#and i respect em so much for it. one of the apprentice managers told me he has massive respect bc i dont show struggle at work

[angrylizardjacket]

dirtbags // 2: Lola

Summary: High school AU, 1984, Winter. It’s hard to make friends when you’re the new kid starting halfway through Junior year, but slowly Lola seems to be making a few. It’s much easier to have a rumour started about you, especially when you tend to make questionable choices at parties, but that’s much less fun.

A/N: 8173 words. Lola’s dad is the MVP, trust me. i meant to put this out a week ago whoops!! also im allowed to reference my own Queen oc as a treat. @bluehourmotel, @misscharlottelee and again, interludes are A Softer World quotes.

[ m a s t e r p o s t ]

the best revenge is living well. the second best revenge is fire ants.

The fact that after being in town for a total of two weeks, Lola’s closest friend is the gas station attendant a full fifteen minute drive away from her house is kind of sad. Not that she’s disappointed to be Mick’s friend, he’s got a dry sense of humor but a good heart and he’s refreshing honesty, but she’s been at this new school for about a week and a half, has already made out with at least one person, has possibly convinced said-person’s cousin that she’s trying to corrupt him, and started to make a name for herself - whether it’s good or bad is yet to be seen -, and yet Mick Mars, nineteen-year-old gas station attendant, apprentice electrician, and aspiring guitar player is her closest friend. 

But she’s always been kind of terrible at making friends her own age.

“You have lost all respect from me,” Mick told her on Monday morning after the party, over the counter of the gas station as he’s ringing her up for her smokes and iced coffee before she went to school, “you could have picked anyone to mack on at that party, and you chose Tommy fuckin’ Lee?”

“He was nice to me, what was I meant to do?” Lola declared, realizing too late that that statement revealed absolutely too much about herself to a near stranger. Mick, however, just gives her a flat look.

“You need higher standards.” He doesn’t seem too phased by her. Lola takes this in stride, and nods, agreeing with a sigh. 

“What time do you finish work?” She asks, changing the subjects quickly as she’s pulling out a bill from her back pocket, “dad said he’s happy to let you have a look at that weird light switch that doesn’t do anything that I was telling you about.” 

“I finish at ten tonight, I’m working a double,” he groans at the very thought of it. Lola gives him a sympathetic look, and tells him to only come around if he’s up to it, otherwise leaving it for another day.

That’s the day that Lola realises the whole school knows about her and Tommy at the party, that she has Art with Charlotte before lunch, and also that Charlotte can’t look her in the eye.

Tuesday the school realises that she’s not just Lola Who Gives It Up For Free At Parties, but that she’s Lola The New Girl and that they don’t know anything about her beyond that. There’s a guy in her wood working class with long black hair and a dangerous smile that winks at her; she flips him off, knowing all he cared about was knowing if the rumours were true. She’s got AP French last period with that ginger from the party who wouldn’t stop laughing, Eileen; she’s a lot more serious, sober. The cheerleader, Heather, won’t stop giving her these weird, calculating looks.

Wednesday there’s a new rumour, that she was expelled from her last school. The population of the school hasn’t decided what exactly they think she was expelled for yet. Turns out she has English with that guy from her woodworking class, he just hadn’t turned up for their lesson on Monday; he sits at the back like Lola, in the other corner, and the teacher calls him Nikki in a tone like she’s already disappointed. Lola can see why, he fell asleep at his desk. Art last period with Charlotte; she still barely looks at Lola. 

Thursday. Heather asks in AP French if Lola’s heard what everyone’s saying about her; her tone is sweet and dangerous in equal measure and Lola doesn’t trust what’s about to come out of her mouth. The new rumour is that Lola was expelled for sleeping with a teacher; something about the glint in Heather’s eye is cruel, and Lola asks her sweetly if she’s more jealous of Lola or the teacher. That shuts Heather up fast, and Eileen’s cough behind them sounds more like she’s trying to hide a laugh. But it still gets to her; Lola focuses so hard on ignoring the girls gossiping loudly about her at their station behind her in Home Economics that she burns the apple danishes she was attempting, and she throws the burnt pastries, and the tray they’d been cooking on, into the bin until she realises her mistake and sulkily fishes the tray out again. Thankfully, the teacher didn’t notice.

Friday, and Lola hasn’t paid much attention to Vince, whose house she’s been to but who she hadn’t properly met until their classes had P.E at the same time; he’s in the year below her, but still manages to sidle up to her while they’re both waiting for their teachers to prepare the field for whatever torture they’re masquerading as physical exercise today. She tells him to fuck off; there’s something about the way he conducts himself that she doesn’t like, like he’s putting on a show of being shallow and vain and the life of the party. Instead, Vince’s voice goes quiet and he tells her that Tommy’s a good kid with a good heart -

“You give this speech to everyone you caught making out at your parties, or just me, ‘cos you think I’m a bitch and I’m gonna hurt one of ‘your bros’?” She snapped, lip curling, and Vince’s brow creases into a frown, “I’m not his fucking girlfriend, we made out a little, you don’t have to act like I’m going to break his heart, so piss off.”

A moment passes, and he appears to don his shallow, playboy mask when he asks her slyly if the rumours are true. She shoves him hard enough that he skitters back a few feet, and Lola earns her first after school detention.

The thing is, she and Tommy are already on the same page about this, it was a what happens while drunk at a party stays at that party. Or at least, it’s meant to. Either way, Charlotte’s protectiveness, and Vince’s... attempt at protectiveness was unwarranted. Maybe it’s because Tommy, for whatever reason, has started hanging around Lola at lunch.

She doesn’t sit in the cafeteria like the rest of them, or even on that little section of the roof the intimidating pack of punks, rockers, and smokers have found a way to get to. Lola sits against the fence near the science building, close to the carpark that’s always open for some stupid reason, as though she’s contemplating bolting.

“Don’t you have friends?” Lola’s tone is kind of hard, and perhaps her words are on the nose, and a little cruel, but it’s Wednesday, and this is the third day in a row he’s found her and spent the entirety of lunch with her. They don’t speak much, Lola smokes and picks apart whatever her dad’s latest cooking experiment is before she eats it, and Tommy practices twirling his drumsticks. 

“I have friends, do you?” Tommy responds, more than a little defensive, rubbing at his brow where he’d just managed to hit himself mid-drumstick-twirl, taken aback by her question. Lola gives him a flat look. “Someone told me you were expelled from your last school,” Tommy’s gaze shifts to the carpark, to the last car and it’s telltale rocking and fogged up windows.

“They say why?”

“Nah,” Tommy shakes his head, scowl softening as he gets back to practicing, “it true?” Lola’s picking out and eating the apple chunks from the slice of pie her father had packed for the day, still watching the car with the mildest of interest. She shakes her head. Tommy hums noncommittally. They spend the rest of lunch in silence.

“He keeps hanging out with me!” The following afternoon, Lola gripes to Mick on his smoke break after she gets out of school for the afternoon.

“You keep hanging out with me,” Mick points out, peeling the label off of a bottle of soda.

“And?”

“I don’t tell you to fuck off.”

“Yeah? So?”

“Because,” and Mick heaves a heavy sigh, like it pains him to admit, “we’re friends, Lola,” but he pauses and amends, “God knows why.”

“Fuck you, I’m a delight,” Lola huffs, and pulls her oversized denim jacket tighter around herself to ward off the chill of the afternoon breeze. If this were pretty much any other state, they’d be knee-deep in snow; thank God for LA, snow’s pretty for five minutes before it’s a pain.

“Do you tell him to fuck off?” Mick asks pointedly, as if exhausted that he has to spell it out for her. Lola’s quiet, but her answer’s clear. Mick clears his throat with a cough. Lola’s scowl deepens. 

She brings it up to her father that night. 

“Do you reckon Tommy’s trying to be my friend?” She asked, gaze intense as she focuses on slicing apples into little cubes. Leo, her father, who was kneeding a blend of spices into a ball of dough that would end up being a pie crust, paused.

“The kid who has been hanging out with you at lunch?” He thought for a moment, “the one from the party?”

“I told him it was nothing serious-” Lola tried, exasperatedly cutting the apples a little rougher, but her father’s warm, gentle laugh cut her off.

“Yes, I think he’s trying to be your friend,” he told her, which Lola hadn’t exactly wanted to hear, but the information was easier to digest coming from him than it was coming from Mick, “he obviously likes you -”

“But I told him -”

“I know, you told him it wasn’t serious, but dear, that doesn’t mean he likes you less as a person - you’re a very cool cat, I can see why he’d want to be your friend,” he gives her finger guns, and Lola can’t help but laugh softly at his attempt to be hip. 

“Christ, dad,” Lola huffs, smiling fondly, but he’d managed to cheer her spirits considerably. 

“I burnt my danishes today,” Lola’s voice goes quiet as she goes back to focusing on her task, and her dad makes a noise of intrigue, “got distracted and crisped the whole tray.”

“You’ll get ‘em next time; just fifteen minutes, remember?”

“Fifteen minutes, no distractions,” Lola agreed, almost by rote, thankful that he doesn’t ask about what had distracted her. She can still hear the whispered gossip and giggles that had come from the cooking station behind her in Home Economics.

Her dad knows that her peers think she was expelled from her last school, but she keeps her mouth shut about the fact that today they’d decided it was because she had relations with a teacher; he knows almost everything about her, but he didn’t need to know about a whole school calling her a slut. He’d blow it out of proportion, and it isn’t getting to her since she knew for a fact it wasn’t true. 

They finish the apple pie with it’s rosemary and lemongrass crust in good spirits. The flavours don’t go together as well as Leo had hoped, but it’s another step closer to the perfect apple pie he’d been trying for. Leo packs her two of the leftover slices for lunch, as a not-so-subtle hint. 

On Friday, Lola hands Tommy a plastic container with a piece of apple pie, with a rosemary and lemongrass crust in it.

“Is it poison?” He asks. Lola doesn’t look at him, picking the individual apple pieces out and eating them one at a time.

“The crust tastes weird if you eat it with the filling,” Lola’s voice is flat as she explains instead of answering, “but the apples are sweet.” She eats another cube of apple, then breaks off a corner of the golden, perfectly cooked crust, now cold and stiff from spending the night in the refrigerator. 

“Why are you giving me this?” 

“Eat it or don’t, I don’t care,” Lola tells him, hunching further in on herself; like this, she can’t see the way Tommy’s expression has broken out into a smile.

“Thanks Lola,” but the smile is evident in his voice, confirming all of her suspicions at once. Tommy took her at her word when she said the rumours weren’t true, even if the rest of the school believed them, so Lola supposes she’s actually okay with the fact that her second ever friend in the entirety of California is the marching band geek in the year below her who she made out with at a party once. 

Also maybe she’s just kind of terrible at making friends.

you and me baby! we are the future! and the future is bleak.

“Wait, you’ve never met Nikki Sixx?” Tommy asked, sitting patiently with his back against the fence, his hand resting on her knee as she fills in the the nails of his left hand with black sharpie, “didn’t you go to his gig the other week?”

“I didn’t know anyone,” Lola pointed out, and Tommy makes a thoughtful noise.

“You’d love him, he’s so fucking cool,” he assured her, which made Lola give pause; Tommy also thinks Vince is fucking cool, and she wants to throw Vince out a window, “he was the one on bass.” 

“The one in the leather pants?” Lola couldn’t help but smile at the memory; she’d appreciated it at the time, and could appreciate it now. Tommy, however, rolled his eyes.

“The girls love the leather pants,” he gave a quiet sigh, before adding, almost to himself, “wish I had leather pants.” 

“Leather pants would look good on you,” Lola pinches at his thigh for a moment, and goes back to filling in his nails. missing Tommy’s pleased, flustered little smile. 

“You know Freddie paints his nails like this,” Tommy says instead, changing the topic of conversation.

“Freddie?”

“Mercury. From Queen; you know Queen, right?” And he sounds kind of skeptical, like if she doesn’t know them, they can’t be friends anymore. Lola pauses again, her hand soft on Tommy’s where she’s filling in around his ring finger’s cuticle.

“I wanna climb John Deacon like a fucking tree,” she mutters, which startles a laugh out of Tommy, his hand jerking up to cover his mouth, making Lola leave a black line against his knee, through the rip in his jeans. When she looks up at him, however, her eyes are shining with mirth, “come on, man, you must have seen the video of them performing in Montreal last year!” And she licks her lips, watching Tommy’s blush grow steadily darker. After a beat, Lola bursts out laughing, shattering the tension and shifting to sit beside him, idly doodling on her own hand with the marker as Tommy shakes his head with amusement.

Lola starts humming Back Chat to herself, and Tommy leans his head back against the wire of the fence, listening for a moment.

“You and Charlie would get along great too,” he considers, and Lola doesn’t stop humming, nor does she look to him, “she likes Roger, but probably just because she thinks he’s pretty.” Lola can hear his eyeroll without even seeing it, and she’s not sure why, but she files that information away in the back of her mind; she’d never gotten an especially shallow vibe from Charlotte, but there was a uncertain undeniable appeal to Roger Taylor’s pretty-boy charm.

“Didn’t his girlfriend leave him for Bowie?” Lola asks mildly, barely pausing to speak between humming notes.

“Rocket Mercury?”

“Her name’s Rocket?” Lola snorts, finally looking at him, and Tommy’s lips twisted into an amused grin. 

“Her name’s Ash, but everyone calls her Rocket,” he says, like he’s in the know, and Lola stays quiet, nodding and trying not to laugh, “and yeah, I think so, she’s been with a few people since him I think; Bowie, this girl from this English band Hawkwind, Elton John maybe? Or someone around him I think.” Tommy nods, and Lola’s kind of intrigued as to why he knows so much about Queen’s drummer’s partner, but something else has caught her attention.

“A girl from Hawkwind?” Tommy doesn’t seem to notice the way Lola’s voice has softened, or how her expression has dropped to something carefully neutral. She’s drawing a little flower on the knuckle of her thumb.

“One of their dancers, Stacy, maybe?” Tommy’s own tone is light, like he doesn’t even realise Lola’s hanging onto his every word regarding this one little detail about a woman she doesn’t even know, “was kind of a scandal, but it was years ago; she’s Freddie’s sister after all, maybe it’s genetic.”

“Genetic?”

“Liking girls and guys, you know?” And he pauses. Lola’s frozen beside him, the marker pressed hard against her skin, breath caught in her throat. He throws it out so casually, so easily. Her hands are shaking. The words so kind when he says them, so unlike what she’s used to hearing. Tommy’s already moved on to the next thought. “actually, I’m not sure if Freddie’s like, legit her brother, but anyways, she and Roger are back together; I’m glad.” As if a sixteen-year-old’s opinion on a rock legend’s love life mattered, “he seems happier with her, all his best live shows were when they were together.”

“I’d kill to play half as well as him,” it’s almost wistful when Tommy says it, interrupting Lola’s thoughts, his gaze trained on the sky, as if imagining he’s on stage himself. Lola lets out a long, quiet breath, recentering herself as she looks to him.

“You wanna play drums?” 

“I can play drums,” Tommy tells her like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “but not nearly as good as Roger Fucking Taylor, can you imagine?” But Lola’s more focused on the -

“I thought you just played in the marching band, can you play, like, full -” and she sits forward, gesturing like she’s tapping on a full drumkit, eyes shinning. Suddenly, in the face of her rare, unrestrained smile, Tommy feels himself growing nervous, like he’ll let her down if he’s not actually as good as he thinks he is.

“I’ve got a kit in my garage,” he admits, and Lola pauses, letting her excitement simmer, as though realising it had gotten the best of her, breaking her cool and aloof facade.

“That’s cool as hell,” she does add, however, and Tommy beams.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, all flustered at even the slightest praise, “man, you’d really like Charlie, I know she looks all fancy and intimidating, but she’s a real softie inside.”

“You are really pushing hard for me to be friends with your cousin,” Lola notes, giving him a sidelong glance, and Tommy’s nose scrunches up, caught out.

“She thinks you’re trying to corrupt me,” he grumbles, “but if you guys met she’d know you’re not.”

“I am corrupting you,” Lola smirks, “next week I plan on peer pressuring you into smoking.”

“I’ve smoked before!” Tommy’s up in arms, like the implication that he hasn’t done something as low-level cool as smoking offends him.

“Dude I was kidding, I gave you half my cigarette yesterday,” Lola reminds him, and the bell rings.

While Lola was more than happy to let sleeping dogs lie, it appeared that Charlotte was not, and less than two days after her conversation with Tommy, Lola finds herself sitting by Charlotte’s side in their shared art class.

It’s the last class of the day, and Charlotte’s the one who sits by Lola. There’s no preamble, barely acknowledging the decision, just opening her notebook and focusing on the theory the teacher had already started to jot down on the whiteboard.

When they’re given free time, however, to work on personal projects, Charlotte opens her sketchbook and sharpens her pencil, and without looking at Lola, begins speaking quietly.

“Tommy thinks we’d get along,” Charlotte sounds completely innocent and perfectly harmless, but Lola remember how Charlotte had looked at her, part deer-in-the-headlights startled at the realisation, and knee-jerk protective fury, at Vince’s party when she realised who Lola had been kissing. 

“So I’ve heard,” Lola doesn’t look up, but Charlotte’s pencil stills on her paper. After a beat, Lola turns to see Charlotte giving her a curious look. Propping her head up on her hand, Lola gives a thin, amused smile, “he also thinks I’d be good friends with Nikki Sixx; was he the one you yelled at, at the gig?”

Instead of being flustered or going red at the mention of the moment, Charlotte’s expression lights up, as if the idea somehow delights her, and slowly she’s nodding. All her earlier reservations and hostility was quickly leaving her.

“Yeah, actually I told Nikki you reminded me of him, actually -”

“I remind you of Nikki?” Lola’s grin widened, and she shifted to face Charlotte further. 

“He’s kind of a tool -” Charlotte blurted after a moment of contemplation, and Lola’s eyebrows raised in amused surprise. Charlotte’s quick to backtrack, “I mean, I’m not saying you are- well, I don’t know you, but I mean, Tommy -” Charlotte frowns at that, expression falling as she considered quietly, “actually, I mean, I love him, but he’s not the greatest judge of character; he thinks Nikki hangs the stars, despite never really speaking to him,” she pauses and heaves a sigh of realisation, “that probably why he thinks so highly of him -”

“I thought they were friends,” Lola’s genuinely surprised, given how kindly Tommy had spoken of him.

“Half the school is terrified of Nikki, half seems to be in love with him; Tommy’s in the second half.”

“And which half are you?”

“I’m the only person who seems to think he’s just kind of a pest,” Charlotte’s response is surprisingly mild, as if she doesn’t quite believe what she’s saying.

“He’s talented, though,” Lola offers, and Charlotte looks back to her, as if brought from her own thoughts. There’s a pause, a lull. Lola puts down her pen, and turns more fully to Charlotte, stretching her arm out over the desk, and resting her head fully on it, like a particularly smug cat stretching out in the sun. Charlotte is slower to put down her pencil, but does so after another moment, pristine fingernails drumming against her sketchbook for a moment. 

“He was talented,” Charlotte agreed, thought it sounds like she doesn’t quite want to, “my ex actually got me into his kind of music, he was a fan of Nikki’s too; I’d tell Nikki I enjoy his music but it’d go straight to his ego,” and she casts Lola a sidelong look, lips stretched into a smirk, which Lola returns. 

“I am a little bit of a tool,” Lola finally admits with a self deprecating grin, and Charlotte shakes her head.

“You’d fucking love him,” Charlotte tells her, with a strained, sort of resigned huff of laughter, like the concept of them meeting was a little bit horrifying, and already exhausting.

“You like his kind of music,” Lola circled back around to quickly, “never pictured you as a hard rocker, you’re very...” and she trails down, looking at Charlotte’s pristine cheerleading uniform, and thick, black tights, the only thing protecting her legs from the Winter air. The blonde shifts a little uncomfortably under the scrutiny, brow furrowing.

“I know,” Charlotte says flatly, crossing her ankles, far too self aware in the moment, “you expect me to just be listening to nothing but Abba and Madonna all day?” She sneers, suddenly haughty again, and Lola licks her lips, intrigued; she can tell she’s pushed a button, and debates for a moment if she wants to press it further. 

“Not all the time,” Lola said, sitting back up slowly, “but I mean, I’m kind of partial to Does Your Mother Know, there’s no shame in loving Abba,” she shrugs, and Charlotte lets herself visibly relax. 

“Never pictured you as an Abba fan,” Charlotte actually grins.

There’s a distinct lack of hostility in the air between the two girls by the time the class ends, after spending the entire class gushing over various bands across a surprising range of genres, and Lola quickly finds she appreciates how wrong her initial impression of Charlotte had been.

As they’re leaving for the day, or well, Lola’s leaving, and Charlotte’s heading to cheer practice, the conversation lulls as Charlotte grows thoughtful.

“Hey, just... Tommy’s kind of a hopeless romantic,” and even as she speaks, she knows Lola’s growing irate at Charlotte’s hesitant tone, “and honestly, the girls he goes for usually don’t... they don’t usually give him the time of day, and he obviously thinks the world of you, I just don’t want you to -”

“I’ve told him that I don’t want to date him; he’s the one who keeps hanging around me,” Lola’s own tone appears to surprise Charlotte, now that she understands the root of the other girl’s protectiveness, “we’re...” and the word catches in Lola’s throat for a moment, knowing that speaking it makes it true, “friends.” 

Lola glances at Charlotte out the corner of her eye, and sees the way Charlotte’s lips twist into a pleased little smirk.

“I was just making sure.”

love is stupid. happiness is admitting we aren’t better than stupid.

Leo Fields, thirty-nine years old, owner of soon-to-be-named Leo Diner’s in suburban LA, a graduate of the Culinary Institute of America, who worked in the luxurious Parker House restaurant in Boston and quit after ten years there, including three years as Sous Chef and one year as Head Chef, only to open his own 50s style diner a mere ten minutes away in Salem, has and will always claim his favourite food is Easy Cheese.

Once, a long time ago, Lola had asked him why.

She’s asked him a lot of things, why he’d left his high-end restaurant to essentially flip burgers, why he kept his hair long, what his tattoos meant -

Lola’s eight, sitting on the counter and swinging her legs while Leo was crushing garlic to add to their dinner, his hair tied back into a large bun atop his head.

“People will try and tell you that just because something is expensive, fancy, or higher class,” Leo had rolled his eyes exaggeratedly at that, putting on a voice to make his daughter laugh, “that it’s better; they are wrong. If something brings you joy, it is better than all things that do not bring you joy, no matter how fancy the things you don’t like are,” he’d told her very seriously, “better is not real, better is what you believe; better for you means healthier, and that’s real, but when people use better to mean good, they mean that it’s good in their mind, and maybe you agree, but maybe you won’t.” And he scrapes the garlic into the pan and oil cooking on low as he then began dicing onions.

“I use all my fancy training and knowledge to make foods I think are better, but now I get to also serve them with a smile, and I get to talk to the people I’m giving the food to, get to know them, let them know they’re welcome here,” he tries to smile while his eyes are watering from the onions, almost finished cutting them. “People in my old fancy restaurant didn’t want that, they wanted you to think they were better than you, and if you thought their food wasn’t good, that’s because you’re not fancy enough, and you’re not welcome here.” 

“But that’s wrong,” Lola said with a slight frown, looking to her father for confirmation, and after he wiped his eyes with the back of his hands, he beamed.

“Exactly,” he nodded and scraped the diced onions into the pan too, moving easily about the kitchen to pull mince from the refrigerator, “people liking something different to you is actually great; if everyone in the world liked Easy Cheese, we’d never be able to buy it!” And Lola laughed at that, the example making it easy for her to understand his point, “but making them feel bad for liking those things, that’s bad; that’s why I have my hair long, why I have my tattoos, they’re part of who I am, they’re part of my family’s history and where I come from, and I like them. If someone else is rude to me because of them, then I know right away that’s not someone I want in my life. People like to think they’re better than other people for stupid reasons sometimes.”

“Like if they’re fancy or not?” Lola asks, and Leo gives her a fond smile and nod.

“Like if they’re fancy or not.”

Leo’s not sure if Lola even remembers this, but he does. So when Lola, seventeen years old, standing in the kitchen, eating a ham and Easy Cheese sandwich after school, tells him that Charlotte, the girl in her art class, Tommy-from-the-party’s cousin, complimented her jacket, the pin-and-patch-covered, black, denim, proto-crust-punk, heirloom he’d loaned to her since she’d asked to wear it when starting a new school, and had barely gone a day without it, he can read into her smile even when it’s hidden behind her sandwich.

“Sounds like she has good taste,” Leo leans his hip against the counter top, legs feeling the warmth of the oven where he’s got a loaf of herb and garlic bread baking away. 

Lola spends a full twenty minutes enthusing about Charlotte’s taste in music, eyes bright and tone animated. He only interrupts her to hand her a packet of prosciutto and a bundle of asparagus, so she could help him prepare for dinner, but it doesn’t slow her down, hands working quickly, while Leo boiled potatoes and simmered some garlic in butter on a low heat. 

Both Lola and Leo know why Lola’s been so hesitant to make friends since moving, and she knows he’d never push her into friendship, but Lola also knows it hurts him to see her lonely.

“Hey dad, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Lola says after a long pause, finally taking a breath after she’s finished recounting her day to him, “you know Queen, right?”

“Do I know Queen?” Leo jokingly scoffed, “Lola, I’m the one who introduced you to Queen.” He reminded, and Lola gave a small smile, but her heart wasn’t in it; she wasn’t usually nervous, but talking about this sort of thing still made her heart race a little. Seeing her hesitant expression, Leo’s own softens, and he turns down the potatoes to turn his full attention to her, “what about Queen?”

“I didn’t know Freddie’s sister was with the drummer,” Lola starts, fiddling with the final piece of asparagus. She’s quick to follow it up before she can chicken out, “and I didn’t know... she’s like Bowie, and Fred, and... and me, you know?” Lola finally wraps up the final vegetable and places it on the glass baking tray with the rest, before she looks to her father who was watching her pensively, hoping he understands what she’s trying to say.

“That’s little Rocket Mercury you’re talking about, isn’t it?” He asked as a smile stretched across his lips, “I heard that about her, I always thought she was so cool, she worked on Spinal Tap, you remember I took you to see Spinal Tap a few months ago?” 

Lola’s heart eases in her chest at his words, his warmth, the way he seems to reflect positively on the news. While Lola knew she didn’t have anything to worry about, since the whole reason Leo had taken her and moved across the country was her mother’s less-than-kind reaction to the news of Lola dating a girl, the memory of it all still made her nervous.

Leo’s entire face lights up, and he makes a loud exclamation, like suddenly remembering some vital information, snapping Lola out of her dwelling.

“How have I never played you any Dusty Springfield?” He announces, picking up the glass tray from the table and placing it to the side, “I’ve got some of her records in my collection,” the oven timer goes off and he asks Lola to watch the potatoes so they don’t overboil while he takes out the bread and puts the asparagus in, “Dusty’s like you too; she’s a pop-star from the sixties, lovely voice, told the Evening Standard she liked girls and boys all the way back in nineteen-seventy.” He says as he sets the timer for the asparagus, and Lola wraps her arms around him from behind, if only to hide how wide she’s smiling.

“She pretty?” Lola asked, grinning against his soft, woolen sweater. Leo gently pet her hands where they were wrapped around his middle, giving a warm laugh.

“Very; it’s no wonder girls and boys liked her too.”

Lola had never seen her father flinch in the face of change, and for that she would always be grateful for him. The only time she’d ever seen him lose his cool was when he’d come to her defense against her mother’s bigotted views; apart from that, she’d never known anyone more willing to go with the flow.

Take last week, for instance, Mick had taken Saturday off from the gas station to go look at the fixture Lola had mentioned not seemingly connected to anything. Leo had finally had the red and white, checkered floor installed earlier that week, and the booths had been reupholstered over Thursday and Friday in a shiny, inviting, deep peach, to compliment the warm aesthetic completed by the pleasantly sunny walls. 

One of the many things about Lola is that she know when people look at her father, they never expect him to be the embodiment of sunshine; six-foot-something, built like a tank from doing a majority of the manual labor around his diners on his own. His traditional, Hawaiian tattoos were on full display today, across his chest, arms, and legs, wearing a singlet and shorts despite it being the middle of winter, after spending all morning hauling an industrial freezer into the kitchen, with what little help Lola could offer. He wears his long, wavy black hair in a ponytail down his back; the only thing that ever betrayed the warmth of his personality was the crows feet by his eyes, the laugh lines around his mouth, and the kindness in his eyes themselves.

Leo Fields, teddy-bear in the body of a GI Joe, took one look at Mick Mars, the weary, rather scrawny teenager with barely any face visible for his long, shaggy, dyed black hair, and gave him a bright smile, ushering him inside. He introduces himself, and immediate asks what kind of music Mick listened to.

“I fucking hate Kiss,” Mick had said immediately, knee-jerk hostility, the way he was shifting his weight from one foot to the other being the only giveaway to how intimidated he felt.

“They can be a lot some times,” Leo had shrugged, gesturing to the jukebox, “I’ve already put a few of my favourites in, you wanna see if anything catches your eye?” Mick moves quietly, as if afraid to make a noise, even stepping in combat boots he barely makes a sound, and Leo makes mention that he’s going to freshen up, and that Lola knows what switch needs to be looked at. 

“Hendrix?” Mick says with a hint of pleased surprise, right before Leo leaves, and Lola’s father gives a nod.

“Put it on, man, turn it up loud; it’s Electric Ladyland in there, right?” And at Leo’s question, Mick nods. Leo gives a delighted thumbs up, and heads upstairs to the flat above the diner.

“That’s your dad?” Mick asks, voice low after Leo’s disappeared, hitting play on the Jimi Hendrix record. Lola’s sitting on the counter, swinging her legs; she knows looks like him, same face, same long, dark hair, same copper complexion, it’s usually the staggering difference in their respective physicalities that seemed to trip people up, so his confusion wasn’t a surprise.

“That’s my dad,” Lola agrees, with a slight nod, looking around the warm and inviting diner that still smelled like new vinyl from the seats. She’d light a candle or two later. 

Lola knows the rumours going around town about the diner, about how it’s owner was a chef, about how it’s hopefully going to serve better food than the last owners, but also how everyone knew very little about the new owner beyond that. It made her giddy, like she had a secret, to know that her father was capable of blowing their expectations out of the water with his food alone. Back in Salem, Leo’s was known for restaurant-quality food at, well, diner prices. All the fries were hand cut, there was always home made pie or slice or cookies on sale, the beef patties were made with real mince and mixed with Leo’s special blend of herbs and spices, and fish was delivered fresh, daily. 

Lola knew her father knew what it was like to be discriminated against based on his looks, and how hard he’d fought to prove his skills as a chef, so in turn, he hired based on attitude and experience, and trying to give those who may not have had a fair shot an opportunity. Leo had always paid well, treated his workers with kindness, and tried to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. The diner had only ever made a modest profit, despite it’s popularity, but it had never been about the money for her father.

Back at Lola’s old high school, if you were popular, you looked for a job at the mall, but if you were an outcast, a loner, or a stoner, you applied for Leo’s; her dad had the ability to bring out the best in people, no-one wanted to disappoint Leo.

Her dad would never go anything as gauche as brag, but he has always prided himself on the quality of his diner and his food, glad to be putting his years of training and experience to use for people who’s appreciate it. 

Mick clears his throat, snapping Lola out of her thoughts.

“Light switch?”

Mick thinks the switch probably connected to an exhaust fan the previous owner had removed, which baffled both Lola and Leo, seeing as how they’d had several exhaust fans installed, and the idea that this place had it’s one removed is unthinkable; how had they ever gotten the smell out?

After, Leo invites Mick up to have a look through his record collection, to recommend some for the jukebox, while he attempted a maple and walnut soufflé. 

The moment Mick mentions he wants to join a band, Leo lights up, peppers him with questions, what type of music he likes to play, his influences, what type of band he’d like to form. Seemingly unused to the overwhelming interest and positivity regarding his aspirations, Mick is almost startled into being forthcoming, and quickly warms to Lola’s dad.

While the soufflé’s in the oven, the three of them sit on the roof and smoke, while Leo reminisces about seeing Cream live, a few months after Lola was born, and how he’d swaddled her in his concert shirt, only for her to take a liking to it, and had used it as a blanket up until she started daycare. At hearing this, Lola ducks her head to hide her smile, knowing she still had that shirt, though it was more hole than shirt at this point, hanging in her cupboard. 

Occasionally, when she looks to him, Lola sees Mick regarding her with confusion, and okay, maybe she can understand why; he knows her to be reserved and dry, but with Leo, she’s outgoing and talkative and smiles so wide he can see her teeth. There’s barely a hint of her aloof façade around her father, and as Mick spends more time with him, it’s clear he can see why.

“Mick’s cool,” Leo announces with a grin when Mick himself has left, putting foil over the leftover soufflé for later, while Lola washes the few dishes and is more than happy to agree with him.

They spend Sunday decorating the diner, making it look less sparse with photos and hanging and various bits of music and pop culture memorabilia, while the jukebox blared rock and roll. A few people pass by in time to see Lola and Leo in an air guitar competition, but neither of them really care. Leo’s looks more like home by the time the sun goes down. 

there will always be someone better than you. but on the bright side, who cares?

Eileen sits next to her in AP French during the entire last week of school for the semester. Everything she does seems so perfectly calculated, this change in seating included, but she refuses to acknowledge it. Heather clicks her tongue, clearly annoyed that Eileen had taken the seat she had previously vacated the day Lola staked her own next to it, and judging by Eileen’s innocent little smile, that alone made it worth it.

Lola tries not to pay too much attention to Heather, pretty, mean, and popular, almost the exact stereotype Lola had assumed Charlotte to be before she’d actually befriended her. They only have French together, but Heather keeps watching her, Lola sees it out of the corner of her eye, but her glare has become more speculative, more thoughtful as the weeks have passed, and Lola’s not quite sure what to make of it. Whatever scathing personal attack Heather’s probably working on is her business, she doesn’t know shit about Lola, so Lola tries not to care.

Once Eileen sits next to Lola, the glare comes back in full force anyhow.

On Thursday, the last AP French lesson for the semester, Eileen offers Lola a stick of spearmint gum, and it feels kind of like a test. Lola takes the gum anyways, and Eileen smiles at her, surprisingly genuine. 

“You’re Charlotte’s friend,” Lola says, and Eileen’s smile widens.

“You’re the girl who kissed her cousin,” she says. Lola’s whole expression falls, mouth flattening into a thin, unamused line, ready to go on the defensive. 

“And?”

Eileen shrugs, says nothing more on the subject, instead, glancing at Lola’s hands.

“My mom would kill me for wearing black nail polish, but it looks so cool on you,” She says, and Lola bites back a jaded response about her own mother, looking to her own hands, and the fresh and shiny coat of polished she’d applied the night before. 

“Your mom kind of sounds like an asshole, if black nail polish is enough to get her riled up,” Lola says, without even thinking about how harsh the words sounded, but once the words are out, she adds, “and I know from asshole moms,” for good measure. Internally, she’s berating herself; if she talks about her mom, she’s terrified that she’s eventually going to answer questions about her mom, like where she was, and why Lola hates her.

“She’s just a perfectionist, and I don’t think black would suit me anyhow, so it’s not really an issue,” Eileen responds, as if she barely cares that Lola implied her mother was an asshole, and Lola lets herself relax a little, “I’m partial to a french tip,” Eileen holds out her hands to show her own manicure, the pale pink and white practically gleaming, obviously salon done. 

“I coloured Tommy’s nails with sharpie,” Lola says while looking at Eileen’s elegant fingers, and Eileen actually huffs a laugh at that.

“I saw; he’s very proud of them.” 

Something in Lola’s chest tightens at that; Charlotte seemed to be a good enough judge of character, and she liked Eileen well enough, so that, for now, was good enough for Lola.

Perhaps that’s why Lola had taken so long to actually speak to Nikki Sixx, despite both Charlotte and Tommy being adamant they’d get along, Charlotte’s proclamation that Nikki was kind of a tool held her back.

It’s not that she doesn’t know who he is; she’s figured out the guy who sleeps through her English classes, is trying to make an acoustic guitar in shop, and who is part of her music classes - once she’d decided to show up to those - is the same person she’d seen on stage in leather pants back at the pub. The guy who Charlotte had yelled at. A tool. Apart from the week the rumours had started circulating about her, he never paid her much attention, so she never felt the need to introduce herself. If he was a tool, she could leave him well enough alone.

Until the first day of the Winter break, apparently. Though for the record, he was the one who spoke to her.

There were technically two music shops in the local mall, a ten minute walk from Lola’s flat above the diner; she’s glad to be close to the CBD, but it also means she can’t justify asking her dad for a ride when it would take her less time to walk than it would for him to find parking. 

But Monday, December 27th, was absolutely fucking freezing. 

The mall itself is teeming with people looking to spend the money they’d gotten over the holiday period, and the workers had already taken down the gaudy Christmas Tree that had sat in the middle of the food court. 

Lola was there at her father’s behest, sticking up and handing out flyers announcing New Year’s Day as Leo’s grand opening, and that they were hiring. She gives everyone at the food court a flyer, sticks up several in various locations, and thinks about heading back to the food court for a second round, to catch any newcomers, or anyone she may have missed, when she spots the music shops.

Bass and Treble were owned by the same people, however Treble seemed to be geared towards more classical music, with pianos and violins and flutes and all manor of orchestra-esque instruments available, while Bass seemed to be committed to rock and roll. 

Nikki Sixx finds Lola crouched in front of the display of sheet music on sale in Bass. 

“Lola, right?”

Lola stands so fast at his voice that her head spins, but she tries not to let it show. She’s on alert when she looks at him, tense, already scowling, which only deepens when she sees who it is.

“Nikki Sixx,” his name is not a question when it leaves her lips, but he seems pleased rather than concerned, that his reputation apparently preceded him. He nods, and looks over at what she’d been examining. 

“Anything good?” He asked, and Lola looks over her shoulder at the display. She’d been seriously considering a book of Elton John’s hits for piano before he’d come along. 

“Still deciding; why?”

“No reason,” he shrugged, taking his time to look nonchalantly at the various amps nearby, “you look like you’d be into this sort of thing,” he notes, acting all smug and coy and weird; Lola rolled her eyes, but didn’t answer.

“You were at my gig, we’re you? Hanging out with that guy from the gas station, right? Mick?” Something about his tone had Lola on edge and defensive.

“You guys were okay,” she says flatly, making it clear as she can that that’s barely a compliment; Nikki, however, smile widely.

“Glowing review, I’ll add it to our poster,” he smirks, before he finally looks her over, gaze zeroing in on the flyers in her hands, “speaking of -” and he snatches one, not that she’s protesting, that’s another one she doesn’t have to get rid of. Nikki’s reading the flyer and frowning, while Lola lets her attention wander to the various keyboards they have on display.

“Where’s this?” Nikki pipes up, sounding genuinely interested, while Lola’s idly playing scales with one hand on the closest, off keyboard.

“A few blocks away,” Lola still hasn’t quite gotten the hang of the town’s geography, “across the road from The Kings Hotel, where I saw you play -”

“The old MacCready place?”

“It’s Leo’s now,” Lola says, arms crossed, sitting low in her hips as she regards Nikki, and the way he’s going over every little detail of the poster, “Charlotte says you’re a tool.”

“Charlotte just hates that she likes me so much,” Nikki doesn’t even miss a beat before answering, and when he looks up to catch Lola’s reaction, his grin is all teeth. Lola can’t help the slight smile she wears as she takes in his response.

“I can see why,” Lola’s not quite sure what she’s going for with her own response, but it comes out more teasing than cutting, and there’s something in Nikki’s eye, or in his smile, or maybe it’s in his easy laughter, that has her heart beating weird in her chest.

A moment passes between them, a shift in the tone, the energy of the interaction as Lola drops her immediate hostility; she’s been doing that a lot lately, but she tries not to dwell on it. It’s now she gets a proper look at him, at his ripped jeans and all black, leather jacket, hair sprayed to high heavens like he’s about to join Poison; he looks unkempt and mean, and Lola’s kind of really into it.

They’re checking each other out, sizing each other up, and they both seem to find something in the other they like, because Nikki’s grinning at Lola when gaze meets hers again, and she’s smirking right back.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” she tells him, hip cocked for a moment before she saunters past him, knocking into him with her shoulder purposefully. When Nikki stumbles back, he huffs a laugh, and Lola calls over her shoulder, “Leo’s is hiring by the way, Leo himself would probably love a fucker like you.”

[pro-bee]

Houses aren’t the only things in need of fixing

(this went from a 1am shitpost to an actual fic. This was not the story I meant to write this week, but it is the one we need, apparently.)

Paris is everything they ever wanted. It is an absolute dream.

But it is not home.

With the passing months, she feels the pang, even as she strolls along the Seine and sips her coffee at their favourite cafés and walks her daughter hand-in-hand to school every morning and exchanges polite Comment allez-vous aujourd’hui Ziva? / Bien merci, et vous? with the other parents on her way out the door.

It was inevitable, then, that she and Tony find themselves packing up their beloved French pied-à-terre once summer rolls around, and crossing the Atlantic once again, for good, to return to their home, their actual home, in DC.

They are every bit the HGTV cliché as they begin house-hunting in the city, until they finally settle on a brownstone with just enough of a backyard to seem like a novelty to Parisian-apartment-raised Tali, but tall enough hedges for Ziva to feel safe. 

(Part of her craves the anonymity of living in the middle of a chaotic city. The other part of her wants to move to a farmhouse in the middle of the country where their only neighbours are miles away and they can remain forever cocooned. These thoughts she knows she must temper every day.)

The townhouse is close enough to the bustle for all of them to get their walkable-city fix after living abroad for so long, but gives them just that much more breathing room to relax into their new surroundings.

It just fits.

One day, just after they move in, every room still covered in boxes, Gibbs stops by to check in. (He's determined to make a better effort of this. So is she.)

"Nice place you got here."

"Thanks. We fell in love with the neighbourhood as soon as we found it. The houses have so much character. Tali’s new school is great.” 

He's looking up at the crown mouldings, faint cracks visible in patches.

"Bit of a fixer-upper."

She notices his stare.

"Oh, yes, that. The inspection said the bones were good, mostly, but it needed a little ABC."

He squints for a second, but then he realizes what she meant and chuckles.

She doesn't know what is so funny, but she's long since learned to press on.

"A lot of it is just cosmetic. But we do have some projects on our hands. The kitchen has not been touched since the eighties, but is functional for the moment. The bathroom upstairs is a gut job. And Tony wants to refinish the basement to turn it into his dream home theatre." She rolls her eyes at that last point, but her lips turn upward in a familiar smile. "We are going to look for contractors once we settle in."

He gives the moulding another glance before they move on to work and friends and milestones. (They do this now. Again.)

The following Saturday, Gibbs shows up at their house at 8am, coffee in one hand, and toolbox in the other. To say Ziva is confused when she answers the door is an understatement, her puzzled expression asking the question for her. He sidesteps around her as he pushes through the entrance, past the staircase, heading left towards the living room. 

"You're better off getting some of this stuff out of the way first. Otherwise you're just gonna have to pack everything back up when you start renovating."

"What are you talking about?"

"The mouldings are a quick fix. Just gotta patch 'em up and repaint. The bathroom, it's a pain, but it's small, and once we tear it all down, I should be able to get that redone pretty quickly. The kitchen is a bigger job, we might need to get someone in for that one. The basement shouldn't be too hard, if DiNozzo helps to take down the old drywall and insulate it so he doesn't complain about freezing when he's watching those Super Galactic Revenger movies."

Tali, still clad in her pajamas, abandons her cartoons and comes to greet them, curious about the commotion, and about the older man her parents both seem to know so well, even though he is a stranger to her.

“Hey, Tali, wanna give me a hand? You can help me bring some of this stuff in from my truck.”

The girl doesn’t need to be told twice. She makes a beeline out the open door, barefoot and all frenetic energy, excited at being given a task in this strange affair.

Ziva tries to call out to Tali to come back and put her shoes on, except she doesn’t even know what is happening herself.

“Gibbs, you cannot be serious. I would not dream of asking you to... renovate our home,” she manages to finally stammer out, unsure of what she could possibly say.

“You didn’t ask. I’m offering.”

“Gibbs,” she softens, touched at the gesture but overwhelmed at the magnitude of it, “it is too much work. And you already have a full-time job.”

“Yeah, and I bet I could still get it done faster than some of those bozos out there who do this for a living. At least you’ll know it’ll get done right. Besides, I’ll have help.” He flashes a conspiratorial grin to Tali, who has by now returned with a bucket of paint brushes, and she giggles in response, instantly in favour of whatever is going on here. (Maybe leaving everything she knew and coming here wasn’t so bad after all.)

Ziva presses her lips together, words failing her, but that doesn’t matter, because her mentor is a man of few words himself. He meets her gaze and he nods at her, silently pleading with her to let him do this for her, for them. To let him take care of them. 

“Old houses like this, they’re beautiful. They’ve got stories to tell. But they got scars that need to heal too, only they can’t do it on their own. So that’s where we come in, fixing what needs to be fixed and bringing them back to their former glory, better than ever for their next chapter. New memories.”

She understands him completely.

“Thank you.”

It hardly seems sufficient. Yet it is everything.

He smiles at her, one of those ones that makes his eyes crinkle and give her a glimpse of the boyish charm she knew he must have possessed before he lost his way. (Like she had, she supposes.)

“We’re gonna do these mouldings first to get them out of the way. After that I’m gonna take measurements in the bathroom so we can figure out what we’re dealing with, and take it from there.” 

He returns the next day with even more coffee, and a child-sized belt with miniature tools for Tali, along with rough sketches of their plan for the bathroom.

And this is how, over the course of the following months, Gibbs becomes a fixture in their home, quickly earning the respect of his pint-sized apprentice who spends hours at a time observing him work, even in silence. 

(For anyone who has met the youngest DiNozzo, they know keeping her quiet is perhaps the biggest feat of them all.) 

Together on their upturned crates, they sit and work and sip on their juice boxes (the harder stuff will have to wait), as the house becomes a home.

For all of them.

[ciestessde]

Phantasma Magica Ch. 1

STORY SUMMARY Clockwork and the Observants send Danny to Hogwarts on a special mission. But, cryptic as ever, that Old Stopwatch never actually told him what would happen on it!!! “All you need to do right now, Daniel, is stay focused on your mission. And remember, the-” “‘The Lions with the time-turner, lightning-bolt scar, and hair like fire are friends; watch out for the rat; and the black dog is not a threat.’ Yeah, you’ve only repeated that a few dozen times today.”

Next →

Podfic Version

Ghost Zone - Clocktower - Sometime in the 2000s

After the accident that transformed him into a dangerous creature known as a “phantasm,” Danny had been staying with Clockwork, the Keeper of Time. The ancient being had saved Danny many times, and in many ways, by then. He’d even taken Danny under his wing as his apprentice. And as his apprentice, Danny was often sent on missions – either by the immortal Keeper himself, or by his bosses the Observants. It was one of these missions that Danny was currently trying to find out more about.

“Why are these things so much trouble, again?” Clockwork was floating around the room, his purple robe and spectral tail flowing behind him, working on making his apprentice a few extra batches of imitation ecto-energy, or “substitutes.” Just in case Danny ran out while on this mission. (Not that Clockwork was trying to hint at anything… Because honestly, if he did, it would just make things worse for the poor boy.)

“They are only trouble if they fall into the wrong hands. I had planned to discreetly destroy them myself, but…” By the way he trailed off, Danny knew he would never get the end of that sentence. “Alriiiight… So are you at least going to tell me why you’re sending me to a MAGIC SCHOOL first?” Silence. “Aaarrrgh!” He bumped his head against the nearest wall. “*sigh* Fine. Whatever. Why do I even bother asking questions, anymore…” Clockwork handed him a large backpack with the substitutes in them (all 3-years-worth… And, yes. It WAS heavy), and, after Clockwork formed his legs once more and retrieved his staff, they walked in silence to one of the innumerable clock-shaped viewing screens.

Clockwork twisted a few mechanisms on his staff and waved it in front of the screen, and, with a sound like tv static, a view of a dark, mysterious forest appeared on it. “Y’know, just because no time will pass HERE, doesn’t mean it will F E E L like it to ME.” “All you need to do right now, Daniel, is stay focused on your mission. And remember, the-” “‘The Lions with the time-turner, lightning-bolt scar, and hair like fire are friends; watch out for the rat; and the black dog is not a threat.’ Yeah, you’ve only repeated that a few dozen times today.” Clockwork stepped out of the way of the portal, and Danny flew through.

Despite knowing the most likely outcome (and having a backup plan for all over-fifty likely dangers), he couldn’t stop himself: “… Be safe, Daniel.”

Hogwarts - Forbidden Forest - 1993

As expected, Danny had arrived above a forest and about a mile away from the school in the late morning. He took his time flying, and, after a few minutes, he was about halfway there. At this point, he decided he should probably go ahead and take one of the substitutes, seeing as it had been a while since he last ate. But as he was about to uncap the bottle, he noticed a strange black shape moving toward him from the school’s direction. It was moving rather quickly…

He could feel his hackles rising from the aura the creature was giving off and the way it made the space around it darken. It was too close, and coming in WAY too fast. He managed to get the bottle back in the bag, but he didn’t notice the OTHER of the creatures come up from below him in time. It knocked the bag out of his hands before it-

Pain. Electricity. Screaming.

The creature shrieked when the blast of ethereal fire hit it. But, although he’d fended off the one, its buddy was only a few feet away now.

Danny picked up speed – still trying to get to the school – before realizing how much weaker he felt. ‘Those things must feed off ectoplasmic and ethereal energy. But how? What are th-? OH!’ Now he remembered: Dementors. They were Spirit Eaters, just like phantasms like him. Except they usually only fed off of emotions. ‘So why do I feel weak? … Wait, I feel wea- The substitutes!’

Danny turned around to try and find the bag and the (hopefully not broken) bottles of imitation ecto-energy, but the dementors were done only trying to snack on him. They were still starving, but anger and ages-old hatred between their kinds had overruled hunger. If Danny slowed… they would destroy him.

So Danny flew. And he fought. And he became weaker and weaker, and – eventually – hungrier and hungrier. And by the time the wizards showed up, he was starting to fall apart…

Hogwarts - Defense Against the Dark Arts (DADA) Class

Professor Remus Lupin was writing on the board in silence, finishing his final preparations for the day’s lesson, while the third-year Slytherins and Gryffindors – including the Golden Trio themselves: Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger – settled into their seats. But while the rest of the class were preoccupied by today’s lesson, the latest gossip, or a forgotten textbook, Hermione…

“Professor? Could you tell us a little about phantasms? They were only briefly mentioned in the book.” She continued to flip through her textbook until finding the page in question. A brief paragraph greeted her with the challenging lack of information that had left the brunette in an absolute storm of frustration, no matter how many times she went over it.

Remus Lupin, dressed in his usual ragged robes, turned his gaze to her with a mixed expression. His normally sad, wistful smile fell, and a sigh left his lips. But his tired eyes brightened at the topic, as a hand brought itself up to rub his furrowing brow in thought. “You bring up an interesting topic Miss Granger. The little information that is written – is true to the fact that there is little known about them.”

The class was silent, waiting to sate their curiosity. Despite the numerous times most of the students would simply roll their eyes at ‘Know-It-All’ Granger’s antics, this was something even many of the pureblood Slytherins in the room hadn’t heard of. All ears honed in to hear the professor’s next words, hung with anticipation.

“From what little we do know, I can tell you that phantasms are very rare creatures of the spectral class. Not unlike ghosts or poltergeists with their varied appearances and personalities; and yet they hold a frighteningly close similarity to dementors in the dangers they pose. They are, indeed, Dark Creatures.”

Harry shuddered as the rest of the class broke into nervous murmurs. Snickers came from some of the Slytherins, followed by teasing gestures imitating dementors aimed at Harry. The raven haired teen just gave a huff in response, turning his attention back to the professor, while Ron continued to glare at Malfoy and the other Slytherins. Hermione then broke the moment of tension and returned the eyes of the class to their professor. “How is it possible for a ghost-like creature to also be a dementor-like creature?”

Lupin pondered her words for a moment, his mind attempting to piece together the few existing bits of information regarding the matter. “In that lies the mystery. From what little is known, we can only piece together a few facts, considering that they are, in fact, corporeal beings – unless they wish otherwise – and are extremely aggressive in demeanor.”

It was Ron’s turn to earn a few points for curiosity, “But if they’re so aggressive… how come almost no one’s ever seen ‘em?” “Good thinking on your part Mr. Weasley, though that in itself brings up more questions than answers. As your book states, many old stories of ghost attacks or hauntings are results of phantasms holding claim to their territory. More often tormenting muggles and going out of their way to avoid the wizarding world.”

This brought another snicker from the Slytherin group. Malfoy leaned back in his chair and shared a cruel smirk with some of his housemates. “Seems there’s actually a respectable creature out there after all.” More bits of smug laughter came from the group at the implication their ‘leader’ had made. The weary teacher cleared his throat to grab the attention of the students before a fight broke out.

“They’re not to be taken lightly, Mr. Malfoy. Most reports of attacks – from the few who have survived – have been upon unwary witches and wizards that stumbled into their haunts. Despite their preference to muggle neighborhoods, they will not differentiate when it comes to what they claim as their territory. Though I have not met one personally, from what I’ve heard, they can make even a dementor look docile in comparison.”

The class fell silent once more with the weight of the professor’s words. The meaning in his tone was clear: This was not a matter to be taken lightly. The silence was only broken by a nervous squeak from Longbottom. “P—pp-professor…. Are they….. r-really that dangerous?” Neville chirped, his body attempting to sink below his desk. “Indeed. They are one of the few dark creatures that dementors will respond to in earnest – and violently for that matter. Usually the two species will avoid one another, but should they cross, a fight will undoubtedly occur. “It is also said that their presence can often be mistaken for that of a dementor’s, as the room will become as cold as ice. But rather than the happiness being drained out of you, a sense of feeling hunted will settle in your gut… ”

And right then, what would have otherwise been an inconsequential lesson – doomed to be forgotten except for the occasional nightmare or horror-story – became a well-timed joke for the old, meddling Keeper of Time.

Lupin found his words cut short as his gaze turned towards the window in surprise. Every pulse in the room raced, adrenaline pumping through them to prepare them to fight or run – but a feeling of despair soon layered on top, competing with this sudden desire for life. Harry, Ron, Hermione and the others, turned in the direction of their professor’s gaze; expressions of fear, horror, and curiosity forming upon their faces, as all eyes fell upon the window glass. Crystals of ice crept up the window panes like an all-consuming fungus, encrusting the view to the outside world in a layer of frost – just as a black figure flew by, followed by another two, much larger, forms. Gasps rose from the crowd of students as they darted over to the window to see the spectacle that had just raced by. Professor Lupin pushed his way to the front of the group, peering out the frigid glass towards the scene playing out less than thirty meters from them.

Two dementors encircled, and were lashing out randomly at an unusual entity. A teenage boy, not much older than Harry or the others, floated there in the middle of the two wraith-like creatures. He was dressed quite oddly: a long-sleeved black shirt and black pants; white boots, belt, and gloves; and a sleeveless, white hoodie. His snow-white hair hung down into his face – but it didn’t hide the blazing green glare and bared fangs the boy directed at the two dementors. Just as they lashed out again at the floating boy, a yelp rang out from most of the class. A flash of neon-green light had tumbled one of the beasts backwards! However, it quickly recovered from the intimidating attack, and all three specters shot off across the grounds – the two dementors remaining in hot pursuit of the ghost-like boy.

Hermione was the first of the class to recover from the shock enough to speak; her gaze turning from the window, to Professor Lupin, and back again. “Professor, was that… ?” Remus remained in stunned silence, staring out the window in his own spell of disbelief. However, quickly shaking himself from his thoughts, he turned to face the students. “So it would seem. Class is dismissed – and I want you ALL to head to your houses immediately! I must speak to Professor Dumbledore.”

Hurried footsteps clattered down the stone corridors as students and teachers alike scattered about. The Golden Trio darted through the crowd and over to the nearest window that viewed the grounds. Soon followed by the Weasley twins, who’d spotted them slipping by. “Wotcher, Harry! This has to be one of the weirdest sights Hogwarts has seen, ‘eh?” George grinned, patting the raven haired teen upon the shoulder, as he and his twin peered out through the glass.

A black-and-white speck went whizzing by the gamekeepers hut, with the two other figures in hot pursuit. The extremely large man that resided in the hut could be seen exiting and flailing up at them in agitation. “Hagrid!” Harry jolted, looking ready to leap through the window and save the man from the angry specters.

“Easy now, Harry. I think we best let the professors handle this one.” Fred had the same grin as his twin, his hand coming up to pat Harry’s other shoulder. “Yeah, even the professors are gonna have trouble with this,” George chimed in. Harry heaved a sigh in response. Hermione shook her head, “I just hope Professor Dumbledore knows enough about them to do something.” Ron was about to smack himself in the face at her comment, but stopped when the scene swept by the window. The blur of motion caused him, and several others, to yelp in surprise.

Outside the Entryway

“Merlin’s beard!” Professor McGonagall swore, a hand held to her chest to steady herself from shock. The three specters just whisked by centimeters from the tall, severe-looking teacher’s head as she stepped out onto the grounds. Her eyes followed the scene fly out across the lake and back again. Her gaze then shifted over towards Dumbledore, who had just arrived in the entryway of the castle. “It’s trouble enough just having dementors around the school grounds, but in Heaven’s name! This is too much, Headmaster!” The old wizard chuckled, his piercing blue eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles. “There, there Minerva. This will be settled soon enough. But first, it would be best to separate them before this matter escalates. Severus?” Dumbledore turned to look back up the stairs, a serious look on his face as blue eyes met jet black.

“Yes, Headmaster?” The thin, sallow-skinned man remained stoic, his tone flat with a hint of irritation. Although it was likely due to general frustration (with the DADA professor), rather than with the situation at hand. “If you would?” Professor Snape nodded, his wand at the ready for the creatures’ next pass. The group of professors (as well as the unavoidable huddle of students behind them, just inside the entryway) watched the creatures’ exchange nervously.

As they flew, the black-and-white blur would sporadically fire green projectiles at the following dementors, causing one or both of them to briefly fall behind. They sped over the lake, the Forbidden Forest, and made several laps around the castle once again, before coming within reach of Snape and Dumbledore’s wands. “Expecto Patronum!” yelled the Potions Professor, successfully blocking the dementors’ pursuit. At almost the exact same instant the Headmaster cried “Irretio idolon!”

The boy-like apparition immediately fell, as though snagged on a line. When he hit the ground, there seemed to be a physical struggle – as though the phantasm were trapped in an invisible net held together only by the tip of Dumbledore’s wand. Once he regained his bearings, the phantasm tried to fly away again. The old wizard wasn’t expecting the smaller creature to be so strong; before he knew it, Dumbledore was pulled a couple meters forward. He quickly started shaking and sweating from the strain of trying to keep the phantasm in place. “Pomona!” The dumpy, dirt-covered Herbology professor quickened her pace from the Greenhouses, carrying a sack of what resembled roses in one hand and glowing green dust in the other. She carefully combined and formed these into a circle around the phantasm, being sure to stay well out of striking range. When she finished, Dumbledore immediately released his hold on the spirit.

Professor Sprout fell back in fright when the phantasmal boy sprang at her, fangs bared and growling so low she could feel the ground vibrating beneath her. She breathed a sigh of relief when the barrier held. Everyone took a few moments for the shock to wear off, before Hagrid approached Dumbledore. “Wha’ should I do with…” Dumbledore shook his head, “I’m afraid, Hagrid, that this will take the care of professionals to be dealt with safely.” “Ay, ay, Headmaster, sir.”

“And who, may I ask, has the most unfortunate job of supervising the creature until such professionals arrive?” asked McGonagall. “I believe that falls to whomever is most familiar with and knowledgeable on such matters.” His eyes, duller than usual (though not by much), turned questioningly to the other professors on the stairs. Remus stepped forward. “I suppose that would be me… Though I’ll need at least one other to help me, as I can’t be watching it at all times.” “I’ll take the night shift, professor, don’tcha worry none,” said Hagrid, “I’ve ne’er met a creature I couldn’t take a liking teh.” “Yeah,” whispered Malfoy, near the back of the huddle of students still just inside the doors. “But I’ve never met a creature or wizard who could take a liking to that oaf. Except blood-traitors and mudbloods.”

The Heads of Houses quickly began ushering students back to their dormitories after that, and the search began for how such a dangerous and powerful creature had managed to come so close to Hogwarts without being detected by the castle’s barriers. And that evening, in a corner of the Gryffindor common room, a certain group of students discussed how they could use this situation to learn more about the elusive creatures called “phantasms”… as well as whether, and how, this might give them a new way to fend off the ever-lurking threat of the dementors.

This fanfic is a crossover between the Harry Potter book series and the Danny Phantom AU “Time’s Apprentice” by Atrieisan on deviantart (check out her comic – her artwork is beautiful!)

This is only Arc 1 of 3, but all of this arc has been written. So you can expect regular updates every Wednesday until Arc 1 is finished! You can find this fanfic here, as well as on:

Fanfiction.net/~ciestess ArchiveOfOurOwn.org/users/Ciestess/profile Deviantart.com/Ciestess

Also, if you like my writing, you should check out my other series “One-Shot Wednesdays” where I write a requested short story every week! I’m also in the process of writing an original book series called “Crossroad of Infinity,” so if you want to know more about that, you can check out more of my Tumblr (#CrossroadOfInfinity , send me asks, etc.)

Finally, I want to thank everyone who helped beta this story, including Jay. Bloodworth  ( @jaywrites101​ ).

I hope you enjoy! And if you did, please REBLOG!

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[nikkalia]

Gotta Get It Right, Ch. 7

TITLE: Gotta Get It Right

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: 7 of who knows?

SUMMARY: Aleksa lives as an Inhuman at SHIELD's beckon call, but dreams of another life have her questioning everything she’s ever known. Just when she's settled into a life of peace and quiet, she's called back to duty. Enter Loki.

PAIRING: Loki/OFC RATING: Mature NOTES/WARNINGS: Trigger warning: mentions of dubcon, violence, PTSD, sexual assault, and physical abuse in later chapters.

Also on Ao3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/15409323/chapters/36996606

Feedback is always appreciated (just being an attention whore screaming for comments/reblogs)

Tags: @christy-winchester @hovianwookie86-captainxev @wolfsmom1 @fadingcoast @fandom-and-feminism @igotloki @MischievousBellerina

Loki stood in the throne room, staring at the spot where Aleksa fell. The floor had been scrubbed clean of spilled blood, but he could still sense where the duel had ended. The whole incident confused him. He’d been drawn in through ego and hubris, that much was certain, but he’d resisted similar bait from others a million times before. This woman, <em>this human </em>, had somehow managed to get inside his head, and that made her dangerous.

Or did it?

If she could become an ally, or at the very least coerced - no, persuaded - to become a warrior for him, the woman could prove quite useful. If nothing else, she put up enough of a fight to make breaking her entertaining, and Norns knew he needed a little entertainment in his life at the moment. The women of court were too easy, too eager to please him.

He weighed the possibilities, then dismissed the entire thought. The whole concept depended solely on her surviving the treatments she received in the healing suites. It would be a waste, he concluded, if her attempted suicide was successful. She had so much potential.

Curiosity drove him to the healing facilities. Staff nodded and bowed as he entered the observation area where he met Eir emerging from a treatment room.

“How’s our Midgardian?”

“Not Midgardian.”

Loki’s eyebrow quirked as another healer arrived, curtsied, and whispered something to Eir.

“That doesn’t make sense. Go back to the original dosage and see what happens.” She turned to Loki. “With respect, my liege, my patient’s evaluation, and treatment have been challenging enough without having to consider her heritage. Her body is adapting and becomes resistant to our efforts.”

“And if you stop treatment?”

“I honestly do not know,” Loki smirked. “In all my centuries as a healer, I have never seen the likes of this woman. There are odd genetic sequences that suggest forced mutations, which may or may not explain the way her body reacts to treatment. She has most assuredly been experimented on, and that in itself is likely causing some of our problems.” Eir sighed. “The bottom line is that the more we do, the more she fights us. It’s as if she wants to be left alone to heal. Or die.”

Loki studied the woman at his side staring at her patient in confusion. He stepped closer to the window, watching as the team of healers worked frantically. The soul forge hovering over Aleksa’s body told him that her condition was still critical. A glimpse of her face showed him a portrait of calm, relaxed slumber as if she was happy to see her life’s end. He wondered if she stood before the gates of Valhalla, negotiating entrance.

“Not yet,” he whispered before turning to Eir. “Give her the extract of an Idunnian Apple. If that fails,” he looked back through the window, “cease your efforts.”

“Your Majesty, you know I can not give the extract without consent. It could undo whatever the mutations were designed to create. Or suppress. It could kill her.” Loki’s glare silenced her protests. “Yes, my king.”

Eir returned to the treatment room, speaking with one of the apprentices. Loki watched intently when the apprentice returned with a vial. The glowing golden fluid was carefully withdrawn and injected into an intravenous line dangling from their patient’s arm.

Aleksa’s body began to shake violently. Healers attempted to hold her down until a strange cloud began filling the treatment area, sending the team running out. People scrambled around, trying to seal the room while Loki simply stood there, watching. Air purifiers whirred to life, sucking the smoke out of the room. Others gasped as Loki stepped even closer to the glass.

“A terrigenesis cocoon?” He smiled. “There is great potential within you, indeed.” He turned to leave until an explosion shook the room. Looking back, he saw Aleksa sit up, the cocoon shattered around her. The wound on her chest closed before she toppled back over. Loki gestured to one of the apprentices.

“Tell your mistress that I want a detailed report on our guest at her earliest opportunity. The,” he looked at Aleksa, “woman is to receive any and all treatments necessary. When she is ready, she is to be brought to me.” 

The apprentice nodded as Loki strode out of the suites, grinning wide.

[archmage--khadgar]

RIP? (I dont know if i want this, but lets see how dramatic is going to be)

(*SIPS TEA* Very drafty, as always. I pretty much do the first draft and post ‘em up. Like all the writing draft prompts that aren’t starters, it is 100% okay to reblog them for other to read! Enjoy!)The rest of the council stood in patient irritation silently as they waited for Khadgar to show up. He was late, very late, but despite their annoyance, they all hoped that it was from getting lost in research and not because…They quickly pushed such thoughts out of their heads.A portal opened nearby and an exhausted-looking Khadgar stumbled out of it. A collective sigh of relief was heard from the others before they began to scold him for his tardiness. Khadgar grinned sheepishly as he apologized.“Forgive me! Business in Karazhan. I hadn’t expected it to keep me for so long.”“Again? Khadgar, why do you keep going back there? Its wealth of knowledge is vast, yes. But there are plenty of champions in training that could easily -”“No, no. Best I do it whenever I can. No one knows that place better than I. No use in risking others.”Kalec and Modera exchanged glances and then shrugs before going into Council business.

Khadgar restlessly wandered around the room, muttering comments to himself as the other members spoke. Every so often he’d engage but was largely ignoring the meeting.  Kalec’s ears perked up a little when Khadgar went by him - demonic. Khadgar was muttering things in demonic. Flecks of blue scales shimmered onto Kalec’s skin and he quickly turned towards the Archmage.“Khadgar, what are you DOING?”  He couldn’t shift fully since he wouldn’t fit, but he was willing to take the fight outside if need be. Modera and the others looked over in confusion. Kalec wasted no time in alerting them to what Khadgar had been muttering.Was it a joke? Had he finally gone mad? All they saw was an inhuman grin, and all they heard was a few utterings in demonic before everything….The chaos went by so quickly, and yet, felt like an eternity. Most of the tower was damaged or destroyed by the explosion, but some quick spell work saved most of the people inside. The council, at least, was safe. When the dust settled each member looked at the others to see who had been quick with their fingers.  Much to their surprise, none of them had cast the barrier that protected them all - including Khadgar from the blast. It didn’t take long to figure out who did once they realized it wasn’t one of them. And HIS presence was more of a surprise than Khadgar’s apparent betrayal.Lips pursed together to try and hide a smile and standing in between Khadgar and the Council, was Medivh. He wagged his finger back and forth at his “apprentice” disapprovingly. “Tsk. Sloppy work. You should have paid more attention to your surroundings.”Khadgar snorted. “It didn’t matter who was here as long as the council -”“I wasn’t talking to you.” Medivh glanced back at the four Archmages with a disappointed frown. “Please. I know my young trust is eccentric, but when was the last time you ever saw him act as such?” Modera flinched, scolding herself for not speaking up sooner when she had noticed. Kalec looked a bit uncomfortable as well, he should have detected the foul magic sooner.  Medivh brushed the front of his robes and turned his attention back to Khadgar.“Now. I’ve dealt with your aftermath a few times, and quite frankly. I am tired of you after this. I am insulted that you would take the appearance of an old friend and student, and sully the good image he tries so hard to maintain. Come, come now. Drop the disguise, you may not have killed anyone but you did manage to sneak in. Surely you feel the need to brag?”Kalec swore under his breath as a Dreadlord appeared in Khadgar’s place. At least it hadn’t had copied Jaina. The Demon opened his mouth to, indeed, brag about how easy it is to infiltrate Dalaran despite all the mages, but was cut off mid-sentence by the very, very angry former Guardian. It let out a howl as it was destroyed and had its soul sent back to the Twisting Nether. It would be back someday, but for now, it got to wallow in its failure.  The Aspect studied Medivh for a moment, pulling his thoughts together.“How long has Khadgar -”“Oh, just today. Don’t worry. I can assure you that every other day was indeed, my old apprentice.”“Where’s Khadgar?” Modera asked worriedly. Then she noticed it.Atiesh.Medivh had Atiesh.The Dreadlord’s staff had clearly been part of the illusion, but it was clear as day that what Medivh had was the real one. Voice shaking, she asked again as the others finally noticed as well, and looked on in horror, terrified of his answer.“Medivh….where is Khadgar.”

Earlier that day, Medivh had sensed trouble back in the halls of Karazhan. He didn’t want to return, figuring Khadgar would sense the same trouble and investigate himself. But when the feeling didn’t abate, curiosity got the better of him and he made the trip back to his old home. Upon returning, he sensed the presence of his old apprentice and contemplated leaving. But something was wrong, the aura was weak and there was the unmistakable signature of fel in the air. Not that, Karazhan wasn’t already crackling with various energies, but this was different. It was fresh. The Magus quickly investigated the rooms in halls in a silent panic, his main focus was to find Khadgar. And his heart broke when he did.Slumped up against a bookcase with a demonic blade through his chest and pinning him there, was Khadgar. Still alive, but barely. The fel corruption had ashened his complexion and was eating away at him. Atiesh was laying on the floor out of reach, and there was blood on the blade and his hands from his failed attempts to pull it out. Medivh quickly went to Khadgar’s side, who perked up at seeing his old Master.“Ah. I -told- you there was a demon in the Library.” Khadgar gently teased.Medivh couldn’t help but smile at the jab, remembering a moment many years ago when he ignored Khadgar’s insistence that he and Garona had dealt with such a beast. “So there was young trust. So there was. You still need to clean up the mess you made, however.” There was a brief moment of silence before either of them spoke again.“I’m sorry, Khadgar. I should have come sooner. The corruption has spread too much, there is nothing -”“I know. I know. I already tried everything I knew. It’s okay. To be honest. I could use the rest! There are new heroes on Azeroth now. Many don’t even know who I am aside from being that Archmage that asks for ridiculous amounts of items who also likes to party.”Another moment of silence.“I should….I will bring you to Dalaran while you still breathe. You should die at home, not here among cobwebs and dust.”“I am home.”“Dalaran is your home.”“Karazhan, is my home.” Khadgar insisted, giving his former master a stern, but soft expression. Holding in his emotions best he could, Medivh nodded, attempting to make Khadgar as comfortable as he possibly could. “Then welcome home, Young Trust. Welcome home.” He brushed some debris out of Khadgar’s hair with his hand.“You’ll need to come up with a new introduction,”  Moroes spoke up from the shadows. “If you’re not Khadgar from Dalaran.”Khadgar gave a pained laugh but nodded in agreement.“Khadgar, of Karazhan, the Young Trust, of Karazhan.” It was hard not to laugh.It was harder to hear his laughter stop.Modera waited patiently to hear Medivh’s answer. But his silence hurt the longer it lasted.Until eventually, there was no question.The realization hit the Council hard, with only four members it would be difficult to perform many of the tasks required of them. And of course, it was a huge loss to the effort against the legion and the loss of a friend.  They wanted to know how, when, and where was his body? There was little surprise when Medivh relayed Khadgar’s wish to die in Karazhan and not there, in Dalaran. After taking a brief moment to collect themselves, the Council quickly set out to alert the appropriate individuals. A proper, public mass service could be held after the war was over, but for now, anyone close to the Archmage who wish to pay their respects would be given the option. They had decided to bury him on the grounds of Karazhan as well, feeling that that was the most appropriate. There wasn’t much to say, not from the lack of words but because no one could bring themselves to speak. One by one, Khadgar’s closest friends left the fresh grave to return to their duties until Medivh was the last one.  Gripping Atiesh tightly, he knew he had to make a choice. The absence of Khadgar in this effort would be noticed, and a devastating strike to moral. He could easily leave again, be he was also the only one who could replace Khadgar in terms of skill, power, and knowledge.  He would give staying some thought, retiring inside to contemplate a formal return. Medivh entered the messy library lost in thought and was caught off guard by the specter he saw pulling a book off the shelf.It was Khadgar. Unmistakably Khadgar, Medivh had had his concerns that dying here would damn Khadgar’s spirit to wander these halls like so many others, but he quickly found peace when he further observed the ghost.There was no curse. Khadgar was young, unburdened by the visage of an old man that he had acquired upon freeing his master from the clutches of Sargeras.  The only white in his hair was the skunk stripe that his former apprentice already had had upon his arrival to Karazhan as a boy.  Death, ironically, had restored his youth and retained his curiosity and thirst for knowledge.  He seemed unaware of Medivh, reading a book eagerly on draconic. However, after a moment the eager boy turned and smiled up at his master.“Mag-…Medivh! This book is fascinating! Can you teach me how to say these words properly? If I ever meet a dragon, I wish to impress them! And maybe also…to be able to read any scrolls they may produce on magic….” He held the book out with eager anticipation. And with a warm smile, Medivh took the book.“Of course, my boy. Whatever you wish to know. I will teach you. We have all the time in the world now. My sickness is gone, I am well again, my apprentice. Any book, anytime, any day. Just bring it to me and I will teach you.” He placed a hand gently on Khadgar’s spectral cheek and felt his fingers chill with the ethereal static. The image seemed blissfully unaware of the emotion in Medivh’s voice as the man stroked his cheek with his thumb. “I’m proud of you, Khadgar. I am so, so very proud of you.”  Khadgar beamed, and a moment later, faded away.  Medivh grabbed at the air, not wanting him to leave. That settled it. He would stay.His apprentice needed him.Medivh didn’t always see Khadgar. But he noticed that the library was tidier, that sometimes his lab equipment had been used or there were scrying materials set out. And every so often, a book would find its way onto Medivh’s desk. Which he would always promptly read out loud as if giving a lecture to a curious, invisible student. And he would always find lecture notes and questions on his table after he finished.