell had never bothered you so much, and it was rare that Bucky had ever lit up a cigarette, only when he was stressed or overly nervous, but you were considering it now. The acrid taste would remain in the back of your throat for days to come if you did, no matter how much time you spent trying to rid yourself of it, even if it felt like the perfect moment to have one, giving you a few simple hours of respite from your self-torment. There was a lump forming already, and you tried to swallow it down, flicking open the lid and bringing one to your lips. 

Dropping a tea bag into the pot, stirring it slightly until the water changed colour, a herbal scent filling the air, and you searched for a single teacup and saucer as the roll hung from your mouth. Moving the pot from the flame, you leaned down, bringing it to the hob, and holding it carefully between two fingers, trying to light it, before jumping harshly at the knock that sounded through the house. 

It echoed, fingers on wood leaving a sharp noise that bounced from every wall, and you glanced straight up to the clock on the wall. A brow raised, the hour far passed what would be considered appropriate, especially this close to Christmas, at the house of a woman living alone. Dropping the roll from your lips, you stuffed it haphazardly into the packet and sealed it away in its drawer, before hurrying through the small home to the door. 

Looking through the gap in the wood, you couldn't see much, a tall figure, hands tucked in the pockets, back to you as they looked down, kicking at the snow, but you couldn’t make much of the hunched-over figure. You were sure it was a scam, or someone coming around to offer you blessings last minute, and so you left the lock on sealed across the door, cracking it open and shivering a little at the icy wind that swept in as you did. 

The figure turned, and you looked up at them, eyes sweeping over their figure before realisation clicked in your mind. Longer hair and creases and wrinkles on the skin that had once been smooth. A patchy beard, new scars and sunken eyes, a frown where you knew a smile, but those eyes were the same, the same pale blue that always looked at you with love and admiration, and you could feel your heart leaping into your throat. 

“Hey, doll.”

You slammed the door, feeling the pounding on the inside of your ribs make your chest feel as though you were aching, breaking part from the inside out as your forehead rested to the panels of the door, hearing his chuckle from the other side, before you were shakily sliding your hand up to find the lock, dragging the chain across and opening it up, before revealing the man to yourself once again. 

He was facing you fully now, a grin on his lips that wasn’t nearly as bright and enthusiastic as it used to be, but still dazzling and beautiful, and you were silent as yous stepped aside, letting him over the doorstep. As he entered the light and stopped being as hidden from you as he had been, you could see the true extent of his injuries, a gasp leaving you before you could stop it. 

Scars and worry-lines weren’t the only new developments. There was purple dotted along his skin, blue and yellowing at the edges as the bruises healed, and there was still fresh cuts on his skin now that you could see him. The stubble on his jaw was hiding a batch of cuts and marks, marring his skin, and you felt tears leaking from your eyes as you took him in. He closed the door, locking it up tight again, before his shoulders were slumping, and he was letting you take him in, his entirety, everything that had come back to you. 

He wasn’t the same person he was, there was more bulk to him, the army routines, constant exposure, exercising for entertainment and lugging equipment around had certainly made him bigger, but as he stood before you, looking somewhat broken, he looked smaller than ever. You wanted or hold him, cradle him in your arms and never let him go, but you felt like if you did, he’d turn to dust in your hold, or you’d wake up and realise that it was all just in your imagination, a conjuring you had created on a cold and lonely night to ease the aching in your heart. 

You had no idea what the extent of his injured under his clothes might be, unable to see anything of him. He wasn’t in the military uniform you’d sent him off in, the proud green with badges and ribbons, his name stitched across the front was gone. A pair of ripped and well-worn great trousers, a t-shirt with a logo on in a language you didn’t recognise and a jacket over the top, all of it looking as though it had been scavenged, blood on it that still seemed fresh, and it was all too overwhelming once again.

With a shaky hand, you reached out to him, cupping his face, fingertips smoothing over his skin cautiously as you tried to assess where you could even put your hands, where would hurt him, before pulling away when you realised he was still covered in dirt and dried blood, greasy hair and mud crusted to the ends, and he was so far from the man you recognised that you wondered whether he was even the same person inside anymore.

Pushing back his hair, you chuckled weakly as the flakes crumbled away, tucking the longer strands behind his ears and deciding he definitely needed a haircut, and taking a step closer to him as your eyes found his. Longing, sad, relieved; so many emotions were swirling within them, enough to make your stomach feel like it was twisting up into knots from nausea just at the sight of him. As you learned in, he produced his right hand, from his pocket, cupping your face lightly as the other remained tucked away, thumb smoothing over your skin. 

Tipping your face into his hand, you held it to your face, eyes squeezing closed and you couldn’t’ hold back your cries anymore, a loud sob leaving you as you realised the touch on your cheek was real, not something you’d dreamt up for yourself to keep you company in the cold and the dark as you missed your soldier dearly.

“Please don’t cry, babydoll. What do I always tell ya’, huh?” You grinned, knowing the words he was bringing up, choking on the laugh you wanted to release, but tears flowed from your eyes. “Oh, baby, no. You’re too pretty ‘a dame to cry.”

His accent had faded, that familiar Brooklyn boy you loved had become a man of war, the same cocky teen you’d met years ago on the school courtyard was a new person now, and your emotions were taking over, crying in his hold, before his finger was wiping under your eyes, moving down to your chin to tip your face up towards him. 

“Please, sweetheart, say somethin’. You’re killin’ me here.”

“That’s not funny, Bucky!” You glared at him, pulling away enough that his hand fell from your face, and he nodded, swallowing thickly as the amused expression on his features slipped away. “I thought you were dead! I got a letter, you haven’t written me in over a year, I went into mourning, I stayed with your mother and your sisters, we comforted each other! Where were you?”

“I don’t know.” He sighed, your anger draining from you at the way his voice cracked and trembled a little with fear, and you couldn’t help the tears that were flowing over once again. “Germany, maybe? No, it was colder than that, perhaps, Russia. Almost my entire unit was taken, I had no idea how long it had been, I lost count after a few weeks, they did experiments an-” He couldn’t get his words out, he could barely speak, and you shook your head, trying to wipe his own cheeks dry, breath shared between you as his forehead pressed to yours. “I’m sorry.”

“God, James, don’t be. You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

He could only nod, and your throat felt raw with every breath you took, your mind spinning with a dizzy kind of vertigo that left everything else to melt away as he became your first focal point. Your legs felt weak, but you weren’t willing to step away, to let yourself drop to the floor no matter how much you wanted to let yourself give way, as the crushing weight of the day destroyed you.

“I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to say.” He laughed lightly at your words, tucking hair away behind your ear, before tipping his head up enough to brush chapped and cut lips over your forehead. “Why didn’t you send me a letter?”

“I did, but I couldn’t wait any longer, I think I beat it here.” You took his hand, lifting it down form your face, before pulling him through to your kitchen, a room he was more than familiar with, and for the first time in a long time, you were accompanying your teacup with another. You no longer wanted the drink, and you doubted that Bucky did either, but you needed something to fill your time, just to occupy yourself. “I love you, doll.”

You turned, to the nose that was bumping against your temple, no more teasers to cry, sadness and confusion ebbing away as you allowed warmth and bliss to heat you up from the inside out, a feeling you hadn't felt since you’d let him go, the part of your heart that had been missing for so long was finally returned. “I love you too.” 

You shifted, moving to catch his lips with your own, but he pulled back a little shaking his head slightly, and you frowned, peering up at him with wide eyes. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I have to tell you something. Then you can tell me if you still love me.” Your brows rose, stepping back from him a little, and his head dropped. It was as his hand came across his body to untuck the one still hidden in his pocket, the sleeve falling limp as it was revealed. The right hand came up, pushing the material from his shoulders, shucking down his body and letting it drop to the floor. Bile rose in your throat, a hand clapping over your mouth, before a full-body wrack was shaking you from head to toe.

“What happened to you?”

“I think that’s pretty obvious.” He whispered, and you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the sight. His left arm was gone, the shirt sleeve knotted at the top where what was left of his arm ended, and you forced your hands up to the buttons on his chest, feeling like your arms were tied down with weights as you undid the buttons. When the final one came undone, white undervest revealed, you moved to push the fabric away, his hand sealing around your wrist, head shaking. “I didn’t come back in one piece, it’s not pretty under there, doll.”

“What happened?”

“Tests, nothing good. They injected me with something, a lot, my arm got infected but apparently, I was showing a good reaction to whatever they were pumping me full of.” He shrugged, letting you go with a nervous sigh as you continued to push away the shirt, helping him peel it down his arm, trying not to let your shock show as the remainder of his arm was revealed. When it left his fingertips on his right side, it fell away to join the jacket. “Guess they’d rather I lose an arm than they lose an asset.”

There were bandages wrapped gourd the patch, only a little of his arm left, not even reaching half-way down where his bicep would be, but the bandages were clean and fresh, no blood soaking through, and it was a blessing that you couldn’t have been more grateful for. “I love you, James Barnes. I love you so much.”

“Even though I’m not whole anymore?”

“I love every part of you, inside and out, no matter how much or little of you there is.” Finally, he smiled, the first honest and true smile you’d had from him in years, and he dipped down, lips pressing to your own tenderly. It was a moment you’d never forget; late into the night, days before Christmas like a miracle, having the man you loved back in your arms as he kissed you sweetly, just like he used to when he’d see you before he left, and everything in your life clicked back into place at long last. “Please don’t lose any more of yourself, though, before this war ends.”

“Well, I hope not, because I won't be going anywhere for a long time.”

“When do you go back?” He shook his head, stealing another short kiss from your lips, making you smile into his touch. 

“I don’t, doll. The army has no use for someone who can’t shoot a gun.” You felt stupid for even asking, jaw dropping as you tried to speak, and he seemed to sense the drop in tone, his arm smoothing around your waist to pull you in closer to him, a hug that was long overdue. “Besides, if I went back, who would help you get a Christmas tree? It’s less than a week ‘til Christmas, where’s your holiday spirit?”

“Wasn’t feeling very festive when I thought that the man I loved was dead.”

“I’m home now, though.” He mumbled the words against your lips, barely letting you nod your head before he was diving in for another kiss. You had so much time to catch up on, but these kisses were deeper and far more intimate than any before them had ever been, because you’d never had this kind of pressure on your relationship before. You’d never almost lost him, feared for his life or felt like you’d been so alone, never had you been abandoned in your loneliness, and he’d come to sweep you back up out of the darkness. 

It was evident in every drag of his lips with yours, it was clear in the love that he poured into the connection, each time his tongue flicked out to play with your one, in every panted breath, squeeze of his fingers into your flesh as he held onto you, pulling you just a little bit closer, and letting your arms circle his neck, pushing ourself up to meet his height. 

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re really home?” You questioned, still a little unsure that this wasn’t a dream, and he didn’t even hesitate before replying;

“Yeas, baby, I’m really home.”

You could only hum, soaking up every moment that you got to spend in his arms. “You should look the part, then.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” He was a little scandalised, pulling back with a dropped jaw, brows shot up and hidden in his hairline from the length of the strands, your head shaking fondly as you brought up your fingers to play with his hair. 

“You need a haircut, and a bath, and a shave. You look like a mountain man, not my Bucky.”

“I need to get into my own clothes, and my own bed, with my girl. How about that?” He slipped his hand down, finding one of yours and linking your fingers together. 

“Only after you let me clean you up and sort your wounds. I’m not risking you getting ill, I only just got you back.”

“I’ll take that deal, babydoll.” He grinned, a final kiss, before the stove was being turned off, tea abandoned as it went cold, and he was tugging you from the room. “I’ll go and get a bath running, meet you upstairs?”

You could only nod, pressing your lips to a cheeky lined with scratchy stubble, before moving around the downstairs of the small home to prepare yourself for bed. Even as you plunged yourself into darkness and put out the fire once again, it felt warm and comforting, simply the presence of someone you lost returning to you being more than enough to light your life back up with bliss and joy. You could hear him moving apart upstairs, the creak of the floorboards as he wandered around, and the sound of the water heater starting up, loud and humming as it went, a groan under the pressure of the workings as it needed a little fixing, but that was something that could be left for another day. 

After checking all the doors and the windows were locked, you began to make your way upstairs, cold wooden planks under your feet making you shudder a little as you went, following the sounds of the clattering around in the bathroom. On the wooden counter under your mirror, he had located his blade, that which has been tucked away in the back of the cabinet, placed down on the counter and he was leaning over the tub. 

He was still fully dressed, or, as dressed as he’d been when he’d left the kitchen, and you leaned against the doorframe, watching him as he adjusted the temperature of the water. 

“You gonna’ stand over there all night, doll?”

“I didn’t want to startle you.” 

His shoulders shook a little as he laughed, turning to face you, and holding a hand out towards you. “Don’t think you could if you tried, sweetheart, I’ve been.. different, lately. Everything seems enhanced. It’s odd, I guess it’s just the war making me more alert.”

You shrugged, brushing it off and wrapping your arms around his waist, his chin balancing atop your head as he hugged you closer to himself, hand settling in the small of your back. 

When the water had finished running, he helped you out of your clothes, doing the best he could with one hand, wincing at himself a little when your top got stuck around your shoulders, apologising in a whisper despite the soft laughter leaving you. When you settled into the water, it was a shock to press your back against his chest, warm and soft and welcoming as an arm fasted around your waist, fingers spreading out over your stomach, where you were more used to simply feeling the cold metal of the tub pressing into you. 

You couldn't remember the last time that you’d felt this way, the last time that you hadn't been filled with worry and fear, or the overwhelming sense that you would never see him again. You were filled with love and passion, a renewed sense of life that made you want to pick everything back up and carry on, like these last couple of years hadn't been the worst of your life. 

A sponge was moving over your skin, lathered up a little with a bar of soap and running over your body, before you were leaning forwards, twisting in his arms, to be able to get to his chest. Now that he was undressed, you were able to see the extent of the wounds, the blood around him turning a murky brown and red as you cleaned him, revealing which patches were simply grimy dirt and which were battered and bruised fading marks that were only just beginning to heal, and would certainly do much better with your nurturing and tender supervision. 

When you were clean, fingers weaving through his hair as you washed the greasy strands until they were clean and shiny once again, you settled over his lap. 

“Are you sure, baby?”

“About what?” Your brows furrowed, his lower lips worried between his teeth, before he was bringing a hand up to rub at the spot his arm had once been. There was a lot of scarring, still somewhat fresh, a terrible job done of it being sewn up, and you knew that even when the inflammation and swelling around it went down, it would probably never heal fully, and you wanted to support him for every step. “I told you, I love you, and I would never want to be without you.”

“I know, but it’s going to be different. I won’t be the same man, I’ll struggle with a lot of things. I don’t want you to feel obligated to me, or stuck with me.”

“I am stuck with you, you’ve owned my heart since we were teenagers, James, I’m never going to want anyone else. I can take the bad, because it comes with a whole lot of good, too.” He leaned in, bumping the tip of his nose with your own while letting out a shaky breath, relief flooding through his system.

“That sounded an awful lot like ‘for better or for worse’.” He grinned, and you pecked the dimple that appeared over his cheek, knowing where it would be, the crease of such a bright smile burned into your mind by memory, feeling him smile even wider. “The only thing that got me through the war, all those months locked up in a cell, was picturing making good on that promise I made to you the night before I left, that I’d come home and put a ring on that finger and sweep you off your feet.”

“My answer is the same as that night.” You mumbled, hands holding onto his jaw, bringing his lips in towards yours and he puckered them, receiving the soft kiss that you were offering to him. “I still want to marry you.”

“Good, because I don’t want anyone else.”

The water was growing cold around you, and while you couldn't have cared less about it all, you didn’t want him to catch a chill or risk getting an infection in a still-healing wound, and so you stood from the tub, water running along your body, stepping carefully over the rim as he held your hand to assist you, before you were searching for a towel. Wrapping it around yourself, you helped him too, sealing the towel around his waist for him and he pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

Pulling the plug on the drain, you turned to find Bucky standing in front of the fogged up mirror, a patch wiped clean on it, as he rubbed at his wet hair with another towel. The strands were now lapping around his chin, long and knotty, and you moved through to the bedroom to pull the stool from your vanity through to the bathroom, placing it behind him and pushing him to sit down on it with a hand on either shoulder, leaning over him to kiss his cheek. “You should let me cut your hair.”

“Really?”

“Definitely, you need it.” There was a leather wallet with a comb and scissors tucked away in the drawer, he remembered its location, producing it for you with a grin, before he was soaping up along his jaw, and lifting his blade.

“Shave first, hair cut after.”

“You’ll look like my Bucky again.” You whispered, comb running through his hair gently, detangling the notes as you listened to the rhythmic drag of the blade along his skin, taking away the stubble that had been created. Once his skin was clean, bruises and marks revealed but flesh smooth and soft again, you were set to work on his hair. Chopping away the bad memories, clearing it all, chunks of soft brunette strands falling to ground and curling as they touched the tiles, severed from his scalp never to return as they carried away the memories. 

The locks disappearing from his head was like lifting a weight, the pain and torment of all that he had been through slipping away. As his hair shortened and began to become springy atop his head, flopping over a little in the same playful style he’d always worn it, the dark and sad look in his eyes cleared a little. He was watching you work, watching you chop away his past to remove those years from his life. 

“It looks good. Not great, we should probably take you to a real barber to get it perfected, but it’s better than it was.”

“Anything is better than it was, sweetheart.” He promised, reaching his hand up to cover yours that was sitting on his shoulder, and his eyes dropped down to look at it in the mirror. “Will you help me bandage it back up, please?”

There was a slightly embarrassed tone to his voice, words cracking a little as he spoke, but he squeezed your hand a little tighter and leaned back into you, letting your touch slip down to rest over his heart. There were gauze and wrapping in the small first aid kit under the sink, and as you shuffled through it, you made a mental note of everything you needed to patch up your boyfriend until he was healed, sealing it up and securing it tightly over his body, and he gave a happy sigh as the scarring was hidden from sight.

He followed you through to the bedroom, going through every drawer and his entire closet, familiarising himself with things he had forgotten than he’d ever owned, while you watched him from the bed with a smile. When he finally settled on his favourite shirt and pyjama pants, you lifted the covers, welcoming him to join you underneath them, and the bed felt crowded with his large frame beside yours, unfamiliar but treasured. 

As the candles were blown out, the smell of smoke drifting around you as the blaze dissipated, and you reached out for him, the place where you were so used to being able to rest your head being different now, and he huffed out. 

You shuffled forwards, heat crawling up your cheeks as you pressed your head to his chest instead, and he lifted his hand up to sit on your waist, smoothing around you, and trying to decide whether he wanted to play with your hair, or trace patterns on your back. “I’ll never be the same.”

“Do you still love me?”

“You know I do, doll.” It was too dark to be able to make out his features, and so you pressed your face into his neck, leaving a few chaste pecks there. 

“Then you’re exactly the same person I’ve always loved.” His hand came up to find your cheek, pulling his head back and stroking his thumb over your cheek. “Stop thinking I'm leaving you, Bucky, because I’ll always be right here with you, so just kiss me, sergeant, and remember that I adore you.”

A chuckle washed over your face, warm breath fanning across your skin, before the tip of his nose was dragging over your cheek, lips brushing your own. “Yes, ma’am.”

His lips sealed over your own, a goodnight kiss better than any there ever had been, even more so than the first time he’d ever kissed you; a quick, uncoordinated and messy collision of lips after he’d walk you home from a study group when you were just teens, because this was the promise of a future, returning you to your lover, your hearts becoming on, once again.

[wait-im-not-out]

Ninjago photo album project!

This was such an amazing project to be a part of - make sure you check out the rest of the amazing work done on these photo albums here!!!!

I’ll be posting my works from this project, so please enjoy -

Cole and Zane cooking together

Okay okay. This was it. He was finally going to prove to everyone that he was not a terrible cook. So he had a couple of bung dishes - several being the result of a couple of pranks (looking at you, Lloyd and Jay). Sure - he wasn’t Zane level, but he managed. Of course, the first time he cooked for everyone, he tried something new and now he was forever labelled with the title of ‘worst cook’. Honestly, this was so unfair. Jay was one to complain when he always used the frozen meals from the supermarket on his night to cook. Cole made something handmade, with love, his family recipe, and they had the nerve to say it was awful.

Even if it glued their mouths shut. So what? A nice peaceful dinner for once! It was better than when there was a food fight!

Cole needed to get out of his head. When he snapped back to reality he suddenly realised he had added lemon juice instead of lime. It would be fine right? It would just change the flavour a little right?

Wait, was it meant to be this watery? How do you thicken something? Flour?

Cole went to the cupboard, to find… an empty bag of flour… Why was it always right before stock up day that it was his night to cook? Every single time.

What else was there? Beef stock?

Eh, that’ll do.

Cole added plenty of beef stock, before transferring the… mixture to a pot.

Cole began stirring the pot, before placing the lid and letting the mixture simmer.

Wait, did I add onions?

Cole left to chop onions, however, a startling yell from the outside training session distracted him, leading to him cutting his finger with the knife.

“First Spinjitzu Master…” Cole muttered under his breath, wondering if it was offensive to use Lloyd’s grandfather’s name in vain. As he put a bandage on his finger, he heard a gentle tap at the kitchen door.

“Hello Cole,” Zane greeted, immediately noting Cole’s bandage. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah I’m fine - just cut my finger.”

Zane nodded, only to begin taking in the disarray that the kitchen was in. “How is dinner going?”

“Ummmmm - good!” Cole stammered.

Zane raised his eyebrows, indicating his concern - but he humoured Cole. “What are you making?”

“Crispy mayonnaise shrimp!”

Zane simply picked up the box of beef stock, now nearly empty, with a concerned look on his face.

“What?” Cole asked innocently.

Zane couldn’t help but sigh. He was trying. “Do you want some help?”

“What? No, I'm fine!”

As if on cue, there was a crash as the lid of the pot fell off the pot, revealing the bubbling mixture to be boiling over.

Cole muttered some quiet swears under his breath as he ran over to the stove, desperately wanting to save the dish. He glanced over, seeing Zane leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed.

He had that look on his face.

I’m right and you know it.

“Fine!” Cole conceded. He needed help.

Zane only smiled kindly. Even when it wasn’t his night to cook, he almost always offered to help. If nothing else, he enjoyed spending time with the others one on one, and Cole was no exception.

They slipped into easy conversation as the dish was restarted. Each time, Zane paused to explain why something was done a certain way. Cole nodded in understanding, smiling fondly and the anxiety from earlier dripping away. Everyone who has ever tried to teach Cole how to cook, they only told him what not to do. When he asked why they never gave him a straight answer. Zane had endless patience and understood that this was how Cole learned. He had to understand. Zane knew how to help him.

Despite having lost an hour to Cole’s solo attempt, dinner was ready on time; Cole turned off the stove just as the door into the dining room rolled open, as the pair heard the chatter on the other side of the screen.

“Thank you, Zane,” Cole said, halting him before they served dinner.

“Of course, Cole. You know you can always ask for help.” Zane paused as if taking a moment to think. “I know you prefer to be independent, and I support you in that, just… do not feel like you cannot ask when you need it.”

Cole only smiled. “As long as I can help you cook tomorrow,” he teased, earning a roll of Zane’s eyes. “Come on, they’re going to say it’s cold if we keep it much longer.

The night passed by in a haze of warmth. As he settled into bed he thought back to his parents tucking him into bed. “If today was a colour, which one would it be Cole?”

It wasn’t just one today - it was a collage.

Warm colours - the red of the bounty walls, oranges, golds. Vibrant.

But then there are streaks of white, silver and pale pinks.

The point of this exercise was to not label a day as ‘good’ or ‘bad’.

But it was good.

[remedialpotions]

Dawn

As a thank-you to the lovely folks on the HPRomione discord who made my job organizing the inaugural Secret Santa gift exchange so easy and delightful, I wrote this toothache-inducing fluff. Special thanks to @al-in-the-air for schooling me on how to *properly* make a cup of tea; I will never speak the words ‘fire kettle’ in your presence again. 😘

ffn  ao3

Ron yawns and stretches his arms up over his head, revealing a sliver of pale skin below the hem of his shirt. Hermione likes him like this, bedraggled, warm from sleep, peaceful. In these pre-dawn hours, having been coaxed from the warmth and comfort of his bed, he is the most natural, authentic version of himself.

“Remind me again,” he says, sitting down next to her on the carpet. “Why couldn't we have done this last night?”

“Oh, we could have done,” replies Hermione briskly as she taped a piece of wrapping paper into place around a box, “if you and your brothers hadn’t got so invested in your game of charades-“

“Erm, have you forgotten that George cheated at one point and we had to redo it? We may be business partners, but I couldn’t just stand by and let that happen-”

“-then we could have left at a reasonable hour.”

“Ahh, well,” Ron chuckles. “Worth it to see Percy trying to mime ‘The Wizard and His Hopping Pot’.” He stretches his long legs out before him and surveys the scene beneath the lowest branches of the tree. “Looks like you’ve got most of this done already, have you been down here a while?”

“Oh,” says Hermione as she picks up a gift tag and a quill. “Yes, I woke up a bit earlier than we planned.” At the tilt of his head - he’s clearly about to ask why, since they didn’t Floo home until well past one in the morning - she quickly adds, “but everything we left out for Father Christmas is still over there. You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“Right!” With remarkable energy for such an early hour, Ron jumps to his feet and retrieves the tray they left near the hearth the evening previous, which bears a plate of biscuits, a few carrots, and a small glass of whiskey. “This is the best part of being a dad.”

Halfway through addressing the gift tag - to Rose, with love from Father Christmas - Hermione looks up and quirks a skeptical eyebrow at him. “Eating stale biscuits at seven in the morning is the best part of being a dad?”

“Maybe not the best, but definitely a perk.” Ron sits himself back down on the carpet beside Hermione, tray in front of him. “It’s a bit too early for the whiskey now, though, innit?”

“You can probably just leave it,” agrees Hermione. “I don’t know that Rose will really notice it’s different.”

“Yeah, I suppose she’s not even two yet,” says Ron as he snaps one of the biscuits in half and pops it in his mouth. “But I’d like to at least try to keep up the illusion.”

Hermione affixes the gift tag to the box and sets it under the tree. “Do you know how I figured it out? That there wasn’t a Father Christmas at all?”

“I assume you did the maths and realized there’s no way some bloke in a sleigh can make it round the world in one night,” says Ron with a grin.

“Close, but no.” Hermione helps herself to a biscuit - then quickly realizes it’s the last thing she wants to eat, and sets it back down. “Actually, I realized that Father Christmas and my mum had the exact same handwriting on all my gifts.”

“And were you gutted to find this out?”

“Not particularly. I was a bit relieved, actually, it always seemed rather unsafe to let a strange man break in through the fireplace and eat our food.”

Ron lets out a deep, delighted belly laugh and leans over to press a kiss to her cheek. “Only you would worry about that.”

“So how did you figure it out?”

“Oh, the twins spilled the beans before I had the chance,” says Ron flippantly. “Not that it mattered much anyway, he usually only brought like, new socks and things like that.” His features turn pensive. “I hope Rose doesn’t cotton on to it for a long time.”

Hermione nods. She’s suddenly acutely aware of every tiny detail: the hush over their sitting room, the ever-present twinkling of the fairy lights adorning the tree, the knowledge that their daughter is sleeping soundly upstairs. She is not often one for sentimentality, but things right now feel perfect, just as they are.

“I hope so too. But,” she adds, more businesslike as she unfurls the roll of wrapping paper, “it’ll be quite a long time before we have to worry about that.”

“Is this the last one?” asks Ron, picking up a box containing a toy dragon that breathes warm, kid-friendly fire upon command. “I can do it.”

“Oh, I’ve got it under control.”

“You’ve done nearly all of them though.” Carefully, he prises the wrapping paper out of her hands. “You could have woken me when you got up, you know. I don’t actually mind.”

“I know you don’t, but it’s fine. I supposed at least one of us should get some sleep.” As Ron used his wand to sever the paper (he was missing out, Hermione thought, on the glorious sliding sensation that comes only when using scissors to cut wrapping paper), she hauled herself to her feet. “Do you want some tea?”

“So we’re not going back to bed after this, then?”

“There isn’t really time, Rose is going to wake up soon.”

Ron’s gaze shifts toward the sitting room window, where the first vestiges of grey winter light are just streaming through the curtains. “She does rise with the sun these days,” he agrees. “Yeah, tea sounds great, cheers.”

Hermione pats him on the shoulder as she walks to the kitchen, where she sets the tea kettle to boil. As the water heats up, she opens the cupboard below the sink and peers into its dark and disorganized depths. There, among bottles of cleaning solution and spare sponges, is a small parcel wrapped in shiny gold paper. She retrieves it from behind the drain pipe, and as she does, her stomach flutters with nervous excitement. It’s been doing that a lot the past few weeks, and now that the moment is upon her, she finds her hands trembling as she drops tea bags into mugs and pours the hot water.

It feels different than it did the last time. This time around, she knows how this is going to go, and she can’t wait.

In her eagerness, she scoops probably too much sugar into one of the mugs (which, considering Ron’s standards, is really saying something), and carries both back to the sitting room with the parcel tucked under her arm. Ron’s just taping the corners of a box closed when she reaches him.

“What’ve you got?” asks Ron, extending an arm up to take his tea from her.

“Oh, erm.” Hermione deposits herself onto the carpet beside him. “This is for you, actually.”

She places the box onto his lap. With his mug of tea halfway to his lips, Ron frowns at it, then looks up at Hermione.

“We said we weren’t getting each other gifts this year.”

“I know, but can’t you just say thank you and open it?”

“No, I feel bad now, I’d have got you something if I knew - I even had ideas-“

“If it makes you feel better, it’s really for both of us. And Rose, actually,” she adds. “So just open it.”

Ron’s brows knit together in confusion. “How could it possibly-“

“Will you just open it already?” Hermione blurts out. “For God’s sake, you are impossible sometimes.”

“All right, all right,” Ron relents with a laugh,”I’m doing it.”

Breaking through the tape, he pulls the gold paper away from the box. It’s just plain white, a garment box, which Ron turns over in his hands to pull off the lid. Hermione’s heart thumps wildly in her chest as his hands push away the tissue paper and pick up an impossibly tiny jumper: retina-searing orange, with black interlocking Cs on the chest.

Quiet falls again; seconds drag on like hours.

“This is for a baby,” says Ron softly, and Hermione sees that his hands are shaking too.

“Right.”

“And… this won’t fit Rose.”

“Right.”

Their eyes meet. Ron’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly in a silent question; Hermione’s grateful he can’t find the words, because she can’t either. All she can do is nod… but it’s enough.

His arms engulf her, pressing her face against the soft fabric of his shirt and flooding her senses with the scent of his skin and his hair, everything about him that makes her feel safe and loved and whole.

“I can’t believe it,” he breathes, lips brushing the side of her neck as the words tumble out.

Hermione pulls back just enough to look at him. His blue eyes are shining. “Why can’t you believe it? It’s not like we haven’t been trying.”

“I know, I just-“ He leans in and kisses her, soft and sweet. “I still can’t believe this is my life. I can’t believe I get to have this life with you.”

Without the words to properly express just how much she agrees, she simply kisses him again. Even with eyes squeezed tightly against the tears now threatening to fall, she can sense the new light filling the room. Rose will wake soon, to tear through wrapping paper and eat biscuits for breakfast and spend the day in her pyjamas, but Hermione hopes to cling to this moment for just a few seconds longer.

“So, all right.” Ron’s smiling at her, so broadly that his cheeks must ache. “When did you find out? How did you - I mean-“

“I’ve known a couple of weeks,” Hermione confesses, sheepish. “That’s why I was up so early today. I’ve had horrible morning sickness.”

Ron shakes his head in amazement. “You’re barking.”

“You’re not angry, are you? That I didn’t just tell you?”

“What - no - why I would be - it’s perfect, it’s all perfect.” Ron lips find hers again, working their way over to her ear. “I love you.”

“I love you.”

Hermione settles contentedly into his embrace, but hardly has a chance to appreciate it when a small yet insistent yell sounds from the second floor.

“Dada!”

“Oh, that’s me,” says Ron cheerfully, releasing Hermione and clambering to his feet. “Shall I go get her? Are we ready?”

“Yes, we’re ready.”

[naitiaclo960writings]

Day 14 - Fun & Games

The evening was already well advanced when Dean decided to turn off his computer and take a break from his essay. That last year at engineering degree was starting to give him a hard time and, frankly, he was looking forward to graduating and being hired somewhere. Hopefully, he would find a job in the same city and not have to look for another apartment.

It’s been 3 years since he shared a place with his best friend Castiel and things suited him perfectly like they were. Castiel had already been in the active life for two years, working as a heritage officer at the Kansas City Museum, but sharing the rent of their apartment was a relief for everyone. Moreover, they had now settled into a comfortable routine that gave rhythm to their lives in the most pleasant way. Most often, they would invite friends on Friday nights and spend an evening together over a beer. Saturday was reserved for a video game night where Castiel often ended up winning and bequeathing his dishes tour of the week to Dean. Sunday night was a mix of movies and popcorn while Tuesday was a board game night. On Wednesdays, finally, they always ordered from the Japanese caterer on the corner of the street and zapped between Netflix and YouTube until they were too tired to put away their plates and left them on the coffee table in the living room.

Dean stretched out at his desk before he got up. He quietly shut off his laptop and put down the glasses he used for work on top, massaging the back of his neck gently. When he turned off the light from his desk, his room was plunged into darkness and, as if to confirm the late hour, his belly began to grumble softly.

"Okay…" He sighed while putting a hand on his belly. It was time for him to return to the real world.

Outside, he heard Castiel moving a few pots and he smiled softly. He could always count on his friend to cook for them when he was too immersed in his own classes to care, and truly, Castiel was not such a bad cook as he claimed. Dean walked blindly to his door and opened it to a good smell of melted cheese. Growling with envy and a tenfold appetite, he approached the kitchen to find his roommate tidying up some kitchen utensils, the oven gently purring behind him. Dean leaned against the central island with a relaxed smile.

"What’s up, chief?" Dean asked, raising his voice in the hope of surprising Castiel.

The latter did not even jump, probably having heard him arrive without showing it. He put away the spatula he had in his hand before responding to Dean with a smile on his face.

"Four cheeses Mac’n’Cheese!" Castiel proudly announced, turning to him.

"Wow." Dean said, raising his eyebrows, truly surprised. "And what did I do to deserve one of my favorite comfort foods tonight?"

Castiel smiled even more and shrugged, returning to his storage. He took the time to rinse a knife before answering.

"You hardly left your room in the afternoon, I thought you might need a pick-me-up."

And it was as simple as that. It has now been 7 years since Dean and Castiel met, they had found each other at school and had not really left each other since. As a result, Castiel was obviously able to read Dean like an open book and the opposite was also true. They were confidants for each other, brothers almost, pillars on which to lean when everything went too fast around them. Dean and Castiel had actually painted the town red in high school before going to enter together into the terrifying life of a student or, for Castiel, an active worker. Above all, they had always been there for each other. Dean had been more than present during the divorce of Castiel’s parents and the ensuing family debacle, he had even taken his friend out of a very bad drug past for which Castiel would be forever grateful. Castiel, meanwhile, had supported Dean when Mary Winchester had lost her battle against a disease and John spent about most of his time at the bar, drowning his grief while his sons remained helpless at home. Dean no longer counted the number of times Castiel had welcomed him and Sam into his home simply to give them a break from everything else.

Such events bound destinies for a long time when they were lived like this. However, although Dean cherished his friendship with Castiel more than anything, he had to face reality about a year earlier. Dean was not particularly known for his long introspections, but he was obliged to admit after several months of living together that his friendship with Castiel had perhaps turned into a more concrete and disabling feeling in his situation.

Okay, maybe he had a thing for Castiel. A little bit. Okay, good time! He wasn’t even sure it was mutual, so he certainly wasn’t going to waste 7 years of friendship on a simple… feeling? For God’s sake, he had spent whole evenings struggling with this very question, thinking about it again and again until he got migraines, and he had finally come to the conclusion that if he did not have absolute confirmation of the reciprocity of his feelings, then he wouldn’t try anything. It may have been giving up without a fight, but whatever he had was too valuable to make decisions lightly. It was not even certain that Castiel liked men! Well, yes, perhaps, his friend qualified himself as"pansexual". What Dean always said to him was that it was just "being a fucking care bear, but more complicated, just to piss me off."

Anyway, after months of internal debate, Dean always found himself in the middle of that kitchen, with a best friend and roommate he loved a little more every day, but to which he had to continue pretending to maintain the ideal routine in which they had settled. Dean smiled tenderly at Castiel, who had now finished tidying up the kitchen and, realizing that he might have been staring at him for a little too long now, he sighed and went to the couch to choose their program.

They ate in a good mood in front of a horror film so lame that Dean was seized with a hysterical laugher in the middle and nearly choked on a macaroni. For dessert, Dean got up and came back with two ice creams — vanilla for him and a much more sophisticated taste for Castiel like wild mango or whatever — to finish their meal. Surprisingly, Dean was not particularly tired despite his long day of work and considering the energy that Castiel still had in front of the film, neither was his friend. When the credits began to scroll on the screen, Dean sighed.

"What time do you start tomorrow?" He asked in an innocent tone.

Castiel stretched out on the couch before falling back heavily into it.

"At 11:00, I’m closing." He said, grimacing. "But I won’t be spitting on some extra sleep, really."

Dean let out a contemplative "mmh" before turning to his friend.

"Does that mean you’re up for continuing the night a little longer? I’m starting late tomorrow too, and I admit that I’d like to enjoy the last few hours of the weekend without thinking about my damn essay." Dean pouted.

At these words, Castiel laughs softly and Dean already knew his answer by the expression of his face alone.

"What do you propose?" Castiel asked, raising a defiant eyebrow.

Dean took a short moment to think before his gaze landed on the drawer in which all their board games rested. Immediately, his brain set out to lead him towards an idea that would gradually stretch a malicious smile on his face. Of course, he had long established that he could not reveal his feelings to Castiel, but that did not mean that he could not take advantage of them here and there when the opportunity presented itself.

"A card game?" Dean suggested, turning an angelic face to Castiel again. "Do you know how to play poker?"

Castiel frowned and tilted his head slightly to the side, as was always the case when a situation confused him somehow.

"Uh… I can’t say I do, no. It always seemed rather complicated to me when I saw you playing that during parties." Castiel replied slowly, his blue and curious eyes fixed on Dean.

"It’s pretty simple once you understand the basics!" Dean assured, already bending over to open the drawer with his plan still in mind. "I can teach you if you want, it’ll save you from getting ripped off by Gabriel the next time we play."

As he hoped, these words seemed to unlock something in Castiel’s mind, for his friend straightened himself up with new interest before nodding.

"Okay, but only on one condition." He said, raising his eyebrows. "We don’t bet money. I already have to pay Charlie back because of our last night together."

Dean laughs softly at the mention of that stupid bet that Castiel had royally lost while he was reinstalling himself on the couch with the card game in hand.

"Okay, okay. That’s fine with me. But we still need to spice things up or poker is a lot less fun." He pretended to think for a moment under Castiel’s innocent gaze before resuming. "For lack of something better... we can consider a strip poker?"

As these words left his mouth, Dean felt his heart speed up in his chest. Of course, he had already seen Castiel half-naked many times before, and although he had always appreciated what he saw there, he had to admit that this context would be otherwise amusing. Nevertheless, Castiel remained forbidden and inexpressive so long before him that Dean quickly lost his smile.

"I mean, no… Of course not, I was joking. What-"

"Strip poker works for me." Castiel cut off.

His friend had answered so confidently that Dean was caught off guard for a moment before he could recover. Castiel agreed with his idea, really?

"But it’s quite uneven." Castiel replied, pouting. "You already know the rules, I’ll be naked in less than ten minutes."

That’s the idea, Dean thought. But as he still had compassion for Castiel, he looked around before he got up.

"Mix the cards, I’ll come back." He said to Castiel.

Quickly, he arrived in the kitchen and began searching in the cupboard just below the central island.

"Do we have any bottles left from Friday?" Dean asked as his eyes swept over the contents of the closet.

"I think Benny left a bottle of sherry, yes." Castiel replied from the living room.

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes. Sherry, seriously… Did Benny think he was a modern-day pirate or something?

"It’s an insult to call Sherry alcohol when you’re under 40, but… fine." Dean said while grabbing the said bottle before heading out in search of tumblers.

"It’s more of a set of brandy-cut wines, actually, but you did you know that-"

"Cas." Dean sighed again as he returned to the salon with his findings.

He did not need to look in the direction of Castiel to know that he had rolled his eyes heavily. Dean reinstalled himself in the sofa and placed the sherry bottle and the tumblers on the coffee table. He began his explanation while serving the first cup.

"Well, the rules are simple. If you lose a turn in poker, you take off one piece of clothing and the last one naked wins." He grabbed another tumbler. "However... Since I am an extremely nice and magnanimous teacher, we will have three jokers each." Dean pointed to the liquor bottle. "Therefore, if you lose a match, you have the right to choose to drink a shot bottom up rather than take off clothes. We’ll have three jokers each for the whole night. Is that all right, Mr. Know-it-all?"

Castiel did not pay attention to the comment and watched Dean pour the last shot with special attention. He seemed to be much more focused than he wanted to appear until then, and Dean restrained a smile. Castiel had always been a competitor.

"If the three jokers are only usable for the whole evening, then three is not enough." Castiel protested. "I really don’t know anything about it! Allow us at least five? Please?" He added with a more than pronounced pleading expression that came straight to Dean’s heart.

He rolled his eyes before taking out four new cups.

"Yeah, yeah, if you want. Five jokers each then, but don’t expect that to save you from not exposing those gorgeous leopard panties that I gave you for Thanksgiving last year." Dean replied with a mocking smile.

Castiel pushed him with his foot from the other end of the couch and kept his mouth shut on the fact that he, at least, was not knowingly buying Scooby-Doo underwear. Nevertheless, he let go of the remark and straightened himself up on the couch as Dean began to deal the cards. Judging by the smile on Dean’s face, he was more than confident.

* * *

Turns out Castiel was either a damn good liar or he had a freaking knack for poker. Dean continued to bitch in his corner while he was already in his underwear and socks on the couch, his five empty sherry glasses on the coffee table while three on Castiel’s side were still full. Not to mention the fact that Castiel was still perfectly dressed and even sprawled out among the blankets in a casual attitude that only offended Dean more.

He himself was curled up and kept staring at his cards with a sullen expression, alcohol already making him spin his head to make matters worse.

"You’re sulking." Castiel unnecessarily remarked as he was knocking down other cards on their improvised playground.

"I’m not- Damn it, seriously!" Dean suddenly exclaimed in a raging gesture as Castiel won that round again." Dude, I don’t have any more clothes to take anything off!"

Castiel raised an almost cruel eyebrow.

"You still have your socks. Why didn’t you take them off first anyway?" He asked, tilting his head one more time to the side.

Dean simply groaned as an answer and placed his card game with ill-humor on the armrest of the couch. The truth was that he had always been a little chilly in their apartment, whatever the temperature indicated by the thermometer, but he preferred to stand naked in front of Castiel ten times than to admit it in person. Eventually, he began to pull on his left sock reluctantly before letting the poor piece of cloth fall to the ground. If he got sick because of that damn game he started himself, he’d never play poker again.

By attending to his friend’s obvious bad faith, Castiel had to restrain a smile. Eventually, poker was quite instinctive according to him and he even enjoyed playing it now.

"We do one last game before we go to sleep?" Castiel asked, putting the cards together and mixing them again.

Dean sighed loudly.

"What, so I can go back to my room barefoot and bare-bottomed?" Dean grumbled.

Castiel rolled his eyes and began dealing the cards in silence, ignoring Dean’s bad loser attitude and his naked and shivering body before him for a moment. He briefly thought about an alternative before biting his inner cheek with apprehension considering to the direction in which his thoughts were going. Maybe these two sherry cups finally got to his brain... Castiel had never held his liquor very well. However, he was the first to be surprised — and mortified — by the forbidden words that came out of his mouth:

"I have another idea. For the last match, I’ll give you an extra joker." Castiel began, feeling a knot in his stomach as to the turn the events would soon take.

"Mmh?" Dean replied with a questioning look, his curiosity obviously bringing him a new interest.

"If I beat you again on this game…" He handed Dean a few cards, face down. "You will have the right to refuse to take your clothes off. But in that case, you will have to trust me and let me… challenge you? 

Dean raised an eyebrow before turning completely to Castiel, sitting cross-legged on the couch. He remained silent for a moment before taking a deep breath and finally grabbing the cards that Castiel handed him.

"… Will I regret it again?" Dean asked seriously.

Castiel swallowed. He had no good answer to this question. Was he himself certain of what he was doing? Not at all. But he needed Dean to play tonight, because right now, he felt brave.

"No." He lied.

Dean seemed to gauge him for a moment before finally nodding. Thus, another game engaged in a silence filled with concentration. Both of them knew there was a real stake in this game even though Dean was advancing blindly this time. No matter the outcome of the game, he already knew that he would choose Castiel’s challenge, just because he was a player and possessed a curiosity far too strong for his own good. Moreover, this redness that he had thought had subtly appeared on Castiel’s face when he had imposed his condition did not cease to come to torture his mind. He needed to know.

Of course, as if it had been bound to happen, Dean would put his cards down on the couch just to see his chances of winning be wiped out by Castiel a few seconds later. His shoulders dropped heavily, the adrenaline of the game diminishing to give way to defeat. He did not say a word, hardly surprised though, and looked up at Castiel who offered him a compassionate smile. Dean sighed and clasped his hands before him, shrugging.

"Okay Doc Holliday, you got me cowboy…" Dean pouted. "Okay… Joker. What should I do?"

Castiel suddenly seemed nervous in front of him, which did not help Dean relax. He frowned slightly, uncertain, while Castiel laid all the cards on the table.

"I.... I need you to close your eyes. It has to be a surprise or I.... Anyway. Close your eyes please." Castiel stuttered in front of him.

Dean watched him for a moment without saying anything before finally taking a discreet breath and closing his eyes. As soon as the living room disappeared around him, Castiel’s beautiful face faded behind his eyelids as he tried to ignore his crazy heart beating in his chest. The atmosphere had suddenly become special in their apartment, and this since Castiel had brought up the challenge. Dean’s instincts were yelling at him that this was the ultimate time to trust his friend, because something important was going to happen. He could not explain it more than that, he knew it, that’s all.

Dean remained as calm as possible as he tried to listen to what was going on around him. In the first place, only Castiel’s quick breathing made itself heard while Dean remained straight in his place, gently squeezing his hands against each other to control the nerves that he felt rising in him. After a few seconds, he heard movement in front of him and felt the couch rise a little, as if his friend had just changed position. Suddenly, he felt this same rapid breath close to his face and frowned gently, confused. When he could endure it no longer, Dean opened his mouth slightly to ask the question that he was dying to ask before his lips were covered by warm, wet others. Sweet and yet trembling.

Dean opened wide, astonished eyes, in shock as his heart missed another beat. Immediately, he fell upon Castiel’s face, gently close to his own, and swallowed a surprised exclamation which had gone up his throat. The kiss was not really one while Castiel quickly stepped back with nervousness to look into Dean’s eyes, their faces still close and frozen in the moment. Dean looked at Castiel who was looking back at him and everything was crumbling around them in a silence filled with electricity and unspoken confusion. Dean felt like dying and being reborn at the same time, silently in that body that suddenly seemed so narrow to him.

"You…?" Dean whispered, even if he never managed to finish his sentence.

Castiel feverishly licked his lower lip before shaking his head imperceptibly, the face so devastated by the fear of rejection at the moment that Dean felt like he had fallen into his worst nightmare. He could not bear such an expression on Castiel’s face, Cas who had kissed him, Cas who was afraid of his reaction, Cas who cared for him right now. Castiel who loved him.

In a surge of combativeness and surely relief, Dean filled the space between their mouths again and slipped one of his hands to the back of Castiel’s neck to keep him close, preventing him from escaping this time. Once the surprise has passed for Castiel, Dean could almost see his whole body lighten up and melt into their shared kiss. This simple contact seemed to open so many doors that they were too blind to see before that Dean almost had his head spinning. Did Cas have at least as much desire as he had for him the whole time? He tightened his grip around his roommate’s body, he needed to hold on to something so he wouldn’t fall right away.

But he fell anyway when Castiel gently pushed him onto the sofa so that he lay down under him. Later that night he fell again into this large bed in Castiel's room, his lips unable to leave the body of the other as if he desired to make every inch of him feel loved. He fell and fell and fell all night long, tumbling down into the most exquisite and liberating of the falls as a smile split their two faces in the frenzy of the moment. Dean kept falling, but he didn’t do it alone, clinging to the one thing he had never hoped for in recent years and that he could finally touch with his fingers now.

Finally, he was unable to remain angry with Castiel for having beaten him at poker, just as he was unable to detach himself from him that night. As the sun’s rays filtered through the closed shutters of Castiel’s room, Dean gently caressed his lover’s face in the hollow of the pillow with a new, fascinated tenderness. He barely waited until Castiel opened his eyes to steal another kiss before whispering against his lips.

"Hey… I have no fucking idea what happened to my remaining sock yesterday."

When Castiel let out a hoarse chuckle before drawing him closer to himself, Dean promised to do everything to hear this sound every morning now. They were going to need more games night from now on…

* * * @winchester-reload​

Yep, I’m late haha, sorry! It took me a while to write this one but no worries, I’ll post day 15 and day 16 today too. I’m really proud of this OS, don’t hesitate to come and talk about it with me in the comments!

You can find the whole series on Ao3

Tag list /!\ PLEASE TELL ME IF YOU WANT TO BE ADD TO (or removed from) THE TAG LIST so you won’t miss any updates.

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[glorious-blackout]

Self-Indulgent Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino/Simulation Theory Crossover Part Four

@rock-n-roll-fantasy Still don’t have a working title yet, but the current favourite is ‘Mark Needs a Hug’ 😅 This one is set directly after the teaser. I’ll hopefully be able to post some more tomorrow but that depends entirely on how much the next part fights me during the editing process...

Part One, Part Two, Part Three

Any hopes that the warm fuzz clouding over his mind would lift by morning are quickly dashed.  

A shrill alarm snaps Mark out of a light doze, sentencing him to the wrath of a crushing headache which cannot be blamed entirely on alcohol. Any thoughts of getting up and facing the day are discarded. Heavy, unblinking eyes remain fixed to the ceiling above, the muted colours swirling as his vision blurs, and a shuddering exhale tears through his chest as fatigue immobilises his limbs, confining him to the mattress. Contrary to what he’d hoped as he drifted into slumber, he retains enough memory of the previous night’s events that he doubts he can ever convincingly slip back into normality.  

It takes tortuous effort to direct his gaze towards the bright red phone resting on his bedside table, but the thought of calling his friends is enough to have his throat closing from dread. They wouldn’t understand. Words have a habit of eluding him even at the best of times, and he doubts he has the ability to string together a sufficient explanation for why he feels like his life has been irrevocably altered. Not in the space of a single phone call at any rate.

Eventually he does summon the strength to drag himself out of bed, albeit the specifics as to how he accomplished such a monumental task elude him as he stares blearily at the bathroom mirror. He even succeeds in throwing himself beneath a scalding spray in the shower before locating a shirt and jacket combo which almost matches, but that’s the extent to which his normal routine is preserved. Breakfast is not an option of course; the mere thought of searching through his fridge for something to eat is provocation enough to have bile rising in his throat. No doubt he had clear plans for the day at one point, but those too are mercilessly cast aside. Instead, his focus becomes narrowed to one very specific focal point. Matthew may well have vanished into the night, but his influence stubbornly clings to Mark like a terminal disease.  

Countless hours are spent retracing his steps from the previous night. As the thick haze pressing against his skull intensifies, he allows instinct to take over as his feet carry him through the now-deserted ballroom. Seven identical corridors ultimately lead towards this room - the beating heart of the hotel - but it takes Mark no time at all to identify the unassuming door through which Matthew slipped away. Traversing the convoluted maze which lead to that impossible corridor takes significantly longer, but in spite of the many random twists and turns, the route appears to be fused to his brain like a hot brand. His innate familiarity for the hotel’s many secrets has always served him well, though he wonders how long that will last considering the location he seeks shouldn’t exist in the first place.

It’s less surprising than it should be when his memories direct him to a dead-end. Mark had expected little else, though disappointment still hangs heavy in his heart as he draws to a premature halt outside Room 217. The sleek black door stares at him enticingly, daring him to turn back the way he came and try another route, but he knows for a fact that he has not taken a single false step. Last night there hadn’t been a hotel room here at all. Instead, the hallway had stretched onwards to yet another junction, directing him onto the impossible corridor with the impassive statues and the cupboard which played host to a menacing red light, right up until it hosted nothing but a broom and several layers of stacked bedsheets.  

Mark must linger a little too long. His funk is shattered when the door opens to reveal an ancient woman with papery white skin and pursed red lips, dressed in elegant black furs with emeralds draped around her neck. She surveys him intently with deep hawk-like eyes, wordlessly demanding an explanation for his presence which he is incapable of offering. When he makes no attempt to break the spell, she simply shoves past him, muttering something about “bloody day-drinkers" as the door slams shut behind her. Mark sways on his feet, wondering if the old bat’s assessment is somewhat correct and if he’s still trapped within the throes of an alcoholic daze, but he discards that thought quickly. In retrospect he barely had anything at all last night, and he suspects that his mind has been poisoned by something far worse.

Undeterred by the corridor’s absence, he spends the rest of the day searching the length and breadth of the hotel for answers. It occurs to him at one point during his mad escapade that he doesn’t even know what he’s searching for. A solid hour is wasted flitting among slot machines and poker tables in the vibrant casino, half-expecting Matthew to appear around every corner. He would certainly blend in here with greater ease than he accomplished in the ballroom, given the neon colour scheme and lurid eighties aesthetic. Many of the guests frequenting this establishment choose to do so in hideously expensive suits which become less and less affordable the longer they stay, but the oddballs are more numerous here than anywhere else in the complex. The specific oddball he seeks does not make a reappearance however, nor do any of the patrons admit to knowing him when Mark lures them into a casual interrogation, and he eventually abandons the gamblers to their vices with an air of dejection.

When he’s not searching for Matthew, he preoccupies himself with trying to convince his brain that he didn’t imagine the strange corridor last night. He does a pretty terrible job of it too. The endless twists and turns of identical hotel corridors with their identical high ceilings and identical oak doors and identical potted plants become dizzying fast. Even when he’s certain he’s covered the guests’ quarters from root to stem, the overwhelming sense of déjà vu with every new hallway he stumbles upon makes him wonder if he’s been trapped within an endless maze.

Christ knows what he must look like when Jamie eventually finds him. Mark leaps out of his skin when he’s dragged back to reality by the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder - frantic and wild-eyed - and not even the sight of his friend is enough to calm his racing heart. Jamie looks equally startled, raising his hands in mock-surrender as a fleeting smile betrays his deep concern, and Mark can only stare blankly when his friend explains that he’s somehow missed three meetings today including a guest pick-up and their band rehearsal and oh, by the way, what the hell is going on?

Whatever sorry excuse leaves his mouth must suffice. He even manages to play a show that night, sans rehearsal and with his mind a million miles away from the stifling overhead lights and the gawping guests. He performs the entire show on autopilot. Lyrics he’s been singing for years escape his lips with the aid of pure instinct and little else, and while he fumbles the words once or twice, the crowd don’t seem to mind. The concerned glances darting between his bandmates aren’t lost on him, but he cannot bring himself to care. Instead, he uses what little mental faculty he has left to scan the faces in the crowd in search of Matthew, or one of Matt’s pursuers at the very least. His efforts ultimately prove to be fruitless, though he can’t say he expected anything else.

The show ends in the usual uproarious applause, despite the fact that Mark’s investment in performing has never been lower. Before the crowd has even begun to disperse, he finds himself galloping towards the stairs. He pointedly ignores the naked concern in Jamie’s eyes and Nick’s questioning “Mark?” in favour of abandoning the stage as quickly as his feet will allow, storming towards his suite without so much as a backwards glance as he swallows down the sting of defeat.

The following two days pass in a similar blur, albeit a far less productive one. This time around he has the foresight to cancel his meetings and rehearsals first thing in the morning, feigning illness as a half-baked excuse. He even manages to convince the orchestra’s conductor to play some additional shows in exchange for a lofty fee. Beyond that, however, he accomplishes very little. The strain of exhaustion confines him to bed for the most part, and any sleep he gets is scattered and restless. More often than not he wakes with his heart in his throat and a dull throb tearing his skull apart, emanating from the spot where the dreamlike apparition of Matt’s pursuer has just planted a bullet.  

(On occasion the nightmares will involve him discovering Matthew’s body instead, pale and sightless, though he can’t say those dreams make him feel any better than the ones in which he is the one reduced to a lifeless mass of flesh and bone).

**************************

An insistent, nagging voice tugs at his attention from the periphery, but for once he feels inclined to ignore it. At the present moment, the small poker chip in his hand seems much more fascinating as he flips it between his fingers. Much as he tries, he cannot remember where he found it. Perhaps he acquired it on his wild goose chase through the casino; either that or it was already living on his desk as a souvenir, won during a wild night out many moons ago. Its origins don’t particularly matter in the grand scheme of things. What matters is that its weight provides a pleasant distraction from the lecture he is currently fighting to drown out.

“-ark!”

He clenches his eyes shut and flinches as his peaceful bubble bursts into vapour, leaving his nerves exposed and frayed. The poker chip slips between his fingers, clattering on the hard wood of his desk before slipping to the floor, and he forces himself to take a steadying breath before his resolve can shatter. Breaking apart now will do him no favours. Especially considering that the one who’ll bear witness to his unravelling is the last person he wants to reveal any weakness to.

“You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said, have you?” Murphy observes when Mark finally draws his eyes towards the screen. The scathing edge to the man’s tone is not lost on him, but overall his voice is impressively calm. One could be forgiven for believing that he wasn’t seething with liquid rage, but Mark knows better. This call is taking place a whole four days earlier than scheduled, which is a frankly terrible omen as far as he’s concerned.

A particularly startling detail is the fact that Murphy appears...unsettled. He’s clearly trying to conceal that fact with all his might, but Mark knows how to read Murphy’s expressions better than anyone. That same anguish has faced him in the mirror too many times to count. Upon answering the call, he had been struck by the messier appearance of Murphy’s hair – eyes fixated on the stray curl obscuring his forehead – alongside the added lines carved into his brow; had found himself honing in on the tightness of his jaw and every minute twitch that rocked his slender frame. Something is preying on Murphy’s mind – more so than his usual troubles – and Mark doubts he wants to uncover the source of that unease.

“Sorry,” he forces out eventually, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and taking an exaggerated breath to sell his exhausted façade, not that there’s much falsehood to it. “Haven’t been feeling well lately. Zoned out for a bit.”

As excuses go, it’s rather paper-thin and they both know it. Mark reluctantly meets Murphy’s gaze, schooling his expression into one of apologetic sincerity, and he can’t help but wonder if the persistent impassivity on the other man’s face is equally forced.

“Hmm,” Murphy hums dismissively, settling against his high-backed chair and capturing Mark with eyes which appear almost black in the office’s dim light. It must be late wherever he is, which only heightens the impression that Mark is eating into his time like a disruptive child having to be held back after school. “And are you back with us now?”

“Yeah,” Mark says without thinking. Experience has taught him that any other answer will not be tolerated. “Yeah, go ahead.”

Murphy doesn’t appear convinced. Large, piercing eyes continue to bore through Mark via the computer screen, and he cannot help but shift uncomfortably in his seat. The similarities between the pair of them appear starker in this moment than they have in years, albeit Mark imagines he must look like a second-rate version of the put-together businessman facing him. Their resemblance has never felt like a crueller coincidence, especially as any certainty about his own identity is already crumbling to dust in the wake of Matthew’s weighted farewell.

Eventually, Murphy stops trying to dissect Mark with a gaze and merely huffs a sigh, before launching into the topic he seems to have been waiting for all evening.

“I’ve been reliably informed that you had some...interesting company the other night.”

The man’s delivery remains remarkably flat, but the accusatory undertones are clear as day and Mark releases a choked laugh that surprises even himself. Of course this is about Matthew. Mark is honestly stumped as to why that fact even surprises him. Why else would his boss call him out of the blue if not to address the weird fucking circumstances of the other night?  

He wonders who the whistleblower was. One of the guests? Andrew? The barman had certainly struggled to keep a straight face when he’d served Matthew the other night; his judgement of Mark’s choice of drinking partner clear as day with every sideways glance. Shame. Mark has always liked Andrew. Not enough to trust him, perhaps, but enough that the possibility of his thoughtless betrayal stings.

“Y’know what, I’m actually impressed!” he admits, a crooked smile lingering on his lips as he shakes his head. “Didn’t expect you to be so upfront about the fact that you’re spying on me.”

“Enough with the games, Mark!” Murphy snaps, his resolve finally shattering. A twinge of satisfaction tugs at Mark’s heart as he watches that impenetrable exterior bend a little; the cracks beginning to show at last. Whatever game is truly afoot is clearly shaking Murphy to his core, despite his valiant attempts to hide it. “Do you mind explaining to me why you were with him?”

Him. No name, no identity of any sort, yet Mark doesn’t need to ask who exactly has Murphy so riled up. Treacherous curiosity sinks its claws into his brain as he wonders what influence Matthew could possibly hold over a man like Murphy, but he doesn’t dare ask. Not yet anyway.

“I wasn’t with him,” he retaliates, with perhaps more bitterness than he intends. The underlying insinuation hardly offends him, but the thought of his every move being observed and speculated upon even in the supposed freedom of his evenings is enough to make his skin crawl. “I wanted to get drunk. So did he. We just happened to do it in the same place and figured we might as well chat for a bit like normal people.”

There’s a minute shift at that, so subtle that Mark doubts anyone else could have picked up on it. The moment is so fleeting that he finds himself second-guessing if what he saw was real or imagined, but the heaviness settling in his chest - coiling around his heart and lungs – is enough to assure him that it was genuine. That Murphy’s eyes had widened, albeit only slightly, and his breath had caught on a sharp inhale. If Mark didn’t know him better, he may even begin to suspect that the man was afraid.

“Did you discuss anything in particular?” Murphy asks eventually, schooling his voice into one of flippant curiosity. His effort to convey only mild interest is admirable, though Mark has to conceal a proud smirk when the man’s eyes dart to the side, betraying his lingering unease. He thinks he can just about handle the suffocating awkwardness of their conversation so long as he gets to watch Murphy squirm as well, like a feeble woodland creature caught in a trap.  

“Good scotch and theoretical physics if you must know,” Mark snaps, exerting far less energy on keeping his voice level than Murphy is. He pulls his gaze away from the screen as white-hot rage simmers in his veins, making every breath feel as though they’re being yanked from his ribs. The temptation to plant his fist in the screen is momentarily overwhelming – it would certainly put an end to this infuriating conversation – but he settles for clenching his hands in his lap until the knuckles go white. On any other day, he would be able to control himself where Murphy is concerned, but at this particular moment he finds he cannot even recognise himself. No doubt the fault for that lies more with Matthew than Murphy, but Matt isn’t here to face Mark’s confused wrath. “Not that it’s any of your fucking business.”

Silence washes over them like a towering wave during a storm. Mark’s breathing suddenly feels unbearably rapid and, in the absence of external stimuli, his heartbeat pounds against his eardrums with enough ferocity that he can feel the blood rushing to his head. On the screen, Murphy recoils as though slapped, and his body stiffens as the weight of Mark’s outburst settles in the air. Mark forces himself to look and wishes he hadn’t; feels dread coil in his gut as Murphy’s face goes white and his jaw clenches with the effort of containing his unmistakable loathing.  

Such ugly rage is not something Mark ever wanted to see on a face so strikingly similar to his own. The mere sight of it makes him feel like a child. Suddenly he’s five years old again, crouched beside his mother’s shattered vase with the football-shaped culprit cradled in his arms; heart in his mouth as he waits for her to return home with hot shame flaring in his cheeks. Only, Murphy’s temperament is nothing like his mother’s, who had simply laughed off his mistake and urged him to be more careful in future as he hugged her tightly (“Or at least aim for the green one next time love, you know I hate that one...”). No doubt if it were physically possible, Murphy would reach through the screen and throttle him until his eyes rolled back into his skull, and Mark has never been more grateful for the colossal distance between them.

Hours seem to have passed by the time Murphy’s deep scowl morphs into a sardonic smile, the edges of his lips tugging upwards with visible effort, and it occurs to Mark that the man’s undisguised fury may have been preferable.

“Careful now,” Murphy says in a low voice, head tilting to the side as he traps Mark under the weight of his gaze. “Need I remind you that you still answer to me?”

Mark thinks that even if he wanted to speak, he wouldn’t be able to. His throat feels tight, to the point where he wonders if Murphy has figured out how to wrap his fingers around his neck from thousands of miles away. His heart continues to race as though he’s just completed a sprint at the Olympics, and his eyes feel impossibly heavy, seeking recompense for all their hours of lost sleep. In the end he settles for answering Murphy’s question with a minute shake of his head and hopes that it’ll be enough. He’ll be damned if he utters an apology as well.

The gesture seems to suffice. Murphy drops the degrading smirk and draws his lips into a tight line, but his eyes soften and he sits back with a sigh which seems to carry all his pent-up frustration with it. In the ensuing quiet, Mark is left with the distinct impression that he’s just dodged a bullet; not for the first time this week.

That thought, as so many others have over the past three days, bring him back to Matthew. Or rather, to Matthew’s mysterious assailants. They certainly hadn’t been associated with the hotel any more than Matt himself had, and Mark can’t help but wonder if Murphy was the one who sent them. Sending armed individuals into a hotel full of innocent civilians seems extreme even for Murphy, but his apparent hatred for Matthew may have overwhelmed any sense of moral decency he still possesses.  

Which of course brings his mind back to Matthew himself. For all his eccentricities, he certainly hadn’t seemed threatening. Nor did he seem to have a particular agenda, and even if he did, he hadn’t been particularly forceful in trying to convert Mark to his cause. All they’d really done was discuss some theoretical possibilities which Mark had no interest in believing. While he cannot deny that Matt’s questions have been looping around his brain endlessly, he still can’t bring himself to question the nature of his reality with too much scrutiny. Whether that’s because he truly believes Matthew to be a madman or because the possibility that he may be right terrifies him more than he’s willing to admit, Mark cannot say. All he knows is that life was much simpler before he met that mysterious traveller, though that doesn’t mean he has any desire to betray him on Murphy’s behalf.

Murphy considers him a threat though. He may not have admitted as much out loud, but his demeanor has been screaming it loud and clear from the moment Matthew was first referenced.

“Who is he?” Mark asks, inwardly scolding himself for doing a terrible job at hiding his desperation for answers. At this point in time, he thinks he may burst if forced to endure any more mysteries.

“Nobody you should concern yourself with,” Murphy offers dismissively, though he must sense Mark’s curiosity strongly enough to throw him a bone. Albeit a paper-thin one that’s been used as a dog’s chew toy a tad too long. “In saying that, I would strongly advise against interacting with him further. He’s dangerous, Mark. If left to his own devices, he will destroy everything you’ve built.”

‘Everything I’ve built or everything you’ve built?��� Mark finds himself pondering as his brows furrow with confusion, though he thinks better of voicing it. ‘Dangerous’ is not an adjective he would have used to describe Matthew, and if he’d sought to harm Mark or damage the hotel in any way then he’d done a piss-poor job of showing it. Contrary to his hopes, Murphy’s response has simply left him further in the dark, and he’s beginning to doubt he’ll ever be able to crawl out of it.

It occurs to him that he hasn’t yet addressed the biggest question remaining from that night. The detail which had left him unable to sleep as his mind replayed one specific moment over and over, like a highlights reel condensed down to ten critical seconds.

“He recognised me,” Mark admits, voice small and lifeless as though all traces of energy have been sapped from him. Perhaps he truly has been drained. Murphy’s always had that effect on him even on the best of days.

“Of course he did,” Murphy scoffs, and the bitter amusement in his eyes is enough to make Mark’s blood boil. “You’re rather famous, or so I’m told.”

Oh, he’s well aware of that. Except that isn’t the issue, not the crux of it anyway. Matt had certainly acknowledged his status often enough to make it clear that he knew who he was, but as the night had worn on, his aloof attitude had morphed into something approaching fondness. With his final words, Matthew had bade farewell as though addressing an old friend, despite the fact that Mark could have sworn blind that he’d never laid eyes on him in his life.

Only, as time has passed, that line of thinking has started to feel less and less accurate. Even during their conversation he’d been plagued by a nagging sense of familiarity which had been quickly cast aside, though the fact that Matt acknowledged that same familiarity has reignited his curiosity in the aftermath. And while he cannot pin down a specific memory, he has found himself plagued by occasional... flashes. Tiny details, like remnants of a half-forgotten dream or individual components of a jigsaw puzzle with several missing pieces.  

He sees a mass of people sitting at round tables in one flash. The spark of a camera in another. Scattered laughter and a lingering sense of self-consciousness as he takes in the faces of the crowd. A desperate need to be anywhere else coiling in his alcohol-soaked gut. Perhaps the setting was a fancy dinner somewhere, though at one point his brain brings up the possibility of an awards ceremony and something vital clicks into place.  

He only catches a glimpse of Matthew in one of those puzzle pieces; the fleeting memory coming to him during a fitful doze in the wee hours of the morning. He looks markedly younger, with tamed flat hair and a suit that somehow appears more awkward on his skinny frame than his ridiculous neon jacket had, but his eyes are bright and his smile is sincere in an environment where so many smiles seem feigned for Mark’s benefit. Any concrete recollection beyond that image remains locked away, though Mark had awoken with the words, “Saw you guys playing the other day, you sounded great!” circling his head like a pack of vultures.

Despite his efforts, he cannot combine those flashes into a coherent whole. They feel too scattered, as though someone has taken a scalpel and carefully removed all the connective tissue from the scene. At times he finds himself doubting that the memories are even his. They feel too detached from his current existence to slot easily within his known lifespan, and surely a fancy dinner or ceremony with that level of grandeur would have stuck in his memory beyond mere snippets of recollection? Surely such a significant event would be memorable enough on its own, rather than concealed behind an impenetrable brick wall?

“That’s not what I meant,” he manages to spit out, and he could swear that some of Murphy’s smugness fades at that utterance. As his next words threaten to spill forth, Mark takes a deep breath and lowers his gaze, feeling his resolve waver with each passing moment. “He called me Alex.”

With his eyes trained on the hardwood floor beneath his feet, Mark misses the way Murphy freezes as his admission is released into the open. At the end of the day, this is the true issue which has been gnawing at his heart since Matthew christened him with that random name; one which he’d mindlessly accepted without argument. The name has spent a considerable amount of time circulating his mind these past three days, bringing with it a persistent ache which grows in severity the longer he dwells on it. It’s the same ache which plagues him whenever his mind strays towards home, or whenever a childhood memory returns to him unbidden, or whenever he considers taking someone back to his room only to be seized by an inescapable sense of guilt. It’s an ache which shouldn’t belong, yet is as much a part of him as his flesh and blood. And much as the prospect disturbs him, the name ‘Alex’ seems to fit him like a glove in a way that ‘Mark’ never has.

Which doesn’t make sense. One of those names was given to him at the moment of his birth, whereas the other has only been used in reference to himself on one occasion. His attitude should be the complete opposite, and yet somehow hearing the name ‘Alex’ felt like he’d been handed an important puzzle piece without knowing what he was supposed to do with it.

Realising that the silence has stretched for far too long, he lifts his eyes to meet Murphy’s once more, unable to mask his surprise when he notes an amused smile creeping across the man’s thin face. It doesn’t go far enough to reach his eyes – Murphy's smiles never do – but it has the desired effect of sending a chill down Mark’s spine as a sudden wave of dread sinks in his gut like a stone. He feels once again like he’s caught in a trap, and that impression only intensifies as Murphy’s voice spills into the room like melted butter.

“Well he was clearly mistaken, wasn’t he?”

As if on cue, an unmistakable fog descends upon Mark’s mind and caresses his scalp like a lover’s touch, attempting to soothe his anxieties and banish them to the lost recesses of his subconsciousness. Only this time he knows it’s coming. This time he knows to anticipate it. The instant a familiar numbing haze slips into his skull, he clenches his eyes shut and curls his hands into tight fists, resisting the mental intrusion with all the strength he can muster.

“His name was Matthew,” he inwardly screams into the void. “He knew me. I think I must have known him too. He called me Alex. His name was Matthew...”

He clings to those truths with a desperation he can’t explain, repeating them like a mantra in his battered mind. The fog doesn’t abate, but his efforts go some way in holding it back; securing his consciousness to the present moment, even as the temptation to drift into a pleasant lie persists.  

And then, just when things are beginning to feel a little too easy, he forces out an agonised cry as sharp pain lances through his skull and explodes behind his eyeballs.

The agony is so intense that he curls into himself, body taut and aching. Tears stream down his face and a fine line of sweat trickles from his brow as the pain pulses in time with his heartbeat; a persistent throb which feels like someone has stuck a hot poker through his temple and is now moving it back and forth. Forcing air through clenched teeth, he casts aside any sense of humiliation over his tears or involuntary whimpers, and instead focuses on the task at hand; clinging to his mantra with renewed desperation as he wards off the brutal assault on his senses.

“His name was Matthew. He knew me. I knew him too. He called me Alex... Am I Alex?”

He cannot say how long the pain lasts. The moment seems to stretch on for eternity with no end in sight, and he wonders whether the agony will cause him to pass out or simply kill him outright. Every breath escapes in the form of a choked gasp and long hair clings to his face as a film of cool sweat coats his brow, but he refuses to stop fighting no matter how sweet the thought of release might be. At one point his eyes must have opened again, but it makes no difference at all. His vision whitened out long ago, banishing the relative comfort of his suite to the realm of distant memory.

And then – at the critical point where he begins to consider surrender – the pain stops. A choked sob tears itself from his throat and he has to swallow his own bile before it can spill onto the floor. His breathing remains shaky and uneven, but he no longer feels like he’s suffocating, and with considerable effort he loosens his grip on the armrests before they can snap. For those first few seconds his mind feels so blessedly quiet that he’s tempted to let exhaustion claim him right there and then, but he somehow manages to cling to consciousness. Something still feels wrong. There’s a wave of anxiety creeping beneath his skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and it occurs to him far too late that his vision has yet to clear. All-consuming white has morphed into a muted blur, the image before him crackling like television static, and when he lifts his eyes in the general direction of the computer screen, long seconds pass before he realises what’s wrong with the image before him.  

Murphy is gone. That much is evident even before his vision starts to clear. The image on the screen is too dark to resemble the light teal shade of the man’s office, and the vaguely humanoid blob in the centre of the frame is clearly not the outline of the man Mark knows all too well. Nothing can truly prepare him for the moment his vision clears though, and he finds the air being sucked from the room as his blood turns to ice.

In Murphy’s place is a creature which looks as though someone has dug up a corpse and bathed its yellowed bones in molten silver. Only the lower portion of its skull is visible; a gaping socket resting where a nose may once have been and a wide jaw braced in a wordless snarl. Obscuring the eye sockets and cradling the upper half of its face is an oversized helmet - not unlike a motorbike helmet on Earth or the VR mask resting in a case by Mark’s feet - with thick grooves embedded in the metal lining and a pair of screws giving off the impression of eyes. The image looks like the monster a child would conjure when asked to describe the creature lurking under their bed, and the mixture of assorted screws and plates embedded in a fading skeletal torso make Mark wonder if the being was once human, before someone set about replacing all organic components with metal.  

It occurs to him that he hasn’t dared move a muscle, nor has he so much as breathed since his vision cleared, and he can feel his lungs screaming in protest. He doesn’t dare move, however. Not even to breathe.

“-ark?”  

The spell breaks. The image before him shatters in the blink of an eye, though not before Mark sees the creature tilting its head and relaxing its jaw into what might be a smile. Light returns to the room and his lungs sing with relief as he finally provides them with precious oxygen, though his heart is still promising to exhaust itself if it doesn’t slow its pace soon. Frantic brown eyes turn to see Murphy sitting in his usual spot with an unusually relaxed expression, as though nothing untoward has happened in the interim. In comparison, Mark imagines he must look like a frightened deer caught in the headlights; wild-eyed and rigid, with hair clinging to his forehead and sweat soaking through his shirt. The grotesque image of that... thing still lingers in his mind like a horrifying echo, even when he casts a glance over the room to see nothing out of the ordinary. The only plausible explanation he can summon is that the creature was a hallucination, similar to the impossible corridor from the other night.

And yet, somehow, that explanation doesn’t sit right with him. No matter how impossible it may seem, his instinct screams at him that the vision was real and not simply the product of pain-induced delirium. He cannot explain where this certainty comes from, other than this; when presented with the most horrific sight his brain could possibly conjure, the main impression which lingers in the quiet aftermath is a vague sense of recognition.

“Earth to Mark?” Murphy says, forcing Mark’s attention back to him once more. To his surprise, there’s a sense of enjoyment lurking beneath the man’s tone rather than anger, and the crooked smile combined with a single raised eyebrow betrays a pervading sense of amusement. “I was merely suggesting that if you should run into dear old Matthew in future, I want you to report him to me immediately. Do I have your word?”

He isn’t sure what to say to that. The words make sense individually, but in combination they make a jumbled soup which refuse to coalesce into anything solid in Mark’s mind. In light of everything that has transpired in the last ten minutes, Matthew seems like an insignificant memory, though Mark imagines that couldn’t be further from the truth. Every inch of his body hurts and his brain can’t focus on anything without being rocked by aftershocks of pain and terror. He wishes he could wipe the smug smile off Murphy’s face. God only knows what spectacle that man must have borne witness to as Mark fought off wave after wave of agony, but his clear enjoyment of Mark’s discomfort is setting his teeth on edge. It almost feels like Murphy knows what Mark has just experienced; as if he knows what he saw and is now basking in the satisfaction of watching his plaything’s torment. Almost as if...

As if he’d orchestrated it. As if he’d planned every second of Mark’s anguish and set it into motion from the safety of Earth, like a bully holding a magnifying glass between the sun’s rays and an unsuspecting ant and watching it burn.

“Mark?”

That assumption can’t be right. Matthew’s theory can’t be right. And yet, all other explanations are currently in the process of eluding him. Even when he turns away from the screen, he cannot get the image of Murphy’s smug satisfaction out of his head.

“You have my word,” he utters, almost as an afterthought, too tired and defeated to argue further.

Not that it matters in the end. They both know the promise is a lie.

[cherry3point14]

Stranger Than Fanfiction: Ch 1

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Dean x Reader Warnings: No actual boys in this chapter. Other than that... confusion? Word count: 2,350. Chapter Summary: What happens when a mild mannered insurance adjuster becomes her own main character? A/N: I honestly. I don’t know.

Ao3 if you prefer

Routine is something that occurs so easily it would be impossible to conduct meaningful studies on the subject. The scientists would fall into their own patterns of routine while researching. A particular coffee drunk on certain mornings, a favorite seat on the evening bus or even a preferred font the research. Even the one team member resisting any sort of routine would become predictable in their attempts to be unexpected.

But this is not a story about scientists studying human nature.

This is a story about Y/N Y/L/N.

In the deepest recesses of her mind, Y/N dared to think she was unpredictable—from her mismatched socks to her affinity for spicy foods—and thus not subject to the weaknesses of mundane routine. Of course, she was wrong.

Every morning she woke up at the same time to the same incessant beeping of her alarm clock. A sound that once silenced she replaced with a sigh because her day began with not wanting to get out of bed. Where others might have drunk coffee she made herself green tea, which she sipped while listening to the news for exactly ten minutes. Enough time to catch the highlights in case some catastrophe was happening in the world, but not so long that she would get distracted.

Each night Y/N would drive home the same route and park on the driveway of her slightly too-large house. On Thursday’s her ageing neighbour would be watering his rose bushes and she’d wave, as good neighbours do.

That is, she followed this routine without question, until the last Friday in May.

There was nothing immediately extraordinary about this day as it started. As usual, she tapped a wordless tune while waiting for her kettle to sing—since she had not heard the idiom about watched pots and their tendency not to boil. Once the steam had finished rising she poured the hot water over the tea and watched the paper bag contort under the pressure of the liquid. Others might walk away and leave their drink to brew without care but not Y/N. She watched the water deepen to a soft green because the perfect tea had a perfect hue. Only by watching it with a keen eye could she properly measure the removal of the bag, once it looked like something akin to the grass in spring.

Again, how she made her tea was not out of the ordinary. Neither was the way she would sit with her mug in one hand and her phone in the other. Focusing half her attention on the news, half on her emails, and leaving no capacity left to appreciate the drink she had so carefully slaved over. After all her tea was it’s usual perfection and did not need much thought. These things were-

“Hello?”

Your thumb hovers over an email that assured you that you had, in fact, won a free iPhone. At the moment you were about to swipe and delete the spam cluttering your inbox you’d heard it. A voice. A woman. She’d been talking about... no. It was your imagination.

These things were puzzle pieces, a mess that Y/N would have to-

“Who’s there?”

Your eyes dart around looking for an intruder without moving your head. You’re not supposed to move your head if there’s someone trying to murder you, probably, that might tip them off that you know they’re there. But no one is there. No shadowy figures in the corner of the room and no burglars in striped shirts carrying burlap sacks. Your question falls on deaf ears. It bounces around your empty living room destined to go unanswered. Except there should be someone, right? As your thumb had moved the voice continued. But from where? From who?

This time you move your thumb slower, agile and waiting. As you do it happens again and you’re determined to find them this time.

These things were puzzle pieces, a mess that Y/N would have to organise before she could see the bigger picture. Except they did not feel like a mess to her, they felt like any other motion on any other day. She continued to wonder if she should buy some bread on the way home and the world continued to turn, unaware of the significance of this particular Friday.

You drop the phone from your hand as if it has given you an electric shock. Your mind flashes to standing in your kitchen minutes ago, craving toast but not having the necessary ingredients. The mental note you’d made was completely internal. You’d thought about getting bread knowing you would definitely forget.

There’s a beat. An actual pause in time where even your heart stops as you’re caught staring at the phone on the sofa cushion next to you.

You pick it up again and turn the device over in your hands. Maybe the sound came from the phone, although that seems impossible. How would your phone know you are out of bread when that’s not something you’ve said out loud? Everyone is so sure that Facebook listens to us all but it seemed unlikely they had jumped to mind reading so soon.

The screen of your phone darkens in warning that it will go to sleep and tapping it reveals the time. You've now sat there, speaking to no-one, longer than you normally would. Now everything else will be rushed. You choke a mouthful of tea and it’s somehow still too hot, so you decide against finishing the cup. Instead, you leap up and continue getting ready, happy to hear, well, nothing. No voice following you, revealing the contents of your kitchen cupboards, or anything else.

And then you finally rush out of your house to your waiting car.

The engine of Y/N’s car made an almost worrying clunking sound as she turned the key in the ignition, a sound that-

Your hand pulls away from the key in an instant as if it’s the key’s fault that the voice has returned. It’s either upset or fear on your face as you look around the inside of your trusty vehicle that’s always got you from A-Z, but now might have betrayed you.

“And it’s eight twenty-five folks, we’ll have traffic coming up in five but before that…”

“Shit.” You respond to the radio, or more specifically the time, realising that you’re now, still, running late.

The engine of Y/N’s car made an almost worrying clunking sound as she turned the key in the ignition. A sound that she would have been worried about were it the first time she’d heard it. The truth was she had been abhorrently ignoring the noise for many months now. By now it was as familiar as the rest of her morning and only solidified that today was so very achingly normal. Today was not the first, nor the last day that she would be running late for work yet it was the most important. Not that Y/N knew.

It’s a struggle to ignore the voice and keep driving. Your foot almost stumbles over the gas a few times and there’s one stop sign that you barely stop for. To be fair it’s not the first time you’ve almost missed this particular stop sign. Although when you start hearing a voice talking about your day, you can pretty much blame everything that goes wrong on that.

The thing you work out quickly, worryingly, is that this voice comes and goes. When she, whoever it is, finishes her little tribute to your crappy car there’s silence. You almost feel sane again. And so you let yourself fall right back into that false sense of security that it was some fluke of your imagination. You finish the journey and make it with five minutes to spare because you always drive a little faster than you should. Even if today you’re running from something unexplainable, you still find your shoulders relaxing as you step out of the car. Regardless of everything you’re on time for work.

Y/N breathed a sigh of relief as her work heels clacked against the tarmac of the underground parking garage. Against all the setbacks and stops signs that had tried to thwart her best-laid plans, she had made it. To Y/N this was the most extraordinary thing about her day. She was certain her journey time would set such a high standard that everything could only go downhill from here.

“Oh my god. Shut up.”

When in fact today would be a day that she would never forget. Today would thrust her into a life so exempt from ten-minute mugs of tea and almost tardiness, that she would look back upon days like this with a skewed sense of nostalgia. Today Y/N pressed the button for the elevator like she had a thousand times before. Whereas tomorrow would be entirely different.

“Obviously,” you huff an annoyed breath, “tomorrow’s Saturday.”

The woman was beginning to annoy you. Both her failure to get to the point and the fact that most of what she was saying was stating the obvious. The frustration bubbling inside your belly gets translated into pressing the button for the elevator more times than you need to, until the doors finally open in front of you.

The harsh fluorescent light of the elevator makes no one look good so you're not worried when you see tired lines on your face in the large mirror. It had been a long week and now to top things off you were going crazy, the things take their toll. At least in eight short hours, you’d be free for the weekend.

“Morning Y/N!” Instead of coming from where you would expect, the chipper voice was about three feet too low and completely out of sight.

“Laura?”

She pops up violently from underneath her desk holding a single post-it note flapping in her hand, “found it!”

“I’m proud of you?” you question, cocking your head to the side and wondering how much coffee she's drunk already.

Y/N was far too distracted to tease her coworker about her overly sunny disposition, as she usually would first thing in the morning. Once again she found her harmless routine interrupted by what she thought to be a series of meaningless accidents. When her preoccupation was down to the larger, irrefutable hands of fate.

“It’s not fate distracting me, it's you!” you whisper with the severity of a shout. By now it was easy to figure out that whoever or whatever the voice was couldn’t hear you. That didn’t stop you voicing your frustration at the new personality stalking you.

“Y/N honey, you ok?”

You look up at Laura to find a mixture of confusion and concern, only to remember that she is there at all.

“Laura! Did you hear that?” The excitement in your voice teeters on paranoia. Maybe it wasn’t you. Maybe you weren’t alone in this.

“Did I hear what?”

“That voice,” you gesture with your hands upwards figuring that it was coming from up high. Despite being on the top floor of the building. “The one drivelling on about fate and-and the fact that I need to buy bread!”

Your chest is heaving underneath your white shirt but only enough that someone close to you, like Laura, might notice your distress.

“Erm. Are you feeling ok?”

Her tone, along with the way she leans over her desk to whisper the question, is enough to snap you out of it. You’re being insane, out loud. It’s one thing to think you’re going crazy but another thing entirely to let other people know that you are.

“Yeah sorry, I erm… I watched a weird film last night.”

Laura laughs at that explanation, somewhat nervously but still, she laughs. She takes the opportunity for an explanation that doesn’t end up with you in a straight jacket. Did they even put people in straight jackets anymore?

“See you at lunch?” She asks the same as ever, ignoring whatever is wrong with you like any workplace friend would.

“Yeah, sure.” The smile on your face is thin while you wave a hand aimlessly to agree to lunch. You start walking to your desk in the quieter corner of the office before she gets truly suspicious.

Colleagues waved and greeted her as she walked through the stuffy yet open plan room. The usual sea of politeness was only personalised with her name here and there. Most of them hardly glanced away from their screens as they spoke to her. So wrapped up in their work that they merely greeted whatever figure it was that moved past them. Y/N was one of these mindless zombies on occasion. Throwing herself into work so deeply that she too would forget common courtesies such as eye contact.

“This isn’t happening,” you mutter when you finally slink into your chair.

It was then, on this Friday, this cloudy and uncertain day, that reprieve came to Y/N in the form of work. A Manila folder floating through the office as if on a cloud. A file atop a pile of files, each as indistinctive as the last. And yet, the file destined for Y/N’s desk would prove to hold the most important paperwork she would ever read. Each distinctive typed letter on each fresh white sheet would be more important than the last. And even Y/N, who had no idea of the significance of what she was about to receive…

“Well, kind of do now.” You grumble watching Hillary wander through the office with a stack of assignments. She arrives at your desk wearing a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and hands you the topmost one.

…would feel goosebumps prickle her skin as she receives the folder. Almost as if somehow she could perceive the importance of this assignment, without ever having opened it. Little did she know that this seemingly innocuous file would set about her new life, as well as her imminent death.

“Wait. My what?”

Continue to Chapter 2.

5eva tags: @divadinag @darthdeziewok @fluentinfiction @witch-of-letters @supernatural-teamfreewillpage @magnitude101999 @alexwinchester23 Dean babes: @thewinchesterchronicles @akshi8278​ @bloodydaydreamer

[leverage-ot3]

notable moments from The Beantown Bailout Job

leverage 2.01

(see link for a video on this episode that captured literally all of my reactions and will undoubtedly capture yours too)

Manager: You found that stolen Monet in Florence, saved your company a $25 million payout. That identity-theft case, you saved $15 million.

+

nate sees .00005 seconds of normal life and yeets the hell out

- - - - -

(The lobby is teaming with people when Nate walks in. A sign shows that Sophie is starring in The Sound of Music. He sees Parker at the ticket counter)

Parker: Picking up for one.

Ticket Agent: Last name?

Parker: Parker.

Ticket Agent: First name?

Parker: No. Just one name.

Ticket Agent: Great. I hope you enjoy it.

(Parker turns to see Nate across the room and smiles)

Hardison: Parker?

(Parker looks to her right to see Hardison. The sound of Eliot’s laughter from across the lobby draws Hardison’s attention)

Eliot (to women): All right. After the show, then. I'll see you.

(Eliot turns and sees the others. The all meet in the center of the lobby)

Nate: Eliot.

Parker: Nate.

Hardison: Parker.

Eliot: Hardison.

Eliot: So, how have you...

Nate: Good. Good. Great. You?

Eliot: Fantastic. Six months of traveling. Did a couple of big jobs.

Hardison: eah. Me, too. Great off time. Well, I bought an oxygen tank. Cool, nice.

Parker: Yeah, super. I've been really super, too.

Nate: Yeah, she didn't tell me that you guys would..

this is that dinner scene from shrek 2 right???

also, parker’s lil smile when she sees nate, hardison’s big smile when he sees parker + hardison says parker and eliot says hardison = ot3 acknowledging each other

- - - - -

Hardison: I didn't know you could sing.

Sophie: You know. Not as well as I act, but, yeah.

Hardison: Oh

- - - - -

Sophie: Uhhgh…

Hardison: Yeah, you know, I'm sure the reviews will be...

(Sophie hands Hardison her phone)

Hardison: …on the news website already.

Parker (grabs the phone): Really? Wow. "Never before has a production of 'The Sound Of Music' made me root for the Nazis. (Hardison gestures something like ���WHY’ to Parker and she gestures something like ‘JDJSJSJ SORRY’ back)

POOR SOPHIE LMFAO

- - - - -

Sophie: No. No, no, no. Stop it. There is nothing you can say that's gonna make me feel better.

Parker: I know what could make you feel better. We should steal something.

Nate: No, no.

Sophie: Yes! We could do it together.

Eliot: I like this. Get right back up on the bike.

Parker: Bike of crime.

Nate: Didn't you earlier tell me how great your new lives were?

Parker: Yeah, well, I stole the Hope Diamond.

Nate: What?

Parker: (Everyone looks surprised. Eliot looks like he is going to say something.) And then I put it back. Yeah, 'cause I was bored. Didn't care.

Hardison: I spent three days hacking the white house e-mail. No buzz.

Nate: See?

Hardison: But we are doing some pretty hinky stuff in Pakistan. Hinky.

Sophie: Look, I'm miserable. They're miserable. (to Eliot) Okay, what have you been doing the last six months?

Eliot: I was in Pakistan. (Parker grins)

Hardison: You see what you did? You took the world's best criminals, hitter, hacker, grifter, thief, you took us, and you broke us.

Nate: No, no. I-I, what I did, I taught you how to help people. That's all.

Parker: Exactly.

Sophie: Yeah.

Eliot: This is the problem, with being the good guy. It gets under your skin.

Sophie: Look, Nate. You have to have some poor, little lost soul somewhere who needs a little extra-legal aid.

Nate: Look, we all agreed that we'd just move on.

Sophie: Yeah, but we're... We're thieves.

Nate: Not me. Look, it was great. It was fun. It was wonderful while it lasted, but I was drunk most of the time, to be honest with you. And I… A little crazy.

Eliot: Yeah, but you were good.

Parker: You were the best.

Hardison: We were the best.

Parker: Yeah.

Nate: Listen, really, I owe all of you. And I'm very proud of what we did. I-I really am. But I got my life back, and I intend to keep it that way. And I am not a thief. (stands up) It was great to see all of you. Good night. (leaves)

BIKE OF CRIME + also bruh let them have their found family, nate

- - - - -

(Nate enters the dim room and looks around. Behind him, the Thug opens the door and comes at him with a knife. Nate sees the reflection in a pot lid and turns to block the blow. Sophie comes in behind the Thug)

Sophie: Oi! Does your mother sew? (headbutts Thug) Stitch that.

(Thug runs out of the condo. Nate runs out after him, but Thug gets away. As he reenters the condo, Sophie hits him in the head with a cookie sheet and Nate falls to the floor)

Sophie: Ah! Bugger

she tried, your honor + her tough talk and then AH BUGGER

- - - - -

(the next morning, Nate wakes up on the couch to the sound of Parker eating. Parker is wearing a Nun’s habit, smiles and moves away. Sophie comes downstairs wearing Nate’s shirt)

Nate: That's my shirt.

Sophie: Yeah. I stayed the night to make sure you were okay. You what? But don't worry. I didn't look under your bed. I know that's where guys keep weird, kinky stuff.

Nate: There's nothing under my bed.

Parker (opens cupboard): This is all coffee.

Nate: Get out of there! (sees Hardison and Eliot at the table) What are you guys doing? (gets up) Come on, get out of here. Get all this stuff out of here. You're planning something. I know it. Come on. Get out of my house.

...

Hardison: Look, nobody else is gonna help that guy and his little girl. Okay, that's what we do. We help people. By the way, I compared Sophie's description of your attacker to the accident footage from the security camera.

(Hardison pushes a few buttons on the laptop and zooms in on the Thug’s face to begin a facial recognition search through various cameras in the area)

Hardison: Do you realize, on average, people are caught on security cameras 13 times a day? ATM cameras, traffic cameras. It's crazy, man, but we can track him. We can. Well, I lost him in this.

Eliot: Yeah, well, I found this empty briefcase belonging to a Matt Kerrigan at that intersection.

...

Eliot: Yeah, well, the problem is, these two cats went down to the safety deposit boxes.

Parker: Which is the only room in every bank, with absolutely no cameras.

Hardison: Which means we up, baby. (puts on a priest’s collar) They tried to kill Kerrigan for what was in the briefcase. We're gonna steal it back.

Eliot (laughs): She was dressed that way 'cause she's doing a con.

Nate: What, you thought she was dressed like a nun for no reason?

Eliot: It's Parker.

...

(Nate walks away)

Sophie (to Eliot): So, you going?

Eliot: I'm not going anywhere. The man has 700 sports channels.

Sophie: You want to see what he's got under his bed?

Eliot: N-no, I do not.

Sophie: Icky

- - - - -

(Parker opens her Bible to reveal a lock duplication kit with a depression in the plastic of the master key)

[Flashback]

(Parker takes the key from the Bank Manager’s pocket as Hardison talks, pressing the key into the form before replacing it into the Bank Manager’s pocket)

Hardison: And the children... The children thank you. They will send you a card just as soon as we buy them tiny pencils. And teach them how to spell. It's a two-step process, you see.

[Bank Vault]

Parker: Superglue and a heat-activated polymer to set it. Seven seconds, instant plastic key. (hands Hardison the Bible) Shake it.

Hardison: What?

Parker: Shake the bible.

Hardison: This is even more wrong.

(Hardison: takes the Bible and begins shaking it while Parker picks box 5076)

they’re so competent ugh

- - - - -

Hardison: I did look for you. For six months.

HE LOOKED FOR HER FOR SIX MONTHS

- - - - -

Parker: I think people are like locks. Really complicated and frustrating. But you can't force them. You have to take time and be fiddly.

Hardison: Fiddly?

Parker: You learn to be patient, and just wait until you hear the...

(the lock opens and the door swings wide)

- - - - -

(Hardison is sitting on the couch going through some paperwork and working on a laptop. Several boards have been set up with information about the case)

Nate: Now, this is not "gone." This is "more."

Hardison: Yeah, I, uh, I scanned the documents in Leary's box, but I wanted to print out a few pages.

Nate: I asked—I asked Eliot to get rid of this stuff. Now there's more stuff.

Hardison: Did you? Oh, we-we crossed, but didn't see each other. He didn't tell me.

Nate: Oh, that's how you're gonna play this?

Hardison: Oh, man. Look... (stands up and sniffs)

Nate: What?

Hardison: Is that... What is that aroma? That's that apple shampoo that's open.

Nate: You've been up in my shower, rummaging around?

Hardison: Man's in a strange bathroom, he's got a lot of time to kill... Nate, Nate, Nat-

I CANNOT

- - - - -

Nate: Grew up in the same neighborhood. The O'Hares are mobbed up. These are all mob businesses you're talking about here.

Hardison: Mob?

Nate: Where's Eliot?

Hardison: Oops.

Nate: What?

[Warehouse]

(Eliot is going through boxes when his phone rings. He answers)

Eliot: Yeah, Hardison. This is the third place I checked. It's all the same. What do you mean mob?

Thug: Hey!

(three men approach, one of them the Thug, who has his nose bandaged and is carrying a baseball bat)

Eliot: Oh, that mob. (hangs up)

hardison’s “whoops” followed by I HAVE TO WARN MY BOYFRIEND + in this episode we have eliot using a baseball bat as a weapon which is yet another piece in the continuation of eliot using things as weapons that are not supposed to be used as weapons

+ he apologizes to the guy that just had a nose job for beating him up and punching him in the nose he’s baby

- - - - -

(Nate opens the refrigerator to find it full of Hardison’s orange soda)

Nate: Seriously?

(Nate turns to see the island covered in food and dishes)

Nate: You know, guys, there is a dishwasher here.

Eliot: You're out of ice.

he literally can’t get rid of them + also I WONDER whose orange soda that is

- - - - -

parker robot dancing in the 80s jacket and looking DIRECTLY at eliot lmfao

- - - - -

Nate: What? Sophie, how do you catch mob guys?

Sophie: Ah, two glasses of Chianti and a story about my grandma in Sicily

- - - - -

Nate: Well, yeah. I mean, if you have a body in the trunk of your car, you're gonna drive under the speed limit, aren't you?

Parker: You know, when you're sober, your metaphors get creepier

- - - - -

eliot and parker sitting next to each other? cute

- - - - -

Hardison: Mr. Leary, I'm Detective Costello, with the Massachusetts State Police. This is Detective Costigan. I believe you met with our chief, Lieutenant Bonanno

more aliases to keep track of

- - - - -

Parker: We're investigating your colleague Matt Kerrigan's (air quotes) "car accident."

Leary: So you don't think it was an accident?

Hardison: Of course not. She did the finger thing. You got that. Everybody gets that.

Parker: Did I do it right?

Hardison: No. No. This guy just... (pulls picture from his pocket)

~ a few moments later ~

Parker: I did it right, didn't I?

Hardison: It was perfect.

Parker: I knew I did it right.

Hardison: It was beautiful execution. Absolutely.

Parker: Just like you taught me. I did it. (she smiles brightly)

Hardison: Yeah. Yeah, you did it. I like it. Yeah. (gives her a thumbs up)

SHES LEARNING IM SO PROUD OF HER

- - - - -

Eliot: Hey, this detonator - If I'm around the corner, is it still gonna be in range?

Hardison: Should be. I haven't worked out all the kinks yet. Sometimes the things just go off.

Eliot: Whoa, whoa, wait. Hey. I thought you said this thing was safe.

Hardison: Mostly. Mostly safe. I was very specific. Sometimes the frequencies get messed up.

Eliot: What frequencies, man? Huh? I got these things in my pants.

Hardison: Like, you know, a garage-door opener, a car alarm.

(a car alarm chirps then goes off, making Eliot jump. He moves away angrily)

Parker: What are the odds that Eliot's crotch will actually explode?

Eliot: Damn it, Hardison! (stalks off)

chaotic ot3

- - - - -

Sophie (shows passport): Annie Kroy.

O’Hare (grabs passport): Name's familiar.

Sophie: My family does business in North London with Terry Adams, and a couple of other organizations. We handle the money.

Nate (getting up): Yeah, see, what they do is they clean the money.

some people think that annie kroy is sophie’s true identity. I think, if anything, it would be her duchess alias but can you IMAGINE mob child sophie??? also, hi. im jackie and I wholeheartedly believe annie kroy has killed a man.

- - - - -

(Eliot is parked outside of the bank when Leary comes out, looking at files. Eliot hits a remote and the sound of gunfire fills the street as the squibs go off. People scream and Leary dives for cover. Eliot laughs and closes his window.)

chaotic eliot

- - - - -

Leary: And for that, the government hunts them down like dogs. People like me, we took billions from the banks. Billions. And what did the government do when they finally caught us? They wrote us a giant check and begged us to make it all better.

that’s disturbing

- - - - -

(Parker uses a taser on O’Hare and Hardison pulls up a recorder)

I think that was the first time parker tasered someone and we love to see it

- - - - -

Nate: So, how did you do it?

Eliot (gets up): Detonator, (holds up remote, reaches into his shirt and pulls out ketchup wrapper) ketchup.

Nate: Ah, the classics.

Sophie: Oh (hops happily), I love a good death scene

- - - - -

parker in a nun costume smelling money and saying “ahhhh” is certainly a mood

- - - - -

Leary: I was tricked. I was tricked. It wasn't me, you understand?

Bonanno: Somebody tricked you into bringing a briefcase full of evidence of your own crimes straight to the police? Come on, Mr. Leary. Nobody's that smart. Get him out of here

THEY ARE T H A T SMART

- - - - -

Zoe: Thank you. There are wolves in the world. But sometimes they're the good guys, I guess.

I didn’t like that whole metaphor because it felt kinda cliche but whatever, they ARE the good guys

+ bruh why is hardison wearing glasses??? him and eliot will sometimes wear them and honestly I don’t know who actually needs them and for what at this point ???

- - - - -

(Nate enters the condo to find that Hardison has installed five of six large monitors on the wall and is working on the last one)

Nate: Whoa, whoa. What are you doing there?

Hardison: I'm running this cat 5 cable to the--

Nate: Oh, no, no, no, no. You don't understand. No, I don't want to have these monitors in my apartment. No.

(Parker opens the door and walks in carrying a large painting)

Parker: Coming through!

Nate: No, these must go. What? No! Parker, no! Not that paint--I don't ever want to see that painting.

Parker: (shaking the painting as she talks in a funny voice) “Hi, I'm old Nate, and I live here, too."

Nate: You can't just break in here and start hanging--

Hardison: Oh, yeah, yeah. For repairs or renovation, your landlord has full access to your dwelling. It's in the lease.

Nate: What are you doing reading my lease?

Hardison: I bought the building.

Nate: You bought the... You're my landlord?

Hardison: Yeah. (holds his hand out for a fistbump) Yeah.

(Nate looks away, then hears the sound of a chain saw. He turns to see the end of a chain saw come through the wall)

Nate: No, no! No! No!

(Part of the wall falls to reveal Eliot holding the chainsaw and grinning. Nate coughs and both Parker and Hardison put their arms around him)

CHAOTIC OT3 + THEIR TIRED DAD

[diddlesanddoodles]

DEAD WALLS RISE - CONNAR

PART TWO

Gen was as true to his word as a good compass pointing north. As the bloody war raged on, the giant kept the human family safe and hidden. His reputation from his days working at the castle had lent Gen a certain degree of clout with the blue coats and rarely did they ever bother him. The few times they came to his door, Connar and his family would hurry to a trap door set inside the floor that was then hidden by a rug.

And for the many months, they were safe. His home was modest, but practical and what he had, he readily shared with them.

Since going outside was not permissible, Connar adapted his normal routine of climbing trees into climbing everything within the giant’s home. Once he had figured out how, he spent a lot of his day clambering around the rafters. Even going so far as taking naps up there. His mother did not approve, but both his father and Gen managed to soothe her ruffle feathers.

“He’s young and full of energy,” his father said. “Better he spends it up there than then down here restless and pestering everyone.”

During their time in his home, Connar was able to learn much more about Gen. He was a craftsmen, having been a blacksmith for King Nethrin in his younger years and had retired to the Blackwoods once his apprentice had learned enough to take over for him. He crafted his own cooking pots with a small forge he had outback and even made his own door locks and knobs. Connar and Penny both spent many afternoons watching him work through the back window. And one afternoon, Connar was watching Gen repair a tear in his leather satchel he used to collect wild greens. He sewed a patch onto the hole, but used his stitches and several other tools to make it look at though the patch was a decorative feature rather then a blemish.    

“Where’d you learn how to do that?” the boy asked, fascinated by the process. Gen was seated at the small work table near the far corner of his home and Connar watched from the wooden bean just above his head.

“Hm?” Gen peeked up at the youth. “Working with leather?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, my master taught me,” the giant replied, turning his focus back to his task. “I was a blacksmith’s apprentice when I was your age. But he taught me just as much about leather work. The two often go hand in hand.”

“...could you show me? How to do that?” Connar asked. Gen looked up at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Looking for a trade are you, lad?” Gen asked good-humoredly.

“Maybe I am,” he replied with a grin. “Watching you work the forge is really neat too. But I don’t think I could do that.”

Gen eyed him. “Oh? And why not?”

“I’m too small.”

“You know there are human blacksmiths too, Connar.”

“I know, but I can’t go outside. At least for a while. Until the war ends.”

Gen hummed thoughtfully to himself, leaning back into his chair. “Tell you what, son. Give me a little time to see if I can’t fashion you some tools and we’ll try your hand at leather work. I’m sure you’re poor mother would love you to find something else to occupy yourself then climbing the rafters.”

“I like climbing though.”

Gen laughed. “I can see as much.”

………………………………

Much to Gen’s surprise, Connar had a natural knack for leather work. While Arther had a talent for wood carving, it seemed as though craftsmanship was genetic in their family as Connar took to leather like a fish to water.  The small tools Gen fashioned for him were rudimentary, but sufficient and the techniques seemed almost second nature to the boy by the end of the third week. Gen gave him a whole buck skin to do whatever he wanted with and Connar took a few days to consider what he wanted to do. He didn’t want to waste a single piece. In the end, he decided he was going to make Gen a new sheath for the small knife he carried with him all the time. If he planned it correctly and was smart with his cuts, there would be just enough of the leather to do it.

To keep his project secret, he worked on it nearly exclusively from the rafters. And to keep his tools from falling, he tied them to the beam itself.

His mother really did not approve.

………………………

Connar was very nearly finished with the knife sheath and only had the stitching left to do. The thread itself was very nearly a rope to him, but made sure to take his time and make each stitch even and clean and neat. He wanted the sheath to be a sort of thank you gift to Gen. For taking in his family and keeping them safe. He let the excess thread dangle down from the rafter as he worked. Gen was at the hearth, tossing a handful of greens and chunks of venison into the small pot. Arthur was sitting on the table, re-wrapping the leather binding around his whittling knife. He looked up, movement from outside the window catching his eye.

“Gen,” he hissed in a frantic whisper as he pushed himself off the table and onto the seat of the chair and again onto the floor. “I think someone’s outside.”

Gen straightened up and immediately walked to the small window near the door, carefully peeking around. He cursed and waved at them. “It’s a blue coat. Get in the cellar.”

Arthur frantically motioned for his wife and Penny to come. They had been sitting on a cushion off to the side, mending a hole in one of Gen’s socks. They abandoned their work and ran for the open trap door just under the table and as they got inside, Arthur looked around. “Connar?”

“Huh?” the boy’s head peaked out from behind the beam of the rafter and down at his father.

“Get down here now!” Arthur hissed in a low whisper. “There’s a blue coat!”

“No time,” Gen said, nudging Arther into the trap door to the cellar and pulling down the door. “I’ll hide him somewhere else.”

Gen moved the rug over the door and re-positioned the chair over it. As he went to reach for Connar, there came a knock at the door. Still with his hands outstretched for the boy, Gen’s eyes went to the door and back to Connar who stared back with wide frightened eyes. “Stay low. Keep quiet.”

Connar nodded and pressed himself flat against the wooden beam, his partially finished project tucked up against his side.

There came a second knock just as Gen made it to the door and he slowly opened it and stuck his head through. “May I help you, sir?”

“Lookin’ fer Gendril Taversh.”

“That’d be me.”

“Was told ye know this part of the Blackwood better than anyone else. If ye have a moment, I have some questions fer ye.”

“Of course.”

“May I come in?”

Gen hesitated, shifting his stand. “Can’t we speak out here?”

There was a moment of silence and then the blue coat asked, “Is there a reason fer that?”

“No, I only meant...”

“Because, let me remind ye sir. I do have the authority granted to me to search yer property and home at my leisure.”

Gen was silent and then slowly opened the door, gesturing the other giant in with an outstretched arm. “Have a seat. Please.”

The blue coat stepped inside and Connar sucked in a breathe. The ranger was alarmingly tall and much thicker bodied than Gen. In comparison, the older giant looked downright frail and small. He wore a rider’s cap that blocked his view of his face. “Thank ye.”

“Would you like some tea?” Gen asked. Connar ever so slowly peaked down from the edge of the rafter, watching the two of them.

“That’d be right fine of ye,” said the ranger as he plopped down into the chair and removed his hat to reveal short cut red hair. As Gen went to the cupboard and pulled down the small tin he kept his tea in, the ranger’s head turned slowly from left to right as he took in the small home. “Ye live here by yerself, Gendril?”

“Yes,” Gen replied as he went to the hearth and pulled the kettle off the fire. “My wife died several years back. So it’s just me.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said the ranger, reaching into his coat and pulling out a small slip of paper, but the writing was too small and too far down for Connar to make out the letters. “Now, Gendril, I suppose you heard about Captain Acker.”

Gen tipped two generous spoonfuls of loose leaf tea into a ceramic pot and popped on the lid. He turned his head towards the ranger, shaking his head. “Only that he’d passed.”

“That’s one way of puttin’ it,” huffed the ranger. “He and a few other rangers were ambushed on the other end of the Blackwoods by some mages. Burnt ‘em down to the bones. Had to identify Acker by his wedding band. Not a clue who the other three are.”

Gen turned away. “How terrible.”

“Aye. Have to agree with ye there,” said the ranger. As Gen brought the pot of steeping tea over to the table with two cup, the blue coat gestured to the small pot on the fire. “Did I interrupt yer supper?”

“Oh, no. Not at all,” he said. “Needs to stew a few hours. Just getting a head start.”

“What’s in it?”

“Sorry?” Gen asked, turning to look at the ranger.

“The pot. What’s in it?”

“Oh, just wild mustard and venison. Some onions.”

“Venison.”

“Yessir.”

“...ye sure it ain’t human?” The ranger’s tone had shifted, flicking his hands over to the cutting board and knife sitting near the fire. Still covered in blood.  

“What?” Gen asked, struck dumb by the question.

“Just curious.”

“Uh...no. It’s venison.”

“Them red cages I’ve been spottin’ ‘round yer property?”

“Venison traps.”

“Ever snag a human with one?”

“No,” Gen lied, laughing, but it sounded forced. “They’d spot them from a mile away.”

“Ye could paint ‘em green,” the ranger suggested. “Probably catch a good few. Lot of ‘em are comin’ back this way tryin’ to get into Vhasshal. To make a go towards the pass up to the northern plate.”

“Uh, no. No I don’t...”

“Yer King’s commanded ever citizen to do his duty to bring in all humans.”

“I am aware.”

The ranger was silent for a long moment. “...ye a traitor, Gendril Taversh?”

Gen straighten up and took a step back. “W-what? No!”

The ranger stood up, pressing into the older man’s space. “Because yer neighbors tell me ye were friends with quite a few of the humans who used to live ‘round these parts. And comin’ in here...and I can smell ‘em.”

“What?”

“Ye know what the punishment fer treason is Gendril Taversh? First they hang ye just till ye pass out. The they tie each ‘a yer arms and legs...and pull. Then some nice fella’s gonna come with an ax and relieve ye of yer limbs. And after yer done bleedin’ t’death, they set ye on fire. ‘Cept yer head. That goes on a pike and on display fer all to see.” As the ranger spoke, he continued to step closer and closer to Gen, forcing the older man back until the ranger had him pinned against the wall. “What’s left is tossed to the pigs.”

Gen was visibly shaking, but his eyes were narrowed and mouth set into a grim frown. “I don’t know about any humans, sir. It’s just me here.”

The ranger did not speak for several seconds and then he pulled back and away from Gen. Turning back to the table, he poured himself a cup of tea and sipped at it idly. “Just yerself, eh?”

“Yes,” Gen repeated firmly. “Just me.”

“Hm,” the ranger hummed and nodded thoughtfully. Abruptly, his head lifted up and for a split second, Connar saw a flash of bright green eyes as the ranger reached out to snag the thread hanging from the rafter and gave it a firm tug. The leather knife sheath tucked against Connar’s side was violently pulled along with the thread it was still attached to and it swept him wholly off of the rafter and into the open air. The boy cried out as he fell, before landing in the ranger’s reaching cupped hands. Before he could gather his wits, the fingers closed in and Connar found himself clutched firmly into the ranger’s fist.

“Don’t hurt him!” Gen pleaded, taking a step forward. The ranger pulled Connar closer to his body and held out his other hand in warning to Gen.

“Yer a fuckin’ liar, Gendril Taversh.” Connar’s heart was racing and no matter how he pushed or pulled at the giant’s fingers, they kept a firm hold of him. Like iron bands, unmoving and void of empathy.

“Let me go!” Connar cried.

The ranger smirked down at him. “Yer not in any sorta position t’ be makin’ demands, little fella.”

“Please, sir,” Gen pleaded with his hands raised. “He’s just a boy.”

“He’s a human,” remarked the ranger. “Our King’s demandin’ their blood. His blood.”

“And is he to pay the price for someone else’s crime?” demanded Gen. “You’d kill him – a child – to satisfy the blood lust of a mad man?”

“That mad man is yer King.”

“He is a demon!” Gen yelled, his face turning red. “Seventeen! Seventeen of my good friends and neighbors. Their children. Dead or disappeared and for what? What good has any of this brought? We are no close to finding the truth of the Prince’s death and now his father and brothers disgrace his memory by raging a genocide in his name! And if trying to save one human life makes me a traitor, then so be it! I will travel to the shores beyond with a clear conscious knowing I did what I could to save innocent lives! The lives of my friends.”

Connar blinked away the tears in his eyes, not just crying for fear of his own life, but that of Gen. Sweet old Gen. Who risked everything to try and protect them. He jerked with a start when the rangers other hand drifted over his head, running his fingers lightly against his head and back. “I’m glad to see we’re in agreement then,” said the ranger as he sat down into the chair.

“What?” Gen asked.

The ranger held Connar up to his face, vibrant green eyes studying him. “Had to make sure ye were the kind of man they said ye were.” Connar kicked his feet and redoubled his efforts to free himself. The ranger just grinned. “Fiesty little buggar.”

“You’re not going to arrest me?” Gen asked, moving towards the table.

“No, I’m not,” said the ranger, setting Connar into his other hand, but instead of gripping him around the middle, he held him cupped in his palm. “I’m conscriptin’ ye.”

“Con...conscripting me?” The words tumbled clumsily from Gen mouth.

“Aye,” said the ranger. Connar tried to scramble out of the ranger’s hand, but the other swept in and coaxed him back and after getting the boy settled back down, he patted Connar on the head.  “Ye know these woods better than anyone else. So from now on, ye report t’me.”  

“Why would I do that? You’re a blue coat.”

“Only been wearin’ it fer two weeks, t’be honest. But blue coats use to be an honorable order. Not a Crown endorsed murder squad. I’m changin’ that.”

“...you’re not...gonna kill me?” Connar asked in a small voice that trembled as the words escaped his lips. Green eyes shifted their focus to him and the hand below him raised up and he was carefully placed onto the table.

“No,” said the ranger his tone soft, but serious. “I’m not.”

“Why should I believe anything you say?” Gen demanded. “What keeps you from leaving here and turning me in to the Captain?”

“Well, in all honesty, ye don’t have any real guarantee. But it’d be right idiotic of me to turn myself in...to myself.”

Gen regarded the ranger suspiciously. “What?”

“Never got to introduce myself properly,” said the blue coat. “Name’s Keral Athair. Captain of the Blue Coat Rangers.”

[calligraphist-artemisia]

Just Another Cinderella Story (Chapter 1)

Once upon a time, there was a boy who was left in the care of his uncaring stepmother. Raised in a life of servitude and seeing his stepbrother lavished with praise and given everything he desired, the boy knew there was only one way he would ever be free. If their dreams of marrying into a life of luxury came true, then he would be left with his childhood home and he would finally be able to turn his life around.

Of course, Fate often has other plans in mind.

Also posted on AO3 under the username Kishirokitsune

- - - - -

1. Saponaria officinalis

It began as all old tales did, with a child who was pure of heart and thrust into a situation beyond their control. In this case, the child was a boy whose kind father was taken from him far too early, leaving him in the clutches of his wicked stepmother.

He grew up in servitude and hoped that one day things would get better. Perhaps one day, when his stepmother's wish to marry her perfect son to a rich princess came true, they would leave his father's house and him behind. Until then, he would keep his head down and work as hard as he could.

It didn't always work. There was always something his stepmother found not to her liking and his stepbrother was even worse with his constant criticism.

His life wasn't all bad, however. Every now and then, under the guise of gathering wild berries in the woods, he could get away and visit a friend.

Keith met Takashi Shirogane purely by accident.

It happened on a hot summer day on one of the rare occasions he opened his big mouth and talked back to his stepbrother, earning himself a series of painful lashings that split the skin across his back badly enough to bleed. He was then sent out into the woods to gather wood for the stove. When he inevitably collapsed, Shiro was the one who found him.

The man was called a witch by the townsfolk and he lived in a cabin with his partner, Curtis. The two of them took Keith in, cleaned and bandaged his wounds, and fed him before allowing him to leave.

Keith couldn't go to them often, but whenever he felt his patience wearing thin he found an excuse to get away.

As always, Shiro and Curtis welcomed him to their cozy cabin with open arms. Shiro took his basket from him and gestured for Keith to take a seat, while he filled the basket with a variety of herbs and berries, giving credence to Keith's excuse.

“Thank you,” Keith said as he sat down, sinking into the soft furniture with a relieved sigh.

“How is your back?” Curtis asked from where he stood in the kitchen. There was a dusting of flour covering his hands and the front of his apron, and luckily there was none was sprinkled through his brown hair. (Keith had yet to see Curtis not looking like a mess while he was baking.)

“It feels tight sometimes, but it doesn't hurt anymore,” Keith said.

Shiro stopped filling the basket and went to a nearby cupboard, where he selected a green clay container. He uncorked it and looked inside, nodding in satisfaction at what he saw.

Knowing what was coming next, Keith stripped out of his shirt and folded it up in his lap, turning so Shiro had better access to his back. He pulled his hair forward so it was no longer in the way either.

Shiro sat down on the couch next to him and dipped his fingers into the jar, scooping out a generous amount of salve. He gently smoothed it over the scars and smiled at Keith's initial flinch, knowing it was due to the unusual coolness and mild tingle it produced on contact. “This should help with the tightness. You know if you allowed me to apply this more regularly, you wouldn't be able to tell that there are any scars.”

“You know I can't do that,” Keith murmured, relaxing under Shiro's light touch.

“They don't deserve you.”

Keith had nothing to say to that. It was a conversation they had every time he saw Shiro and it always ended with Keith returning to his personal hell.

He knew he could leave and his so-called family would presume him dead and continue on with their lives, glad to be rid of him. They weren't the reason he stayed. He stayed for the manor; it was his father's home and the place which held all of his fond memories of what little time they shared together. The thought of leaving made him feel as though he was abandoning all of that.

“How long are you staying today, Keith?” Curtis asked.

“Long enough that I no longer want to strange Lotor with his stupid hair,” Keith grumbled in response, earning a chuckle from the other two men.

“Ah, so you're moving in,” Curtis joked with a grin.

Keith tried not to smile, knowing it would only encourage them. “I might stay the night and leave before sunrise, if that's alright.”

“You won't get in trouble for being gone for so long?” Shiro replaced the cork on top of the jar and stood to put it away.

“They're entertaining for the evening and gave me specific instructions to stay out of sight. As long as I'm back to serve them breakfast, they won't care.”

Shiro stood up and headed back to the cupboard to put away the jar. “In that case, I'm going to prepare a proper bath for you. I know I just applied the salve, but there's one that will work even better after you've soaked for a while. No arguments.”

Keith made a frustrated sound, but Shiro was already heading for the back door. He watched as Shiro paused for a moment to whisper to Curtis before he walked through the door and disappeared into the sprawling garden.

He knew there was no point in arguing. Shiro would give him a sad look and Keith's resolve would crumble, unable to stand the idea of disappointing someone who genuinely cared about him.

Keith turned his attention to Curtis instead. “Who are you baking for today?”

“Well, I suppose it's for you since you'll be joining us for dinner,” Curtis said, giving him a fond smile. “Shiro suggested I make it. He does that sometimes, when he believes we'll have a visitor who could use a good meal. I hope you like blackberry cobbler.”

“That sounds incredible,” Keith said, unable to say for sure if he would like it. As long as Curtis was the one doing the cooking, he was sure it would all be delicious.

Keith struggled to properly relax while he waited for Shiro to return. He was so used to working all day that it felt unnatural to sit and do nothing. Maybe Curtis would let him clean the pots and pans?

He doubted it.

Shiro came and went, flitting about like a man on a mission. He didn't stop to talk to either of them. All of his focus was on the task he had set for himself. Just when Keith was about to beg Curtis to give him something to do, Shiro returned and herded him to a smaller room where a deep tub of steaming water was waiting for him. It smelled faintly of herbs, but Keith couldn't tell which ones.

Next to the tub was a bench that held several jars of soaps, a towel, and a fresh set of clothing.

“Shiro-”

“You deserve this,” Shiro firmly cut in, not allowing Keith to finish his sentence. “Wash up and relax. I'll knock when I think you've been in here long enough and then you can get out. I'd like to apply the new salve before you put a shirt on. After that, you're welcome to help me with a few things before dinner.”

“Don't do anything to my normal clothes,” Keith said.

Shiro sighed heavily as though he really wanted to disagree, but instead he promised he wouldn't do anything to them.

Keith waited for him to leave before removing his threadbare clothing, carefully folding each item, and setting them aside in an attempt to keep them reasonably neat. He then eased himself into the hot water, letting it soothe his aching body. The soft scents of whatever herbs Shiro put into the water lulled him into a relaxed state, clearing his mind and giving him a moment of peace that he hadn't realized he needed.

He felt incredible by the time Shiro knocked on the door and it was with some reluctance that he climbed out of the tub and began to dry himself off, leaving his hair for last. He then swiftly dressed in the undergarments and pants, marveling over how soft it was and feeling a little undeserving of such finery.

Keith carried the shirt and accompanying vest with him out to the main room, where Shiro swooped in to rub a new salve over his back, though he first ran his fingers through Keith's damp curls,  tugging free any tangles he found.

“Don't bother. I'm going to chop it off soon,” Keith said, reaching back to pull his hair from Shiro's hands.

“You shouldn't,” Shiro said in a tone that implied he knew something but wasn't ready to reveal what he knew. He uncorked a new jar and spread its contents over the scars on Keith's back, one at a time.

Unlike the first salve, it felt surprisingly warm and remained that way once Shiro was done.

“You shouldn't have any more problems with your back,” Shiro said.

“Really?” Keith twisted around to look at him in surprise. “What's the difference between this one and the one you used earlier?”

“The other one relieves pain and softens the scar tissue so it doesn't pull as tightly. It's a quick fix for anyone who needs to stay active and is normally best suited for minor aches and pains. This one heals more deeply than that, but you can't strain yourself for at least six hours so it has time to work,” Shiro explained. “I've found that it also helps to take a warm bath beforehand.”

Keith didn't fully understand how any of it worked and he doubted he ever would, so he nodded along with what Shiro said and accepted it as the truth.

“So I have to sit still even longer? I thought you wanted my help with something,” he said, crinkling his nose.

“I do want your help,” Shiro said brightly. He stood up, taking the jar with him so he could put it back. “It's nothing strenuous and a little activity won't hurt anything.”

“I'll do it,” Keith agreed without waiting to hear what he would be doing. It didn't matter, so long as he didn't have to sit still.

Shiro returned to give his back one last look over and then directed Keith to put on the shirt and jacket. Keith almost left the vest off. He took a moment to trace his fingers over the white embroidery spiraling over one of the pockets and to marvel over how soft and warm the red fabric was. It was far nicer than anything he'd ever been allowed to wear and it was only the fact that it was clearly well-worn that had him shrugging it on.

Shiro nodded in approval. “Sit and turn your back to me. I'm doing something with your hair.”

“Any reason why you're determined to dress me up today?” Keith did as his friend asked without waiting for the answer. He soon felt gentle fingers return to his curls, once again working on getting rid of the tangles.

“Do I need a reason?” Shiro asked, and though his tone was lighthearted, Keith was sure he could detect an edge of frustration.

“Well, no... I guess not.”

Shiro continued to work on his hair until he could get his fingers through without catching on a single knot and then began to gather sections as he debated how he wanted to arrange Keith's hairstyle. He muttered to himself and Keith wasn't entirely sure it was fully in English because there was so much of it he couldn't understand.

Eventually, Shiro settled on a simple, single braid.

“Now you're ready to help me,” he said as he stood up. He held out a hand for Keith to take and helped him stand.

Keith expected an evening in the garden, gathering herbs and flowers of all varieties so that Shiro could dry them or do whatever he needed, but instead he was led to a room he'd never been allowed inside. He realized why immediately.

Shelves lined the walls, filled with a variety of pots and baskets. One was specifically for hanging dried plants. Another held books of all sizes. In the very center was the room was a cauldron on a pedestal, with a fire pit beneath it that lit itself the moment the door was shut.

If Keith ever needed confirmation that maybe the stories of Shiro being a witch were true, that was it. He wasn't worried though. Shiro had never given him a reason to distrust him.

“Should I really be in here?” Keith asked.

“I don't see why not. I normally get Curtis to help me with things like this,” Shiro told him. “Healing salves require quiet and I have to do those myself, but I also make soaps. That's what you'll be helping me with today. Could you get that basket of soapwort?”

Keith took a moment to look around, crossing off a number of plants before he came across one with a few white flowers still attached. “This one?”

“That's it,” Shiro said with a nod. “Take it over to the table and start chopping one of the bundles. Try and get the pieces as evenly as you can, but don't stress if they aren't. Once you have a full bundle cut, you can put it in the cauldron and add one jar of dried soapwort so it can all boil together.” He walked over to one of the shelves and plucked up a fist-sized jar, which he took over to the table where Keith would be working.

“Do you do this a lot?” Keith asked as he got to work.

“At least once a week I make a lemon soap for Curtis to take into town and sell with his pies,” Shiro said. “The one we're making is for a friend. Nettle and rose this time, I think.”

Keith focused on what he was doing as Shiro got lost in his own musings, as he was prone to do when he was working on something he found important. He found chopping the soapwort a relaxing activity and quickly finished the single bundle he was asked to do. He swept it all up into another jar – when did that get there? - and then carried the fresh and dry soapwort to the cauldron and dumped it all in. The ladle stirred it all together on its own.

The blatant display of magic had Keith gasping in surprise.

Shiro looked over at the sound. “Ah, sorry about that. It's charmed to automatically stir. I've had one too many recipes burn while I was trying to get everything in order. The wind chimes are the same.” He pointed to the ceiling, where a few copper tubes were hanging in close proximity.

“It's fine. I just wasn't expecting it,” Keith said, backing away from the cauldron with slight weariness. He breathed in, reminding himself that he trusted Shiro and that the magic was useful and not dangerous, and then walked over to see if his friend needed any other help. “So, uh, what now?”

“Now we add the rose and nettle so it can boil along with the soapwort,” Shiro said, handing Keith one jar. “Both are good for the skin, but I use rose petals specifically for the scent.”

Keith and Shiro spent most of the evening in the little room, working first on a liquid soap for Shiro's mystery friend, and then on a smaller jar of lemon soap that he insisted Keith take home for general household cleaning. By the time they emerged, laughing and joking around, Curtis was nearly finished with dinner.

“You're taking this better than I thought. Even Curtis avoided me for two days when I first showed him my magic,” Shiro complimented.

“Hey, in my defense, you didn't exactly ease me into it,” Curtis spoke up, an amused smile on his face. “And I spent those two days calling myself an idiot for running from you.”

“I suppose I could have broken in the news a bit more gently...”

Keith couldn't help but smile as he listened to them banter back and forth. It was yet another thing that generally went unsaid in regards to Shiro's life; the exact nature of his partnership with Curtis was central to much of the town gossip, always spoken about in whisper and yet somehow without judgment. It was treated as any other talk about who liked who.

All Keith cared about was how happy they were together.

Shiro stepped into the kitchen, mischief in his expression, but before he could do whatever he was planning on, a horse whinnied outside and he turned around to go out and greet their new visitor instead.

“Keith, come with me,” he instructed.

Keith glanced over at Curtis, who only shrugged and went back to cooking. With no help forthcoming he followed after Shiro. Outside they found a cloaked rider astride a dappled gray horse and as Shiro approached the rider pushed back their hood to reveal a young woman with light brown hair.

“It's good to see you, Pidge,” Shiro greeted as he grasped one end of the reigns. He held the horse steady as the woman swung her legs over and hopped down.

“Hi, Shiro. And Shiro's new friend.” She flashed a quick smile at Keith before turning her attention back to Shiro. “I hope I'm not interrupting. I know it isn't exactly one of my scheduled visits, but I had to get away for a while.”

“You're always welcome here,” Shiro said. “Keith, would you mind helping her inside while I take Jasmine to the barn?”

Keith nodded and held out his hand for her to take, which she did with a smile that seemed amused. Keith was sure that meant he was doing something wrong or not quite appropriate, but she didn't call him out on it and let him walk her into the cabin, where she also greeted Curtis and complimented him on how good the food smelled.

“Another guest for dinner,” Curtis said, sounding delighted. “Why don't you both wash up. We'll be ready to eat once Shiro comes back inside.”

There were two pumps that Keith knew of. One was in the kitchen and the other in the washroom, which was where he and Pidge headed to clean up as Curtis asked. He let Pidge go first.

“So, how long have you known Shiro and Curtis?” she asked, curiosity coloring her tone.

Keith shrugged. “A few years, I guess. Shiro's helped me out of a few bad scrapes.”

“Me too.”

Keith glanced at her, wondering what trouble she could have possibly gotten in that would mean Shiro had to step in and help. Though she tried to hide it beneath a plain cloak, he could tell she was of noble blood and likely under heavy protection. He wouldn't be surprised if she had guards stationed out in the forest to watch for any danger.

“He saved my brother three years ago. Ever since then I try and visit with gifts to thank him for everything that he's done. Of course, it's hard to get him to accept anything so it's always something he'll find useful and not all that difficult to find...” Pidge sighed as she stepped aside to dry off her hands, letting Keith access the pump.

“He is stubborn like that,” Keith agreed. He quickly scrubbed his hands clean and then accepted the towel from Pidge so he could dry off before they went to eat.

Dinner was full of lively conversation and delicious food. Keith had to stop himself from taking second helpings of everything, knowing that the richness of it all would only disagree with his stomach. He had to slow down a few times and focus on listening to what everyone was saying instead.

Pidge was especially chatty, full of witty jokes and a tendency to ramble on when she was particularly interested in a topic. Shiro encouraged her in subtle ways; through a question or a quick statement, leading her through a wide range of subjects that were all equally fascinating to hear, even if Keith didn't understand all of what was being said.

It was by far one of the best meals Keith had ever had. He was almost sorry when it was over and Shiro and Curtis shooed him and Pidge outside while they cleaned up, ignoring all of their protests.

Keith stared at the door, his arms crossed over his chest as he waited for some sign that Shiro would let them back in. Minutes passed without any movement and Pidge grew tired of waiting.

“You know, you get a pretty good view of the stars around here,” she mentioned. “Want to stargaze with me?”

The question was unexpected. Keith was stunned for several long seconds before he found his voice long enough to agree. He followed her down the path into the garden, where there was a stone bench surrounded by tall-growing flowers, all of which were beginning to close up without the sunlight shining down on them.

Pidge sat down first, laying her cloak across the bench to provide slight warmth to the cold stone. “Sometimes I get the feeling that Shiro knows more than he lets on. He's not going to let us back in until he thinks we've made friends,” she said, patting the space next to her.

“He does always seem to know when I'm coming to visit,” Keith admitted as he took a seat. “Why stargazing though?”

“You'd rather stare at the door until he lets us go inside?” she asked with a grin.

“No. No, this is better,” Keith agreed, tilting his head back. It had been so long since he last took the time to look at the stars, but as he sat there he was brought back to a time when his dad was still alive. How many nights had they laid out under the stars, telling stories based on the legendary figures dotting the skies? What kinds of stories did Pidge know?

He didn't have to wonder for long.

Some of her stories he had heard before. Others were new. And then he was able to share the ones he knew from his dad and had the pleasure of watching her face light up in joy at hearing new stories.

When Shiro opened the door to let them in, neither of them noticed.

[aernox]

Rivamika Week 2019 - Day 2 Hurt/Comfort

Author's Note: So sorry this is late, and the whole thing is a mess. I went off in a tangent. There was no real plot or anything. But I needed to write this. It was therapy for me. SPOILERS BTW SO BEWARE

Under The Rubble

Mikasa rubbed the soap on her bloody hands, the suds running down her arms and let the cold water wash it all away. After drying them, she inspected her hands which had dry red patches, and cracks. Taking a pot from a nearby shelf, she rubbed the beeswax into her skin, momentarily soothing it. She sat down on an old wooden chair by the window for the first time since had started working that night, waiting for Jean to arrive and take over from her. She moved the curtain slightly, but it was still pitch-black outside, even though Mikasa reckoned it must have been eight in the morning by now.  The rain that had started to fall three days ago, when the battle had finished, continued to fall.

The door to the infirmary opened slowly as Jean entered the room, he walked as though his limbs were heavy, and his eyes were tired and bloodshot. Mikasa felt how he looked and felt pity that he had to work the next shift. Mikasa rose from her chair and took her notes that she would be passing over to Jean.

“Rough night?” Jean asked, his voice hoarse.

“You could say that. I had three new admissions.” Mikasa said, her voice low as they approached the first bed which had privacy screens around it. “The first was dead on arrival, nothing I could do for him despite me trying. I gave him the last offices; he just needs to be removed whenever it is convenient for you and your helper today. He was with the Garrison Regiment. I’ve written his next of kin details here. They have yet to be informed.”

Jean nodded, as Mikasa passed her notes to him as they moved on to the next patient.

“Another member of the Garrison Regiment came in with a suspected fracture of the tibia, I’ve elevated it and splinted it. Have the doctor take a look at it. I’ve given him pain relief. He’s fine.” Mikasa said, already moving on to the next bed, which also had privacy screens around it.

“A civilian, brought in a couple hours ago. Was impaled by a metal beam through the abdomen, a good Samaritan not knowing any better, removed it. I couldn’t stop the bleeding but made him comfortable. Last offices are done. The family are aware.”

“So just a little busy then…” Jean mumbled to himself, the enormity of the day that faced him now apparent. “What about the others?”

“No problems overnight with me.” Mikasa said, handing him the rest of the notes, “Oh Jean, make sure we get more morphine. I had to use quite a lot last night, so we don’t have much left.”

Jean scribbled on his noted and said he would make sure it was in by the night shift.

“Are you sure you want to come back tonight?”

“You know I’ll be here every night. Until things change.” Mikasa said, longing for the soft linen of her bed sheets.

“Mikasa, you’ll burn yourself out if you keep this up.” Jean said, placing his hand on her shoulder.

“I’m fine, Jean. I always am.” Mikasa said, hoping that her words sounded convincing.

***

Mikasa jolted upright in her bed, her dagger held firmly in her hand, unsure of what had woken her from her deep but disturbed sleep. Dazed and disorientated she stumbled out of her bed and checked the window, with only darkness outside she couldn’t tell if it was day or night. There was a loud rapping knock at the door.

“Mikasa. This is your wake-up call.” A voice from behind the door called.

Coming to her senses, Mikasa lowered her dagger and called back that she was up and awake now. Running a comb through her hair and getting dressed she dreaded going back in for her shift. Day after day it was the same thing, injured soldiers, injured civilians, men, women and children. It didn’t stop. There weren’t enough doctors and nurses to help after the last battle of Paradis which had ended only three days ago. Most of Mikasa’s friends were gone, lost in the battle or in the ensuing chaos when the walls made of titans collapsed. Eren, Armin, and Connie were gone. Nearly everyone else she knew was MIA, except for Jean who had been her rock since everything happened. But somehow Mikasa had survived, and she had no idea what do now that it was all over. She would work. Until she knew what she should do.

She walked down the hall, dreading to see what awaited her in the infirmary of the barracks. She looked in on the room to the left, where those that were least sick or injured were, of which there were currently twenty. All was quiet and some of them were already sleeping, the others whispered to each other hoping from news from the outside. She opened the door to the left, which contained the most acutely sick and injured patients, were Jean was waiting for her. He held a cup of tea which he immediately handed to Mikasa.

“Morning…you going to need this.” Jean said, the morose tone of his voice not lost on her.

Jean ran through the list of new admissions, one male with broken ribs, one female with an above knee amputation, one male with severe foot rot on his left foot. When Mikasa threw Jean a puzzled look, Jean reminded her that the rescue efforts to remove the people still in the rubble was still on going, and that the persistent cold and wet weather wouldn’t have helped the working conditions. The last was a young man who lay quietly in his bed but was wrapped in so many bandages that Mikasa was a little taken aback. Most of his face was covered in bloody bandages, leaving only tufts of his black hair and his mouth visible.

“Unidentified male, who we are calling John Doe. He was found under the rubble and debris when Eren brought the walls down. The doctor reckons he has multiple internal injuries and doesn’t expect him to last the night.”

Mikasa nodded and sipped her tea, already making mental notes of what she planned to do for the night and tied her apron around her waist.

“Did we get that morphine that we needed?”

“No, apparently there’s a shortage everywhere for it.” Jean said, knowing the gravity of what that meant.

Mikasa sighed, and waved Jean to go to bed insisting that she would deal with it.

She checked each patient one by one, recorded their vital signs, doing it exactly how she remembered Dr. Jaeger doing it. She often thought about her trips with him, running to get extra supplies when visiting a patient at home, watching him check pulses, change bandages or anything else that might have needed doing. The only patients that concerned her were the four in the acute bay, but according to their observations they were doing fine for now. Pinning her fringe out of her face, she opened the medicine cupboard and checked the stock. Only two smalls vials of morphine left.

I’ll have to rations this very carefully. If I’m lucky, this might be enough for tonight.

At most, she would have 4 doses. She sat down at the only table in the room, which was beside the window, pulling the curtain closed after looking outside. The rain continued to pour in a gentle but constant drizzle with the rhythmic pitter patter against the windowpane. She took a large sip of tea as she started writing the first of her patients notes. She looked at the large stack of papers and wondered how long her and Jean would be able to do this day in day out. He worked with civilian volunteers worked during the day when the doctor was here, and she took care of the night. She had the lives of twenty-three patients in her hands, and she felt like she had no idea what she was doing. If there was an emergency at night, there was no doctor to call, leaving Mikasa to try and keep them alive until the morning. But there was no one else to call upon. All that remained of the Survey Corp was Jean and herself, everyone else either dead or missing.

With her paperwork finished, Mikasa struck a match and lit a candle so she could make her hourly rounds. The man with foot was complained of pain, he said the dose of morphine that Jean had given him earlier in the day was wearing off. Mikasa inspected his foot, the sole was an unnaturally pale colour and long deep cracks ran from the top to the bottom. There was not much Mikasa could do except keep his feet dry and give him some morphine. She gave him one dose and moved him into the larger bay for those who weren’t seriously sick.

Only three doses of morphine left.

Mikasa wanted to give the young dying man as much privacy as possible and would try to move as many as she could out of his bay. She went back, thought that she could hear him moaning in pain and gave him some morphine. She watched as his rate of breathing had slowed somewhat. She knew this was all part of the process, but it didn’t get any easier. She was documenting what she had given him when she heard a loud bang from the corridor outside.

“HELP! Is anyone here?!”

Mikasa recognised the voice immediately and bolted for the door that lead to the corridor. The door slammed back as she yanked at the doorknob and saw Hange slumped on the floor soaking wet.

“Hange your alive! Are you hurt?” Mikasa couldn’t believe that Hange was here, wanting to say so much but not knowing where to start.

“I’m fine, Mikasa. Help him.” Hange said, pointing to the body slumped in her arms, whose face was covered by the rain-soaked cloak. Mikasa pulled back the hood to reveal the face of a mangled man, a long deep gash from his right forehead across his eye and down to his chin. There was smaller puncture like wounds that spattered across his face, which would have shocked Mikasa, until she saw his fingers. Or what remained of them, as several of them were missing.

Immediately lifting Levi’s limp body, Mikasa brought him to the bed she had just put fresh linen on and got to work. She checked his vital signs, stripped him down completely of all clothes to find any wounds and assess how bad they were. She squeezed firmly at the muscle between his neck and shoulder firmly, but he didn’t wince. He was completely unconscious. She cleaned his wounds with salty water, debriding any debris that was left, not wanting him to get a fever, packed them with gauze and bandaged as best that she could.

“Mikasa…”, Hange called, “I need to sleep. I’ll explain later. You’ll look after him won’t you?”

“Hange! What happened to him?”

“Zeke…there was a massive explosion. Shrapnel everywhere. I found him.”

Mikasa understood at once.

“Levi is lucky to be alive, Mikasa…I just hope it stays that way.” Hange said as she laid down on the floor and fell asleep without a pillow or even a blanket.

Levi let out a moan, his face grimacing in agony. Mikasa watched the rise and fall of Levi’s chest, noticing that his rate of breathing had increased, and his chest wasn’t rising symmetrically. Her work was not done yet, she realised. She took a closer look at the bony prominence of his windpipe and realised that it was not straight like it should be, but it had deviated to one side. Alarm bells in Mikasa’s head clanged, banged and crashed. She had seen this before, on one of her visits with Eren’s dad.

Immediately she grabbed a needle, feeling for the soft spaces between each rib on Levi’s chest.

How far down am I meant to go? Shit! I can’t remember! I could kill him if I don’t get this right….

But she also knew the consequence of not doing anything. She counted four spaces and hoped for the best as she firmly pressed the needle into his skin and between the intercostal spaces. There was an immediate whoosh of air, and Mikasa knew that she was right. She silently watched him breathing for a while, his toned chest rising and falling over and over again. She had always thought that he had looked so strong, invincible almost. But seeing Levi here, now… she thought she had never seen anyone look so fragile and weak. She gave him a dose of morphine for his pain.

One dose left.

When Mikasa deemed him to be more stable she washed him down with soapy water, making sure to keep the bandages dry, dried him off and tied an infirmary gown onto him. Smelling the fresh linen, she covered him with a blanket and propped a pillow behind his head.

She woke Hange after a while who finally found the strength to go to a proper bed after she inquired about Levi. Mikasa wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t out of the woods yet. In fact, he was still very much in the thick of them.

If I can just keep him alive until he morning…

Feeling as though she had neglected her other patients, she let her candle once more and did her check on each of them. With her check done she suddenly had a fear that when she went back to check on Levi that he wouldn’t be breathing. When she got there nothing had changed.

She had just begun her paperwork on Levi when he started moaning again. Instinctively, Mikasa walked up to the medicine cupboard only to find that there was a single dose of morphine left. She felt torn, not knowing whether to give it to him, or save it just in case. Levi quietened down, and she waited, continuing her paperwork. Suddenly John Doe gave a long drawn of moan that frightened Mikasa so much she knocked her bundle of papers on the floor scattered to every corner of the room. It was like a back and forth, both men’s faces grimacing in pain, muscles contorting, veins bulging.

But it wasn’t until Levi cried out for his mother that Mikasa broke down. It was too much, too much for one person to bare. The hot tears fell as she collapsed in a heap on the floor, her breath gasping trying to breath between her sobs. How could she pick one over the other? One a dying stranger who she wanted to make comfortable, or her captain who could potentially live but who would be in excruciating pain.

Mikasa slapped her face hard, leaving her face red and her palm stinging. Willing to pull herself together, she stood up and drew the last dose of morphine into the syringe. She looked at Levi, most of his face covered in bandages, but she could still hear him moaning loudly. Mikasa knew what had to be done.

Mikasa firmly pressed down on the plunger of the syringe, the clear liquid of the morphine entering the muscle of John Joe’s arm. A few minutes later, John Doe grew quiet and a peaceful expression settled on his face. He died an hour later. Mikasa could hear Levi groaning while she preformed the last offices on John Doe, trying to hold back the tears. When she was done, she brought her chair and sat besides Levi’s bed. She took his hand with fingers missing, inspecting the bandages she had dressed it in. She held his hand and asked him to forgive her. Forgive her for giving John Doe the morphine, for not being able to save him, for not being there to help him against Zeke.

“I always thought that we would have more time…”, Mikasa said, losing herself in her reverie. “After all these years that I’ve known you, I should have told you…” Mikasa had started but she couldn’t continue., unable to imagine a world where Levi was not in it. He was humanity’s greatest soldier, their greatest hope. The future of Paradis was uncertain, and it would need Levi.

“Don’t die, Levi.” Mikasa pleaded, squeezing softly, “Please live.”

She stayed like that with him, his hand in hers until Jean got there for his morning shift. Mikasa did her best to explain to him what had happened that night, with Levi there in the bed, and Hange asleep somewhere in the barracks. She asked Jean to get his helper to wake her at her usual time and went to her quarters to sleep. Falling into her bed she fell asleep instantly.

*

She woke up, her limbs still stiff and heavy her eyes blinking over and over but only finding darkness.

What time is it? Why didn’t anyone wake me? I must be late for my shift.

Throwing on her clothes she made her way to the infirmary hoping Jean was managing okay, when she was greeted by an unfamiliar face.

“Jean told me to tell you to take the night off, Miss. I’m one of the volunteers. I’m doing the night shift tonight.” The young man said when he saw Mikasa’s confused expression.

“What time is it?”

“A little after midnight, Miss.”

“Is Levi…?”

“He’s still alive. The doctor saw him while he was here, suspected that he had a pneumothorax with you last night. He said that the trick with the needle worked like a charm. You saved his life.”

Mikasa nodded, the doctor’s diagnosis only confirmed her suspicions.

She opened the door into the high bay and saw Levi lying comfortably in bed, still unconscious.

“I’ll give you some time with him. I have to check on the others anyway.” The young volunteer said, closing the door.

Mikasa inspected Levi’s bandages, made sure that he was being looked after properly, and was satisfied with their work. She took his mangled hand in hers and softly whispered to him repeatedly not to die. That she would look after him. She brushed the stubborn black hair of his out of his face. He would have terrible scars on his face for the rest of his life, she noted to herself. But that would not stop her from telling him how she felt if he ever woke up. How she had felt for years. Her mind started to wonder, thinking about the future and what she would do. Her hand still held his, willing him to live, still her whispers commanded Levi that he was not allowed to die, when she felt his hand squeeze hers.

[hope-and-soap]

(hypothetical) Young Avengers film trailer

I’ve spent Several Showers obsessively putting together a mental trailer for a Young Avengers film adaptation (please marvel please) so figured I’d write it down to clear space for other Shower Thoughts. Enjoy?

*******

INT: APARTMENT, DAY

We open in the kitchen of a small, cluttered apartment - the kind of crappy-but-cheerful, barely-adulting place known to students and other young urban people everywhere. It’s early morning. 

Four young people are gathered around the kitchen table: CASSIE LANG, legs tucked up under her, a newspaper spread out in front of her as she works on the crossword; TEDDY ALTMAN, digging in to a large pile of toast and looking sappily down at BILLY KAPLAN, who’s nursing a mug of coffee and half-napping on TEDDY’s shoulder; and KATE BISHOP, face pressed into the table in front of an empty coffee mug.

Kate: Ugh, morning, why.

BILLY hums in sympathy, flicking his fingers; a pot of coffee floats over the table, tipping its contents into KATE’s mug. CASSIE glances over at this, and five sugar cubes are dropped into the mug by a line of ants. KATE groans, but with gratitude.

Silence for a moment as we dwell on this scene of loving domesticity, and then the doorbell rings.  

CUT TO:

INT: HALLWAY, DAY

BILLY stands in the apartment’s open front door, looking up at an imposing stranger in hot pants and combat boots: AMERICA CHAVEZ, extremely cool and mildly unimpressed.

America: Billy Kaplan?

Billy: Um. Yeah?

America: The world’s ending. I need you to come with me.

Beat as BILLY takes this in. Then a smile of (mistaken) realisation:

Billy: Oh! No, you’re looking for the Avengers - that’s three blocks down, make a right, it’s a big tower, you can’t miss it -

AMERICA shoots him a disdainful look halfway through this speech and turns, walking away down the hall.

America: Come on.

Billy: Wait, where are you -

America: (calling over her shoulder) Bring your friends.

Billy: I - (beat) Sorry, wait, hang on - the world’s what now?

CUT TO:

A montage of images, with AMERICA providing voiceover.

America, v/o: There’s something coming.

A suburban living room: television, sofa, armchairs. A family sitting together, two parents and two kids, watching TV. In a corner by the sofa we see: a patch of whiteness, flat blank-paper white, like a total absence of colour and texture. As we watch, it spreads, eating its way over carpeted floor. Erasing it.

America, v/o: Something bigger than an invasion. Bigger than a war. 

The whiteness begins to climb the arm of the sofa, creeping towards a young girl’s arm.

America, v/o: It doesn’t just take lives - it eats futures. Steals potential.

The whiteness touches the girl, and she stares at it in horror as it climbs her arm, whiting it out. She opens her mouth as if to scream -

America, v/o: And they called it here, the ones in charge, but they can’t see it. It doesn’t touch them.

The living room again, engulfed in white: the two kids like flat white silhouettes, paper cut-outs with no faces, featureless. The walls and floor and furniture all the same white, looking like line drawings on paper. But the TV is still on - and the parents are all in colour, as per normal, still watching. Oblivious.

America, v/o: So we’ve got no backup.

The whiteness flowing over a college campus, whiting out the students and leaving lecturers speaking to an empty room.

America, v/o: No world leaders, no Avengers, no Sorcerer Supreme. 

Hard cuts now: the whiteness creeping through the halls of a government building, whiting out the walls and floor but leaving important-looking people still walking up and down, files clutched to their chests. Whiting out a police station, but leaving the officers untouched and oblivious. Spreading through the Avengers compound as even the Avengers fail to notice.

America, v/o: We’re on our own. We’re all we’ve got.

Cut to a warehouse, where AMERICA stands, addressing the others, who stand around her in a loose semi-circle. They are quiet for a moment, processing her speech; all stunned, except CASSIE, who tilts her head slightly, considering.

Cassie: So what do we do?

Beat. AMERICA raises an eyebrow: isn’t it obvious?

America: We punch it in the face.

CUT TO:

Another montage, but brighter this time: shots filled with dazzling, pop-y colour, set to Kesha’s We R Who We R (hot! and dangerous!) or similar dance anthem. The gang being shot at by some unseen assailant, dodging neon-coloured beams of light. Having coffee in a diner, laughing silently at a shared joke. Flashing lights like they’re in a club or at a rave, as KATE backflips over someone on what looks like a dance floor, kicking them in the face. The gang in a convertible with the top down, speeding urgently down a highway, TEDDY in the backseat throwing his arms in the air.

Kate, v/o: You know how when you’re really little,

CASSIE alone, in what looks like her bedroom, staring hard at her father’s suit, hung on the back of her door.

Kate, v/o: and they tell you you can be whatever you want to be?

CASSIE in the same place, suited up now, glancing left at a full-length mirror. Looking at herself. She presses a button near her temple and her helmet forms around her face.

Kate, v/o: But then you grow up a bit - 

KATE outdoors, at night, on the side of a hill somewhere - she’s looking into the distance, at far-away city lights. AMERICA walks up to her, settles herself beside her.

Kate, v/o: - and then they’re like, nah.

Same scene: AMERICA tilts her head back, looks up at the stars, pensive and uncharacteristically vulnerable.

Kate, v/o: You’ve got no power.

BILLY, in battle: close-up on his hand as he flexes his fingers and the air around them lights up blue.

Kate, v/o: You’ve got no training.

BILLY and TEDDY fighting back to back, in mid-air, TEDDY flying on newly-sprouted wings and BILLY’s whole body haloed in blue light.

Kate, v/o: You know - basically nothing.

Team shot: the gang in a circle, surrounded by enemies, in battle stances - the tension of the last seconds before a fight.

Kate, v/o: And maybe they’re right.

Cut to black.

Kate, v/o: But you know what?

Slow fade in on a close-up on AMERICA, her arms outstretched, stars glowing on both of her wrists. A glowing star on the ground beneath her feet. Her eyes glow, too, and she’s grinning. 

She lifts a foot and stomps down with a sound like glass shattering, as KATE says -

Kate, v/o: Fuck that.

Cut to black again. The music cuts out. Silence for a second.

Then another slow fade-in, as we hear the first few strains of orchestral music, something familiar -

Kate, v/o: Being a superhero is awesome.

And we’re in the middle of a wide street now - a street packed with young people, teens and twenty-somethings: some armed, some not; some obviously powered, others looking like civilians in ragged jeans and charcoal-smudged faces. All standing tall, facing front, ready to fight. 

Pan over the assembled army to the front of the column, where the YOUNG AVENGERS stand, suited up and battle-ready: BILLY and TEDDY shoulder-to-shoulder on the left, CASSIE on the right, helmet snapping shut as she grows another foot. And in the centre: AMERICA, expression fierce, raising her fists; and KATE, bow in hand, arrow on her string. 

Close-up on KATE as the music swells, and resolves into - what else? - the Avengers theme, in bright new remixed arrangement. KATE takes aim. She’s smiling.

Kate, v/o: Everyone should try it.

KATE lets the arrow fly.

Cut to black.

TITLE CARD, then:

Tag: INT: APARTMENT, DAY

The gang’s gathered around the kitchen table again, leaning over it towards each other like they’re making a plan, when there’s a sound from a nearby cupboard: a shuffle, a thump, a muffled yelp of pain.

AMERICA strides over and yanks the cupboard door open to reveal -

KID LOKI, looking shocked then sheepish then scared as AMERICA hauls him out by the front of his shirt, holding him half a foot off the floor.

The others stare. A beat.

Kate: Loki?

America: You know this guy?

Kate: Yeah, he’s a total prick, Clint says he -

Teddy: (over her) He tried to invade the planet once, you know, aliens, magic portal, it was a whole thing -

Cassie: (after a moment) How did you end up -

Billy: - in the body of a twelve-year-old?

Cassie: (shooting BILLY a look) - in our pantry?

Pause. Everyone looks at each other, taking this all in.

Loki: It’s a long story, but I’d be happy to explain. If, um.

He looks up at AMERICA, who’s still glowering at him. LOKI visibly gulps.

Loki: If you could maybe - could you maybe put me down?

[screenmirroring81-blog]

How the Door and the Cupboard Work Together

Screen Mirroring

It is a common phenomenon that, during these long awaited times, people will read about the mysterious meaning of the two keys that are hidden in the cupboard in the Indian kitchen. What is the secret of using the same key for both the cupboards and the kitchen door? What does it mean? How did the door and the cupboard open at the same time?

Connect Phone To TV

But today, there is a simple answer to all the great mysteries and one very simple solution. Even if you think there is nothing complicated about this kind of puzzle, it doesn't mean that the secret would not be revealed to you. Read on to find out how the Indian kitchen can work without the magic cupboard and the key.

First of all, we have to understand the context of the cupboard and the door. The cupboard has a huge significance for any Indian kitchen. The cupboard helps to store the ingredients and the pans or pots, it also helps to store several plates and the utensils.

Moreover, the cupboard is important to store the various utensils which you need to prepare the food in the kitchen. In some kitchens, the cupboard is overlooked and it is used as a place for storing only the basic utensils and accessories for cooking. Thus, the kitchen cupboard may work just as well without any superstructure for supporting it.

However, the secret of the door and the cupboard works exactly the same way for both. Both the doors open in tandem, so both these objects are manufactured with the same mechanism. But, in order to produce the desired outcome, the different pieces have to be put together well in order to support the entire structure.

What happens when the door and the cupboard are put together? When the door is opened from one side and the cupboard from the other side, they create a gap between them which helps to have the door slide through that gap and to close it as soon as the door is opened from the other side.

The big issue here is how the door and the cupboard can move. The cupboard can move without the help of the door, since it is designed to slide smoothly while opening. The door is made to close the gap between the two without the help of the cupboard.

This is a little tricky but it is not impossible to find the mechanism that makes the door and the cupboard move simultaneously. All you need to do is to install a new door frame in the cupboard and the door to make the movement possible.

Since there are different kinds of door frames available, you can try different kinds of hinges and then find the best one that can support the movement of the door and the cupboard. One good option is to use some wood, nails, wood screws and perhaps some plastic to make the right kind of framework to support the movement of the door and the cupboard.

Now, the next thing you need to do is to change the key on the cupboard. To do this, you can remove the small keyhole found at the top part of the door.

However, the great safety benefit of having a small keyhole is a pointer to the fact that you do not want to remove that little object which is placed on the door. Instead, you should keep it there and easily locate it with the help of your hands or any other device which can serve as a mirror.

After installing the new door handle, you can open the door and the cupboard to check out the difference. You can now see clearly why the two objects are working in unison and for the same purpose of allowing the door and the cupboard to open when the key is pressed.

[violetsmoak]

Pieces of April [8/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099044/chapters/50202530

Summary: On the anniversary of his death, Jason’s second life takes an abrupt new turn and he’s faced with a challenge that neither Batman nor the All-Caste prepared him for.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Warning(s): Past Jason/Isabel, kidfic, minor canon character death (pretty sure you can guess who), I’ll add more warnings/tags as I think of them.

Canon-Compliance: Takes place in between the two RHATO series, so after Roy and Kori and before Artemis and Bizarro. Jason and Isabel Ardila

Author’s Note: Exactly what it says on the can. I’ve had this idea kicking around my head for a while, getting in the way of finishing the next chapter of Philtatos and I figured if I started jotting down the basics of it, I could stop thinking about it.

________________________________________________________________

Tim drives to one of Jason’s safehouses in the Bowery, about halfway between his apartment and the bar where he found Jason earlier. The place is a rundown, fire-damaged building with boarded-up windows and a sign out front advertising cheap studios.

“Do you need any help?” he asks as Jason gets out of the car.

“Just how much stuff do you think I need?” is the irate response before Jason vanishes into the dilapidated lobby.

Tim scowls at his back.

Someone remind me why I’m helping this jerk again?

The memory of the very tiny human still in the nursery at Gotham General makes his facial muscles relax.

Right.

Given the circumstances, Tim supposes he can overlook Jason’s inconsistent moods. He needs someone to lash out at right now while processing, and it’s not like Tim isn’t used to it. Better him than the criminals of Gotham; Jason’s pretty good these days about not using lethal force, but he might not care so much if he goes out without his head on straight.

Speaking of going out…

Tim surprised when Jason actually returns to the car ten minutes later instead of just vanishing. As he indicated earlier, he doesn’t have very much with him, just a worn duffel bag that he tosses in the backseat of Tim’s Porsche before having himself back into the passenger seat.

“Hope there aren’t any severed heads in there,” Tim remarks lightly as pulls away from the building. “I just had the seats redone.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “A guy makes one grand statement and they never let him forget it.”

“You don’t want people to forget it.”

“True,” he agrees with a sharp grin that is anything but humorous.

It’s a short journey back to Tim’s place, but he still drives around the block to use the secret entrance to his base of operations.

“What, I’m not good enough for your front door?”

“Be my guest. Say hi to Vicki Vale when you do, she’s usually lurking nearby.” When Jason shoots him a sharp, questioning look he elaborates, “An occupational hazard of being the face of WE is having paparazzi camped out around my place every now and then. I figure you don’t want your face showing up on the front of the Gotham Gazette.”

“Yeah, that might have been worth mentioning when you offered your guestroom.”

“Guess it’s a good thing like all responsible Bats, I have an underground secret hideout.”

He pulls into the back alley and flips the switch that activates the hidden ramp; the ground falls away and leads down toward the carpark. Tim won’t lie, he enjoys the way Jason’s eyebrows go higher the further in they get. The rest of the Family doesn’t come here—even during citywide emergencies, the agreed-upon convergence point tends to be the original Batcave—so Tim doesn’t have a lot of opportunities to show off.

And maybe showing off to his former childhood idol is something that doesn’t go away, no matter how many years or murder attempts.

That subbasement is nowhere near as large as any of the Caves, but there are two other cars and a half-dozen motorcycles in various states of modification parked in a circle. Tim eases into the only empty space and cuts the engine.

“Welcome to the Nest,” he says as he gets out of the car. “It goes three floors up not including this level. Outside it looks like just another apartment building behind my place, so no one would expect an actual secure installation inside.” He gestures as he speaks. “Ground floor’s got my crime lab and containment units, the second floor’s all training stuff, and the third’s the communication’s hub. There’s even aerial access, but I haven’t had to use it yet.”

Jason shakes his head. “Must be nice to be Dad’s favorite.”

“I wouldn’t know, you’d have to ask Dick.”

“Is that a popcorn machine?”

“No self-respecting hero’s lair should be without one,” Tim quips. “Come on, the living area’s this way.

They head up the stairs to the main level, and Tim doesn’t miss the appreciative glances Jason casts his tech and gear. He opens his mouth to offer to hook Jason up—extend the olive branch, so to speak—but stops himself; he doesn’t know if, after this whole baby adventure is over, Jason’s even going to want to stay in Gotham.

He slides open the hidden door, revealing Tim’s apartment. It’s the same deliberately clean open-concept room as he left it, except for one change. Across from the aquarium that hides the entrance switch, Tam Fox is reclining on the divan in the living room, one hand holding a glass of wine and another flipping expertly across her tablet.

She startles at the sound of the secret door sliding open, and that movement makes Jason tense, fingers ready to grasp for a weapon if need be.

“Relax,” Tim tells him, unsurprised when Jason does the opposite. “She knows everything.”

“And that’s reassuring how?”

“I trust Tam with my life, and to put my interests above WE’s or Bruce’s,” he explains. “Since at the moment you and I are working together, that means she puts your interests above WE and Bruce’s too.”

“She can hear you and knows how to speak for herself,” Tam quips, putting down her glass and standing up. “Who’s this?”

“This is Jason, the friend I was telling you about.”

Tim can almost hear Jason scowling at that; he trusts new people about as much as Bruce does.

Funnily enough, they both make the exact same face.

“And since when is there wine in my apartment?”

“Since you sent me scrambling around Gotham running errands, you generously decided to buy me a bottle of this very nice Riesling,” she replies, studying Jason. “When you said you had a friend with an emergency that required diapers, I was expecting Batgirl. Or Wonder Girl. Or Pru. Or, heck, even that Lynx-woman.”  

“Lynx?” Jason repeats, shooting Tim a disbelieving look. “Ghost Dragons Lynx? There’s no way you have that much game.”

“Then he didn’t tell you about what almost happened in Paris,” Tam informs him.

“Anyway,” Tim interjects. That’s all he needs is for Jason to hear about his own near brush with fatherhood. “This is Tam. Officially she’s my personal assistant, but I think ‘friend and confidante’ covers the relationship a lot better. And Tam, this is—"

“Jason Todd,” she says immediately, her eyes fixed on the other man in disbelief. Tim is momentarily caught off-guard. “It took me a minute, but I recognize you anywhere.”

Okay. I didn’t expect that. Though I probably should have. The Foxes were invited to all the same benefits and events Mom and Dad were. She probably knew or knew of Jason.

“Tam,” Jason repeats, tilting his head to one side and frowning at her for a moment like he’s trying to place her. His expression clears. “Tam. Tamara. Fox, right? You knocked Ned Davenport into a potted plant during Bruce’s birthday party one year.”

For once this evening, Tim is the one to feel a little bit off balance. Jason never talks about his time at Wayne manor in anything but unpleasant terms. And yet, Tim knows from Alfred’s stories that there were happy times and that once, Jason was as much a part of life at the manor as Tim or Damian.

 “He deserved it for ‘accidentally’ grazing my boobs when he passed by. Three times. And—and that’s not the point! You died!”

“I got better,” he replies with a bitter twist of his mouth.

She gapes for a moment, then reaches for her glass and downs the remainder of it.

“I’m going to become an alcoholic before I’m 25,” she tells the empty glass in a resigned tone before turning back to Jason. “Okay. I don’t even question this stuff anymore,” she informs him. “He could show up tomorrow with the Devil himself and I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Kid Devil, maybe. Lucifer doesn’t like Gotham. He's more of a beach-party kind of guy."

Tam stares, clearly unsure if Jason is being serious or not; Tim actually isn’t sure either and decides to change the subject.

“You want something to drink?” he asks as he heads for the kitchen. He doubts Jason will notice or care, but his mother raised him to be polite even to people that don’t like him. “I doubt you want anything alcoholic after everything today, but I think I’ve got Zesti—”

“Water,” Jason says absently, looking around the apartment. Now that Tam has been proven as a non-threat, he’s clearly more interested in assessing his surroundings.

He notices the large pile of boxes and bags by the stairs at the same time Tim does.

“What the hell’s this?”

“I called Tam and said it was an emergency and that we needed a few things.”

“This is not a few things.”

“Well, you don’t know how long you’re going to need them,” Tam replies. “Congratulations, by the way.” Tim can’t see Jason’s expression, but doubts it’s a good one from the way Tam quickly adds, "Or no congratulations? Where are we on the whole 'congratulations' thing?”

I don’t think either of us has the energy to get into what happened with Isabel just now. Redirection time.

“Did you have any trouble picking up the stuff?” Tim asks as he gets two glasses from the kitchen cupboard.

“Trouble?” she snorts, and her voice instantly goes from bemused to annoyed. “Do you know how hard it was to get all of this delivered without someone seeing me? Or seeing that it was baby stuff? That’s all I need now is Vicki Vale adding cradle-robbing and teen parenthood to her stories about us.”

“What’s Vicki doing this time?” Jason asks.

“She’s been trying to prove Tim’s Red Robin for the better part of a year,” Tam says. “She tried to get me to confirm that last year when all those ninjas tried to kill us, but I panicked and said we were engaged just to distract her.”

“Talk about taking one for the team,” Jason mutters.

Tim glares at him, and if he shoves the glass of water into his hands a little more forceful than he needs to, oh well. “She trots out that dead horse whenever Tam and I happen to be in the same room together.”

“Which is doing wonders for my career,” Tam deadpans. “People already scream nepotism because of who my father is, but now I’ve been reduced to either Tim Drake-Wayne’s assistant or Tim Drake-Wayne’s fiancée.”

“Hope he’s paying you overtime,” Jason says and wanders over to the intimidating tower of cardboard and plastic. He makes a face. “How much of this shit did you order? There’s like a lifetime supply of diapers here.”

“Trust me, that’ll last a month if you’re lucky,” Tam informs him. “My nieces and nephews did nothing but eat and poop for the first year of their lives.”

Jason appears vaguely horrified. His gaze rests on something else. “Is that a car seat?”

“How else were you expecting to bring home a baby? Carry her on a subway?”

Neither man has a response to this.

“Oh, this is going to go well,” she sighs. “Neither of you has any idea what you’re doing, do you?”

“That would be putting it lightly,” Tim acknowledges, and side-eyes Jason. “We should probably sit down and talk options, but that can wait until tomorrow if you want.”

“Tomorrow,” Jason agrees, and he sounds so exhausted and lost, that Jason takes pity on him.

“Come on, then. I’ll show you to the guestroom,” he offers and starts up the stairs. “It’s right next to the bathroom, if you want to shower. The water pressure here’s not great—” He shrugs, as if to say, ‘Park Row, what can you do?’ “—but it’s unlimited hot water.”

Surprisingly, Jason follows without comment.

“I’ll be here,” Tam says, and there’s an undertone to her words that suggest she’s not going anywhere until Tim explains the whole story.

And isn’t that going to be fun…

________________________________________________________________

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Next Chapter

[justheretobreakthings]

Welcome to the Family - Chapter 3

(Previous Chapter) (Next Chapter)

Word Count: 2,151 (Total Word Count: 6,340) Read on AO3

Story Summary: Lance had been excited about his family taking in a foster kid, eager to get to meet his brand new little brother or sister, who would surely adore and idolize their super cool Big Brother Lance. What he got instead was a sullen, quiet, temperamental teenage housemate with a criminal record and a disastrous haircut.

Lance: hes here. car just pulled into the street

Pidge: Tell him hi from us.

Lance: he doesnt know u

Pidge: So that means we can’t be friendly?

Hunk: what’s he like?

Lance: idk hes not even thru the door yet. text u back soon

Lance shut off the screen of his phone and shoved it into his pocket as he got up to bound down the staircase where he’d been perched on the top step. “Rachel!” he called as he descended. “Keith’s here!”

“You don’t need to yell,” Rachel spoke up from where she’d been lounging across the couch in the front room. She sat up, closing her laptop and setting it aside before she stretched and looked over to where Lance had landed and was now trying to peer into the driveway through the frosted-glass window of the front door. “You spotted him?”

“Yeah, he’s getting out of the car now,” Lance answered, face still pressed to the glass.

“What does he look like?”

“Blurry.”

“Should have guessed. Step back from the door, would you, Lance? You’re gonna freak him out.”

Right as she said it the doorknob began turning, and Lance jumped back, narrowly avoiding being hit in the face by the door as it swung inward to usher in his broadly smiling mother. “Lance, Rach- oh, good, you’re both here,” she said. “You two ready to say hi to your new brother? Come on in, Keith, come meet the family. Well, two of the family.”

She stepped aside to make room for the other figure walking up the front steps, and Lance got his first good look at his new brother.

The first descriptor that crossed Lance’s mind at the sight of Keith was ‘emo’, but that wasn’t quite the right fit. The pale skin and black hair looked to be their natural tones, not makeup or hair dye, and he also didn’t have any jewelry or nail polish or decals on his clothes to indicate that he may have been going for that sort of aesthetic. He just had the colors right, what with the black of his tee shirt and scuffed shoes and jeans that looked to be growing too small on him, and the red of the red zip-up sweatshirt he wore over it even in the middle of August in Arizona.

He did, though, do a great job of pulling off that distinctly emo ‘don’t talk to me, don’t look at me, don’t look in my direction, life is pain’ scowl that he wore across his face - a face which, with its smooth features and bold indigo eyes, could have been good-looking if it weren’t for the thick brown-pink mark slicing through one of his cheeks and the surrounding mane of hair that was so uneven it looked as if it had been cut with gardening shears.

Still, Lance had seen worse, and appearances could be deceiving; this could still be a great, fun guy to have around. So he kept up his smile as he said, “I’m Lance, nice to meetcha.”

Keith nodded silently in greeting, and did the same to Rachel when she introduced herself as well, but didn’t offer his own name in return. “So, uh,” Lance said, “Mamá said that you’re going into sophomore year too, yeah? So the two of us, we’re gonna be classmates as well as brothers. That’ll - that’ll be fun.”

Again Keith was silent, just shrugging in reply, and Lance frowned and turned to his mother. “¿Puede él hablar?” he asked her. Can he talk?

“Sí,” she answered. “Y él no habla español, así que no seas grosero.” Yes, and he doesn’t speak Spanish, so don’t be rude. A glance back toward Keith confirmed this, as his eyes were narrowed and darting back and forth between the two of them, brows bunched in confusion. Lance simply clicked his tongue, settling back with hands on his hips. There was nothing rude about speaking his own language in his own home.

“Now, Keith,” his mother continued, “Do you want me to give you a tour of the house first, or do you want to start unpacking your things?”

“Um, tour’s fine,” Keith mumbled, faint but still loudly enough for Lance to finally get to hear his voice. It was low and just a little raspy, although the rasp may just have been from the low volume.

“Excellent!” his mother said. “I could have Lance or Rachel drop you duffel into your room so you - ”

“No,” Keith said sharply, pulling his bag back and moving to grip the shoulder strap with both hands.

“Suit yourself,” she said with an easy shrug, as if there was nothing even remotely unusual or suspicious about that sort of response. “We’ve got the family room here, and you’re free to use the family Netflix account on the TV as much as you want, and there’s a Nintendo Playstation hooked up to the - ”

“Those are two different things, Mamá,” Rachel interrupted. “And we have an Xbox, which is neither of those.”

“Oh, well, whatever it is, if you want to play video games, you can use that. The dining room’s this way - mind that coat rack, dear, it tips easily, I keep saying that we need to get a new one, maybe hooks on the wall instead or something, just never do get around to it - and through here is the kitchen, I’ll show you where everything goes - ”

She guided Keith through the dining room, initially trying to put a hand on his shoulder to steer him, but simply leading the way touch-free after he grimaced and shrugged the hand off of him. Lance followed, idly pulling his phone from his pocket to see a handful of new texts from Pidge and Hunk asking for more details about Keith. He shot them a quick response.

Lance: hes quiet

He watched as his mother opened and closed drawers and cupboards one after another, showing Keith where they kept the cutlery, bowls, plates, canned goods, cereal, pots and pans, instructing him on what goes where in the fridge and demonstrating which burner on the stove didn’t work, all while Keith maintained that perpetual scowl, answering only with soft grunts, before adding:

Lance: and kinda grouchy

He shut his phone’s screen off and tagged along as his mother and Keith moved on to the home office and bathroom and then downstairs to the basement, waiting until the tour had made its way to the laundry room and his mother began explaining how their washer and dryer worked before looking at Pidge and Hunk’s two very different replies.

Pidge: Of course he’s grouchy, he just discovered he’s going to be living with YOU.

Hunk: He’s probably just nervous.

Lance made a face and texted back.

Lance: im a DELIGHT to live with jsyk. & hes def giving off sort of an emo vibe

Pidge: How emo?

Lance: what do u mean

Pidge: On a scale of 1-10.

Lance: u cant quantify emo

He nearly didn’t notice the laundry crash course wrapping up and his mother and Keith heading out the door of the laundry room, so he saved the texting for later and hastened to follow as they started upstairs toward the bedroom.

His mother didn’t give a thorough tour of the rooms, to Lance’s relief, just quick peeks inside and naming which room belonged to whom. “Excuse the mess,” she said when she opened Lance’s door. “I swear, mijo, you have more clothes on your floor than you wear in a year.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” Lance said, rolling his eyes. Honestly, his mother had once seen Pidge’s room when the Holts had had the McClains over for dinner; she should have forfeited all rights to complain about messes on that fateful night.

“And here’s your bedroom, Keith,” his mother said, reaching the door at the end of the hall and opening it to reveal the skeleton of Luis and Marco’s former room, now empty with bare surfaces on the dresser and desk and bookshelf from their long lack of occupancy. “Once you’re settled in we can do a bit of decorating to help it feel more homey, if you’d like. I mentioned that shopping trip we could take sometime soon, get some new things for you?” She glanced toward Keith’s duffel bag before asking, “Does this room work all right for you? You need anything?”

“I’m fine,” Keith said softly.

“That’s good, that’s good. Well, now that you’ve got the lay of the land, I’m going to get dinner started up. Veronica should be coming home any minute, and Manuel will definitely be home for dinner, so I’ll make sure they stop and stay hello when they show up. Lance, be a lamb and help Keith get his stuff unpacked and in their places, would you?”

“Sure, Mamá,” Lance replied as his mother sidled out the room. “There more bags in the car for me to bring in, or - ?”

“No, just the one.” Lance raised a brow, about to ask why Keith would need help unpacking just one bag, but his mother leaned in to whisper, “Talk to him, okay? Just make him feel welcome.”

That made more sense. Lance eased his way into the room as his mother left. Keith had already set his bag onto the bed and was removing a little stack of shirts from it. “You, uh, need any help with that?” Lance asked.

Keith scowled over at him. Which was fair; that stack of shirts probably weighed two pounds at most. “Ah, I just meant, you know where that stuff goes?”

“... The dresser?”

“Yeah. You - you got this, sorry.” Lance rocked on his heels as Keith moved toward the dresser, the latter still eyeing him cautiously. “So, uh,” Lance tried again, “Where you from?”

“Around,” Keith answered with a shrug.

Right. Foster kid. Probably moved around a lot. He was on a roll with stupid questions. “Well, uh, where are you from, like, most recently? Before here?”

Keith paused, frozen halfway through setting his clothes down in a dresser drawer, and it was several seconds before he quietly answered, “Holbrook.”

“Don’t think I’ve heard of it,” Lance said. “You like it there?”

This time Keith didn’t answer at all, instead simply slamming the dresser drawer shut and moving back to his bag. He fished into it and pulled out a toothbrush and comb. “Where’s the bathroom again?” he asked.

“Second door on the left,” Lance answered, and Keith turned to leave the room without so much as glancing at Lance.

Lance simply rolled his eyes and strolled over to the bed, where he sat and glance into the open duffle bag. He nudged a gray sweatshirt aside to see a number of balled-up pairs of socks and boxers, a faded stuffed hippopotamus, and a few CDs in cases scattered across the bottom of the bag. He tilted his head to look at the titles. John Mellencamp, The Clash, Blue Cheer, a Chuck Barry CD with a spiderweb of cracks across the plastic case. Lance picked up ‘Janis Joplin’s Greatest Hits’, examining the remains of the garage sale sticker still covering the singer’s face. “So you’re into the old-timey, rock, huh? Funny, I would have pegged you more for MCR or Linkin Park or - ”

He hadn’t noticed Keith’s footsteps thundering down the hall until the other boy was already in the room, practically shoving Lance off the bed and yanking the bag back toward him. “Hey!” Lance yelped, grabbing onto the bedpost to keep from slipping onto the floor.

“Why were you going through my stuff?” Keith snarled, pulling the bag back further.

“Wha- I dunno, I was just, you know, seeing if you had, like - like, any interests or anything, that’s all. Calm down, man.”

That was probably the wrong thing to say, because Keith’s glare just darkened further. “Don’t touch my stuff,” he growled.

“I’m sorry. Is it, uh, is it because of the hippo? You don’t have to be embarrassed, I sleep with a stuffed animal too, lots of people do.”

Keith huffed and turned away from him. “I can unpack by myself. You can leave.”

“Are you… are you sure you don’t wanna, like, hang out, chat a bit?”

The scowl that Keith leveled in his direction was as firm a ‘no’ as humanly possible. So Lance sheepishly straightened up and headed out of the room, Keith shutting the door firmly behind him.

With a sigh, Lance pulled his phone back out, turning the screen on to see that Pidge had proposed an essay’s worth of criteria to quantify emo onto a ten-point scale. Ignoring that for now, Lance started to text.

Lance: hey hunk remember when u said keith was gonna be a cool friendly guy who will love hanging out with me?

Hunk: yeah? why?

Lance: guess what, im starting to think u were wrong