#and i get so verklempt i have to hide my face in my hands and go lie down for a while

[scribefindegil]

Howdy, I think you might be making an ekurei shipper out of me XD I never really thought about them much but I'm really resonating with these posts. Not only that but I'm realizing that its so up my alley because I love love love like, unusual fantasy situations where characters experience intamacy in unconventional ways, something I feel like I don'tfind very often outside of my own and my friends' writing in our own lil corner. Like woah...the romantic potential of possession, being closer to your partner than humanley possible...imagine how humbling it would be to realized you are loved and trusted enough to be invited to share your partner's mind and body as an act of love instead just using that ability against strangers to your own ends...[cries a little] Who even needs that dang guard. Maybe I'm so enraptured with this stuff cause I'm ace, lol

Yeah yeah yeah that's it exactly!! The potential for sff to create types of intimacy that wouldn't be possible in real life is a huge part of its appeal! I've seen people compare Dimple possessing Reigen to Steven Universe fusion and I've compared it to drift compatibility myself and both of these things are very tasty, but for me it hits even harder because for them the intimacy is a choice, not a natural byproduct or an intentional prerequisite. Like, it's one thing for a sff setting to make an unconventional form of intimacy part of its worldbuilding like SU and PacRim do, but it's another thing entirely when it isn't an established part of the worldbuilding but something that the characters figure out on their own!

Like you said, for most of his existence Dimple has used possession as a tactic of violation and control. That's what you do when you're an evil spirit! It represents where he is at the beginning of the series; his view is that relationships are about who has the most power and who has the least, and if you have more you're going to use it to manipulate and subsume anyone less powerful than you. And then he starts changing! And by Season 2 he's using possession as a form of protection, not for himself but for Mob. Even when he possesses people without permission (Shinra and that one bully), he's not doing it to help himself! He does it to Shinra to get him out of danger (and says, notably, that if he let Shinra die then Mob would never trust him again), and he does it to the bully to protect Mob (and he stops when Mob says to!). And then in Mogami Arc we get the first instance of Dimple possessing someone because they explicitly asked him to, where he protects Mob's body while his soul isn't in it. Possession not only as protection but as trust! And you can tell from his reaction that this is something that Dimple has never considered before! And you can tell from how shocked he is during World Domination (manga) when he's able to possess an unconscious Mob that he especially never considered that trust like that could be an ongoing thing!

The point is, by the time Dimple meets Reigen in the middle of a psychic tornado, his concept of what possession can be has already undergone some major changes due to his friendship with Mob. But there's never been anything like what he and Reigen are able to do. There's been trust, there's been protection, but there's only ever been one consciousness in a body at a time. There's been vulnerability of body but not vulnerability of mind.

And it would have been easy for Dimple to push Reigen's consciousness down until they got to Shigeo. That's another thing that gets me; there's no reason that they had to both be awake on a technical level. But on a thematic level it is Everything to me that they're able to achieve a state that we've never seen before, that I bet if you'd asked them before this happened they both would have said was impossible, that is dependent on complete vulnerability and openness from two characters who will fight tooth and nail to prevent anyone else from seeing who they really are. It's about their shared familial love for their boy and it's about how much they understand each other in that moment.

And, like, I'm also ace, and generally not much of a shipper, and I tend to care a lot about group dynamics and platonic bonds, and I think that part of the appeal of ekurei bodysharing stuff is that even if you write about it in the most romantic way, you have to remember that the first time they did this it happened because of their shared platonic love for their kid so to me it feels just. Infused with all the different types of love and connection that the show is built on. Sometimes when someone focuses on a romantic relationship it gets deified in a way that undersells all the other bonds the character has, but for me at least romantic ekurei only works because of their other connections.

[paellaplease]

revali x reader 16 (i think?) verklempt please ❤️

16. verklempt - completely and utterly overcome with emotion

19. temerate - to break a bond or promise

pairing: revali x reader summary:  falling in love is difficult when neither of you know the end is near.

   Night had fallen by the time you mustered the courage to walk up to him. He watched the shining caps of your barely worn boots approach the other side of the campfire, sensing your nervousness as you awkwardly stood for a few beats, weaving and unweaving your fingers. 

Either his reputation as the strongest Champion preceded him, or he was completely unapproachable. Throughout the day you would chance a look at him from across the camp, quickly averting your eyes the moment he noticed. You were part of the Princess’ research effort and therefore had some questions— that much he was certain of. Yet you’ve been dancing around him for hours, gathering the will to speak only to have it snuffed out the moment he acknowledged your presence. 

Embers lifted from the flames and flickered into the night sky as you finally faced him. Revali held his tongue and gathered his patience, trying to hide the glitter in his eyes at the chance of ‘wowing’ another admirer (nevermind that you were the first). 

“Champion, uh sir,” you fumbled with the titles. The question fell from your lips so quickly that his disappointment didn’t register until a second later. “What kind of flower do you favour the most?” 

“...”

If the following silence wasn’t damning enough, the Rito was honestly at a loss for how to respond to such an inane question. Seriously? He was better than this. Others have made more important inquiries and had to wait weeks, if not months, for him to clear time in his busy schedule and reply. 

Something like this didn’t deserve attention, let alone an answer. 

“Swift violets.” He said, before rising from his seat by the fire, dead leaves crunching under the weight of him as he made a beeline straight for his tent. 

Parting the canvas, he pretends to miss the earnest wave of goodbye you send his way, ignoring the static in his chest the moment his head hits the pillow. Sleep comes quickly. 

*

A month later you meet again. 

The universe seemed to adore playing tricks on him. Crossing the threshold of his home, he catches you investigating the decorative shells hanging by his kitchen window. Amusingly, you were balancing on the tips of your toes, its placement just a tad too high.  

There’s something different this time around. You seemed more at ease with your surroundings, no longer jumping at every sound like a stranger in their own skin. The tips of your boots were scuffed with use, and the minute cuts and imperfections in your clothes spoke of days spent in hard work and travel. 

Though some things still remain the same. He holds back his smirk when you stumble forward in surprise at the sound of your name, getting straight to business once you were safe from the risk of falling over. “I believe you’re the researcher sent to assess my progress with Vah Medoh?” 

“Yes, I am.” You’re quick to snap back into stiff professionalism, he’ll give you that. The bow is low and formal, your back so still that someone could confidently rest a cup and saucer on it. An introduction spills out, followed by an apology when you realise he already knows who you are from the briefing he was given days earlier in Hyrule Castle. 

The task was simple really. King Rhoam Bosphoramus wanted a full report on the breadth of Hyrule’s offensive capabilities against Calamity Ganon. From Guardians to Divine Beasts, much had been done in the past year in preparation for their greatest adversary. Now as the whirlwind began to settle, all must be accounted for, down to the last soldier. 

Your report was just a drop in what will be an immense ocean of information currently being collated. But it was nevertheless quite vital. He wonders how someone like you was selected for such a task. 

“Let’s do our best.” You blurt. Revali could see the millions of thoughts racing behind your eyes when you decide to break away from your military-stiff posture, raising a hand in the traditional Hyrulean greeting between strangers.

The lines of your palm stretch before him like deeply-woven thread. He glances at the wrinkles and grooves in your flesh, remembering that some mystics believe such lines could predict something as unknown as the future. He can’t help but wonder what yours might foretell. 

Pressing his wing to your outstretched hand, he declared his agreement. “Of course. You’ll soon see that my ability to pilot Medoh is nothing short of perfect.” 

He can’t help it. “And no questions of the botanical sort, understood?”

The sudden playful grin you give him makes all his witty quips screech to a halt, his focus trained solely on the way your face instantly lights up when it isn't held down by strict politeness or pure nervous energy. “I’ll be sure to steer clear from them this time, Champion. You have my word.” 

*

Both of you eventually fall into a comfortable routine. Meals are made together and the chores are done quickly through combined effort. You catch on well, cottoning on to the needs of the day based on the tasks you both decide on the night before. 

After breakfast he finds his gear and yours already neatly arranged by the doorway, allowing him additional time with Vah Medoh and you the chance to closely observe. The idea of training with an audience never bothered him, but knowing you followed close behind, notebook at the ready, gave him the extra push to perform just a level better than his previous.

One more arrow, one more extravagant somersault in the air. He even maneuvers Medoh to do a complete 180, reveling in the way your mouth pops open in awe as you walk across what was once the ceiling. 

“... .... --- .-- / --- ..-. ..-.” The ancient machine complains, unhappy to be on their back. The Rito pilot pats the metal wall apologetically, watching as you excitedly flit from one end to the other, feeling quite pleased with himself. 

*

Revali dreams of a cliff’s edge.

The precipice looms before him, nothing but fog and the unknown past the point where the ground stops and plummets. Revali looks at you and feels the smooth rock of the sea stone underneath his talons; hears the sound of crashing waves in the distance. Tantalising was the mystery of the void beyond. 

The meaning escapes him the moment he wakes up. His pillow was warmed by the glow of the sun, making him realise that he had slept in. Morning was just beginning, and both of you had a full schedule of tasks to get through. 

Diverting all his mental energy to the work ahead, he scrubs the sleep from his eyes and shakes away the odd thrill in his feathers. I’m better than this, he thinks. 

His tea is still warm when he arrives at the table. 

*

Word of the researcher shadowing him gets around quickly, it’s a small village after all. Some of the Elders glance at you in suspicion, old wounds from disagreements fought with the capital in the past lingering like dye in the water. You don’t seem to mind it, too caught up in the new sights and smells of this vibrant community built in the clouds. 

The Rito children are much more enthusiastic about your presence, sharing in your curiosity by matching your questions with their own. Getting comfortable on the wooden slats of the departure deck, you happily play encyclopedia for them. 

“Were you this cute back then?” You ask, watching a fledgling hop from one talon to another in imitation of a lizalfos, chasing after their friends who were the heroes in the story, at least for this round of the game.

“I was a model citizen.”

“Not true!” One of them pipes, poking him in the side with the tiniest of wings. “Mama said you were a hennish scallion.”

“You mean a hellish rapscallion,” the eldest of the bunch laughs, screaming when the ‘lizalfos’ tackles them into the ground. 

Crossing your arms, you fix him with your best look of authority, shaking your head in mock disappointment. “I apologise but the council has spoken.” He raises a brow at your antics, feeling a little light headed at the adorable way your eyes water whenever you hold back your laughter. “Do you plead guilty for perjury, Mr Champion?”

Champion. The word echoes and reverberates, wrapping tightly around his brain like the blue scarf fitted snugly on his neck. He likes the way you say it, making him wonder about something else. 

The words leave his mouth before he can think it through. “Revali will do just fine.”

Mirth drains from your face, replaced instead by surprise. “W-what?”

“I have a name.” He ignores the feeling of his feathers standing at the back of his neck, unclenching his jaw. Relax, he tells himself. “Better for you to call me that than to continuously mess up the titles.” 

“Still working on it,” you shrug. Then, you’re gesturing for him to step into your space, leaning forward just the same like you’re about to tell him a secret. You’re close enough for him to feel the warmth of your breath against his beak. He freezes, becoming hyper aware of his heart thundering against his ribcage, not daring to move even a muscle in fear of giving his thoughts away. 

“Revali then,” you murmur, almost too soft for him to hear. 

It was only when one of the children tugged at your sleeve, dragging you away to explain the appearance of another monster you’ve encountered in your travels, that he allows himself to breathe.

*

His presence had been requested at the Chief’s office, the old, war-weary Rito regretfully informing him that an urgent message had arrived. Multiple reports had noted an increase in the signs of Calamity Ganon’s resurgence. It came as no surprise, with every Blood Moon summoning more monsters from the void, an omen that something big was coming. 

Letters from the Princess implied the worst: that she had exhausted nearly all avenues in awakening her sealing power. The Spring of Wisdom would be her last chance, and after that, who knows? The Champions were to meet again in three weeks at the foot of the mountain, to celebrate or to re-strategise depending on the outcome. 

He was never the religious sort but by the Grace of Hylia, please let it be the former. 

A headache was beginning to form as he made his way home, the idea of knocking out on his hammock for an hour or so sounding extremely appealing. The day was coming to a close, a cold breeze chilling his back as the orange heat of the evening crept its way to night. 

You’re the first one to the hut this time, brown scuffed boots positioned neatly at the doorway. Revali stares at them for a second too long, wondering if you knew your time in the village was coming to an end earlier than expected. The information you had diligently collected was finally required, a little last minute if he had to comment but such were the nature of these things. 

The mental image of you puffing out your cheeks in frustration, complaining that you would have to organise the data on the way back, was enough to make his mood perk up— just a tiny bit. Picturing you disgruntled and annoyed, just like when the markets ran out of your favourite produce, was easier to stomach than the thought of saying goodbye. 

Leaning against the hardwood of the kitchen counter, you don’t notice him enter the room, too engrossed in the list you’re making.

It's a sight he'd seen before. If he forgot about the sobering news he'd just received, then the day would feel like any other. 

The open window frames your form, making you appear like a painting come to life. Rays of light streamed from the cracks in the blinds, illuminating the slope of your nose and curve of your mouth. 

Instinctively, you tilted your head to the source of warmth, instantly reminding him of the swift violets that would bloom by the Hebra cliffsides, forever seeking the sun. 

Oh. 

The ground had finally run out, earth and sky crashing together. There was no denying it now. Inwardly, he cursed himself, following the thought past the precipice, plunging himself deeper into the truth he'd avoided acknowledging for months. The universe truly was cruel. 

It wasn’t like he didn’t see it coming. The answer was clear as day, right from the beginning of its inception. 

It's the golden hour before sunset when Revali realises he’s in love with you. 

*

Wind plays with the jade clasps of his braids as he appraises Medoh’s central control unit. He’d done this maneuver many times before, enough that he could perform it with his eyes closed. 

It was your final day on assignment so shouldn’t he attempt an action that was more daring? He tried to ask. But you had rejected the proposal outright, reasoning that it suggested this would be the last time you both would meet at the top of the Divine Beast. “You can’t get rid of me that easily,” you smile. “I’ll visit once the fight is over.”

“Guess there’s no harm in going back to the basics,” he mused, inputting the commands before taking a step back.

Leaning against one of the columns, you watch with rapt attention as he points the Divine Beast south. The view abruptly shifts from the towering mountains of Hebra, to the grassy Tabantha Frontier, greenery spanning for miles and disappearing into the white, snowy wall of Mystathi’s Shelf. 

You tilt your head up, eyes trained on the heavens. There’s a solemn intensity in the way you look at the sky, as if trying to ascertain a greater meaning to your existence in this world between the cover of clouds and the endless sea of blue. It never gives you the acknowledgement that you desperately want, no matter how long you spend asking it, but that doesn’t stop you from searching anyway. 

He understands because he’s tried asking well, too many times to count. Eventually the young Rito stopped looking, opting to make an answer for himself instead. 

“Do you ever get tired of it?”

Revali’s silent for a moment, mulling over his answer, before he pushes away from the control unit and starts walking towards you. “There’s no spectacle grander, and I can’t recall a time I’ve been without it. As a Rito, it was your first companion, and so long as you looked above, you were never alone.” He shook his head. “Though I guess to love something so vast and beyond our comprehension would be rather imbecilic.” 

He’s running his mouth at this point, the hum of Vah Medoh loud in his ears. “... .. .-.. .-.. -.-- / -.-. .... .. .-.. -..” the beast warns, but he continues anyway. 

“It’s far too foolish to pine for something that will never be in your grasp. So it would be best for me to realise that there’s no point in fighting it anymore. I mean, I should feel relieved by the concession that at least I’ll be remembered by someone other than myself.”

Your attentions were no longer directed at the sky, the intensity of your eyes piercing into him, seeing right through his poorly hidden deflections. “Are we still talking about the same thing?”

The urge to plunge himself over the edge and fly away by the sheer fuel of his embarrassment was beginning to feel very enticing. Trust his description of the sky to sound like a confession. “No,” he admits. 

“Then…”

Revali thinks about telling you— considers allowing himself to become vulnerable just this once.

You’re still here, feet planted firmly on the ground, within his reach at this very moment. There was nothing he wanted more than to take that last step forward, to close the gap that perpetually rests in between you both. He imagines what it would feel like to wrap his wings around you, and believes that it would be nothing less than holding infinity. 

Yet, despite this— despite everything, he sighs. “Another time.”

Almost like reading his mind, you simply nod in response, smiling as you reach out to him. He lets you take one of his wings in both your hands, the firm surety of your touch grounding him into the present. There’s no hesitation in your next words, only a promise of a thousand tomorrows lingering on the corner of your lips.

“Tell me when we meet again?”

“I swear it on my life.”

.

.

.

-

As usual, what was supposed to be a short and sweet answer became a creature of its own, demanding my full attention until it was finished. Writing in Revali’s POV is so fun, but there’s always that small bit of doubt that I can never do his character justice. Regardless, I hope you all enjoy this one.

By the way! Hello to all the new visitors to my blog. Welcome yall. This is the prompt list. I may not answer straight away, but I shall do my best :) 

[indigo-wendigo]

Cornibus Saga: Chapter 13

Verklempt

           The next morning, William was both happy to see his red coats and embarrassed for them to see him. He had never been with his recruits without his uniform on, much less in these “mental patient scrubs.” These conflicting emotions kept him stationary at the edge of the recreation room, fighting with himself about whether he should hide or go and say hi.

           “So,” Mallory approached, ruffling her fingers in her curly mop, still flat on one side from where she had slept on it. “Bit of bad news and worse news today.”

           He looked at her and followed her gaze. Today they were setting up the group session in the recreation room. William saw Nurse Veronica aiding patients in setting up extra fold-out chairs in a circle. Ratchet. “Ah. That’s the bad news. What’s the worse news.” Before Mallory could answer he saw Royce flipping a chair open and sitting down in it. “Oh. Ah.” He waved a hand. “Whatever.”

           “I tried talking to her, but she was being her usual bitchy self.” She crossed her arms.

           “Don’t worry about it. It’ll be fine.” He panned to his right where the Ability Control soldiers were standing receiving their station locations.

           Now Mallory leaned forward to get his view. “What’s wrong?” It seemed she couldn’t deduce this one.

           He sighed. “I’m… embarrassed to go say hi.” William looked down at his feet. He felt like hiding them in these sterile, stark-white sneakers.

           “… Do you know any of them personally?”

           He took another glance. “Just one, I think.”

           “Do they know you’re here?”

           “I mean, yeah.” He shrugged. “Everyone knows.”

           “And do you have a relationship with this person in which they would get negative vibes if you didn’t say hi?”

           He puckered his lips and shook his head.

           Mallory shrugged. “Then don’t worry about it.” She lightly slapped his arm.

           William allowed a smirk then remembered why his soldiers were actually here. “Hey, I need to talk to you. The reason why we put them here…”

           “You think she might come back,” she asked tentatively.

           He inhaled slowly and held back a wince. “This is temporary… until you can be discharged.”

           Her features relaxed. “Discharged?”

           “Listen,” William turned more to face her. “We’re in the process of getting you out of here and on base instead. There the security will be fit to protect you and we can get you evaluated and start getting a handle on the wendigo. And if you can learn how to control it—if you wanted to,” he shrugged, “we might be able to come up with some good offense with you at the head of the team.”

           She blinked then beamed at him. “You weren’t saying that just to be nice?”

           “I’m incapable of saying things just to be nice.”

           “My God,” she breathed. “That’s—such an honor. But… what if—”

           “William, Mallory,” called Nurse Veronica. Ratchet. “We’re ready to begin!”

           Mallory rolled her eyes. “Come on. Let’s go get this One Flew Over session done with. We’ll talk after.” She led the way to the circle of chairs. William had a seat next to her and nearly in unison, they both slouched. Royce was giving William a rather nasty look, but he didn’t care or pay much attention.

           Veronica explained that Olive was unavailable today so she would be taking over group therapy. Normally it would have been a lesson day, but as Veronica went around and spoke to people, William found that she had no plans of giving a lesson. And she was inconsistent. Some people were only talked to for about five minutes. Some were given twenty. She reached Royce who claimed he was pissed off today and didn’t want to talk about it. When she pressed him, he clammed up with his arms crossed. So, she moved on. Soon she reached Mallory.

           “Would you like to explain to the group what happened a few days ago, Mallory?” Veronica batted her eyes.

           Mallory noticeably sneered. It seemed while she was capable of cordiality and great politeness, she picked who received it. “I think everyone knows what happened.” She glanced around the group. There were a couple nods of confirmation.

           “Perhaps you would like to explain what led you to turn into that thing.”

           Now William outwardly sneered. Who would put it that way?

           Mallory shrugged. “I got emotional?”

           “Why were you emotional?”

           She blinked. “The Ghost Scarlet appeared at our hospital right in front of me. It was an emotional circumstance.”

           “What emotions were you feeling specifically that caused you to become…”

           “The wendigo,” William finished for her. Veronica didn’t seem to care.

           She inhaled. “I was scared for William. And—while I now wish that the wendigo hadn’t involved herself, it was in an effort to—”

           “Ah—Mallory,” Veronica smiled with the slightest of chuckles in the back of her throat. “Do you really think it’s healthy to continue addressing—” she waved her hand flippantly, “the wendigo as a separate entity from yourself? I believe in order to make progress here you need to stop… referring to yourself in the third person.”

           A silent and slow “what the fuck” passed William’s lips.

           Mallory’s mouth hung open for a moment before she replied. “I’m under no illusion that the wendigo is not a huge part of me. I just say it that way so when I’m talking about it, people can differentiate when I’m talking about—”

           “Be that as it may, I believe you need to start catching yourself when you say “the wendigo” and backtracking and correcting it by saying “me” or “I”.”

           Mallory stared. “… Sure. You got it.”

           Veronica tilted her head. “Mallory, I’m not dumb; I can tell when you’re being sarcastic. And I’m afraid if you insist on being confrontational that you will need to talk to Doctor Blakely.”

           “Sounds good.” She crossed her arms and sat back.

           The nurse looked to William. “All right, William! I was able to dig up your diagnosis: schizoaffective disorder.” She looked at a clipboard.

           “That’s right.”

           “That often comes with bipolar symptoms. So, have you had any feelings of mania? Recklessness?”

           He shook his head. “Not in a long time. I think I mostly grew out of all of that.” William rubbed the back of his neck.

           She smiled. “Well, that’s fortunate for you, isn’t it?”

           He furrowed his brow. “Yeah…”

           “What about your relationship with Scarlet?”

           The other patients’ interest was immediately and noticeably piqued.

           “Um… I think I’d like to continue that topic with Olive in my one-on-one sessions, please.”

           “Mm,” Veronica scribbled on her clipboard. “Are we in cahoots today? You both decided to be confrontational?”

           “Confrontational?” he scoffed. “I just said I didn’t want to talk about that right now. When Royce didn’t want to talk, you just moved on to the next person.”

           The nurse, without acknowledging his comment, addressed the patient beside him. He and Mallory exchanged an identical look. Ratchet.

           At the end of the excruciating session, most of the patients went about their day. Mallory, William, and Royce put up chairs out of the way. Royce was quick to initiate. “You know why I didn’t want to talk today?”

           Mallory glanced at him. But William didn’t as he folded up a chair. “I really don’t care.”

           “I was being respectful. To not announce to everyone that I had updated my goal of getting revenge on Ro clan to getting revenge on the person who took my chance for revenge from me.”

           “Jesus Christ,” William muttered. He let go of the chair he was about to put away and began to leave.

           Royce picked up the chair he had just folded closed. “You just think you’ve got some brass cojones.”

           A shock of pain wracked the back of William’s head and neck, knocking him forward and making him stumble to his knees. He heard a clatter behind him and he closed his eyes, cradling his skull. Did that asshole just hit him with a chair? He opened one eye and turned around in time for Royce to roar.

           Mallory was straddling Royce on the floor, throwing her fist into his nose over and over as he choked out a scream and tried to fend her off.

           William chuckled. “It’s okay,” He rose to his feet slowly with a grunt. Once he was upright, he opened both eyes.

           Royce wasn’t moving anymore. Or making any noise. And Mallory’s fist still crashed into his face.

           “Mallory—" He hurried forward and caught her arm in mid-swing. She yanked free for another two punches, spraying Royce’s blood. “Mallory!” William resorted to hugging her from behind and forcibly lifting her off her unconscious victim. She split the atmosphere with a rageful shriek and thrashed against her restrainer. She was stronger than she looked. He struggled to keep hold of her and had to sit down on the floor to use the aid of his legs to pin her. “That’s enough!” he growled, “Stop!”

           And she stopped. She still gripped his arms around her middle, but she stopped fighting, only panting. As if snapping out of a trance.

           He was panting too. “That’s enough.” He blew a lock of her curls away from his nose.

           Suddenly she shuddered and gasped, a beginning of a sob. Mallory shivered against him and cried.

           He loosened his grip and used a hand to pull her hair back from her face. It was so thick and wild now. “It’s okay,” he breathed, “It’s okay.”

           Orderlies rushed in with another nurse, first kneeling next to Royce and checking his vitals. The nurse ordered one of them to call an ambulance, but no one asked what happened. It dawned on William that it was pretty clear. He could see Mallory’s hands gripping his arm were coated in blood. Her shirt had been spattered. And he could even smell it in her hair.

           The two orderlies peeled Mallory away from William. He saw one of them uncap a syringe. “She—she doesn’t need that, she’s calm!” he protested, even as they stuck her in the neck, eliciting a flinch from her through her weeping. She didn’t fight them when they lifted her under her arms and drug her down the hall. William got up to follow and was quickly intercepted by Doctor Blakely.

           “Please return to your room, William.”

           “She retaliated because Royce hit me with a goddamn chair when my back was turned,” he snapped. “She didn’t need to be sedated, she was calm.” He looked at the end of the hall to see they had carried Mallory to somewhere that was not her room. “Where the fuck are they taking her.”

           “Mallory needs to spend some time in isolation. At the very least until she is questioned.”

           “Isolation? What does that mean? There’s nothing to ask; he hit me with a chair and she protected me.”

           “Please return to your room. Now.” Doctor Blakely briskly made her way down the hall after the orderlies and Mallory.

           When he saw Nurse Veronica pass to follow the doctor, he addressed her. “Hey. If there is anything that even smells like abuse happening here, I’ll have this place shut down so fast your head will spin.”

           “Really?” said the nurse. “You’re a schizo; who’s going to believe you?” Veronica turned and continued on her way without a hitch in her gait.

           William’s nostrils flared. If he had his Abilities right now he could melt glass.

[heylissaaaaa]

Words Slip Out

Pairing: James “Bucky” Barnes/Reader Summary: An unexpected question at an inopportune moment Word count: 5.3k Warnings: fluff and angst (mostly fluff and moderate angst), mild hurt/comfort, mild (non-graphic) injuries, moderate violence,  A/N: Hello lovelies! This was written for another one of the ever-wonderful @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​ ‘s challenges, with the word prompt “verklempt: completely and utterly overcome with emotion”. It’s also a prequel to the one-shot I wrote for Star’s last challenge, called Rainbow Afternoon, but you don’t have to read that one to understand this one. For registered users on AO3, you can also read this fic here.

You had found the ring by accident.

It was hidden, of all places, in his sock drawer. One of the greatest spies and assassins in the whole world, and he’d tucked in in the back corner of his sock drawer. You were going to tease him something awful after he proposed. Never going to let him live this one down.

Though, to be fair, you supposed he thought you wouldn’t have any occasion to be in his sock drawer. And normally, he’d have been right. But then you’d lost a bet on how long a frozen sausage can be in the microwave before it explodes, and laundry duty for the both of you was the punishment. He probably hadn’t put two and two together.

You didn’t touch the ring box, wouldn’t dare open it, only finished putting away his clothes and shutting the drawer. But that didn’t mean you would - or even could - stop thinking about it. What did it look like? How long had he had it? Did anyone else know? You were positive Steve did, probably Sam too. But had he confided in anyone else?

Your mind flit through question after question until it landed and stuck: how was he going to ask you?

Nothing big, of that you were sure. He liked making grand romantic gestures - liked the blush on your face, because you didn’t - but he wasn’t one for crowds. Would he wine and dine you first? Would he do it with the rest of the team watching, or wait until it was just the two of you? Would he wake you up with it one lazy Sunday morning? You didn’t have any answers, each scenario as likely as the last, but in all of them you could feel his love.

You were still lost in thought when Bucky came back from hanging out with Sam and Steve. They had a standing day out twice a month that had become something sacred. The only outsider ever to go with them was Tony, when he was up for it and had the time.

“Doll? Hey,” he said, smiling when your eyes focused and you finally registered that he was in the room. “I knocked and you didn’t move. What’s that pretty mind thinking about so hard?”

He knew you well enough to know when you were lying… unless you said something that would distract him. So you shrugged, gaze drifting down his body and back up again. “Your butt,” you said, as casual as if you’d said you had been thinking about the weather. “How was boys’ day?”

It worked like an absolute champ. “Great; a blast,” he said curtly, shoving his jacket onto a hanger and kicking the door shut. “More importantly, tell me more about these thoughts of yours concerning my butt.”

You grinned and accommodated him when he crawled up the bed towards you. International super spy, sure, but still very much a man.

*

Two sharp raps on the front of your open door and then Bucky strode through in full tactical gear. You were belly down on the bed, reading a magazine, and sat up when you heard the knocks. “Suit up. We have to go,” he said. He tossed a manila folder towards you.

“What do you mean ‘we’? I thought you were going with Sam,” you said. The two of you didn’t go on missions often together; you went with Natasha, and he went with Sam or sometimes Steve. Opening up the folder, you began to look over the information it contained. It looked like a fairly simple mission: data extraction from an abandoned production facility owned by a Hydra front.

He rummaged through your closet until he found one of your body suits and tossed it your way. “Something else came up. One of the agents we were tracking disappeared; Sam’s going after him and you’re coming with me,” he explained. “Besides, you’ve got more technical experience than either of us to begin with.”

You changed in the bathroom and followed Bucky out of the room. The rest of the file was half-read, half-recited to you by Bucky on the jet as you made the few hour trip toward your target. The factory was built several miles outside any town, surrounded by forest on all sides, and for that you were grateful. You weren’t expecting any resistance, but the knowledge that the nearest innocents were well out of range was comforting.

“Ready to go?” he asked, checking over the various buckles and straps of his gear one final time.

Palming one of your handguns, you leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek. “Let’s make it quick and then we can stop for burgers on the way home?” you asked, a little bit of childlike hope in your voice that made him laugh.

The data you were looking for was in the manager’s office above the warehouse floor. The door that Bucky opened groaned on rusted hinges, catching on the doorframe that didn’t quite sit right after so many years without upkeep. Stepping over the threshold after him, you were met with a maze of pallets piled high with cardboard boxes and wrapped in cellophane. This was a facility abandoned at a moment’s notice. Ceiling-high shelves leaned against the walls, half full of more unmarked boxes.

“You head up to the office, I’m going to poke around down here,” Bucky said. You waved him off and started wading through the sea of crates and pallets. At the other end of the room you found a set of metal stairs leading up to a room that overlooked the whole floor through very large windows. The door was open when you peered in. Bookshelves lined the wall to your left and the desk faced the wall to your right. A picture frame on the wall reflected light from the monitor. In a warehouse that was supposed to be empty, that could not be good.

Rounding the corner of the desk, your stomach dropped. “Oh shit,” you breathed.

“What happened?” Bucky’s voice demanded in your ear, but you were only half paying attention to him.

The main monitor was indeed lit, a pop-up window showing the progress of the deletion command that someone had initiated. It was almost halfway finished. You were quick to the computer, fingers flying over the keyboard as you attempted to salvage what you could. Only then did you remember that he’d asked you something. “Buck, they’re erasing everything. They knew we were-” The first shot rang out and cut you off, followed by others. He grunted in your ear. “Bucky!”

“I’m fine. Keep going.”

You glanced up from the computer, scanning the warehouse floor below. Bucky was just visible, hiding behind a wall of crates closest to you. He didn’t look to be harmed, and your heart stuttered in relief. Further away, you saw the agents. “I see maybe, eight of them, all armed. They’re splitting in three. I’m working as fast as I can.”

He didn’t respond and you turned your full attention back to the monitor. Someone must have been on the other end with remote access, because the computer was actively fighting you for the information you were trying to salvage. One hand jabbing at the keys, you reached into one of your suit pockets, pulled out a thumb drive, and plugged it into the side of the monitor. A few more minutes of cyber-battle, and you were finally able to start the download onto your drive. “Ha! Take that you bastard,” you muttered, flipping off the screen and whoever was on the other side.

So engrossed were you with the task at hand that you almost missed the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs leading up to the office. “Shit,” you spat. You weren’t finished, but it would have to do. You were out of time. Tying up what loose ends you could, you ripped the drive out of the port.

A bullet whizzed by your left shoulder and you knew you were really out of time. Going around the side of the desk facing the windows, you crouched down and went through your exit options.

The door was out, for obvious reasons. You could hide here and try to fight them, but the desk wasn’t very good coverage and the office itself was way too small to be an advantage to you. You looked around again, and groaned. Bucky was going to be so pissed off at you, but you tried to justify yourself as you stared up at the window.

You took a deep breath, stowing the thumb drive in your suit. Covering as much of your exposed skin as you could, you shot up from behind the desk, got a little bit of a running start, and crashed through the window.

“Look out below!”

Bucky whipped around right as you hit the ground with a yelp of pain, tucked and rolled to his side in a shower of glass. Pain exploded up your left leg, lighting up that entire side of your body. You’d definitely landed wrong on your ankle. Pulling yourself up into a sitting position, you moved over to sit with your back to the crates.

One of the agents peered out the broken window, and you shot him right between the eyes. He was the only one to make that mistake.

It was quiet in the warehouse now. Most of the first group were severely injured or dead, but you knew there were more coming. If you were going to get out, you had to go now.

Next to you, Bucky was scowling. You could feel it boring into the side of your head. “Are you out of your mind? I would’ve come up and got you!” he hissed.

You brushed stray pieces of glass off your suit. “Oh relax. I got the rest of the data and a sprain is better than a bullet hole while I waited. Now, come on,” you said, holding your arms out towards him. He didn’t move an inch and instead continued to stare over at you accusingly. “Up and over, Barnes, we’re on the clock and we’ll move faster if you carry me.”

The prospect of proximity seemed to snap him out of his stupor and he had the audacity to break out a lazy grin. “Sweetheart, if you wanted to get into my arms all you had to do was ask,” he said, though he stood up and help you to your feet. Putting one arm around the back of his neck, he hoisted you over his shoulder so you could watch his back as he ran with you.

The buckles of his gear pressed against your stomach, and you were sure your elbow did not feel particularly nice digging into his shoulder blade, but neither of you complained. “Think we can go back the way we came?” you asked.

Bucky shook his head. “More of them coming that way,” he stopped with his head tilted, listening. “They’ve gone around the sides too. We’ll have to backtrack into the offices and circle around.”

No sooner had he made the decision than another two dozen agents were streaming through the main and side doors. “Time to put those morning runs to good use,” you said, firing off a few shots towards the lines of men racing toward you.

The hallways weren’t very wide or tall, dingy white walls and gray tiled floors depressing under the fluorescent lights. “I’m starting to think this place wasn’t quite as ‘abandoned’ as Stark told us,” Bucky grumbled, flinching out of the way as a bullet raced past the side of his head. You didn’t answer, too focus on trying to keep your balance over his shoulder enough to aim as you returned fire. The arm you were using to hold yourself up with was starting to tremble, and you were having a hard time breathing with Bucky’s shoulder squished against your abdomen.

When you emptied the clip of your handgun you shoved it back into its holster and reached down for the other one you were carrying. No way were you going to try and negotiate reloading with the position you were in. You were lucky enough as it was that Bucky swerved around a few sharp corners, giving you a second’s reprieve from the gunfire.

Some of the men had gone around to try and cut you off from the front. Bucky blocked the shots they got off and fired back, not stopping as he jumped over their fallen bodies.

The crowd of agents was thinning now with each round you fired, far less following and no more jumping out in front of you. Bucky kicked down a door and then you were outside, albeit on the other side of the warehouse, but you were that much closer to safety. Still, the click of your third empty weapon - you’d stolen Bucky’s too - made you curse. Because of course, of course, there was one agent left. Completely out of bullets and there was still one agent standing.

It wasn’t far, you didn’t think, so you could try to outrun him. Bucky no doubt had more stamina. But as another bullet lodged itself into a nearby tree, you knew you had to do something else.

Bucky yelped as one of your hands braced itself lower on his back, and the other began groping down by his left thigh. He stumbled a step before he could regain his footing. “Woah, hey, Jesus. Be careful down there, would ya? I was kidding about getting frisky.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, hot shot. Just keep running,” you huffed, making another swipe for his legs and grumbling when you missed.

“What are you-?”

Your shout of triumph interrupted the rest of his question as your fingers finally wrapped around the hilt of the knife strapped to his thigh. “Fucking finally,” you muttered, and glanced up to where the last agent was still tailing you. One quick steady breath to aim and the blade flew from your fingers. You watched with a detached sort of satisfaction as if flipped, end over end, to land neatly where the agent’s left eye had been.

Patting the small of Bucky’s back, you let yourself go limp against him with a heavy sigh. “I think we’re okay,” you muttered. You turned your head to the side and caught sight of the now-empty holster. “Thanks for the knife, babe.”

You felt him slow underneath you and turn, swinging you slightly to one side. A moment’s hesitation and then a sharp inhale as he took what had happened to his knife, the body still visible behind you. “Christ,” he groaned. And then, quietly, breath on a sigh, “Marry me.”

It thundered in the silence that followed.

The shadow of the jet fell over you and you pushed off of Bucky, landing in front of him with only a slight wince. His ears were pink and his eyes were wide, betraying his own shock at what he’d said.

You blinked at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Well, um- I-”

“Now? You’re doing this now?” It sounded harsher than you’d meant it, coming out of your mouth, and you felt bad about that. But you were upset, damn it! This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen - not on a half-failed mission, sweaty and injured, after you’d both just killed two dozen men. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

He went redder. “I don’t know! You had me all… verklempt!” he sputtered.

“Verklempt? Where did you even-?” You shook your head, turned your back on him, and hobbled up into the jet. You were still muttering to yourself as you tossed yourself down into the pilot’s seat and began readying to leave. Bucky stood outside, staring at you, until you snapped, “Get on the fucking jet, Barnes.”

Turning back toward the console, you heard the heavy thud of his boots, and the impact as he sat down. It was silent the rest of the way home. You wanted, several times, to turn and look at him. But the thought that he might already be looking at you, that you might end up looking at each other, stopped you.

When the jet landed at the compound, Bucky stopped you before you could hit the button and let down the ramp. “Would it be so bad? Being married to me?”

Part of your heart broke, and it softened the lingering scowl on your face. You were still upset. But you also couldn’t leave him to think that was why were angry. Cupping the side of his face in your hand, you ran a thumb over his cheekbone. “Of course it wouldn’t, Bucky. Nothing would make me happier,” you murmured.

There was something he wanted to say, more than one thing you wanted to say, but no room left in the jet for either of you. Biting the inside of your cheek, you dropped your hand and let down the ramp.

Tony, Steve, and Natasha were waiting in the hanger when you got back. That all three of them were there was a little odd, but you were so determined to get away that you didn’t give it too much thought. “Nat, darling, take me to the infirmary please?” you asked with more cheer than you felt, half-hopping over to her to avoid putting pressure on your injured leg.

She looked between you and Bucky, searching for the answer to a question she hadn’t yet asked. Turning around without a word, she bent down so you could climb on her, piggy-back style.

You tapped her collarbone as you passed Tony, and she stopped. Wedging a hand between your front and her back, you felt around until you found the zipper for the pocket you’d stashed the thumb drive in. You shoved it towards Tony’s chest. “I got as much as I could,” you said. His hands came up over yours to take the drive, and Natasha led you away from the hangar. Behind you, you heard Steve and Bucky talking, but couldn’t make out what they were saying.

Natasha waited until you were changed and sitting in the med bay, one of the nurses cleaning the cuts on your arms, before she pounced. “What happened?” she asked, in that nonchalant way she had that let you know she was keenly interested in the answer.

You sighed, shoulders dropping. “With the mission or with Bucky?”

A pause, in which Natasha searched your face, eyes flicking back and forth. “Both,” she said.

“They were waiting for us when we got there, had already started wiping everything. I got maybe half of it, had to jump out a window.” The nurse - Daniel, you thought his name was - snorted as he straightened up, having finished with your arms. You gave him a wry smile and a shrug as he moved on to examining and then wrapping your ankle.

“And Barnes?” Natasha pressed.

You looked away from her, jaw clenched. “Asked me to marry him right before we got on the jet,” you started, and told her the rest of what had happened. Your voice was thick and your throat burned with the tears you were trying to keep at bay. Now that the shock and adrenaline was wearing off, you felt a little dumb.

“You’re upset, but not surprised.”

A helpless shrug was all you could give for a moment as you negotiated the sobs tightening your chest. “Found the ring a month ago, maybe. I’ve been waiting for him to ask.”

She let out a breath, coming to sit in a chair next to you. “And this wasn’t how you pictured it going.”

“I know it’s a dumb thing to get worked up over, and I know he didn’t mean it like this.” You couldn’t get his face out of your mind, the way he sounded when he thought you were refusing him. “And I wasn’t expecting anything big or extravagant; you know I don’t care about that kind of attention. But I just- was hoping for something… else. Something special and normal and not tied to this job.”

Daniel gently interrupted, his hand warm on your shoulder. “You’re all set. Get some rest, keep your ankle iced and elevated. If the pain gets too intense, you can take some ibuprofen or Tylenol, whatever you prefer.”

“Thanks, Dan. I appreciate it,” you said, returning his wave as he left.

Natasha was there as soon as you were upright, an arm under your own. “Hey, why don’t you come hang out in my room for a while? It’s closer than yours,” she said. You wanted to decline and go back to your own room, but she continued before you could. “We can watch something if you want, make some popcorn. I’ll even steal some of Sam’s M&Ms for us.”

You smiled in spite of yourself. “With an offer like that, how could I refuse?”

Together you hobbled over to her room where she brought you over to her bed. Once you were settled back against the headboard, a pillow under your ankle, she left for snacks while you scrolled through Netflix looking for something to watch.

You’d gotten through Natasha’s list, trending now, and popular on Netflix twice when you noticed that she still hadn’t come back. It didn’t take that long to make popcorn, especially since her room was one of the closest to the kitchen. You were starting critically acclaimed movies when she slipped back into the room, a large bowl under one arm and a bag of ice in the other.

“I was about to send out the search party,” you said, pausing on Molly’s Game to read the description.

Natasha handed you the bowl and laid the ice over your ankle. From a pocket in her jacket she revealed two bright yellow packets of peanut M&Ms. “Sam was in the kitchen, just got back,” she said. She settled down on your other side and grabbed a handful of popcorn. “Oh I wanted to see that.”

“It sounds good,” you agreed, and queued up the movie.

You didn’t remember when it ended, only that at some point the TV was switched off and Natasha was running a hand through your hair. The bed shifted as she got up, and then her hand was on your other side, gently shaking your arm. “C’mon, sleepy, let’s get you back to your room.”

You groaned and shook your head, not even bothering to open your eyes. “Jus’ wanna stay here,” you mumbled.

Natasha scoffed and started to pull you into a sitting position. “No way. We both know you hate going to bed without your routine and waking up in rooms that aren’t your own. I will not be put on the wrong side of morning-you for that,” she said. You grumbled, but knew she was right. If you fell asleep without going through your routine, it guaranteed you’d wake up in the middle of the night feeling gross. You put an arm around her as she helped you off the bed.

As the pair of you walked down the hall, you noticed an alertness to the way she moved and looked around that puzzled you. It was subtle, and would be unnoticeable to most others, but you knew her pretty well. It wasn’t mission alertness, cold and wary, but more like… anticipation, excitement.

It spiked as you approached your bedroom door, which was now closed. “Nat, what’s going on?” you asked.

She didn’t answer except to nudge you with her hip into reaching for the handle. You opened it slowly, and the breath caught in your throat.

Bucky stood in the middle of the room, dressed in jeans and a Henley. His hands were clasped together behind his back like he would fidget otherwise. The overhead lights were switched off. Instead, candles covered the long windowsill against the back wall, the entire top of your dresser, and most of the desk in the corner where Bucky liked to clean his guns and knives. It gave the room a warm, soft glow, but it wasn’t what drew your attention.

The entire room was filled with pale pink peonies, one of your favorite flowers. There were blooms laid loose among the candles, both with and without stems, and others in different glass vases. You wanted to run your fingers over their petals, get close enough to see the specks of deep crimson you knew would be there. The whole room smelled like peonies, not intoxicating or cloying, but beautiful and fresh.

Natasha removed your arm from around her neck and backed away, making sure you were steady enough on your own. You barely noticed, too focused on the flowers and the man who’d gotten them for you. “Hey Buck,” you breathed, stepping into the room and shutting the door.

“Hi sweetheart,” he said, his voice as soft as yours. He rushed to your side when you took a step forward, putting an arm under yours and helping you sit on the end of the bed. Taking the spot next to you, he turned so that his whole body faced you. “How’s your ankle?”

“Just a sprain. Daniel down in the med bay says I’ll be right as rain in no time.” You looked around at all the flowers again, heart swelling as you took in the way the light shone on the pale petals. “These are some real pretty flowers, Barnes.”

He looked too, a fond smile on his face. “Do you like them? I got ‘em for my best girl,” he said, bringing a hand up to cup your cheek. Emboldened when you leaned into his touch, he shifted from by your side to kneeling between your legs. “See, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask her, but I messed it up. I was hoping she’d let me try again.”

“‘Course I would.”

“I want you to know: I had a plan. I was going to wait until it was warmer and take you to that park where we met. Remember, when you-”

“When I hit you with my bicycle, yes, I remember,” you grumbled. It was something he refused to let go of. Never mind he was the one that was so busy messing with Steve that he wasn’t looking where he was going. And never mind that he was fine, thank you very much. Did more damage to your poor bike than anything else.

His laugh made your chest warm and your heart soft. “I was half in love with you already after that. You made sure I was alright before completely tearing me a new one. You weren’t even phased by the fact that you were scolding the Winter Soldier, with Captain America looking on. He was on me for a week after that because I didn’t get your number. Then Tony walked you into the compound and introduced you as the new team member and, sweetheart, I was gone.”

Once upon a time, you’d been an agent for SHIELD and - after everything had happened - you’d been a little lost. Then, you’d woken up one day to a forwarded email recommending you for a position as a member of the Avengers. It hadn’t said anything about who’d made the recommendation, and you’d never had many friends in high places, but you weren’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. It was only after you’d officially joined that they let slip that Fury wasn’t quite as gone as everyone thought he was.

The position hadn’t been guaranteed when you’d met Bucky and Steve in the park, so you didn’t say anything in case it turned out not to be true. And facing them in the common room of the compound, seeing the moment they recognized you, was something you wouldn’t ever forget. “You dropped the coffee pot. I don’t think I’ve seen Tony that mad, or Clint that visibly crushed. He looked like you’d told him Santa wasn’t real,” you said.

“The point is, I had a plan,” he said, his cheeks a little pink. “But then today happened, and things went a little wrong. I kept thinking how they could have been way worse. Either of us could have come out with more than a couple of cuts and a sprained ankle. But you had my back and I had yours. And I saw that fucking knife sticking out of that guy’s head and it reminded me how strong you are, how capable and - I’m man enough to admit it - how incredibly hot you are. In that moment, I was overwhelmed by it. By how much I love you. By the reminder that this-” And here he finally took from his pocket the velvet ring box that had been gracing your dreams for a month. “This is all I want. A life with you for as long as I can, as long as you’ll let me.”

With steady hands, Bucky opened the ring box. The ring inside was a band of rose gold that went from smooth line metal at the bottom and morphed into vines about halfway up either side. The vines wound around a small opal. The longer you looked, the more you felt tears gather in the corner of your eyes, the pressure building in the base of your throat. The rose gold was warm and felt like being in his arms, and the opal shined the way his eyes did when he watched you laugh at his teasing. It was a physical offering of his love, of the life he wanted.

“Bucky it’s perfect,” you breathed. Your hand by contrast, was shaking when you lifted it for him to put the ring on. When it slid home and sat snug on your finger, joy lit up in your chest like fireworks, bubbling out of your mouth in uncontrollable giggles. You brought Bucky closer for a kiss so that he could feel it too.

“I paid a lot of money to get those flowers here, so I better at least get to see the ring before you guys start removing clothes!” Tony called from the other side of the door, startling the two of you apart. Bucky dropped his head onto your chest and you leaned yours against his, torn between irritation and amusement. There was a muffled impact, Tony’s yelp of surprise and maybe pain, and a “come on, man” that definitely came from Sam.

“Tony, have a little class, would you?” Steve hissed. In a louder voice, definitely meant for you and Bucky to overhear, he added, “Besides, they shouldn’t be doing anything with her sprained ankle!”

Bucky huffed a laugh and you could feel him gearing up to shout back, but you beat him to it. “I swear to God if I open that door and see anyone on the other side, you’ll wish you had a sprained ankle.”

“Come on boys, let’s give them some space. But we better see that bling first thing in the morning. You’re both expected at breakfast,” Natasha said, herding the boys away like a schoolteacher her children. You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped as their footsteps faded away, Bucky joining you. As annoying as they were, you did love your friends.

Bucky lifted his head, forcing you to lift yours too. You gave in to the kiss he asked for, but pulled away a few moments later. He lifted a brow at you. “I have one question,” you said.

The brow rose a little higher. “Shoot.”

You squinted at him a little. “Where exactly did you learn the word verklempt?”

[unicyclehippo]

If you're still taking prompts, then... verklempt with a touch of marcid, as a found family comfort fic for poor Beau after that last episode (she needs it).

verklempt - completely and utterly overcome with emotion // marcid - incredibly exhausted

//

Caleb

//

The woman who walks out of that house is not his Beauregard. If not for his familiarity with transmutation, he might suspect that someone else had been put in her place; the imposter has copied her flawlessly—wears her face, her skin—but she does not know how to be their Beauregard.

Their Beauregard has eyes like needles, sharp and shining, that pin people open to examine their insides, cobalt eyes. These blank eyes, these clouded-over eyes, are wrong.

Their Beauregard moves like a cat. Not like Frumpkin, whose form sometimes shifts and moves to fit the world—he is real and unreal and his smoking steps reflect it. Beauregard moves like one of the great striped cats, the kings of the southern forests; Caleb had seen one, once, in his days at the Academy and it is the only way he knows how to conceptualise of Beauregard’s distinctive physicality. She is forceful and graceful all at once; she slinks and steps and climbs with power in her movements. There is a confidence to her that is all physical—all of her power, all of her presence, contained. Concrete. The imposter cannot begin to understand this. Her hands are wrong. They hang heavy at her sides like an inept simulacrum, like gloves filled with some unsuitable material— with ice, with lead. They lurch in pendulum swings from the shoulders, out of time. She does not stride or strut. She stumbles over a hunk of raised rock. When she braces against Caleb, who steps quickly to her side, her fingers claw at the proffered arm so she doesn’t meet mud.

Her skin is cold and wet from the misting downpour.

Enough, Caleb thinks. Tugs her to stop, halt.

She doesn’t argue with him and it’s all wrong, wrong, wrong.

Blue eyes drift to his face, unseeing, glazed. He sees the faintest stir behind them of recognition and she looks down to their joined hands.

‘Your hands are cold,’ he says softly.

There is no hiding that they have stopped from the watchful others, but he doesn’t have to let them hear. Beau is a private person and they have learned more of her history in the last two days, last hour, than ever; he will not let anyone take more from her, not even the knowledge that her hands are cold.

‘No,’ she denies. ‘’m all—hot.’ Rubs her other hand over the back of her neck as she has been doing all day. The skin is red, raw with scratching, but from what he can see it is hot from friction alone.

He makes a sound of disagreement. Pulls his gloves from the pocket of his coat and works the first onto the hand he still holds. It is hard because she is not being helpful, like pulling a glove onto a statue, but finally it is more or less on and he rubs the hand between both of his own in that rough way that calls heat back into extremities.

She shivers. Blinks, surprised by the way another shiver shakes through her.

He coaxes her second hand into the other glove. ‘There. Wunderbar.’

Beau curls her fingers into fists, slightly cushioned by the gloves that are only a little threadbare. ‘You don’t need ‘em?’ she asks, the thought making her reach off and fiddle with the cuffs.

Caleb lays his hands over hers. Squeezes. ‘Nein, it is fine, I can summon flames. Keep them.’

He cannot help but wonder—as she struggles past the exhaustion to think, to figure if he needs them more, eyes narrowing into an approximation of shrewd, prying—how many things Beau has been given. A slap across the face, is the first he knows of. A jade necklace with no apparent defences, supposedly to keep her safe. Anything else? Fire boils in his belly, threatens to burn through his veins, his entire self—threatens to send the rain that hits him steaming, hissing away from his too-warm skin—as her tear-stained cheeks crinkle into a very small smile.

‘Thanks, Caleb.’

He lets his hand settle on her shoulder when they set out again, fond, letting her feel the weight of his presence at her side.

//

Nott

//

She waits until they’ve purchased beds for the night in the inn, waits until Beau and Jester have gone upstairs to their room, before she follows. Waits until Beau has excused herself, stepped into the washroom, before letting herself in and setting the little jade rabbit on Beau’s bedside.

‘You steal that?’

Nott screams and spins, crossbow drawn. Beau doesn’t even flinch; her eyes are focused on the statuette, over Nott’s shoulder.

‘Beau! Steal? Little old me?’ she hedges awkwardly until she realises she isn’t seeing upset on Beau’s face, or annoyance. Strange, given that is Beau’s go-to expression, but... ‘Ah—yes. I didn’t like the way he spoke to you, so,’ Nott flutters her fingers in a There you go sort of motion. Her eyes narrow, gleaming with interest at the way Beau’s expression shifts.

‘He’s—complicated,’ she says finally.

Nott isn’t sure if what she has, what this goblin body has, are hackles, but if they were they’d be raised by Beau’s tone: quiet, borderline defeated. Worse—understanding.

‘He’s an asshole.’

Beau smiles crookedly. ‘So am I. So was I.’

‘You were a kid,’ Nott snarls. Holds her hands up in surrender when Beau’s eyes snap sideways, staring at her finally instead of that damn statuette. ‘Sorry, sorry, not my place, sorry.’

‘No. It’s not.’

‘Right. Well.’ Nott whistles faintly through her crooked teeth.

‘I nearly broke that,’ Beau tells her, eyes sliding back to the statue. ‘When I was - I dunno. Ten? Ten, I think. I was running in the house and slipped. Slammed into the table,’ she says, and doesn’t seem to notice the way her hand lifts to rub at the long-healed scar above her eyebrow. ‘It fell off. Hit the carpet. There’s - ah - a little chip missing on the back,’ she tells Nott, who doesn’t bother checking. The corner of Beau’s lips twitch up into an expression Nott wouldn’t in a hundred years call a smile. ‘He picked that up first.’

‘Beau...’ The girl sighs. Nott puts her crossbow away. She hadn’t realised it was still out, the weight so comforting in her hands. Now they’re empty, they itch with the need to take something, work with something. She threads her long, bad fingers together. ‘Thank you for coming here. I know you did it for me and—thank you.’

Beau jerks her head in a nod. Nott has nothing more to say, knows it isn’t the right time to mention how much she thinks Beau’s dad is a dickhead, knows very little of what she says will be taken seriously by Beau. So instead, she says to her friend,

‘It sounded cool. Your plan for the wine. I’m sorry he didn’t listen to you.’ Nott eases forward, toward Beau standing interposed between the bed and the door. She stops beside her, pats the girl fondly on the hip. Leaves her hand there as she looks up into Beau’s suddenly blank face. ‘For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re with us.’

‘Okay,’ Beau rasps, not meeting her eyes.

Nott pats her side again. ‘Sleep well, Beau. You need your rest if we’re off to fuck up a hag in the morning.’

//

Fjord and Yasha

//

‘At least we know now,’ he says low to Yasha as they follow Beau out from the inn. ‘If we ever want her to be less sneaky, just...’

‘Confront her with her past?’

‘Yeah.’ Fjord grimaces. ‘Not really funny, huh?’

Yasha eyes the slow figure ahead of them, her meandering path. She would think Beau were drunk, if she hadn’t been watching her carefully since they left that place. A half cup of wine would have no effect like this on the well-practised monk.

‘No.’

The pair follow Beau through the mud-slopped streets. For a short while, she stands at the base of the switch-back roads up to the Rainbow Vineyards and Yasha is prepared to return to the inn and fetch everyone, in case Beau has it in her mind to revisit the house—what they would do, she isn’t sure. Stop her? Perhaps. Help her? Definitely. But Beau doesn’t head up; she turns away and wanders back up the path. Fjord and Yasha step aside to get out of her way and she walks right past them, unseeing.

‘Still raining,’ Fjord says to Yasha.

Her chest tightens around mixed pain and love. For Beau, who is hurting. And for Fjord, who will muster a bad lie to protect his best friend.

‘Ah. Yes,’ she agrees, lying too. ‘I think I feel it.’ She holds her hand out, palm up to the sky. Wipes imaginary droplets off against her cloak.

They follow Beau to the other end of the town, to the southern gates. She walks out of them, staggers to a stop by a low cliff where she sits. Throws her legs over the edge and grasps at small rocks, tosses them down the embankment into the burning pools there.

Fjord sits to one side of her.

Yasha sits on the other.

Neither of them speak, until eventually Beau swears. Scrubs at her cheeks.

‘Fuck—when—hey guys,’ she says, voice thick. She reworks it into something sharper. ‘Are you following me?’

Yasha looks to Fjord over her head, nervous. Perhaps she shouldn’t be here, she has caused enough hurt,

‘A-yup,’ Fjord tells Beau, a hint of his old swaggering accent in the word.

‘How long?’

‘Good long while.’

Beau stares at him, mouth working but no sound coming out. She jerks her head to Yasha, who smiles. Jerks her head to the pools, which burble and burn away.

‘Didn’t notice.’

‘No, we know.’ Fjord leans heavy against her shoulder. ‘It’s alright.’

‘Should’ve noticed.’

‘You don’t have to be —‘ Yasha hesitates, suddenly nervous under the way Beau looks at her. Like a piece of flint waiting to spark. Like a woman who is hurting. ‘We wanted to...make sure you are safe. We didn’t...wish to intrude.’

‘Did you at least hide?’

‘Nope.’ Fjord pops the sound of the p with relish. ‘You walked right past us.’ Holds a hand up to his face, exaggerating—though not by much—how close they had been and Beau had not seen them.

‘Fuck.’

The word punches out of her along with e last of her energy. Yasha catches her as she sags, leans her fully against Fjord who wraps an arm around her shoulders.

‘He’s a cute fuckin’ kid, huh?’ she mumbles.

‘Sure is. Looks like you.’

‘I was a little monster.’ Beau knocks her head on his shoulder. Drops a hand to the side, fingers hooking onto Yasha’s bracer.

‘Naw,’ Fjord says, so so softly. ‘I reckon you were just fine.’

They sit with her as her facade breaks again, no energy to maintain it, and she cries. There’s little left in her to cry out so when she’s empty of tears, she almost crumples in on herself and bit by bit she slips from this state into unconsciousness.

‘Yasha? Little help?’ Fjord asks, holding Beau awkwardly back from the edge of the low cliff.

Yasha stands. Scoops the smaller woman into her arms. Adjusts her with Fjord’s help so her head leans peacefully on Yasha’s shoulder, Fjord’s cloak a cushion. They head back to the inn, Beau lulled by the rolling step, cradled safely in her friend’s arms.

The inn is dark, the stairways barely lit by lantern light. Yasha carries her up the stairs—laughs softly at Fjord’s low whistle.

‘You’re not tired at all? You carried her all the way across town—she’s small but she’s not exactly light!’

‘She’s fine,’ Yasha shrugs. Her muscles are warm from exertion but it isn’t something that strains or hurts. ‘Would you—the door?’

‘Huh? Oh, sure, yes.’

He cracks the bedroom door. They creep in, not wanting to wake Jester. Jester, who sleeps turned toward Beau’s bed, who looks as though she had drifted off in the middle of staring at the empty sheets.

Yasha holds Beau as Fjord pulls down the sheets; lowers her onto the mattress and helps Fjord work at the laces of muddied boots. Easing them off, Fjord takes them, holds them in his hand. Watches Yasha’s hands carefully—not from any suspicion but from a deep, worried care—as she draws the blanket up to around Beau’s shoulders.

‘Sleep well, Beau,’ Fjord says with all the reverence of a prayer.

Yasha wonders if he is aware of the faint green glow around his free hand as he rests it on Beau’s shoulder. The frown that grips her brows tight loosens a fraction. Eases.

//

Caduceus

//

Caduceus trusts Fjord and Yasha to track her down in the night.

His job is not like theirs. Their duty is to protect her, to keep her from going too far, to bring her home. His is — he’s reluctant to say harder, he has no doubt there was some careful work to bringing her home, but it is one thing to catch the wild horse and another to tame it. So he’s heard. He’s never tamed a horse himself, nor does the analogy sit well with regards to Beauregard. Except, that is, a wild horse is skittish to the reaching hand and he cannot stop thinking about a younger Beauregard, already young, who has been struck by her father. Caduceus doesn’t consider himself an educated man but there are some things he knows to the core of himself, and this is one of those things: Beauregard has been starved of those necessary things, like the withered and pitiful garden within the estate. If she is not healthy, if she does not bloom brightly and prettily as expected, it is not the plants fault but the gardeners.

That is to say, he thinks, and rolls a mouthful of floral tea over his tongue, she deserves more. Better.

Which brings him to his duty, and his eyes lift from the handsome grain work in this simple tables to the stairs where a barefooted girl, hair half-fallen from its topknot, hurries down.

‘Morning, Beau.’

She looks marginally better. Reflexes far improved from the night before. He had been tempted to check for signs of undeath, with her moving like the animated dead, skin as cold.

‘Cad,’ she grunts.

The skin beneath her eyes is puffy and dark, from crying and from a lack of sleep. He had heard Fjord and Yasha return late last night, perhaps even early into morning, so she can’t have slept for more than—three? Four hours at most.

‘You haven’t slept enough.’

She grunts. ‘Seen my boots?’

‘Yes.’ He drinks from his cup. Flares his nostrils to take in the scent as the movement stirs, hits the notes of the drop of honey he had added. After last night, he needs the boost, the sweetness.

‘Where?’

He just smiles, no intent whatsoever to say. ‘Tea?’ He has rarely seen anyone who needs a cup more than she does now; she desperately needs it, needs a moment to relax from holding herself so tense, gingerly, like she has been turned inside out and back again and she’s scared it’ll happen again.

Beau doesn’t seem to agree. Squints are him, a not unfamiliar squint, the one she gets when she’s reading books in unfamiliar script. Like she is figuring him out. Lips pressed flat, not quite a scowl.

Caduceus thinks about telling her that he isn’t a book, can’t be read like one, when she nods, frown clearing.

‘Fjord’s got ‘em. Great. Thanks.’

‘What?’

Beau salutes. Backs up the stairs.

‘How did you—‘ he begins to ask, brows crawling higher in his forehead like fat, confused pink caterpillars, but she has already disappeared, taking the steps two at a time.

He listens as the door to the room he was sharing with Fjord creaks open. A moment, and then it creaks closed again. The loose floorboard at the top of the steps squeals and Beau returns, boots in hand, and takes a seat at the table with him turned in the seat so she can pull the boots on. Wipes a rough palm over the sole of her foot, brushing off dust and dirt.

‘He polished them,’ she grunts. Shakes her head. ‘Sap.’

‘He cares for you.’

There—a small shift, like a contraption winched tight, Beau’s shoulders creaking closer together, tighter, tense.

‘He just hates mess. Seen him at the Xhorhaus? Washes his room out. Scrubs the kitchen top to bottom.’

‘Mm.’

‘You must like that.’

‘He reorganises the cupboards,’ Cad tells her, watches as the comment surprises a smile out of her.

‘Caduceus,’ she says, teases, ‘is that a complaint?’

‘Everyone has flaws. Neatness isn’t too bad of one.’

Boots on, obviously feeling a little more put together, more herself, Beau leans back in her chair with an arm slung over the back of it. Her smile is crooked, a half-summoned thing. ‘Yeah, he’s alright,’ she allows.

‘He’s marvellous.’ There—an easy shift into what he needs to talk to her about. ‘As are you.’

She rolls her eyes hard.

‘We’re all looking after you in our own ways.’

‘Found a way to help me, have you? Am I easy like the rest of them?’

‘No. I don’t think you have ever been easy.’ He watches her flinch truly this time and hums, realises his misstep. ‘That—was not meant to be an insult.’

‘’s fine, dude. Whatever. You’re not wrong.’

Caduceus’s duty is care; his duty is helping people to move on, to grieve and leave their grief, to transfer it into something that can be borne more easily. It was easier when he had no interest in the grief himself, but he loves this woman and somehow it has made him clumsy.

‘There are great works that are done,’ Caduceus says to her. ‘Art and other acts of creation, great gardens. They aren’t easy.’ Beau frowns. ‘But they are marvellous.’

Beau clicks her tongue, shakes her head. She isn’t ready to talk, or hear more of the regard he has for her, that they all have for her, so he stops.

‘Tea?’

Beau sighs. ‘Sure. Why not.’

He smiles as warmly as he can manage. ‘I have two options.’ He pulls them from his pack, smells them to make sure. Sets them before her. ‘This one,’ he shows her, puts it to one side, ‘will clear your mind. Help wake you up. And this,’ he sets it to the other side and if it is much closer to her, well, it isn’t as though he is trying to be subtle, ‘will help you go back to sleep.’

‘I don’t think—I’m not going back to sleep, dude.’

She doesn’t push the offering away. Stares down at it with tired, tired eyes.

He waits. Won’t make this decision for her. Figures, from what he can gather, she’s had enough of people trying to make decisions for a whole lifetime.

‘Would—will you make me a cup of this?’ she asks, quietly, looking a little shameful as she points to the clear-head tea. ‘I’m sorry—I know you think I should—but I can’t. Not right now.’

He hums. ‘Perhaps tonight. You’ll sleep very well after it,’ he offers. Is rewarded with a look of relief, of thanks.

‘Sounds good. Yeah.’ Then, after a moment, ‘’preciate it, man.’

He keeps to that promise. Drinks a pot of tea with her that morning that, he thinks, has a lot to do with the good decisions they make that morning. Tea helps with that. Sitting quietly with a friend helps with that. And that evening, after a very very long day, he finds her before she can offer to take first watch and sits her at the end of his bedroll and sets up his tea station right there. Pours enough of the leaves into the water to make a single cup. He takes care to prepare it the way he always does, when he has the time—it isn’t prayer, isn’t a ritual of the kind he makes to worship the Mother, but a ritual of another kind, as old and as profound in some ways. The ritual of care, of providing, of effort. The ritual of making something especially for the one person who will appreciate it, need it the most. Not the exclusion of others, but attention to one person alone.

‘Here,’ he says, words buzzing like beetles in his chest. It always feels a little foreign, a little strange, to speak. He hadn’t spoken for a long, long time before his friends had collected him from the Grove and sometimes the words are hard. The gestures—the making, the healing—are harder for people to misconstrue. He picks up the cup by the brim, sets it in her cupped palms.

Sits beside her as she sips.

‘Long day.’ Beau grimaces. The tea is bitter, but that isn’t why she grimaces. ‘Don’t worry,’ he assures. ‘Jester will forgive you.’

‘She wants me to—slow down. Relax. I can’t relax, Cad, even on a good fucking day.’

‘Hmm.’

Beau snorts. ‘Helpful.’

She drinks a little more.

The air is clean and clear within the dome, pleasant after the hours of walking in this strange place that smells so heavily of metals and gases. Caleb tells them all that it is minerals and sulphur, the waters like pools of acid from the chemicals. To Caduceus, it is as if the earth itself here is dying and decomposing, petrifying even as she bloats. It’s strange and as fascinating as it is upsetting, and from moment to moment Caduceus shifts on whether this is natural or not.

Beau sits there on his bedroll and there she stays, cup beginning to tip out of numb fingers, head lolling.

‘Oop,’ Caduceus says, reaches over to catch Beau at the small of her back, spread his hand wide there as she sags and drops into sleep like a fish tossed onto land—that is, surprising to the fish, who struggles briefly, eyes wide, before landing with the dull sound of flesh on stone. ‘Whoops.’

‘Gods, Cad, what the hell—did you brain her?’ Fjord asks, alerting Caleb too, who looks up from his place in the centre of the dome where he has chosen to read.

‘No, no, she’ll be just fine. Sleep through the night, hopefully.’

Fjord grunts. Looks fondly at Beau. Then laughs. ‘She’s already snoring. Dibs on the other side of the dome.’

Caleb looks amused, obediently shifts his things from where Fjord points. He looks tired too, Caduceus notes and briefly regrets that he had only made the one cup. And that he had done so in front of Caleb. He’ll never get the wizard to drink this brew now.

//

Jester

//

It is a long day punctuated by the strange, sudden greys that colour the flora here—flowers and vines and trees shrivelled and withered and turned to living stone, the thrum of life present but dulled to the point where Caduceus is hard put to feel it. Jester leaves him to tend to the plants and figure them out. She doesn’t know an awful lot about plants and her time is better spent, she figures, at Beau’s side.

They’re miles from the Lionett estate and everyone within it but still Beau walks like she’s expecting an attack at any moment, snaps at useless discussion, and walks too fast for any of them to keep up until Jester snags her. Holds her hand hard enough that the girl can’t shrug her off. It makes Beau more restless, Jester can see that, the way she’s straining to get ahead, to get to whatever awaits them, to figure this out and find answers finally, and Jester understands, really, she does!

‘It’s just that it’s dangerous if we can’t keep up with you, Beau, and what if you get into some kind of trouble and we’re too far to hear you, or don’t pick the same path, or just can’t get there in time?’

‘I can look after myself, Jes,’

‘Obviously, obviously,’ Jester agrees hurriedly. ‘You’re really strong and smart, Beau, we know that, but you don’t have to look out for yourself when you have all of us, and—‘ Jester hesitates, not sure Beau can take hearing about how very, very tired she looks.

‘I am feeling very tired, myself,’ Caleb says, not to Beau because the others are all pretending not to see the way Jester has more or less grappled Beau into standing still for just a second so she can talk her into making camp and staying with them. Jester shoots him a glare; she knows he can lie more convincingly than that, and they are supposed to be convincing Beau. But he must know some way of talking to her to get her attention because Jester feels the lightning thrum of tension running through Beau’s cord-tight muscles fade the smallest bit. Feels shoulders drop an inch. Hears her reluctant scoff, almost a laugh.

‘Fine. Fine.’ Beau brings her hand up finally to return the hug—grapple—and pat Jester’s back. ‘You can let me go now, I’m not gonna bolt,’ she tells Jester, who wishes very much she could see Beau’s face and what that amount of fondness would look like. Hearing it is enough—sweet like caramel, warm and featherlight like smoke around her.

Jester pulls back slowly. Affects a suspicious squint and doesn’t let go. Not just yet. ‘Promise?’ she teases.

It’s doubly sweet to see how reluctantly the smile comes, how Beau has to rearrange her whole face to accommodate it.

‘Promise.’

Jester squeezes her. Releases her, hugging hands gliding down to Beau’s, squeezing those too. She leaves a trail of healing behind her, because Beau’s dad might have said run from the things in the woods but Beau had decided not to.

Beau hooks her pinkie around Jester’s. Holds it for a moment, says again—‘Promise’—before she begins to pace the campsite, bothering Fjord and distracting Caleb who just wants to set up the dome. He sends raven-Frumpkin to busy Beau, leads her on a chase around the clearing and up to the branches of a nearly spruce—the low branches, when Caleb sees the way Jester glares at him.

‘Hey Caleb. Caleb.’

‘Ja, Beaure—Beau.’

‘Ha! Beau-Beau,’ Nott repeats. ‘Cute.’

‘Call me that again and I’ll happily help with the first part of your resurrection,’ Beau promises. Nott hisses in through her teeth; after a moment, Beau clears her throat. ‘Sorry.’

‘No, no, say how you really feel.’

‘I said I’m sorry!’

‘Alright, I think everyone could do with a minute apart. Beau—‘ Cad says, bends over her, hand on her shoulder. ‘You promised I could make you tea.’

Jester can see the way she wants to snap at him too, send him away. Sees the moment Beau gives in and lets Cad lead her to his bedroll on the edge of the dome, talk quietly with him as he brews a bitter smelling tea that makes Jester’s nose itch when she passes by later. She misses the exact moment when Beau passes out but turns when she hears her crumple, cries out when she sees Beau sprawled there and hurries back into the dome.

‘Caduceus!’

‘She’s fine,’ he tells her. Fjord nods like he’s just asked the exact same thing. ‘She’s fine, just sleeping.’

‘You knocked her out?’

A hint of nerves crawls over Caduceus’s face. ‘I—helped her sleep.’

‘Ooh, she’s going to be so mad when she wakes up,’ Jester whispers, not sure if she should be mad on Beau’s behalf or relieved.

‘Ah.’ Caduceus scratches at his hair, the point where one lock of hair is turning white. ‘Well.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.’

‘Aw, I really appreciate that. Thank you, Jester.’

Jester pats his arm. Moves Caleb’s things—who clicks his tongue and sighs—so she can lay out hers next to Cad’s bed, taken over by the fully snoring Beau.

Curled up beside her, Jester smells the faint scent of Cad’s sleeping mat—sweat and earth and growing things like sweet grass, and the bitter tang of crushed beetles. And below it, shuffling closer, she smells what she knows now is the smell of Kamordah, though she knew it first as Beau—the tang of metal and the bite of something ever so faintly sour, even as it balances against the flowery smell of jasmine. She wonders as she drifts off whether it is something that sunk into Beau and refused to shift, or if the other girl just happened to gravitate toward soaps that smelled similar. She’ll have to ask.

//

Beau wakes later, when the fire has burned down to embers and the last watch—Yasha and Nott—have slunk off to patrol just beyond the treeline. Jester wakes to the sensation of gentle, careful fingers on her tail, unwrapping it from where it is snuggly curled around Beau’s ankle. Beau’s pant leg had lifted an inch or two, bunching higher around her calf, and Jester’s tail had taken advantage, seeking out the warmth of the human’s skin and double wrapping there where the cloth has moved to reveal skin.

‘Jes, geez,’ Beau mutters to herself, struggling to get free. ‘Help a girl out,’ she hisses though not loud enough to wake Jester, if she had not been already well on her way to waking. With a sigh, and a grumble, Beau tickles Jester’s tail with blunt nails, enough to make the muscles twitch and jump and slacken. Quicker than anything else, Beau slips her foot free with a quiet sound of victory.

She staggers to her feet, hand going to her head, smacks dry lips. ‘God, Caduceus, what was in that fucking tea,’ she mutters, picking her way over curled sleeping forms.

Jester eases up onto her elbows; most of her believes Beau isn’t silly enough to make a break for it—she has left everything, including her goggles. A small part of Jester that has zero sense and only concerns itself with keeping her friend right at her side where she can see her and soothe her and protect her worries. Pushes her to sit upright.

Across the dome, Jester sees Caleb rouse as Beau crosses the threshold of the hut.

‘Hmm,’ he says.

‘I think she’s going to pee,’ Jester whispers. Brings his eyes suddenly to Jester, searching in the dark. He settles on what he thinks is Jester—pretty close for being in near complete dark, the canopy thick overhead—and nods slowly.

‘I can’t leave,’ he tells her. ‘The hut will drop.’

Jester stands. Pats his shoulder as she passes to follow Beau out. She waits just beyond the boundary of the hut, seeing how Beau has only gone a short way from them, and waves a little when Beau returns, picking her careful path across the stone-and-grass clearing.

Beau’s steps falter and then pick up. When she gets closer, Jester can see a crooked, easy smile on her face and silently thanks Caduceus for knocking Beau out.

‘I’m fine,’ Beau insists when she’s close enough to be heard. ‘You—everyone doesn’t have to worry about me.’

Jester tilts her head up to return the smile, twice as sweet. ‘I’d like to see you try and stop us.’

Beau snorts.

‘Sleeping okay?’

‘Yeah. Whatever Cad gave me was a helluva knock out.’

‘Oh, you knew?’

‘Sort of. He told me it’d help,’ Beau explains, and seems mindlessly to accept the hand Jester holds out for her as they make their way back inside. ‘I didn’t think he meant it’d knock me on my ass in two seconds flat but,’ she shrugs.

‘And everything...else?’ Jester winces, hearing the obvious sidestep in the question. Beau’s eyes cut sideways to her; somehow, they still hold nothing in them but sleepy fondness.

‘You mean with my dad.’

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s—‘ Beau shrugs. Tilts her head hard to the side in an effort to crack her neck, release a little of the tension that has built up so much in her shoulders, spine.

‘Here, let me,’ Jester offers. Pats Beau down onto the bedroll once more and sits behind her, knees pressing into the soft of Beau’s hips. It’s nice with how incredibly cut Beau is that she still has that padding on her hips, the soft layer. Jester knows it’s to protect those vital organs but she also knows that things can be more than one thing at a time, so the softness can be protective and incredibly sweet all at once.

Jester moves closer, knees pressing dimples into it, thumbs brushing and then pressing into it as well. She is rewarded with a low grunt of pleasure as Beau realises what she intends, and the other girl lets her head fall forward on her neck, opening up her back for Jester to work. She rubs and massages until some of the knots at least feel looser, less incredibly tense, and finally as she reaches the top of Beau’s back she rubs her fingers soothingly over the jade tattoo where Beau has been pressing and rubbing and pinching the skin all day.

Beau hums, the sound vibrating into Jester’s knees and hand.

‘Better?’

‘Mm. Much.’

‘Good.’

Jester drags her hands down Beau’s back, rubbing gently now with none of the pressure of a massage. She leans forward to rest her forehead against Beau’s shoulder blade. Sighs.

‘Tired?’ Beau asks.

‘Yeah.’

Beau reaches back. Scritches blunt nails lightly on Jester’s scalp, around those itchy parts of her horns. ‘Go on, go back to sleep,’ she urges.

‘Are you?’ Beau is silent for a long moment. ‘Beau?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I’ll sleep,’

‘Beau.’

‘I promise. I just—want to go over that weird ass prophecy thing again. God, he’s such a schmuck, having a fucking prophecy from a witch.’

Jester grunts unhappily. Wraps her arms around Beau from behind so she can’t reach out for her notebook. ‘In the morning, Beau.’

‘We’ll wanna head out straight away—‘

‘In the morning,’ she says again, no room for disobedience in her tone.

Beau tries anyway. ‘Just a minute—‘

‘I’m staying up for as long as you do,’ Jester tells her, changing tracks. Her accent thickens with a yawn. ‘I’m really sleepy, Beau,’ she wheedles. ‘I promise we can look at it in the morning—Cad will make us breakfast and Fjord won’t be really awake until the sun comes up, you know that. Please?’ She yawns a second time for good measure, doesn’t realise until she’s halfway through it that it’s real. She rubs her head sleepily over the sharp bone of Beau’s shoulder. Knocks her forehead against it.

The girl sighs for a long moment, all the breath pushing out of her lungs. ‘Fine. Fine.’ She can’t help but laugh when Jester nuzzles against her shoulder, giggles at Beau’s reluctant acquiescence. ‘You’re lucky you’re cute.’

She lets Jester bear her down to the ground just as they are, Jester still hugging her, and collapses with a little huff. Wriggles around until she’s comfortable, enough to make Jester release her. Beau turns on her side to face her, hand pillowed under her cheek.

‘Beau?’ Jester’s eyes trace her profile, illuminated by the faint glow of the dome.

‘Mm.’

‘Are you scared?’

Beau’s breath slows, the only sign that she had heard. Finally, she says, ‘A bit. Yeah.’ And when Jester’s cool fingers sneak under her blanket to find Beau’s, Beau holds her hand. And they sleep.

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The GGK Project, Part 1: The Fionavar Tapestry

For over a decade, I would’ve named Guy Gavriel Kay as my favorite author. And yet, I have never reviewed any of his books here. Having failed to love The Last Light of the Sun when I read it back in 2004, I think my enthusiasm for him just waned, and though I bought his subsequent novels, I hadn’t felt particularly compelled to read them. Now, though, I am determined to tackle GGK’s full bibliography, from old favorites that I’ve reread before (like my most-beloved The Lions of Al-Rassan) to one that I somehow only read the once when it came out twenty-four years ago (A Song for Arbonne) to the newer books I haven’t yet read. But I will start, as is customary, with the very beginning.

When Jordan moved in across the street from me in the late ’80s, she really did influence my life in some significant ways, not the least of which was introducing me to “GGK” through his first series, The Fionavar Tapestry. My love was deep and abiding and, because of that, I definitely had some trepidation about revisiting the trilogy. My genre preferences have evolved over the years, for one thing, and I no longer read as much fantasy as I used to. More, though, I remember this as the first series to make me cry my eyes out. Would it still have the same effect on me after all this time? As it happens, I shouldn’t have worried, because now I apparently get verklempt at the drop of a hat.

Spoilers ahead.

The Summer Tree We begin with a conference at the University of Toronto where a group of five students is invited to meet afterwards with one of the lecturers. To their surprise, he reveals himself to be a mage named Loren Silvercloak from a world called Fionavar, sent to bring guests from our world to a festival for the High King of Brennin. What he doesn’t reveal, while feeling guilty for the deception, is the fact that Brennin is in turmoil (a punishing and unnatural drought, an ailing and elderly king, the return of some nasty creatures, an evil god imprisoned under a mountain…) and that he feels they are needed there somehow.

The five quickly decide to take Loren up on his offer and the story’s scope widens considerably once they arrive in Fionavar. In addition to meeting one of my favorite fictional characters ever, seemingly frivolous Prince Diarmuid (more on him later), the Canadians are swiftly swept up in events, changed by their experiences as they discover individual destinies even Loren had no inkling of.

Perceptive Kimberly Ford, for example, becomes the new Seer of Brennin, inheriting the knowledge of her predecessor and destined to be the one to call “The Warrior.” Witty Kevin Laine is accepted as part of Diarmuid’s band of men, though there is more to come for him down the road. Paul Schafer is grappling with tremendous guilt after surviving a car accident that killed the woman he loved, yet an experience in Fionavar allows him to finally see that it wasn’t his fault. Emotionally guarded Dave Martyniuk finds a place he belongs among the Dalrei, the nomadic hunters of the plains, and begins to open up to friendship. And Jennifer Lowell, proud and reserved, yet not unkind, is captured by the evil god (Rakoth Maugrim) and mentally and physically violated before Kimberly is able to rescue her.

I admit Jennifer’s fate does trouble me a little. Of the five, she probably receives the least attention in this first installment before undergoing a terrible ordeal at the end. Rakoth has already issued a dramatic proclamation of his freedom and war is at hand by the time her friends learn of her fate, so it’s not as though her rape is solely responsible for spurring them into action, but they are extra motivated because of it. I do still think, though, that this plotline is ultimately about Jennifer and the choices she will make going forward.

Lastly, I’ll note that Guy Gavriel Kay’s writing style might not be for everyone. Occasionally it can be portentous, namedropping legendary figures, and maybe a little too poetic at times, but overall I still love the wistful, languid, and bittersweet feeling of his prose. There’s so much emphasis on what events mean to the characters that I got sniffly over and over again. (I found Dave’s arc especially moving.) At this rate, I will be a puddle by the third book!

The Wandering Fire Although there are many important things that happen in The Wandering Fire, I think what I like best is the continuing character development for the five Canadians. This time, it’s Kim whom we don’t see very much of, and that’s honestly fine by me, since she had so much of the focus the first time around. We spend a lot of time with Paul, whose survival of the summer tree has given him the ability to compel the lesser gods of Fionavar, and with Dave and Jennifer, too. (And I am indeed happy to report that she ends the volume much stronger for having endured all that she has been through.) But shining above all of them is Kevin.

After Kim brought them home at the end of The Summer Tree and everyone saw what had been done to Jennifer, Kevin declared, “To this I will make reply, although he be a god and it mean my death.” When they returned to Fionavar, however, and he saw how effective Dave was in battle, how everyone else had something to contribute, he felt terribly useless and bitterly derided himself for his proclamation. And then he accompanies a group on a journey to the territory of Dana, the goddess, to try to discover how Rakoth Maugrim has caused the unnatural winter that plagues Fionavar. There, he awakens to his fate as Liadon, lover and sacrifice to the goddess. It is fitting that when Paul went willingly to the tree, he needed to properly grieve the loss of the woman he had loved, and thus brought rain, and now bright and warm Kevin is the one responsible for bringing spring. It’s not his death that makes me sniffle, but the fact that he found the thing he was meant to do, and struck an enormous blow against the dark in the process. He was very far from useless.

So, too, do I love the reactions of the others to what has happened to Kevin, especially Dave, who mourns Kevin, with whom he never got along in school, to a degree that surprises him. I like to think his grief was colored with regret for so much time wasted when they could’ve been friends. My one complaint, though, is that we never see inside Diarmuid’s head. He liked Kevin, and we can tell he is upset, but we are not privy to his thoughts, nor indeed to the love he evidently discovered he feels toward Sharra, to whom he proposes. Every time Diarmuid does something brilliant and brave, which is often, my heart swells a bit with love of him, but he still remains somewhat of an enigma. The same is true for his brother Aileron, actually. For the most part, we follow the points of view of outsiders.

There’s more sorrow yet to come in the final volume, and I must ready myself to face it.

The Darkest Road

In this concluding volume of the trilogy, the armies of the Light and the Dark have their final confrontation. Our heroes taste defeat, bittersweet victory, loss, glory, and pain. I am pretty sure this was the first book to ever make me cry my eyes out over a beloved character’s death, and it did so again this time. Hiding his serious hatred of the Dark under a flippant facade, Diarmuid is the first of two characters to willingly sustain a killing blow in order to deliver one. The way Kay describes this scene playing out is so cinematic, I’m left desperately hoping this’ll be the next fantasy epic to be adapted for television.

Contrasting Diarmuid’s end, where he passes surrounded by loved ones and is given a proper farewell (another vivid image is Aileron, devasted by grief, cradling his brother’s body to his chest as he carries him from the field of battle), poor Darien dies alone and uncomforted in Maugrim’s crumbling fortress, never knowing whether anyone will know what he achieved. Thankfully, they do know and the bravery of his deeds and the choice he made is celebrated in song.

Revisiting this series as an older, more attentive, reader has been an interesting experience. Only at the very, very last do we get a glimpse inside Diarmuid’s head. I doubt younger me even noticed that. Nor, I think, did I notice that alongside the three central Arthurian figures reliving their fate, another takes the part of the Lady of Shalott. Lastly, and most significantly, I have a greater appreciation for the statement Kay is making about free will. Obviously, the roles some characters play are tied to destiny, but the importance of Darien’s freedom to choose between the Light and the Dark is repeatedly emphasized, Paul chose to take the king’s place on the summer tree, Jennifer chose to have Darien and refuses to attempt to influence his decision, Diarmuid chooses to take on an impossible foe, Kim chooses not to conscript an ancient power that would surely have been an advantage, and more. I hope that I will find more to love about Kay’s other works—maybe I’ll even like The Last Light of the Sun more next time!

Stay tuned.

By: Michelle Smith