#and his clothing and nail polish and this perception of him as not being afraid to be feminine

[28whitepeonies]

-

[thestraggletag]

Human Nature, Part 2

Rating: R

Summary: Warm Bodies AU. After the zombie apocalypse is averted it’s up to Belle French to rehabilitate a mostly-dead Mr Gold, against advice of the experts and the wishes of the entire town. As she struggles to fan the spark of humanity back into Mr Gold she fails to notice something else kindling between them.

Read Part One here.

Status: Finished! 

He woke up with the feeling of teeth clamping hard on the flesh of his torso, and nails scratching his skin, trying to tear him apart. It was difficult at first to understand he had been dreaming because he had never done so before. He looked around, feeling a vague sense of familiarity and an undeniable sense of safety and knew that he was somewhere he’d been before, yet he couldn’t properly remember it.

He tried hard to recall his earliest memory. He was in the forest, and he could feel nothing but a faint ache, as if some part of his body hurt but he wasn’t sure which. There was also a deep hunger, and that seemed to be all that he could recall clearly. Being hungry all the time, craving something.

He vaguely recalled being taken from the forest and placed in the cell. He felt trapped and could smell the hostility in the air, prompting him to fight back, to protect himself. After that there was… nothing, for the longest time. Just a sense of the world dimming more and more around him, of his senses dulling and whatever remained of his consciousness snuffing out little by little, something ugly and primal and violent taking its place.

Everything changed when she came. It was her smell that attracted his attention first, something that tugged at a part of him buried deep inside, that told him that whatever was on the other side of the door was important. Then she started talking to him, stimulating his sluggish, dying mind into working again. He grabbed onto it, onto her, desperately, fighting to not disappear into the ether, to come out of the fog where he found himself. She was… like a flicker of light amidst an ocean of darkness. Slowly but surely he began to feel the stiffness melting off his joints, and lucidity asserting itself little by little.

It was all very basic, at first. Simple thoughts, a sliver of thought wrapped in layers upon layers of instinct. He began noticing the pattern of her visits, and recognising the smell of her. His first true, coherent thought was about lavender. She smelled like lavender, and suddenly he remembered what that was. With effort he formed a picture in his head of the plant, of its small, fragrant flowers. It was a first step, and soon it became easier to take another, and then another. He began piecing together what had happened to him. He’d been attacked. There had been some sort of… outbreak, or something. And the attack had turned him into something else. Something he had almost completely given into. But now there was a way back to whatever he’d been before.

People didn’t like him, he realised next. Whether it was because of what he was or who he’d been before he was not sure, though he suspected. He could very faintly scent others like him nearby, or similar, yet he was the only one left to rust in the cells, left alone. One face in particular, a grim, thin and pinched one, stood out to him as particularly hostile, but he couldn’t recall a lot about it. The scent emanating from the person- like something sweet that had been burnt- also made him ill at ease.

Scent was something that he relied on heavily, one of his only sources of information in the cell. It served his more primal side, allowing it to identify danger and know what went on beyond his prison. But it also sparked something in the other part of his brain, the one struggling to piece itself back together. The scent from the remains of a tattered silk square tucked into his suit was familiar- sandalwood, the word eventually popped into his head one day. The scent of musty things was oddly comforting and it tugged at something in his memory, as did the scent of polish, for some reason.

But it was the scent of her what had jarred him out of his sinking stupor. Something fiercely familiar, something that screamed at him to remember like nothing else had. He had a vague impression of warmth and nervousness, of something fluttering deep inside his stomach, but it was a fleeting sensation, there one moment and gone the next. But it was something to hold on to, some manner of feeling that kept him from the slow decay he’d been in.

At first he’d only smell her, taking care to do so in a way that caught all the nuances. He could tell when she smelled tense or tired or particularly welcoming, subtle changes in the scent telling him a bit about her day and her state of mind. But later, as she begun to read, he focused on her voice. Little by little the pleasant gibberish began to make some sort of sense. Some words or phrases jumped out, familiar or meaningful in a way. Something about the cadence of certain works felt known to him, and some others conjured images and stories inside his head. Listening to her read felt like an itch inside his mind, unpleasant but exciting at the same time.

Her name came to him as he held her close to ward her against the foul-smelling humans that had been chasing her, reeking of adrenaline, alcohol and hormones. He’d held her close and had had an image of him doing so before- of her falling down some stairs and into his arms- and suddenly he knew who she was.

Belle.

Once he had her name other things came easier. It was as if something had been unlocked and, slowly, information he’d thought he’d lost trickled back into his mind in a jumble. He was in Storybrooke, a small town in the middle of nowhere, Maine, where he was a pawnbroker and antiques dealer. The knowledge came with a strange sort of awareness in his bones, as if his hands and arms were remembering with him, remembering the skills he’d developed, the work he used to do. It wasn’t much, but it was a start, and as his hunger for more remnants of his past self grew so it dimmed that other hunger, the more primal one that had terrified and excited him so.

His newfound self-awareness, thankfully, came at the same time he was removed from the dank, cold cell and into a proper room, smelling strongly of antiseptic but blissfully clean and warm. Cold hadn’t bothered him before but it began to, gradually, as did other things like dirt and constant darkness, specially once he realised he could see less and less in the dark. In the same manner he grew increasingly aware of a dull, throbbing pain in his right leg, and the phantom memory of an accident- a dark night, a patch of ice on the road- and an old injury asserted itself in his head.

The sight of the bright salmon walls with the dark green detailing brought about a more keen sense of safety that he’d ever felt before and he knew why as soon as he was inside. This was his house, his home. It didn’t matter that he didn’t recognise half the things inside. It smelled right. He, on the other hand, didn’t, and it was with staggering relief that he realised he could do something about it. The shower, in many ways, was transformative. So much of what he’d associated with his declining state, with his dehumanisation, had to do with the slow decline of his cleanliness. It was hard to hold on to his sense of humanity when there was blood and grime on him, when his clothes hung in tatters and he smelled of dirt and decay.

With a familiar set of silk pyjamas on and the scent of glycerine soap and Aramis- he’d managed to read the letters on the small bottle, to his surprise- he felt more human than he’d ever remembered feeling. And it was perhaps why he dreamt that night, a novel concept. It was so real. He was in the forest, being chased, afraid. And then there were claws digging into his clothes, tearing at his hair. Then teeth, clamping around his side, sinking deep. He startled awake with the feeling of his half-healed bite-mark burning, and his body damp with perspiration.

When he’d been fully infected he’d had only a vague notion of the infection itself, of how it had happened and what it meant. But mostly he’d been focused on the hunger and little else and as lethargy set in he engaged less and less with the world around him. Now his perception of it was expanding by the minute and so was his awareness of what had happened. Of the outbreak and how it had changed everything and everyone, exposing all that was ugly about the world. And he could recall now the being that had bitten him, so thin, so gaunt it barely looked human. With a scrap of fabric hanging off it, what remained of its clothing.

A boney. That’s what they were called. Cadaveric, skeletal remains of what had once been real people. With no shred of a soul left, led only by the instinct to hunt and consume, too far gone to ever come back. And he had been close to becoming one of them, he was sure of it. If he concentrated he might still be able to fully feel it, that insatiable thirst, the blind rage. It prompted him to leave his room, his nose seeking out the comforting smell of lavender and vanilla coming from the room in front of his. His fledgling sense of propriety- it was strange, to suddenly start caring about certain rules of decorum, but he took it as a good sign- protested the idea of him lying down next to her, but it was easy to push it aside to seek his comfort. Everything about his journey back to consciousness was painful and frightening. The more he was aware of the world, and of himself, the worse it was. More confusing, more unpleasant, and strangely disorienting.

Belle made it bearable. Belle, so strong, so fearless, centred him somehow. He was in awe of her and how could he not be? She was his saviour. His defender. His patient teacher and kind friend. She had a warmth about her that seemed to spread through his body at the mere sight of her. The devotion she’d inspired had puzzled and frightened him at first but now he accepted it, welcomed it even. Whatever bond there was between them it had helped him find himself, find his way back from the edge, and that couldn’t be bad.

He felt her shift next to him, her eyes blinking open briefly and squinting to get a glimpse of him in the near darkness. She murmured something in a reassuring tone before drifting off again, seeming to not care he was in bed with her. Her easy acceptance of his person never seemed to stop amazing him, but he’d learned to stop questioning it. Instead he allowed himself to curl up close to her, allowed her scent to envelop him completely.

She smelled heavenly. Sweet, with an underlying tang that he could almost feel on the back of his throat.

Delicious.

He felt a tug just below his navel, an emptiness that was all too familiar. He shifted, suddenly uneasy, and felt his mouth water. He pressed his nose against the curve of her neck and panicked when he felt the need to bite into the skin there.

Immediately he pulled back, fear bubbling to the surface at the familiar, unwelcomed urge. The painful, sudden reminder of his inhumanity was like a slap in the face, but he forced himself to keep calm, to fight against his instincts. He’d come very far, had pulled himself from the edge, and he was not going to go back. He just needed to speed up his recovery. Walk around, work hard to recover memories, become the man he’d stopped being when he’d been bitten. Belle would remain safe with him.

It was easier said than done, braving the world outside. It felt awfully tempting to cloister himself in his house instead, smelling of comfort and safety, warm and full of things that catered to his comfort. But the fear of regressing was strong enough to push him out the door, with Belle by his side. She’d helped him into new clothing, and the feel and weight of it- the sharp lines of the suit, the crispness of the shirt, the feel of the tie around his neck- helped centre him. The cane helped too, even though it was more for show still than for necessity. His right ankle was beginning to fail him, but he knew deep inside that it wasn’t as bad as it would eventually get. The more human he became the more his old human limitations asserted themselves, which included his limp. The limp that had slowed him down that day in the forest, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to resent it, not when it meant he was regaining his old self.

The sunglasses helped him cope, not only with the harsh light of the sun, which he hadn’t seen directly in months, but also with the unsubtle scrutiny of the people around him. It seemed no one was particularly interested in keeping their morbid curiosity much of a secret, if their open glances and audible whispers were anything to go by. Surprisingly the apprehension and sometimes downright fear he saw and felt around him- God, he could even smell it - didn’t strike him as odd or otherwise unfamiliar. It felt expected, almost comfortable, as if he was used to it.

There were a few exceptions to the rule. The woman at the diner, who smelt strongly of starch, coffee and dough, didn’t seem to fear him at all. She seemed to hate him. And the feeling, he soon discovered, was mutual. It was a pity, since she seemed to understand up to a point what he was going through. She even hinted once or twice at an enhanced sense of hearing similar to his sense of smell. But by the end of their very short conversation he was sneering and she was downright snarling and he was glad when they left the diner behind.

Belle, far from being disappointed, was ecstatic.

“You two have never gotten along, it’s just how it’s always been between you. It’s a relief to see you acting so familiar.”

Over the following days he forced himself to interact more and more with people. With some it felt familiar and easy. With the mayor, for example, he fell into a familiar tug-o-war, snark on the outside but a strange sort of affection on the inside. He also found himself tolerating the over-eager attentions of David Nolan, whose blatant and suspicious attempts at male-bonding felt distinctively familiar. His interactions with the man’s dog, Wilby were far more pleasant. He was happy when the dog sniffed him and did not recoil. On the contrary, the dog seemed to recognise him and be excited to see him, a sentiment that was very much reciprocated. He liked dogs, apparently, and they liked him.

The only set-back he encountered was when they visited the library. Almost as soon as he entered he was assaulted by Belle’s scent. It was everywhere, which he had expected but had definitely not prepared himself for. It was possible to ignore it at first, particularly when he concentrated on Belle and her obvious excitement as she showed him around, pride evident as she gave him a tour. But once she left him alone to attend to the few people who had wandered inside in search of a book, he began to notice it in earnest. It was stronger in some places than others- Belle seemed to favour Ancient History, the language section and the romance corner- and in some specific books. He found himself pressing his nose against their spines, mouth watering and stomach burning, body suddenly ready for sprint and chase and hunt . It all felt strangely familiar: the smell of books and Belle, the quietness of the library, the faint heat from the sun pouring through the windows and the unrelenting, persistent yearning. Even trying to stomp it back, to ignore it, felt nauseatingly natural. Perfectly ordinary, as if he’d done it countless of times before.

He told himself he had it under control, that he was getting better. Nevertheless he took to avoiding the library, choosing to spend the time Belle spent there at his pawnshop. It was there that he felt more like his old self. The smell of wood polish, wax, and lanolin was oddly soothing, as was the creaking sound of the spinning wheel he discovered in a corner of his work room.

He was almost giddy the day he started spinning. He hadn’t done it on purpose at all. He had simply gotten used to standing near the spinning wheel, to making the wheel turn when he was nervous. There was something about the motion and about the creaking noise that was soothing in a familiar way. It felt natural to sit down in the wooden stool in front of it and, slowly, his hands began to move in patterns that made sense once he picked up the carded wool he found on a nearby basket and began to feed it to the wheel.

His dexterity grew by leaps and bounds after taking up spinning, his joints bending easier and his reflexes improving every day. His steps became fluid but for his limp, which was more than a bother then. The injury hurt when it rained or when he overexerted himself, and his dependency on his cane became complete. It was a small price to pay, however, and he reminded himself that feeling pain is something he could not do as a creature

His self-assurance turned to hubris, and he slowly began to lower his guard, to consider his progress complete but for a few technicalities. His memory was slowly piecing itself back together, and he still had some trouble with certain skills and routines that must have been second nature to him once upon a time- like using the French press, which he could never get quite right; whatever Belle did when she used it made the coffee taste considerably better and more like he imagined he intended. Dr Hopper was delighted with his progress, and ready soon to sign the appropriate papers that, together with an all-clear from Whale, would return him his legal personhood.

He was so pleased that night that it was hard to find sleep, and when he did it was fitful, restless. Something felt off, but he couldn’t quite figure out what at first. Everything was going according to plan, and he’d had a particularly good day. Productive outside, and once home Belle had greeted him with a surprise batch of brownies, now that chocolate was becoming available again, and the taste had reminded him of being a child under the care of his aunties, who always made brownies for his birthday.

For all intents and purposes there was nothing wrong that he could see. Things were returning to normal, as far as he could remember normal to be, and that was the whole point. The sooner things went back to the way things were the better. The more normality set in and time passed the less he’d remember who he’d once become, and how close he’d been to turning into something feral and dark and empty. One day he’d barely be able to recall how it had felt at all, hopefully. Not everything would go back to how it was before, Whale anticipated his sense of smell would always be heightened the same way Mrs Lucas’s hearing had never gone back to normal, but it was something he could live with, and even grow to enjoy.

Once he finally managed to fall asleep he dreamed vividly, though not in terms of visuals as much as in emotions. It was too jumbled to make any sense of it at first, too nonsensical. He dreamed of hunger and yearning, of wanting so deep he felt it in his bones, a sort of burning itch that built up till it threatened to make him go mad.

He woke up with the ache of it still inside him and scrambled out of bed in a hurry, nose already locked on Belle’s faint but unmistakable scent, his mouth salivating at the thought of her. A second later he halted, fully awake and gripped by raw, unfettered panic. He’d been doing so well and yet it was back, the hunger, the all-consuming emptiness inside him that feels so familiar. Denial had clearly clouded his mind before, and so there was nothing to do but to face the reality of it: Belle needed to go.

He staggered out of his room following the directions of his nose, easily placing Belle in the kitchen without even having to think about it. Though the house was dark and quiet it did not deter him at all, his sense of smell guiding him forward. Belle was sitting by the kitchen isle, a book in her hands and a glass of water nearby. She smiled when she spotted him, completely at ease, no trace of adrenaline in the air or physical sign of unease. Somehow it made it all worse, how trusting she was. How comfortable in his presence, completely unaware of his sick urges.

“You need to leave.”

He hadn’t meant it to sound so abrupt and cold, but perhaps that would be the best way to go about it. Be the careless, unfeeling bastard that everyone associated with him, and send her packing. It was something he could apologise for later, something he could fix with time and some dignified grovelling. Belle had a wonderfully forgiving nature, she would gladly resume their friendship if he showed proper contrition for hurting her feelings and behaving beastly. But they would never get over Belle being terrified of him, catching a glimpse of the ugly monster he was inside. If he told her the truth there was no coming back from it.

He hadn’t counted on her stubbornness, however, and on her perceptiveness.

“What is it, what’s going on?”

His hastily put-together plan to drive her away with nasty words and a sneer crumbled before him as she stepped closer and her scent became almost overwhelming. He took a step back, feeling his mouth watering.

“You have to go. You’re not… You’re not safe here. Not… not safe here with me.”

Even as he said it, as he told him about the monster that he was and how he wanted her to get out before it was too late, he kept seeking her out, maneuvering them until she was pressed against one of the kitchen walls, his body blocking any possible escape. It was a predatory move, and yet Belle did not as much as flinch, or even realise the implications of their position. Too fucking brave and reckless for her own good, always.

“Rum, just calm down. Please, sweetheart, you’ll worry yourself sick. Did you have a nightmare? Do you want to sit down and talk about it?”

Her hands rested against his arms, rubbing up and down to soothe him. It was so tempting to let her do it, to let her touch and her soft words do away with his fears and worries. He curled closer to her, engulfing her as he let her pet his hair and croon reasurances into his ear. She was so small, and it never failed to surprise him, given her larger-than-life presence. Too small to fight him if he did as his body wished and pinned her to the wall, sinking his teeth on her flesh as she struggled beneath him.

Shamefully, he told her as much, his voice low and full of shame and panic as he shared everything, speaking of his urges, his desire to eat her up, his violent reaction to her scent and how it drove him wild. He was going to hurt her, it was only a matter of time, so she needed to leave right then and there, put a coat on and some shoes and leave before he did something unspeakable, something that could not be undone. Before he…

“Do you want to hurt me?”

Belle’s voice sounded slightly off, and her breathing had quickened, but she did not smell or sound afraid, nor did she stop petting his hair, as if he was the one in need of help and comfort. As if he was worthy of either. Unable to answer he shook his head frantically instead, trying to convey how appalled he was by the notion of it.

“Then what do you want to do to me?”

A spike of something ran down his spine, leaving him jittery and strangely weak-kneed. He tried to put it into words, all of his primal urges and shameful instincts.

“I want- I want…” He breathed in deeply and the smell of her made his entire body tighten with need. “I want to consume you.”

He caught the change in her scent immediately, how it became sharper and sweeter somehow, and his body responded to it almost immediately, muscles locking and cock hardening against the mercifully lose material of his sleeping pants. It was all confusing and painful and strangely delicious at the same time. Belle kept talking to him as she continued to pet his hair, telling him over and over that he wasn’t going to hurt her, that he didn’t want to hurt her.

“You want something else, sweetheart.”

She pressed herself close, her head fitting snugly against the crook of his neck, her arms coming up around his shoulders, bringing their bodies to almost complete contact. He moaned, feeling his nerves come alive at the softness of her. It wasn’t an altogether unfamiliar sensation, he discovered. The simmering heat, the aching want, it was all startlingly well-known to him, especially in association with Belle French. How he’d never noticed the feeling before he had no idea. Perhaps because it was so like the other violent urges he’d experienced as a creature before, to the point that it had been impossible to tell one hunger from the other.

“I want it too.”

The part of him that he could recognise as the most human, the most rational, seemed to recoil at that admission, dismissing it as impossible and ludicrous. Belle was young and beautiful, inside out, and Gold was old and ugly, even before the bite. But there was no mistaking the smell of her now that he knew what was going on, slightly tangy and sharper than before, nor the way her skin felt hot under his touch. He pressed his nose against the juncture of her neck, feeling how it was damp with sweat all of a sudden.

“I don’t- I don’t know…”

He felt raw and on the edge, one small touch away from losing control entirely. Even as his body screamed at him to take action, to take Belle , he remained afraid of the possibility of hurting her, of being too rough and violent with her. He was slowly re-learning dexterity and patience, careful touches and what it meant to be a man and not a monster. It was too much to ask him to try to apply any of that newfound knowledge when all he wanted to do was tear Belle’s clothes off and sink into her over and over.

“Shh, let me show you, sweetheart.”

He sighed against her skin, letting her soft voice and lilting accent loosen him up a bit. She kissed his neck, gently at first, letting him become used to the feel of her lips, and began caressing his back with the tips of her fingers. It all felt incredible but not overwhelming and he slowly began to reciprocate, nuzzling against her and running his hands down her back. He slipped his fingers beneath her flimsy tank top, tentatively beginning to map out her back, feeling the catch of raised skin every once in a while. Scars, the part of his mind that hadn’t completely shut down the moment Belle pressed her lips against him whispered. She’d suffered too, during the years they had spent apart. He’d seen a glimpse of that before, in the thinness of her body and the way she slept only in intervals, in the way she sometimes flinched at loud noises.

Belle didn’t deserve any of it. Didn’t deserve a moment of pain, and least of all a permanent mememento of it. He found himself wishing he’d been there when the scars had happened, wishing he could have torn the culprits to shreds one by one. Before he could take the revenge fantasy too far he felt Belle’s mouth press closer against his skin, taking a mouthful of it and sucking with delicious vigour. He moaned curling his fingers against his skin and noticed with a whimper of distress he was digging his nails into her back, the faint scent of blood hitting him almost as soon as he noticed. He tried to push away, to let go of her and step back before he could do any more damage, but she clung to him, moaning.

“Hush, it’s okay, it feels good. It feels so good, sweetheart.”

Belle was not fragile. He could feel the muscles beneath her skin, lean but strong. Life hadn’t been any kinder to her during the past few years than to him. She has always been tough on the inside, as much as most people would scoff at the notion, but necessity had made her hard on the outside too. She wouldn’t break easily, didn’t need careful handling. He allowed himself to be rougher, to haul her up on the kitchen counter and press his mouth against hers. She tasted as good as she smelled, and kissing her felt like drinking after days of thirst. This is what he’d been craving all along, the feel of her skin against his, the pressure of her legs around his waist and the taste of her on his mouth as they began to pull at their clothing, ripping a seam here and a button there.

They moved at some point, stumbling around in the near darkness for a bit of warmth and a comfortable spot. The shaggy rug by the still-lit fire living-room was plush enough to do the trick and they sprawled on top of it with little grace, rolling around and nipping at each other’s skin like animals. There was little time to think, which was a blessing, only enough to react, to follow instinct wherever it may lead. At first he was content letting her have the upper hand, relishing in the way she straddled him, the way her breasts felt pressed up against his chest as they kissed, their teeth and tongues clashing with little finesse but great enthusiasm.

By the time his blood was close to boiling he was done passively lying down, using brute force and little else to turn them around and tackle her to the ground. His right leg protested but he paid it little mind as he took his time staring at Belle’s naked body. Her hair was a mess and small, red marks where beginning to bloom on different parts of her body and she was, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Her skin had a soft peachy flush and she was beginning to recover a little bit of the softness he remembered, but she was still mostly lean muscles and sharp bones. But her eyes were gentle, speaking of a nature that remained unchanged. How it must have cost, to be kind in unkind times.

Belle French was fierce. Fierce and his , somehow, and he did not let that pass him by, did not allow himself to second-guess things or doubt. Instead he pinned her to the shaggy carpet, growling against her throat as she took his cock in her hands and guided him into the sweet warmth of her wet cunt. She gasped but he took her mouth in his to swallow the sound, eager for it and any other evidences of her pleasure. She felt exquisite, specially when she wrapped her legs around his waist and allowed him deeper into her.

He began to move slowly, building up speed out of sheer sense of need and following Belle’s rather vocal demands of “please” and “harder”. The more he pounded into her, his muscles burning as he sought to bury himself as deep as he could in her, the more demanding she got, first digging her dainty little fingers into his shoulders and then reaching out with one hand to yank at his hair. The pain of it all was glorious, satisfying the part of him that he’d been running away from for weeks, that dark and feral side he was so afraid of.

He let out an obscene sound of triumph when he felt her tense up beneath him, arching up as her cunt gripped him tighter, eyes closed and mouth open in a silent scream. He’d been wanting to know the sight of Belle French in the throes of orgasm for years, he knew then, had fantasised about it and wanted it for close to the entirety of their acquaintance. He felt the weight of  the sheer satisfaction of it all, almost as keenly as he felt his own release minutes later. By the end of it his throat and his nerve endings were raw, his skin cold and clammy with sweat and his hair sticking to his face, damp and unruly. He felt Belle’s gentle fingers combing through it and if he’d been able to purr he would have done so, surely.

The second time they made love it was long, and soft, and sweet. By the time it was over the fire on the chimney was reduced to gently-glowing embers and the grey light of dawn was beginning to crawl through the windows and into the room. They cuddled in the afterglow, finding only enough energy and patience to lay a fleece blanket over their cooling bodies. Belle nuzzled close, smelling strangely of what he could only describe as a mixture of satisfaction and happiness, and he fought the urge to feel smug. They made small talk for a while, whispering words about tentative future plans, him asking her haltingly to stay with him and her reassuring him that she would be glad to, but their sleeping arrangements might need a tweak or to moving forward. After a while she drifted off and he felt her go lax in his arms, the softest of snores escaping her as she succumbed to sleep.

As he sought his own rest he thought about the future some more. About the increasing pain in his leg, and how he’d soon be completely unable to support himself without the help of his cane, and about his slow realisation that the man he’d been before all of it had lived a life of pain and loneliness, and of fighting for everything he got. He’d been too focused on going back to how things were that he did not consider that it was neither completely possible nor entirely desirable. Change was good, and sometimes necessary. Even if he never went back to being whole there was a future for it, and with Belle in his arms, her skin pressed against his, it was easier than ever to imagine it. A hopeful future, even. He’d had a halfway non-hostile conversation with Mrs Lucas a few days ago, both haltingly attempting to share bits of wisdom about how to live with enhanced senses, and Dr Hopper had reached out to help him often, free of charge in spite of his demands to repay him. It wasn’t much, but he gathered it was a good start.

[pumpkins-s]

Spilling Like An Overflowing Sink

Read on AO3 Here

Read the Other Chapters on Tumblr Here

Lance Alexander Rafael McClain is born in the middle of a summer storm, thunder cracking and rain slamming onto the roof of an old ramshackle house that had seen more than its fair share of children.

The miracle baby, that’s what the family had called Lance. The unexpected son to a mother of five daughters.

(In which family is always complicated, Lance’s life hasn’t been all sunshine and rainbows, and he and Keith are really emotionally constipated for each other.)

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Relationships: Keith/Lance, significant platonic Lance & Hunk

Characters: Lance, Lance’s family, Hunk, Keith, Shiro, Pidge, Allura, Coran

Chapter 7: Lifelines

((Author’s Note: 

Yoooo.

So this wasn't originally where I was going to place a chapter break, but in honor of season 2, I figured I'd put out one last chapter before the new season drops. (Ironically this chapter ended up pretty lighthearted so consider it your break before shit goes south again.)

I have it on good word that there'll be some Lance backstory in season 2 (a friend of a friend works for the Voltron team), so chances are after season 2 this fic will no longer be canon compliant. I love this story, so I fully intend on continuing writing it, but I'll have to wait and see what content is in season 2 before I decide how much of it SLAOS will adhere to. If I don't agree with certain things, I may just go with my original plans for the "voltron canon" part of this story, but if I find the season workable with the versions of these characters I've written, I'll try to keep as canon compliant as possible, minus what's already been established in this fic.

Anyways, enjoy. I'll see y'all over on the other side of the new season, yeah? <3))

“Hey Mavis? Question.”

“Yeah, sure …Hold on lemme just get my waffles out of the toaster… Okay, shoot.”

“Why are you making waffles at midnight? Wait, never mind, that wasn’t the question. What’s the point of flirting?”

From the other end of the line, Mavis splutters, and there comes a loud hacking noise, followed by a bout of coughing. Wincing, Lance holds the phone away from his ear and waits for the noise to subside.

“Why are you asking me that?” Rings out loudly, even without the phone near his face.

Lance frowns, bringing the phone back closer. “The waffles? Well you mentioned them first…”

“Not that!” Mavis screeches. “The other question! And don’t question my eating habits I am an adult I’ll eat waffles when I damn well please to. Why are you asking me about flirting at midnight, huh? Wait— You’re eleven why are you even awake?”

“It’s a private magnet school, and we have a test on Friday.” Lance deadpans, stretching out on his bed and poking a socked foot gently into Ritzie’s side where she’s asleep at the foot of the bed, face planted on top of her open biology textbook. She snorts in her sleep at the movement, rolling over slightly, and Lance stifles a giggle. “Sleep is for the weak.”

And his friends, apparently, he thinks, noting Hunk and Yuu’s sleeping forms on the other side of the room, Hunk on his bed, Yuu leaning against the base of it on the floor, notes scattered around them.

Over the phone, Lance hears Mavis grumble, and he grins. “So you never answered my question?”

“Oh dear lord.” Mavis sighs. “Ok hold on I’m gonna need some fucking… maple syrup to get through this shit. And maybe vodka.” There’s the sound of clinking on Mavis’s end as she presumable fetches something, and then her voice returns. “So why are you asking me about flirting?”

“Dunno.” Lance says. “Just noticed some classmates are apparently into that now.”

Lance was aware that he was among the younger students in many of his classes, and that meant there would be some things the older children… er, teenagers, would do that he might not get, but this one appeared to be a new habit with the students a year or two above him. He’d consulted his resident teenager first, but Ritzie had launched into a rant about the stupidity of hormonal teens and the patriarchy, which hadn’t been very helpful, and Lance had figured asking Yuu was going to be even more unenlightening, which meant he was fresh out of primary sources to consult.

Well, he supposes Hunk is technically nearly a teenager now, too, but that is… too weird to think too hard about. Hunk probably hadn’t noticed anyways. He was at his most perceptive when suspicious or feeling like snooping, but otherwise out of the two of them Lance generally did the people-reading, and left Hunk to handle the machines and general common sense.

“I don’t know, Lance.” Mavis says, sounding somewhat disgruntled, but just slightly amused, as well. “Apparently some people just do that when they get older. When they like someone, I guess.”

Lance huffs. “Boring.”

Mavis snorts loudly. “I don’t know what to tell you, buddy. People are boring.”

“I mean what’s it for. There’s got to be a purpose? Something it’s useful for?”

“Mmm…” Mavis hums, voice lilting. “Well, if you want to look at it like that…” She trails off, the sound of fingers tapping against a table echoing across the line, and Lance knows he has her hooked. “I guess, not that I have any personal experience or anything,” She coughs awkwardly, “it’s good for reading people? How a person reacts to advances like that gives you a big clue into how their personalities work. And if they’re receptive, you could use that for manipulation, or to get something you want from them. Or if they’re not… It’s a way to annoy them and throw them off their game. Plus, it’s something to do, right? Gives you an excuse to talk when you’re bored and want to get a read on stuff and some attention, without it seeming obvious that you’re trying to be a snoop.”

“…And this is all just theoretical musings on your part?” Lance deadpans.

“Yes! Definitely.”

“Y’know, if you weren’t my cousin I’d be very afraid of you becoming a criminal mastermind.” Lance says solemnly, and fails to stifle his grin when Mavis laughs loudly.

“You’re the one that asked me for useful reasons for it!”

“Hey, I mean you did give me what I was looking for.” Lance answers, sitting up and pushing his bangs out of his eyes. “I like knowing how I can use something to my advantage. Lot more useful than the ‘birds and the bees’ talk Marcie tried to give me when I asked her.”

“And you say you’re not half as manipulative as me.” Mavis chides, and Lance giggles. Idly, he swings his legs off the edge of the bed and stands, careful to move quietly as not to wake his sleeping companions as he slips into the adjoined bathroom and flicks on the light.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Lance says innocently, tucking his phone between his shoulder and his ear so he can reach for his face wash on the bench, extracting it from the neatly arranged stacks of colorful bottles. He’d originally started out the year with one face wash on the bench, but between Marcie sneaking this and that into his bags, and stuff he’d semi-accidentally pilfered from Ritzie’s bathroom, Lance now had a wide assortment of face cleansers, washes, and moisturizers. All things considered, he figured it was a harmless enough habit to indulge in. People were hardly regularly coming through his and Hunk’s bathroom aside from themselves and occasionally Ritzie or Yuu, and if anyone ever asked about it, Lance imagined that, with several older sisters, saying they’d instilled a mentality of proper skin care on him at a young age, which was true anyways, wouldn’t be too hard to believe. Regardless, it was a small and relatively secret habit that helped him feel… more like himself. He couldn’t have his clothing or his hair or the box of shiny lip gloss and glittery nail polish back, but this was safe.

“Mhmm. Sure.” Mavis’s voice is lilting, poorly hiding her amusement, before she pauses. “…Is that it? You usually don’t call this late.”

Lance winces. “It was on my mind?” He tries, rubbing the face wash into his skin carefully.

“Lance.” Mavis chides firmly. “What’s really going on? If it was just about flirting you would have texted me instead.”

“I don’t know, okay?” Lance snaps slightly. Mavis is silent on the other end, and Lance sighs, closing his eyes. “…Sorry. I just felt… jittery. Couldn’t sleep.”

“…Is it about summer break?”

Lance blinks, not sure whether to curse or thank Mavis’s ever-present ability to read into what’s going on, even hundreds of miles away. “I guess?”

“You worried about going home?” Mavis says, and Lance frowns, contemplating.

“I don’t think so?” He hesitates, trying to sort out his jumbled thoughts into words. “I’m excited to see everyone, spend time with them without having to worry about going back to Greenwood a day or two later, and I like summer, but…”

“But it’s three months.” Mavis finishes, picking up smoothly. “Three uninterrupted months in Veradera, with no breaks from everyone.”

“…And no Loraine.” Lance says quietly, acknowledging the elephant in the room. “They all think I’ve gotten so much better, that I’m handling everything so well— What if I can’t keep it together that long? I don’t want to ruin everyone’s summer with them worrying over me again. It’s not fair to them.”

Mavis hums. “It’s not selfish to need help, Lance.”

“But it’s not fair either. They feel guilty, I feel smothered, and everyone just ends up miserable. I’m…” He thinks of the gentle hands of his sisters picking him up and soothing him when he has a panic episode, of Hunk’s bone-weariness, yet determined patience, as he hides the sharp things and wraps up Lance’s arms when he hits the breaking point each time. It’s not as bad as it was when Loraine first… died, but Lance knows he isn’t coping, really. Oh, yes, he’s gotten good enough at hiding it from his family on the short weekend visits, to soothe their worries, but now that just leaves the onus on Hunk to deal with Lance when, inevitably, the cracks begin to show. “I’m tired of being everyone’s burden.”

Mavis pauses, and while Lance can’t see her, he can imagine her on the other end of the line, perched on some chair with her feet on a table as she twists her hair around a finger and glares contemplatively at some random object. Between what he saw of Mavis before she left home, and of the occasional video chats they’ve had, he’s gotten relatively adept at picking up Mavis’s body language, helped in part by the fact many of her idle habits are much like his own, if only slightly more aggressive at any given moment. He thinks maybe it might have something to do with the fact that he picked up most of his habits from Loraine, who in turn might have adopted some from Mavis— They were two of the closer in age after all, Mavis herself only a year older than Evie, making her five older than Loraine. It’s not hard to picture his sister at eight or nine trying to imitate her cool thirteen-year-old cousin.

Though, by that reasoning, Lance supposes it’s fair to draw the conclusion that all his siblings and cousins had picked up some behaviors from one another.

“Why don’t you come stay with me for a bit then?”

“What?” Lance jolts, snapping out of his idle thought derailment.

“You don’t want to do three continuous months in Veradera, right? Take a break. Come up to stay with me for a couple weeks during the summer in July or August or something.”

“…Really?” Lance gapes, and across the line Mavis snorts.

“Yes, really. It’ll be fun. I’ll take you to the theater I’ll be doing some tech work in this summer, walk you around the tourist parts of the city. Can’t afford to shop there, but we can make fun of tourists or something.”

“But I thought…” Lance frowns, unconsciously staring down at his moisturizer bottle like it holds the answers to the universe. “You liked your space? You don’t really come home much. Or… at all, really.”

“Because everyone always begs me to stay.” Mavis says. “You don’t. You’re a good kid, Lance. I like coddling you a bit, and I’m not a coddling person.”

“I know you aren’t.” Lance says quietly.

“Just think about it, yeah? You can bring Hunk if you want, or something.”

“No!” Lance yelps, before he can stop himself, slapping a hand over his mouth.

“No?” She pauses. “…You two aren’t fighting, are you? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you two have a fight. Or even a spat, for that matter.”

“No, of course not.” Lance mumbles. “It’s just… I had an episode the other day, and when Hunk was bullying me into eating and sleeping after, it made me realize that… I’ve kinda forced him to be stuck dealing with my problems? He deserves a break.”

Mavis sighs. “You know he probably doesn’t look at it like that, right? That boy loves you to death, Lance, es evidente, plain as day. Whether you two choose to define that as familial or something else is up to you, but my point is, he’s probably more worried about you than he is annoyed with any perceived inconveniences.”

“That’s it, though. He’s stuck worrying about me all the time. He’s scared to leave me alone on a bad day in case I hurt myself again. He’d run himself into the ground trying to help because he’s a good person like that, and I’m the kind of cabrón who’d let him.”

Mavis clucks her tongue. “Language. And I think you’re overthinking things, you should just talk to him.”

“Maybe.” Lance admits, padding out of the bathroom, flicking the light off behind him, and over to his bed, wiggling in and grabbing azul from where he keeps it hidden under the pillow and hugging it to his chest, tucking its soft blue fur under his chin. “I don’t know. Thank you anyways Mavis. I’ll… think about New York.”

“Alright.” Mavis says with an air of resignation, obviously sensing an end to the conversation. “Goodnight Lance.”

“Goodnight Mavis.” He whispers.

Two weeks later, Lance finishes the last of his finals, exchanging amused glances across the room with Ritzie as they scrawl down answers on paper, and then goes home to Veradera.

Despite all his worries, he finds the comfort of being back outweighs any lingering anxiety he feels. He moves back into his old room— The room that was once his, Loraine’s, and Karen’s, and now only belongs to him, and, more unofficially, Hunk, Karen still living in the other room his sisters share, and Igraine having moved into Lucas’s room and taking Carlos’s old space there to make more space.

“I know it was weird for you, having Karen back in your room when she was gone most of the time, especially right after… Loraine.” Evie tells him quietly the one and only time he asks her about sleeping arrangements, guilt at having driven his older sister out of her room last summer still hugging his chest. “She’s not mad about it, promise. It worked out, anyways. Gave Igraine an excuse to move into Lucas’s room so the two of them can stay up all night gossiping. It’s good, I think Lucas was getting lonely with both Mavis and Carlos out of the house.”

Loraine’s bed still stays in its corner, the walls above it littered with pictures of their family, of Lance at varying ages, of constellations. It’s… more or less Lance’s now, he supposes. He’d slept in it so many nights over the previous summer, blindly seeking comfort in the remnants of the smell of Loraine’s shampoo on her pillows, that he’d kept up the habit on his weekends back home during the school year more out of instinct than anything else.

And now, it’s summer again, a whole cycle passed, and if he hasn’t managed to rid himself of this coping mechanism before, Lance doubts he’ll suddenly start doing so soon.  

So Loraine’s bed becomes his, and his bed is relegated to Hunk, on the nights the two of them don’t just share. Hunk’s actual bed back at his own house goes more or less unused, but that isn’t anything new, Hunk has practically lived here for years— His grandmother, too, honestly, spending her days on the porch or in the lounge with Lance’s own grandparents.

So, yes, in that fashion things really haven’t changed.

He makes Loraine’s… his bed a mess of blankets and pillows, azul tucked up in the middle of it, pins a couple photos of himself, Hunk, Ritzie, and Yuu from school to empty spaces in the wall above the headboard, and tries to forget the jarringly empty space next to him.

It’s not that hard to find distractions, at least. Lance had forgotten just how… alive his family is. It doesn’t really hit him how much he’s missed out on until he’s being introduced to Carlos and Rachel’s new baby, Josie’s long-awaited sibling, and he realizes in the couple weeks he chose not to come home to study for finals, he somehow missed the baby’s birth. When it slowly dawns on him just how much change and growth in their lives he has missed in his self-pity, Lance pushes himself into trying to be there for all of them.

He decides to take it as a marking point of change. Nicky, his newest cousin, is all the fragile smallness and tiny features Lance remembers Josie being, with the brown hair and slight curls that are predominant in their family, and the dark eyes that everyone but Lance has, his own blue eyes now an anomaly without the matching pair that used to look at him with joy and love.

Lance can’t change the past, but he can, at least, hold himself to this. Even if he cannot fix his broken pieces, this new, youngest member of their family will never see the jagged edges that make up Lance’s heart.

With luck, perhaps Josie will never remember that Lance either. She’s not even four, after all. Children forget so easily.

Either way, it’s a promise Lance holds himself to.

He helps his mother and aunts around the house, visits Carlos and Rachel’s house to mooch some breakfast from them on the good mornings, takes Josie to the beach on the sunny days with Hunk, plays scrabble with his grandparents, occasionally letting them win, and tried to be happy… or at least look it.

Mavis is his saving grace, the patient voice on the other end of the phone when he talks to her at night, perched on the roof with a blanket around his shoulders as he watches the stars.

“Spend more time with your sisters.” Mavis chides him over the phone when he recounts his days. “They miss you.”

“It’s… different.” He tells her, spilling out the unsaid words and quiet secrets into the night air where he trust only she will hear him. “Everything’s different now. I don’t know how to be their Lance. What if they don’t—”

“Have a little faith in them.” Mavis’s voice is firm, allowing no argument. “Evie helped you get into your school, Igraine keeps that stupid hoverbike in working condition for when you’re old enough for it, Karen moved rooms to give you your space, and Marcie calls me constantly hoping to hear how you’ve been doing through me when you don’t pick up her calls. They love you, Lance. Loraine or no Loraine, that doesn’t change. They’re still your hermanas. Give the bonds you have with them another chance.”

And so, because Lance knows Mavis is rarely wrong about these things, if ever, he does.

He sits with Evie around the computer and asks her about the work she does, coaxing her away from the screen for a trip to the dairy on the beachfront for an ice cream when she overworks herself.

He goes to the park on cooler afternoons with Karen, hand in hers when they cross streets because she still thinks of him as little and in need of protection, asks her to teach him new skills he’s seen her do, and delights in the way her face lights up at the opportunity to talk to him about the sport she loves.

He helps Marcie brush and braid her hair at night, chatters with her about the gossip she’s heard from the housewives at the salon, and helps her fix the holes in her clothing with careful stitching, accepting her excited offers to teach him how to embroider little flowers along collars and let out and take up hems so a skirt can be worn longer.

He takes trips with Hunk to visit Igraine at the mechanic’s, helping her with the pet project motorbikes she keeps hidden in the back, suggesting outrageous paint colors for each restoration cheerfully from his seat while Hunk vehemently argues against them, and on the occasional weekend morning, walks with Igraine to the scattering of trees near their house where she has tied up old milk cartons and bottles from the branches to shoot at with her paintball gun.

Igraine’s always done this. She taught Lance to shoot as well at a young age, but it still surprises Lance to find how often she does it now, sometimes disappearing early in the mornings and spending hours sitting against a tree and painstakingly landing a hit on every target in view. Watching her grim face and sullen eyes on those days, when Lance sneaks after her and she doesn’t realize he’s there, he comes to the realization that perhaps he isn’t the only one that has developed some odd coping habits since Loraine’s death.

After that, he makes a point to spend more time with Igraine.

She catches him following her only once on one of her early morning sneak-and-shoot sessions, but instead of getting angry she just glances at him and pats the empty spot on the ground next to her, already loading up another shot.

“I taught Loraine to shoot, too.” She tells him after a long moment of silence, avoiding his eyes as she places her paintball gun in her lap and fiddles with the adjustments. “Like I taught you. A natural, she was. I had to work to learn to hit a target, but Loraine? She could hit a perfect shot easy by the time she was only ten or eleven. Much like you, the same innate talent.”

Lance frowns, studying Igraine’s face, and finally she glances down at him, smiling slightly. “I was so excited when she was born, but I remember throwing a fit when I heard her name. Having a sister who’s name ended with -raine as well? It’s not like Marcie or Karen had to share their names. “ She chuckles. “I remember for months I refused to call her by her name, so I came up with any other variant possible. Lori ended up sticking, even after I accepted her as Loraine as well.” Igraine ducks her head. “When I told her that’s how she got that nickname she laughed and laughed.” She pauses. “She was never like that with you. When you were born I thought she’d throw a temper tantrum like I did, over you both having names that started with L, but she was delighted. Kept hugging you and saying it meant you matched.”

“…Really?” Lance asks quietly, glancing down sheepishly when Igraine looks at him.

“Really, really.” She hums softly. “Y’know, I don’t think you ever cried when she held you, not even once. First time I picked you up, you screamed bloody murder, and Marcie got a foot in her face the first time she held you. You’d settle for Mamá, sometimes, but Loraine... You were always quiet for her. The two of you would spend hours, Loraine sitting on the couch with you in her arms, just… staring at each other.” Igraine chuckles quietly. “Course, guess I shouldn’t be surprised Loraine was so good about it all. She was so selfless, loving. Never behaved like a selfish brat like I did.”

“You’re not selfish, Igraine.” Lance says softly, leaning in and resting his head on his sister’s shoulder. “And no, I don’t think Loraine ever held a grudge against you trying to rename her as a baby.”

Igraine snorts. “Nah, you’re right, probably not.” She tips her head down, resting it on top of Lance’s, and sighs. “I wish… I wish I’d known about the Garrison, had convinced her to go, promised her we’d figure it out. She wanted more than Veradera, her whole life. I knew it, we all did, and she gave that up because, when she deserved most to be just a little bit selfish for once in her life, she still chose to give.”

“That’s who Loraine was.”

“That’s how you are, too.” Igraine says patiently, humor lilting in her words. “I won’t deny that I’m proud of you for what you’re doing, Lance. I just hope you’re doing it for the right reasons. Don’t sacrifice yourself for something that wasn’t your fault.”

“Selfless would be staying here, in Veradera, with all of you.” Lance says, shaking his head just slightly against Igraine’s shoulder. “What I’m doing is beyond selfish.”

“No, it’s not.” Igraine says lightly. “You are just as unselfish as Loraine always was, Lance. Me? I wish I could be like that. Instead, when I think of Loraine, of what she wanted and never got, all I can think is that… “ She sighs, slumping forward. “I’m so afraid to die in Veradera.”

Lance blinks, mulling over Igraine’s words. “…Is this about the Marines?” Above him Igraine stiffens, and Lance sighs. “Loraine and I found the brochures you and Lucas had hidden years ago.”

Igraine laughs wetly. “Well. You two were always ahead of the game.”

“Igraine…” Lance pauses, closing his eyes. “Igraine, if that’s what you want, then do it. Wanting to be happy? That’s not selfish, that’s what you deserve…. Lucas too, if he’s still with you on that.”

His sister chuckles, turning her face into Lance’s hair, and when Lance feels the warm wetness of tears on his face from above, he reaches out and hugs Igraine’s arm in front of him.

“How am I going to tell Mamá…?”

“I’ll help you.” Lance says firmly, feeling the resolve settle in his bones. Distantly, another, separate conversation of hesitant decisions, whispered over a phone in the dead of night, comes to mind, and he sucks in a breath. “I’ll help you… if you help me with something, too.”

“Help you with what?” Igraine asks readily, even with her voice laced with confusion.

“Mavis offered to let me come stay with her for a bit during the summer. If you help me convince Mamá to let me go, I’ll help you convince her too.”

Igraine chuckles. “New York, huh?” She nods, hugging Lance tighter as they sit there on the ground. “Alright, mini-stalk. You’ve got yourself a deal.”

…In the end, they both get what they want.

Lance’s mother is less than happy with Igraine’s little announcement, and neither is Aunt Lupe, when she finds out Lucas is going along with it as well, but, much as they were with Lance, they are accepting of their children’s decision, even if they fret over the dangers of military service. Ultimately though, it’s Marcie who takes it the hardest, immediately bursting into tears when Igraine announces things much in the same manner Lance and Hunk did about Greenwood.

The thing about Marcie, Lance thinks, is that she sees her younger siblings heading down a path she cannot, will not follow. Evie stayed home because she feared the world, but inevitably lives in another world of numbers only she knows, Karen left early to chase her dream, and only came back once they needed her… and until not long ago, Lance, Loraine, and Igraine remained in Veradera.

Except now Igraine is leaving, Loraine is dead, and Lance is a shadow chasing a lost dream.

And Marcie? Marcie, who stepped into the head of the household when their mother first got sick, Marcie, who guards her younger siblings and cousins with her life, cannot bring herself to leave. Marcie, single, living with her family at just past thirty, sees her life, her duty here in Veradera, to hold down house and home in their mother’s place if she ever gets sick again.

It’s part of who Marcelia McClain is, and it’s part of why Lance loves and respects his oldest sister so much, but he also knows it’s why her heart aches every time their family stretches further apart.

Losing Loraine affected each of them, in their own way, and for Marcie, Lance knows, it made her only want to protect her baby siblings more.

Still, when Igraine announces her decision, Marcie cries, soothes their mother in her worried, and tells Igraine she is proud of her— Because Marcie, first and foremost, wants her family to be happy.

It’s painful to watch his sisters cry, but in a way, it feels like a balm of the jagged edges of Lance’s soul. No matter what, they are still a family.

Regardless, getting permission to go to New York is fairly easy, in comparison.

“Nurse Lance.” Mavis says with a laugh when he tells her. “Out to solve everyone’s problems but your own.”

Lance huffs, feigning insult, and thinks of selfishness, for what you want, what you need, and selflessness, for reparations to mistakes.

“It’s what I do best.”

New York is densely packed blocks of walk-ups and office buildings, cracked concrete on rushing swarms of feet, and a scorching blast of summer heat at least fifteen degrees warmer than Maryland is that Lance is distinctly aware of minute he steps off the plane. For all that Lance thought he’d gotten a handle on city traffic living at Greenwood in the middle of D.C., the capital has nothing on the simple busy-ness of New York.

It’s terrifying, but a little fascinating as well.

When he sees Mavis waiting for him in the airport, short hair tied back in a half-hearted ponytail, sunglasses pushed up onto her forehead to keep the stray locks that don’t stay pulled back with the rest of her hair off her face, and slurping loudly from a mostly-empty bubble tea cup as she stands there in her jeans and dark red flannel she’s owned since he was a toddler, Lance can kind of see how this city has ensnared his cousin. She just somehow kind of… looks right here.

“Lance.” She says when he walks up to her, seemingly aloof until he pulls his suitcase to a stop, and then she pounces on him, hugging him tightly and resting her nose in his hair. “Good to see you, kiddo.”

He laughs, feeling oddly relieved, and hugs her back in return. There’s no secrets to disguise here, not in such a big place where no one knows him, and not from Mavis, who just intuitively knows. “It’s good to see you, too.”

[tandgstories-blog]

Character Sheet...

Character Sheet for Durjan Nyghte better known as Morpheus 

Verse: The Prophecy:The Death Curse Date: 01/16/17

Full Name: Morpheus Nickname/Alias: Durjan Nyghte Meaning: Shape/Dark night (Alias) Title: God of dreams Pet Name: Sand Man, love Signature: Neat and beautiful cursive

Gender: Non Binary Gender Role: Acts more feminine Pronouns: Him/His or They/Their Orientation: Pansexual/Polyamorous Real Age: Unknown Age Appearance: Appears early twenties Birthday: None Deathday: None Birthplace: Hades

Immediate Family: Father, Hypnos; Uncle, Thanatos; Aunt, Eris; Grandmother, Nyx; Grandfather, Eberos,  Triplet Brothers(including him), Phobetor & Phantos Distant Family: Most of his uncles and aunts Parenting: It depended on who he was staying with Upbringing: Never do anything for free, work hard, believe in the darkness and chaos Species: Deity, Daemon Ethnicity: Greek Blood Type: Unknown Preferred Hand: Left handed Eye Color: Acidic Green (Sclera is solid black)(Most common form)/Naturally white iris outer ring of pale pink Hair Color: Dyed purple, naturally chestnut brown(Most common form)/Naturally solid black Hairstyle: Undercut, chin length, usually kept in a ponytail(Most common form)/Knee length, bangs frame face naturally Skin Tone: Olive Complexion: Youthful glow Makeup: Nail polish, sometimes wears other make up Build: Lean, swimmer Height: 5'8” Weight: 140 lbs Facial Hair: Stays clean shaven Birthmarks/scars: None Distinguishing Features: Eyes, Tattoos Tattoos: wings filling back, long horns on side of head, night sky sleeve on right arm, alchemy symbols down left arm, sclera(white of the eye) tattooed black, a chomp chomp on his ass

Health: Divine Energy: More than he appears to have Memory: Poor memory with specific details Senses: They are about equal, though greater than a human's Allergies: Claims to be allergic to daylight, none Handicaps: None Medication: None Phobias: Silence, Bright lights Addictions: Sleep, movies, music Mental Disorders: Hypnosomnia (excessive sleep) Style: Gothic and punk styled clothes Mode of Dress: When he's not being super lazy, he'll actually look really good Grooming: Either well kept or messy, no inbetween Posture: Slouches Gait: Slowly but with extreme grace Coordination: Far stronger, faster, and better reflexes than a typical human Habits and Mannerisms: Excessive yawning, Rubbing exposed skin, Making weird faces Scent: Smells like poppies under a full moon Mood: Lethargic Attitude: Doesn't want to deal with people while awake Stability: Fairly stable Expressiveness: Is the least expressive person on the planet when awake When Happy: Hums softly, sleeps lessWhen Depressed: Sleeps more, will fuck with people's dream When Angry: Will put people in eternal sleep, deny them dreams, full blown attack someone Family: Family loves him, especially his brothers Friends: He's lazy but incredibly kind Enemies: He's a lazy good for nothing bastard Bosses: Grandparents Followers: Many people follow him or at least acknowledge him Heroes: Family Rivals: Brothers, aunt and uncles Relates to: Brothers, father Pets/Familiars: A stuffed animal goldfish named Glub, shouldn't be responsible for another's life Wardrobe: It's a mixture of casual and comfortable and expensive Equipment: A decent sized box that’s half ivory and half horn and very decorative Accessories: Two tongue piercings, two lips rings on the left, two eyebrow piercings on the right, septum piercing, several ear piercings Trinkets: A pocket watch with a night sky on it Funds: Unlimited funds due to divine status Home: Decorated as however Phoinix wants Neighborhood: Artsy, higher income people Transportation: Teleports, sometimes flies License Plate Number: Doesn't own a vehicle, can't drive Collections: Blankets Most valuable possession: His pocket watch, blessed by his grandmother and father Prized Possession: Pocket watch Lovers: a variety of lovers Marital Status: Divorced, dating Phoinix and Mags Sex Life: Pretty much dead Turn-Ons: He doesn't care as long as they can sit down, relax, and cuddle Turn Offs: Fidgeting, pacing, super energetic or excited Position: Switch Fetishes: Experimentalism, Rope Play/Shibari, Pet, Masochist, Blood Play, Non-Monogamy Virginity: Too many times to keep count Element: None

Occupation: God of dreams Work Ethic: Loves his job, hates to work Rank: N/A Income: However much they want Wealth Status: Higher class, lives however he wants, usually middle class Experience: None really, born into his divinity Organizations/Affiliations: Whoever sleeps Social Stereotype: Goth or Punk now and days Intelligence: Interpersonal/Intrapersonal Extracurricular Activities: Sleeping, listening to music, sometimes going to a night club, watching movies Religion: Greek Pantheon Morals: Moral compass is a bit skewed, believes that as long as you don't get caught, do what you want Crime Record: Nothing recorded by man Motivation: His job as a god, family Priorities: Family, Personal interests, friends Philosophy: Never be afraid to pursue your dreams, even if it means sleeping your life away Political Party: None Etiquette: Excellent manners Culture: Greek Influences: Family inspires him Relates to: Dreamers of the world Traditions: Greek traditions Superstitions: None Main Goal: Learn what human life is like Minor Goals/Ambitions: Support his friends Career: None Desires: To learn more about human life and why they're so active Wishlist: None Accomplishments: None really Greatest Achievement: Starting to live on earth Biggest Failure: Doesn't talk about it Secrets: He hides the fact that he's a god Regrets: Not moving to earth sooner Worries: Being discovered and feared Best Memories: Spending time with his family Worst Memories: Losing his wife

Hobbies/Interests: Besides sleep, likes to listen to music, watch movies, and make people have weird dreams Skills/Talents: Extremely talented and creative when creating dreams for people Likes: Sleeping, creating dreams, watching movies, listening to music, cuddling, cheesy jokes and puns Dislikes: Being woken up, super excited or energetic people Sense of Humor: Dark, witty, sarcastic, punny Pet Peeves: When people can’t stay calm, when people are unnecessarily loud Superstitions/Beliefs: Knows the powers of the gods, doesn't have any superstitions Dreams/Nightmares: Can't dream Quirks: Likes making a nest to sleep, hates wearing shoes or socks, Savvy: Greek mythology, dreams and their meanings Can't understand: human culture, energetic people, rushing around, insomnia Closet Hobby: Going to a nightclub to party Guilty Pleasure: Helping his aunt or uncle with their work Strengths: Kindness, Patience Flaws: Lazy, prone to lying, likes to sometimes cause mischief Perception: A world full of dreamers just needing the motivation to strive for them Conflicts: When his interests with humans interfere with his divine status Instincts: Constantly create dreams Lures: Tranquil people, Nightmares, Sleeping people in general Soft Spot: Humans who can't sleep, cats Cruel Streak: Insulting his family or friends, People who are cruel or mean without reason Powers/Abilities: Can shapeshift to look like any person, can influence, change, and shape anyone's dreams, can put single individuals to sleep, can hide his wings and horns, can prevent people from ever dreaming again, can put people into an eternal sleep Origin: Divine birth Source: Through a variety of means, often by using a box Ability: The best, the god of these skills Weaknesses: Same weaknesses as most deities Immunities: Cannot catch human diseases or illnesses Restrictions: Can only enter another's dream when he's asleep Alternate Forms: Shape Shifting abilities, only his family knows his true form Extra Anatomy: Wings(Left is white, right is black), long horns growing from temple and back just past his head(Left is white, right is black) Special: When in his true form, he looks like an ancient greek king in people’s dreams. Often wears a long rawhide trench coat that is white on the left, black on the right. Also wears worn leather pants that are white on the left and black on the right.  Wears knee high boots and soft leather gloves, both have the left one white, and the right one black. Also wears a white gold crown. Languages: Can speak any spoken language Accent: Changes with his form Voice: Low bass, deep and husky Speech Impediments: Can have one depending on his form Greetings and Farewells: A series of grunts and other noises and waves State of Mind: “How are you?” Proceeds to grunt Compliment: “You're as beautiful as a dream come true,” Insult: “I'd say knowing you is a dream come true but it's more like a nightmare,” Expletive: Just doesn't curse, will make a weird face at you though Laughter: He laughs very quietly, you can usually tell he's laughing by the fact that his shoulders shake, Tag Line: Random meows at friends, “Sorry, can't help with that, I'm sleeping,” Signature Quote: “I'm like a cat that way. I sleep twenty hours a day and gods know what I do in the other four,” “I love helping people dream. If they are willing to dream it, I know that they can achieve it. It's something beautiful,” Reputation: He's lazy First Impressions: He's extremely tired and doesn't want to be there Stranger Impressions: He's a little off, looks like he doesn't want to be there Friendly Impressions: He's lazy yes, but that doesn't stop him from being kind and funny. Enemy Impressions: He's a freak, and he needs to wake the fuck up Familiar Impressions: He sleeps so much so that he can do his job as the god of dreams, he's a good but mischievous guy Compliments: Inspiring, funny, odd Insults: Freak, bastard, sleep addict Self-Impression: He's a lazy bastard who hasn't accomplished anything significant in his long life The Self: Caring individual who wants to inspire others through their dreams The Shadow: A cruel and masochistic man who doesn't mind hurting others to have a little fun and chaos Persona/Mask: Presents a lazy bastard to hide a sensitive and caring man Role: The inspiration, keeping people on their toes Fulfillment: By helping people with their dreams, and just being odd Significance: His divine abilities Comparison: Cats, lots of cats Symbol: Sleeping cats, anything that makes you think of sleeping Song: “Morpheus in a Masquerade” by Cain’s Offering Vice: (Pride/Greed/Gluttony/Lust/Envy/Sloth/Wrath) Virtue: (Patience/Diligence/Chastity/Temperance/Charity/Kindness/Humility) Defining Moment: When he left Hades to live among humans Tropes: His clothing choices, taste in music, some of his views Originality: His divinity One Word: Strange