#and listen you can read things however i Guess but please stop insisting its canon

[eats-a-berry]

can everyone please do me a favor and post this image under anyone talking about this panel from now on or something i am so tired

[ineffable-endearments]

Okay. Now I'm going to submit some theories about how I think Crowley and Aziraphale specifically are going to go in the future of Good Omens.

Again, this post is not really...specific theorizing about plot events. It's big-picture stuff.

With that said, this post will get a bit heavy at times, in the sense that it will contain opinions that not everyone will like. It drifted into rambling about queerbaiting and all that stuff. I'm not going to spam anyone's dashboard with drama over it, but it's very possible someone else might try. It's also not really a negative post, depending on what you want to hear, I suppose. But if you're only in the mood to read fluff today, you'll probably want to pass it up.

Oh! Also it's very long, and sexuality is discussed in a vague way that doesn't involve any story elements or body parts.

For starters, I don't think Good Omens 2 - or even 3, if that comes about - is going to have anything explicitly sexual or romantic between the two of them, where "explicit" is things like the characters giving outright definitions of their relationship or outright discussing exactly what goes on between them, either on or off-screen. I also don't think there's going to be kissing or "hooking up" (come on...that person on Twitter shouldn't have even asked). Those actions are too blatant for what Neil has already said about the series. While they technically leave some room for interpretation, they probably don't leave enough.

I DO think it's quite possible other characters will continue to define the relationship FOR them and Crowley and Aziraphale will continue to not deny it.

As far as the queerbaiting debate, "is Good Omens queerbaiting"...it's gonna depend how you define it. I always learned that queerbaiting was basically where the creators intentionally make it look like a character is gay or otherwise queer but then swap that character development out for a cis identity and hetero relationship at the end. The point is that the "bait" leads to queer audiences being actively hurt. That's the behavior that seems awful to me, and I don't see Neil and company doing that.

However, I think it's far and away the most likely option that it will be left up to interpretation whether Crowley and Aziraphale are, you know, a buddy duo or a romantic couple or some sort of ineffable queerness all their own off-screen. So if your definition of queerbaiting is "the characters seem gay to us, but homophobes can tell themselves they're not," then yes, I think that debate will follow us to our graves if we let it.

I am a cisgender, possibly straight (?? demi/bi? I might never find out) woman. There is absolutely no way I could ever tell anybody, ESPECIALLY not gay guys and nonbinary people - the people Crowley and Aziraphale tend to resemble the most - how to feel about their treatment in the story. All I can offer is that I'm one flawed individual and there are things I have the emotional capacity to handle and things I don't. Crowley and Aziraphale as both a canon construct and a fandom pairing mean an absurd amount to me, and I can't hang around in spaces where people are constantly talking about how my own interpretations of them are not enough, or how the story is written with ill intentions. I don't want to stop anybody from venting about it, but I am going to be removing myself from those situations.

I like to imagine 1990 NeilandTerry, or TerryandNeil, as a sort of two-headed God who came up with Crowley and Aziraphale, set them loose on Creation, and now are watching them get up to way more ridiculous stuff in the brains of their fans than they'd ever imagined in the first place. I like to imagine them watching, amused and bemused, as their creations fall in love in thousands of universes, and saying, "Well, we didn't specifically Plan for this, but we did promise free will."

This is psychoanalytical toward a public figure and is therefore a bit dangerous, so please take it with an entire mountain of salt, but I sometimes think perhaps Neil sees some of his and Terry's friendship in Crowley and Aziraphale, and suspect that he wants to reserve the possibility that they could be platonic because he and Terry were platonic, while at the same time leaving room for the fans to have their own interpretations, too. Because if there's one thing that comes up really frequently with Neil, it's his belief in imagination and how much stories matter to people. He can have his little corner of the universe where A and C reflect himself and Terry, and we can have...literally anything we want, as long as we're willing to extrapolate just a little bit from canon. It's not even that much extrapolation! It's just "Yes, they love each other, so what exactly does love mean to you?" and if love means kissing, well then, if we can think it, we can have it.

Given that Neil has written LGBT+ characters before, I think he has non-bigoted reasons for wanting Aziraphale and Crowley to remain undefined, and given even the small chance that those reasons may involve the grieving process for a dead friend, I believe it is unkind to argue with him about it or hold his reputation hostage over it.

With that said, do I want canon kissing/hooking up/all that stuff we put in fics? Listen, I can't deny that I do! Personally, I'd be over the moon. I'd probably be so happy I'd have to go to the hospital to get sorted out. Even the thought of it makes me giddy and light-headed, because that physicality is a part of my own experience of love.

However, there are a lot of people who would feel left behind if that happened. Ace and aro people in the fandom whose love for their friends and partners is just as strong as mine, but who are sex-repulsed or just don't want to see kissing on-screen. The loss of Crowley and Aziraphale as a pairing who are extremely easy to interpret as queerplatonic would be hurtful to them, and I do not want to see them hurt like that. I don't think Neil does, either.

So, once again, the "best for everyone" option becomes a really strong canon relationship based in both narrative function and profound affection, which has genuinely thoughtful queer undertones and leaves open the logical possibility for romantic or sexual encounters but does not insist that they must happen. People, especially fans who are super invested, tend to have an easier time imagining scenarios that take place off-screen (e.g. kissing, sex) than they have erasing scenarios that they've already seen in canon (e.g., if someone wished they could continue viewing it as an ace relationship but they were shown "hooking up"). Also, while relationships are super emotional and extremely subjective, I'd argue that in a long-term adult partnership, the non-sexual connection is more important than the sexual one. As a fan, I'd prefer to extrapolate "they love each other so maybe they'd have sex" rather than "they're sexually attracted to each other so maybe they'll intertwine their whole existences together."

It probably isn't necessary to add, but I will anyway: I'm aware that Good Omens is sort of sacrificing social leverage - the ability to whack homophobes over the head with canon if they try to deny the show's queerness - and is thus not really contributing to making specifically gay relationships more widely seen and accepted. However, I don't think all stories have to invest heavily in every social issue they touch on for them to still be meaningful. I also do think Good Omens is an excellent example of a relationship that is extremely profound without being heteronormative.

I don't think the next season is going to be a rom-com. It will likely not even be a "love story," where the definition of "love story" is "a story that follows the development of a relationship and employs certain plot beats to make its point." Remember that conflicts and breakups are key to love stories, so if it IS a love story, then we're going to have to watch the relationship get challenged in ways some of us might have thought were already resolved in season 1! And while that could be thrilling and ultimately very good, it would also be likely to undercut some of the careful headcanoning and analysis we've already done. Any sequel is going to do that to some degree, but a second love story would probably do it a lot, with interpretations that people are even more protective of.

I'm sort of thinking the next season is likely to be a fantasy-heavy mystery, only because those are the two concepts Neil's introduction led with - an angel with amnesia who presents Crowley and Aziraphale with a mystery. Crowley and Aziraphale's connection to each other can still absolutely be a major theme! It can still be the thread stitching the plot together! It just probably, in my opinion, won't escalate and escalate and escalate like it did in season 1. And it will probably be woven in there among a lot of other plot threads that are, in many moments, louder. Still, I'd love to be left with the impression of these two existences, the light and the dark, subtly becoming more intimate, subtly growing more comfortable in this shared place they've chosen in the universe, gradually starting to behave like they know they aren't alone in the world anymore, all while other things happen to and around them.

Nonsexual physical intimacy - a really great hug, or leaning together on the sofa, or a forehead touch, or something like those, something that could happen in a lot of different kinds of relationships but is undoubtedly based in deep trust and affection and a desire to be close...that's the dream, for me. Oh, how lovely it would be.

Of course, I could be just absolutely, embarrassingly wrong about all this. I guess we'll just have to wait and see.

[fullmetalscullyy]

the way it was - chapter 22

summary:  what if riza never went to war?  riza hawkeye has just married the man she loves. six months into their marriage, an unexpected surprise stops her from following roy to the military. a canon divergence au that explores what might have happened had riza been unable to join the military. there will be plenty of family fluff, angst, and royai.

rated: m | warnings: no archive warning apply

read on ao3

1914

but you're a king and i'm a lionheart

When Chris had invited Riza and Mia around to the bar for dinner, Riza didn’t expect her daughter to be whisked away immediately by Vanessa as soon as they set foot inside the bar. Chris approached with determination.

“We need to talk.”

Anxiety settled in Riza’s stomach. What was all this about? There was no room for argument as Chris turned on her heel and walked away, expecting Riza to follow.

Riza wondered if this had something to do with Roy. He’d suddenly called shortly after arriving at work that morning to say that he wouldn’t be home until late that night. He had some work to do, but he was sorry, and he loved them both. She didn’t think much of it, just told him to be safe and got on with her day. Then, Chris called shortly afterwards, encouraging Riza to come for dinner. While she thought it would be lovely to spend the evening with her mother-in-law, there was a tiny niggle in the back of her mind that something was happening behind the scenes.

Chris led the way through to the backroom of the bar, into her home. She led Riza into her kitchen without any kind of indication of what the topic of discussion would be, and that made the wait worse. Was this something she needed to worry about? Riza’s thoughts were interrupted by Mia’s happy squeal from somewhere in the house, followed by Vanessa’s laugh.

Uncertainty clawed at Riza’s heart. She wanted to ask what was going on but knew better. Everything Chris did was for a reason, so if she was leading Riza away from Mia then it was something their daughter shouldn’t overhear. Riza bit her tongue.

Once inside the kitchen, Chris gestured for Riza to sit.

“Roy will be working late tonight, but I’m sure you already know about that.”

“He called this morning,” Riza confirmed.

Chris nodded. “He’s going to do something tonight, and wanted you brought here as a precaution.”

“What’s he doing?” Riza asked. Her stomach tightened at the serious look on Chris�� face.

“He’s going to fake someone’s death using his flame alchemy.” There was no hesitation, she stated it as bluntly as she could.

“Oh…" Riza's heart thudded inside her chest at the revelation. "Wait.” Riza paused, something clicking inside of her mind. “Does this have anything to do with Maria Ross?”

It had been all over the papers for a few days. Apparently the soldier had killed Maes Hughes. Initially, Riza had scrutinised the photo and wondered how that woman could have taken someone else’s life. She’d been an exemplary soldier, according to the news, so why would she murder one of her own? The story didn’t quite add up for Riza, and it didn’t for Roy either.

They hadn’t spoken much about it. They didn’t get a chance really when Mia was around. However, he’d spent more time in his study in the evenings after Mia had gone to bed. Riza would pop her head in and ask if he needed anything, only to be greeted by a tired smile and the reassurance he was all right. She’d spotted Maes’ name on the papers in front of him, alongside Maria Ross', which Roy had quickly scribbled down then scored out. Riza knew he was investigating his friend’s death and was worried for him. Roy explained he couldn’t do it at work, so would spend an hour or two looking over things. Sometimes Riza offered her own input but couldn’t do much. She had a good eye for details but wasn’t in investigations. Still, she could be someone he could talk to about it all.

Chris nodded. “It does. He’s going to fake her death tonight.”

“How though?” Maria Ross was in prison. What was he up to?

“He’s staging a prison break and will “kill” her.” Chris used finger quotations to explain herself.

Riza swallowed.

“It’s all staged though, don’t worry. He has a dummy at the ready that I helped procure the ingredients for. Breda came to me with some things he needed, and I helped the operation along. Havoc will protect Ross and help get her out of the country.”

“So, why bring Mia and I here?”

“Roy asked if I could invite you for dinner, partly as a precaution but also because he probably felt guilty he wouldn’t be home tonight.”

Riza nodded, things falling into place. He had sounded regretful on the phone earlier when he said he wouldn’t be home.

“Why is us being out of the house a precaution?”

Chris shrugged. “Beats me, but I have a pretty good theory.”

“What is it?”

She regarded Riza quietly for a long moment, which only caused frustration to build.

“Chris, please. If my daughter is in some kind of danger then I deserve to know what it is.”

She eyed Riza once more before nodding. “There’s dangerous people roaming around Central right now. They each bear a matching tattoo. An Ouroboros tattoo. They’re tied to the military somehow, but we don’t know why yet.”

Ouroboros… Riza had seen that word mentioned before, years ago in an ancient history book. She was sure it had been in her father’s study. “What does the tattoo look like?” At the mention of a tattoo, her back tingled lightly as a reminder. She hadn’t discussed any form of tattoo with anyone in a long time. They weren’t popular around Amestris, so weren’t a regular topic of conversation.

“A snake eating its own tail.”

That definitely sounded familiar to Riza. She was sure she’d seen it on Roy’s desk at home, half-hidden by other pieces of paper.

“And these people pose a threat?”

Chris nodded. “We don’t know who they’re targeting, but yes, they do. Just be cautious, all right? Know that if you ever need anything, I’m just a call away as well.”

Riza sat back in her chair.

“I have no reason to believe they will contact you personally, however, just keep an eye out," Chris warned.

“I will,” she swallowed. She was still in a daze from all this new information. It was weighing on her heavily. If Roy was targeted by them, who was to say they wouldn’t use her or Mia to get to him? She shuddered at the thought.

“Roy Boy asked if I could at least fill you in on what was going on tonight, and promised he’d answer any questions you had as soon as possible,” Chris added. “He sent me a coded message earlier and then a quick call. I have the letter if you want to see it?”

Curiosity got the better of her, and Riza nodded.

As Chris left the room Riza remained in place, processing the information she’d been given tonight.

This was… big. Riza knew of his plan to get to the top and was well aware of everything that entailed now, but… Now it was real. He was taking steps here that, if found out, could get him court-martialled. Her stomach twisted. But she knew him, and she knew his team. They were smart as hell. And if Chris was on their side too, helping them along, it eased Riza’s worries a little bit.

“I also have this, if you could pass it onto him?” Chris handed her an envelope along with the piece of paper. The front was blank, giving nothing away. “More information for him.”

This was usual practice between them both. Over the years when Riza and Mia had gone to visit Chris and Roy’s sisters, messages in letters had been passed onto Riza to be delivered to Roy. Riza knew he’d been overreacting when he insisted on not getting her involved in anything. And she’d been right. What was so dangerous about picking up a handful of envelopes to hand over to her husband?

“I will.”

“I’ll get us a drink.” Chris excused herself and left Riza with Roy’s coded letter.

It was a story. There were various names on the paper, each one starting with a specific letter at the beginning. Those letters were used to spell out the words of his message. Riza didn’t bother to read the story he’d crafted. The message itself was all that held her attention at that moment.

 Jailbreak MR. Get Riza and Mia for dinner. Love both.

 She smiled at the last part, her finger stroking over the paper.

Sometimes Riza would read the story just to see how he managed to fit it all together. Riza had tried it too in her spare time, leaving little notes for him in his office at home. Then he'd started doing it as well without a word of warning. His were far cuter than hers, with a message of ‘I love you’ left all over the house. Soon, it was common practice and they’d shown Mia how to do it too. Her messages weren’t long or complex, but it was just a bit of fun for the small family.

“He’s a dramatic one,” Chris snorted. “Jailbreak,” she muttered. “I don’t know where he got that flair from.”

Riza laughed. “He used to always tell me it was from you and wondered how I couldn’t see it.”

Chris shook her head and lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “He’s a strange one, that’s for sure.”

“He certainly knows how to keep us on our toes,” Riza murmured, turning her focus back to his letter.

“He didn’t want to speak to you about it over the phone, is my guess. Too many people potentially listening in.”

“I know,” Riza reassured her. “I just hope tonight goes well for all involved.”

“That fake corpse was perfectly constructed,” Chris replied, sipping at her water. Her cigarette was absent from her lips. “And Roy, having a flair for dramatics, will make sure it’s well presented.”

Riza’s stomach turned. “Where are they taking Maria?” she asked, trying to turn the conversation away from the “corpse”.

“No idea. That was need to know only.”

Humming in agreement, Riza took a sip of her own water.

“I had another reason for bringing you here tonight, Riza.”

“Oh?”

“You’ve expressed interest in the part of becoming a part-time informant.”

She nodded. “I have.”

“Have you ever been interested in working the floor? You can absolutely say no,” Chris added, lifting her hands in front of her to placate any objections. “All you’d have to do is sit and talk to people.”

Riza cocked her head and considered it. Then grimaced. “No. The whole reason for me to come and collect the messages from you and the girls was to stop people thinking Roy was cheating on me by going out on “dates” with them. What would happen if word got out at his place of work that his wife was cheating on him?”

“A fair point, and a very good answer,” Chris chipped in. “However, I suppose I worded that incorrectly. Let me rephrase that, would you be interested in talking to people to gather information rather than simply collecting messages?”

“In what way?”

“Military wives love to gossip. They come in every Friday night. While their husbands sit in the bar, we have a space for them to catch up and basically moan about their partners for a couple of hours. It’s in the back of the bar, in that room just off to the right as you go out.”

Riza had noticed the door there but hadn’t thought much more of it. She’d never been through there.

“Your upstart Colonel husband would be a good talking point for those ladies,” Chris ventured.

“Are you asking me to gossip about my husband?” Riza frowned.

“Not at all, but you would be welcomed into their social circle openly. Roy Boy is certainly making a name for himself, especially after coming to Central, and he’s a hot topic of conversation.”

Riza wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. “Only good things, I hope?”

“Of course. Mostly because he’s a breath of fresh air with all the old stuffy military officials that usually frequent their company.”

She still wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. “And I assume these conversations are all innocent?”

Chris shook her head. “Riza, all those women are old enough to be Roy’s mother,” she chuckled. “They dote on him because he’s a kind kid who's friendly and polite to everyone. Always the charmer," she snorted. "Vanessa very quickly put an end to any possible… not so innocent thoughts. She went in there one Friday gushing about Roy’s beautiful wife and his adorable daughter.”

She laughed when Riza’s cheeks turned pink at the compliment, and Riza coughed to hide it.

“I’m not jealous,” Riza assured Chris. “I just don’t want pointless gossip to ruin his reputation.”

“If anything, they love your little family even more now. They ate it up. It’s the truth, of course, but they really do say nothing but good things, I promise. The girls covering the party make sure of it.” Chris sat back in her chair. “It was just an idea,” she relented. “Some other way for you to help. Military wives on a Friday night can be very animated, and I thought you stopping by would get them to open up even more. It’s completely up to yourself," she relented. "It can be a onetime thing or a regular occurrence. It was just something to try."

“I’ll consider it,” Riza stated carefully. She’d need to weigh her options and if she could find someone to look after Mia if Roy was working.

“That’s all I ask. Roy told me a while back you were interested in being an informant, and the idea occurred to me after that last Friday night.”

“What happened last Friday night?”

“Lots more oohing and ahing over your perfect family,” she smirked. “Honestly, they eat it up Riza. You should come and see it for yourself someday.”

“Are you suggesting we’re not perfect,” Riza quipped, smiling over the rim of her glass.

“No one is perfect,” Chris replied with her own smirk. “But they are correct. You are a beautiful woman and Mia is extremely adorable.”

Chris guffawed while Riza mumbled her thanks at another compliment from her. She was sure Chris only did it because she got a kick out of it.

“Every word of that is the truth,” Chris stated assuredly. “Come on, let’s go and see what Mia’s up to. See if she’s tired out Vanessa yet,” she chuckled.

*          *          *

Mia was half asleep as she walked up the stairs to her bedroom. The offer to remain at Chris’ for the night was there, but Mia had school tomorrow morning so it would be easier for Riza to just take her home. Her mother-in-law had also offered Roxanne’s protection. While Riza appreciated it and welcomed the determined and eager look on Roxanne’s face, she politely declined the offer.

Riza had only been in bed for fifteen minutes or so before she heard the front door opening. Her body tensed in its half-asleep state, but relaxed when she heard Roy sigh from downstairs. Lights were turned off as he climbed the stairs. With heavy footsteps, he reached the top of the stairs but stopped outside Mia’s bedroom door. Riza heard it creak open as he checked in on her. The house turned silent as he did so.

Their bedroom door opened and Riza looked up. Like his footfalls suggested, he looked exhausted, but he still offered her a smile.

“Hi,” he greeted. Roy’s voice sounded a little hoarse as he spoke, discarding his military jacket over the back of the armchair on his side of the bed.

“Hey,” she smiled. “How did it go?”

“Everything went well. The plan went off without a hitch.”

Roy kicked his trousers off and placed it over his jacket on the chair. His shirt however was discarded into a pile on the floor, so he remained in only his boxers. Climbing into bed, Roy wrapped his arms around Riza tightly, giving her a squeeze. A kiss was pressed to her forehead and Riza sighed into it, her body relaxing now she knew that he was home.

“Maria is safe?”

Roy nodded. “On her way to Xerxes.”

“Xerxes? That’s quite a distance,” she commented, racking her brain to try and think how far through the desert that was.

“We’ve determined that whoever is behind it all is working throughout Amestris,” Roy yawned. “I wanted to be safe. I have some associates from Xing, and they’ll escort her there.”

“And are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled tiredly.

“Chris told me what you had to do with the… corpse.” Riza grimaced. Her tired mind couldn’t think of a better or more tactful way to word it.

“It was fine. I saved someone’s life tonight, that’s what matters,” he yawned again, but his expression quickly turned pained. “I did become the villain for doing it though.”

“How come?”

“Edward always seems to be in the wrong place at the right time,” he mumbled. “He saw me ‘killing’ Ross. I had no idea who was tailing him or if he was compromised so I had to go with the murder story.”

“I’m sorry, Roy.”

“It’s all right,” he sighed. “But thank you. The kid hates me for sure now,” Roy chuckled. “But he’ll be on his way to Xerxes soon enough too so he can find out the truth.” His eyelids fluttered closed.

Riza looked up as his eyelashes splayed across his cheeks and his face finally relaxed. The day’s events had been weighing on him, and she was loath to take up any more of his sleeping time.

“Get some rest, Roy,” she breathed, pressing a kiss to his lips.

He grunted softly in response, deepening the kiss for a moment. “Just what I needed to feel better,” he grinned. It was that dopey smile that he only showed when he was tired, and Riza loved it. “Plus, I’ll need it. Tomorrow will be another long day.” Then, she felt him pause. “There’s… something coming up in a few days. I anticipate we’ll need to go after one of the people with the Ouroboros tattoo. Can you go to my mother’s that night?”

“Is this something I should be concerned about?”

Roy shook his head. “No. And I mean it,” he added earnestly. “I really don’t anticipate anything like that coming your way, however, it would give me peace of mind to know you’re all together.”

“You know I can handle myself,” she quipped lightly.

“I don’t doubt it for a second,” he replied, pressing a kiss to her forehead again. “But until I know exactly what I’m dealing with and how to handle it, it would let me breathe easier if I knew my pregnant wife and my daughter were under my mother’s protection. She has a whole labyrinth of tunnels underneath her bar. If the wrong people come knocking then you can hide under there and I’ll come when it’s safe.”

“The wrong people, huh?”

He nodded. “The Ouroboros gang,” he drawled. “Keep an eye out for anyone with that tattoo by the way. I have a picture of it in my office. I’ll show you it tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry, your mother already explained it to me.”

His eyelids drifted closed again and Riza smiled. She lifted a hand to caress his face lightly with her fingers. He flinched in fright but turned his head to press a kiss to her palm.

“Get some sleep,” she prompted.

“You said that before then distracted me,” he grumbled.

“I can take that kiss back,” she joked, moving out of his hold. This caused him to latch onto her torso even tighter.

“Please don’t,” he begged. “I’m sorry,” he gushed dramatically.

“Go to sleep, Roy. I love you.”

He hummed with a smile. “Love you too.”

[luna-almighty-god]

Comfort a Little Dream N°6 [Light and dark, when the two cannot coexist]

This story is obviously not canonical, please do not refer to it if you are looking for canonical information.

Careful, there are explicit scenes in this story (violence) !Have a good read!

===

Previous Chapter ===

    He felt pulled out of his icy prison, torn from the devastating darkness. The pain, which he had finally forgotten, came back brutally, stronger than the last time, more terrible and haunting. His arm seemed to be slashed from all sides, his leg smashed against the ground. His rib cage, heavy and cumbersome, blocked his breathing.

    He suddenly opened his eyes. The light blinded him, burned out his eye sockets, and before he could understand anything, he felt his stomach twist violently. His body moved on its own, rolled sharply to the side to regurgitate everything he had eaten lately, that is to say, nothing at all. There was nothing but bile, sour and foul, mixed with the peculiar taste of blood, a taste to which he should have been accustomed, but ... 

[ But who could get used to that? ]

    And like every time, like every fucking time, there were these disgusting noises, this nauseating smell, these elements that Dream would have wished to never know, never wanted to know again. He wished to forget them, to erase them from his memory, but each time he succeeded it was to better rediscover them the next time. 

“He's awake!" he heard abruptly without being able to identify the voice.

- Go get Nightmare! I'll take care of him!” retorted a second person.

    And Dream had a new high heart, vomited for the second time, almost choked on this filth until he felt two arms grasping and straightening him, two arms that helped him to get into a slightly more comfortable position, a position that would allow him to finish this regurgitation without ending up strangling him with his own bile. 

    He coughed violently, tried to catch his breath. The pain had wrung tears from him, tears of bitterness and suffering, tears that blurred his already blurred vision. Exhausted, he could no longer hold on, and put all his weight on those unknown arms, those arms which continued to hold him and which, it seemed, caressed his back hesitantly, like a feeble attempt to comfort him. 

    He closed his eyes, barely discerned the slamming of a door. But he clearly heard the cry that followed: 

“DUST, IS HE AWAKE?”

    He sank again.

*** ***

    He blinked slowly. The first thing that struck him was the smell of fresh sheets, a smell much more pleasant than what he was used to. Then he perceived a strange softness, the softness of a blanket covering him, although it could not overcome the pain that still ran through his bones. But his body was much less painful than he remembered, and breathing was no longer the worst of all calvaries. 

    He gently sniffed the air, taking time to adjust to the atmosphere... tranquil atmosphere. But... why... Why couldn't he fully enjoy it?

    He rose with difficulty, still half asleep, emptied of all motivation. He looked around the room, an unknown room. Tidied up, cleaned, as if it were being taken care of regularly. 

    And he froze. He froze as he turned his head to the door, and saw Nightmare standing in the doorway. 

    He knew without a doubt that he wasn't dreaming.

“... How do you feel?”

    IF Dream was surprised by his brother's gentleness, he showed nothing of it. He simply looked away, briefly shrugging his shoulders without making a sound. What could he have said, what could he have done? He was exhausted, exhausted from fighting and arguing.

    He didn't want to make any more effort.

    Nightmare frowned, but did not raise his eyebrows. He approached the bed slowly, his eyes glued to his twin:

“We're in my castle. You've been unconscious for a week. 

- ... I'm not corrupt.”

    Those were his first words, and probably the hardest he had to say. His throat was sore, he could hardly raise his voice, and his sentence was close to a whisper. Nightmare seemed to shudder, but remained in control of himself:

“Indeed. I serve you... catalyst. I'm absorbing some of the negativity you've ingested, but I'm only doing a limited amount. It's enough to keep you from transforming. However... it only works if you're close to me. That's why I brought you here.”

    Dream listened to it silently before looking at it again. His dull and tired look made Nightmare shudder, shudder with anguish.

“... So you're going to sequester me here?”

    The master of nightmares tensed up, got carried away in spite of himself:

“No! But I'm not letting you go until we get this shit out of your system!”

    And Dream simply shrugged his shoulders, returning to his examination of the play:

“All right. Whatever.”

    This 'whatever' messed Nightmare up more than he admitted. He gritted his teeth, struggling not to let anger overwhelm him. It wasn't even Dream he was angry at, but this 'thing' that Dream had become. Against this 'thing' that Nightmare had created, that he had unleashed on himself.

“... I'll have a meal brought to you.”

    He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him, and rushed across the hallway towards the kitchen. But he stopped in the middle of the deserted corridor, his body shaking all over. He saw his twin's gaze again, that lifeless gaze, devoid of the passion and innocence that had characterized Dream until then.

“... Fuck.”

    He smashed his fist against the wall, ignoring the pain that ran through his phalanges, a pain that was nothing compared to what his brother had surely experienced. His soul was twisted, consumed by a guilt that grew with every minute, and soon it was only a muffled sob that escaped him:

“...fuck…”

    He screwed up. He screwed up all the way.

*** ***

    Dream didn't know if he'd gone back to sleep or not. In any case, it was only a few knocks on his door that made him open his eyes again, turning his head towards the newcomer who had allowed himself to enter without being invited.

    And he could not help but feel the sight of Ink carrying a meal tray for him.

    They stayed for long minutes looking at each other without any of them daring to make the slightest gesture, daring to say a word. The silence, which had become embarrassing from the first few seconds, only became more tense when the painter finally decided to approach the bed, put the tray on the bedside table and turned his attention to Dream.

    The Dream Keeper had no trouble perceiving the dark circles under the eyes of the Creator, but he did not deign to speak up. On the contrary: he turned his eyes away, looked out of the window to contemplate the sun, which was gently declining.

    Ink tightened up, his throat tied. His friend's reaction had been enough to add to the weight on his shoulders. 

“... Hey, Dream... It's been a while... !”

    He had tried a poor smile, a light greeting, but his clumsiness and anxiety did not help him, nor did the ignorance of the guard. But the Creator was known to persevere, so he insisted: 

“... How do you...

- Don't do that.”

    Ink froze, confused, his smile vanished. Dream's voice had been weak... weak but cold.

“I'm alive as you can see. You don't have to worry about the multiverse anymore.”

    The painter became paler than he already was, his mouth trembling under the veiled accusations of his best friend:

“Dream, I don't understand... What does it have to do with the multiverse? Well, I just...

- Were you worried about me, about my health? Oh, well... Ahah... don't make me laugh…”

    Dream looked at him again. But if it was to receive an accusing look, full of anger and regret, Ink would have preferred that he continue to ignore it. 

“It seems you don't know this Ink... but now the multiverse can live without harm, even with the guardians gone. Really, you don't have to worry about that anymore. 

- ... Do you realize what you're saying?”

    The creator felt a painful sensation in his chest, where his soul should have been. A sensation he usually only had when he drank his sorrow potion. A feeling he hated to have, even more in the presence of Dream, and this feeling only became stronger, more painful, almost making him want to cry if he could only cry by himself.

“Dream, right now it's not the multiverse that matters to me but you... ! 

- I told you to stop.”

    Dream looked away again:

“Stop with the fake compassion, the overplayed friendship... 

- ... on ... ? Dream, what the hell are you talking about? We're friends! We're friends for real!”

    Ink had raised his voice, had raised his voice like never before, his body trembling under another sensation, the sensation that twisted him when he swallowed his potion of anger. He had felt the effects of his potions before, but never before had it been so strong, so hard, so unbearable to feel. 

    And he petrified. The few emotions he was feeling escaped him, evaporated with the understanding of these last words, words he never thought he would hear from Dream:

“How can we be friends, you don't even have a soul.”

    The Creator stood there, his eyes wide open, his pupils turning back into simple white circles. Silence fell again, and lasted so long that the atmosphere became suffocating.

    And as quickly as he had come, Ink left the room.

    Dream looked at the ceiling without worrying about the meal. He wasn't hungry, he didn't want anything. Nothing except this calm that had just been established, this serenity that had won him after the words he had finally said to Ink, these words that had been burning his puck for so long already. These hurtful words, these painful words, ....these words that didn't sound like him. Those words that he should never have said.

[ Freeze ]

    His world collapsed again as he became aware of what he had done.

[ Straightens up ]

    His mouth ajar could not make any sound. What could he have said anyway?

Was he sorry? Was he really sorry?

[ Why, as he took pleasure in saying those words, pleasure in guessing Ink....'s discombobulated look ]

WHY WAS HE IN SO MUCH PAIN?

[ FUCKIN' HELL, WHY DID YOU WANT TO CRY? WHY DID HE WANT TO CRY AFTER THAT? ]

    He took his head in his hands, repressed the flood of tears that came to him, which seemed to crack him from the inside. He needed to let off steam, he needed to hurt, he needed to hurt someone, anyone! But it wasn't him, no it wasn't him! He needed to help others, not push them down! He was supposed to be kind, not mean! Gentle, not offensive! He was supposed to be .....

WHAT WAS HE SUPPOSED TO BE?

    He screamed, he screamed from the depths of his being, his rage and incomprehension taking over, suffocating him with this guilt that he could no longer feel. But what was bothering him? What was really bothering him? Why couldn't he put clear thoughts into it?     He didn't want it to turn out this way, he didn't want to end Ink this way, he didn't want to become a horrible being, he didn't want... he didn't want this anymore, he didn't want this shit, this life, these terrors, these.... ....

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

    His raspy voice only made his cry more pathetic, more laughable, and suddenly he started to laugh. Laughing at the person he had become, the person he had always been. Laughing at this miserable being that everyone had loved for so long, this miserable being who was just a stupid, stupid, stupid skeleton...! 

    And his faint laughter that mingled with his muffled cry was interspersed with his jolts, his incomprehensible and confused sobs that accompanied the bitter tears that flooded his face, which made him feel like he was going completely mad. 

    Laughing and crying at the same time, shouting and smiling as if it were natural, wasn't that the beginning of dementia, the announcement of the madness that possessed him? 

“DREAM!”

    He cowered, like a defence mechanism, defence against that voice he could no longer bear. No, no he couldn't hear Nightmare anymore, he didn't want to hear or see it anymore!!!! He tightened the grip on his skull, his dying laughter to leave only his tears of terror. He knew, he knew what his brother would do, he was preparing for the impact, he was preparing for his horrors, his tentacles, his sermon, his torture ...! 

    ...

    There was nothing.     None of that.

    ...

    There was no ....

    ...

    There was only soft touch. Soft and feverish. Soft but trembling.

    ...

    A ....hug.

    ...

    How long has it been ....

    ...

[When was the last time he hugged him?]

    .... 

    Dream didn't even have the presence of mind to struggle, to shout again, to try to escape this hold. The shock was far too great, too violent. It remained just ....like that. Mute with stupor. Eyes wide open.

    Unable to raise his head to his brother.

    Unable to believe it was real.

    When his twin let go of him, walking a few steps away, Dream remained silent again, his eyes devoid of pupils, as if he had been disconnected, that he had bugged. He remained with his arms dangling, sitting in his bed, head down, as if emptied of any notion of life.

“....Dream...?”

    He's not responding to his brother's voice. He didn't know how to react. He didn't know ... didn't understand who he was, what his role was, what his identity was for him and for others.

    It seemed to him ....

[It seemed empty to him.] [ Emotionally void ]

*** ***

    Nightmare came out of the room even more feverishly than the last time. He imperceptibly clenched the fist he'd hurt himself earlier, waking up the pain that had eased ....slightly, and threw it back against the wall, with all the rage that inhabited him at that moment.     But he couldn't break his bones as he wished: a hand grabbed his wrist and stopped him in his gesture. He clenched his teeth, his eyes glued to the wall, not deigning to look at the newcomer:

“...let go of me, Cross. - Hurting you won't change anything.”

    Nightmare strongly repulsed him:

“AND THEN? AT LEAST IT BLOWS! - It's no us.... - IT WON'T DO ANYTHING BUT IT'S DOING GOOD, YOU SEE? IT'S USELESS BUT IT'S A WAY TO PUNISH THE ASSHOLE WHO HURT HIS BROTHER, THE ASSHOLE WHO PUSHED HIM OVER THE EDGE! IT'S NO USE AT ALL M…”

    He almost choked on Cross, almost cracked when he felt him hugging him, clutching him, holding him to his chest in his warm but trembling embrace. ....     Cross lowered his voice, as if he was afraid to break it by raising his voice too much:

“...you're not the only one responsible.... why... why do you always go to extremes? Why does everything have to be all black and white? Why do you have to be the one and only bad guy?”

    The swordsman tightened his grip, hardly swallowing his saliva: 

“... "Black apples darken you. Night.... is what made you hurt your brother..... You have your share of responsibility, but it's not entirely your fault......”

    His throat tied, pushing him to hide his face in the neck of his superior, to conceal his treacherous tears that troubled his life: 

“...I have no excuse. I don't have the black apples, I don't have Chara anymore. I'm just... just me. Just me who spent time with your brother, who took advantage of his kindness, his smile, without ever seeing... without ever seeing me…”

    His words died as did his will. He gritted his teeth, shamefully stepping aside, but wondered at being restrained, at being brought back against the body of his superior.     And Nightmare clumsily stroked his back, trembling. He gave him little comfort when he himself was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

    Cross couldn't even smile. He closed his eyes, his soul clenched, as the voice of his leader rose: 

“...aren't you going to see Dream? - I'd like to... I just wish... I wish he'd hit me if it would make him happy, hurt me if it would make him happy... But I'm too scared that just seeing me will make him worse. He'll…”

“He hates me now, he'll never want me again,” said his weak sobs instead of his voice. Nightmare remained silent.

    Silence was the only adequate response. 

*** ***

    Dream hadn't taken his eyes off the sheets, hadn't changed his position, hadn't moved a millimetre since his last 'interview' with his brother. His notion of time was flawed, abstract, just like his feelings, his thoughts.

    He didn't know how he felt. He didn't know what he wanted anymore.

    But his body wasn't of the same opinion.

    He clearly heard the gurgling that escaped him, betraying the hunger that had finally caught up with him. Yet he did not feel like swallowing anything, but his mind was no longer able to make any decision, and it was not automatic that he stood up, shivering at the contact of his bare feet against the cool ground.

    He was wearing just a simple t-shirt and Bermuda shorts, nothing good going down or very hot. But in all honesty he didn't even notice his outfit, concentrating instead on the pain going through his body, trying to take one step at a time without collapsing. 

    With muffled footsteps he moved forward while brushing against the walls. His gaze lingered slightly on what surrounded him, on his corridors so familiar and yet so different ... The castle of his childhood, the one where he had lived and grew up with his brother.

    He lowered his eyes, unable to look down at the place, unable to remember the so-called 'good memories' without feeling the pinch in his soul, the pain in his chest. 

    He sniffed softly, feverishly passing his arm over his swollen eyes for fear of crying again. He couldn't stand the cracking, the sobbing for nothing... 

    He dragged himself pitifully into the kitchen, finding his way around with difficulty. Night had fallen, only making the place darker and more terrifying, but it was nothing for Dream. It was nothing after the place of darkness where his mind had been locked during that week of coma.

    A sigh escaped him, weary and difficult, pulling slightly on his irritated throat. He reached, after an interminable journey, to the kitchen door. But as he was about to enter, he froze in the doorway.

    At first it was violent, painful feelings that hit him hard. Negative feelings mixed with resentment, regret, anger and bitterness. Chaotic feelings, but controlled enough not to be projected beyond a certain perimeter, as if the person releasing them did not want them to be felt. Didn't want Nightmare to feel them.

    Dream finally dared to look up, feverish, touched by this unknown suffering ... and his eyes fell on Dust. Dust who was sitting at the table, his face immersed in his hands, trembling and sobbing, whispering 'sorry, I'm sorry' interspersed with a strong breath, vein attempts to contain himself.

    Dream didn't know what to do. He hesitated to turn back, to pretend he hadn't seen or heard anything, for fear of embarrassing his counterpart ... but his distress prevented him from moving, from abandoning him to his fate.

[He couldn't leave him like that.]

“Dust…”

    The other one jumped violently, petrified at the understanding of this frail voice. He did not turn back to him, probably ashamed to be surprised at such a moment.

    Dream didn't insist. He didn't say another word. He simply took one step, then another, then another, and another before reaching the height of the table, to take a seat next to the other skeleton. He didn't look at him, he didn't want to show him that he had seen him crying. But gently, delicately, he slid his hand over the wooden furniture, reached Dust's arm and pulled slightly on it. 

    He met with no resistance. Probably caught the killer off guard.

[ Slipped his hand in his]

[ Gently intertwined their knuckles ]

    Dust shuddered, confused by the heat that crept into him, which swept away the terror that tugged at his soul. He timidly observed Dream who had lowered his eyes and at last, at last he understood: for the first time in his life he was dealing with the warm aura of the little guardian, this aura at the antipodes of that of Nightmare. A delicate aura, as tender as marshmallow, which enveloped him with love and gave him the impression of floating on a cloud, of being rid of his worries even if only for a while ... 

[ He understood better why some people went crazy... ]

    Dust became more perplexed. Now that he was no longer in the grip of his crying fit, he was better able to think properly, and this surprised him. He tightened his grip on the youngest's hand, looking at it with curiosity:

"Why are you doing this? You should take care of yourself before you worry about other people. »

    Dream raised his head, looking stunned, stunned by his comment.

“But... you weren't well…”

    Dust frowned:

“So what? You count less than the others? 

- ... I....”

    Yes. His eyes screamed yes, his body screamed yes, his panic screamed yes. His whole being screamed YES, YES he counted less than the others! 

    And Dust was struck by that feverish look, by that little scared and terrified skeleton, that little innocent skeleton who, in spite of his anxiety and suffering, had come to comfort and support him. This little guardian that he was rediscovering, not as a naive kid who knew nothing about real life, but as an injured young adult who was trying to hold his head high.

    Dust no longer felt the warm aura. All he felt was an icy embrace, a spike that struck his soul. He gritted his teeth.

    He pulled Dream against him.

“... It's time to think of you, little caretaker.”

    The little dream opened up. This strangely familiar embrace had something different, different from what Nightmare had given him earlier. Something snapped in his throat, pushed him to crack, again, pushed him to cry, again... He buried his face against the torso of the tallest one, came to hug him, grabbed him like he would have grabbed a lifebuoy. 

    He stopped trying to repress his sobs. Dust didn't once try to calm him down.

    They simply stayed, for a long time, embraced one another, in the deserted kitchen.

===

Next Chapter

You can support me on my Utip or on my Ko-fi account !

===

Credits =

Dreamtale -> Joku

Shattered Dream -> ErroredArtist’s

Cross ->  Jakei

Error -> Lover The Piggies

Ink -> Comyet / Myebi

Dust -> Ask DustTale

Killer -> Rahafwabas

Color -> Superyoumma

Sugar Plum -> undertale Community (formerly NSFWShamecave ?)

[acesthetically-pleasing]

We Need To Talk About Sherlock [22/52]

Asexual Awareness Week Fandom Challenge 2017

Wed 25th, Day 4: Post about how a canon asexual/spectrum character came out or how you believe a headcanoned asexual/spectrum character would come out. Or post about them not coming out and why they haven’t.

For this occasion 22nd aspec drabble of 52 aspec drabbles of 2017. One that I actually started approximately 10,000 years ago. It’s a nice feeling to finish things! Enjoy a 5+1 story all about Sherlock Holmes and coming out! :) [Also on AO3]

 one

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area." Sherlock replies, lost in thoughts, while still looking outside.

Will the murderer appear? It is a very long shot, he mostly hopes to get a chance to experiment with John's limp, it might be inconvenient if he doesn't get rid of it quickly enough.

"You've got a boyfriend then? Which is fine."

"I know it's fine," Sherlock says quickly. Of course, it's fine, he has nothing against it in general. People can do whatever they please, he would simply appreciate them not tagging him along with the insanity.

"So you've got a boyfriend then?"

"No."

"Oh, so, you're unattached like me. That's good."

Oh. Oh no. Was he? Oh god. Why is it always so hard to tell, when it's happening to him? He's been told he missed obvious cues, so he tried to be precautious and actually warned Lestrade off, who found the whole thing hilarious once he caught up with Sherlock's meaning.

"John, while I am flattered, you should know I consider myself married to my work."

"No, no, I wasn't... No. It's fine. It's all fine."

Sherlock frowns. He's sure John doesn't understand, but they've just met and they're at Angello's and there's a serial killer on the loose, he doesn't have the time nor will to explain himself to strangers. If they will become flatmates, friends perhaps, he suspects this is not completely out real of possibility, though highly unlikely, it will come up and he will have the time to properly explain.

     He allows himself a brief annoyance that always comes with the thought of explaining it all. How uneducated people still are. How much more difficult it is to tell them the truth than to let them assume he is whatever they paged him for, gay, straight, sociopath.  

     Now, however, is not the time for this annoyance either, because the cab slows down and stays there for far too long. Oooh, that's clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever? 

           two      

     They're working on a case that is intertwined with a group of sex workers. Sherlock would be excited, sex workers are sometimes a beginner's crime for a serial killer, but the victims are very specific and the murder itself is dull while the case is muddled with personal drama of the victims. Sherlock interviews everybody connected, reads their social media to learns about them, talks with them in his head and it still doesn't make sense.  

     "Why would he even be with her, it was her night off, there was no cash exchanged unless it was taken, but nothing points to that," Sherlock rants to himself to stay focused.  

     "Yeah, why would he sleep with her, a true mystery," says John, mockingly and looking at him with a mirth in his eyes as if to share a joke.  

     Sherlock frowns and John's expression slowly changes, slackens, his eyebrows lifting in surprise.  

     "What?" Sherlock snaps.  

     "Seriously?" John rolls his eyes when silence is his only answer. "You walk into the room and know what a person you've never met had for breakfast, when did they get here and what's their dog's name, but you see a guy with an attractive girl in bed and you get confused?"  

     "I focused on her occupation and thought of it as a business meeting, I failed to notice she clearly mixed business with pleasure."  

     "Rather hard not to with a job like that."  

     Sherlock makes a sour face, just thinking about it in too much detail by accident. He shakes his head to lose the thought.  

     "I'm sure one can manage."  

     John frowns at him and Sherlock is already rolling his eyes and quickly walking away, avoiding eye contact. John makes this face when he is trying to figure Sherlock out and it never means anything good, considering both all the sharp bits that make Sherlock and John's lack of ability to look at them from the right perspective.  

     "Do you ever even-"  

     "No time for chatting, John. Lestrade is waiting for us."  

     "No, he's not. He said to come back when we have something."  

     "Well, I do have something."  

     "You found a lead?" John asks, hurring behind Sherlock and down the stairs.  

     "No," Sherlock grins, twirling around to face his friend. "I found a murderer."  

           three      

     Sherlock thinks it's too obvious.  

     Then he remembers people are idiots and always believe what they want.  

     He wonders how far he can push it.  

     Of course, Janine doesn't really know him. She met him once, at the wedding, he was being nice. It's not hard to convince her that his less nice moments were an effect of stress. It's believable. Again, she doesn't know him well enough to know that it was his good behavior that was actually an effect of stress and very strong will. Utterly fake. She thinks he's interesting and oddly funny. It's enough to work with for awhile, she's not a problem.  

     Everyone else is.  

     Lestrade would make this confused face he always does when he's trying to figure out if Sherlock is playing with him. Maybe he could be convinced enough not to protest, but he wouldn't ever really believe it. Ready to jump with the hearty "I knew it!" the moment the act was dropped. Molly would be upset enough to get fooled for a while, but then she would see him being sweet and she'd figure it out. She is a smart girl. Mrs. Hudson would be hopeful enough to try and lie to herself. Mycroft would just roll his eyes, he lost the hope a long time ago.  

     John...  

     He thought John would be harder to fool.  

     "You have a girlfriend?" John asks shocked and Sherlock fights back a smile.  

     "Yes, I have," he says, feigning confusion and hoping John will call out him on that.  

     He told him so many times by now, but it seems it never stuck. John is shocked and disbelieving, but he never brings up the right arguments, the right words, even if they should be well within his arsenal by now, so Sherlock doesn't indulge him with the truth until it's needed.  

           four      

     "You are a living, breathing man. You've lived a life, you have a past."  

     "A what?!" This shouldn't be happening not here, not now.  

     Although somehow he knows it did happen. It does happen. Both here and now. A lot of times.  

     "Well, you must have had..."  

     Why is he so tenacious, this is not what they're here about and yet it's always there, isn't it? Underneath all of their conversations.  

     "Had what?"  

     Sherlock should finally just tell him.  

     "You know."  

     He would be insufferable, but maybe the torture of those conversations would finally end.  

     "No."  

     Eventually.  

     "Experiences."  

     "Pass me your revolver, I have a sudden need to use it."  

     "Damn it, Holmes, you are flesh and blood, you have feelings, you have... You must have... Impulses."  

     That's what Sherlock always feared, that John would insist it's just Sherlock being Sherlock. That it's not a real thing, not a real explanation. And Sherlock had heard it all before. You're not asexual, you just have issues. You're not aromantic, you git, you're just an arsehole. It's not a real thing, Sherlock. You're a sociopath.  

     He heard it all and now he hears it in John's voice and now is - not - the - time!  

     "Dear Lord, I have never been so impatient to be attacked by a murderous ghost."  

           five      

     "As I think I have explained to you many times before, romantic entanglement, while fulfilling for other people..."  

     "Would complete you as a human being," John interrupts and Sherlock wants to punch him. He wants to hold him and make him stay, but good Lord he also wants to punch him.  

     "That doesn't even mean anything," he says instead and lets John talk instead. This isn't about him.  

           plus one      

     They're at the crime scene again, just for a moment this time. Rosamund is in Lestrade's car, happily playing in her seat and talking to herself and her plushie rabbit, but she won't be satisfied with this for long. They stopped for a moment just so Sherlock could glance around and point Lestrade in the right direction. The man is run thin, the Yard understuffed due to the flu season and Sherlock feels magnanimous enough to share a few minutes, as long as it's not enough for the takeout that John's still holding to lose all its heat.  

     John narrates calmly, half talking to Lestrade, half trying to figure things out himself. Sherlock just humms back at him, feigning interest while focusing on the difference between the footprints in the alley.  

     "Okay, so those two snuck out into the alley for a bit of fun like we all did in a day even if some of us pretend they've never felt the urge," John's monologue take that characteristic tone of 'I'm mocking you' which for John often means 'I'm mocking you to check if you're listening' so Sherlock obligingly rolls his eyes at him.  

     "I guess that's his privilege as the asexual one in the group," Lestrade mumbled before yawning hugely.  

     Sherlock stares at him while John falls silent and turns towards the policeman as well. After a short moment, Lestrade notices the doubled attention and blinks owlishly.  

     "What?" he asks, his voice muffled due to his stuck nose.  

     "What do you mean-" John starts asking, but Sherlock interrupts quickly.  

     "The cook from the bar did it," he says and then in the growing generous mood adds: "You will find the murder weapon under the bin, probably with his fingerprints or DNA, he accidentally dropped it and didn't have the opportunity to retrieve it since the police arrive. He didn't get a chance to clean it. He was in love with one of them, though I'm not certain which. He will confess, it was a passion murder, he's not prepared to deal with the consequences."  

     "Oh," Lestrade looks surprised at the detailed information, but quickly snaps out of it, clearly deciding to just take it gladly without looking the gift horse in the mouth. He grins at Sherlock. "Thanks, Sherlock, that's brilliant."  

     "Yes," Sherlock agrees. "I am. Goodnight, Lestrade."  

     "Yeah, 'night guys." Lestrade waves as Sherlock moves quickly towards the car, John following him slowly in a thoughtful silence.  

     Sherlock guesses they finally will have that conversation he kept putting off for years now. He grabs Rosamund and passes the takeaway to John, not meeting his eyes.  

     Part of him is relieved.  

     He catches them a cab quickly even though they're not that far from Baker Street. Rosamund is getting sleepy, she will get fussy soon, it's better to avoid it.  

     Part of him is annoyed that Lestrade didn't need the talk, but he tries not to dwell on it.  

     "So, asexual?" John asks and Sherlock raises his eyebrows.  

     "I thought it rather self-evident."  

     He turns towards the car window and talks to Rosamund, answering her inane questions as she points at the things they're passing.  

     The cab is not really the place for this conversation, he thinks.  

     But they don't talk about it at home either.  

[augustawren]

A Candle in the Dark Pt. 2

Characters: Wren and her memories (her memoir)

Universe: Canon memories, Originally written for Broken/Fang AU

Part 2

So many locks, not enough keys. Too much sorry, not enough please. (old Clayton’s favorite saying)

The resiliency of children is an amazing thing. In this I know I was not unique. I have seen it over and over again in my travels. In the eyes of the children from the factory, in the eyes of a young girl scarred and traumatized from an accident, and even in my own child’s eyes. Children adapt and recover, showing startling amounts of strength that many adults would be hard pressed to find within themselves. They learn faster, they move quicker. With the right environment, they heal.

At first I was a feral creature, biting and scratching anyone who dared approach me. I left more than a few scars on the gentle hands that brought me food. For weeks my mind was filled with the deafening buzz of bees and I don’t think I had a single thought beyond ‘survive’. Everything I had known was gone, and while it may seem that I should have been grateful for this considering where I had come from, I had still lost everything familiar to me. But most importantly, I had lost Widget. The only thing in the world that I cared about had suddenly been wrenched away. My mind shut down. I wouldn’t come out from under the bed.

Then the music started. Soft, lulling. It made everything feel quieter. And then, a lock was pushed into my hands. I must have stared at it for hours before I started trying to open it. There were tiny tools that I rammed into the slot, trying to force it open. For some reason, nothing else mattered but getting that lock open. Everything else slipped away. Calm instructions floated down to direct my hands. “Listen. Listen to the lock. Listen to the stories it tells.” I sometimes wonder if as I finally popped that lock, another one clicked closed. My body had begun to heal, and as the evidence of what had happened slowly started disappearing, I could pretend that I hadn’t been violated the way that I had been. The most disgusting, vile memories that played over and over in my head suddenly stopped. It was as if I had neatly folded the memories up, placed them in a trunk, and snapped it closed. Then wrapped it in chains and thrown it deep into the river. It was years and years until they bobbed back to the surface.

It marked a turning point for me, I think. Blocking out the worst of the memories allowed me to form a hesitant truce with my elven savior. I promised not to bite him anymore if he promised to stop bringing me broccoli. I peeked out from under the bed long enough to learn his name. Thrush. With my thick Dolbry accent, the crude speech of a child never taught to communicate, and my lacerated lips, speech was a constant struggle for me. Even months later, after hours every day practicing my diction, the only thing I could call him was Shush. And I was his Little Bird, my name taken from the wren that landed on my windowsill one morning. It was a bird I recognized as one of Widget’s favorites. “That’s a wren, Rat! Can you hear it? The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs.” And so I carried a piece of Widget with me, intertwining with a piece of Thrush, our parallel bird names leading to comments like “birds of a feather” or, when we were annoying someone (most likely Thrush’s best friend, Leon), “I’m gonna kill two birds with one stone!”

Slowly, ever so slowly, I emerged, becoming a person again. It took half a year, but I laughed again. My personality started to grow like a sprout through cobblestones. Once I’d stopped cowering and worrying that any misstep would lead to a whipping, I burst through. Stubborn and mischievous, I caused various degrees of trouble, which I didn’t realize Thrush had to then make right with the guild. But he was patient and kind, helped in his efforts with me by Leon and the guild’s cook/herbalist/mother, though I found friends in nearly every member of the guild. The process was slow, full of setbacks and frustrations. In spite of being in my double digits, or so Thrush guessed, neither of us having any idea when my birthday was, I was stuck in a regressed state, acting more like a four year old than someone twice that age. Making friends was a battle for me. I couldn’t connect with anyone but Thrush, though I scrapped with the street kids whenever I could. I sometimes brought back scrawny boys to the guild house, in my attempt to fill the Widget-shaped hole in my heart. No one ever lasted long. No one could compare with who I’d lost. As happy and vivacious as I could be, my nightmares haunted me still.

Every day was brimming with lessons, starting first with books. Speech. Reading. Writing. Learning both the cant of thieves, and Elven. We studied outside, on my insistence. Besides a few glances out of windows and one fateful “field trip” to be shown the power of the Wheel, I had never been outside. At least not that I could remember. I took every opportunity to feel the sunshine on my face and the grass between my toes. Not that there was much grass to speak of in Dolbry. Thrush took me outside the city, letting me run screeching through fields. Even as the seasons changed and snow fell, he indulged me. I had seen enough of the inside, he said. We found a special place just for us, and went there often, carving our initials in a tree. He read to me, or made me read to him, all the while fattening me up on good food and cake. Oh the cake. So much cake.

Then came my training. I was hardly ever seen without a lock in my hand, learning its secrets and stories in seconds. I floated in a happy, safe place that I still go to even to this day when I take on a lock. Then started my combat training, though that started so subtly I didn’t even know it had begun. Exercises in balance, climbing, tumbling, hiding. I worked both at becoming a shadow and being a believable distraction. My mentor made it into a game, one that I was determined to win. In those first few years, I have no idea how he managed to keep up with his guild duties, because I don’t remember a single day that we were apart.

The more I progressed, the more I was put to use. At first my responsibilities were just around the guild house. Small things. But I was eager to please, and thirsty for validation. Soon I was out on the street, my small hands slipping into pockets and pouches, or providing entertainment with juggling and acrobatics so Thrush could cut purse strings. When it was time for me to start learning my way around a blade, however, all games came to a halt. His solemn instructions imparted on me the enormity of what my daggers could do. “A person's life, once taken, cannot be returned.” Didn’t I know it. Still, it was years before I got my first real taste of blood.

I knew little of the guild master at the time. Gabriel was an ominous presence, but one that I respected greatly. It had been he who had allowed me to stay with the guild, after all. Though he had spared no healing for me from the clerics at his disposal, I was forever grateful he hadn’t turned me out into the street to die. My loyalty both to the guild at large, and to him, was unshakeable. My assumption, which was almost my undoing, was that he had let me stay out of the goodness of his heart. What I learned later was that, if there ever even was any goodness in his heart, it certainly was never directed at me. I was always a tool, an asset. What he saw when he turned his cold, calculating gaze to me, was an instrument to use how he liked. Though I didn’t know it, he was using me just as Fang had. I ignored Thrush’s warning about the kind of man he was, thinking Thrush was just overprotective. Instead, I took Gabriel’s philosophies to heart. “Only worth your weight” It was a saying thrown around fairly often, something Gabriel had imparted to us, and as much as Thrush tried to dispel the idea with me, it ingrained itself in my brain. I was only worth as much as I could carry. I felt my position in the guild depended on it. I had to show them, had to show Gabriel, that I was worth the hassle. My craving for approval drove me to be the best thief I could be, much as my desire to please Fang had motivated me to be the best worker in the factory. Another of Gabriel’s sayings had stuck with me as well, though I didn’t grasp its full meaning for several years. “No loose ends”

I was roughly fifteen when Gabriel called me to his office to tell me about an important job. It was up to me, he said, to keep the guild safe. He had discovered someone was selling guild secrets and it was imperative that the traitor paid in blood. Blood. How much of it had I seen in my short life? Still, for the guild? I would do anything. I thought only of the fact that Gabriel had chosen me to be the one to protect us all, not of what the cost of protection would be. I had seen more death than most, after all. What did a little more matter? And wasn’t this what Thrush had been training me for? I knew all the vital areas on a body to strike at. I knew how to be light on my feet, how to dodge attacks and gain the advantage. I knew, as the thieves said, how to dance.

Thrush insisted that I wasn’t ready, that someone else could do it, that he would do it, but Gabriel had chosen me, and he would not be swayed. I found myself angry at Thrush for one of the first times ever. He didn’t believe in me, he didn’t trust me, I thought. He wanted to keep me as a fun project, a kind of silly puppet he could take out to show people and then put away as he chose. I wanted to be more, to show him I was more. I so painfully longed to prove myself.

Thrush took me on a picnic. I was becoming an adult, after all. At fifteen, which to a human is more like eleven or twelve, plus my regression, I was acting more like I was seven or eight, but, I was an adult in the eyes of the guild. Or, at least, in Gabriel’s eyes. I’m not sure why it was that Thrush took me out that morning. I think he was trying to protect that shred of innocence still left inside me. Death was so familiar to me that I could not comprehend how it would be different if I were the one doing the killing. I thought nothing of the way the dagger would feel, pushing past the resistance of skin to sink into muscle or tender organs. I thought nothing of watching the light fade from someone’s eyes, knowing that I was the one to extinguish it. I think that Thrush wanted to give me just one more morning as the happy and healing child that was ignorant of that. He gave me my first taste of wine, no more than a thimbleful, but I felt mature and confident. I felt sure I was ready.

And so it was that I found myself working a crowd with my friend; a boy who had recently joined the guild, and who I had immediately taken to. He was tall and gangly with brown hair with a tint of red to it. He was so like Widget, at least in appearance. We started doing everything together. We became like partners, always working together. We laughed and ate and napped, well on our way to becoming inseparable. I started to feel the ache in my chest begin to lessen. I started to wonder if maybe this really was Widget. What if he had gotten out, but the trauma had completely wiped me from his memory? I knew that I had gaps in my own memory where things should be but weren’t, so wasn’t it possible that he had them too? I needed it to be true. I needed him to be my Widget.

Gabriel told us to go about business as usual in the market, but that I should be keeping a lookout for anything strange. And I wasn’t to tell my friend anything about it. It was my secret, my special job. We worked until the sun started to set. Then I saw him slip away. What was he doing, I wondered. Had he seen something? Then the idea that maybe Gabriel was testing us sprang to my mind. What if we had both been given the same assignment, and whoever completed it would be the one to stay in the guild, the other kicked out… or worse? I ran after him, keeping to the shadows, determined to figure out what was going on. It was then that I overheard him speaking with someone else. Sharing guild secrets in exchange for money.

I didn’t think it could be possible. This was my friend. This was someone I cared deeply about. He was part of my family. How could he betray that? I thought of Gabriel’s insistence that it was up to me to protect everyone. I thought of Thrush, I thought of every person in the guild that mattered to me. And I thought of how my ‘friend’ was endangering them, how what he had done could lead to their deaths, these people that had nurtured and protected me. These people who had filled my life with kindness and purpose. And I knew I would do anything to defend them.

In the interest of self preservation and avoiding a detailed confession of guilt, I will just say that he died. And that I very much blamed myself for it. It didn’t feel like the first time I had let Widget die. I had left him in that hellhole of a factory where he had surely met his end by now, and then here I stood, over his body again. I was in shock,  and completely numb, the familiar buzzing returning to my ears. I started to run. To run as fast as I could. I had no idea where I was going, but I knew that I couldn’t stay there a second longer. I have no memory of leaving the city, no memory of my long sprint to what I hoped would be freedom. The next thing I remember, it was dark and I was sitting on the bank of the river, far out of the city. I was rocking, my knees drawn up to my chest and it felt as if I hadn’t moved in hours. When Thrush found me, I was wild with grief and fury. He had known who I was being sent to kill, and he hadn’t warned me. He hadn’t told me what it was I would have to do. There was no way he could have prepared me, really. If I had known ahead of time, what would I have done? Warned my friend? Left the guild, the only family I’d ever known? Hardened myself, drawing on hatred to fuel me and do the job I’d been given? There was no solution, but I blamed Thrush with a ferocity that I never imagined I would feel towards him. I felt like the only person in the entire world that I truly trusted, had stabbed me in the back. My guilt and self-hatred that had been festering under the surface had just been made raw and it was suffocating. I realized I couldn’t live with it a second longer. I threw myself in the river, hoping to end it all.

Thrush’s arms were around me I think before we even hit the water. Terror coursed through me as I swallowed mouthfuls of water. I was in the very same river that I had seen turn red with the blood of my friends, ripped apart by the wheel. Despite the fear of death, I fought hard against Thrush, desperate to get free. I was ready. I thought it was my time. It was what I deserved. My conviction that I deserved every terrible thing I got, would haunt me through my entire life.

Eventually Thrush pulled us to the shore. We fought. I screamed, he tried to reason with me. I lunged for a dagger, he restrained me. He asked if I wanted to leave the guild with him, but I told him it didn’t matter now. My friend was dead, and that fact brought with it a whole host of new feelings of guilt and worthlessness. I lunged again for a dagger, and Thrush rolled on top of me to try and stop me, but I had already gotten a dagger free. The feeling of the blade sinking smoothly into his stomach is something I will never forever. His blood was warm and thick and I don’t remember having any coherent thoughts. It was a constant string of words and images. “Blood. Killer. Blood. Widget. Killer. Thrush. Dead. Blood. Freak.” Somehow Thrush and I made it back to the guild house. I’m not sure how. He had lost so much blood, and I was very little help to him, convinced I had just killed my mentor, my teacher, my savior.

While Thrush got stitched up, I went to Gabriel and reported in on the job I had done. It was then that he offered me my own room, and with that, came a fundamental shift in my relationship with Thrush. Though I didn’t stay in my own room long, for a variety of reasons, we were still changed after that. I spent several nights facing my nightmares alone, then dealt with the wrath of a spiteful guild mate and the rumors she spread about me. I had become dependent on Thrush, and I don’t think either of us were willing to admit it. He fought my battles for me, he sheltered me. He knew the kind of life I had had, and he wanted to protect me as much as he could. Those few days on my own were a wake up call for us both. I was quickly growing up. I needed to learn how to fend for myself. I had blood on my hands, after all. He couldn’t protect me any longer.