#and plans of putting an end to the phantom lives that he gets genuinely worse. like. i need to reread the 1nm8 tracks to properly get an | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

misedejem · 4 years ago

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Date Nights

Series: Persona 4 Ship: Kannao (Kanji Tatsumi/Naoto Shirogane) Word count: 9196

If ever Naoto was feeling low, Kanji would try harder than ever to show her how much he cared. Little gestures of good will and love that would go towards easing the pain. It had been that way from when they first met, and was still the case after over fifteen years.

So when Naoto found herself with Kanji in a slump and a few hours to spare, she took it upon herself to do the same.

(Basically lots of domestic future headcanon shenaningans~ As a note, Naoto is genderfluid in my fics, and this one uses she/her. AO3 link in the notes)

It had been an awfully long time since the Shiroganes had been working away from home at the same time.

Kanji had become unemployed almost two years ago and had been pooling his resources into his online store since then. And Naoto had been on leave a full year now, because of Chihiro, and then the upheaval and transfer of half the Shirogane agency from Tokyo to Yasoinaba. Save the odd local case, she’d effectively been forced to hang up the detective cap until life calmed down enough for her to return.

It was… a much-needed break. They could mutually agree on that.

Then, less than a month between moving into a house and the agency reopening, Yu Narukami had appeared on their doorstep one evening with ‘encouragement bentos’ and a request. The middle school he worked in as guidance counsellor had suddenly lost a teacher temporarily due to illness. The art teacher. She’d probably need at least six months to recover, but the new semester started in September and it was far too tight a deadline for the board to submit a request for a replacement.

“I mentioned you used to work as an art teacher in Tokyo, Kanji, and they said to ask you as soon as possible.”

Neither of them could have foreseen such a thing… But in a week, their situation had changed from both of them being at home, to both of them returning to work just a day apart from one another.

One day.

What a rare commodity that was.

As much as she adored it, Naoto’s career had always been taxing, keeping her late at night and seldom offering her a chance to catch her breath. After all, the Shirogane agency was lauded all across the country. Grampa had made such a name for it before he had died, and the attention she had gained from the media as the ‘first Detective Prince’ had only served to bolster the Shirogane name’s shining reputation once she’d taken over. That, and the fact that it was the only remaining detective agency in the country that specialised in Shadow-related incidents. They’d become ever more prevalent since the mental shutdowns and the Phantom Thieves incidents a decade ago had made knowledge of them more widespread in the seedier depths of society, and the Shadow Operatives had ensured to keep her busy when the cases grew too complex for them to handle.

That’s why they’d come back to Inaba of all places. With the TV World still very much active, it was the most potent place for illicit Shadow activities to occur in all Japan. And with the murmurings of new information cropping up, the higher ups had figured it may be a good idea to have a team of investigators to hand.

The detective had a lot of work waiting for her when her leave expired.

So, for her to be the one left with the house instead of Kanji for a full day… Well, she couldn’t exactly waste such an occasion.

“Momo, no -! Don’t… climb in there…” Naoto sighed, watching as her orange tabby clambered her way into one of the cardboard boxes at the far end of the room. She knew it was a fruitless effort to try and stop her. Their other cat didn’t house much love for boxes, but Mochi had been found in one as a kitten and clearly had developed a natural affinity towards them as a result. Half their move had been spent trying to keep her out of them long enough to fill them.

“If you wish to help, the very least you could do would be to climb into the ones I haven’t yet searched,” she told her, crossing over to the box and hoisting Mochi out. “That way, I won’t be wasting any time by delving into boxes twice when I retrieve you.”

Unfortunately, Naoto’s request was not met with much approval. The cat just mewled indignantly, clearly unimpressed and unwilling to cooperate, and scampered behind the large pile in the centre of the garage, leaving the detective to continue her investigation on her own.

It was frankly impressive that all the miscellany crammed into these boxes had fit into their Tokyo apartment; big though it was, it had been severely lacking in storage. Half their belongings – all the stuff they didn’t desperately need - were all packed up in this room, waiting for a spare moment to be put in their rightful place. They’d had five weeks to unpack, and perhaps if they’d still been living as just the two of them, they’d have made more of a dent in it. That would certainly have made Naoto’s current task a considerable deal easier. But all the free time they had now was devoted to Chihiro. She was only just coming up on her first birthday, and she was still very much dependant on her parents every moment that she was awake. Even now, Naoto was only able to search the room because the infant was taking her midmorning nap.

She was looking for a binder Kanji had put together, containing a collection of their favourite recipes that he’d found online or written down over the years. Somehow, it had gotten separated from the recipe books when they had packed away their kitchen, and it had not yet resurfaced. This was a major blockade in her plan for the day. She needed that binder. Desperately.

Kanji had seemed rather perturbed as he’d prepared for work that morning. In fact, he’d seemed uneasy about it from the moment Yu had asked him to take it. It was… unlike him. He’d worked as an art teacher in a middle school back in the city for four years, and he’d loved every minute of it.

“Hmm? Course I want the job,” he’d told her when she’d questioned him about it over breakfast. “I miss this kinda shit, you know that.”

He had a smile on his face as he tried spooning a blob of mushed fruits into Chihiro’s mouth, but it was a strained smile if nothing else.

“You just seem tense, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well… So do you. Goin’ back to work after havin’ a kid is s’posed to be kinda rough.” He shrugged.

“I can’t deny that…” Naoto sighed. “Even knowing that your mother will be there for her, and that you’re only doing part time hours, the idea of leaving her alone at all is more taxing on me than I could ever have expected… That’s all it is though?”

Naoto could think of several other reasons Kanji might have to be nervous about this particular job. But on the off chance that they hadn’t crossed his mind yet, she refrained from bringing them up. The last thing she wanted was to make him feel worse.

There was a pause, filled only by Chihiro’s babbles and the sound of the cats zooming about the living room after one another in a burst of energy. As he scraped the last of the baby food from the pot and offered it to their daughter, Kanji’s face began to fall ever so slightly, and before long he was sighing.

“I really gotta… stop overlookin’ that I’m married to a detective. I am scared shitless of leavin’ Chihiro for the first time. If anythin’s wrong, it’s that most of all. But uh… Otherwise I’m just a little weirded out.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Middle school – this middle school – is kinda… where I started to get a bad rep… What… I dunno, what if they take one look at me and realise who I am and kick me out? Like, they don’t realise ‘Shirogane Kanji’ is actually ‘Tatsumi Kanji’ an’ once they do they won’t want me anymore? They don’t know why I resigned from my last job either, what if they think I did something bad an’–”

As his voice grew louder and more sporadic, his panic becoming so apparent that it was palpable, Naoto scooted her way over to him and slipped her arms around his waist, resting her head gently on his chest.

“You left on your own terms because you disliked the way the school was being run. You don’t have to disclose why. And Kan-chan… you don’t mean to tell me that I’ve kept you from your hometown for so long that you’ve forgotten what it’s like? Inaba isn’t overly massive – rumours spread fast. I daresay there isn’t a person here who doesn’t know that the Tatsumi boy married that Detective Shirogane person. Especially not with how much your mother talks about us.”

She held him close for a while, rubbing her hand across his back even after his heart stopped pounding so hard, and his muscles began to relax.

“Yeah… I know… I know it’s a stupid thing to worry about, an’ that there ain’t no point in getting’ worked up about it…”

“Well, it’s not… stupid. I’d say it’s a perfectly reasonable thing to be concerned about, given the impact it had on you in the past. But I can assure you of this: they wouldn’t have hired you if they thought you were unfit for the position.”

He nodded, and a smile appeared on his face again – a genuine one, this time. For the rest of the morning, his dour disposition had dissipated somewhat, and his spirits certainly seemed higher when he had left the house.

But even if she had managed to cheer him up, Naoto knew the day would be a challenge for him no matter how many positive sentiments she sent his way. Returning to a place you had been mistreated, even after nearly twenty years had passed, was difficult enough as it was, without the thought of leaving your baby for the first time nagging at you as well.

That’s why she needed that binder. It contained the recipe for one of Kanji’s all-time favourite curries, one she believed even she could produce, and she figured he might need something like that when he returned home.

He often did little ‘date nights’ from home for them, for birthdays or anniversaries, or even just when Naoto was struggling with a tough case and needed a distraction or treat. They would put on whatever was comfortable, sit down with a meal and a drink, and more often than not, end up in a snuggled-up heap on the couch with a movie flickering on in the background. She hosted her fair share of them as well, but admittedly hers often involved an expensive night out at a restaurant. Kanji was the better cook, and he considered it a hobby more than simply something one needed to do to survive, but Naoto lacked the skill or drive to make a hand-crafted date night even without her long hours.

But this night would be an exception. She suddenly found herself with eight hours at home without him, and she would be a fool not to use that time to surprise him in the same way he always would with her. She’d throw him a date night so damn enjoyable that he’d forget all about his anxieties, no matter the cost.

That was… if she could find the damned recipe she needed to carry out her plan.

And so, she perused box after box in her investigation, leaving not even one overlooked. Old case files she’d had sent over from the Shirogane estate that had once belonged to her grandfather. An assortment of holiday decorations that really needed separating by date. Kanji’s miscellaneous box of scrap material. A box marked for charity of Naoto’s old clothes that had stopped fitting since she’d had Chihiro. Plushies. More plushies. Even the container of extra crockery, things that had come from the kitchen itself, bore no sign of the item she sought. An hour passed as though it were seconds, yielding nothing of value.

Had Kanji already moved it? It wasn’t as though she could ask him… Had they forgotten it? No, that apartment was spotless when they’d moved out. She’d triple checked it herself.

She foresaw herself spending all day searching at this rate… but she didn’t have all day. He’d be staying late for a debriefing, but even so, Kanji would still probably be home for five o’clock, and she still had to go to Junes to fetch the ingredients she was going to need.

Perhaps she could look it up online again? That was where Kanji had found it originally…

She sat herself, cross legged, on an old rug and pulled out her phone, plugging in the name of the recipe into a search engine, lifting her arm so that Mochi – tired of hiding – could come and curl up in her lap. And then, running the fingers of her free hand through Mochi’s fur, she began to scroll and click every site she could find.

But she recalled vividly the constitution of the page she was searching for, and none of these were it. She’d never read the words herself – having never made the recipe – and Kanji had decided to crop the name of the site it was from to maintain the ‘aesthetic’ of the folder, but she knew what it looked like. The colours, the typeface, the accompanying picture.

Nothing.

It was entirely possible the site had been redesigned or deleted. In which case she was out of luck online… It wouldn’t work for her to try a different recipe, it had to be that one. If it wasn’t that one, it wouldn’t taste the same, and then it wouldn’t be his favourite. Irritation began to swell within her as her endeavour began to look more fruitless, and she had to take a few moments to breathe and calm a little before moving onto her last resort: checking with Mrs. Tatsumi, with Yakushiji, and the Investigation Team on the off chance that maybe Kanji had lent them the recipe at some point.

Nos all around.

The irritation grew stronger.

And then, as though a timer had gone off signifying the end of her allotted time, the baby monitor sprung to life.

***

“Are… You even listening?”

Naoto huffed and folded her arms, wearing her most devastating expression of disappointment as she shook her head. She’d been talking for a good ten minutes, and she was beginning to wonder if any of it had been heard at all.

“’Course we are. You want to do something cute and romantic for the big guy, because you’re secretly a massive softie, but your first idea went bust.”

Yosuke offered her a cheeky wink and raised his soda cup in a mock toast, before turning back to fawn over Chihiro in Chie’s arms.

“But I dunno how you expect us to concentrate on anything else when you’ve brought this adorable little muffin along,” Chie added, putting on a baby voice and ‘booping’ said muffin on the nose. Chihiro giggled, her tiny face absolutely beaming with delight.

“Oh, I expect you to manage perfectly. If I can – if Kanji can – despite seeing every cute thing she ever does, then it should be no problem for somebody only exposed to it for a short while.”

A couple of hours had passed since Naoto had given up her search for the original recipe and had elected to change tactic. She would simply have to find… a different meal entirely. One that would still mean as much to Kanji. But a quick scour of the recipe books they had on hand in the kitchen yielded nothing. And so, once Chihiro was fed and dressed appropriately for the late summer warmth, she walked her over to Junes to grab some supplies, hoping that by some pure miracle, looking at the ingredients on offer would spark some form of inspiration within her. Only, out of sheer coincidence, she had managed to time her visit perfectly with the end of Yosuke’s shift, and Chie’s day off.

The two of them could often be found talking in the food court on their off-hours. It had been that way since high school, through all the changes and remodels they’d made to the layout of the store over the years and would likely continue to be that way as long as Junes stood and they remained in Inaba. It was the secret headquarters of the Investigation Team, after all. It wasn’t a place you could so easily give up.

So, guided by tradition, they all sat together, sharing a Takoyaki selection in the summer breeze – a welcome change from the mustiness of the Shirogane residence garage – Yosuke and Chie completely spellbound by the baby while Naoto explained her predicament. She had hoped they’d be a little more attentive, and frankly more helpful, but… she supposed she couldn’t fault them. Chihiro was effectively their niece, and she’d been in Tokyo for the past year.

But at least they were making her happy. Seeing her so ecstatic, despite Kanji being gone for so long, certainly helped ease some of the anxieties she had been feeling about leaving her. Getting her acquainted properly with the people who would likely be babysitting her until well into her teens was certainly not a bad thing… although… Naoto was on a tight schedule.

“Aaanyway.” She rapped the table lightly with the tips of her fingers. “Regretfully my first idea – the one that was ah… ‘bust’, as you said – was also my only idea. I’m currently running at a loss on where to proceed from here…”

At the very least they were nodding along now, and looking at her as she spoke.

“…Chie-chan, do you have date nights? What do you usually do?”

“Hmm? Yeah, of course we do! But, uh… Yukiko and I always go out for ‘em. You know, because the inn keeps her so busy and I –”

“Can’t cook anything without it coming out tasting of cardboard?” Yosuke supplied, grinning. Chie shot him a mean look, but nodded nonetheless.

“Pretty much…”

“In most instances, that would be my go-to as well,” Naoto said, holding back a grin at Yosuke’s comment. “Hand-crafted anything is Kanji’s forte, not mine, but… we both agree the ones at home are more enjoyable, no matter how good the food may be in a restaurant.”

“You’re like… the most private people I’ve ever known, so that isn’t surprising.”

She gave an affirming nod. Lovely as it was to go all out sometimes at an expensive eatery, there were always… stares. No matter where they were, people would see them and notice. Sometimes they’d simply recognise the Detective Prince, and that was all they’d see. But other times their eyes would linger longer. They’d take note of Kanji’s piercings and spikes combined with the cute animals and soft colours, analyse Naoto’s dedication to old English fashion and deliberate lack of conformity to any gender, and then keep their gazes trained on the two of them as they attempted to pick apart every contrasting aspect. The way they looked and dressed alone, the way they looked and dressed together… it made going out in public difficult for two people who both struggled to some degree with social anxieties and a history of being scrutinised for the way they were.

Kanji had left the house worrying he was going to be judged. She didn’t want to put him through that twice in one day.

“Well, is there anything else you’ve made before that you know he likes?” Yosuke asked, helping himself to the Takoyaki

Naoto frowned. “Well, yes, but all of it is rather… typical? I have a small repertoire, you see.”

“So you want something different? Hmm… Why don’t you just go ham?” Chie suggested with a genuine smile. “Grab stuff you think’ll go together and make a totally new curry. Heck, doesn’t even gotta be curry.”

“That’s how you end up with Mystery Food X: Redux,” Yosuke warned, and Chie’s smile instantly vanished. “Though actually, Naoto… In your sensible hands you’d probably be okay. You actually know how to cook.”

“If I wasn’t holding a baby right now, I would kick you.”

“Without a recipe at all…?” For a moment, the detective was left perplexed. But before long, a thought came across her mind, and that irritation from earlier came grumbling back into her periphery. “Yosuke-kun. Please. I simply don’t have the time to spare for your… japes and mockery. I need you to be serious.”

She expected him to laugh, as he often would when she caught him out while he was joking. She didn’t do so very often, loathe as she was to admit it, and it had become something of a game to Yosuke to see how long he could keep pushing her buttons.

But this time he threw up his hands instead, with… was that his face now contorted in confusion as well?

“H-hey, I am being serious. Promise. If you genuinely have no other ideas, then I begrudgingly accept that Chie might be onto something.”

“And I’m supposed to do that without instructions?” She asked incredulously, raising her eyebrows. Was she being foolish and naïve? Or was Yosuke the one reeking of inexperience? “You act as though you believe I have time to memorise every food combination, and how to make them work. I am a detective, not a chef, Yosuke-kun. Recipes exist so that I don’t have to preoccupy my brain with trivialities such as cooking from memory.”

“Hey, it was Chie’s idea, not mine!”

“You should know better.”

The raised voices and snipes were a staple of any conversation involving Yosuke and Chie, and at this point Naoto had come to learn that it was largely performative. They ‘fought’ with warm regards. She’d even reached a point where she was able to go along with it without utterly deflating the mood. But to Chihiro, with no grasp of the concept of banter, it was all just loud, frightening noises coming from people she didn’t know all too well. The conversation very quickly had to switch courses when a crying spell threatened to rear its head.

“You know… you never asked me what I do for date nights,” Yosuke pointed out once the baby had been settled. She now lay propped up on Naoto’s lap, nodding off with her little head resting on her chest. Naoto constantly considered herself fortunate that Chihiro wasn’t especially fussy. Sometimes on a good day all she needed to calm right down was a cuddle.

“Hmm?” she looked up. If Yosuke had said anything before that, she had been too preoccupied with gently coaxing her daughter to nap to hear it. “Oh, no, I suppose I didn’t…”

Chie, who had moved into the more comfortable position of resting her chin on her hand now her arms were free, scoffed slightly.

“Dude. Maybe because you don’t have anybody to date?”

“Well… No, but I’ve been on dates. More than one with the same person. I have experience, I’m just… not experiencing it right now.” He rubbed the back of his neck, casting his gaze off to the side. “Dinner dates aren’t really my thing though…”

“So, why’d you even bring it up?”

“Hey! I’ve been on… like, one dinner date. I’m just not the guru of them!” He shrugged. “It’s an interesting story actually… I got set up a few years ago by my bandmates, and it turns out the guy isn’t my type at all. But I didn’t want to say no without at least giving him a chance, so… Y’know. He wants to go out to this fancy French place, but we get there and they’re closing early because of… Uh, I think the kitchen flooded or something like that? So, he takes me back to his place and leaves me there, runs off to go shopping, and comes back and cooks a three-course French meal himself.”

“And you didn’t marry him on the spot?”

“Nah. We did a couple more dates but it didn’t really work out. We weren’t super compatible...”

“Is this why you get Rise to vet anybody you’re gonna date now?”

“Pretty much. You guys know me best, so…”

The two of them continued to talk, but from Naoto’s perspective, their voices had been drowned by her thoughts into a dull and distant murmur. From the moment Yosuke had finished his story, the gears in her brain had whirred into motion, working their way into fabricating a plan formed from his words.

It had hit her at last. A wave of inspiration and relief, tantamount to the feeling she would have when she’d finally cracked the secret to a particularly arduous case.

A plan. Followed by a conjured image of how Kanji’s face might look when he saw it.

“Yosuke-kun…” she began, standing slowly so that she did not wake the baby and gently lowering her into the buggy she had parked next to her seat. “Would you be able to look something up for me? While my hands are full.”

***

January 19th, 2025. Little over a year and a half ago. London, England. They’d been abroad for a few weeks at that point, Naoto on a case for the Shadow Operatives, and Kanji taking advantage of her hotel room to table at an artist’s alley in a convention.

It was something of a special occasion. Kanji’s 29th birthday had been the original cause for celebration, but to him at least that was very much an aside. It was, what, only three hours prior to reaching the restaurant that they’d found out Naoto was pregnant.

There had been several sources for the reasoning behind Naoto’s choice in establishment, and unlike most of her destination picks while they’d been in London, none of them had a single thing to do with Sherlock Holmes. The ones that stood out the most: a churning in her stomach – simultaneously a mental and a physical reaction to her current condition – and a particularly mournful image of her mother-in-law from a few months prior.

“There was this little place my late husband and I would always take Kanji when he was young, if we had to travel to Okina. Italian, it was, family run. I just heard from a customer that it was recently shut down because the owner passed. It has me a little down to think of, that’s all Naoto dear.”

A precious memory from Kanji’s childhood was no small matter, harrowing as such a thing was to think. And Italian… parsing through her options in her mind as she browsed the local restaurants on one of those food apps, Naoto took note of how the one being advertised made her insides turn the least at the thoughts of it. It was one of those smaller, more community-based places, while the others were either going to be full of too-rich smells for her poor stomach to handle, or full of classy, antiquated rules and stares that she didn’t feel up to taking that day.

She didn’t want to make her husband eat hotel food on his birthday… And nor did she want to worry him all evening by being exceptionally edgy. So it didn’t take very long at all for her to have dialled the number for the family-run Italian place, and had booked them a table for two that evening.

The food had been… good. Standard fare for that kind of place. But Naoto was a harsh critic – even without feeling deeply unwell, she had been to Italy. And yet, in all the fifteen years she had known Kanji, she could not recall a single meal out where he seemed to have enjoyed himself quite as much as that. The rush of euphoria from learning he was going to be a father had apparently been enough to turn any experience he may have had that night into the best date night of his life. And Naoto knew the kind of man he was. Sentimental, perceptive, prone to dwelling on the little things. He’d remember, starkly, what he had eaten then.

It was just a pasta meal. She recalled it being made with chicken and a creamy, pesto-based sauce, and Yosuke’s internet search had quickly pulled up a recipe for something along those lines. It wouldn’t be the same – these places kept their recipes close to the heart – but that didn’t matter. Her plan had now become a case of finding something symbolic, over finding something that tasted good.

“I think he’s really starting to rub off on you,” Yosuke had noted as Naoto had prepared to rush off to grab the ingredients from the recipe he had found. “Kanji, I mean. In a good way.”

She’d queried him on that. Her own sharpness didn’t exactly extend to analysing herself.

“I just meant that five years ago, I don’t think you’d ever have thought to do something like this. I always took you for the… less cliché of the two of you. Didn’t you propose to him spontaneously in a cat café? If you don’t mind me asking… why is this the first thing you thought to do for him?”

A pause for Naoto to collect her thoughts. One that, much to everyone’s surprise, didn’t last nearly as long as it might have.

“It’s… because this is logical to me. A dinner date – it’s the simplest, most common activity in the books. It’s a cliché because its effective. Because food is one of those love languages that transcends barriers, and to somebody who struggles in most social situations, like Kanji, like me, you must understand that something like this is a life saver. It’s a change to our routine that really doesn’t change all that much.” She smiled to herself. “Kanji does this to make me feel happy. So many people do, for the person they love. It only makes sense to me that I follow their lead.”

It was that way for most matters of the heart, she thought to herself as she balanced a packet of chicken on the hood of the buggy. She had never known how to act in these situations, how to express the feelings she had. And while she’d devised some unique little ways that she had managed to convey to Kanji, oftentimes the most effective means of telling him that she loved him was to simply use another person’s idea as a foundation. She had her own experiences as proof that it worked. After all, Kanji was a person who had been so starved for and scared of affection as a child that now, almost anything that said ‘I care about you’ was enough to draw him to tears. And Naoto was no different. He was more physical than her, and really that was the only major way in which their feelings towards romance diverged. The things that made one of them happy was sure to leave the other in the same state.

***

Naoto loved Kanji more than she hated cooking. That was really the defining fact that made this entire plan of hers possible at all.

Because she really hated cooking.

“I’ll prolly be home in like… forty minutes,” Kanji had told her over the phone when she’d given him a tentative call at just gone four to gauge how long she had. Pasta wasn’t exactly something she could make well in advance – just the thought of reheating it or overcooking it made her skin crawl. It was one of those things she needed to be perfect. Kanji, thankfully, didn’t have a preference.

So, she’d had to leave making the actual meal until as close to Kanji’s arrival as she could predict. But it wasn’t as though she had time to spare… She had to make the table, feed the cats, feed the baby, put the baby down for a nap…

Then she had to cook the chicken and the pasta… that was fine, it just… radiated a lot of heat for a day that was already rather warm. Inaba’s houses were old, and they didn’t yet have much ventilation or air conditioning.

Then was the sauce, and she had to do some vegetables, but she had to keep stirring the sauce so it didn’t ruin the consistency, and she had to keep turning the meat and the veggies so they wouldn’t burn, and oh, the pasta might stick or become overdone if she wasn’t careful. Then it would just become stressful. Every meal, every time. No matter how methodical she tried to be, it would always devolve into this.

It was a focus thing, she was sure. When she homed in on a task or a detail, it became quite difficult to switch gears on the fly. A useful skill for analysing a murder case. Not so much for cooking.

It was why, when they were both at home, she and Kanji would often just cook dinner together.

But occasionally, and for the sake of somebody she cared about, it was worth it.

She was just at the stage where she was plating up the food, trying to get it to look as it did in the picture on the website, when the familiar sight of an old, dusty car that had at one point been purple staggered its way up their driveway, starkly contrasted with the shiny motorcycle it had pulled up next to. As Kanji climbed from the car, Naoto carefully studied his face, trying to glean from his expression how exactly he was feeling in that moment. But Kanji had a naturally angry look to him, so such a task was often difficult to undertake.

“You makin’ garlic bread, Nao?” he called from the porch almost as soon as the door had slid shut.

“You’ll see,” was all she said in response. With Kanji just moments away from seeing what she had done, she found herself buzzing with anticipation.

“Wuzzat s’posed to mean?” he asked, sticking his head around the door into the kitchen.

For a moment, his forehead crinkled as he took everything in, his eyes lingering on the table made up as closely to that of a restaurant as Naoto could manage, with cloth, candles, and an arrangement of Kanji’s favourite red roses (albeit that was rather haphazardly done).

And in that moment Naoto felt as though her heart had somehow managed to stall.

But the tension was brief, quickly dissipated by the biggest, goofiest grin taking up a huge portion of Kanji’s face.

He strode into the room and pulled his partner into a powerful hug all in a motion that was so fluid, you wouldn’t think it was Kanji performing it.

“I can see you’re ready to reopen the agency, huh?”

Naoto smiled and shook her head, before snuggling her cheek into Kanji’s chest. “Don’t mistake this for a fit of boredom – I’ve been anything but. Welcome to our first date night back in Inaba.”

“Huh? W-wait, hold up… Date night? You did this… fer me?”

His eyes threatened to grow wider than his smile had those few moments earlier, as the realisation of the circumstances slowly began to dawn on him.

Then, as was customary for Kanji whenever Naoto would do anything for him ever, his face turned a brilliant shade of scarlet, and he began stammering unintelligible gibberish.

“Quickly now, before it cools down!”

“Y…Yuh…”

This was… odd. Kanji seemed unequivocally, unprecedentedly broken. His movements as he crossed to the counter and grabbed his plate, were mechanical, shaken, even. They weren’t unheard of for him, but it was as though they had suddenly been transported fifteen years into the past once more. Before they had fallen in love, before they’d even been close friends, when Kanji was so overcome with embarrassment whenever they spoke that he would be unable to function.

Now they were married, it wasn’t exactly commonplace.

Had something happened to him at work which had left him overwhelmed?

“Kanji?” Naoto called out tentatively as they took their seats.

“…huh?”

“You seem… Rather out of it.”

He blinked a couple of times and shook his head. “Right. Yeah… Sorry…”

He cleared his throat and repeated the process of shaking his head.

“It’s just, uh… ‘M kinda at a loss for words. This is… Wow.”

A tension she hadn’t recognised until it was gone suddenly flooded from her body with a sigh of relief.

“For a moment there I was concerned that something was wrong, so –”

“More like… everythin’ is right. I never pegged you fer someone who’d do date nights Tatsumi style.”

“…Tatsumi style? So this…” she waved an arm across the table. “This is something you observed… what, from your parents?”

He nodded. Naoto didn’t realise it was possible for him to turn redder until just then.

“Ain’t really a lotta options for fancy restaurants like what you do out here. Ma and my old man always improvised at home. I know cookin’ yer partner a meal ain’t somethin’ my folks made up, they just ended up callin’ it that… Nickname kinda stuck.” He rubbed the back of his head.

“Well, I suppose I have rather adopted a Tatsumi way of behaving today. Our roles have been utterly reversed. Why, I daresay after dinner, I shall take up a crochet project, and you’ll lull our Chihiro to sleep by reading her more of ‘A Study in Scarlet’.”

“I love you, Naoto.”

“Eh?”

But instead of elaborating, Kanji simply left his partner to turn an equally furious shade of red while he took a bite of the food. Naoto found herself so flustered that she didn’t even have time to be nervous about him trying the dish.

But, she supposed, she didn’t really have anything to worry about. This was Kanji.

“…I better never hear the words ‘I’m not very good at cooking’ comin’ from yer mouth again.”

“Well… Regardless of the quality of the food –” she began, about to launch into a spiel about how the mess she made, and how stressful it was for her, suggested that she technically wasn’t exactly on the level of a master. But all it took from Kanji was a single glare, and she stopped herself.

This was supposed to be a pleasant evening. And he did hate when she was self-deprecating in any capacity.

“I’m glad you like it Kan-chan.” She smiled, taking her own first bite. Hmm. Not bad. She wasn’t sure how this was supposed to taste – she’d been feeling far too unwell that night in London to eat much at all, so she’d ordered a lighter dish – but how it did taste was pleasant.

“Better than it was on my birthday that one time. Dunno if you remember, but at that one Italian place when we were in England –”

“Where do you suppose I gained the inspiration to make this particular meal?”

“Huh? Well shit, haha. Last time I ever doubt yer memory.”

“Hm, well… I don’t think I’m capable of forgetting that day…”

Kanji slid his free hand across the table and placed it atop hers, rubbing his thumb soothingly over her knuckles. Strange, she noted, that the nail was still painted black; she was sure the school would make him take the colour off alongside his piercings.

A nagging feeling in her chest, her stomach, her mind was begging her to ask him how it had gone. But it was not the only train of thought on the feeling that she had. What if Kanji didn’t want to talk about it yet? What if it was best to simply… enjoy the meal in ignorant bliss? Was he waiting for the right time, or for her to say something?

He looked as though he were about to speak now, was that the subject he was going to bring up?

“How has Chihiro been today?”

No. Of course not. The subject of work would have to wait.

As with… most of their conversations over the past year, the rest of the meal was largely dominated with Chihiro. Naoto describing, in detail, exactly what she had done, and Kanji’s expression growing fonder and fonder with every word. By the time they were done eating, he looked as though he were going to cry.

“Kinda sad that this is our lives goin’ forwards…”

“Hm?”

“Nothin’… just been missin’ her at work is all.”

The nagging feeling was very quickly becoming anxiety. The first mention of his day all evening, and it was something negative.

“Kanji, was everything –”

A sound suddenly stole her words before she had the chance to finish. A baby crying, as audible through the walls as it was the baby monitor on the counter.

“Prolly needs changing, huh?” Kanji smiled, rising to his feet. “Mind if I take this?”

“Please… She probably misses you too.”

In the time that Kanji was attending to the baby, Naoto managed to load everything that needed cleaning into the dishwasher, and found her way to the living room, and then to the couch. But her mind wasn’t exactly responsive as she did so.

Kanji… was worse than she had anticipated… More than just a simple meal could possibly hope to fix. Why on earth… What delusion had she been under to think, with how he’d been these past few days, that a little romantic gesture would be all he needed to feel better.

Amidst the haze that was buzzing in her mind, she vaguely registered her hands clenching into fists.

At some point, goodness knew when, Kanji had reappeared in the room and had sat down next to her, taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“She’s back down. Heh… Wanted to play as soon as she saw me, the little tyke, but could barely keep her eyes open long enough to do it.”

“She’s had… a busy day.”

“Ain’t we all?” he said with an air of exhaustion about him, placing his glasses gently on the kotatsu in front of them and then sinking back into the couch. “You ready for tomorrow?”

“I’ve been ready for weeks. Waiting on other people…” Naoto mumbled in response. Her gaze had fallen as she’d spoken to her socks, and she could not bring herself to remove it until Kanji nudged her with his arm.

“Hey. You good, Nao?”

“…Are you?”

That brought the conversation to a standstill.

“Would ya believe me if I told ya I was jus’ tired?”

“Only… partially.”

He gave her a half smile and repositioned himself so that his head lay on her shoulder.

“It was… a pretty exhaustin’ day… Lotta new stuff. Lotta old stuff too… that school ain’t changed in twenty years. Amazing it’s managed so long.”

Naoto just made an affirming noise and let her hand come to rest on his shoulder, pressing her cheek onto the top of his head. Best just to let him speak, she thought.

“Ain’t none of the people I knew still there but… they knew who I was. Course they did… didn’t expect any different. An’ you know what?”

“Hm?”

“Most of ‘em just complimented me on the plushies. They knew me ‘cause of the shop, not… ‘cause of the delinquent shit.”

“Well, that’s… good, is it not? That’s what we hoped would happen.”

She felt him shift his head as though he were trying to nod. His arm had worked its way around her waist, and she felt him bunching up the fabric of her dress shirt in his fingers as he spoke. It was an unconscious habit of his. Most notable when he was nervous.

“Yeah… Never said it weren’t good. Jus’ that I was tired. And that I missed my kid. And you.”

Naoto drew a deep breath. “It seemed like something was wrong, that’s all. I’ve been worried about you. All day. All week.”

“…That why you’re not okay?”

“Yes! Effectively!”

Another brief standstill.

“Sorry ‘bout that… Really… Last thing I wanted was for my bullshit worrying over nothing to affect you too.”

Naoto squeezed his shoulder slightly.

“You should know by now that such a thing is impossible. The same can be said of you, to me. We’ve been in this partnership since we were in high-school, Kan-chan, we can’t simply… hide our true feelings any longer. We know each other too well to be caught out.”

“Yeah… s’pose you’re right… I did appreciate it though. Back before I went in today and realised my worries were a load ‘a crap. I… I dunno, I guess comin’ back to Inaba after so long had me thinkin’ that everythin’ was gonna go back to the way it was.”

“Kanji… You weren’t… Please don’t tell me you’ve been thinking that way since we first planned to come.”

Silence. Naoto’s heart dropped. Obviously, that meant she was right on the mark.

Good lord, she had still been expecting when they’d first discussed moving back! Their daughter was one in a week!

“’s in the past now though. All of it,” he said eventually. “Physically this place ain’t no different, but I guess the vibe has changed since we were kids. Maybe… Enough time has passed now that I ain’t gotta worry about… the guy I was.”

“Kanji… I rescind what I said earlier. About how it’s impossible to hide our feelings from each other. Please… when it’s something serious like this, I implore you to tell me.”

Her eyes stung, but she refused to cry. If she did, he’d try to make this about her, and dammit, she was tired of it being about her. The entire point of everything she had done that day was to make it about Kanji for once in his life.

“…’M sorry, Nao…”

After that, for a long while neither of them spoke. They simply adjusted themselves into a position where they could more easily cuddle and sat there, snuggled into each other as the dwindling oranges and purples of the twilight sky gave way to darkness.

Kanji was the one to break the silence, his voice so slick with sleepiness that it was demure in a way which was much unlike him.

“Hey Nao… Yer still awake, right?”

“Mmhmm…” she responded. It was… mostly true.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinkin’. I got a new goal now we’re back here… I wanna be able to look that bastard in the eye and tell him he ain’t me. Not because I’m denyin’ anythin’, but because he ain’t.”

“Him? Your Shadow?”

“Yeah. Like you can, y’know? If your Shadow popped their head back up and started sayin’ the same shit as before, you could just tell ‘em: ‘you’re wrong.’ ‘Cause they would be.”

“But they wouldn’t say something like that. My age and gender no longer cause me grief to the level they had in my youth, so my Shadow wouldn’t bring them up.”

Of course, they wouldn’t. Naoto thought that was obvious. She was thirty-one, very much an adult, and any doubt she had about whether she was a man or a woman were significantly eased when she had learned that she could be both and neither. She had no lack of confidence in those aspects of herself, regardless now of what other people thought, so there was no way the Shadow could use them as ammunition if they were to reappear.

But based on Kanji’s next statement, suddenly full of more vigour than his words prior, she wondered if perhaps she had misunderstood where he was coming from.

“Yeah, but that’s what I’m saying! The stuff your Shadow said back then… It ain’t even crossin’ your mind anymore. I wanna be the same… I mean… It’s not that I ain’t happy with who I am. I like cute shit, and sewing, and all the stuff like that. Shit, I’m bi as hell. I can say that stuff proudly. It’s…” he huffed. “For some reason, it’s like I can be confident in myself all I want, but in my head it don’t mean shit unless everyone else feels the same way. An' as long as I got a history as 'the guy who beats up bikers', it's like that day ain't gonna come... I’m… still scared shitless of bein’ rejected after all these years... It’s like… every time I meet a new group of people, I just end up wonderin’ how long its gonna be before they brand me a thug and cut me and everyone I care about off. Think that’s kinda the reason it’s been weighin’ on me again so much more recently. I start comin’ up with scenarios in my head where it gets outta hand and Chihiro gets hurt ‘cause of it.”

As he spoke, his hug became tighter.

“Kan-chan…”

“So, my goal is to get to a place where I don’t constantly worry about that stuff. Where if that bastard showed up again and said that kinda shit, I could deny him with my whole heart and know for certain that I’m right an’ he’s wrong. An’ before you say shit, I know that ain’t how Shadows work. That’s jus’ the image I use in my head to try an’ visualise what I’m itchin’ to do.”

He added that last part with a hint of a laugh to his tone.

So that was why he took a job he was so caught up about? As some concrete way of proving to himself that he would be okay if he did?

A self-destructive means of gathering evidence for a hypothesis… hm… perhaps Naoto’s inheritance of Kanji’s traits over the years had gone the other way as well.

“I didn’t realise it was possible to be so unbelievably proud of somebody, while simultaneously thinking them a fool…” Naoto ensured to keep her own tone bright, so that he would know she spoke in endearing terms. “You know I would have supported you through this if only you had told me –”

“Hah. Yer actin’ like you take me for the kinda guy who thinks this shit through… this ain’t exactly something I’ve been plannin’ or nothin’, it just sorta… came to me now.”

Oh, so it was a subconscious instinct?

Then perhaps he would be safe from her bad influence for just a little while longer…

“Well… regardless of how much preparation has gone into it… it is a good goal to have in mind, so long as you’re comfortable with the pain it may bring in the process.”

“Yeah. No problem. Anyway…” he sat up and looked her in the eyes. “What was that you were implyin’ with the whole ‘you know I would have supported you’ bull you just said?”

Naoto frowned. “It’s the truth –”

“Yeah, I know it’s the truth. Because you have been supportin’ me, dumbass. You ain’t ever stopped.” He thrust his arm in the vague, general direction of the kitchen, a wild delight dancing in his eyes. “You spent the last day of yer maternity leave makin’ sure I’d have a good evenin’ because you thought I needed cheerin’ up.”

Naoto felt her cheeks heat up. “I… I only did what you would do for me…”

“Yeah, but it ain’t like I made you do it. You still made the decision. It’s amazin’, an yer incredible, and adorable, an’ you make a freakin’ awesome pasta, an’ I can’t believe how lucky I am to have you.”

She knew she was blushing harder and harder with every word, to the point where all she could think to do was bury her face into his shoulder.

“Feel kinda bad that we kinda got side-tracked from the ‘date night’ though… Sorry if you had anything else planned.”

“No, no, don’t feel bad. I did this because I thought you needed it, Kanji. And I don’t suppose I’m wrong in suggesting that you very much needed this talk as well?”

“…You ain’t wrong… Not at all.”

“And do you feel any better for having it?”

“Mmhmm.”

Naoto lifted her head and gave him her warmest smile. “Then I can safely declare this date night a resounding success.”

“Damn right, you can! But uh… I don’t wanna take away from anythin’ else you mighta wanted to do, so –”

The heat in her cheeks returned as quickly as it had vanished, and she sheepishly averted his gaze. Right. Date night was usually more than a meal.

“Uhm... About that. Kanji, I’ll be perfectly honest with you, I… I was so caught up in trying to find a recipe for dinner that it never even occurred to me to look for a movie or something to do afterwards.”

She offered him an apologetic look, but his immediate response was only to laugh and hold her closer.

“Don’t think I coulda made it through a movie anyway… I’m beat…”

“As am I. I think I may drift off here…”

It quickly became apparent that each of their ideal end to the evening would be to turn in early and hope to gain a restful night – something that was near impossible with a small child. Whether such a thing was an indication of how eventful their day had been, or whether it was simply a sign of them getting older, neither really cared to consider. Instead, they just ensured the house was secure, called the cats to follow them, and moved upstairs as quietly as they could so that their footsteps wouldn’t cause Chihiro to stir.

It wasn’t until Naoto had switched her outfit for one of Kanji’s old shirts and was brushing her teeth in the upstairs bathroom that it dawned on her: there was still one aspect of her day that had yet to be cleared up.

And now that it had come to mind, she feared she may be unable to sleep until she had an answer.

“Kan-chan?”

“Hm?”

“You know the binder you keep with recipe print-outs…? Do you have any idea what box it’s in?”

His face was mostly buried by the bedsheets by now, but she could tell from the part she could see that he was thinking hard.

“Uh… Oh! My car.”

“…Your car?”

“Yeah. I didn’t want the other kitchen stuff to squash it, so I put it separate. I see it every time I go in there an’ I keep saying I’ll bring it in and never do. How come…?”

Naoto heaved a great sigh and flopped on the bed besides him. It wasn’t until her face hit the pillow that she realised exactly how exhausting her day had been. “So you had it all along… I never would have found it.”

“You were lookin’ for it?”

“I was. I wanted to make you that curry instead, the one you called your favourite.”

“Ohhhh. I getcha now." He laughed. "That woulda been a good choice. But y’know anythin’ would have been fine. I got a real soft-spot for Italian food, hehe.”

“I like that curry myself though,” she added, as she shuffled under the covers. “It’s rare to find something spicy that you can handle as much as I…”

“You do, huh? I see.”

There was silence for a while. And then…

“Hey, Naoto…?”

“Mmm?”

“When’s your next day off?”

“My next day off…? That would be Sunday… Why?”

But Kanji didn’t answer. Instead, he just leaned over to kiss her goodnight, and then, with a sleepy smile, he rolled over and went to sleep.

#persona 4 #kanji tatsumi #naoto shirogane #kannao #misede writes

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kryptsune · 5 years ago

Text

Till Death Do You Part {Part 4} (UF Frans)

🌼Here is part 4 and what I planned to be the last of this little prompt, HOWEVER, if you all really like it then I may consider continuing it. If I can get this post to at least 100 notes then I will seriously consider a part 5 or more. I hope you all enjoy!

Eventually she awoke, staring at the face sleeping next to her. She slipped from her bed careful not to wake him and silently put on some appropriate clothing. It was still very much deep into the night. Her hand slid down the wooden banister to sneakily open the front door. She could run far away right now and it would take some time for him to find her again.

Her heart couldn’t do it.

The slivers of moonlight played off her pale skin as she walked closer to the waters edge. Red’s estate had a beautiful lake that stretched around one section of the home. Its crystal clear waters were a peaceful place where the ghosts of memories past resided in the grasses. There had been many a picnic here.

She cherished it. Every moment they were together filled her with joy but as those phantoms faded away into the starry sky, so too did her smiling face. The bench that retained so many memories was like a grave stone as she bypassed it to take a seat on the lush grasses below. Her fingers slid over that smooth glassy surface, letting hints of her cobalt blue magic dance over the water. They fluttered over the lake causing soft ripples before transforming into beautiful luminescent butterflies.

He had not slept that entire evening. Even if he needed it his mind swirled with conflicting emotions and thoughts. Maybe he could run away with her. They would have to be careful with his brothers on their trail but they could live as themselves.

Now he was dressed as the Lord of an estate but that was not his roots. He had been a poor boy outside the city in the country. His family did everything they could to better their lives better. He remembered the little garden and how his big brother scolded him for being impatient. They did not have much but they were a happy family.

His attention turned to the human girl sleeping next to him. He wanted to give her everything he ever dreamed of, but their union was one that could only end in tragedy. A selfishness grew within him. Frisk was his and no other was going to lay a finger on the sweet mage.

Even with his eyes closed he could feel her slip from their bed and close the door behind her. She was awake but she needed her space. He knew that it would be good for her to reflect on all that had happened. It wasn’t his place to tell her how to feel or push on her his own selfish whims.

Instead he rose from the bed, sliding his fingers into his blonde hair, and getting dressed. He found himself in his study. It was a good place for him to be able to keep an eye on her but also be alone with his own thoughts for a while. There had to be a way for him to pull his humanity back. No more calculated killings, no more toying with people like they were just fodder. She made him want to be better, something more than a wretched damned soul.

Red sighed up in his study, glass of half emptied wine in his hand. He had poured it the moment he stepped foot in the room, "I have not felt like this in centuries. Why do you impart feeling within me when so many others could not?" The thoughts that swarmed his mind forced him to toss the book he had been attempting to read off to one side, "There is no doubt her humanity will betray me. They all do eventually.” His grip was enough to shatter the glass, growling in frustration before throwing the glass into the fire. It had been 400 years of never caring, of having his emotions drain away bit by bit. Why did they have to rear their ugly head now of all times?!

He slumped in his seat watching as the shards of glass fought against the blazing inferno he had tossed them into. The humans betrayed, that was who and what they were. Frisk... saying her name had him shutting his eyes and rubbing at his face with a pale hand. She was not like the others and never had been. Would she try to run away? Leave him forever? That was what he felt he deserved as he removed himself from his chair to look out over his estate.

There she was resting by the lake, moon beams turning her hair nearly a pastel red. No, she would not run. He placed his hand to the pane of the glass as it frosted over with his breath. She must be cold out there all alone.

-----------------------------------------------

Frisk dipped her fingers into the water only to watch her magic swirl and light up the entire lake. This was the place she had told him the truth about herself. How happy she had been that he accepted her for who she was when no one else did.

Somehow deep down she knew that he cared, "I feel like I am a fool but even love can be so blind." She sat there alone letting the cold consume her. It was her way of trying to clear her head. He had said that she would be like the others. Did he not understand that she wouldn't betray him? It hurt her heart so but she understood his apprehension.

That still did not make it right.

Red watched her for a few moments more before he walked out into the night to stand behind her. She was shivering just as she had on the night of their wedding, yet she stayed out here, away from him, “The moon looks beautiful tonight.”

She whirled around in surprise when she heard his voice, turning to look at him, "Yes, very much. Have you come to take me inside? Or are you fearful I shall announce to the world of your treachery?” It was harsh, perhaps too harsh. There was no one more that she hated than deceivers, “or perhaps that I would flee this place and you would no longer have mage blood to sustain you?”

Her time of grieving had past now all she felt was disappointment and anger. Even that after a few moments ebbed away. She curled in on herself in an attempt to keep warm though she could no longer tell if it was the frigid air or the icy bite of her frozen heart.

He sighed once more taking a seat next to her, slipping off his jacket and wrapping it around her shoulders. A mirror to his actions the night he pledged his life... or rather unlife to her, "Just remember what I said Frisk. This is a great deal of trust I place in you.”

She looked up at him creating a cobalt blue flower in her hand letting it dance magically in her palm, "I believe I said something similar to you when we grew to know each other a little more. Please remember... I placed all my trust in you. I want you to believe me but I know after so many betrayals that can be hard. Will you let me prove that I am different?"

He reached out and touch her cheek, "I already have," he whispered softly, holding her close to him. Change was hard but he would try because she gave him hope.

She was one to speak her truth and she would die before betraying his trust. The fact that he was giving that to her was more than she could ask for, "Thank you." Maybe one day they would no longer question each other, “That warms my heart to hear.”

He inclined his head, closing his eyes as he took in that scent of honeysuckle and lavender, “I do not wish to frighten you. I know what I am. It has been so for centuries. The night that I could no longer resist your sweet blood... was painful. The look on your face reminded me that I do not deserve you. I am no longer of his world and yet you, my beautiful Love, are. I do not know how long it will take for me to express my... affections and I understand if you wish to leave this dead thing where it lies.”

Frisk made a soft squeak of a noise when he pulled her close. Those pretty blue eyes looked up at him curiously, “Red...must you be so morbid after all that you have said? I was taken aback by your deception but that does not mean that I no longer love you. You are the one that has made me feel alive most of all.” Her eyes fell closed as she cradled the hand resting on her cheek, “I do not believe that my heart would be able to take being apart from you.”

Her eyes met his before he gave her a soft smile, “Then never shall we be. My Love.”

She leaned against him as he brushed her hair off her shoulder, resting his lips against the crook of her neck. Her fluttering heart beat forced a small sad chuckle from him, “I frighten you to be this close, don’t I?”

Her body turned more toward him when he pulled back to smile at her sadly, “I... do not fear you. I fear the pain. You took that feeling from me and I do not remember. I can only assume it to be painful. I wish to take care of you as you do me and this is the one thing you need that only I can provide.”

He was shocked by her response but that was just Frisk. She was kind and compassionate. Her mind was sharper than any he had come across, “I believe you my Sweet one and I shall confide in you everything about my curse, my family, and my past. You must have many questions for me. I shall answer them all.”

She felt her heart turn within her chest as he confided in her. He was truly putting his full trust in her hands. No more secrets between the two. The pain she once endured had faded leaving behind a new pressure. It was the kind that constricted the lungs for a moment, skipped the normal rhythm of the heart, and warmed her from the inside out. Her joy had returned, “Very much but I do not wish to overwhelm you with them.”

It had been so long since he laughed genuinely, “I have but all the time in the world for you to satisfy your curiosity but I ask two things of you. It is strictly for your protection. My brothers will not take kindly to me keeping a mortal wife. They see humanity as nothing but cattle. This game is truly the only interaction they feel is entertaining enough to debase themselves. Our father is even worse. I do not think the same way they do as I am sure you are aware but my brothers and my father are powerful vampires it does not take much for them to ensnare the human mind. Your magic gives you protection as does the bond I hope to share with you...but it is important to never underestimate them. Do you understand my Love?”

He leaned forward to kiss her forehead, “This will bot be easy for either of us but I love you so.” There it was. He had finally spoke the words he had been meaning to for days.

Frisk nodded gently listening to him enlighten her on his families propensity for bigotry. Her heart nearly came to a stop, feeling her cheeks begin to hurt from how large her smile had grown, “I understand, Red. I love you too.”

She also noted that she must be careful now that his siblings would no longer see her as a helpless unaware victim. It would be a long road to breaking nearly half a millennia of destruction and manipulation.

He too nodded his head to affirm that he believed that she understood, “I shall teach you how to protect yourself further but tonight is not the night for such things.”

The hand that he had been threading through her hair moved to brush her cheek, tilting her head up toward him, "Never go with my brothers alone. Not even if they claim I asked them to fetch you and never look either of them in the eyes directly. My brothers are far older than me and though our abilities differ there are some that remain universal. The ability to bend the mind through compulsion is one such beast. I have found that my manipulations work on you, however, I must be at full strength for it to remain. My brothers have no such limitations. A simple look into their eyes and I dread what they may do.”

She rested her hands on either side of his cheeks, moving to face him fully. Those stunning red eyes glittered like the most dazzling rubies. A trait that they both seemed to share, “I’ve never seen such a beautiful shade of red before.”

He chuckled as he wrapped his arms around her waist nearly hoisting her up so that they could be at eye level properly, “Did I not just explain why you should not stare into a vampires eyes? Are you not afraid what I desire from you?”

A sheepish grin caused her eyes to crinkle at the sides in mirth, “My whatever shall I do then? I simply have not have the opportunity to see you as you truly are. This is the first time. I do not believe that you would be able to entrap the mind of one that loves you so. Your desires are my own but I fully understand that I must be careful from now on.” She had a feeling it would be far from the last time she would hear from his brothers.

“Warning your beloved of our abilities are you? tsk tsk little brother~”

Speak of the devil and he shall appear...

The pair froze when that smooth voice layered with flirtation and mockery met their ears. This was far from the ideal situation that they desired. There was no moment to play the fool. His brothers knew, of how much, they did not know. She could feel the tension that Red was holding in his body as his grip around her tightened, "Crimson.. I thought you had returned to your estate." This time he was free to glare at his vampiric sibling.

Crimsons unamused laugh had her husband’s eyes narrowing dangerously, practically illuminated in warning, “Do you take us for fools little brother? Both myself and Gered saw right through your little ruse. I can’t say that I’m shocked by the development, however, I am that you thought we would buy into your little story. He tilted his head before turning his attention on his nails as if the conversation was boring him, “We never left and if you had not come out to watch over your pretty little mortal then well... who knows what would have happened~”

He growled, "You are not to touch her!" Never had he defied his own family. Gered’s snicker joined Crimson’s chuckles as he leaned against one of the willows that made this lake its home. It was far too dark for Frisk to see anything properly beyond the protection of the lake she made glow earlier, "tsk tsk little brother. You know we could easily overpower you and take her for our own. Unless of course you do what you have failed to do. You do not wish to disappoint us, do you? After everything we have done for you?"

Red held her tightly to him as much as physically possible. He was not even going to give them a window of opportunity, "Do not force my hand. You know why father made me like you!"

Frisk curled in his arms before taking a shaky breath. It was true she would never betray him, never want to see him hurt, especially not for her sake. The true nature of his condition frightened her somewhat or rather not him as much as his seemingly aggressive brothers, “Red...”

His growling did not stop, "She is mine to deal with as I see fit brothers. You have your own, quell your jealousy that I found a rare mage blood before the both of you."

She could tell by the tone of Gered’s voice that he was no longer playing, “Ahh but mage blood calls to mage blood is that not right, little brother~" His chuckling sent a shiver up and down the length of her spine involuntarily. At this distance she would not be able to look into their eyes, hopefully things remained that way.

Her attention turned on the two, “Please leave him be. I... m...mage... blood?” What was he trying to imply? She glanced back at Red who looked furious before his eyes fell on her. That expression melted away as he batted away the mocking chuckles in the background, “Yes. It is why I am so drawn to you. Not just your beauty and your mind but also your blood. It calls to me. Before I turned I too was the same as you. Some humans can survive the change but with magic in ones veins it is undeniable. We all used to be mages it is why our father turned us and why your blood as well as our ancestors... is so very rare.”

A smirk curled on Crimson’s face as Red paused his animosity toward them to explain the truth to her, “I am rather tempted just to know that rare taste of mage blood~”

Gered chimed in moments later, “Yes, indeed. Besides you have never stopped us from sharing in the past. She recovered rather quickly from her illness do you not agree Red?”

Frisk swallowed thickly as she felt his slow heart beat under the palm of her hand. If he pulled her any closer he might just crack her rib. She had corsets for that daily torture. He had snapped, "You see... brothers.” The venom laced in his voice was enough to kill, “You and Crimson are not used to it. I have no doubt you would drain her dry. Crimson you are such a blood thirsty bastard that your last wife was nothing more than scraps of flesh and bone when you were finished. As for you Gered... You did not even bother to hide the gory display. I do not believe there was even a body to speak of!”

He was now pointing at the two, “Even with her full recovery there is no way in Hell I will be letting you even take a taste.”

Crimson seemed amused by the argument, “Smitten as I’ve even seen him.” He placed his fingers near his lips, “You don’t give us enough credit dear baby brother. The reason we care not for our feeding habits is because those that end up in our arms hold no value. She apparently holds value to you and thus we would be at our best behavior. You do not want us to summon father, do you? I hate to imagine what would happen to your blushing wife then.”

Frisk could not believe what slipped from her mouth but she nearly saw Red’s face turn as pale as a ghost. If such a thing was even possible, “If you promise to leave Red alone... I’ll do it... I’ll let all three of you share me but only under the condition I am able to have a happy life with your brother.” Any normal human would have continued to cower in his arms, not her.

He shook her head before looking down on her, “Frisk... you do not know what you are agreeing to do.”

She sighed, “I am not going to sit back and have them bully you for keeping me alive. I heal fast, far faster than any human. I will be fine.”

Gered folded his arms across his chest with a smirk playing at the corners of his lips, “Well that is rather cute. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a human stand up to any of us before... are you that in love?~ I do suppose we can both turn a blind eye if you honor that arrangement.”

She didn’t look him directly in the eyes like Red mentioned before but the moment the question was asked she didn’t hesitate with her answer, “More than my heart can possibly take.”

He hated this. There was no way that he was going to let his brothers steal her away. She was strong willed and stubborn but giving herself over to their whims was far from ideal. As long as they kept father out of it... she would be safe enough, “Though you are my wife I am not going to treat you like so many men do. You must make your own decisions, my Love. I have faith that you will make the correct ones.”

What had she gotten herself into? Now of all times he was being sweet like this. It drove her conviction home as she spoke only once glancing at Gered’s nearly amber eyes, “I wish to warm up inside. It is quite cold out here for me.”

The eldest took a bow before offering her his hand. She trusted Red, of course, but the other two, never, “But of course. We wouldn’t dream of causing you any sort of discomfort. You may belong to our youngest brother but due to your... unique condition you can expect only the most respectful of treatment from us. You have my word.~”

She just followed them all inside before taking a seat on the couch, running her fingers through her hair. Red scoffed at his older brothers claims. What did she just agree to again? Her heart belonged to one but her blood now belonged to three.

The fire that blazed in the grate began to warm her chilled flesh, now resting with her legs to the side of her. If she could get through to Red then perhaps the other two could retrieve the humanity they lost so long ago. It was a risk that she was willing to take as she lifted her head to give the love of her life a sweet smile.

He came to sit beside her so she could rest her head on his shoulder. It was far past the time she should have been awake. Her back was to the other two who now were reclining themselves, a familiar glass in each hand. He threaded his arm through her own as the warmth of the fire soothed and calmed the couple. They both remained silent as they watched the flames dance within the grate.

Nearly half a year ago she had worried that a lady like her would never feel love. That she was broken, damaged due to the blood that ran in her veins but then a suitor came to call. He was young, charismatic, and treated her unlike any man had before.

He truly was nothing like them and now she understood why. What are you supposed to say when you suddenly are thrust into a family’s nearly millennia long strife? A life of blood and excess. One of pain and regret. There would come a day when maybe she would finally be able to understand more clearly but for now all she knew was that she had found the thing she was looking for.

Even if that meant she now lived in an estate with three volatile vampiric brothers. It was a sacrifice she was willing to make.

#undertale #sans x frisk #frans #underfell #vampire prompt #writing #drabble #part 4 #quick little thing #Welcome to the Underworld #WTU #friskys multiverse #Red x Frisk #it feels good to write for the OTP #Vamp Red #gothic #romance

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thelovelyghostwriter · 4 years ago

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Why I started to like Neon Nostrade more (and why she’s more than just a spoilt girl)

Not gonna deny it, I disliked her when I first watched the 2011 anime. It pissed me off that she was gonna sneak out and that's how Chrollo managed to steal her Lovely Ghostwriter ability - which helped him save the Phantom Troupe. By right, Kurapika was supposed to wipe half of them. BUT, let's take a closer look at her character:

1) Most people just say she's spoiled. True! Yet, if you think about it, why is the Nostrade family so affluent in the first place? It's because of her talent. She is her father's cash cow, he's the reason why he had climb through the ranks and possibly gained income. Is it wrong for the girl to shop and spend on clothes that is because of her contribution? A large part of it is her contribution. In fact, her father is the one that is using her, commercializing her talent. Usually, it's the father that churns the cash and the daughter spends it - however, we see it as the other way round.

2) Neon's upbringing is rather wayward. We don't see her mother, and her father's likely more concerned about her ability than his own daughter. Their relationship seems transactional - "you do this, I give you expensive gifts". Because of this, it seems that Neon bathes in materialism (clothes, expensive dead body parts etc.) as a way to fill the void. She actually reminds me of Daisy Buchanan from The Great Gatsby - another woman who is so despondent that she ends up prioritising materialism more (she also gets a lot of hate, but I find her really interesting!)

3) Emotional detachment from the dead. We don't really know why she has a disgusting/weird hobby of keeping dead body parts - an indirect contribution to the Kurta clan's demise. But we can infer what she thinks of people in general, and how she sees the dead. On top of materialism, it seems that Neon is emotionally detached from people in general - probably because of the lack of affections from her father. Her father's sincerity doesn't entirely appear genuine. She was more worried about the auction items when Kurapika informs her that some of her bodyguards died, and we see the rest surprised by her reaction. She actually even tells Chrollo that she does not believe in the afterlife and that her fortune-tellings are for the living. To me, this is a complete juxtaposition to Chrollo's crying when he realised that Uvogin was dead, and Kurapika's emptiness and thirst for revenge because his clan was massacred. Yet, I do think she is capable of sympathy - given her shocked reaction when she saw Eliza breaking down. It was the reason why she wanted to go home early. It seems that she lived in a bubble (maybe girlie just needs a wake-up call?), up until that moment when she saw her attendant being devastated over her lover's death. It's actually called "Dismissive Attachment Style", which is largely influenced by how your caretaker/parent has treated you.

4) The way she behaves with her attendants/bodyguards/father vs the way she behaved around Chrollo is a stark difference. I'd argue that the whole throwing tantrums and escaping shenanigans is a manifestation of wanting attention from her father. Being surrounded by bodyguards, not being able to have the freedom and being on constant surveillance - it's exhausting. She is more genuine and laidback when she had a conversation with Chrollo. It's also surprising how she trusted a random stranger as a desperate attempt to do whatever she liked (and yes it's selfish on her side), I'd argue that it's due to living in a bubble. Unfortunately, this interaction with Chrollo is not genuine on Chrollo's side - it's mainly to steal her ability, which helped Chrollo change the fate of the Phantom Troupe members. Again, we can see that her interactions with people are mostly not genuine - most of her employees only put up with her because of their jobs, her father is more concerned with her ability, her "fans" adore her because of her fortune-telling ability etc. Even Kurapika seek employment from her because of her hobby, so that he can fulfil his mission to collect the Scarlet Eyes; and protecting her to appear more trustworthy to Light Nostrade (we eventually see Kurapika as leading the Nostrade mafia family in the current arc). It's pretty much no wonder why she's emotionally detached.

5) Emotional detachment + spoilt + materialistic + weird-ass flesh collector hobby - not really your role model or someone you could relate to. In fact, morality in Hunter x Hunter characters pretty much don't really exist or it's not clear cut? We got homicidal thieves, a kid that smashes a cat-ant's skull, a freakin' hypersexualised borderline pedo(?) clown, a family of assassins and of course my all-time favourite: the sexy chain-wielding avenger who willingly compromises his moral values to achieve his goal. But, that's kinda why I started to like her? She's so twisted in her own way (like other characters) and justifiably because of her poor upbringing - yet it appals me that many fans dislike her flaws as if she's the worst when the other characters are 10 times worse, but the same fans probably like another morally deprived character. I don't really know the reason, maybe because she's a non-fighting female character or too little screen-time? Lmao.

In fact, her actions are a foil to Kurapika's plans (that was actually the reason why I disliked her initially). Kurapika could have found Chrollo first instead of Zeno and Silva, but her father called Kurapika and he's forced to prioritise her safety. Getting her ability stolen by Chrollo changed the fate of the spiders when Kurapika was supposed to wipe out half of them (but hey, we get the spiders and they're cool). It's kinda weird how she didn't do much, yet the chain of events (pun-intended) altered for Kurapika and the Spiders.

Of course, I'm not saying you cannot dislike her. That's up to you. I guess I just wanted to share why I started to like her and also to share certain characteristics of her that people may have missed out. I'm pretty much sick of people saying that she's just a spoilt brat, she doesn't have character depth... when out of all the female characters, she's one of the few where I can actually dig deeper into her character (maybe I haven't paid attention to the rest, but even my favourite girl, Machi... can't really say I have any analysis on her). All the elements of Neon's character are there, it's just not spelt out for us.

I would like to thank @aspoonofsugar and @anotherworldash in their analysis that helped me think about her character more and really appreciate Neon.

#neon nostrade

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queen-of-bel · 4 years ago

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some semi-structured ramblings about kaz and paz, and why their dynamic is probably my favorite relationship of any media i’ve ever consumed

I really really love the dynamic that Paz and Kaz have with each other for so many reasons.

First off, it highlights two very important personality traits about Kaz during the Peace Walker era. It shows off how warm and friendly Kaz can be, but it also demonstrates how overconfident and reckless he is.

He takes what he considers to be “calculated risks”, vastly overestimating his own abilities to offset any negative consequences. He invited a Cipher agent to their own home turf, all for the sake of expanding MSF. It was risky as hell, and Kaz knew that, which is why he kept it a secret from Snake. In his mind, he had a plan to negate the risk of any damage that Cipher could do to them-- befriend Paz and have her switch allegiances.

Kaz knew exactly who she was– a spy only a few years younger than himself. He also knew what her objective was from the beginning. This is something that he admits to Snake at the end of Peace Walker. And yet, he still struck up a deal with Cipher and invited her and Zadornov to Colombia anyway.

It really is heartwarming to see how much effort Kaz put into reaching out to Paz.

After Zadornov was first captured, “Paz” had nowhere else to go, as Zadornov was paying for her room and board. I put “Paz” in quotes, because that was the situation that the character of “Paz Ortega Andrade” was in, not Pacifica Ocean.

Kaz knew this, and the risk of having Paz on mother base, but he was the one who really pushed for Paz to live there regardless. To quote Paz:

“I told the man that with no more money from the KGB, I could no longer afford school. …He bought my story, and when I said I would be willing to work, he took pity on me and let me stay. For some reason Miller really plead my case. That was helpful, but the man is still a fool…”

Now, you can chalk this up to him just going along with the business deal that he struck with Cipher, but his actions moving forward indicate otherwise.

It’s undeniable that Kaz really went out of his way to give Paz a comfortable and peaceful life while at MSF. Her diary tapes highlight all of the sweet interactions that they had:

“What I have got is just a common cold. The medical team said I’d need a few days’ rest, so I’ve been restricted to my room and put on bed rest… Miller told me to take it easy. “I will sing you a lullaby,” he said, then broke out a guitar and sang some incomprehensible song in Japanese. I did not need to understand the lyrics to know he’s an awful singer. Then he said, ‘You know what is good for a cold? Suppositories! Here, I’ll show you…’ He began to take off his pants, so I threw my tissue box at him to make him go away.”

“Every month, Mother Base throws a party for all the soldiers whose birthdays fall in that month… Miller seemed a little protective of me. ‘Hope they’re not being too crude,’ he said. ”

“‘C'mon, we even both have ‘peace’ in our names,’ said Miller. ‘And Zadornov - that old Russkie’s name has something to do with peace, too, right? Hey, as long as we’re having a day of peace, we ought to get an act together - The Three Peace Band!’ I thought he was joking. He then proceeded to share his idea without bothering to check with me, and now I am slated to sing. Apparently, he had heard me on deck one day and since then he’s wanted to form a band”

“With the lyrics finished, I was ready to show Miller. He does not often take things seriously, but all of a sudden he was saying ‘Paz, you have the soul of an enka songwriter.’”

(That last quote is technically from Phantom Paz, but nothing in PW states that Kaz himself was the one who wrote the lyrics for Love Deterrence, only the melody, so I’m going to go ahead and include this MSGV tape)

Of course, you could always make the argument that Kaz was just playing a role, that he was just going along with Cipher's lie and giving Paz special treatment because she's "just a teen", but let's compare his interactions with Paz versus his interactions with Chico, another youth at MSF.

Kaz's interactions with Chico were minimal at best. Not to say that he didn't like Chico, because he absolutely did. But there were never any special interactions between the two of them in the same way that he interacted with Paz.

In fact, Kaz never put that much effort into bonding with anyone else at mother base. Not Amanda, not Strangelove, not Huey, or even Cecile (or any other women at MSF that he would try to seduce). It’s clear that Kaz treated Paz differently than everyone else at MSF. Kaz is a very suave and charismatic person, and he’s used to charming his way into getting what he wants in life, with pretty minimal effort. Paz alludes to this in one of her diary tapes, scoffing at the fact that female MSF soldiers fall for his flirting "so easily".

Now, Kaz never tried to approach Paz romantically, but the success of his whole "let's get this Cipher agent to switch allegiances to MSF" plan rested on his overwhelming charm. Relying on his charisma has not failed him yet, and he had no reason to think that this situation with Paz would be any different. He thought that by reaching out to Paz, she would become loyal to MSF, effectively eliminating any threat that Cipher posed to MSF.

This is where his overconfidence comes in. He vastly underestimated Zero’s power, and how much of a grip Zero had on Paz. Paz absolutely despised Zero, but ultimately, she was terrified of betraying Cipher, calling the repercussions of that action “a fate far worse than death”.

Although, it's not as if Kaz’s efforts were completely wasted. Paz’s commitment to Cipher was wavering as time went on, and as she spent more time with MSF and everyone on mother base. However, it's important to note that Paz wasn't just grateful to the MSF staff as a whole. She was, but she particularly wanted to be close to Kaz.

In her diary tape when she was describing Kaz’s womanizing and his and Snake’s infamous sauna fight, she says something at the end that was really sad to me.

“But somehow I got the sense that for all his womanizing, Miller really only trusted one person, and that was Snake. There was no way I could ever come between the two of them. And at that thought I began to feel as if I had lost.”

We know that Paz had romantic feelings for Snake. She's suspiciously adamant in her third diary entry about her lack of interest in Snake, but her diary entries in the Phantom Pain were more honest about her feelings:

"[Snake] saved me, and I feel indebted to him, but I thought that was all he meant to me. Why does my heart flutter when I think of him?"

So going back to her diary entry in Peace Walker. When she says that she feels "lost", we know that this wasn’t her lamenting about Kaz’s womanizing habits, or what she calls his infatuation with Snake. What upsets her is her observation that Kaz only trusts Snake. She has this hopeless feeling that Kaz would never trust her in the same way.

Paz clearly wanted to be friends with Kaz. Not just friendly surface interactions, but she wanted to get to know Kaz more and bond with him on a deeper level. Unfortunately, it is this exact hopelessness that prevented Paz from expressing these feelings to him.

Of course, Kaz was blind to this inner conflict of hers. When you combine this with not only his underestimation of Zero's power, but his own overconfidence in his charisma, it's a bit of a recipe for disaster.

We see this testament to Kaz’s overconfidence after the ZEKE battle. He's actually shocked that Paz went through with Cipher's plan anyway. He really thought that his efforts to reach out to her worked, as he tells Snake:

“How could Paz… We were going to start a band together…”

At this point, Kaz has already come clean to Snake about knowing Paz's real identity. He no longer has to put up a front of "this is just a teenager". What this says to me is that these are Kaz's genuine feelings. He really was looking forward to starting a band with her, and performing with her on Peace Day.

I really like this moment because it shows that Kaz didn't just think of Paz as a way to expand MSF. He didn't spend all this time with Paz simply because it would benefit him. He felt a genuine desire to befriend and be close with her.

He’s clearly crushed that his efforts to befriend her failed. After the ZEKE battle, he admits that there was only one thing on his mind:

“After Paz tried to steal ZEKE from us, and we watched her get pulled beneath the waves… There was one thing I kept asking myself. Which was the real Paz? And which was the lie?”

What's interesting to me is that he’s not concerned about any damage to MSF that Paz may have caused, despite the fact that she hijacked ZEKE. He’s not even angry that she betrayed MSF, attempting to launch a nuclear strike on the east coast of the USA under MSF's name. He’s just dumbfounded and shell-shocked. Now, this is just my personal speculation, but I think his self-confidence really took a blow in this moment. He's always prided himself on his charisma and business acumen. For Kaz, to think that he so horribly and completely misjudged Paz’s character was a harsh wake-up call for him.

As time goes on, he does become angry, though. It’s mostly (misplaced) anger at Paz, but underneath it all, I think he’s mostly angry with himself.

In GZ, he asks Snake to bring Paz back alive, saying to kill her only if “worse comes to worst”. He uses the excuse that he wants her alive only because he wants to interrogate her and that she knows too much, but there are a couple lines of his during that mission that betrays his feelings:

“Paz is our only link to Cipher. If she’s still alive… …We need her on our side. If not us, who else is gonna rescue that bitch?”

I like that last line a lot because it really shows how conflicted Kaz feels about her. Yes, Kaz wants information on Cipher. Yes, Kaz is angry at Paz. But Kaz also wants Paz to be saved, by somebody, anybody. He just feels that MSF is the only group qualified to do so.

Now, I definitely don’t think that Paz’s well-being was the only motivation for Kaz’s asking Snake to bring her back alive. It’s just that underneath all the anger, Kaz is still clearly emotionally attached to her. In fact, Kaz even says:

“When we get our hands on Paz, intel on Cipher isn’t the only thing I want out of her. Putting aside her mission, her past, that sense of loyalty they drilled into her… I want to know… what she really thought of us.”

Ever since the ZEKE battle, Kaz has clearly been tormented with this question. At this point in time, Kaz is fully aware of what Zero and Cipher are capable of, and why Paz was sent to him. However, he recognizes Paz as more than just a Cipher agent. He wants to look past all of that– the “Paz Ortega Andrade” that Cipher had built up. He has to know what “Pacifica Ocean” truly thought of him and MSF. Whether or not his efforts to reach out to her were successful or not.

What makes this even sadder is that after the attack on mother base, Kaz incorrectly thinks that it was Paz who sold out MSF. He feels utterly betrayed, and his temper reaches a breaking point, lashing out at Paz, calling her a “spying bitch” and even attempting to attack her (which I firmly believe he would have if the medic hadn’t been holding him back).

Thinking about this from Paz’s perspective is also horribly depressing. She suffered so much torture at the hands of Skull Face, but she remained loyal to MSF, asking Skull Face to kill Zero if it meant it would save Snake. When Skull Face told her that he was planning to kill Snake as well, she pleaded with him to change his mind. Obviously, Kaz's plan worked. She did switch allegiances, betraying Zero in order to save Snake and MSF.

And yet, this is something that Kaz didn’t know. He thought that her loyalty ultimately laid with Cipher, which is why he was so furious after the attack on MSF. Paz likely didn’t even know that MSF was attacked, as she came to after Morpho had flown everyone away from base. The last experience of her life was nothing but pure rage and hatred from the person that she wanted to be closest to on mother base.

I don’t know, I just really love these two characters and their relationship a lot. Thinking about the friendship that they could have had, and the misunderstandings and tragedies that prevented either of them from knowing the truth was just heart-wrenching to watch throughout PW to GZ.

#i typed up something similar to this a while ago but it was a lot shorter and messy and i didn't proof-read it AT ALL LMAO #it was really more of a draft than anything else #finally sat down and fleshed it out and added over 1k words whoops and actually proofread so that's exciting #kazuhira miller #paz ortega andrade #two peace #metal gear solid peace walker #mg #amelia rambles

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banjodanger · 5 years ago

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X-Men Origins: Wolverine(2009)

I’ve got a lot to talk about, so I’m going to jump right in with a very unpopular opinion. This may SHOCK and OFFEND certain readers, but I’m not one to shy away from speaking my mind. More sensitive readers should beware, however, because I’m not going to shy away from rattling cages and saying what NEEDS to be said!

So, ready yourselves, because...

Origins is not the worst X-Men movie.

There. I said it. PBBBBBBTTTT!

I’m not arguing that this was a good movie, hell, there’s a good argument that this isn’t even a competently made movie. But this movie is also responsible for some of the absolute best movies to come from Fox’s X-Men. First Class and Days of Future Past are two of the absolute best movies of this series, and it’s doubtful the other two Wolverine solo movies would have aimed as high as they did if this movie hadn’t been so widely mocked. If you go back to watch this movie, try to keep in mind eight years later this series would get nominated for a screenwriting Oscar. Whatever your opinion of awards, that’s a hell of a turnaround, considering the story this movie tells is like three separate stories stapled together. Finally, however much this movie misunderstands Deadpool, it was right on in casting Ryan Reynolds and eventually gave us better Deadpool movies than we could have hoped for. It shouldn’t go unnoticed that both of those movies use Origins as a solid foundation for jokes. I’m not going to talk too much about Deadpool in this movie, because I plan to cover it in more detail when I get to the first movie.

But I’m not discussing those movies, I’m discussing Origins, and Origins is not very good. The CGI looks cheap and outdated, not just by the standards of the time it was released but by the standards of five years previous. And the movie makes said terrible CGI hard to ignore because, to quote the philosopher Michelle Branch, it is EVERYWHERE. Most people are quick to bring up Wolverine’s claws effects, and they should because they somehow look worse than any of the three previous movies and it’s the most easily noticeable. I’m not expecting them to have Hugh Jackman actually fighting and jumping around on top of a nuclear vent but it looks like they’re doing it in front of computer wallpaper. That hill outside the Hudson’s farmhouse literally looks like the default Windows XP desktop. I’m surprised Agent Zero isn’t hiding behind the recycle bin. This isn’t to say I don’t expect lots of CGI in my comic book movies,but I expect better when someone is dropping over one hundred million for a guy with metal claws to fight a mute with impossibly long sword fists.

I could ignore all the bargain basement effects if there was a good story, but there isn’t one. There’s about two or three stories and they’re all bad. Gavin Hood wanted to make a throwback sevnties-style revenge movie, completely self-contained and R-rated(Hey, does that sound familiar?), but the producers wanted extra characters they could spin off into their own films. And as much as I want to excoriate them for that, I can only get but so mad. This was a big franchise that was approaching ten years since its first film. They were looking towards the future and that’s what their job was. The problem is that failure to find a common ground comes through on the screen. Some of the strongest scenes are between Logan and Victor, to the detriment that most of the other characters who come off as unnecessary cameos. That boxing scene between Logan and Fred Dukes could be a thirty second phone call without really losing anything.

It’s disappointing, too, because a lot of the performances in this movie aren’t bad. Believe me, I wanted to hate Will.I.Am. I was going to drag him and talk about all the terrible music he made but...he’s not bad in this movie. I’m not going to say he missed his calling by not becoming an actor full-time, but I enjoyed his performance and wish the movie had used him a little bit more.

My humps is still one of the worst goddamned songs ever.

Gambit was great in this movie too. Taylor Kitsch had this bizarre run of putting in good performances in hated movies. After this, he did John Carter then the second season of True Detective. That’s a shocking run of bad luck, and too bad to, because he’s good in all three. We missed out not getting at least one more movie with his take on Gambit, because he gets maybe fifteen minutes of screentime but he manages to be memorable, charismatic and charming.

Helicoptering with a bo staff still isn’t part of his goddamn power set though.

And I’m not going to forget Liev Schrieber, who makes an absolutely compelling villain. The only problem with his character at all is that he puts such a great performance that it stretches belief to imagine this is the guy that becomes a silent henchman in the first movie. There’s simply nothing in his performance to suggest they’re the same person. It would be like if the twist of Phantom Menace was that Darth Vader was originally Jar Jar Binks, or if they hired Nora Ephron to write a Hellraiser prequel.

Even the Scott Summers we get in this movie is pretty good despite looking like a guy that steals copper wiring out of abandoned gas stations. Although I really question why Gambit watches them run off and I guess just assumes they’re being abducted by a good guy.

That leads me into the whole problem with prequels. Things happen in this movie and characters seem to live simply because earlier movies dictate that we have to see them again. It simply does not make sense for Kayla to leave Stryker alive. She has every reason to kill him, but she doesn’t, because he needs to be the villain in X2. Gambit doesn’t chase after the kids because they didn’t want to have him interact with Professor X. Sabretooth survives because he has to fight Wolverine on top of the Staute of Liberty while making no reference to their apparent relationship as siblings, or any words of any kind. This movie is awkwardly shoehorning itself into the lore established by the previous movies and it results in characters saying and doing things that go against what this movie seems to lead up to. The ending of most of those seventies revenge flicks was a bloody murder. Here, Stryker hurts his feet a little. It’s just not the same thing.

Ok, are you ready for the problematic parts?

Let’s start with Native American representation, because it ends up being a pretty big part of this movie. Lynn Collins’ Wikipedia says she claims Cherokee ancestry, so I’ll give the movie credit on that, but as near as I’ve been able to suss out, the myth she tells does not exist outside of this movie. First off, Wolverines do not howl. At all. They’re not wolves, they’re related to weasels. They’re small, vicious bastards. That information was readily available in 2009, by the way. Furthermore, the information I can find says that the moon in Native American mythology is predominantly gendered as male. Now, that’s not a blanket statement. This was the research I was able to conduct, and mythology, as with a lot of oral traditions, are a pretty mutable thing. Given that I was unable to find any mention of this myth that didn’t quote it from the movie, I feel pretty comfortable calling this myth nonsense.

Hey, what’s your tolerance for fatphobia? Because that’s going to impact how you feel about Blob’s character. Look, from his very first appearance he’s been a fat joke. That’s it. He’s a rude fat guy whose mutant power is being fat, hell, part of his power set is described as a “personal gravity field.” So while I can’t blame the movie entirely for this character being problematic, you’ve got to ask why they chose this character as the one that had to stay true to the comic book. He was in poor taste when he was created, when this movie was made, and now. And I absolutely can blame the movie for making him a fat joke.

At least they didn’t go the Ultimate comics route and straight up show him eating another character. Small blessings.

On a more final note, there’s that very strange character choice in the beginning credits. I know that they want to illustrate early that Wolverine doesn’t view violence the same way Sabretooth does, but why would they choose nazis as the villain in that moment? Even if they weren’t the most enjoyably killable villains in history, the last three movies have made the atrocities of the Holocaust a huge emotional linchpin of a major character. So it comes off as a genuine shock that this movie would use, in its introduction, a moment of sympathy for these very same villains. So you needed to show Wolverine with sympathy? Have a bar fight in France after liberating the country. Have them fight in the Korean war. Maybe Wolverine mourns a kid shot on the front lines. There’s a hundred choices that don’t involve Wolverine getting sad over a bunch of nazis.

So, why don’t I think this is the worst X-Men movie? I’m clearly not calling it a forgotten classic, and I’m not recommending you watch it unless you’re a weird completionist blogging about your arrested development on Tumblr. Sure, there’s some forgotten performances in here that deserve some consideration, but the movie is mostly a mess, a result of too many cooks with diverging visions. There’s a good revenge flick here, but it gets buried and muddled by a desire and knowledge that this movie has to simultaneously explain the past that led to the first movie and set up future installments. It tries to do too much and ends up not doing much of anything. I followed up on some of the people involved in this movie. Obviously Ryan Reynolds had the last laugh, but it still took seven years and a leaked teaser. Hugh Jackman learned from the mistakes in this movie and the rest of the Wolverine movies are pretty great. Gavin Hood, who got this job after being nominated for a foreign language Oscar, directed another big-budget flop with Ender’s Game. However, earlier in 2020 he apparently bought a four million dollar house so I don’t feel bad for him. Also, the flop of Ender’s Game could possibly involve Orson Scott Card being a vocal and unapologetic homophobe. Seriously, what is it with beloved fantasy authors and hate towards LGBT groups? You can conceive of wild, uncharted space and magical realms but the idea that two guys love each other is too far out?

Next in the series, from failure comes success, as we meet Xavier and Erik as frenemies and launch a million slash fictions.

#xmen #x men movies #movie critique #movie critic

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wistfulcynic · 5 years ago

Text

On What They Fall 3/ 4

YES OKAY I have added a chapter AGAIN. Just a short epilogue, to wrap up the loose ends. Because THIS chapter is the meat of the story, the conversation that’s five years overdue, and it is a DOOZY. (AND because @thisonesatellite said “oh this part would be a great epilogue” and she WAS RIGHT, curse her). I’m just not going to bother with chapter counts anymore.

ANYWAY.

In this chapter we have a cocoa date and and painful fight, and resolution, for better or worse.

SUMMARY: Killian Jones is an angry young man. He has no family and few friends, and he’s stuck in a small town where everyone views him with fear and suspicion.

Everyone but Emma Swan.

She’s everything he wants in life and everything he can’t have. What he doesn’t know is that she wants him too.

Part 9 of Secret Things.

Rated: T

On AO3 and previous chapters on Tumblr

Tagging some folks who might enjoy it: @kmomof4, @stahlop, @mariakov81, @teamhook, @resident-of-storybrooke, @darkcolinodonorgasm, @shireness-says, @thejollyroger-writer, @ohmightydevviepuu @jennjenn615 @superchocovian

Chapter 3:

The next morning Killian stands in the lobby of the hotel where Emma’s staying, his hands shoved deep in his pockets because they tremble if he doesn’t restrain them. His heart is pounding so hard it makes his head ache, and his mouth is dry. He succeeded in not drinking the night before but he thinks wryly that it’s made little difference. He might as well be hung over, the state he’s in.

When she appears his heart actually skips a beat —a thing he’d thought dreamt up by florid romance writers— and he swallows hard, trying to work some damn saliva into his mouth. She’s more beautiful than he remembered, her hair falling in soft waves around her face instead of pulled back in the ponytail she favoured in her teens. He vaguely recalls that in later years she wore it down more often but by then he was so focused on burying his attraction to her that he forced such observations from his mind. That and he was drunk quite often in those days.

The sunlight catches in her hair setting it aglow, and her smile is tentative. She’s wearing skinny jeans and a soft-looking sweater and he’s glad his hands are in his pockets because they are itching to touch her, to sink into that hair as he holds her close and tight in his arms. As strong as his sexual attraction to her has always been the urge he’s had to fight the hardest over the years is just to hold her. Just to take comfort from her presence.

“Hi,” she says. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually come.”

“I said I would.”

“I know, but—” she shrugs. “Anyway I’m glad you did.” She seems surprised to hear herself say it.

“Ah,” he struggles to think of what to say. “There’s a nice little cafe not far from here, do you fancy a cup of coffee? Or something else?”

“How’s their hot chocolate?”

He grins. “I haven’t tried it. Care to take a chance?”

She grins back, and happiness lights her eyes. “Okay.”

The cafe is small and bright, quirky without being twee. It’s one of his favourites and he’s pleased to find the little table in the window is unoccupied. “I come here to write sometimes,” he tells Emma. “Though I usually get caught up in people-watching, it’s less creepy when you have a laptop in front of you.” She laughs and the light, sweet sound makes him feel like he could fly.

They both order hot chocolate and he watches Emma take a sip, waits for her verdict. “It’s good,” she says, and takes a bigger one. “Really good, actually. Better than—” she breaks off with a wary glance at him.

“Better than Granny’s,” he finishes for her.

“Yeah.” She drops her eyes, fixes them on her drink.

“It’s okay to mention it,” he tells her. “Good even. I see a therapist every week just for mentioning it. At first it was like pulling teeth but now I look forward to going.”

Her fingers toy with the handle of her cup. “You talk to your therapist about Granny?”

“Aye, among other things.”

She cradles the cup in her two hands, her fingers flexing on the warm ceramic. Her eyes dart up to his face as she sips. “You seem— I don’t know, more at peace now,” she says. “Is that why? The therapy?”

“It’s one reason.”

“Leaving Storybrooke.” It’s not a question.

“That’s another.”

“Do you… do you ever regret leaving?”

“No.”

He’s thought a lot about this question in the years since his departure and for hours last night, and no matter what angle he approaches it from the answer is still the same. Missing Emma has been a constant ache, like phantom pains in a severed limb, but as painful as being away from her has been he can’t regret leaving Storybrooke. Getting away from that place saved his life, made his life into something worth living. He’d not even realised how badly it had scarred him until he started meeting people who had no preconceptions of who he was. People who saw things in him worth liking, and liked him for them. He wasted a lot of time at first by holding himself back from those people, waiting for them to discover the real him and despise him for it. He lost several potential friends that way. But gradually he learned to accept that when people sought his company it was because they actually wanted it, and that for him was a goddamned revelation.

Emma’s eyes drop again at his unequivocal tone, and she gives a small nod. The sadness that chases away her earlier bright smile makes his heart ache and he wishes he could tell her that his leaving wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t, at least not the fault of anything she did, just of who she was and who he was and how he felt about her and the impossibility of feeling as he did while being who he was. But he doesn’t quite know how to express all the nuances of this. Of everything that went into his decision to leave.

“Emma,” he says, and she flinches slightly. “You stopped calling me that, remember,” she whispers. “The last few years it was always ‘Swan.’”

“I—”

“It doesn’t matter,” she interrupts. She tilts her cup back, finishing the last of the chocolate. “Can we walk a bit?”

—

They stroll through the streets and he points out the places he likes to go, recommends some things she might enjoy doing in the area. He still doesn’t know how long she plans to stay. She is clearly interested, asks questions and takes some pictures on her phone, but when the conversation lags he feels her silence like a physical presence between them. He doesn’t know what to do to break through it.

They arrive at the corner of his street and he can see she recognises it. She glances at him and he gives her a hopeful smile. He isn’t ready for their time together to end, and he thinks she isn’t either.

“Do you want to come up?” he asks, nodding at his building. “Maybe sit down for a while?” They’ve been walking for the best part of an hour.

She nods. “I’d like that. And also—” She hesitates, looking uncertain.

“Also what?” he encourages.

“Would you tell me about the things in your apartment? The ones you collected while you were travelling? I read all the stories you put on your blog but I’d love to see the things that go along with them. If that’s okay?”

“Of course it is.” He’s utterly thrilled that she’s interested, that she actually read the things he wrote. The thought of having her in his apartment, though, being alone with her there, telling her stories of his travels and having her listen with real interest— it sends excitement and apprehension coiling around his insides, squeezing them painfully. His heart is racing again and he really, really wants a drink.

They are silent in the elevator, leaning against opposite corners, and when they enter his apartment they stand staring at each other in awkward silence.

“Um.” Killian feels desperate to break it. “Do you— want anything to drink? Water, coffee, tea?”

“Rum?” she jokes.

“Alas, no,” he says with a small smile, just a slight curve of one corner of his mouth.

“You don’t have any rum?” The joking is gone and she is genuinely surprised.

He rubs at a spot behind his right ear. “I stopped drinking,” he says, and her eyes widen.

“What, completely?”

He shrugs. “I have some beer, a few bottles of wine. But I don’t drink liquor anymore.”

“Oh.” She feels as though that’s a positive development, but congratulating him seems wrong, too glib somehow and not her place.

He sees her discomfited expression and his smile softens. “Therapy again,” he explains. “Apparently I use alcohol as an emotional crutch, and that’s not a healthy way to be.” He tries to keep his voice light. He does not want to answer any questions about this. Not now.

She nods, smiles. “I’m not really thirsty.”

He swallows back a surge of emotion. She’s always understood him far too well.

He gives her a mini-tour of his apartment, shows her all the souvenirs he’s collected and tells the stories behind them. She laughs at his jokes and asks insightful questions, and for a time the years fall away and they feel as close as they were in that long-ago summer before the fragile ties that bound them fell apart.

When she’s seen everything he offers her coffee again and this time she accepts. Emma watches him as he moves confidently around his kitchen, manipulating the complicated espresso machine with an ease she envies. He’s changed so much from when she last saw him, she thinks, but the changes have made him more like how he was when they first met, eager and interested under all his anger and just brimming with intelligence. The defeatist, bitterly resentful young man who left Storybrooke with no goodbyes was never who he really was.

He hands her a cup and they sit down, and silence falls again. Emma knows what needs to be said, what she came here to say. It lurks invisibly in the space between them, poised to destroy the delicate balance they’ve held all morning. She doesn’t want to say it but she knows she must.

“We need to talk,” she says.

He attempts a smile. “I find that when a woman says that I’m rarely in for a pleasant conversation.”

“Please don’t joke,” she implores. “This is hard for me.”

“I know, love,” he says gently, and she winces again. Love. It’s another name he hasn’t called her in many years. She needs to know just how much he means it.

“The woman in your book,” she says, watching him carefully. He catches his breath. “She’s me, isn’t she?”

“Aye.”

“And on my birthday, when you said you were in love you meant with me.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Aye.” His voice is hoarse, he has to push the words past the tight ache in his chest. “It’s only ever been you, for me.”

This should make her happy, it’s what she’s longed for years to hear. Instead she is frustrated, furious with him. “But why didn’t you ever tell me?” she bursts out, grinding her clenched fist against her leg.

“How could I?” he snaps. “Who was I to say those words to you?” He sets down his coffee cup, drags a hand through his hair. “You have to understand, Emma, loving you... it was like trying to draw down the sun. You were so bright and beautiful it hurt to look at you and so far above my reach there was no point in reaching.”

“I wasn’t above you!” she chokes.

Killian’s face twists into a sneer she recognises all too well. “Tell that to your father,” he snarls. “Tell it to everyone in that bloody town.”

“But,” Emma gropes for the words she needs, cursing herself. She’s never been good at talking about her feelings, and especially not when she’s so caught up in feeling them. “It didn’t matter what they thought—”

“It did,” he snaps. “It’s all well and good to say that other people’s opinions don’t matter, but that’s a very privileged position to take. It did matter what people in Storybrooke thought of me because it informed how they treated me, and how they treated me informed every aspect of my life there.”

“Every aspect!” she sputters.

“Yes, every one! What kind of job I could get, where I could live, what establishments I was welcome to patronise. Who I could spend my time with.” His voice cracks.

“You mean me.” Her own voice is flat.

“Aye.” He breathes deeply, finds his calm. “Small towns like that, they like people to fit into tidy little slots,” he says. “The schoolteacher, the banker, the librarian, the troublemaker.”

“That’s ridicul—”

“The sheriff’s daughter,” he presses on. “The princess.”

Emma recoils. “You called me that once before.”

“Well can you deny it’s true? Your parents are the most respected people in town and you are their golden child. You’re as hemmed in to your assigned role as I was, darling, your role is just nicer and more comfortable so you’re content to inhabit it.”

“That’s not true,” she whispers.

“Isn’t it?” He leans back, gives her a hard look. “Tell me, love, what’s your job?”

“I’m a deputy.”

“Mmm,” he says. “Your father must be very proud. Just what he always wanted for you.”

She glares at him. “It’s what I want too.”

“Oh? And yet I seem to remember you talking about doing social work, advocating for women and girls.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Or your father changed it for you.”

“Is it so wrong to want my dad to be proud of me?”

“Are you saying he wouldn’t be proud of you if you hadn’t become a cop? Because if his pride in you is that bloody fragile then it sure as fuck wouldn’t have withstood—” he breaks off, picks up his coffee and takes a deep drink.

“What?”

“It’s not important.”

“Well it obviously is. Tell me.”

He sets the cup down, looks her straight in the eye. “It wouldn’t have withstood you getting involved with me.”

She stares at him. “That summer—”

“That summer,” he echoes, dropping his eyes as a sad smile curves his lips. “I’ve never been happier than I was then, not before or since, but I always knew that one summer was all we’d ever have. There was never any chance of a future for us. Even without all the other factors your father—” He swallows hard and a muscle begins to dance in his jaw. “The way he looked at me every time he saw us together, it was like he thought I was… despoiling you just by being near you. I was not what he wanted for his little girl. His princess.”

“And what about what I wanted?” she whispers. “You never even asked me.”

“Because I already knew,” he says gently. “You wanted to make your father proud. You said so yourself, many times. It’s why you became his deputy. And of course Graham.”

She breathes through a stab of guilt. “What about Graham?”

His voice is harsh again, roughened by this unhealed wound. “How long did you date him?”

“From the time you left until about two weeks ago.”

He gives a sharp laugh that cuts to her core. “Just as daddy wanted.”

“Yeah, well you left,” she snaps back.

“And if I had stayed, would that have made any difference at all?”

“No,” Emma acknowledges. “It probably wouldn’t.” Though only because you were shutting me out, she wants to add, but temper is sparking in Killian’s eyes again and he speaks before she can gather her words.

“So let me just be sure I understand,” he says, in a sneering tone that makes her want to slap him, “What you’re saying is I should have stayed in a town I hated full of people who hated me and lived a life that had no future while watching the woman I loved date the only friend I had?”

She sputters in frustration. “Well it sounds terrible when you put it like that!”

“How else should I put it? Are these not the facts?”

“Yes they are, minus one crucial one!”

“Oh, and what’s that?”

“That I loved you!” She is too caught up in her frustration to notice the way his mouth drops open. “That I only said yes to Graham because you wouldn’t give me the time of day! I could have stood up to my father, Killian, I would have if you had shown me even one reason why I should. But you rejected me again and again and I thought why the fuck shouldn’t I be with someone who actually wants me? Why shouldn’t I make my dad happy if I can’t be happy myself?”

“Emma—”

“And then you left!” she shouts. She’s on a roll now, the words finally flowing, and she doesn’t see the agony on his face. “And you didn’t even have the fucking balls to come to me and tell me so yourself! To say goodbye! I had to hear about it from Belle and I broke down in front of her and cried like a child but I couldn’t help it!”

“Emma—”

“I had tears and snot just dripping everywhere and she gave me a handkerchief to wipe my face. One of your handkerchiefs. And you know what, Killian?”

“What?” he whispers.

“I still have it.” She reaches into her jeans pocket, pulls out a small square of fabric. “I kept it. I carried it with me every day for five years, even when I couldn’t stand to think about you I had it. But you can have it back now.” She thrusts the handkerchief at him. “Go on, take it, I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want you.”

He stares at the handkerchief but makes no move to take it.

“Is your love so fleeting then,” he says.

“What?”

“You say you loved me, which is a hell of a thing to spring on a man out of nowhere, Swan, and then you tell me you carried my handkerchief with you for five years which seems to suggest that those feelings didn’t die when I left. But now the first time we have a proper fight you’re ready to give it back and be done with me?”

“Oh, I still love you,” she says in a voice like a dagger. “I’m just tired of waiting for you. Tired of waiting for you to come home.”

“Home,” he repeats, and there’s a bitter edge to the word. “And where would that be, precisely? Storybrooke was never my home.”

“I see that now,” she concedes. “But I could have been! We could have made a life together—”

“In Storybrooke, though?”

“In any place you wanted! I wish you had just told me you wanted to leave, I would have gone with you, anywhere you needed to go. To another town where no one knew us or— or on your boat around the world.”

He is silent for a moment, collecting his thoughts before he replies. There is a truth he’s come to accept, one doesn’t want to admit to her and that she will certainly not enjoy hearing. A truth that’s tangled up with so much else he’s learned about himself these past five years. He squeezes his eyes shut as he tells it. “I don’t think I would have wanted you to come on the boat.”

She turns pale. “But— I thought—”

“In some ways that would have been my dream come true,” he says, and the look in his eyes implores her to understand. “You and me on a boat exploring the world together. The first few years after I left I missed you constantly, and I often thought about what you would have said or done if you’d been there with me. But it wasn’t always fun, Emma, or safe. I got caught in storms and there were times I had to live on fish for days because there was no other food. If you’d been there I’d have felt guilty for taking you away from your family and your future to scrape by with me. And I wouldn’t have taken so many risks, or gone to certain places, because I wouldn’t have wanted to put you in danger. I’d have felt just like I did in Storybrooke, not enough for you, never good enough. And honestly—” She is staring at him with wide, devastated eyes, and he takes a deep breath before continuing. “Honestly, I really needed to be on my own, to discover for myself what I was capable of out from under the weight of all that expectation of failure.”

Emma swallows around the tears gathering in her throat. She wants to say something but has no idea what words he needs.

“I get that this is difficult for you to understand, Emma,” he continues. “You’ve always been surrounded by people who loved and supported you and who expected the best from you. But I didn’t have a loving family as you did, not with my mum and Liam gone. All I had was Belle, and though I knew she cared about me I always felt like that affection was conditional, and could be withdrawn at any moment.”

“Belle would never— she loves you!”

“Yes, of course I know that, but she also doesn’t owe me anything. We’re barely even related, she only took me in because she’s too kind to let harm come to anyone if it’s in her power to prevent it. But I was a burden on her—”

“You couldn’t be—”

“I was. She never said anything but I knew the money she got for me wasn’t enough. We barely scraped by on it and then I turned eighteen and it was gone. So I got a job to make up the shortfall, and people shook their heads and clucked their tongues and said of course I’d ended up a high school dropout, they’d expected no better of me.”

“People said that?” she whispers.

His shoulders are tense, his mouth a grim line. “That and a good deal more,” he says tightly. “And every dirty look, every deliberately-too-loud remark, each one just reinforced the guilt I already carried about about Belle and about you. How I felt about you, and what I wanted—” He breaks off, brushes his fingers over his eyes. “And I couldn’t see any way out for me. There were no other jobs I could do, and no place I could go that would be any better. I’d still have no qualifications and no skills and also no impossibly kind distant cousin who would let me live with her rent-free. So I closed myself off and tried to ignore it, lost myself in books whenever I could and the rest of the time buried my feelings in alcohol and sex, which of course just gave people more reason to despise me and thus the cycle continued. The only way I could break it was to remove myself from it. From all of it.”

“From me.”

“Yes. And so I bought my boat and I saved what money I could, and then…” He gestures with his hand and she nods.

“And then you left.”

“Aye.”

Emma is still clutching his handkerchief, twisting it in her fingers. Seeking comfort from the bit of fabric is second nature to her now. “I had no idea,” she says. “I knew you were angry about your parents and Liam but I didn’t know how people were treating you or that you felt so guilty about Belle. Or about me. I’m so sorry, Killian.”

He attempts a careless shrug but she feels the pain behind his eyes like it’s her own. “Don’t be,” he says. “I didn’t want you to know.”

“You didn’t think you could confide in me.”

“I didn’t want to burden you! I hate telling you this now; I don’t want to change the way you see your home and the people in it.” He runs a hand over his face. “But you wanted to know why I left Storybrooke, and this is why.” This is most of why.

Emma shakes her head, struggles to sort through the complicated mess of what she’s feeling. Sorrow and anger and frustration and confusion and love. “I understand how awful that must have been for you,” she says slowly. “Truly I do. But you pulled away from me and shut me out way before then.” She grits her teeth as the anger begins to gain the upper hand. “As soon as the summer ended I felt you getting distant. And you didn’t even bother to talk to me about it, about anything, even when I practically begged you to! You just decided I was too good for you, all by yourself, and it never once occurred to you to ask me how I felt about it!”

“What was there to say? You were too good for me, objectively so—”

“Oh hell no, there was nothing objective about it!” Fury is roaring through her now, igniting in the green of her eyes and staining her cheeks with scarlet.

Killian bristles with indignation at her tone. “You haven’t listened to anything I—”

“I have listened,” she hisses, “To every bullshit excuse you’ve made, and now it’s your turn to listen to me. Like you should have done years ago.” He opens his mouth again but she glares him down. “You have always been better than you give yourself credit for, Killian,” she says. “You are so smart, and you’re funny, and you see things in a completely different way than everyone else. You fascinated me from the beginning and I fell so hard for you, so fast it was embarrassing. I think it must have happened that first time I shook your hand.”

“That makes two of us,” he whispers.

“And I get why you felt angry and guilty but that was not something you had to deal with alone. I wanted to be there for you, I tried to be there, but you pushed me away and then you made a decision that affected both of our lives without even consulting me!”

“I— I never dreamed that you could— I had no idea—”

“Well, you should have! I could not have been more obvious about it, I did everything but wrestle you to the ground and kiss you senseless. But you never saw it and I just thought that I was making a fool of myself, throwing myself at you when you clearly weren’t interested. But now!” She gives a bitter laugh. “Now I find out that you just refused to see it, because you had these ridiculous ideas about me being ‘above’ you!”

“They were not ridiculous—”

“They were because I never felt that way!” she shouts, vibrating with frustration and anger. “I never thought I was better than you or that you were a failure! You got dealt a shitty hand by life, yes, but you were the one who let that beat you! I always knew you could be more, and do more, that’s why I kept nagging you to go back to school, I hated seeing you just fold like you did. And I would have told you all of this, and that I loved you and that I would have done anything for us to be together, if you had just once actually talked to me about what you were going through!”

He shakes his head, trying to deny the truth he hears in her voice. “I couldn’t— you were just so—”

“So what?” she snaps.

“So... perfect.”

“Are you kidding me right now?”

“It’s how you seemed! So beautiful and everyone adored you, meanwhile everything in my life was so ugly and I just— I couldn’t talk about it with you. I couldn’t allow that darkness to cloud your life. I felt unworthy to even touch you, much less hope that you could ever feel about me as I did about you.”

Emma stares at him as he stares at his hands. He means it. She wants to shake him, to scream at him, but as satisfying as that would be she knows it would do no good. The past is the past and she can’t change any of it, can’t get back the time they’ve wasted. All she can do is try to ensure they don’t waste any more.

“And what about now?” she asks, unable to keep the edge of irony from her voice. “You’ve stopped drinking, your therapy seems to be working. You’re a successful journalist and author with a beautiful girlfriend. I’m a small-town deputy whose life is passing her by because she can’t get over the boy she fell in love with at fifteen. Do you feel ‘worthy’ of my exalted affection now? Can we be friends again?”

“No.”

The word slaps her in the face and she recoils, fights the tears that try to form behind her eyes. “Fine, then,” she snaps. “I’ll just go—”

“No!” He reaches out to stop her, snatches his hand back before it can brush hers. “No, I didn’t mean— I didn’t mean it like that. I mean I can’t be just your friend. Trying to bury my feelings in friendship nearly killed me once already.”

He tosses out this declaration with a hollow nonchalance that wholly fails to hide the agony beneath it. Emma frowns. “What do you mean it nearly killed you?”

Killian is surprised by her question, then surprised at his surprise. When has she ever not heard the things he doesn’t say? He stands up from the sofa and turns away. He knows that if there is any hope for them to move beyond the mistakes of the past then they need to talk about all of them. But he can’t look at her when he reveals this one. “There’s another reason I left Storybrooke,” he says. “Or at least, a reason why I left when I did.”

Her frown deepens. “What was it?”

“I can be a bit… obsessive sometimes. That’s another thing therapy helped me to understand. I fixate on things and obsess about them and can’t let them go until I’ve pursued them to the end. In some ways it’s good, it helped get my book written, but it can be terribly destructive to focus on one thing until it becomes the only thing in your life that matters. I loved you so bloody much and there was nothing else I cared about, and— you were in my head all the time unless I drank and fucked you out of it, but that just drove us further apart.”

He sits on the sofa again and his fingers flex like he wants to take her hand, but he doesn’t and she doesn’t reach out. He stares at the empty cushion between them and forces his next words out.

“The night you agreed to go out with Graham I went home and I drank so much I nearly died,” he says, wincing when she gasps. “If Belle weren’t such an early riser I would have. She found me and got me to the hospital in time to save my life. And when I woke up a part of me was furious with her for saving me.”

“Oh, Killian.”

“I didn’t— I didn’t consciously plan to do it but I can’t deny that I wanted to die, there in that moment I didn’t care at all for my own life. I left Storybrooke to save myself because I knew if I had to watch you fall in love with my only friend that next time I’d go somewhere Belle wouldn’t find me. And I knew that I had to find something to live for. Something that didn’t have anything to do with you.”

Slowly she reaches out, lays her hand on his arm. He exhales sharply as his skin tingles and his heart begins to pound. Her touch affects him as strongly as it ever has, stronger even after all their years apart.

“And now you’re worried that if we got together you would obsess about me again,” she says.

“I might. It wouldn’t take much.”

She slides closer, leans in until he can count the freckles on her nose. “I don’t think you will.”

“How can you know that?”

“Because you have so much more in your life now than just me. You’ve found other things to live for. Haven’t you?”

Her eyes are warm and her lips look so soft, and Killian wants to howl with anguish. This is everything he’s ever dreamed of, Emma here with him and wanting him, loving him even, and he’s still not sure if he can take what she’s offering. Not sure he can risk losing the peace he’s fought to earn these past five years. He pulls back from her and stumbles to his feet. “I suppose I have,” he concedes. “But I’m still such a mess—”

“I am too,” she retorts. He turns to look at her, eyebrow raised. “And don’t you even think about arguing with me, we’ve established that you have very messed up ideas about how perfect I am.”

He can’t help laughing at that, at the sharp, straight-talking wit he loves so much. Emma sighs as the painful tension in her chest begins to loosen. She stands and goes to him, inches in as close as she dares. His eyes widen and his breath catches and still she moves closer.

“I love you, Killian,” she says softly. “I’ve loved you for eleven years. I know you’re not perfect but I’m not either. And maybe things wouldn’t have worked out for us in the past, maybe we weren’t ready for each other then. But I have tried everything to get over you and none of it’s worked, and that must mean something. And if you love me too then we have to at least try.”

—

Milah slams the car door shut and flashes a smile at the driver. “I won’t be long,” she says, and he grunts in response. She just has to run up and drop some documents off for Killian to sign. She figures —hopes at least— that he’s still out with Emma. She’s still got a key to his apartment, and she plans to leave the folder on the table just inside his door with a post-it note instructing him what to do. She’s not particularly keen to see him, and not only because she has about fifteen more things that need to be done today.

She doesn’t regret breaking up with him. She’s pushing forty, divorced, comfortably well off thanks to some savvy investments and being very good at her job, and she definitely doesn’t need to be wasting her time and energy trying to cling to a man who’s still hung up on someone else, a woman he insists on elevating to such a height no one else will ever match up.

And yet, she feels sad. She truly likes Killian, loves him really. And she knows he loves her too, as much as he can, and that if he could let go of Emma they would be happy together. But the looks on their faces when she interrupted them yesterday, the electric tension between them… the room was fairly crackling with it and Milah knew the moment Killian introduced the blonde as a ‘friend from Storybrooke’ that their relationship was over. She accepts it. But she can still feel sad about it. And she can still not be quite ready to see him again.

She unlocks his door and pushes it open, reaches in with the folder. And then she sees them. Standing as close as they could possibly get without touching, their gazes locked, tension radiating between them. Slowly Killian reaches up to touch Emma’s face with a hand that is visibly trembling. His fingertips trace the contours of her cheek and jaw and his thumb brushes across the dip in her chin. His expression is awed, reverent, and Milah tries hard not to roll her eyes. Has he listened to nothing she said?

“Kiss her, for fuck’s sake,” she mutters under her breath, just as Emma stands on her toes and presses her lips to his. His fingers sink into her hair and his arm wraps around her waist as she clings to his shirtfront by her clenched fists.

He keeps the kiss soft, though, his posture rigid with the effort of not devouring her as he clearly wants to, and Milah wishes she could smack him upside the head. Emma is no delicate flower, she looks like she could kick his ass in a fight, in fact, but he’s treating her like she’ll shatter if he puts his tongue in her mouth.

Emma’s having none of it, though. She sinks her own fingers into his hair and tugs at it, nips at his lips until he opens them, then she puts her tongue in his mouth. He tries to hold her back but she hisses at him. “Kiss me like you mean it,” she says against his lips, and Milah can practically see Killian’s control snap. With a growl he backs Emma up to the wall and presses her against it with the length of his body, slants his mouth over hers and kisses her properly. Emma makes a whimpering noise that Milah can fully understand —Killian’s a hell of a kisser— but then she twines her arms around his neck and gives as good as she’s getting. Milah grins as she puts the folder on the table and shuts the door silently behind her. She likes this Emma, she decides. She hopes someday they can be friends.

—

Killian’s head is spinning wildly and his blood feels thick and hot as it pounds though his veins. He is pressed against Emma from knee to chest, her hair sliding silkily between his fingers and her lips so soft under his, and she is kissing him back— with just as much fervour, her arms tight around his neck and their tongues licking deep into each other’s mouths and he can’t handle it. It’s more than he ever dared hope for and also not nearly enough, and he forces himself to break the kiss and get a grip on himself before he loses his mind entirely.

He’s struggling for breath and so is she, their gasps mingling as they lean their foreheads together and try to form words. Preferably coherent ones, thinks Killian, but really any form of verbal communication will do.

“That was—” he pants.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “But I want—”

He cups her cheek. “You sure, love? Because we don’t—”

She nods. “I’m sure. So sure. I just— “ She pulls his hips into hers. “I want—”

He groans. “Aye, me too. Let’s—”

“Yes. Now.”

And then her lips are on his again and she is clinging to him, moaning into his mouth as he lifts her up, as she wraps her legs around him and he carries her to his bedroom.

#cs fic #cs ff #cs ff au #mutual pining #secret love #captain swan #angst #allll the secrets come out #and the anger #and the longing #of which there is much #pining idiots #on what they fall #profdanglaisstuff

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thoughtsfrommareincognitum · 4 years ago

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24 hours to go.

Surely we must be dreaming. Can the election really be tomorrow? I write with full awareness of how absurd it is to try to say anything about what is about to happen. In less than 48 hours, anything I write here will look either obvious or stupid. The closer the election gets, the harder it is to imagine what the world will look like the day after Tuesday. Donald Trump's presence in politics is like a distorting mirror at a carnival; he makes it impossible to see reality for what it is. Once a garishly strange anomaly in our politics, he has made it nearly impossible to imagine our politics without him.

Half the people I know don't believe the polls. They believe, without wanting to, that Trump will somehow pull off the impossible and land a second four years in the White House. They worry, not unreasonably, that Trump's loyal goons will simply steal the election for him. They rightly dread the outcome if any disputed results wind up before the Supreme Court, now dominated by right-wing fanatics. Perhaps the most crushing possible outcome is the one nobody even wants to think about: The polls turn out to be horribly wrong and Trump simply wins, without any need to cheat.

I don't think this will happen. I dread the thought of enduring Tuesday night as much as anyone, but I dread it in the sense that you might feel your stomach lurch walking through a dark, deserted house at midnight, even when you don't believe that there are any phantoms waiting to jump you. I think that Joe Biden will win. I think he will take the country in a different direction, one that will eventually make the last four years seem like an evil dream. If a Biden presidency is currently unimaginable, it is because Trump has made the normal world of American politics, good and bad, seem as remote as the Russia of the Czars.

Trump's total dominance over every aspect of our public life—wherever you look, there he is—has made it harder to perceive that his political hopes are becoming more diminished every day. FiveThirtyEight now reckons that Trump has a 10 percent chance of winning the election; on the eve of the 2016 election, they gave him a 28.6 percent chance of winning. The difference here is more drastic than it might look at first glance. Last time, Trump had better than a 1 in 4 chance of winning; now, he has a 1 in 10 chance of winning. This is "roughly the same as the odds that it’s raining in downtown Los Angeles," the site charmingly notes. To put it more bluntly, if the polls turn out to be exactly as wrong as they were last time, Biden would still win the election.

We shouldn't forget that Trump's victory in 2016, as shocking as it was, was always less inexplicable than we wanted to believe. Remembering this makes it easier to understand the difference between then and now. In the summer of 2016, Trump pulled ahead of Hillary Clinton in the polls. In 2020, Trump has never, even once, pulled ahead of Joe Biden. Clinton's candidacy was fatally damaged in the final two weeks of the race by FBI Director James Comey's letter to Congress, which caused several key states to flip to Trump. With 48 hours to go until Tuesday, no comparable scandal has appeared to beset Biden. Trump in 2016 was a political unknown with a blank record; Trump in 2020 is a sickeningly familiar quantity whose latest year in office has consisted of one national emergency after another, all of them handled with singular incompetence. People hate him as they have hated no other president in my lifetime. The only people I know who genuinely hate Joe Biden are left-wingers who plan to vote for him anyway.

But the most important thing is this: As false as they were, Trump’s attacks on Hillary Clinton worked. People believed them. The attacks on Biden haven't worked. No reasonable person believes that Biden is "senile." And nothing will ever persuade any intelligent person that Biden, a man with a 46-year career of moderate politics, is a bloodthirsty socialist who has spent half a century dreaming of the day when he can abolish private property and send his enemies to the gulag. Even Trump's nickname for Biden, "Sleepy Joe," is one of the weakest in his arsenal. Has anyone in the last 200,000 years ever disliked another person for being “sleepy”?

A number of observers have insisted that we shouldn't believe the polls, that many people will simply lie to pollsters about whether or not they plan to vote for Trump. In my experience, Trump supporters are more outspoken about their love of their candidate than any other supporters of any candidate I have ever encountered. If any candidate gets the benefit of anyone’s secret support, I suspect it will be Biden, whom much of the political left regards as beneath contempt, just as they despised Clinton, Kerry, Gore, and—though some of them wouldn't admit it—Obama before him. This phenomenon ought to be familiar to anyone who has lived through more than one election. We are always hearing how this year's candidate is the worst one we've had since the candidate we had four years ago, who was even more awful than the previous one, who was a real comedown from the guy who ran before him, who wasn't any good to begin with.

As Robert Kennedy once lamented to a reporter in private, there are a disturbing number of liberals who would rather lose than win, as long as they can lose with their ideals intact. So let us never forget the single most important thing to know about politics in this country: the point of elections is to win. Without political power, we cannot accomplish anything. When Republicans get a candidate they don't really like, they grit their teeth and vote for them anyway. For once, we should emulate them.

If Biden wins, he will take office in a country that is broken in every sense of the word. The damage runs far deeper than a ruined economy or a pandemic with no end in sight. Most Americans no longer trust their government; if a vaccine were magically developed tomorrow, one in every three people would refuse to take it. Most Americans no longer trust the press, the courts, or any other political institution. Worst of all, we distrust each other—a situation that leaves us vulnerable to the mercies of the first clever demagogue who hits upon the right formula for setting us at each other's throats. In 2016, it was Donald Trump; next time, it might be someone worse.

With lack of trust comes cynicism, and with cynicism comes indifference. Why pay attention to something you can’t do anything about? I know people who refuse to discuss what they call "politics" at all. None of my business, they say. Doesn’t make any sense. Too controversial. I listen to these conversations with something close to despair. If politics is none of our business, then our rulers really do rule us with impunity, and the most we can hope for from our government is to be left alone. If this is the case, then democracy is nothing but a pleasant fantasy that we use to ease the burden of living in an authoritarian state. If the public no longer cares about having a democracy, then we will not have a democracy for long.

I can imagine scenarios where we climb our way out of this morass, where we restore some semblance of public spirit to this deeply damaged country. But all of those scenarios rest on the disappearance of Donald Trump from our public life. So let us wait and see.

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lilaclily00 · 5 years ago

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The Party That Went From Haunted to Worse: A Summerween Tale

Danny hates his life sometimes. And ghost portals. And his little sister. It’s a mistake going anywhere with her.

-_-_-_

I thought this was going to just... never see the light of day like most of my WIPs, but AU!Ghost August (Day 11: Crossover) gave me the drive to actually continue, finish, and post this monstrosity. Thanks for the excuse to put this out to the world!

This is the original post for the OC, and here’s the link to this story on AO3.

There's some Zalgo Text in here, so at the end I’ll have the... translations? Is that the right word? It looks better in AO3, though. :(

Thank you for helping me with this, @goinggoblin!!!

LET’S GOOO

-_-_-_ (I don’t think there’s horizontal lines anymore? Yikes)

Dani—known as Ellie around here—handed over the last of the fake spider-webbing. “There you go, Mabel.”

Mabel cheerfully thanked her from the ladder rungs, then turned back to stick it to the wall. “Now time for the paper stuff!”

“Are you sure it's okay to just...” Danny gestured around at the incomplete decorations strung around the designated party room.

Mabel waved him off over her shoulder, tacking up a cutesy paper skeleton onto the wall with her other hand, then a sheet ghost next to it. “Of course! We invited you!”

Ellie nudged Danny—well, it was much too hard of an elbowing to be classified as a nudge by most people, but not for them. “Lighten up, bro. It's not very often you get to go to parties, right?”

“Yeah. I know.” He knew she didn't mean his popularity—the fact it didn't exist—but that he just didn't have the time or energy for it most of the time. He wouldn't have gone to anything like this if she hadn't dragged him along as an excuse to take a break from ghost hunting.

Back in junior year, she’d sent him letters and photos from one of her longest stops in her travels, a dinky town called Gravity Falls, Oregon. She became good friends with a pair of twins around her age there, and they all stayed in touch afterwards. The twins invited her to hang out plenty since then, but this was the first time she told Danny to come along.

He had a complicated relationship with Halloween, considering the Fright Knight incident and all the kids and even adults that had started dressing up as Phantom (to varying levels of success and cringe). However, he had to admit he was intrigued with the idea of Summerween, especially when it was so far from Amity Park that its ghosts and fanbase would be very unlikely to interfere.

Even just thinking that, though, made him wonder if he just jinxed himself.

“Mabel,” they heard her twin call from the residential part of the Mystery Shack, “there's something wrong with the wig!”

Mabel shook her spiky, blue-haired head, hands on her red-uniformed hips. “No, there isn't! I would know!” She wagged her finger towards the visiting pair. “I'll go help him, so don't go anywhere!” She ran off, nearly tripping over her own costume.

“They really like to play up the twin thing, huh?” Danny asked his little sister in the silence. Someone had to acknowledge that the party's hosts were dressing up as Thing 1 and Thing 2. (He wasn’t sure what kinds of friends he suspected Ellie would make, but these two were a surprise.)

“At least they don't feel the need to be a walking pun at every opportunity,” she retorted, flipping back her Batman cape dramatically.

“I always am a walking pun. This is my truest self!” Danny gestured to his own costume, a classic zombie attire with green skin and fake blood everywhere.

“Har har.”

He looked over at the little pile of “spooky” images waiting on the top of the ladder, and took his pick of a large paper spider. He glanced back to the doorway where the twins disappeared off to, and quickly floated up to tape it to the ceiling with a grin.

“How are you going to explain how you got that there?” she giggled as he hovered back at her side.

“I won’t,” he replied smugly, touching ground. Just in time, too, as both Dipper and Mabel reappeared, now with their outfits and hair matching.

Mabel chirped, “If you guys help me with these last touches, this place will be perfect just in time for the party!”

Dipper fiddled with his sleeves, giving her a crooked smile. “At your orders, Mabes.”

-_-_-_

Danny was surprised by how many people actually showed up to what he expected to be a relatively small affair. Dipper had informed him that he and his sister lived in California for most of the year; despite that, it seemed the pair were very popular in their second home, Gravity Falls. Mabel introduced him to several of her friends, shouting over the loud pop music booming out the speakers, and he didn’t remember a single name.

Da—Ellie, he kept forgetting to call her that—was familiar with quite a few people, too. She stuck close to her big brother, though, until he ordered her to hang out with her friends instead. He appreciated the sentiment, but he could handle being by himself at a party.

Right?

He tried to dance for a few songs, but it wasn’t feeling natural. He then went to the refreshment tables for a jack-o-lantern cupcake. Maybe he needed to try to socialize after all. Hm, that one redheaded girl Mabel introduced to him seemed cool. He scanned the area for her face—

Wait.

His eyes narrowed, studying the long white hair halfway across the room. It wasn’t as glowy as usual, but he’d know that hair anywhere. He pocketed the cupcake wrapper and pushed his way through the crowd. Finally, his ghost sense said something as he crossed the dance floor.

"Hey, ghost girl!" he shouted over the music. Her head turned 180 like an owl, pigtails following slightly slower than physics demanded, then she calmly turned the rest of her body to him. Her ever-present blank, wide-eyed stare bored into him, and never strayed, as she easily swerved around the dancing kids toward him. He noticed that she made an effort of walking on the ground rather than floating.

"Hi, zombie," she replied, the slightest smile on her face showing she knew exactly who she was talking to. She was never really scared of him or angry at him. If anything, she seemed to like talking to him. He supposed it was because he was among the closest to her physical age in the Ghost Zone.

He was not going to be friendly, though, and showed it by crossing his arms at her. "What are you doing here?"

She clasped her hands behind her back. "I’d like to ask you that. You hardly ever leave your lair.”

Danny scrunched his eyebrows, then glanced around in case anyone heard her. “Do you mean Amity Park?”

“Yeah.”

He frowned warily. Considering their past interactions, it seemed like a genuinely curious question. She wasn’t the type to use his absence as a chance to cause chaos back home. (If only the other ghosts were the same way.) “I got invited to hang out here for the weekend. And I don’t think it counts as my lair.”

“I think it does,” she replied with the barest of shrugs, still staring at him, unblinking. “I’m here ‘cause a door opened up in the woods right by here," she added. "There was a flyer for this party taped up on a tree. It said there was gonna be cookies."

He scrunched his eyebrows. "You can't even eat human cookies." She finally blinked as that registered, and her gaze broke to look at the ground as she wilted under the weight of her disappointment. Drama queen. "And I know you're planning to scare the kids here, if you haven't already started. C'mon, let's go."

"What?" She flicked her eyes back up to him, igniting a small light in her irises, disrupting her otherwise unglowy appearance. Her entire face slowly, ever so slowly, began to twist clockwise on her head. "It's Summerween!"

He held up a hand; he knew exactly what she was going to argue. "I know it's like Halloween, but it's still the wrong date. We agreed on no mass hauntings outside of October 31st."

Her eyebrows just so slightly scrunched, about the closest she could get to looking angry. "This isn't a very big party."

He had to give her that; it was bigger than he expected, but still only a few dozen, which potentially wasn't enough to count as a mass of people. And everyone here was around their age, which was less worrying than her chasing down little kids just for a laugh.

Her big, empty eyes were unsettling, yet they nearly pleaded with him. He couldn't stand when she did that. He rubbed the side of his face in defeat, forgetting for a second about his zombie makeup. "Oh, fine! Only in this party. And nothing too scary. Otherwise, you go right into the thermos."

"Sounds good to me," she chirped, mouth curled into a small smile by her ear instead of her chin.

"Oh, do you guys know each other?" Danny glanced over to see the hosts themselves come from behind him. He turned back, tapping his cheek at the ghost. She knew the signal, and covered her face to recover its natural orientation.

"Kind of," he told Dipper.

The ghost girl uncovered her face, and smiled shyly at the twins. "I'm Lily. Nice to meet you." Danny raised his eyebrows at her; this whole time, she had an actual name?

"I'm Mabel! Lily, I love your costume!" Mabel squealed, hands smushing her own face. "You're so cute and creepy and ah!"

"Yeah, you did a great job," Dipper added, quiet admiration on his face as he quickly studied her appearance. Danny guessed he was wondering why the wig and body paint looked so realistic. Mabel did a fantastic job with their own costumes, but it was hard to make poofy, blue wigs not look like wigs. "I'm Dipper, by the way."

"You should totally enter the costume contest!" Mabel added, hands hovering, as if itching to reach out and inspect Lily's dress. "It’s later tonight!"

"Oh, maybe I will," she said, eyes flickering between the twins. They fixed onto Dipper when he had looked back up to her face. After a few seconds of an impromptu staring contest, Dipper turned his eyes away, blinking and glancing at Danny, unsure of himself.

Mabel seemed to not have noticed, as she continued rambling to Lily, who patiently listened, empty eyes directed back to Mabel and small smile held up.

"She takes Halloween——er, and Summerween costumes very seriously," Danny told Dipper. "Pretty sure she'll try to creep the crap out of everybody here."

"Well, seems like she's actually good at it," the boy admitted with an awkward chuckle. "But hey, that's what this holiday is for, right?"

-_-_-_

Lily was right there, right in plain sight, swaying to the music by herself, but Danny knew she wasn’t as innocent as she looked. Even now, she was beginning her haunting.

It was just little stuff. There were a few small spiders on the fake webs, real ones. The door opened automatically for newcomers. The jack-o-lantern cupcakes, once all smiling, now had one smiling evilly in the center of the platter while the rest wore a fearful frown. She was staring blankly at Dipper at every opportunity.

Danny had fetched his thermos soon after their conversation and clipped it to his belt. He tried to distract himself by talking to people, like the girl that turned out to be named Wendy, and bopping his head to the background beat. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but keep his eye on her and her effects. Why did his problems from home have to follow him everywhere? Why did he have to jinx himself?

He felt his sister ram into his back. "Danny, I sensed a ghost!"

"Yeah, so did I. It’s the white-haired girl. I worked out a deal with her," he immediately replied, sigh heavy and beyond his years.

Da—Ellie slowly shifted into a suspicious frown. "Wait, what? What kind of deal?"

"She gets to haunt the party for the night, and will peacefully return to the Ghost Zone after." Danny wilted under her glare. "Look, sh-she's even less harmless than the Box Ghost. She's all about the scare factor, doesn't try to hurt anyone—well, maybe makes them lose their sleep if they can't handle horror movies, but still. If I don't compromise here, she'll go for much bigger plans later to spite me. I promise I know what I'm doing!"

"Since when have you known what you're doing?" She shook her head, surely knowing how very offended he was by her comment. "This just doesn't sound like you, bro."

He shrugged exaggeratedly. "She doesn't operate the same way as most ghosts."

“So that made it okay to let loose a prankster ghost on these people?”

“Well, geez, it sounds terrible if you put it like that.”

She shook her head at him again before turning away with a dramatic cape twirl. He suddenly realized she does that at him a lot.

-_-_-_

Something was off.

Dipper had made all the necessary precautions for a Summerween party he could think of. He had left anti-magic wards hidden around the house—not unicorn hair strong, but still effective against most of what could possibly threaten a gathering like this. He’d cleared out the trash cans so the gnomes would have no reason to stick around. He locked up Gompers in the attic (he never proved to be dangerous, but that goat was terrifying).

But then when he went to take a break by a cobwebbed corner, he found real spiders on it. A lot of real spiders. The party lights, which were supposed to change color every few seconds, got stuck on red when he passed by them. The doors creaked open ominously when anyone came near them. He went to pour out some fruit punch, and the dispenser screamed when he pressed on it.

Every time he noticed one of these things, he glanced around him and immediately found that ghost girl staring straight at him.

Dipper ran to check the nearest ward, but it was still intact. However, there was something written next to it on the wall, in red.

You think you can keep me out?

Well, that wasn’t good.

The only suspect so far was the girl—Lily, right? Perhaps she wasn’t just dressed up as a ghost after all. But she looked too solid to be a ghost, though he hadn’t seen anyone actually try to touch her yet, and these things that were happening just didn’t have the same MO as the ghosts described in the Journals or those he faced in the past. But what other kinds of supernatural creatures could do things like this? Which ones would?

Mabel poked his shoulder, startling him enough that he bumped against the wall. She didn’t laugh, however, her attention focused on his wig. Eyes narrowed, she slowly said, “Dipper, is there blood in your hair?”

He ripped the wig off his head. Red liquid seeped out of its roots, matting down the poofed hair. He hesitantly touched a finger to it and sniffed. It smelled like copper.

Mabel pulled her own off, and found the same result. Face scrunched up in disgust, she tossed it to him and ran off to the bathroom. He could hear the door creak much louder than normal even from here.

Lily was staring at him, a blank smile on her face.

A part of him chastised himself for coming to conclusions too fast, but what other conclusion was there? And performing an exorcism, if it came to that, wouldn’t hurt something that wasn’t a ghost, right?

Clearly, what he needed to do next was talk to this girl, find out her motives before her little act became big. Just in case, though, he’d need to pull out that new silver mirror first.

-_-_-_

Amity Park and Gravity Falls were not very similar, but Danny realized there was something in common between their townsfolk: they were somewhat clueless. Not that he eavesdropped that much into the different conversations on the edges of the dance floor, but it seemed hardly anyone had noticed the odd tension in the air, the invisible slimy feeling on their skin of the supernatural hiding in their midst. Something coming.

Or, well, that that paper spider he stuck to the ceiling had grown several times its original size and crawled over one of the ceiling lights.

Ellie was consoling Mabel, who stood by the refreshments without her wig on. She glanced over to him a couple times just to glare.

He was trying to not keep his focus on Lily too much for his own sanity, but his eyes didn’t listen to his brain. They kept roaming the crowd to keep track of her. She looked like she wasn’t doing anything, but…

The eyes of the various wall decorations followed him wherever he went. Distant screaming could barely be heard over the music, if he tried to listen, but it came from nowhere. More spiders poured out of abandoned plastic cups. (She really liked that aesthetic, apparently.)

He only caught her in the act once at the refreshments table: she studied one of the Halloween-colored M&M cookies in her hand and threw it into her mouth. After a second, she pulled it back out, staring at it like it was the cause of all her problems. She disintegrated the cookie she couldn’t eat. When she turned away, all the other cookies had turned into oatmeal raisin.

How evil.

“Hey, Danny?”

He blinked and turned to see Wendy. She quirked her eyebrow at him. “What’s got you making that constipated face?”

He blinked at her even harder and she laughed. He huffed, scratching at his hair. “There’s just weird stuff going on.”

“Oh, yeah,” she agreed, “this party’s totally haunted.”

“Actually—” He had enhanced hearing, and he still wasn’t sure he heard that right. “Yeah, it is. You noticed?”

“Well, it was kinda hard to ignore.” She nodded to herself. “I thought I heard creepy laughing coming from the bathroom and there was nobody there. ‘I’m here’ was written on the mirror in blood, though. Once I came back out, more stuff just kept popping up. There’s definitely a ghost.”

Danny frowned. “And… why aren’t you freaked out?”

“Well, same reason you aren’t. Dipper’s gonna take care of it.”

Alarm bells rang in his head, drowning out that distant screaming. “What do you mean ‘take care of it’?”

She tilted her head quizzically. “Don’t you already know him? This is totally Dipper’s thing, knowing about the supernatural and saving people from it. He already took down ghosts before. He’s probably getting everything ready for an exorcism or something right now.”

Exorcism. Exorcism. His skin crawled at that word. Ellie was friends with a kid that performed exorcisms in his spare time?

He remembered that Lily had been pulling that constant-stare thing on Dipper before. She had stopped at some point, which meant Dipper was out of sight, which meant maybe he really was planning something to get rid of her. Permanently.

Wendy said, “Hey, man, you okay?” just loud enough to bring him back out of his thoughts.

“Yeah, uh, just need to find Dipper,” he muttered, turning away and quickly searching the room for his face. Where was that kid, where was he, where was he—?

He hadn’t noticed that the music had slowly quieted down until Mabel was shouting by the DJ table. “Hey, everybody! We’re gonna start the costume contest in five minutes! Come over here if you wanna be in it!” The lights flickered for a couple seconds. “Oh, that’s new! We’ll get Soos to fix ‘em!”

Okay, there’s Mabel. Where there’s Mabel, there’s likely a Dipper. Or maybe an Ellie. He figured he should probably talk to her, too, even if she’ll give him that look again, wondering how she shared the exact same DNA with his doofus self.

-_-_-_

Mabel watched as the chatter grew louder with her hands on her hips. “There you go, Dipdop, I moved up the contest. The sacrifices I make to my carefully planned schedules for you!” She turned back to the playlist and rose the volume. The song sounded strangely distorted and screechy and demented, causing everyone to cover their ears. She quickly stopped the music. “But I guess you’re right that things are getting out of hand.”

Yes, he was. The freaky little instances seemed to have gotten worse in the few minutes he had spent grabbing the mirror and Journal 3 upstairs. The fastest way to find the ghost: have her come to him.

Grenda and Candy came running up in their matching “party animals” costumes, along with a couple other kids they barely knew. Danny rushed to the table, eyes wide and much more awake than any zombie had the right to be. Dipper opened his mouth, about to turn that into an actual joke, but Danny beat him.

“Do you know anything about ghosts?” The words practically tumbled out of Danny’s mouth.

Dipper raised his eyebrows. “Well, yeah.”

“And how to defeat them?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s your plan?”

Dipper considered Danny’s strangely serious face. Then, he said, “Make her come out, find out her motives and if there’s something we can do to make her leave. Trap her away if she doesn’t want to, and exorcise her as a last resort.”

Danny set his frown grimmer and grimmer as he spoke. The lights flickered. “I think you need to reconsider the severity of this haunting. I can’t let you—”

Click.

The lights all went out, and the room was an inkier black than it should’ve been on a warm summer Oregon night. Large objects screeched as they dragged across the floor, bumping into people. Dipper felt something crawl over his feet, heard the table in front of him slide away. Just over the random yelps and screams of the attendees, a dark laughter rang.

They flicked back on. The tables, speakers, and party lights were all randomly located throughout the room. The attendees were stunned to silence, taking some seconds before their chatter began anew as they inspected their new surroundings.

A girl with a white wig (it had to be her real hair) and painted blue skin (she didn’t have skin) slipped through the crowd, glancing between the three with that little smile gracing her face. “Can I join the costume contest?”

Dipper couldn’t stop himself from setting a glare on her, gripping tighter the silver mirror behind his back. Mabel, who had more tact, plastered a grin on and said, “Of course! I invited you to do it, didn’t I?”

Lily nodded and quietly took her place by Candy, who was not the only contestant staring at her warily. She ignored them all, eyes unfocused as she fiddled with one of her pigtails.

Dipper glanced back over to Danny from the corner of his eye. “I think you don’t know what you’re talking about,” he told him quietly. “Just let me do my job.”

“Your job?” Danny hissed in return, far more offended than Dipper expected him to be. “Just let me talk to her—”

“What, do I look like I haven’t done this before?”

Danny tugged at his hair. “Listen to me! You need to change your plan!”

All the paper decorations promptly dropped from the walls, fluttering to the floor, except for the cutesy ghosts.

Mabel shouted over their quiet arguing, “Last call if you want to be in the contest!”

Ellie strode up, determination in her footsteps as she lined up beside Lily.

-_-_-_

Now that the music wasn’t playing, Danny could see people inspecting their surroundings a little more. Now that she wasn’t hidden among the crowd, Danny could see a few of those people second-guess Lily, watching her rock back and forth on her feet with a calculating eye. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. If there was anyone else here like Dipper...

He had to give up on talking sense into the kid because the contest was starting. Mabel was doing it by applause, and he couldn’t hear anything else over it.

Mabel wrote down on a notepad (though he had no clue what she’d be writing down), nodding thoughtfully to herself. “Looks like it’s between Count Dracula,” she shouted, gesturing with her pen to a kid in an elaborate vampire costume then to Lily, “and the ghost! One more vote decides the winner!”

The other contestants moved aside, but not too far. Ellie glanced over to Danny as she stepped back a couple feet. She was planning something, he knew it. With how mad she was at him, he had the distinct feeling he should be running for what remained of his life.

Dipper pulled Danny’s arm back as the applause rang again. When it stopped, he spoke in a dangerously low voice. “You said you knew her. You said she would try to scare everyone.”

Danny bit his lip for a second. “I did say something like that, huh?”

Quiet fury grew in Dipper’s eyes. “Well, fine. If you’re not going to do anything—” The rest was drowned out by the applause roaring up again, startled shouts mixed in as the lights flickered again, but Danny could guess, and his heart dropped to his stomach as Dipper turned away without giving him a chance to reply.

“Dracula wins!” Mabel announced, and a cheer rose up once again. “But the rest of you were great, too!”

Ellie stepped back up to Lily when the claps died back down. “Sorry you lost,” she said.

“Oh, it’s okay,” she replied amicably. “It wouldn’t really be fair if I won, anyway. I’m not a̙͈ ͖̩̠̬c̯͔̼t͚̮̗̙u̟͖͕a̻͙ ̼ll͙̙͎y̹ ̬͔̣̻̣w̠e̞̤ͅ ̪̖̦̤͍ͅ ̥ar͙͈i͈̳̰̜n̪̼̮ ͈ ̟̫͍̰͍ͅg̱ͅ ̟ ̦͇͓̻̹͇̼ ̝̯̦ ̹̬̟̱ ̭͈̠͇̟͖ ̗̤̯̮̭ a̬̯̰̦̞̪ͅ ̣̜͖ͅ ̬͚̪̫͎̰ c̫̗ ̜͕͕͇̤ ̤o ̥̮̺s̹̜͕͇t̬̘̮̼ ̗̞̥̣̖̼ ͇ ̣͓̹ u̹͖̙͙͇̠ ̼͉͓̰͙ ̝̯͍͙͍͓ ̭ ̤ ̖̠̠̙͖̮͕ ̜͔͔̮ ̖ ͚̤ͅ ̤ ̪̤̖͓̘͉ͅ ̭̳̜m̦̼̲̫ ̲̫͔̳̮͎ ̖̩̝̙̦͇ ̲̯̠͙̬ ̝ ̠͔̼͈͖ ̰̹ ̘͎̺̗ ̳̠̫̳̻̥ ̥͚̙͈̠͙ ̪̖͎̳̻ ͔͉̰͈̳ ̠ ͇̺̫ ͚̲̻̥͚͎̣ ̖̫̖̭ͅͅ ̩ ̩e͙͍͎̙̺̜.͇͍̩”

Lily’s hair and dress floated, revealing blobs of ectoplasm instead of legs. The lights went out, then returned in a dim, red hue. She was already up in the air, eyes glowing, face twisting. She raised her arms, and objects began to float at her command. Attendees screamed, almost loud enough to not hear the unsettling laughter coming from all sides. A couple of them tried to leave, but the door wouldn’t budge.

“Hey!” Dipper shouted as he ran to her. He was holding a… small mirror? “What do you want, ghost?”

She abruptly turned her head to him, face upside-down. Her voice had a demonic overtone as she replied, “T͍̝o̗͙ͅ ̥m͈a͕̲k̶̼͙̻e̼̟̼ ̳̱y̨o҉͎̹u͔͇̬͟ ̼s̹̙cr͉̦͇̮̭͇͡e̺͓͖̱̤̗a̪͙͓̩̮͟m͢.͎̮̳̱̬̯”

“Come on, there has to be something else,” he insisted, hand gripping the mirror harder. Danny inched his way; that mirror had to be a trap of some kind, and he wasn’t going to let Dipper use it—not when Danny didn’t know if he could get her back out of it.

“I know what you don’t want,” Ellie shouted, holding out a Fenton Thermos. Wait—Danny felt for the thermos on his belt. It was gone. She stole his thermos. How did he not notice until now?!

Lily stared her down, but she didn’t look scared. “Y̘o̺͎͖̱u̖̜̳̭̺ ̸̣̭̥̦͉̙̭s̝͢h̨o͙̞u̠͓̰̙͉l̡͉̠̗̣̥̗d̯̩̮̦̯͎̗’̨v̰̘̹͞e̙͉̘̦̱ ̶̙us̻̩̪͎̝̯e̯̱̜̬̮̝̫d͕͢ ì̟t̗̻̬̯͕̪͘ ̝͉w̹̤̫h̞̼̫̹̘̲͍͢e̖ņ̦̹̬̣̫̱ ̗̟̺y̵̬̤͖͓̖o̰̯̪̟̼̥u̟̩̰̙͢ ̝̖͕̗́h̪̰͝a̖͍̲͉͡d͕̹ ͙͖̬͉͟t̻̗̠͈̝h͚͚̜̖͎̕ͅe̼̰͍ ̰̲̪̥c͏̟̞̝͓̫h̗̤͚̲͔̼a̯͎̳͇͙̝͈n̦̥̜̹͘ͅc̳̭ȩ,” she answered, holding her hand out at Ellie. She began to float off the ground, yelping as she flailed her arms and legs in the air. She lost her grip on the thermos as she suddenly began to spasm, as if fighting off a—no, she couldn’t be.

She stilled, eyes closed, then opened them. They were glowing ecto-green. She was dull and slack-jawed, staring off at nothing.

Danny couldn’t help the dread trickling into his chest. She wasn’t really...?

He stepped towards her, and she... glanced down at him? Oh, she didn’t.

She winked.

She did.

Danny felt a thrill of anger run through him—how could his own clone decide to act possessed and make all of this worse? (When did those two even get to plan this?!) It was clearly working, with how all the partygoers stared at her in horror, looking like they were about to pass out.

“A̛̫̙̮n͏y̗͇o̩̝͇̫n͖̜̬͇͖͖e̳ ̣̱̙̭͓e̤͚͉͉̮l̢̞̦̟s͎̱͍͍̩e̪̭͘ ͈͡w͖͚̩̹͉͢a͇͔̘ņ͎̟̣̫n͈͉̕a̷̟̝̯̬͚ ̭̱͉̟͔͘p̷̙̬̮̫̲͈̞̼͇̜͇̎̐͊ͨͅ l̜͖̲̀̇̚ ̼ ̤̄ a͙̻̲̰͂̋ͦ̎͌̏ ̬̘͍ͯ͝ ̙͎͚̊̆̆ͨ̚ ̝̟̎͑͐ͬ́ỵ̶͉͉̳ͨͥ̌͋̓ͅ ̖͉͓̙ͮ͌̑ͤ̽?̡͎̦̭̩̙̰͎”

Danny was about to dive for the thermos and suck both of them in (Ellie absolutely deserved it too, now), but he saw Dipper holding up the mirror and beginning a chant from a thick book. He had to take care of that first. He tackled the boy to the ground. The mirror slid away, unbroken, and both of them scrambled to get up and grab it first. Danny won, barely, and Dipper tackled him in return.

“Give me that!” Dipper growled, furiously trying to pull the mirror out of Danny’s hands.

Danny elbowed him away. “No, we need to use the thermos!”

“Why?!”

“Because—” he grunted as Dipper kicked him surprisingly hard— “it’ll work better!”

“And why should I believe you? You don’t care about stopping her!”

“I never said I didn’t!” Dipper paused his fighting. “I said to change your plan because she doesn’t deserve to be killed or trapped forever, and I already know that!” Danny pushed the other boy off of him and stood up, brushing himself off. “The longer we argue, the more she’ll make everyone pee their pants.”

“Okay, fine, we’ll use your thermos thing,” Dipper grumbled as he pushed himself back to standing. He sobered as he saw food flying around and Ellie still floating there, gawking into space. “You better be right.”

“Of course I am.”

Danny sprinted for the thermos. He turned it on the second his hand touched it. Lily and Ellie apparently heard its mechanical whine, as they both glanced at him, Lily wide-eyed in a different way than usual.

“I̙̻̺’̩͍m͇͔͢ ͅṋ̰̮̦͎͡ͅo̞̤t̩̯̰̖̱͖͖ ͞f͚̜̙͢ǐ̭͉͓͈̅͗ͥͅn̝̯̻͎̣̰̱̅i̮̹͔̲ͨͥ̋̆̕s̓̽ͤ͑̋҉̜͈̱̪h̤͉̫̭͍̒͆̉̈̊̐e̵͈̣͖dͧ͏͎͍̻ ̖͙́̇̒͛ẅ̘̠̤̤̭̒̾͟ḭ̩͈̥̬̅ͪt̰͇̟̹͖͂ͪͪ͋͟ḩ̝̯̖̤͉ͬ́͌—”

He gave her an apologetic look as he pulled the lid off. She let out a chilling, unnatural scream as she was sucked in, the finale to her entire performance.

Everything that had been floating crashed down, the lights flicked back to their usual white, and the laughing died off. Ellie fell to the floor, rubbing at her head and looking around as if dazed (that little liar).

“Are you okay?” Mabel cried as she ran to Ellie’s side, just as Dipper came up to him and asked, “Are you sure she can’t get out?”

“Yeah,” Danny replied, knocking his knuckles against it. “I’ll let her out in the Ghost Zone.”

“The Ghost Zone?”

He found himself explaining it halfmindedly, the rest of him focused on inspecting the party. It looked like everything really was back to normal, minus the rearranged room and food that fell to the floor.

“That’s amazing!” Dipper’s eyes sparkled, and Danny could finally see what Wendy meant about him wanting to know the supernatural, too. “I have so many questions!”

Danny suddenly suspected he’d be here a long time if those questions started now. “How about you write them down and I’ll tell you about it when the party’s over?”

He was surprised that Dipper agreed so easily, running off to grab Mabel’s pen. With that, he snuck out of the party, thermos in hand.

-_-_-_

Danny took the lid off again, watching as Lily reformed. She stretched her arms over her head with a sigh. He rubbed at his neck. “Sorry about trapping you, I didn’t really have a better choice.”

"That was still really fun!" She giggled, with the biggest smile Danny had ever witnessed her pulling. Her coloring shifted back to how she usually looked in the Ghost Zone, with purple hair, gray-black skin, and her dress bleached from black to bright white. She was officially out of her “scare-mode”, it seemed.

He huffed. "If you tone it down next time, and not include my sister in your schemes, I might not have to resort to it again.” He glanced around. “Well, time for you to go home. Is that portal still open?"

"Perhaps." Lily floated into the forest, and Danny warily followed.

Only a few minutes passed before they came across a long rip in the air, carved out in front of one of the many trees, shining ecto green like a bleeding wound. One of its neighbor trees wore a sparkly Summerween party flyer.

"See you later, Phantom!” Lily chirped. “Oh, and let Mabel know her cookies were good!" She paused to wave, her grin lingering on her face turned counterclockwise, then flew through.

Danny watched the portal until it closed; luckily, it only took a minute or two to stitch the fabric of reality back together, leaving no trace. Well, except for his nerves being fried for the night.

He was not looking forward to Ellie’s smug grin.

It’s a mistake going anywhere with her.

-_-_-_

Zalgo Text:

"I'm not actually wearing a costume."

"To make you scream."

"You should've used it when you had the chance."

"Anyone else wanna play?"

"I'm not finished with—"

#Danny Phantom #DP #ghostsona #AU!Ghost August #aughost #Lily? Lily.#Lily? Lily. Fic.#Gravity Falls #GF #DPxGF crossover #crossover #DP headcanons awaaaaay #and yay spooky times #Dani and Danny call each other siblings but otherwise this is basically post-canon (minus PP maybe?)

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heartfeltheroes · 6 years ago

Text

SINGULARITY

[ alfonse x summoner! reader ] — dancing with death.

“A thick ice has formed

in the dream I shortly went into,

my agonizing phantom pain is still the same.”

word count: 4523

TW: death + blood

»»————-　♡　————-««

Alfonse didn’t like the cold.

As a prince, he didn’t get much room to complain. He faced the cold winds with the pride and bravery of a prince, as was expected of the heir to the Askran throne. Gustav would truly reprimand him for letting himself be weakened by something as silly as the winter winds.

Even if it was cold, it didn’t mean he’d stop his training. No, it just meant he had to train harder, to build up his endurance. He had to get stronger, he had people he loved to protect after all. Sharena was counting on him, his mother was depending on him, and the people of Askr put their future in his hands. And now, you relied on him as well.

But, no matter how hard he tried, it just seemed like he couldn’t get strong enough. His friends always fell one after another on the battlefield, falling victims to the hands of the Emblian Empire. Veronica sneered with delight at the sight of her fallen foes, Alfonse grimaced with the death of his friends hanging heavy on his shoulders.

At the end of the day, Breidablik always brought them back. While the scars never appeared and the pain was always gone, the memories of their fatal ends stuck with Alfonse. Their screams and their cries were burned into his mind, replaying in his mind whenever he thought he could be at peace.

Just like every other battle, you stuck to his side. You had dubbed him your ‘designated bodyguard’, a title he took with pride. With you, official titles didn’t matter; he wasn’t the Prince of Askr, he was just Alfonse.

In all honesty, it was almost funny how much the Prince of Askr came to care for you, his dear Summoner.

At first, he had been nothing but cold to you. He shut down any conversation you had with him, he refused to sit near you during lunch, and he never trained with you among other things. If it didn’t benefit Askr, he didn’t care. Zacharias had already left him heartbroken once, he didn’t need to go through the pain again.

Yet, his actions didn’t deter you in the least. It just made you try even harder, it was almost like you saw his stubbornness as a challenge. Slowly, ever so slowly, you chipped away at the walls he had set up so carefully. It was only a matter of time before you wormed your way into his heart.

It didn’t stop there, he couldn’t just see you as his friend anymore. Before Alfonse knew it, he had fallen in love, and damn did he fall hard. It was like he had been shot straight in the heart by Cupid’s arrow. If he didn’t know better, he’d accuse you of placing him under a love spell.

These feelings he held for you were true. His love was genuine and it was reserved for you and you only.

He’d be damned if he let someone so close to him fall once again.

“Woo-hoo!” You cheered, throwing the hand that held Breidablik into the air, “Go Hector! Go Roy!” Aforementioned heroes focused on you for just a small moment, proud grins on both their faces, before returning to the fight on hand.

Alfonse couldn’t help but smile at your enthusiasm. “I have to say, [Name], your tactician skills have certainly improved,” He pointed out, a chuckle leaving his lips when you unconsciously smiled at his praise.

There was a clear improvement from the day you were first thrown into Askr and now. Back then, you struggled to give out simple orders to your heroes. But now, you guided them to victory, a comforting force on the battlefield for your allies and a sign of peace.

Although not every battle was won, sometimes you faced loss after loss. Those days were the ones that would stick you to the bitter end. With those losses, you simply picked up your bearings and vowed to improve. He admired your will to move on, it was one of the many things he loved about you.

“You flatter me, Alfonse, but if you want to flirt with me you’re going to have to try harder than that,” You joked offhandedly. Alfonse felt his face flush cherry red, spanding from his round cheeks to the tips of his ears. How you could say something so casually was beyond him, the mere words made him flustered.

“[N-Name]! You — you’ve misunderstood m-my words!” He stuttered, stumbling over his words. You didn’t miss the way he turned into a tomato, a light laugh leaving your lips, “It’s okay, Alfie. I know you’ll try harder next time.” At that, Alfonse let out a choked noise.

You surveyed the battlefield with a confident gaze. With the way things were looking, you were surely going to win. Hector and Roy took out foe after foe, leaving behind a bloody mess in their wake. Mist, on the other hand, provided aid whenever needed. Ylgr simply took out the enemies getting too close to your two powerhouses. Everything was going all according to plan.

You had stayed up all night last night preparing for this battle. You had received word from a spy that Veronica and Loki were close by, ready to attack at any time. That, in turn, motivated you to study and revise your tactics in preparation. You’d say it’d pay off with how the way things were looking, you even found a tinge of pride blooming in your chest.

After this, your merry party would trek back to the castle, the feeling of victory in all your hearts. Sharena would greet you all, happy as ever, as Fjorm offered her help to those that needed it. Anna would usher you all to the mess hall to share a meal with the Order of Heroes where you’d recount your stories on the battlefield. Everything was going to be alright!

Well, that’s how it was supposed to be, but things never seemed to turn towards your favor.

“Argh, Askr — I will kill Askr. . .hah”

That voice, you froze. Your hands twitched around Breidablik, unconsciously gripping the handle tighter. The once joyous air turned sour, tense with the appearance of an old friend. You looked to Alfonse, the urge to make sure he was okay the only thing on your mind.

He was just as shocked as you were, his eyes betrayed all feeling he tried to keep at bay. He swallowed, mouth suddenly feeling dry. Neither of you could forget that voice, never in a million years. It was the voice of someone suffering, of someone in pain.

Bruno?

You had to help him.

In tandem, the two of you turned around, weapons at the ready. You held Breidablik, as Alfonse drew Fólkvangr. Sure, he might’ve been a familiar face, but you knew of the curse that ran through his veins. As much as you didn’t want to fight him, your will to live was stronger.

Bruno looked worse compared to your last meeting, panting as he tried to fight the voice in his head. He ran a gloved hand through his silver hair, shaking his head with closed eyes. You could see sweat drip from his forehead; whatever battle he was fighting, it was definitely a hard one.

“Zacharias—” Alfonse tried to speak, but Bruno cut him off. “Zacharias is. . .dead. He never was, spawn of Askr,” Bruno growled, before letting out an agonizing yell. He screwed his eyes shut tighter, his hands pulling out handfuls of his hair.

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. The last time you had saw him, he looked like he had his curse under wraps. Now it held a vice-like grip on him, torturing him inside and out. “Bruno, what happened?” You asked, taking a tentative step forward. He took a step back, like he was a frightened animal. “Don’t, hah, come closer. . .I don’t want to hurt you, Summoner. Don’t—make me,” He demanded.

Before either of you could respond, he sprinted off. You felt your heart pang with hurt at his diminishing form. You turned to Alfonse with determination that burned like fire in your eyes, “I have to go after him, Alfonse,” You declared. You weren’t taking no for an answer.

Alfonse was taken aback, but he didn’t disagree with you. Bruno was just as important to him as you were. “If you’re leaving, then I’m going with!” He demanded. You were quick to shoot him down, “Alfonse! He’s not — he’s not the Bruno you know, his curse is getting to him.”

Alfonse stood his ground, “That’s why we need to go, to help him!” He refuted, he wasn’t going to back down either. “I need to follow him, not we,” You corrected, causing his eyebrows to furrow in confusion.

You sighed at his stubbornness, he wasn’t understanding what you were trying to say. “What I’m trying to say is that he’ll kill you if you follow him,” You reiterated, trying to get your point across. He opened his mouth to argue back, but you didn’t give him the chance. “You can’t die, Alfonse! Just. . .Just stay here! I can do this on my own,” You ordered, stomping your foot into the ground for emphasis.

His lips pressed into a flat line, “I cannot allow this, [Name]. If you leave, then I’m coming with,” He affirmed. You had to admit, Alfonse was stubborn when he had his heart set on something. There was no telling him otherwise, and you knew that. Looks like you were going to have to resort to a new plan.

“Well, have fun trying to catch up then, Princey.” You ran off without another word, leaving Alfonse behind in the dust. You couldn’t afford to argue while Bruno was suffering, each second wasted could’ve been used to help him.

Alfonse was, once again, taken off guard by your actions. He cursed under his breath once he processed your actions. You were always the faster of the two, especially when he had his armor on.

With one last look to the battlefield, Alfonse ran off towards the direction you had fled. He pushed himself to his very limits, there was no telling what could happen, especially when you were going against someone as unpredictable as Bruno.

As much as it pained him to say it, Bruno was dangerous. Breidablik couldn’t do anything besides summon heroes, leaving you defenseless before the curse that flowed through Bruno’s veins. Your heart was in the right place when you demanded he stay, but he was never one to listen to orders when it challenged his own stubbornness.

He had to get to you, he had to. He couldn’t lose you like he lost everyone else, if he did then the war would truly be lost. There was no telling if Breidablik would revive it’s faithful summoner, and Alfonse didn’t exactly feel like testing if it did.

You, on the other hand, knew Alfonse couldn’t catch you. Days of training had proved that your speed triumphed over his, something you made sure to flaunt whenever you could. Those days of track in high school were finally paying off.

You ran into the forests without hesitation, intent on finding Bruno. He was in such pain, you could hear it in his voice. It was the same way he spoke when you first met him, when he revealed himself as Zacharias. While you did feel bad for forcing Alfonse to stay behind, you knew it’d be dangerous for any of the Askrans to come near Bruno.

You found Bruno standing in a meadow, a small area desolate of ant trees. You slowed your sprint to a jog, huffing for air after such a long run. Wow, you were really out of shape, your lungs burned and cried for air.

“Bruno!” You called out, gaining his attention. He turned to face you, his eyes covered by the mask he always wore. Even if he were without the mask, you could tell his face was devoid of any emotion.

His face was neutral, staring at your form. His intense gaze made you flinch, you took a step backwards as a precaution. “Let me help you, Bruno. Alfonse isn’t here; it’s just me and you,” You spoke, waiting for a response.

You expected him to let out a howl of pain, like he did earlier, but instead he began to laugh. His laughter became louder and louder, as if he were amused. You stared on in confusion, this was nothing like the laughter you had heard when he was under the influence of the curse. This was something else, something way sinister.

“Who knew it’d be so easy to trick the mighty summoner of Askr?” He spoke, his voice suddenly higher and more feminine in tone.

You blinked in surprise, thrown off by his new voice. It took you a moment to put two and two together, but once you did your gaze hardened, “You’re not Bruno, aren’t you?” You seethed, more angry at yourself for letting yourself fall victim so easily.

Loki let the glamor fall away, revealing her true form. You aimed your arms forward, locking them in place as your aimed Breidablik at her. She let out a laugh at your stance, “Poor [Name], I already know that Breidablik only shoots heroes. You’re defenseless, sweet summoner.”

You could only stay silent, taking a step back with every step forward she took. “Well, aren’t you going to talk to me? You sure did seem talkative with dear old Alfonse back there,” She mocked. You grit your teeth, placing Breidablik by your hip, “What do you want Loki?” You demanded, never letting your grip of Breidablik falter.

“What do I want, hm?” The words rolled out of her mouth, sounding so sweet, yet you knew they were anything but. “For starters, I want Breidablik, but unfortunately you’re the only one that can use it. How sad.” She pretended to fake pout.

“Spill it already, I know there’s more to it than that,” You urged. You were really starting to regret leaving Alfonse behind, the simple presence of this trickster was more than enough to have you on edge.

“Impatient, aren’t we?” She spoke, circling your form. It was then you realized she didn’t have her staff on hand, which was rather odd. You didn’t take her as a person who would leave themselves undefended, but who knew what she had up her sleeves? You didn’t allow yourself to let your guard down.

“You see, my dear, sweet princess wants you dead,” Loki mentioned, causing you to roll your eyes. “We all know that, Loki. I already told you to cut the crap,” You huffed. She let out a little giggle, “If I want Breidablik and Veronica wants you dead, then why don’t I just take out two birds with one stone?”

It took you a moment to process her words, but once you did your eyes widened. “You wouldn’t—” You tried to say, but her actions answered for you. “Oh, but I would.” In her right hand, a purple dagger appeared.

Your fearful eyes met her own, catching the playful and sadistic glint in her gaze. She sighed dreamily, “I wish you could see the look on your face, it’s simply divine,” She expressed, pressing a hand to her cheek.

You cursed to yourself silently; now that you were stuck in this situation, it made you wish you took Xander up on his offers to train you. He had his worries about you not being able to defend yourself, but you reassured him with the fact Alfonse was protecting you.

But Alfonse wasn’t here now, and you were defenseless. Great.

As Loki stalked forwards, you let your feet guide you backwards. If you ran, maybe you’d run into Alfonse, then he could save you. But she could always just throw the dagger, depending on her aim she could cause some permanent damage.

You were starting to panic, your breathing becoming uneven. The reality that you were about to die finally set in, making you dizzy from the anxiety coursing through your veins.

“[Name]!”

You heard Alfonse call your name, the sound of feet hitting the grass becoming louder and louder. You looked to him with hope, but he could see the underlying fear present in your eyes from a mile away.

He was quick to notice the dagger Loki held in her hand, extended towards you as you walked backwards. In that moment, the moment he realized that you were truly about to die, adrenaline kicked into his system.

He ran to your aid as fast as he could. His legs were burning and begging for a break, but he didn’t care. Alfonse forced himself to go to his limits, desperate to protect you. You were out of options, that much was obvious, and you were struggling to keep calm.

He was so close, so close, but Loki was faster. It all happened too fast, way too fast for him to comprehend in the time that it happened. In one moment you were standing tall, Breidablik in hand; in the next you were on the ground, a large wound in your stomach as you bled out.

Never, never in a thousand years, would he imagine that the mighty summoner of Askr would fall.

Time seemed to slow down, with Alfonse’s own world falling apart. He could only watch as you fell to the ground, landing rather harshly on the grass. You held a gloved hand onto your new wound, the river of blood that weeped from the dagger in your stomach dying your white robes a jarring vermillion. Your eyes were glazed over, staring at the baby blue skies above your head, as soft whimpers left your mouth.

Suddenly, a piercing cry left your lips, your body finally processing the pain caused by the wound. Alfonse eyes widened at the noise, before he saw the blood. He felt anger swell in his chest at the sight of you writhing in pain, crying tears that didn’t seem to stop.

Loki let out an annoyed huff at the sight of the Askran prince. “See you on the other side, summoner,” Loki bid farewell, knowing that you couldn’t hear her in your shock-induced state. Before Alfonse could bring Fólkvangr upon her form, Loki disappeared with a wave of her hand.

He let Fólkvangr fall from his hand, rushing to your crumpled side on the green grass. He knelt down besides you, flinching as he watched your blood seep into the pristine fabric of his own outfit, yet took your unoccupied hand into his.

Alfonse was quick to take notice of you pale skin. He remembered the days the two of you spent outside, walking around the castle gardens of Askr. Back then, you appeared vivid and so full of life. Right now, you skin was clammy and cold.

With the enemy out of the way, Alfonse focused on you. He didn’t care about Loki, or your allies on the battlefield, or about the mission; what mattered here and now was you.

“[Name],” He called, worrying when he didn’t get a response. “[Name]!” He called once again, this time louder than before. You blinked twice, acknowledging Alfonse’s calls, as you grounded yourself in the here and now.

“Loki,” You choked out, “we need to get her, she wants Breidablik!” You attempted to stand up, stopped by the pain blossoming in your own abdomen and Alfonse’s insistent hand pressing down on your shoulder.

“This, hah, really, really hurts,” You whined, as if it weren’t a fatal wound you were dealing with. Alfonse squeezed your hand lightly as a sign of comfort, “I’m here, [Name],” He exclaimed, but the loud volume of his voice caused you to grimace.

Alfonse took notice to your rapid and unsteady breathing, his face softening considerably. You needed help and you needed it now, but Mist was too far away. He grit his teeth, he was at a loss as to what to do. He stared at the dagger in your stomach with despair, he couldn’t pull it out here.

Sweat dribbled down your forehead, a cold, unsettling feeling finding its way into your system. You recognized it as anxiety, it settled into your veins like a blanket of cold. You hated this feeling, you hated being weak.

“I don’t want to die!” You blurted suddenly, panting as your lungs were desperate for air, “I don’t want to die, Alfonse! Please, Alfonse, please. It hurts — please.”

All you wanted to do was sleep off the pain. You couldn’t think straight, see straight, you couldn’t do anything. You felt weak, helpless, and now your heroes were at risk of being in danger because of you.

“You’re not going to die, not as long as I’m here.” Alfonse’s hand found its way to your cheek, cupping it so you could stare into his beautiful, blue eyes. You never noticed how vibrant his eyes were until today. They were glossed over with worry and concern, his gaze hardened as he tried to keep calm. You could stare at them all day, his eyes were like a deep blue ocean that you were getting lost in.

You shook your head lightly, clearing your thoughts. You needed to stay awake, not think about Alfonse’s eyes. You attempted to stop your eyes from drooping, but the idea of sleeping sounded so, so nice. With Alfonse by your side, you knew you’d be safe and protected.

“Don’t leave me,” You begged, and faintly you could see Alfonse nod his head. His hair bounced with the movement of his head, dragging a small smile from your lips. “I won’t leave, not until you’re better,” He reaffirmed, a sense of seriousness in his voice.

You felt your heart rate speeding up, but you couldn’t tell if it was from Alfonse or the shock of blood loss.

“Am I, ah, supposed to be dizzy. . .?” You questioned, more to yourself than anyone else. The world spun around you, even Alfonse faded in and out of sight. Black spots dotted your vision, your consciousness threatening to leave you. You fought tooth and nail to stay awake, to stay with Alfonse.

When met with no response, your worry grew, “Alfonse—? Are you still here?”

Alfonse fought an internal battle with himself: should he leave and get Mist, or take you with him? If he took you with him, there was a chance he could make your injuries worse. That was the last thing he wanted to do. Alfonse was meant to protect you, but now you lay here dying in his arms.

He was weak.

“Yeah,” He spoke, voice cracking, “I’m still here.”

You squirmed, restlessness getting to you. “I’m sorry—” You choked out, placing your hand atop the one that held your cheek, “for arguing e-earlier. I know. . .you were just trying to protect me.” A solemn tear fell down your cheek, yet your cries were silent.

When you placed your hand upon his, he felt nothing but the cold, even through his thick leather gloves. You couldn’t die, not right now. He couldn’t be the one to let you die, it would haunt him for the rest of his life if he let the one he loved slip through his fingers.

He hated the cold, he wouldn’t let the cold take you.

“If you’re sorry,” He spoke, slowly, “then live.” You nodded your head, “‘tis just a flesh wound.” A laugh tried to leave your lips, but you just coughed harshly instead. He frowned at your weakened state, knowing deep down you didn’t have much time left.

He let out a deep breath, then made a decision, “Forgive me, [Name], this is going to hurt.”

He hooked his arms under your legs and the other on your back. With a grunt, he lifted you into the air. You let out a small cry of pain, the dagger in your abdomen shifting slightly at the abrupt movement.

“I’m, agh, fine,” You reassured, eyes fluttering close. When they didn’t open back up, he knew you were sleeping. He let you rest, as long as you were still breathing. He kept a close eye on your labored breathing as he walked, the pace slow as to not jostle you.

He had always wanted to hold you like this, perhaps on your wedding day. He imagined you in a marvelous, white dress, cradled in his arms like a princess. He’d twirl you around as you shared a kiss, finally belonging to one another.

Instead, you laid dying in his arms. There was no white dress, just robes stained with red. You wouldn’t dance with him; no, right now you were dancing with death. You were on the edge of your demise, simply waiting for time to push you over.

Alfonse had failed you once, and he wasn’t one to make the same mistakes twice. If he could make it to the battlefield in time, Mist could help. She could do what he couldn’t, she could save you.

Your face was peaceful, your pain taken away by the mercy of sleep. Alfonse was no stranger to death. It happened time after time, yet it still hurt just as much as the first. He couldn’t imagine a world without you in it, an Askr without its beloved summoner.

You were both too young for the tragedy of war to have hurt you, but it did anyways. This wasn’t you war to fight; hell, you didn’t even ask to be here. It should’ve been himself that was attacked by Loki, not you.

You were too kind for your own good, almost to a fault. You had joined their cause without hesitation, taking up the mighty Breidablik and the title of summoner. He wanted to hate how kind you were, it was the reason you had were in this situation in the first place, but without that kindness you would’ve never befriended him.

His world felt cold and desolate. Askr needed you—he needed you.

The sight of a worried Roy appeared on the horizon. Alfonse felt his face relax, he didn’t even realize his face was tense with worry. Faintly, he could hear Roy for his comrades, but the fading adrenaline in his system left him groggy.

He fell to his knees, exhausted from his adrenaline rush. He looked at you one last time, holding you closer to his chest. You were still breathing, thank god, he couldn’t live with himself if he allowed you to die.

The panicked forms of your beloved heroes drew closer, but Alfonse didn’t have it in him to keep his head up anymore. He allowed his head to bow slightly before you. He smiled lightly, catching one last sight of his peaceful form, before he let his own eyes flutter close. It wasn’t cold anymore, now he could feel the lively sun beat down on his back.

For someone who had given up so much for him, the least he could do was protect you till the bitter end.

#fire emblem imagines #fire emblem: heroes #feh imagines #fe imagines #summoner! reader #reader #alfonse #imagines #oneshot #alfonse x reader #alfonse x summoner #fe #fire emblem #angst #TW: death #TW: blood

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smallnico · 5 years ago

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Does Sofiya like a specific kind of tea aside from just sugary? What's her family like? Why does Dom (presumably) like tropical print shirts? What are Lani's top five countries she would be banned from if she got to choose which ones? What's Chris's favourite sport if any and why? What got Candace into baking? Is she competitive at the bake sale? What are Erol's opinions on sci-fi as a genre? Would Leandro star in a musical and if so what kind? What does he think about musicals in general?

sofiya’s favourite kind of tea is milk tea, but when she drinks other kinds, she adds a lot of sugar and milk. she doesn’t really have a preference aside from preferring less caffeine, as she has a low bitter tolerance and is paranoid about setting off psychotic symptoms. i, personally, know that you need a lot more caffeine than anyone should reasonably digest in order to cause said symptoms, but sofiya does not, or at the very least, she’s so worried about it she refuses to even chance it.

how her family is depends on which family you’re asking about! her current family consists of the theatre dads -- her biological father miko and her not-yet-legal-unmarried-stepfather theo -- and her two honorary siblings -- theo’s estranged-but-reconnected daughter grace, and beau, a former student of his who he got legal custody of a few years back due to Circumstances. they’re a weird family, the members of which adopted one another into their lives at some point and just ran with it. they have a surprisingly natural and healthy family dynamic, all things considered, with the exception of grace, who is newer and less on board with the whole situation (she really only considers their house a temporary place to stay, though she warms up quickly to beau and miko). sofiya really likes grace and frequently tries to engage her and persuade her to be less mean and intimidating. it doesn’t really work. sofi’s one of a few characters in the group who wasn’t born in canada! she and her dad are russian-ukrainian, with her dad having lived and worked in russia most of his life, and having moved to ukraine after sofiya was born in order to live with her and her mother. sofiya’s dad and mom were in a tumultuous relationship from the start, and it only got worse after sofiya was born, since she was kind of an accident. she remembers her mom being cold, bitter, and deeply unhappy, when she wasn’t having spells of paranoia and intense emotional outbursts. miko and sofiya’s mom split on good terms when she was ten, then he took custody of sofiya and they moved to canada.

dom does like horrible loud shirts, yes. there are a few reasons for this, but none of them are very compelling: he’s gay, he likes thrifting, he likes that vibrant energy, and they make him feel better about himself. he has about a half dozen equally questionable fashion choices in his wardrobe, and a handful of quieter clothes he wears when he really needs to do laundry.

honestly, the only reason lani hasn’t made this list is because she’s allergic to planning ahead. her chaos is the sort that comes from impulse rather than conscious thought and self-awareness. i think it takes a lot to be banned from a whole country, but i also believe lani’s the kind of presence to somehow manage to do it by a colossal series of spontaneous mistakes. she has been suspended from school before, and she has been kicked off the bus on at least three separate occasions. if she had to choose a country to be banned from it’d be australia, because she’d think it’d be hilarious to be banned from a country that used to be where the british shipped criminals.

chris used to play rugby in high school. she initially got into it on a whim, but really committed to it after it became the thing to finally persuade her dad to say no to her -- see, she really wants to rebel and used to act out a lot more than she does now that she’s a bit more mature, but it’s hard to rebel against your parents when they spoil you unconditionally. her main sport is now kickboxing, for purposes of self-defense and good cardio, but she’s still a fan of rugby and women’s soccer in particular. she refuses to watch men’s soccer because she vocally thinks it’s overrated.

baking is candace’s go-to de-stressing activity. she’s a fundamentally high-strung person, so this means she got really, really good at it. for a long time baking was the Thing She Did For Herself, though it eventually got folded into the miasma of taking care of her younger siblings while her mom worked full time and late into the night. she’s kind of a duty elemental, though she hates being passively obligated to take care of people more than she hates anything in the world, except when people bring premade store-bought goods to bake sales. (”it’s lazy, it’s lying, and it’s disgusting”, she says. “some of us got up at five in the morning to make sure their homemade cinnamon bread rose and got into the oven in time to be warm for this, you animals.”) she loves her siblings, but literally the second they got old enough to take care of themselves, she left for university and resolved to never have kids of her own. she now truly bakes for herself, though she usually ends up bringing stuff in to the theatre and to parties, because baking a tray of delicious hazelnut chocolate cookies is absolutely no good if you can’t share them with the people you really want to be friends with. she does stay hyper-vigilant of everyone’s dietary needs out of habit.

erol really enjoys it, but only a certain kind of it. they see science fiction as a genre that should be fundamentally humanist, it should say something about human nature, rather than just being fantasy in space or “hey look at this cool robot”. they’ll get snitty and correct you if you say star wars is science fiction (”it’s space opera, it’s a whole and fundamentally different genre!”) but they’ll accept that star wars exists. erol’s more of a star trek kind of person for sure, but their real love of the genre is classic science fiction, your isaac asimovs and your phillip k dicks and your ursula leguins. overall their taste in literature skews toward either “shit you’ve never heard of” (which if i’m being honest, when i write erol, i just make up on the spot) or “classics that you’re allowed to be a snob about”. they haven’t read a piece of genuine young adult literature since they were 13 and read twilight. they refused to admit they enjoyed it for years, and now they’ll defend its place in the literary canon, past the point where any reasonable person would cave to the popular insistence that it’s just a book for teens that blew up and that’s Fine.

leandro fucking loves musicals and would kill to star in a big one. he’s actually a good singer and performer, too, so it’s not a far-fetched dream for him, though round river doesn’t put muscials on very often. they’re more expensive than non-musical stage shows to make good quality, and not all of the cast members can actually sing, so whenever they put on a musical, they have to bring in... the choir.(horror chord) leandro and erol are on opposite ends of the spectrum when it comes to the sorts of shows they prefer, with erol preferring thinky highbrow stuff, and leandro being completely swept up in spectacle and drama and performance. he’d make a great phantom, according to himself. in the two musicals round river’s put on while he’s been around, he was billy flynn in chicago, and kenickie in grease. when i did my little heathers fancast (which is outdated, sofiya can’t sing and neither can lani), i set leandro to play jd.

thanks for asking! :>

#smallnioc #janetofficial #the askbox

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zattis · 2 years ago

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Part One: The Setup and The Plan

The Justice League has never taken anyone from Amity Park seriously, no matter who it is that's calling or how distraught they may seem. Not one, meaning that Danny has had to step up and take on the mantle of Phantom in order to keep his town safe.

In hindsight, Danny realizes this was probably for the best. The ghosts that make it into the realm of the living are extremely powerful beings. In terms of sheer power, even the weaker ones could probably give most of the League a run for their money.

Additionally, the lack of League response has had the effect of keeping most villainous humans away from Amity as well. Not always, of course (Freakshow comes to mind), but generally speaking the number of non-ghost supervillains showing up in Amity to figure out how ectoplasmic related goods could help them concoct their schemes is very low. He'd rather deal with the ghosts, thank you very much.

At this point in time, though, there are really only two types of ghosts that he ends up seeing in Amity. Very rarely, an extremely powerful ghost will wreak havoc, genuinely intent on causing chaos to people and forcing him to step up and send them back to the Ghost Zone.

The vast majority, however, are repeat offenders, ghosts that can rather easily satisfy their obsessions without hurting people. For those ghosts, Danny's not really an enemy anymore. He's more of a parole officer, making sure none of them end up doing anything that could hurt the living. Ember can play her guitar in the city square as long as she isn't controlling anyone, for example, and Johnny and Kitty can go on dates in town so long as they don't use other people to make them happen.

Danny's problems are fewer. Ghosts are rarely attacking Amity, and the regular nonviolent presence of some has caused people to reconsider their opinions on ghosts as a whole. Even his parents have stepped back to think about the validity of their theories, and his truce with Val has turned into a trustworthy relationship, and she has become one of his closest allies.

He's mainly worried about his senior year of high school and bolstering his GPA a bit before trying to figure out where he's going to college, as well as taking the occasional lesson from Frostbite or Pandora to help him prepare for his duties as the King of The Infinite Realms. Man, one of those things is not like the other.

Unfortunately, just because most of Danny's problems are solved doesn't mean that everything's fine.

The Ghost Investigation Ward is getting more aggressive as of late, threatening to become a legitimate threat to both the ghosts and humans of Amity if nothing is done soon. Ghosts in town are quick to vanish whenever they see anyone in a white suit, and for good reason. They're quick to show up whenever they hear about anything ghost related, shooting at whatever they think looks like their target that day. The amount of consistent damage to town, his town, is enough to put his first few months of heroics to shame.

Of course, if they were only targeting ghosts, that'd be one thing. Maybe it'd be enough to convince Danny to let things be for a bit.

But things are just never that simple.

Jazz made it home well after midnight a few nights ago, her eyes wide, her posture stiff and her hair disheveled. Through shaky breaths, she told Danny that the GIW had attempted to take her in for experimentation because she had been steadily exposed to ectoplasm for the last three years. "They called me a liminal," she had said, through shaky breaths. She had been extremely lucky to fight them off and escape home.

That news made Danny livid. It's one thing to call yourself ghost hunters and target ghosts. At least that's logical, even though the ghosts don't like it. It's another thing altogether to start ambushing humans, the people who actually live in town and believe that at least you want to keep them safe. To make it even worse, they targeted his sister.

That's the straw that breaks the camel's back. The GIW have got to go before they end up causing real harm to both ghosts and humans.

Sadly, that's not something Danny can do on his own. Powerful he may be, what with being Prince of All Ghosts, but he is only one person, and he'd be going into a fight like that against an enemy that knows what he's weak too. Sure, he could just swap back to human form to compensate for anti-ghost equipment, but he'd still remain vulnerable to the sheer numbers of GIW agents.

No, to do this, he'd need the backing of another human organization. And unfortunately for him, the Justice League has never taken Amity Park seriously, no matter how many times their citizens have asked for help. Danny doubts that would change even with a direct appeal to them; they'd likely just think he was another meta trying to pull one over on them.

With the Justice League out, there are few people Danny feels comfortable turning to. Since the GIW is an American organization, he can't exactly ask for help from anyone outside of the US, and he can't really appeal to a government that is sponsoring this time of cruelty. There is, however, one name that inspires a modicum of confidence in him.

Amanda Waller.

He's heard stories about her from some of the newer ghosts that swing by now and then. She's a ruthless woman, capable of using her considerable influence and tactical knowledge to complete her objectives. However, she also someone that genuinely does want to do what's right most of the time, and the main reason she so vehemently opposes the Justice League is because she wants to keep them in check. So Amanda's probably his best option, but even Danny's not foolish enough to waltz in to her office and ask her to dismantle another government organization for free, without any context.

It takes a few days and help from both allies within both the human world and the Infinite Realms to put together a plan; appear to Mrs. Waller at least partially as the Ghost King, offering her all the information she needs and one favor in exchange for the public takedown of the Ghost Investigation Ward and the recognition of residents of the Infinite Realms as sentient beings. It's something Danny had to grapple with, offering himself as a temporary pawn, but if it means the safety of his family and his people, he'll do it.

Tucker uses his fields of knowledge to provide Danny with a flash drive containing gigabytes of information on the denizens of the Infinite Realms and the GIW. Jazz runs him through possible scenarios he may encounter during his negotiation with the head of ARGUS, ranging from best-case to worst. He even gets a little coaching from Ember on how to bring out a few of the more eldritch aspects of himself beforehand, to help him appear to have more cards to play than he really does.

With everything falling into place late one night, a little over a week after Jazz's near abduction, Tuck zeroes in on Waller's location and gives Danny the go-ahead to make contact.

Short DPXDC Prompts #459

Danny asks Amanda Waller for help to dismantle the GIW.

#dp x dc #danny phantom #dc

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asterythm · 6 years ago

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of delirium and dandelions // 1.1: e = mc scared

Title: Of Delirium and Dandelions Pairing: N/A Word Count: 2.5k Chapter Summary: In which a plan is proposed to an unwilling partner. General Summary: Ah -- what a shame. Patton's gotten his new apron dirty, and dried bloodstains are just so difficult to wash out, you see. Warnings: insanity, threats, blackmailing, blood, needles (the sewing kind), absolutely atrocious pacing, italics abuse

In retrospect, the signs had all been there — that is, signs that today would not be exactly like other days. They had just been too slight to notice unless one was actively looking for them.

Unfortunately for him, Logan had not been looking.

But they were undeniably there. The air had held a certain quality of heaviness so that every breath was not quite enough to satisfy. A metallic tang hung on the tail end of every word he’d exchanged with Virgil that morning. The subtlest notes of apprehension laced the walls and floor like a thread of fragile fairy lights, barely there unless you were looking for them, blinking out an unsteady tune: dot-dot-dot/dash-dash-dash/dot-dot-dot. It was almost as if the mindscape itself had known what was coming, and was trying to warn them in its own abstract way.

Alas; poor Logan hadn’t caught the hazy messages of the mindscape. One might be inclined to wonder what might have happened if he had, but the fact remained unchangeable that he simply had not. It was quite useless to cling to might-haves.

So what exactly did happen? Now that, my dear, is a fine question.

xxx

Logan flipped yet another page of his novel, a bored expression on his face. Although the cover had advertised a thrilling horror story, Logan had discovered rather quickly that the contents of the story did not meet his expectations. A compelling plot had been destroyed by watering it down with too many words and not nearly enough action. Logan wasn’t finding himself to be too fond of the writing.

So when he heard Patton come in, he was grateful for the distraction. Of course, he didn’t want to let it show too much — he didn’t want Patton to think that it would always be acceptable behaviour to interrupt him when he was in the midst of reading.

“Hello, Patton. Do you require something from me?” He asked, not looking up from his novel, the very definition of cool indifference. Logan assumed that Patton had finally come to ask for advice on whatever had been causing him to act so abnormally as of late. It was about time, honestly — Thomas had been experiencing heavy mood swings as a result of whatever Patton was having trouble with, and if Patton hadn’t come to find him today, Logan probably would have confronted him anyway.

“Oh, how kind of you. You’re so considerate, Logan.”

The words themselves weren’t too much out of the ordinary, but there was a hollow, unhinged quality to Patton’s voice that made Logan shudder involuntarily. He glanced up from his page.

And froze.

Morality stood with his arms twitching at his sides and his head tilted at an unnatural angle. His eyes were wild and clouded, a too-wide smile stretching from cheek to pallid cheek. The moral Side was in far, far worse shape than the last time Logan had seen him — when was the last time Logan had seen him? He hadn’t really been keeping track.

Logan was starting to regret that now.

“Patton?” he faltered. A sense of uncertainty beginning to make itself known, Logan slowly lowered the book. “Patton, are you alright? You’re… scaring me a little bit.”

“Well, I should certainly hope I am!” the other Side giggled. The face belonged to Patton. The voice did not. “So nice to hear that you do care after all.”

“Patton, what are you… what do you mean?”

The Patton-who-was-not-quite-Patton leaned in, close enough that Logan could feel warm breath tickling his ear. “You know, I was really starting to wonder if you noticed anything at all. How silly of me, right? You see everything . It’s just that you never really act. You just watch. Seems a little useless to be so observant when you never do anything.” Every syllable dripped with sour maliciousness.

Logan was starting to panic. Who was this strange imposter who had come into his room, wearing Patton’s face, carrying Patton’s voice? He opened his mouth — perhaps to cry for help, perhaps just to cry — but before he could, a feather-light finger fluttered down and came to rest on Logan’s lips. The sudden touch paralyzed him.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Logan registered the similarity of his current captor’s demeanour with that of a formidable predator, perhaps a lion, playing with his food before the kill.

But the next words that came out of the wild beast’s mouth were unexpected and almost seemed to carry notes of genuine concern. “I really do love you, Logan. You love me too, don’t you?”

Logan blinked, confused, a muffled sort of hysteria growing stronger by the second. “I— yes, of course, but—”

Patton’s mirthless smile grew even wider, a feat that Logan wouldn’t have thought possible. “Oh, that just thrills me to hear! I care about you so much, Logan. I would do anything for you. You can say the same for me, right? If I asked you to do a tiny little job for me, would you do it?”

Logan’s instincts screamed at him that he shouldn’t speak — that anything he said would only end up being used against him. But this… this monster chilled him to his core in a way that he’d never known.

Logan’s breathing came quick and shallow now, unsteady gasps murmuring in-out-in-out at a pace almost matching the turmoil of thoughts swirling in and out of focus. Words were forming and bubbling in his chest, pushing up, up, up, demanding to be let out — or was that just another scream?

He needed to release the phantoms, or they’d rip their way out themselves. A raw, almost primitive, need to survive took over. He gasped out, “Yes, I’ll — I’ll do whatever you ask —” I’ll do whatever will let me live the longest, was perhaps what the logical Side meant to say, but Logan was petrified out of his mind and could hardly hear the words he was saying. The accuracy of his statement hardly mattered at this point.

Just as he’d hoped, Logan’s words seemed to placate the porcelain-doll Patton, soaking a little life into the moral Side’s freckled face and softening the harsh corners of his eyes and mouth. The slight change was enough for Logan to take a breath and allow himself to hope that perhaps Patton was satisfied, perhaps Patton would leave him alone now, perhaps —

“I’m not just asking out of curiosity, you know. There actually is something that I need your help with. I’m glad you agreed so quickly, Logan! And without even knowing what you were signing up for. It’s so great to know you trust me so much.”

Then again, perhaps not.

xxx

Yesterday, Logan thought in rational shades of blue. His mind was a deep, thoughtful cerulean ocean, calm and collected. Tranquil. Accustomed to clear azure skies; not a cloud in sight.

Today, Patton spoke in ragged shades of red. He spoke in jittering, glittering letters that had been dunked in crimson dye and laid out to dry in the hot scarlet sun, drip — by drip — by drip. His words were bloodred and bursting with imperfect implications.

Patton had begun by asking Logan if he’d noticed anything odd about Roman and Virgil lately. Logan had to admit that the two Sides had been butting heads even more than usual.

“They’re hurting Thomas,” Patton insisted. “All the shouting is just making Thomas feel worse. He hasn’t put out a video with us in forever. You know why? It’s ‘cause Roman has pretty much zero confidence left! And Virgil’s just getting more and more anxious. Don’t you see it too? We gotta help them, Logan.”

Drip. A red pebble quietly tossed into a deep blue sea.

Logan spoke, against his better judgement (indeed, he would come to regret having said anything at all very soon): “Well… how would we do that? Virgil and Roman are both undoubtedly stubborn. I imagine that it would have to take quite the grand gesture to move either of them.”

“Exactly!” Patton beamed. “I’m glad you get it, Logan. If we’re gonna fix Thomas, we have to do something big , or Virgil and Roman won’t change at all. You know that, right?”

Drip. A red raindrop, rippling the blue surface. And then another.

Patton continued. “Don’t worry about coming up with a plan. You already do so much thinking around here! I thought I’d spare you the trouble this time, so I came up with a plan of my own. It’ll be perfect.”

Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip…

His lips moved without giving his mind time to catch up to what he was saying. “What do you need, Patton? Just name it.”

xxx

Morality spoke of —

a prince, crown cracked and lopsided, pain and doubt starting to seep through the bright and happy face paint he wears. Eyelids plastered with artificial colours and flavours cannot hide the heavy bags that will not disappear no matter what he tries… so he stops trying. If sleep will continue to elude him, he might as well make the most of his time awake and churn out idea after idea after idea. Crumpled-up balls of paper litter the floor. He cannot outrun his failures; in fact, he steps on them wherever he goes — so he decides not to go anywhere at all until he’s come up with something that’s good enough. It has been six weeks, four days, and eleven hours. Nothing is good enough. The paint rubs off a little more.

Morality told tales of —

a troublemaker, good-guy/bad-guy/good-guy/bad-guy. Standing with one foot on both sides of a great ravine, unable to decide where he belongs. Begging for help, reaching out a hand with fingernails long and sharp that draw blood from the first wrist they manage to grab onto. Digging deeper. Pulling and pulling and finally pulling hard enough to swing to safety, but in doing so, pulling their saviour into the gaping maw of the canyon with barely a second thought. He is on steady ground. His helper has been thrown to the wolves and is still falling.

Morality built a world where the prince was pacified, satisfied, always smiling. He’d see to it that the smile wouldn’t slip, not even for a second. After all, if he could make the prince’s physical state reflect his mental , the prince would learn quite quickly that painful thoughts weren’t quite worth lingering on anymore.

The troublemaker would reach out and pull their hero back to the surface, and he’d never be able to hurt anyone so deeply again. It would be quite simple; all they had to do was take away his speaking privileges. Morality had already located a needle and some nice, colourful thread. The job would not be difficult.

Through it all, the logical Side sat, stock-still, silent, scarcely able to believe what Morality had said. Logan was almost able to hear the cracks running up and down his body — large, unsightly chasms made of terror and distress and revulsion. He had to hold it together or he’d break and send tiny sharp shards of himself scattering all over the hard, unforgiving floor.

A minute ticked by, then two, before he was able to find his voice. Even then, his mind ran fast and his words were stumbling and uncertain, unable to keep up.

“You want… you want me to… to help you torture Roman and Virgil,” he meant to ask. The sentence came out flattened and wilted, a period floating at the end instead of the question mark he’d intended. “You want me to aid you. In breaking Thomas’s creativity and anxiety.”

“Yes, but we’ll build them back up afterwards. They’ll be so much better in the long run,” Morality said dismissively. “You know, like that time you took apart your computer and put the pieces back together so it ran faster? It’s just like that. Same kind of concept. You’ll help me, right?”

“What?”

Patton’s careless comparison snapped Logan out of the disbelieving trance he’d been put into. He continued, speech growing steadily in volume until he was shouting:

“You’re comparing a computer, a literal machine, with Roman and Virgil? They are not the same, Patton! These are living, breathing, feeling beings that we are talking about!” A sharp, disbelieving laugh escaped from Logan’s mouth. “Yes, the circumstances between Roman and Virgil are not ideal, but that doesn’t mean that we can hurt them. This is their problem to work out! I don’t understand what’s gotten into you, Patton! You’ve been acting so strange recently, and — and now this?”

At first, Morality said nothing. The silence stretched out long enough for Logan to hope that he’d perhaps gotten through to the other Side after all.

Until he watched Morality’s shoulders begin to shake with barely contained laughter.

“Oh, Logan. You know, it would’ve been great if you’d seen reason , but… well, I was kind of hoping you’d say no.”

Behind his thick black glasses, the logical Side’s eyes widened.

“Because if you’d said yes right away, this wouldn’t have been quite as much fun.

“Y’see, Logan, you don’t actually have a choice. I just wanted to give you a chance to get on my good side before the fun begins.” A grin played on his lips. “Oh! Would you look at that! I made a pun! Get it? Get on my good side? Ha! Oh, sometimes I crack myself up, you know?”

Seeing that Logan wasn’t having any of it, Morality’s smile was suddenly gone as quickly as it had come. “Anyway, not the point. What I’m trying to say is, I’m not really asking you. You are going to help me. That’s final. Because even if you don’t, I’m going to go ahead and fix up Roman and Patton anyway, but I won’t stop there. Without your clever mind to tell me the best way to do this, I’ll have to go straight to the source and do a few touch-ups on Thomas, too.” “You wouldn’t,” Logan managed to say.

“Aw, what makes you say that, kiddo?” The once-familiar nickname tasted so unnatural in Morality’s mouth, now. “I’ve gotta fix our family somehow, but it won’t be nearly as fast without you helping me out. I want to get this done quickly though, which is why I’d need to make some minor adjustments to Thomas himself. But that’s another thing! You’re a lot less likely to make… careless mistakes than I am. If I do this myself, what if I mess up and accidentally end up causing more permanent damage than I’d accounted for?

“...Hm. I guess this means that I lied a little bit. You actually do have a choice. You can either stand by and do absolutely nothing… or you can help me out and make sure that Thomas doesn’t get hurt. Well, not any more than necessary, at least. So, what’ll it be, Logan?”

xxx

Today, a raging red storm came screaming in and threw the blue into a frenzied panic. Crashing waves came rolling in, slamming fiercely into one another and sending seafoam flying. The blue swells grew higher and higher, surging, frenzied, into the once-peaceful purple sky.

Ah, but despite the chaos… it was such a mesmerizing shade of purple, and Logan found that try as he might, he couldn’t look away.

xxx

ring around the rosie;

#thomas sanders #sanders sides #sanders sides fic #thatsthat24 #sshorrorfamily au #spectral scribbles #of delirium and dandelions #tw insanity #tw threats #tw blackmail #tw blood #tw needles #spec made something

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shewhowantsmouseears · 7 years ago

Text

The Son Of Scheherazade, 16

Notes: As always, big thanks to my amazing editors, Drucilla and BlueShifted!

Not gunna lie, this chapter actually drained me emotionally after writing it. Aside from taking characters I love to bad places, I also used to have major anger issues when I was younger, so, sore spot. But here we are, and the next chapter will be silly. So silly. Prepare for major silly.

Also also, I had three or four different endings planned, including having Goofy and pals "save" the day. Oh well, maybe next time.

Summary: What does it mean to carry the sins of your family? Is hate naturally born, or does it get inflicted upon you? The contest is over, but there are things worse than losing.

The rest of that day and the following day were much of the same – silly displays of what Father Wander and his servants considered to be the truest of true love. This involved feeding each other cake, reciting poetry made up on the spot, dramatic re-tellings of their first encounters, carrying their bride over dangerous thresholds, and so on and so forth. More couples continued to be dragged away when they didn't meet the ridiculously high standards of Father Wander, but there were still enough people for Mickey, Minnie, Donald and Daisy to lose Runner-Up. All four of them did their best, refusing to give up, and took everything as seriously as possible.

… Well, three of them did.

Donald and Minnie had no troubles with their tasks, so devoted to their friend that they were able to give masterful performances. When Donald accidentally dropped a piece of cake on Minnie's dress, she merely laughed it off, and they chatted about favorite desserts. Minnie discovered she had a talent for rhyming during poetry, Donald made up a well-thought out story of love at first sight, and they crossed their threshold – theirs lined with dangerous metal spikes – without a scratch. Working together, they found there was nothing they couldn't do, and happily enjoyed each other's company.

Mickey and Daisy were such a different story, one could almost say they were another genre entirely. Mickey was trying to play the role of a devoted husband as best he could, but Daisy continued to have fun at his expense. She smashed her cake into his face, wanting to “recreate their wedding”. For poetry, she made an entire list of made-up phobias he had, assuring him that she loved him despite all his weaknesses. As Mickey tried to create a story about their first meeting, Daisy kept interrupting with new details that Mickey had to struggle to connect. Their threshold crossing, which involved fire and brimstone, ended with a singed tail and Daisy whining about her poor ashy dress. Each new section of the contest was like another heavy burden on Mickey's shoulders, and his temper was rising.

By the end of the second night, Mickey had trouble sleeping, due to how much Daisy had utterly and thoroughly annoyed him during all hours of the day. If she had been planning to act this way the entire time, why couldn't she have chosen Donald and left him alone?! He hated thinking this way, wanting someone else to suffer in his stead, but she was driving him crazy. In addition to this, he missed Minnie terribly. Even though he saw her as often as he could, it just wasn't the same as having her by his side and hearing his name. Each part of the contest was a reminder of the things he promised he wouldn't do to her and with her until she was free – and at times he hated himself for making such a promise, even though it had been the morally right thing to do. He wanted to earn her love the right way, but what if when she was free, she only thought of him as the Son of Scheherazade?

Morning came and Mickey was exhausted, having slept very little. Donald flashed him a look of pity as they lined up for breakfast, but when he asked what was wrong with his friend, Mickey barked that nothing was wrong, he just missed his dear little wife so terribly. Donald winced, but didn't give up. “It's the last day,” Donald reminded him, trying to offer a smile. “In just a few hours, this will all be over, and we'll be back on the ship.”

Mickey gave this some thought. “...I guess I could make it a few more hours,” he finally replied, fighting off a yawn. “But after this, I kind of never want to see 'Donna's' face again.” The men were taken to a small dining room, where a hearty meal was being served, and Father Wander was standing at the end of the table, always pleased to see everybody. Mickey tried not to look at him. “And I'm convinced this guy wouldn't know actual love if it bit him on the face.”

Donald paused to consider this. “I guess if we're actually fooling him, you're right. Makes this whole thing a sham, doesn't it?” Perhaps after doing this contest for years and years, the competition had lost its original meaning. It was a shame, he thought, because an actual celebration of happiness that being with certain people brought would have been something great. Maybe once upon a time there hadn't been temptation tests or cake-eating or poetry. As they sat down, Donald lightly slapped Mickey's shoulder, still wanting to help. “When we win the map and get back to the ship, we should have a party!”

Mickey blinked at him, his anger beginning to settle down. “A party?”

“Yeah! To celebrate getting a huge leap closer to your folks! We can be our real selves again, and sing and dance and be with all our friends! Wouldn't that be fun?”

Actually, that did sound like fun, and Mickey missed Goofy and the others, all their odd behavior included. “That's not a bad idea,” he said as he imagined Panchito playing the guitar, Jose asking for all the details, Clarabelle and Horace arguing then dancing together, and Goofy giving Mickey one of his affectionate ruffles between the ears. “Yeah! We should absolutely do that! It'll be great!” Now that he had something to look forward to, perhaps his anger would stay in check today -

Or perhaps it wouldn't as his chair was knocked over, due to Grimwold shoving himself into the next seat adjacent. “Move it, shorty.”

Donald was up in seconds. “Hey! You did that on purpose!”

Grimwold didn't reply to Donald – as he was actually slightly terrified of the duck, who had somehow zapped him into unconsciousness days before – and kept his sights on Mickey. “I still have a bone to pick with you.”

Mickey clenched his teeth as he put his chair back up. “A bone? All I ever did to you was tell you to stop bullying people! It's not my fault you're a huge jerk!” He slammed his hand down on the table, starting to get the attention of the others.

“It's not bullying when someone is clearly stronger and better than you!” Grimwold leaned over Mickey, sneering right back at him. “No one has ever talked back to a Gloom and lived to tell the tale! I think it's about time we settle this!”

“Fine by me!” Mickey snapped back, ignoring Donald's tugging on his sleeve and insistent pleas that this was not the time or place for such an argument. “The sooner I get you off my back, the better! I can't stand people like you, who think they should always get what they want! The world doesn't work that way, and people aren't your toys to play with!” Was he yelling at Grimwold, or someone else?

“Then let's finish this, mano a mano!”

“Right here, right now!”

They both could've sworn they heard the ringing of a boxing bell – except it turned out to be a real bell, much to their confusion. This was Father Wander, ringing a small bell in his hand, eyebrows quirked at the display presented before him. “I must say, gentlemen, I am surprised by this behavior! This isn't in the spirit of our romantic competition!”

Donald jerked – was this impromptu fight going to get them disqualified? He thought quickly, then flailed his hands. “Yes it is! Of course it's in the spirit! Because... because they're fighting over... whose wife is prettier!”

Father Wander watched the two in genuine hopes this was correct. “Really?”

“... Yeah, sure.” Grimwold stood up straight, smoothing down his blue hair. “After all, my Hilda is like a goddess in human form! And this miscreant thought his ragamuffin could honestly compare to her. It's laughable really!”

This was supposed to be the part where Mickey was going to falsely gush about Daisy's beauty and grace and all her likable features, but he couldn't. He was so sick of having to tell lies and praise a woman who was getting on his last nerve, especially to the guy who was getting on the second-to-last nerve. Mickey was angry, Mickey was incredibly angry at everyone and everything – at Grimwold for picking such a stupid fight. At Donald who thought Mickey needed help. At Father Wander for not noticing the obvious, at this whole moronic competition that was never about real passionate love, at Daisy who put him through this, at the Phantom Prince who took his parents and made him go through this ordeal – and then he found anger at people who had nothing to do with anything, except to make this anger grow, Goofy, for agreeing with this whole farce, and Panchito and Jose who never shut up and Horace and Clarabelle for their insipid arguments, and his mother for lying to him and his father for -

And his father for -

IT'S NOT FAIR! HOW DARE YOU LIVE?! WHY DO YOU DESERVE TO LIVE?!

His heart began to beat in his ears and suddenly he was a little boy and he was scared and confused and his parents weren't there and there was blood and there was pain and screaming and tears and -

“Awww!” Father Wander's very loud coo startled Mickey out of his past – Mickey who had begun to sweat and shake, his fingers clutching the tablecloth so hard he'd begun to tear it, his breath coming in and out rapidly. “Mortimer, you're so offended on your wife's behalf, you just can't control yourself, can you?”

It took Mickey a moment to remember where he was, and his breathing slowed, suddenly very aware of all the eyes on him. He felt nauseous, and his hand flew to his neck, rubbing the scar over and over. “Yeah,” he answered quietly, afraid of where he'd just been. “I just... love her so much, you know.” The answer came automatically without thinking, and he sat back down, not touching his food. Grimwold also sat down, deciding not to push his luck any further, although he was smirking. As far as he was concerned, he just laid down the first part of his trap. Donald watched Mickey, worried, but over what he wasn't sure of. In that brief second, Mickey had changed into someone unrecognizable. The body had been Mickey's, of course, but the eyes had grown dark and instant, reflecting a hate so powerful that it threatened to swallow everyone whole. Donald had never seen anything like it, not even in Flintheart's cruelest moments, and he could've sworn that if Father Wander hadn't inadvertently put an end to it, the thing that looked like Mickey was going to strike.

“That's just the mood we need for our final day!” Father Wander continued, ringing the bell again, this time for the melody. “We only have one more display of love to go through, and then my friends and I will decide the winners! Ooh, isn't this exciting?” he applauded, expecting everyone to do the same, but didn't mind when they chose not to. “At noon, we'll have everyone gather in the prayer room of the chapel. In there we have a set of magic mirrors! We'll have the chosen pair stand in front of the mirrors, and their reflection will show who they truly love.”

Donald spat out the juice he'd been drinking. “What? Magic?! Honest to goodness magic?!” Why in the world hadn't they just done that on day one and saved everyone the trouble? How were they supposed to fool magic? Their lies would be revealed in an instant! Did Daisy know about this? No, perhaps this was beyond even her – Donald desperately wanted to believe that Daisy had an ounce of goodness, or basic sense, in her. It was probably the desire for another kiss making him believe this, which still popped into his head every day. Donald looked at Mickey, hoping for him to have an idea or to be equally upset, but Mickey was still not entirely there.

The prince now had his hand on his mouth, fighting a battle in his chest, trying to still the monster that had threatened to come out. He had barely heard anything Father Wander had said, the competition now the last thing on his mind. He could not let the beast out now, not ever. His anger had always been one of his biggest flaws, but it had never ate at him so badly before – perhaps because he had been so spoiled and privileged until his parents were taken away. But now he had problems and people he didn't know how to handle and his insides were bubbling hotly. Maybe it would go away on its own. He hoped so.

“Until then,” Father Wander had utterly ignored Donald's outburst, “You're free to spend the day as you wish! I bet you've all missed your significant others so much! So eat up, and then love up! Noon's not that far away!” He tried another attempt at applause and was still met with rejection.

Mickey stabbed a piece of meat with his fork and forced it into his mouth, even though he had no appetite. Donald kept asking him over and over if he was okay and Mickey would not answer. Once Mickey's plate was entirely clear, he shoved himself away from the table, hopped off the chair, and walked away as fast as his feet would take him. Donald wanted to follow him, but felt he still wouldn't be answered. Maybe the girls would have some ideas, he wished, and once he finished his meal he set out to find them. Perhaps for now it would be best to leave Mickey alone with whatever thoughts were haunting him.

Things would be all right, Donald was convinced of this. They would win the map, and have their party, and Mickey would be happy, and Minnie would be happy, and Daisy would tell them where the next part of the map was, and they'd dance and sing and be merry. There was nothing to be worried about. Mickey would be fine.

So why did he keep staring at Mickey's empty chair with a sense of dread?

~*~

Donald did manage to meet up with Daisy and Minnie, and while he told them of the magical mirror mishap, he didn't mention the argument between Mickey and Grimwold. He felt it would serve little purpose, and given Daisy's All Seeing Eye, maybe she already knew. Besides, the mirrors would be a real challenge.

The three of them were sitting outside on the church steps, trying to decide what to do. “Maybe we can use a wish on this,” Daisy suggested, her usually manipulative brain running low on ideas. “I think this is a desperate times call for desperate measures deal.”

Minnie sighed, shaking her head. “My Master is dead-set on not using my wishes. He only uses them when his life is in danger... or a slip of the tongue.” With faint amusement she recalled a time when Mickey had almost accidentally wished Jose to stop smoking, but he had caught himself just as he said the word wish – he slapped his hands over his mouth with such force that he knocked the back of his head against the wall. He then profusely apologized to Minnie, only stopping when he heard her giggling.

“Maybe we can make up some kind of hokey-story to explain the reflections.” Donald furrowed his brows. “Father Wander and his goons believe just about everything we say to them already.”

Daisy smirked as she heard Donald's plan, making her own decisions, and Minnie pouted, looking around. “We really should be discussing this with my Master. Where is he now?”

“I don't know.” Donald didn't meet her eyes, still reluctant to share what had happened. “He just needed to... blow off some steam. I'm sure he'll come find us before everything starts. Worse comes to worse, we can just beg for that map, and maybe they'll have some pity on us.”

Minnie leaned back on the seats, watching the sky. “I hope he's all right. He's been working so hard on those maps every night... Do you think he's getting enough sleep? Or enough to eat?” Minnie missed Mickey just as much as he was missing her, though neither guessed that the other was longing for them so deeply. She disliked sleeping away from her lamp, if only for the fact that it meant she couldn't be at Mickey's side at a second's notice. She just wanted to be useful to him in any way imaginable.

Daisy clicked her tongue. “What are you, his mother?”

What was meant to be a tease brought Minnie somewhere else, as she faced Daisy with a curious expression. “By the way... why is my Master's mother so important anyway? Why was it a big deal that she has the All-Seeing-Eye instead of telling stories?”

Donald made a startled noise in his throat. “What? You don't know? Everyone knows the story of Scheherazade. Even I got told that tale, before my nannies got too scared to watch over me. It's the most famous story in the whole wide world!”

Daisy lit her pipe, coming to the correct conclusion instantly. “Maybe so... but then, not every master thinks their slaves should know everything about the world.”

Minnie bit her lip, saying nothing. It was true that many of her past masters, even ones who had started out kind and generous, treated her more as an object than as a living person, much less a friend to share stories with. It was possible they thought if she was more educated, knew more about the world, she'd try to leave them or influence their wishes. Now it made her feel like a fool, left out of the earth's most obvious facts. “I feel like there's something my Master isn't telling me.” Her voice was quiet, her eyes downward, remembering the hesitation Mickey had shown the last time they spoke of his mother. “If Sultana Scheherazade is such a wonderful and amazing person... why won't he tell me what the story is?”

Donald and Daisy looked at each other, a cold dread creeping up their backs. They had a fairly good idea that it wasn't so much Mickey's mother that was the problem. Was it their place to speak of it? Even Daisy, who reveled in the pain of others, seemed to be debating. She was about to come to a final choice, when the church bells rang, loud but melodic. She exhaled a stream of smoke. “They're probably about to start setting things up in the prayer room... Let's get there early and try to see what we can do.”

Minnie frowned, but made no objection. The explanation could wait another day, she supposed, and if they lost the mirror challenge, they could try to find a way around it. Nothing was impossible, so long as they had her magic and Mickey's cleverness. Maybe that's what he was doing now, using his brilliant mind to think of a winning strategy. Dear, darling, clever master. Minnie didn't need, nor want, fancy poetry or cakes or fights to prove how Mickey felt about her, since he wore his emotions on not just his sleeve but his entire outfit. As long as he was himself, Minnie was content. She hadn't realized she began smiling, but Donald did, and he felt that worry from before get stronger.

No, surely everything would be all right. The three of them thought this calming phrase over and over – everything would be all right.

~*~

Mickey had been, of all places, up on the roof. To him, it was the closest thing that resembled the balcony of his room back at the palace. He had hoped that the familiar view would calm him down, and while it did ease his anger, it didn't erase it entirely . His hate found new forms to attack with, and they all centered around himself. How could he be so immature, rising to Grimwold's taunts, when there were much fiercer enemies up ahead? If he couldn't handle himself in front of a simple man, how could he hope to defeat the Phantom Prince? He was doing nothing but bringing shame to his parents. The only thing he was grateful for was that Minnie hadn't seen that childish display. Minnie, Minnie, Minnie, he wanted to see her, he wanted to see her so badly, he wanted her touch and her kiss and her love even though he hadn't done anything to deserve it.

If she could just fall in love with him before she knew what Mickey's father had done, what his mother had done, what the story was, then maybe things would work out. She could love him for him and not where he came from. But in the end he knew that it was far, far better to be worshiped as a false idol than to be hated. He knew what it was like to be hated. And while it was not impossible to say she wouldn't hate him if she knew, that one in a million chance would never go away, even though he had not been at fault. The sins carried through his blood. He felt nauseous again.

The church bells rang, and Mickey was glad to hear them. Now he could enter the final lap of this whole frivolous affair, get the map, get back on the ship, and hear his name again. He stood up, smoothed down his robes, and headed for the door that led back into the church – only to find Grimwold was on the other side. Mickey slammed the door in his face. “First off,” Grimwold said on the other side, “Rude. Second, there isn't another way down.”

Mickey sighed very, very deeply, before opening the door. “The bells are ringing, that probably means the last part of the contest is ready. If we're late, they'll probably disqualify us. So we don't have time to fight.”

But instead of taunting or insulting, Grimwold backed up from the door, showing the stairs. “Actually, I wanted to make you an offer. You were right, bullying isn't going to get me anywhere. It certainly hasn't helped with the contest one bit.”

That was... suspiciously nice and quick of a conclusion. Mickey squinted, and headed for the stairs, Grimwold trailing behind him. “An offer? What are you talking about?”

“The truth is, there's really only one prize me and my amazing Hilda are after.” Grimwold put a hand to his heart, closing his eyes to emphasize his sincerity – but this wasn't the best idea, as he tripped and fell down, and had Mickey not stepped aside in time he would have joined him. Mickey blinked at the crumpled heap on the floor, wondering if perhaps the Glooms had more bark than bite. But then Grimwold popped back on his feet, using the same pose, as if nothing had happened. “You see, we never got the honeymoon we wanted. I just want her to have the best in life, and if I could help get her that prize, I'd be the happiest man in the world.”

Mickey walked onto the floor and into the hallway. “What's that got to do with me?”

“I'm no fool.” Grimwold now walked at Mickey's side. “The judges have been studying you and your wife intensely. You're going to be a winner, I can tell. Maybe that's why I can't help but... act impolitely to you and your friends at every opportunity.” A hearty chuckle. “Why not let bygones be bygones, and have a chat about what to do about it? We can use the men's chambers – with everyone filing into the prayer room, it's sure to be empty. And since you guys entered last, you'll probably be chosen last for the mirror match.”

Mickey stopped walking to give Grimwold a deadpan look. “This is a trap.”

“A trap?” Grimwold staggered backwards, his acting getting so hammy a pig would've been envious. “A trap! I am wounded! I am hurt! Here I am, offering an olive branch of friendship, and you dare call it a trap!”

“A-huh.” Mickey crossed his arms, unimpressed. “So if we go into the men's chambers, your wife isn't going to be there to help outnumber me, and you two aren't going to threaten me into dropping out?”

It took five seconds for Grimwold to answer – Mickey counted. “...Nnnnooo.”

The prince rolled his eyes so far in his head he almost saw brain matter. These two almost weren't worth getting angry about. But Mickey thought this through – if he denied Grimwold now, maybe he'd do something worse in the prayer room, disrupting the whole thing for a temper tantrum and making this whole ordeal longer. If it was a trap, and it absolutely was, Mickey believed he could handle the Glooms very easily. His combat skills had improved immensely during his time on the ship, and what did they have? Bottles of acid he could dodge, and a stolen sword – he saw it on Grimwold's hip – that they didn't even know how to wield? Maybe once they were defeated, they'd shut up and leave Mickey alone.

With a regretful sigh, Mickey resumed walking. “Yeah, sure. Let's go and hear the offer.”

“Yes! Excellent!” Grimwold rubbed his hands, genuinely under the belief that Mickey had fallen for the asinine plot. “Right this way, my young friend!” It was only a hop, skip, and a jump to the chambers, and when they opened the doors, Mickey was totally and completely not surprised to see Hilda there, standing in the middle of the room, hands on her hips, bursting into evil laughter.

“Welcome to my parlor, said the spider to the fly!” Hilda cackled, giving Grimwold a thumbs-up as he closed the door behind them. “You've fallen right into our trap!”

“Oh no,” Mickey said without a single trace of emotion. “A trap. I never would have guessed. Oh gee. Oh my.”

Grimwold frowned and looked over at his wife. “Honey, I don't think he's appreciating all the hard work we put into this plan!”

“Well, he'll care when we tell him the real reason we're here.”

Mickey could feel his temper rising again, and he rubbed one of his temples. “You two can have whatever prizes you want, okay? We just want the map! A map that's of no use to anyone else! So you win, hurray, good for you, can I leave now?”

“You're leaving all right,” said Hilda as she began to walk forward. “But with us... the Phantom Prince has big plans for you, Son of Scheherazade.”

Those two titles slammed down onto Mickey like falling bricks, and hearing them together by someone else's voice was such a shock that at first Mickey was sure it couldn't have happened. He knew his real name hadn't been used once, not once, and even if it had, no one else even knew what or who the Phantom Prince was. After all, wasn't it only a legend that a dying tribe passed along? “What... did you say?” His voice came out weaker than expected.

“You heard us, your highness.” Grimwold pushed Mickey from behind, making him stumble. “As if we need some cheap prizes to prove we're the best couple in the whole world... the Phantom Prince has promised us riches beyond our wildest imaginings if we bring you in! Do you have any idea how far his dark power reaches?”

“He's told us all we need to know,” Hilda added, leaving out the more truthful interpretation that they only knew what they had asked. “So if you don't want any more trouble, you'll be a good boy and come along with us quietly.”

So far they had only been right about a few things – Mickey had no idea how far the Phantom Prince's reach was, or how many minions he had around the world, lying in wait to capture him. How many were willing to sell him out for their own greed? How did they find Mickey in the first place and know to enter the contest? Was his mother being forced into using her All-Seeing-Eye? Was she being threatened into doing so? Tortured? Heat filled his head. “You two can't possibly think I'd just agree to be your prisoner!” He placed one foot back, and steadied his arms, remembering the vital lessons Horace and Clarabelle had taught him. “If it's a fight you want, that's exactly what you'll get!”

“Now why would we make such a mess.” Grimwold pulled out his sword, but made no threatening moves with it just yet. “When we can do this the easy way? Either you come with us now... or we can all head into the prayer room together... and Hilda and I will tell everyone who you really are!”

“Forget about just disqualification.” Hilda moved to stay by Grimwold's side, her heels pressing hard into the floor. “But what about your precious wife? Does she know the full story? Does she know where you came from?”

Mickey gawked – they knew who he was, but didn't realize Daisy's role was fake? It was laughable, and he almost did laugh, except – except there was someone who didn't know the full story. Someone who Mickey cared very deeply for. He could feel his arms trembling. She didn't know. She didn't have to know. She didn't have to be given the choice of love or hate, not yet, not today, that wasn't fair, they didn't have a right to say anything.

“I must say.” Grimwold smirked, rubbing his nose. “Fetching yourself a beauty like that is impressive... and it'll be amazing to see her reaction when she finds out her husband is the Child Born Of Blood.”

It's not fair. It's not fair. Mickey's heart was thumping hard, and his breath came in quickly through his nostrils. They couldn't say this. They didn't know anything. They didn't understand.

“In a way, we'd be doing her a favor.” Hilda nodded to herself. “After all, history does tend to repeat itself. We could be saving her life by telling her who you are. I bet you're just the exact image of your father... in every single way.”

Shut up.

It wasn't like that.

He didn't mean to. He lost control. He stopped. He learned.

Mickey wasn't like that. No he wasn't. He could never be like that.

They had no right THEY HAD NO RIGHT -

Grimwold approached Mickey, the sword out, but he didn't feel he'd really have to use it. “So, what's it going to be? A harmless get-a-way with us, or do we get to play storyteller to the love of your life?” He pointed the sword at Mickey's neck, right where the scar was -

He pointed the sword at Mickey's neck -

And suddenly – and suddenly -

And suddenly Mickey was four years old, a bright little child who was the apple of his parents' eyes. It took longer for him to learn how to walk and talk because his parents spoiled him endlessly. Mama was telling one of her stories even though Mickey could only grasp at a few concepts, and was paying more attention to the plush bear she was playing with, making it mime walking and talking. He giggled and clapped his hands, and Papa was trying to get in on the fun, tickling Mama until she shrieked with laughter. Papa loved Mama and Mama loved Papa, and Papa and Mama loved Mickey, and Mickey loved them.

But their good time was interrupted when one of the older servants entered the room, a kindly quiet maid whose hair was graying several years too early. An ambassador had arrived a whole day early, much to his parents' surprise. The maid offered to put Mickey down for his nap while they spoke with the ambassador, and she picked him up, cuddling him close. Mickey fussed about naptime, but she booped his nose with a wrinkled finger, and he laughed again. Mama and Papa left, but Mama was frowning, deep in thought.

The nice maid carried Mickey off to his room, telling him how lucky he was and how everyone loved the Son of Scheherazade. Mickey merely nodded, sucking his thumb. In his brightly colored room, she didn't put him down on the bed. Instead she knelt on the floor, and sat him down. “You love your Mama very much, don't you?”

Mickey smiled. “Love Mama!” he repeated with true enthusiasm.

The woman smiled back, but her smile was dark, secretive, something ugly brewing under the surface. “And you love your Papa very much, don't you?”

“Love Papa!” Mickey agreed, clapping his hands. Was this a new game?

“I had someone I loved once,” the maid said, reaching to grab something hidden in her dress. “But your Papa took her away from me. Your Papa took away so many people's loved ones.” Her sickly sweet voice began to hiss with strong acid, her pretty eyes swirling into a loathing that Mickey couldn't fathom. “But now your Papa gets to live happily ever after. And you get to make him happy. That doesn't seem fair, does it?” Mickey didn't answer, couldn't answer, he didn't understand what was being asked of him. “Why do you, the Child Born of Blood, get to live, when my sweet sister didn't? What great purpose do you serve in life? Why were you born?”

Mickey didn't know what was going on, but he did understand he was very afraid, and he wanted Mama and Papa. The woman then struck her hand onto his chest, pressing him down into the floor, and in her hand was a sharp knife, and she was hissing and crying, “He doesn't deserve to be happy! And you don't deserve to live!”

Mickey screamed even when the knife sliced into his neck, screamed as the hot blood gushed out of his skin, screamed as the doors burst open and his parents rushed in with the guards, screamed as his hysterical mother took him into her arms and yelled for someone to get a medicine man. But no matter how loudly he screamed, he could still hear the maid even as she was dragged away.

“IT'S NOT FAIR! HOW DARE YOU LIVE?! WHY DO YOU DESERVE TO LIVE?!”

No, it wasn't fair. None of this was fair. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't his fault. Was not, was not, was not his fault, they couldn't do this to him, wasn't fair, wasn't his fault, they wouldn't do this to him, not, not, NOT, NOT, GOING TO DO THIS TO HIM, NOT AGAIN, NOT EVER EVER AGAIN!

~*~

The mirror competition was starting, and several couples had been eliminated. The process was kind of simple – the couple stood in front of two golden, rather plain-looking mirrors, and waited to see their reflection. If they saw their own face, they were booted out. If they saw their loved one – and the “right” loved one – they stayed. Minnie, Donald, and Daisy nervously waited in the pews, glancing at the door every so often to see if Mickey would run in late. Minnie's patience was wearing out, and she whispered to her friends, “What could possibly be taking him so long? I think we should try to find him.”

Donald nodded nervously. “Yeah, we're really cutting it close. 'Donna', can you use your All-Seeing-Eye to find out where he is?”

Daisy huffed. “Such nervous Nellies. Fine, fine, but if I catch him doing something embarrassing, that's on you.” She leaned back in her seat, concentrated...

… And then went very pale. “Oh. Oh, no.” Her voice was unusually hushed, a fear that Donald and Minnie had never seen before, had never thought Daisy was capable of. “By the gods... we...we have to stop him!” She was on her feet then, but her legs were weak, sickened by some display, breathing erratically, not caring if she was making a scene. “We have to find him, now!”

“Stop him?” Donald asked, trying to catch Daisy from falling. “Stop him from what?”

“JUST GO!” Daisy screeched, catching everyone's attention and not caring. “Find him, now!” She couldn't even make out what room it was, too horrified by what she was seeing.

Minnie backed up, and then began running, even as she heard Father Wander ask what was going on. It didn't occur to her to simply will herself to Mickey's side, because if Mickey was in danger, he'd call her with his lamp, wouldn't he? So, logically, he shouldn't be in any danger, right? Yes, surely this was one of Daisy's tricks – even if she truly looked like death itself. No, Mickey was all right, had to be all right. She checked every door she came across, calling for “Mortimer”, and then she found the men's chambers, and opened the door.

The first thing she saw was blood.

Blood splattered across the walls in small spurts, broken beds and destroyed drawers, the carpet was ripped, and the stench of blood was everywhere. Hilda was thrown in a corner, suffering from many sharp cuts, dark bruises on her pale skin, her ankle twisted if not outright broken. She was on her hip, crying out for her husband, begging someone to stop.

And there, in the middle of the room was... a monster that had taken the form of her master.

Grimwold was on his back, both eyes blackened, and unlike Hilda, there was no doubt his arm was broken – no, not just broken, it was as if every last bone had been shattered. He was also cut to ribbons, bleeding openly in many places, and he would have been excruciating pain if he wasn't unconscious. Yet despite having clearly been knocked out, the beast that was sitting on his chest was still punching his face, smashing out a tooth, a mangled snarl behind his lips.

Minnie could not even blink. She knew this was Mickey but it couldn't be Mickey, not sweet, gentle Mickey who wanted her freedom and embraced Donald at the height of danger. This was a nightmare and she'd wake up any second now. She felt a sting in her eyes, and her breath caught. Don't cry, don't cry, you absolutely mustn't cry, if you cry everything will get worse, it is the law of genies, you must not cry, even if what you're seeing is enough to drive you to the brink of utter despair. She could not find words, could not find strength, could not believe this was the Mickey who stammered her name and touched her hands with softness.

The creature spotted the sword which had been dropped during the brawl, and he reached for it, because wouldn't it be fitting? Grimwold wanted this stupid sword so badly, he could have it. He could have the thing driven into his heart, and then he would learn, oh he would learn. Then they would never come after Mickey again, they would leave him alone, and he held the sword high, they would leave him alone and his parents alone and everyone would just shut up and stop blaming him and -

“STOP IT, MASTER!”

The world.

Went.

Still.

Mickey's body stopped where it was, and he slowly, slowly, slowly lifted his head. There was Minnie, now in front of him, her hands clasped around the sword in a desperate attempt to stop him, her fingers sliced open in the process. And it was here that Mickey saw in her eyes, those deep gorgeous green eyes that gave him comfort in his dreams, he saw something just as terrible as hatred – fear. Fear of him, and what he had done, and what he could do – and it was then that Mickey understood just what he had been doing.

His eyes widened, taking in the room, finally hearing Hilda's retching sobs, feeling the man he almost murdered breathing underneath him. “No,” Mickey whispered, dropping the sword, hands falling at his side. “No,” he said again, knowing it was futile, tears filling his eyes. “No... I didn't mean...” What had he done? What was he about to do? He hadn't meant – he just wanted – what did he want? There was no justification here, this had been a foolish pair of humans who hadn't thought things through, there had been no need to do... this.

Mickey crawled off Grimwold's body, his vision blurry from tears. It wasn't too late, and he looked at Minnie – then couldn't bear to look at her again. She was afraid of him. She sat where she was, staring at him as if he was a new breed of animal that'd been hiding in the darkest of shadows. Her body trembled, one of her hands on her pounding heart, the blood on her fingers staining her clothes. She was clearly fighting not to cry, with staggering breaths and a choke in her throat. How could he explain things to her when he couldn't explain it himself? “I'm sorry,” he pleaded, to Hilda, to Grimwold, to Minnie. “I'm so sorry.” But sorry wouldn't make things better, wouldn't save the man bleeding on the floor. “I wish... I wish the Glooms were healed.”

Minnie raised her hand, and Mickey's scar glowed – a glittering rain of sparkles descended onto the humans, and with each touch of pixie dust their bruises faded, their wounds closed. The familiar pain struck both mice, making them heap forward to gasp for air, but it seemed so mildly insignificant now compared to what had been done to the Glooms. Hilda didn't care what was happening or why, scrambling to reach her husband and cradle him in her arms. She pressed her forehead to his, weeping openly, telling him that she loved him and she was going to take him home, and the Phantom Prince could find someone else to do his dirty work.

Mickey tried to stand and couldn't, but knew it wasn't just the wish draining his energy. Minnie's eyes were still upon him, her gaze like a cold dagger of ice right into his heart. He deserved it. Even with magic, there was no reset button to undo what he'd done. He needed to get away from here. “I wish... I wish we were in my room, on the ship.”

In another puff of pink smoke, Mickey was suddenly on his bed, startling his sleeping dog. The agony of two wishes, and the crash of adrenaline from the fight, made every muscle in his body burn in pain, his bones aching as if they were being pulled apart, and even breathing became a fight with hard, loud gasps. Mickey laid on his back as Pluto yipped in concern, only having enough power to move his eyes to try and find Minnie, maybe explain what had led to everything. He didn't see her body, but he saw her pink smoke entering the lamp, and understood she was there now, and would be there for some time, unable to stand the sight of him.

“I'm sorry.” Mickey felt himself crying again, and the self-loathing he had managed to bury for so long came back with a furious vengeance, eating at his soul. “I'm sorry...” Pluto climbed onto the bed, snuggling up to his master, wishing to comfort him somehow.

He could not blame her for her fear, and he was now afraid as well – afraid of the monster called Mickey.

~*~

Donald would have gone on to chase with Minnie, but he was so concerned with Daisy's well-being that he couldn't bring himself to let her go. He held her close as she trembled, stroking her hair and asking what was going on, and the other couples and servants gathered around, hoping the poor girl was all right. Daisy finally began to show signs of calming down, sighing in relief once she “saw” that the Glooms would be healed. “They're going to be okay...”

“Well and good, whoever they are,” Donald said, cupping Daisy's cheeks. “But what about you? Are you okay?” As much as he wanted to get to know the “real” her, he never wanted it to be like this.

Daisy at last seemed to realize Donald was there, and had been there for some time, comforting her as she broke down. “Didn't I tell you to go?”

“But... I couldn't just leave you like that.” Donald hoped he wasn't in for a lecture or teasing. “He's important to me, but so are you, so's everyone in the crew. No man left behind, right?”

Daisy blinked at him, perplexed, because she thought she understood Donald completely, which made him so easy to mess with. This was not what she thought he was capable of, and it was... charming, in a way. Silly, foolish, and not helpful, but... charming. That could lead to problems. Speaking of problems, they were still surrounded by everyone, and she cleared her throat to alert Donald about the situation.

Father Wander made his way through the crowd. “My goodness, what in the world is going on here? Why did Madeline run off like that? And what's with you two?”

Donald looked at Daisy, and Daisy looked at Donald. It looked like the jig was up. Daisy rolled her shoulders, and grew serious. “Father Wander, it's time you heard the truth.”

“The truth?!” Donald spat, startled. “You're choosing now, of all times, to speak the truth?!”

Father Wander frowned, leaning forward but still trying to believe the best of them. “And the truth is what, exactly?”

Daisy placed her hands together, begging for understanding. “We've been lying to you this whole time. I'm sorry... but we had no choice. We never meant to make a mockery of your blessed celebration. I don't dare ask your forgiveness.”

Donald ran a hand down his face, but if Daisy was going to spill the beans, he might as well go along with her. “I know it was a dumb thing to do, but if you'll hear us out, I'm sure you'll agree, we had to do it.”

Daisy took Donald's hand and squeezed it. “Yes, for you see, the truth is...Gladstone and I are the ones in love!”

“Yes, that's exactly-” Donald's brain caught up with his ears. “... Wait, what?”

Daisy was easily back in lying mode, slumping her body against Donald's and cuddling up to him. “Our cruel master, Mortimer, made us enter this contest so we could win those prizes! So he forced me to pretend to be his bride! But I can't hold it back anymore...Gladstone is the one I'll always love, and I don't care who knows! Nothing Mortimer can ever do to me will stop me from loving him! As long as we're together, I can endure anything!”

“...You're unbelievable.” And Donald did not mean this as a compliment. Come on, surely even Father Wander wouldn't fall for this – he was going to fall for it, wasn't he.

“That's...so...romantic!” Father Wander began to cry, in loud, heaping, overly dramatic sobs. “A forbidden love inside a forbidden love? It's too beautiful! It's exactly in the spirit of Rumansy!” He threw his arms around Donald and Daisy, hugging them tightly. “We have true love right here! I don't need to hear anything more, they deserve a prize for having to hide their precious love! Never hide it again, it must be shared with the whole wide world! Shout it from the rooftops! I'll do it myself if I have to!”

“Please don't,” Donald insisted.

“Well, we don't need much,” Daisy fluttered her eyelashes, upping her innocent act. “Buuut... my darling Gladstone enjoys collecting maps, so if we could have the Runner Up Prize, that would just make everything worth it!”

“Of course, of course!” Father Wander signaled to the servants. “Hurry up and get that map piece out of storage! Glad to get rid of the weird thing, anyway.” As he flagrantly ignored his own rules and regulations, the remaining couples couldn't help but think if entering this contest had been worth anything. Luckily for Father Wander, websites devoted to giving tourist location reviews had yet to be invented.

As the servants rushed to fetch the map, Donald whispered to Daisy. “Did you plan this since the start, or have you been making it up as you go along?”

“Fiddle-dee-dee. I'll never tell.”

Donald made an exasperated sound, but found it difficult to get really mad at her. He wondered why that was, and it was a long time before he let go of her hand. He didn't notice that she didn't let go of his for a long time either. Instead he focused on what he knew to be correct – everything had turned out all right.

Yes, everything was all right, wasn't it?

#disney #fanfic #the son of scheherazade #mickey mouse #minnie mouse #donald duck #daisy duck

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