#and rest assured neither of those titles actually fit the tones very well

[bonetrousledbones]

an interesting way to do things is to never ever come up with names for fics until the very second you are actively posting them. the name of the wip i'm working on currently is "something's wrong with this guy" and the one before it was named "HEHEHEHE"

[hopesilverheart]

Title: I loved your colours (before I loved you) Artist: @calliartss​ Rating: Explicit (Chapter 10 only) Pairings: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, Alec Lightwood & Clary Fray, Clary Fray/Isabelle Lightwood Word Count: ~95k Summary: Magnus Bane is a journalist who's always dreamed of modelling for Lightwood Fashions. When the CEO Alec Lightwood starts looking for new models for their spring collection, he jumps on the occasion.

In the meantime, Alec Lightwood is struggling with the idea of finally announcing his role as co-designer. When Magnus Bane strolls into his life, Alec is torn between keeping his secret or throwing all caution to the wind.

This fic was created for the Malec Discord Mini Bang 2020.

Chapter 2: Feeling so brand new

The Lightwood building was even more impressive now than it had been a few years back. Magnus didn’t know if it was because he knew his idol was waiting for him inside or if he had simply gained an appreciation for the finer things in life, but it filled him with even more anxiety than the first time around.

“Dios, Magnus, calm down.”

He turned to glare at Raphael. His friend had agreed to accompany him into the building, but Magnus hadn’t asked for a running commentary on his state of mind. He knew he was being a bit irrational about all this, but he thought if there was one time in his life when he was allowed to be panicked, this was it. Modelling for Lightwood Fashions had been his dream for as long as he could remember, and this was his only shot at making it come true.

“I’ll calm down once I have the job,” Magnus said, ignoring Raphael’s scoff. “Now, are you going to take us inside, or are we just supposed to stare at the building until something happens?”

“For heaven’s sake, you’re the one who’s been gaping at the entrance door for the past ten minutes,” his friend threw his hands in the air, stalking towards the building without hesitation. “I see this place every single day, Magnus. I assure you I have no problems with walking in.”

Magnus opened his mouth to answer but lost his breath and his train of thought as soon as the pair stepped into the Lightwood lobby. The place was tasteful and bright, done in various shades of blue to reflect the family’s insignia. Magnus should have felt out of place, but walking into the building felt more like coming home than anything else. This was where he belonged, and he wouldn’t let anyone tell him otherwise.

Lightwood, Fray, and Fray’s partner had better hire him, because he was ready to fight for this job with everything he had.

“It’s really something, isn’t it?” Raphael asked him, gently nudging him towards the elevator. There were already a few models in there, talking amongst themselves and glancing at Raphael nervously. They obviously knew who he was, and Magnus had never been so thankful to already know someone in this company. At least he wasn’t completely alone.

(Or at the very least he had someone to stand up for him and tell Fray that he was exactly what they needed.)

“It’s even prettier than it was the first time I came,” Magnus muttered, trying to look as composed as the model in front of him. He couldn’t make out their face, but they were clearly confident and at ease in the cramped space. “Are we going to your studio for the auditions, or is there another room that’s more appropriate for these kinds of things?”

He let Raphael talk about the building and its many floors. He listened with one ear as his friend mentioned the clear separation between the media and fashion departments, and then the upper floors reserved for the most important higher-ups.

“And here we are.”

The elevator doors opened and the models rushed out into a sea of noise and colour. Magnus didn’t know how many people he had expected to find at this audition, but he had never expected the affair to be this big. There were people milling everywhere, both employees and models.

The space they had entered was big, clearly meant more for waiting than for the actual auditions. Raphael’s studio was hidden behind a door, and Magnus wanted nothing more than to walk in there and see who would be watching over the auditions. Would Fray’s mystery partner be there? Would Fray herself? Raphael had been ridiculously tight-lipped about the whole thing, not that Magnus could really blame him.

“This is where I have to leave you,” his friend whispered, wincing apologetically. “I’ve been asked to participate in the selection process, so I have to go join the rest of the team. Don’t worry, though, the people here have all been checked out and should be decent. I’m sure you’ll find someone to talk to in no time.”

And then Raphael was gone, leaving Magnus alone in a room full of strangers. Although his friend hadn’t been wrong when he had said Magnus would probably find someone to keep him company, it didn’t make the sudden loneliness any easier to deal with.

Taking a deep breath, Magnus looked around the room, trying to spot someone without a partner who looked kind enough. Finally, his gaze landed on a curly-haired woman who was tapping away on her tablet, obviously unconcerned by the mass of people surrounding her. Magnus had no idea whether she was a model or an employee, but she was alone and therefore in need of someone to talk to. That was enough for him.

“Hello!” He greeted her with a wide smile. He loved meeting new people, and not even his stress about the audition could change that and stop him from making a friend. “I’m sorry if you’re busy, but my friend just ditched me for his colleagues and I’m incapable of staying by myself.”

“No problem at all,” the woman answered, looking up from her screen and smiling at him warmly. “I’m Maia Roberts. I work here as part of the fashion team, but my bosses decided to stick me out here instead of inside the studio.”

“I’m Magnus Bane,” he introduced himself in return, tilting his head to the side curiously. “Why did they put you here, then? Did you do something to piss them off?”

“Oh no, not at all,” Maia chuckled. “Clary and Alec are my friends, they wouldn’t do this out of spite. They just know I’m better with people than almost everyone else on our team, and I won’t be afraid to kick someone out if they’re causing a commotion. Besides, it’s not like either of them can miss out on the auditions, and they don’t trust the newer recruits not to panic. I don’t really mind this job though. I’m not sure I could bring anything to the discussion anyways.”

“I’m sure you could,” Magnus told her. The woman snorted and he suddenly realised he probably sounded like a suck-up trying to get on the employees’ good side. “Sorry, I usually think before I speak, but apparently my nervousness has gotten rid of my filter.”

“Nervous?” Maia asked, her eyebrows raised. “With a face like yours and such charming manners, I can assure you your place is pretty much guaranteed. Besides, aren’t you Raphael’s friend?”

“I am, yes,” Magnus grimaced.

“It’s not a bad thing,” Maia shrugged. “I mean, some people might accuse you of being chosen because you’re his friend, but they don’t matter. At the end of the day, Alec and Clary will only hire you if they think you have the potential to be great and to fit in well with whatever they have planned. If Raphael can make it easier for you, then there’s no shame in accepting his help. Now, excuse me, but I think the auditions are about to start. Best of luck!”

“Thank you.”

She was gone before he could even finish thanking her.

At the mention of the auditions, Magnus’ stomach had started turning uncomfortably again. He wasn’t a nervous man by nature; in fact, he was usually exceptionally calm and composed. However, when it came to things that truly mattered to him, he was just as much of a mess as everyone else.

He fumbled with his phone for a moment, sending off a quick text to Catarina and hoping she would answer before he had to go in. He just wanted one last ‘good luck’ and reminder of all the reasons why she thought he would be selected. Perhaps it was vain, but he really needed his best friend’s reassurance.

The response came in a few seconds later. Magnus glanced down at his screen and relaxed as soon as he saw the picture of Madzie, grinning widely at the camera whilst holding a ‘We believe in you, Magnus!’ poster in her hands. God, he loved that girl. He thanked her profusely in his next message before turning off his phone.

Maia called out his name and directed him to the door. Not for the first time in his life, Magnus damned his surname. Being one of the first to audition was rarely a good thing, although Magnus would still give it his all.

He and nine other models walked into Raphael’s studio, and Magnus’ heart stopped. There, in the flesh, was Clary Fray. And next to her, Alec Lightwood. They were both speaking in hushed tones with Raphael, and Magnus couldn’t keep his eyes off them. They stopped talking as soon as they noticed the group of models, and Magnus was once again extremely grateful for Raphael’s presence. He wasn’t sure he would have been able to handle things well if his friend hadn’t been there.

“Welcome everyone!”

Surprisingly, it was neither Fray nor Lightwood who spoke up first. Instead, a serious-looking blonde was the one who had captured their attention, smiling at them and gesturing towards the centre of the room in a clear invitation to stand there.

“I’m Lydia Branwell. Now, as you may or may not know, we’re looking for ten models to help us with this year’s spring collection,” she started. “Those chosen will be hired for both photoshoots and runway modelling, so we need to make sure you can all do those and do them well. On top of that, you’ll each be meeting with Clary and Alec individually. They want to get a better idea of your personalities as well as whether or not your styles and looks would match the collections’ theme. We’ll be splitting you into two groups to make the process slightly faster. Group A will be with Raphael, myself, as well as the rest of the team. Group B will be with Alec and Clary.”

The next few minutes were spent shuffling people around until everyone was where they were supposed to be. Magnus stood with the rest of Group A as they listened to Raphael and Lydia’s instructions. It was nothing too complicated, mostly a process to see whether or not they could follow directions and had a decent runway walk.

Thankfully, Magnus was a natural at both those things. He listened to Raphael and gave him exactly what he was looking for before walking for the rest of the team in his usual cat-like manner. Lydia was glancing at him approvingly, and Magnus felt more confident by the minute.

He could do this. This was what he had always wanted, and he was ready for it. He would charm Lightwood and Fray and get the job, and he’d never have to work for Lorenzo Rey again. He’d finally get a shot at his dream career, and then he would find a way to get a position at Lightwood Media.

Everything was going to be okay.

His confidence lasted for all of fifteen minutes. As soon as he was thrust towards Lightwood and Fray, who were having a seemingly intense conversation, his nerves acted up again, sending butterflies into his stomach and tying his tongue into knots.

“Magnus Bane?”

His gaze snapped up, landing on Clary Fray. The designer was beaming at him, gesturing for him to take a seat across from her and the company’s CEO. Magnus was so used to being the journalist, the interviewer, and being on this side of the table threw him off a little bit.

“Hi!” Fray continued. “I’m Clary Fray, and this is Alec Lightwood. Just so you know, most of the decision will be made based on this interview and not on the other tests you went through with Raphael and Lydia. If you aren’t chosen, we need you to understand it has nothing to do with your skill. My partner and I are looking for a very specific set of people, and whether or not you fit that criteria has nothing to do with who you are as a person.”

Magnus frowned, not knowing whether that was a good or a bad thing. On one hand, it meant that if he was rejected, it didn’t mean he was a bad model. On the other hand, he didn’t like the fact that he wouldn’t be able to control his own fate as much as he usually did.

He didn’t know what Fray was looking for, so he couldn’t try to twist himself into something he wasn’t to please her. He knew that was the entire purpose of this interview, but it still set him on edge.

“Now, this wasn’t written anywhere in your application, but it’s come to our attention that you’re one of Raphael’s closest friends,” Fray said, grinning at him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, but I do need to know if you think your relationship with one of our employees will have an impact on our final decision.”

Magnus thought about what to say for a moment. He knew the best thing to do was tell the truth, but a part of him felt like it would ruin his chances. Then again, considering he had no idea what Fray wanted, he might as well go all out and hope for the best.

“I think it might influence you slightly,” he shrugged, glancing at his friend from the corner of his eye and smiling as he saw him scowl at one of the auditionees. “However, I hope his opinion of me won’t be what tips the scales in my favour. You said so yourself; you’re looking for something in particular in your models. Raphael won’t be able to do anything about it if I don’t fit with what you have in mind.”

Fray nodded, jotting something down on a piece of paper. Magnus took a moment to switch his gaze to Lightwood, who still hadn’t said anything. He found the man looking right back at him, hazel eyes intense and assessing. Magnus had no idea what he was searching for, but it had to be important, because Lightwood never faltered, not even when Magnus raised a questioning eyebrow his way.

“So, you don’t usually work as a model?” Fray questioned. Magnus slowly looked back towards her, although his mind begged him to continue staring at the entrancing CEO next to her. “Your application doesn’t specify what you usually do. Do you have a job that will collide with our schedule and make it hard for us to work together?”

“I work in the media,” Magnus answered, not even slightly ashamed. He’d always been proud of his career and he wasn’t about to start changing that just because he had decided to give modelling a chance. “As an editor and reporter, depending on what’s needed. And no, I don’t believe my schedule would be a problem. I can very easily make time for this contract.”

He didn’t think it was a great idea to mention the fact that he was depending on this modelling job to quit his other, more secure workplace. It wasn’t that he thought they’d judge him for his decisions, but he didn’t want to take any risks. Besides, he wasn’t sure telling them he worked for their media company’s biggest competitor was the best idea.

“Alright,” Fray shrugged. “Now, I’m just going to ask you the standard questions we ask all our employees. Some of these may come off as intrusive, but I promise they’re important to the process.”

Magnus nodded cautiously. He wasn’t sure what she meant by ‘intrusive’, though he didn’t think there was anything that could throw him off. It was just a bit strange being asked personal questions by Clary Fray. The woman had always seemed so far away and now there she was, interviewing him face to face.

“As a model for Lightwood Fashions, you would be thrown straight into the spotlight,” Fray said seriously. “You work in the media, so you have to know how ruthless people can be when they’re looking for the littlest flaws in celebrities. Is there anything in your past that might shed a negative light on our company?”

She was right, it was an intrusive question. Sadly, he understood why they were asking it. He was a journalist, he lived on gossip and news and finding everything there was to know about everyone. This was only a natural part of the selection process, and there was no reason for him to be offended.

“My father wasn’t the best man,” Magnus started, looking away from Lightwood and Fray and focusing on Raphael’s familiar stature instead. He hated talking about his past. “So something may pop up on that front. I was raised in the foster system, though I don’t think that’s an issue. I’m not straight, which I know isn’t a problem here, but you might as well be aware of that before someone else tells you.”

He hesitated for a moment, wondering whether or not he should mention Camille and their rocky relationship. Eventually, he decided against it. That was a part of his life he didn’t want to talk about to two strangers. If it became a problem later, he would deal with the consequences, but he refused to bring it up during his first interview.

“Alright,” Fray hummed. “Thank you for your honesty. Since you’re not straight, I’m going to assume you have no problems with the LGBTQ+ community. Would that be correct?”

Magnus snorted. It would be a bit hypocritical of him to hate something he was a part of. Clearly, Lightwood thought Fray’s question was as ridiculous as Magnus did, because his lips curled into a mocking smile as he whispered something into the designer’s ear.

“Oh, shut up! It’s protocol,” the redhead huffed, pointing at the list of inquiries in front of her. “If you don’t like it, feel free to take the lead.”

“I would never steal the spotlight away from you, Red,” the man smirked. Holy hell, his voice was gorgeous. Deep and smooth and utterly captivating. When those hazel eyes turned to look at him, Magnus was unashamed to admit his heart stuttered. “However Clary is right, this is just protocol. Lightwood Fashions stands for diversity and acceptance, so we won’t accept any kind of discrimination from our models.”

Magnus knew it was more likely than not a business move, a way for Lightwood to make sure he didn’t have to deal with a scandal like his father’s. However, the sincerity and passion colouring the man’s words made Magnus want to believe he truly wanted the best for his employees.

“I would never judge someone for being different,” he assured them, wanting to make that perfectly clear. “I assure you there’s nothing to worry about on that front.”

Fray and Lightwood nodded, sharing a weighted glance Magnus couldn’t decipher. Something had obviously passed between them but, for the life of him, he couldn’t tell what it was. He thought it was good but couldn’t even be sure about that, because Fray jumped right back into the interrogation with another question a second later.

The rest of the interview was a lot more light-hearted, focusing on his past experiences – or lack thereof – as a model, the reason behind his application, and even a few fashion-related inquiries. Overall, Magnus found himself enjoying Fray’s company and, to his great surprise, Lightwood’s as well.

They were both professional but not too serious, obviously willing to get to know their models but not too casual about anything either. It was refreshing to meet higher-ups who didn’t act as though they owned the world and were better than everyone around them.

When he had walked into the building earlier, Magnus had wanted nothing more than to get this job. By the end of the interview, he couldn’t imagine working anywhere else ever again. He was directed back to the main room where the next group of models was preparing to start their auditions and was then told to wait.

Because apparently, Fray and her team were making the decision immediately after the end of casting. She must have been serious when she had said she was looking for a specific set of people, because Magnus had rarely heard of models being chosen so fast. He didn’t know whether it was a good or a bad thing.

“You look even more nervous now than you did going in.”

Magnus’ gaze snapped up and he threw a sheepish smile in Maia’s direction. The woman was keeping an eye on the studio door, but she still took the time to grin back at him amusedly.

“Did it not go well?” she asked. “For some reason, I can’t picture you failing something as simple as an audition with a few people. Especially not with Clary and Alec; those two are only rude or dismissive to people who deserve it, and you don’t strike me as the type to get on their nerves.”

“I failed once before,” Magnus shrugged. “But to answer your question, I think it went fine. Fray and Lightwood didn’t seem to have a problem with me, and I’m almost certain my replies were satisfactory. I just didn’t know they’d be picking their models today. I thought I would have a few days to get ready for a possible rejection.”

Maia snorted, obviously amused by his assumption. Magnus’ lips twitched upwards. He had only spoken to Fray and Lightwood for fifteen minutes, but he had to admit they didn’t appear to be the most patient people out there. And Fray had looked so certain when she talked about the models she wanted to hire. Whatever she had in mind for her spring collection, it was probably going to be a little bit different from what she usually put out.

Magnus could only hope he fit her idea of the perfect model.

***

“Thank god that’s over,” Alec groaned, ignoring Clary’s childish snickering while he slumped over on the table they had set up for their interviews. “Yeah, yeah, very funny. That was exhausting and I hope we never have to do it again.”

“I don’t know, I thought it was nice,” Clary grinned, nudging him over until she could lay her head down next to his. Alec brushed a few stray strands of red hair out of her face and sighed at how exhausted his best friend looked underneath all the make-up. “Do I really look that bad?”

“You look like you haven’t gotten any sleep in the past five days,” Alec grimaced, knowing he wasn’t much better. They had been so busy setting up the auditions and talking about what they were looking for in models that neither of them had the time to rest properly in almost a week. “I’m dragging you to my apartment tonight, Red. We’ll order tons of take-out, eat it all, and then fall asleep on my couch. It’s been too long since we spent time together outside the office.”

Which was entirely their fault, of course. They had basically been living in the Lightwood Company building for the past month. Clary’s office was big enough for the two of them to sleep in, and they had taken full advantage of that fact. Alec’s mother had rolled her eyes at them but hadn’t said anything. She knew perfectly well she couldn’t have changed their minds or lessened their workload.

“Sounds nice,” Clary grinned at him, stretching her arms out as she sat up. A few pokes in the side later, Alec was getting up as well, wincing at how stiff his legs felt. “Although I’d rather fall asleep on a bed. I’ve forgotten what a proper mattress feels like. And you have to promise I’ll get to choose the take-out place. You always go for that horrible Mexican place.”

“There’s nothing horrible about Taki’s,” Alec gasped mock-offendedly, turning towards the rest of their team for supporting opinions. Of course, as soon as they noticed the attention was on them, everyone decided to politely look away. Raphael busied himself with his camera, Helen went back to playing with the piece of fabric in her lap, Lydia was suddenly entranced by her phone screen, and Maia – who had just walked in – raised her hands in surrender.

“So, have you guys decided?”

Clary and Alec glanced at each other, calculating looks on their faces. The thing was, they hadn’t actually discussed their final picks together. They had both decided to wait until the end and talk with Raphael and Lydia before settling on their ten models. It was a way to make sure they were choosing the absolute best people for the job and not just those who they had hit it off with conversationally.

“We have a few in mind,” Clary finally said, waving Raphael and Lydia over and leaning against the table. “As you all know by now, this collection is going to be different from the others we’ve released so far.”

That was the understatement of the year.

“Is Alec finally going to reveal his role in the family business?” Maia asked, smiling giddily at the man in question. Alec grit his teeth and shook his head.

He wasn’t ready yet. He knew, rationally, that no one would judge him for being a co-designer in his own company. If anything, people would probably like him more for what he had contributed to his and Clary’s collections. However, he wasn’t always the most logical person in the world. A part of him was still terrified people would tell him he wasn’t pretty or fashionable enough to design a collection with Clary. He was even more scared that people would deny it and call him a liar.

It was stupid, but it was the way his mind had always worked. Not even his family’s, friends’ and colleagues’ support had been enough to reassure him. Five years into owning half of the Lightwood company and designing thousands of clothes, Alec still kept his role a secret.

He knew people were curious about Clary’s secret partner, knew their most recent models would probably have questions about him, but he wasn’t ready. His secret was just that, a secret.

“We were talking about changes in terms of the actual designs, Maia,” Clary snorted. “You know we’ve been sticking to colour palettes for the last couple of years. We tend to choose a specific hue we want as our main colour and then go from there. We don’t want to do that this time.”

At her words, their team turned towards Alec.

Everyone knew that out of Clary and him, he was the ‘colour master’. Everyone who was in on his secret found it hilarious, since Alec tended to stick to black and grey when it came to his day-to-day clothes. However, his personal choices didn’t change the fact that he had an eye for colour.

It was the way it had always been. As a child, he had preferred paint and pens to sports. He had spent most of his time doodling and trying to create the perfect shades that only existed within his mind. As an adult, he watched Clary draw outlines and shapes for their designs and then made them come to life with thousands of different colours. It was his favourite thing in the world, and the main reason why he had asked his best friend to work for him.

They were an incredible team, and two of the most successful designers in the world. They had made Lightwood Fashions thrive again, had made everyone put his father’s scandal behind them.

And this collection…

“This collection is going to be our best so far,” he announced, grinning widely. No matter how worried he was about the details and the models and his secret being accidentally revealed, this was one thing he had never doubted. “We want to be more adventurous than usual, and spring is the perfect time to do that. Novelty and vibrancy are huge themes around that time of the year, and we’re going to make sure we represent them with a bang.”

As busy as they had been planning for the modelling auditions, Clary and Alec hadn’t actually had the time to go over their collection with the rest of the team. He knew no one would protest or tell them to change their objective, but he still cursed himself internally for being so callous.

So, as he mentally reviewed the different models they had met that day, he told his team about the tone they were going for this season.

Diversity, he explained, both in colours and in models and in shapes. He didn’t want anything to come off as linear, and neither did Clary. They wanted every single piece to have a mind of its own, a story it told by itself.

Coherency, he added, because that still mattered in any collection. Just because every outfit they created was going to be different and original, it didn’t mean they couldn’t all fit together. The goal was to come up with a rainbow of pieces, something that made people ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ when they first saw it.

The more he spoke, the more their team perked up, jotting down notes on whatever piece of paper they had lying around. It warmed Alec’s heart to see them all so excited to hear about the collection. He knew, of course, that they hadn’t joined the company just to make good money, but it still amazed him every time they reminded him they were just as passionate about fashion as he and Clary were.

Once he was done talking about the basics of the collection, the main colours and themes they had in mind, the direction they wanted the photoshoots to take, the runway show they were thinking about organising to reveal the collection, he let the room dissolve into whispers and squeals for a little while. As eager as he was to choose their ten models and get out of the building, he wasn’t about to deny his colleagues a bit of excitement.

“So, who’d you have in mind?” Lydia finally asked, ten minutes later. She was staring at Alec and Clary intently, as though she knew they were going to have strong opinions about which models they wanted to hire.

She wasn’t wrong.

“Isabelle, for one,” Alec said. Next to him, Clary nodded firmly. They had always asked Izzy to model for them, and they weren’t about to break that tradition. She might not have been a full-time model, but she was as good as any. “And whilst we’re talking about regulars, I think Meliorn, Kaelie, and Aline would be perfect for this job as well. Plenty of tones and shades to play with that way.”

Lydia nodded, obviously unsurprised by their choice. As excited as Alec was to work with new people, he also knew there was a comfort to familiarity. He wouldn’t do as good of a job if he were surrounded by people he didn’t know. Having a few familiar faces would be a huge advantage, and one he wasn’t foolish enough to deny himself.

“And in terms of new models?” Raphael asked. He was biting his lip nervously, and Alec suddenly remembered Magnus Bane, one of their first models of the afternoon, was his friend. It was strange seeing their photographer anxious about something but, as much as Alec would have loved to tease him about it, there was no way he was going to drag things out any longer than necessary.

“Magnus Bane,” he answered immediately, not even glancing at Clary. He knew she agreed with him and would have argued with her if she didn’t. “He’s the one that stood out to me the most. Not a model but definitely built like one. Sharp and unique features, easy on the eyes, polite and likeable… Honestly, he’s one of my contenders for our lead male model.”

Next to him, Clary nodded enthusiastically, and Raphael exhaled. He had obviously been more worried for his friend than he had let on. It was adorable, in a way, to see Raphael so flustered and concerned for someone. He wasn’t the warmest person, even less than Alec, but he had a good heart and Alec was glad to know he had friends like Magnus Bane out there.

“As for the others,” Clary continued, frowning in thought. “I was thinking Diana, for sure. She’s got a stronger look than most of the other women we saw today, and it’ll be a nice ‘fuck you’ to the asshole who criticised our decision to include trans models in last year’s photoshoots. Besides, I’ve seen some of her work before. She’s incredible, and we’d be foolish not to hire her.”

Alec knew his best friend was being more vehement than usual because she was afraid of Lydia’s reaction. As their manager, Lydia was the one who had had to deal with the backlash from last year’s summer collection, when Alec and Clary had decided to hire five trans models for a swimwear photoshoot. There was a chance their friend wouldn’t want to deal with that again.

“That sounds like a great idea,” Lydia smiled, rolling her eyes when the co-designers sighed relievedly. “Oh please, as if I would let the media get to me on something like that. You guys were praised a lot more than you were criticised for your choices. And it would be hypocritical of us to talk about equal rights but not include everyone in that category.”

“Of course,” Alec nodded, smiling back at their manager. This was going well. “Right, then there’s Andrew Underhill. I know he’s not our usual model, and I noticed his posing was a bit awkward, but I think he has potential.”

“You mean he reminds you of yourself,” Clary giggled, ducking as he tried to swat her head playfully. “You can’t deny it, Alec, it’s written all over your face. But I agree, I think it would be nice to have a fresh face. He may be new and inexperienced, but he also came off as determined to try his best and succeed in the fashion industry. I’m sure he’ll be a delight to work with.”

Raphael grimaced at their words but tilted his head in agreement. Alec felt a twinge of sympathy for him, since he would be the one to deal with Underhill’s lack of experience in a photo studio, but it would be worth it. He was sure of it.

“For our last two men, I was thinking Kieran and Bat,” Clary hummed. Alec frowned in thought and tried to remember the models she was talking about. Once he did, he nodded to show his approval. The two men were polar opposites but would definitely be huge assets to the team. “I thought about Jordan Kyle as well, but…”

“But we’re not ever letting him in here again,” Alec completed for her, winking at Maia. “Agreed. Which only leaves us with one woman to find. I think we should go for another new model. Someone with little experience but plenty of enthusiasm to make up for it. We could either pair her up with Andrew so they’d be more comfortable about their own hesitancy, or-”

“Or we could pair them up with more experienced models to make sure they ease their way into the industry without issues,” Clary finished, nodding approvingly at him. “Did you have anyone in mind?”

“What about Emily?” Alec suggested, thinking back on the women they had seen that day. Emily had stood out to him because of how purely happy she had been, how honoured she had appeared to be around them. Someone like that could only be good for their team. “She looked like she was eager to work here, and I think she would get along very well with everyone else. Well, maybe not Meliorn, but they don’t get along with anyone.”

“Except your brother, for some reason,” Clary corrected, snorting inelegantly. Alec couldn’t help the amused smile that tugged at his lips as he thought about the weird relationship between Meliorn and Jace. It was always a delight to see the two of them interact. “But yes, I agree with you. Does anyone have an issue with the people we chose?”

Their team shook their heads as one and Alec nodded, satisfied. Some people might have believed his employees were too afraid to speak up in front of their CEO, but Alec knew better. No one was protesting because they trusted Alec and Clary, and because they respected their decisions. Mostly though, they weren’t protesting because they agreed with them.

Alec and Clary hadn’t chosen their models at random. This wasn’t a question of who was the prettiest or the nicest – though that definitely helped – it was a question of who would thrive with them, who would bring the most to their collection.

“Perfect,” Clary clapped her hands together, beaming at Alec. “Let’s go tell everyone then, shall we?”

“Sounds like a great idea,” Alec smiled, looping their arms together and tugging her towards the door. Their little team trailed behind them, murmuring about the models and everything they would have to put in place to make sure everyone felt welcomed by the company. “The sooner we tell them, the sooner we can get out of here.”

Clary rolled her eyes at him but plastered a neutral smile onto her face as they stepped into the ��waiting room’. Silence descended upon the models in an instant, and Alec could see how nervous everyone looked.

It always broke his heart to know he would be letting so many of these people down, but he had to do what was best for him and his company, both as the CEO and designer. He couldn’t take everyone on, and he could only pray they would find another company or modelling agency to hire them.

“Alright everyone,” he called out, taking the lead for the first time that day. When it came to big announcements, Clary always insisted he should be the one to speak – something about him being the CEO and leader of their team or whatnot. “We’ve come to a decision about who to hire. The ten names we call out are the ones we have selected to work for us this season. I’m sorry to everyone we couldn’t hire; I want you to know you all did wonderfully today and will always have a shot in the future.”

He paused, letting his words sink in, before speaking up again.

“Will the following ten people please join Lydia back in the studio for a discussion about your contracts: Isabelle Lightwood, Meliorn, Magnus Bane, Kaelie Whitewillow, Andrew Underhill, Aline Penhallow, Diana Wayburn, Bat Velasquez, Kieran Hunt, and Emily Jude.”

The room descended into chaos, people sobbing and frowning and others squealing happily, but Alec didn’t let himself worry about that. His job was done for now; he would worry about everything else later.

So with one last nod towards the lucky ten and a quick hug to Isabelle, Alec took Clary’s hand and led her outside, relishing in the feeling of fresh air. He trusted Lydia and Maia and everyone else to make their models feel at home and keep them up to date on their schedules, contracts and everything else they might need.

“Home?” Clary asked, wrapping one of her arms around Alec’s waist. He looked down at her, smiling softly.

“Yeah, Red,” he answered. “Let’s go home. Work can wait another day.” 

[badgersprite]

Fic: Desiderata (6/?)

Chapter Title: Cycles

Fandom: Mass Effect

Characters: Miranda, Samara, Oriana, Jacob, Jack

Pairing: Miranda/Samara very slow burn, friends to lovers

Story Rating: R

Warnings: References to past childhood abuse/trauma.

Chapter Summary: In 2186, Miranda takes in Jack’s students. In 2185, Miranda suffers a minor injury on a mission. At both different points in time, Miranda worries she’s acting too much like her father.

Author’s Note: The chapter in which Kelly Chambers knows all and sees all. Also you know that thing that happens where the characters don’t know they’re on a date except they’re totally on a date. That’s also in this chapter.

*     *     *

“I still can’t believe you’re actually doing this,” Jacob broke the silence.

Miranda sighed heavily, watching from a distance as Jack’s students approached, looking up at the building that would be their home for the foreseeable future. “Neither can I.”

It wasn’t that Miranda was completely devoid of human compassion for these kids (even despite her...deficiencies in the empathy department). If she was that cold and heartless, she wouldn’t have volunteered to take them on in the first place. But, with all of that being said, part of her had secretly been hoping Jack wouldn’t be able to convince them to say yes to this offer.

Few people knew it about her, but Miranda did have a small soft spot for kids. Little kids. Very little kids. That had come from being a big sister, even a distant one. But teenagers? That was a different story. At no point in her life had Miranda ever been able to understand adolescents. Not even when she was one. Especially not when she was one.

Living with her father meant she never got to be a teenager, much less have any friends her own age. Even when she’d escaped him at the age of sixteen, she’d propelled herself straight into adulthood as best she could, working for Cerberus to ensure her own survival, and that of her sister. Any attempts she’d made to ‘fit in’ with people her own age once she got out from under her father’s thumb had backfired horribly. She always got along better with adults, particularly in strictly professional contexts. That had never changed.

But, reservations aside, a promise was a promise. And it would shatter what little trust Miranda had managed to earn from Jack if she went back on her word now.

“This is going to be fun…” Miranda dryly remarked under her breath.

“You’re the one who signed up for this,” Jacob pointed out, not exactly sympathetic to her self-made situation.

“I know. But I reserve the right to be a massive hypocrite and complain about it anyway,” Miranda murmured. 

“What’s new?” Jacob quipped, evidently well-aware that he would be roped into listening to Miranda talk about those problems whenever they arose, by virtue of being her only available friend. 

It wasn’t long before one of the students recognised Miranda from their meeting only a few days ago, and the group began to make its way towards her. There were eight of them, most of them carrying small bags of belongings - most likely a combination of rationed personal care items handed out by Bailey’s people, and spare clothes given to them by the Zhu’s Hope colonists.

Seanne wasn’t with them, of course, given that she was still in the hospital. Her brother Reiley must have been with her, or paying a visit to Jack.

Well, Miranda thought, if this was happening then it was time to take charge.

“Alright, I see you’re all here. Everybody come forward,” Miranda commanded, her voice firm. Her instruction was met with some confused stares, but the students did form a loose bunch in front of her. “You do know how to line up, don’t you?” she questioned them, not impressed with the disarray. 

On second thought, of course they didn’t know the first thing about order and discipline. They’d been taught by Jack, after all. But that was going to change. If Miranda was used to one thing, it was efficiency. Perhaps she could instill some of those virtues in them.

Despite their visible hesitancy, the eight students did follow her instruction to form a line. It wasn’t even remotely close to straight. Miranda elected to let that slide.

“I’m Miranda Lawson. This is Jacob Taylor. He won’t be living with us, but he’s generously volunteered his time to help get you all settled in,” said Miranda.

Jacob raised his hand in a small wave, which some of the students returned.

“Jack’s given me all your names. I see that Reiley and Seanne aren’t here,” Miranda noted.

Jason Prangley cleared his throat. “We, uh...brought some of their things for them,” he said, indicating the heavy suitcase at his side. 

“Good.” Miranda nodded. “We’re in apartment 502. The elevator isn’t functioning yet, so you’ll have to take the stairs. I arranged delivery of bedding and other essentials. You’ll find them in your rooms. The beds still need to be unpacked and assembled. I trust you can handle that.”

“Sure thing. No worries, Miss,” Rodriguez spoke up. “We, um...We just wanted to say we really appreciate what you’re doing for us. It’s...real cool of you.”

“You’re welcome. However, let me make one thing clear before you all move in,” Miranda began, her tone firm. “This is not a halfway house. This is not a charity shelter. This is not Saint Miranda Lawson’s Sisters of the College of Mercy Boarding School. I am not your staff, I am not your tutor, I am not your housekeeper, and I am not your mother. My work in the reconstruction takes priority. I am extremely busy. I do not have time to clean up after you, and you are all closer to being adults than you are to being children. So I expect you to be self-sufficient and look after yourselves, and that includes taking care of the apartment in a manner that meets my standards. If you cannot do that, then this arrangement will not work, and I will end it,” Miranda stated sternly. 

As much as Miranda owed a debt to Jack for saving her life from that building collapse, her sense of obligation only extended so far. If these kids had any misconceptions that they could abuse the privileges Miranda had gone out of her way to secure for them, then they needed to be dispelled. Ideally, these new living arrangements would take effect with minimal disruption to her life. 

One of the students, Leah Brooks, raised her hand. “Um, are there any...specific house rules?” she asked.

“What part wasn’t clear to you?” Miranda bluntly replied, no inflections in her voice. Jacob silently facepalmed at her side. “Cook your own meals. Wash your own clothes. Keep the place tidy. Don’t damage anything. Don’t disturb me when I’m working. Do you have any objections?” Miranda asked rhetorically. Nothing she required of them was in any way unfair or unreasonable.

For a moment, she was met only with blank stares. “...No, ma’am. No objections,” Prangley answered, taking a second to exchange veiled looks with some of his comrades. “If it’s alright with you, we’ll, uh...head up to the room and get ourselves settled in.”

Miranda held out the keys. “You have three copies between you. Don’t lose them.”

“Right.” Jason took responsibility for the keys, continuing to establish himself as the unofficial leader of the group in Jack’s absence. When Miranda didn’t say anything further, he took that as their cue that they had been dismissed, signalling for his classmates to take their things and head on up. He shouldered his own bag, and moved to pick up the spare suitcase for Seanne and Reiley. 

“Don’t worry about it; I’ll take that up for you,” Jacob assured Jason, gesturing for him to leave the heavy-looking suitcase behind. ��You can just call me Jacob, by the way,” he introduced himself, extending his hand to the kid, who shook it.

“Thanks, man,” said Jason, appreciating his help. With that, Jason headed off and the rest of the students followed, ready to get acquainted with their new home.

Once the students were out of sight, Jacob stared at Miranda, visibly not approving of her approach. “Were you trying to make the worst possible first impression, or does this just come naturally to you?”

“It’s important to set ground rules,” Miranda replied, intent on making it clear she wasn’t someone whose kindness could be taken advantage of. “I’ve led numerous teams before. You don’t get anywhere with people if they think they can just walk all over you.”

Jacob pulled a face. “You’re their caregiver, not their boss.”

“Caregiver is a strong word,” Miranda objected to his classification. “I’m giving them a roof over their head and making sure they’re safe and their needs are provided for. Nothing more.”

Jacob sighed and shook his head, realising that reasoning with Miranda about this was pointless. “Jack’s going to kick your ass…” he muttered under his breath, picking up the heavy suitcase and making his way towards the building, following the students.

Miranda limped along behind him, eventually catching up to the students in the stairwell. The one named Rodriguez lagged back, as though she’d been waiting for her, falling into step at Miranda’s side as the other students went on ahead.

“Um, pardon me, Miss,” Rodriguez began, climbing one stair at a time to match Miranda’s stride. Miranda really hoped the students didn’t plan on calling her that. It made her skin crawl for some reason. “I don’t mean to bother you, but...you know the city really well, so...I figured you’d probably be the best person to ask.”

“Ask away,” said Miranda, having no qualms with reasonable questions.

“We, um...I don’t know if you know, but we...Not everyone we came to Earth with survived,” Rodriguez uncomfortably admitted. Miranda was aware of that - Jack had indicated as much. “As if Cerberus didn’t take enough from us, we lost three more to the Reapers.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Miranda. It may not have sounded sincere coming from her, but it was. She’d lost people to this war too. “What do you need?”

“Well, some of us have been talking and...we were wondering if...are you...is there going to be a service? You know, to remember them?” Rodriguez asked, still wrestling with her grief over the friends she hadn’t had a chance to mourn.

Miranda hadn’t expected that question. She, along with everyone else, had been so busy combing through the ruins that she hadn’t even thought about grieving the dead. It wasn’t as though she had much experience with it, either. Not knowing what else to say, she figured the best course of action was to be honest.

“With the state the city is in, those kinds of sentimental displays aren’t a priority. We’re still trying to count the dead, and to put names to any faces we can. It’s a near impossible task, given so many of the fallen left nothing behind. Even if we could lay them all to rest, I’m not sure there’d be enough time in the world for everyone to grieve,” Miranda pointed out.

Rodriguez was visibly crushed by her response, her gaze falling to her feet. “...Oh. I...I understand.”

Miranda sensed from the girl’s reaction that she’d said something wrong. But how? She’d just been honest. Tried to be nice and word it gently, even.

She tried to imagine what Samara would have counselled her to do in this situation, or what she would have done if it was Oriana standing there beside her. Those inner voices told her that reality and facts meant nothing in the face of Rodriguez’s pain. She wasn’t asking the question so she could receive a yes or no answer. She was asking because she needed to mourn her friends.

“...You’re right, though. There should be a public service. For everyone we’ve lost. For those who are still missing. I’ll speak to Bailey about arranging it,” Miranda told her, seeing the potential benefit in giving everyone in London a chance to remember those who had passed, and to unite in their solace. “As for your friends, I don’t know what you would want, exactly. But there’s nothing stopping you from holding a private service for them. You don’t need my permission. You should speak to Jack about it. I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”

Rodriguez appeared at least a little bit comforted by that, raising her sleeve to wipe away a stray tear. “Yeah. You’re right. Thanks, Miss.” Rodriguez picked up her pace and left her behind before Miranda could tell her not to call her that.

Miranda exhaled heavily, realising she was quite possibly the least equipped person in the galaxy to deal with the needs of emotionally vulnerable teenagers.

What had she gotten herself into?

*     *     *

Although every single squad member recruited to fight against the Collectors had seen their fair share of action since joining the Normandy, Miranda was far and away Shepard’s most common companion on field missions. It was common sense, really. In Miranda’s opinion, anyway. She was the leader of the Lazarus cell, and Shepard’s second-in-command. Further, due to her prowess with both tech and biotics, she was essentially the perfect choice to go into any situation. She could deal with any threat that arose, no matter how unexpected.

Miranda wasn’t surprised by the confidence Andrea showed in her by selecting her so often. It was exactly what she would have advised her to do. On the other hand, there were days when being Shepard’s right-hand woman felt like a curse. 

Getting swarmed by Collectors on Horizon had not been fun. Neither had it been an ideal day at the office when Miranda had to fight her way off of the Collector Ship. Now, Shepard’s leadership had brought Miranda aboard a derelict Reaper.

Given that Miranda was good at identifying patterns, things were going about as well as expected.

“Look out!”

Miranda ducked behind cover, reloading as the scion’s shockwave thundered past her. The Reaper IFF they needed was just beyond that door, and past that was the mass effect core. Unfortunately, two scions and a seemingly endless tide of husks stood between them and their destination.

Samara knocked back a husk with her biotics before it got too close. Miranda took aim and fired her pistol around cover, blowing off another one’s leg at the knee. Slow and lumbering though they were, those scions were getting closer. If they couldn’t take them out now, they would need to withdraw back to a safe distance. Otherwise, if a scion got close, it was lights out. Goodnight nurse. 

Noticing an opportunity, Miranda overloaded an explosive crate near one of the scions, concentrating fire on it while its armour burned. She was so focused on trying to take it down that she was completely unaware of the husks crawling out from underneath the platform, converging on either side of her, nor did she spot the one concealed from her sight by her own cover, charging towards her.

“Miranda!” Shepard called out, firing off her shotgun at some nearby husks, seeing her ally about to get swarmed.

Shepard’s call alerted her to turn and fire on the approaching husk, but it had already closed in and grabbed her. Miranda fought it off and was ready to shoot it in the head, but then a second one jumped on her from behind, causing her gunshot to fire off harmlessly into the air. She pushed as hard as she could at the creature bearing down on her shoulder, trying to keep its jaw away from her face and head. Its arms ripped and tore at her flesh, bypassing her shields, knocking the pistol from her grip, effectively pinning her in place as the third husk closed in.

All of a sudden, a wave of biotic energy cut through the twisted creatures, flinging them away from Miranda like ragdolls. Samara biotically pulled all three towards her with such raw force that their limbs detached in midair, killing them even before they tumbled off the edge of the platform into the abyss below.

“Fall back!” Shepard commanded, sensing they were outnumbered, and well aware that the scions were far too close to Miranda for comfort.

Miranda couldn’t argue with that order. She was very isolated in that corner.

She waited for the shockwaves to pass, then dove out of cover and across the divide to pick up her pistol, firing a warp at the approaching scions as she got back to her feet, joining Samara at her position near the back of the platform.

“Thank you for that,” said Miranda, grateful for Samara getting those husks off of her a moment ago. She winced, favouring her right shoulder and her side while she waited for her shields to regenerate behind cover. They were still forward of Shepard, who was concentrating fire from around the corner, already off the platform entirely. They needed to retreat. They had to get out from that position before the scions reached them.

“You are wounded,” Samara observed, keeping her eyes fixed on the scions.

Miranda blinked and looked down at her ribs on her right side, where it hurt most. Huh. There was a tear in her suit. And she was bleeding. Funny that.

“I’m fine,” Miranda assured her. She didn’t have time to bleed. “Ready?”

Samara nodded. She stepped out of cover, firing off a reave, catching several husks in her biotic field. Miranda followed suit, overloading another container, joining Samara in shooting off the knees of the deformed monstrosities. The scions were mere feet away. But neither of them let that be intimidating. They both got out of the way just in time to avoid the blast radius from the lumbering creatures.

Shepard charged one scion, distracting its attention from her squadmates, colliding with it in a blue biotic streak. She fired her shotgun directly into its face to keep it pinned down, backing away as it let off another area-of-effect wave. Shepard stumbled when the blast brought down her biotic barrier. 

“Move!” Shepard barked, sprinting back towards the next viable cover, not willing to be caught by a shockwave with her defences down. Samara and Miranda followed suit, escaping the scions before they closed in. They only fired back over their shoulders to pick off the final few husks, until they were able to find cover in a secure enough position to take aim at the scions from a distance.

Warps from Miranda and reaves from Samara took down the scions’ armour amid the hail of incendiary bullets from Shepard’s submachine gun. Eventually, both scions fell into a burning heap of ash, and it went quiet again at last. Too quiet, given the chaos of mere moments ago.

Miranda sighed. She hoped that was the last of them, but somehow she knew it wouldn’t be.

“I’ll take point,” Miranda insisted, clutching at her side as she moved to go and claim the Reaper IFF. An arm blocked her way before she could take a step.

“Not with that wound, you won’t,” said Shepard. Miranda glanced down. Her white catsuit was stained with crimson beneath her palm. “Here. Use this medi-gel. I’ll take point.”

Miranda rolled her eyes. Honestly, it didn’t even hurt. Besides, it wasn’t like she could stop and wave a white flag. There was no point in worrying about her injury until they made it off this ship. Nevertheless, the medi-gel would stop the bleeding. That was what it was for. So she applied it.

“Are you alright?” Samara asked her, staying at her side while she tended to her wound.

“Both of you should be focusing on the mission instead of worrying about me,” Miranda curtly replied, the medi-gel congealing around the gash in her side. She wasn’t weak. She didn’t need to be treated like a child.

“Do not take my query as an indication that I am doing otherwise,” said Samara, unfazed by Miranda’s stern response.

Miranda uttered a disgruntled huff. She was only stating facts. Nevertheless, she put that all aside as they moved to claim the Reaper IFF. Her wound didn’t stand in the way of taking out the husks that swarmed them in the mass effect core.

After that, they returned to The Normandy, along with the geth they’d found.

“Ugh. Ridiculous,” Miranda muttered to herself as she marched into her office, having switched to her black attire following the damage to her white catsuit.

She’d just met with Shepard and Jacob to discuss their new passenger. Instead of listening to her and sending the geth to Cerberus to be researched, Shepard had not only decided to keep the geth on board, but had set it up in the AI Core. Was there a worse possible place to put a potentially hostile machine?

Miranda sat behind her desk and opened up her laptop, intent on reporting all this to The Illusive Man. The door to her office opened. She glanced up.

“Hello, Samara,” said Miranda, going back to typing. “Can this wait? I’m a little busy at the moment.”

“I will not disturb you. I only wished to see how you were,” said Samara.

This again? Seriously? “I heal fast,” Miranda assured her. “I’ll be fine.”

“Very well.” Samara gave a nod at Miranda’s blunt response. Then, somewhat surprisingly, she turned to leave without another word.

“Wait,” Miranda spoke up, raising her hand and closing her laptop computer. Samara stopped and looked back. “You don’t have to go, Samara,” she said, regretting her sharp tone.

“I do not wish to impose,” said Samara, content to wait until Miranda came and visited her on her own terms.

“You’re not,” Miranda replied. She was the only person on this whole crew whose presence was never an imposition. With that in mind, Miranda got up from her desk and gestured towards the viewport beside her bed. After all, she was always sharing Samara’s view. Why not the reverse for once?

Samara accepted her unspoken invitation and followed Miranda inside, standing by the doorway with her hands clasped behind her back. Miranda was slightly ginger in her movements as she sat down on the small window seat. 

“...I appreciate that you showed concern for me,” Miranda began. “I know it may not have seemed like it at the time. But genuinely, I do. I’m just not used to it.”

“Is this something I should refrain from, or be more cautious about?” Samara inquired, willing to change her behaviour without argument, particularly if it was causing Miranda any offence or discomfort.

“No. No, definitely not.” Miranda shook her head. “It’s my problem, not yours. I know that, when you’re asking me if I’m alright, you’re doing it because you care. But, unconsciously, I reacted to it like it was a criticism - like you and Shepard were pointing out my weaknesses. Of course you weren’t doing that. I know you well enough to know that. But…”

“Your father would not have seen it that way,” Samara suggested on her behalf, understanding where this was coming from. 

“No, he wouldn’t,” Miranda acknowledged. She didn’t like that everything always came back to him. But it so often did. “If I was ever hurt or in pain as a child, I had to hide it. I had to endure whatever he threw at me without reacting to it. If I didn’t, if I so much as flinched, he would punish me for it.”

It was no wonder why she came across as emotionless and insensitive to others, Miranda thought. She’d effectively been conditioned to be both of those things - trained by her father’s cruelty to not respond to anything the way a normal person would, no matter what he did. To suppress her fear when he raised his voice, or raised a hand to her. Never to laugh or smile. Not to cry out when she felt pain. Being raised in that environment had made those things second nature, until she couldn’t remember a different way of being. 

“I, um...” Miranda paused and averted her gaze, uncharacteristically hesitant. She swallowed, curling her hand into a fist in her lap, relaxing her fingers only once she’d chased those thoughts from her mind - things she’d never revealed to anyone before, and wasn’t fully ready to open up about now. “I don’t like to dwell on it, but I have a lot of unpleasant memories from that age.”

Samara didn’t interrupt, letting Miranda talk at her own pace.

“The Illusive Man isn’t like my father, but even he has high standards. Cerberus will be critical of how I handled this mission. Believe me, it’s going to be marked down in my file that I made a mistake and got hurt.” Miranda sighed and turned towards the window, idly resting her chin on curled fingers while distant stars reflected in her eyes. “I hate that. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate Cerberus for it; they’re just doing what they need to do. But I hate knowing that every time I slip up, no matter how small it is, it’s going to be noted in my record, and follow me around forever.”

“I see…” said Samara, quietly. She paused a moment, giving thought to the words on her mind. “I find it interesting that it disturbs you when people know of your mistakes. I know that one of your duties is to report to The Illusive Man on every mission, and on all of us. Professor Solus once advised me to check my quarters, noting that he had located several bugging devices you had placed in his lab.”

“I’m just doing my job,” Miranda replied as she glanced back. Part of that job was to be distrustful of her squadmates and the crew, and to find any faults in their conduct, and to make sure it was duly noted in her reports.

“So were the people in your father’s employ, who were complicit in his cruelty towards you,” Samara calmly countered, elucidating her point.

“I…” Any words Miranda might have said to defend herself were quickly struck silent in her mind. Her gaze dropped. She hadn’t thought of it that way before.

All those hours she’d spent monitoring her squadmates suddenly took on a new complexion in her mind. Reading their private emails without their knowledge. Watching them through hidden devices in the ship. Analysing and criticising every aspect of their conduct, down to the most minute detail. Highlighting every single mistake and weakness. Those were all things her father had done to her.

“...I know I can be a control freak, but I’m not like him,” Miranda quietly professed, with a slight tremor in her voice, as if imploring Samara to see that she was better than that. “I swear to you, I’m not.”

Except she totally was. Much as she tried to deny it.

Without even realising it, she’d been replicating what she’d learned from him. Hell, when they’d first met face-to-face, she’d even told Shepard that she would have implanted a control chip in her brain if The Illusive Man had let her. Miranda hadn’t been lying about that. She’d seriously advocated for the idea. On more than one occasion.

For all the cruel things Miranda’s father had done to her, he’d never done that. Much as he probably would have if the thought had occurred to him. 

She was not only like her father, but...in some ways, she was on the path to becoming far worse than he ever was. Even more of a tyrant, despite knowing how it felt to suffer at the hands of one. And she hadn’t even thought about it.

That realisation made Miranda feel queasy. In retrospect, perhaps she needed to formally apologise to Shepard for the way she’d acted when they first met. She made a mental note to attend to that the next time Shepard dropped by.

“You do not need to defend yourself to me,” Samara assured her. This wasn’t an attack, or an argument. Just an observation. “I do not begrudge you for doing as The Illusive Man requires. It is merely something you may wish to consider in your own time, so that you may come to your own answer.”

“Ah. So, this is part of that whole ‘self-reflection’ thing we’ve been discussing,” Miranda intuited, letting her lip curl into a lopsided sort of smile. In light of the thoughts going through her head, the smile didn’t reach her eyes. It was entirely joyless. “I’ll...take it on board. But how am I doing so far? I’m new to this.”

Samara’s expression betrayed her amusement at Miranda’s search for approval. “Self-improvement is a long and multi-faceted journey. I cannot promise it will ever end, but it is a worthy pursuit. At times, it will be confronting and difficult. But you will find great meaning and fulfilment by taking that journey. In time, hopefully you will come to understand the burdens you carry, and make peace with them.”

“You really think so?” Miranda asked. Samara had been subtly guiding her in this direction for a while. The more she did, the more Miranda was seriously beginning to consider that Samara was right, and that there really was something to be said for mindfulness and meditation. 

“I do,” Samara confirmed.

Miranda sighed. “Well, then there must be some truth to it. You wouldn’t say it if there wasn’t,” she conceded. After all, Samara must have gotten her insight and wisdom from somewhere. If this was the key to it, then Miranda would have been a fool not to heed her advice.

At times like this, it felt like Samara knew Miranda better than Miranda knew herself, much as it was difficult to hear the truth sometimes.

“Do you wish to join me in meditation?” Samara offered.

Miranda pulled an apologetic face. “I really do need to get this report to The Illusive Man,” she said. She’d made an exception to talk to Samara, but only because she’d felt bad about her poor behaviour earlier. She couldn’t get distracted or set aside her work longer than she already had. “But, after I’m finished with this, I think I’m free this evening. I can join you then.”

Samara allowed herself a small smile. “I look forward to it. Until then, I shall not take up anymore of your time.”

“Samara…” Miranda stopped her before she could turn to leave. “...I don’t tell him everything, you know,” Miranda admitted, hoping Samara understood that. The conversations they’d had with each other in their private moments were just that - private. “I’m more than just The Illusive Man’s spy. I’m part of The Normandy too, and I’m loyal to this team. As much as anyone here.”

Samara held her gaze for a long moment, giving Miranda a silent nod of acceptance before taking her leave.

Miranda swallowed in the wake of Samara’s silence, oddly shaken by it. Miranda had been telling the truth about her loyalties lying as much with this ship and this crew as it did with Cerberus, but nothing had made her doubt herself more than the thought that Samara didn’t believe her when she said that.

If everyone else aboard the ship thought Miranda was nothing more than a snitch, she could have lived with it. But if her actions had caused her to lose Samara’s trust, then maybe she really did need to question her level of independence from Cerberus.

*     *     *

They told Jack. About Shepard. And about the Normandy.

She took it about as well as expected.

Jack’s eyes had burned with unshed tears as she’d screamed and shouted and swore at both Jacob and Miranda. She’d fought through the pain in her muscles to throw a glass of water at them, demanding that they get the fuck away from her.

Neither of them blamed her for her reaction. Shepard meant a lot to her. She meant a lot to all of them.

Miranda dragged her weary limbs up the stairs back to her apartment, the rest of that day’s events passing like a blur behind her. All the days were starting to bleed together lately. It didn’t help that she was averaging less than two hours of sleep a night because her fucking ear wouldn’t stop ringing. 

“Hey, Miss,” Reiley was the first to greet her when she opened the door. He and his sister had finally moved out of the field hospital, her condition having recovered.

“I have a name, you know,” Miranda replied, taking off her jacket. Her snarky comment fell on deaf ears, it seemed. Music emanated from the living room. Not too loud. Some of the students were gathered, playing cards.

The students had mostly been very well behaved, from what she could tell. They hadn’t quite adjusted to living with Miranda yet. Honestly, they barely interacted. That was largely because her role in the reconstruction kept her so busy that they hardly saw her. She was still little more than a stranger to them. That was probably for the best.

That being said, some of them had already proven more willing to test the limits of her kindness than others. Reiley wasn’t one of them, though. She had helped save his sister’s life, after all. That had evidently earned her the benefit of the doubt with him.

“Rough day at work?” Reiley asked her, innocently. 

Miranda wondered if she looked as tired as she felt. “No rougher than usual,” she answered. He was a child. Her burdens weren’t his to worry about.

“Nitin’s cooking dinner tonight. You want him to fix you up a plate?” he went on.

“I’ll make something for myself later,” Miranda replied, wanting nothing more than a moment alone to decompress, especially after breaking the bad news to Jack.

“Okay. Sure thing. But you’re welcome to join us, you know?” Reiley offered again, almost insisting.

“I know.” Miranda stopped herself as she turned to leave, having developed enough self-awareness over the past year to realise that response may have sounded harsher than she intended. “Thank you for asking,” she said, working on being better with people, and setting an example for her wards.

“No problem.”

With that, Miranda headed to her room. It was the smallest bedroom in the apartment, but she had it all to herself, which was a worthwhile trade. And it was big enough to serve as a makeshift home office. She sighed once she closed the door behind her, enjoying a moment of privacy.

The silence was undercut by the ringing in her ear. It always was.

Miranda leaned her cane against her bedside drawer, running her hand through her hair as she slumped down onto the bed.

Her datapad made a noise. She almost didn’t hear the ding beneath that constant, high-pitched tone. She looked over. And, for the first time that day, she had something to smile about.

One new message from Oriana.

Honestly, if Miranda had been a more emotional person, she could have cried from sheer relief. Who else but Oriana could transform a shitty day to an amazing one in an instant? This was exactly what she needed.

She lay down in the bed, propping up her datapad, content to let Oriana take her cares away for a while.

“Hey, sis,” her message began, the camera facing towards her as she walked, the scenery of Horizon passing behind her. “I know it hasn’t been that long since my last message. But every day I spend about...ten, fifteen minutes walking home from work. And I figured, that’s fifteen minutes I could be spending talking to you.”

Words couldn’t even begin to describe how much Miranda appreciated that. How much it meant to her. They were both in each other’s thoughts, all the time.

“With any luck, it won’t be long before we’re able to talk in real time. I mean, in galactic terms, we’re not all that far away. They have to fix the comm buoys eventually, right?”

They were making progress. It was one of many things Miranda was keeping tabs on. It was why there was so much less of a delay between sending and receiving messages now. Where once they’d taken weeks to get low-priority messages through the Extranet, Oriana had probably only sent this message yesterday. The gap was closing faster than ever.

“Not much has changed since the last time I spoke to you,” Oriana continued, freely voicing whatever thoughts came into her mind, in a way Miranda never could have. “I’ve kind of been thrown into the deep end as far as my career in local planning and colony development is concerned. Nobody has time to teach me, so I’m learning a lot on the fly. I’m enjoying it, though. Is it wrong of me to say that?”

Miranda smirked. No, it wasn’t wrong of her at all. Thriving in challenging environments was a trait they shared. One that they didn’t share, and one that Miranda greatly admired about her sister, was that Oriana always had a way of making the best of any situation. Putting a positive spin on things. Miranda tended toward the opposite. She wasn’t a catastrophist by any means, but it was fair to say she was a lot better at finding faults than appreciating the good that was already there. That didn’t apply to Oriana.

Oriana had lost as much as anyone to this war. Her home. Her friends. Her parents. Any of those things could have destroyed a person, and nobody would have blamed her if it had. But Oriana just...got on with life. She didn’t let loss harden her heart. She was still the same warm, loving, empathetic person she was before, and still by far the single most well-adjusted person Miranda had ever met. Although, in fairness, Miranda had few good points of comparison.

She didn’t know how her sister did it. She wished she had her strength, sometimes.

“You’ll love it here,” Oriana assured her, looking forward to the day they were reunited at last. “I know it’s not exactly what you’re used to, but you will.”

Of course she would. Miranda would love any place Oriana was.

“I already have my eye on a couple of places. I’ve had some ideas, design-wise. I won’t tell you what they are, because that would ruin the surprise. But you don’t need to worry about it. Everything will be all set up by the time you get here,” Oriana went on, afternoon sunlight following her as she made her way through the colony, which was about the size of a small country town.

Miranda made a mental note to remind Oriana that she didn’t have to spend a cent on any of this. Or on anything. Miranda had been extremely well-compensated working for Cerberus for the past twenty years, and she’d made some wise investments. She had enough credits squirrelled away in encrypted accounts that the two of them didn't need to worry about finances. Not for a long while, anyway.

“Stop and look both ways so I don’t get hit by a truck. Right. Good. See? No problems walking and talking at the same time. Not a distracted pedestrian,” Oriana lightheartedly remarked, continuing her walk home. “Welp, since I haven’t gotten any desperate messages from you begging me to stop yet, I’m assuming that means you want me to keep trying out my worst jokes on you. I’ve come up with a few more. They’re absolute garbage. So, here goes…”

It was no mystery why Oriana was so intent on telling these bad jokes.

“How do cakes handle break-ups? They ask if they can just be friands.”

Miranda had sent emails and texts since, but the last time Oriana had received a video message from her, it had been the one she’d sent from the field hospital. She’d been in tears, then, admitting how much she needed to hear Oriana’s voice to bolster her spirits. And Oriana had answered her prayers.

“I’d make a joke about how to use a knife in a black-out, but it would just be a stab in the dark.”

Ever since then, it was as if Oriana had set herself the personal mission of being Miranda’s ray of sunshine - a light to brighten up her darkest days. That wasn’t difficult for her to pull off, because that was exactly what Oriana had been for her ever since she was born.

“I invited a meterologist to a bar but he told me he couldn’t handle the pressure.”

Miranda couldn’t fathom why Oriana was the way she was. Funny. Kind. She certainly hadn’t gotten it from Miranda. Every time they spoke, every message Oriana sent, it was like discovering all over again what an amazing person she was, in every conceivable way.

“Everyone cries at weddings. Even the cakes are in tiers.” Oriana looked down at the camera. “See? Two cake jokes. I’ve got a theme going. Either that or I was really hungry this afternoon.”

Miranda had devoted twenty years of her life to protecting Oriana, and making sure her upbringing was safe and happy. But, right now, Oriana was the one checking in on her - making sure Miranda was okay, and cheering her up when she needed it. These messages were Oriana’s way of taking care of her.

“You know why batteries never come included with electronics? Because if they did, they’d be free of charge.”

None of the jokes ever made Miranda laugh. Oriana was no doubt well aware that they wouldn’t. But that didn’t matter. That wasn’t the point. Just listening to her voice and seeing her there on the screen was enough to bring a contented smile to Miranda’s face, no matter what Oriana was saying.

A knock at the door caught Miranda’s attention. She paused the video, straightening up. “What is it?”

Jason Prangley opened the door a crack. “Excuse me, Miss. I don’t mean to disturb you, but Mr. Taylor is here to see you.”

Much as she wanted to hear the rest of Oriana’s message, Miranda knew it would still be waiting for her later. “Send him in,” said Miranda, feeling far more relaxed than she had a few minutes ago. Jason didn’t appear to notice.

A few moments later, Jacob stepped through her door, joining her in her room. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Yes, but it’s okay; I can go back to it,” said Miranda, not bothered. She still had about five more minutes of video to look forward to. She intended to savour them all.

“It’s your sister, isn’t it? You’re only like this when it’s her,” Jacob pointed out, hardly oblivious to the change in Miranda’s demeanour since they parted at the field hospital. “She must be special.”

“She is,” Miranda confirmed. What more could she say? She adored absolutely everything about her sister, without qualification. She was the only person in the galaxy Miranda could say that about. The only person she truly, unconditionally loved. There was no indication that would ever change. “She’s quite literally the best person I know.”

“I can see that. I mean, she’s like you, but nice,” Jacob joked.

Miranda chuckled, electing not to correct him on that. They may have shared some traits, but Oriana was nothing like Miranda. That was the point.

“I’m assuming this is more than just a social call,” Miranda intuited.

“Actually, that’s exactly what this is,” Jacob corrected her, pulling up the chair by Miranda’s small desk, taking a seat. “I wanted to catch up with you, after what happened with Jack this morning.”

Miranda sighed. “We were on speaking terms for a grand total of six days. I’m guessing that’s no longer the case. Not that it’s unexpected,” she remarked. Ultimately, it had been too much to think Jack wouldn’t revert back to hating her again the first time something went awry.

“Nah, you give her too little credit.” Jacob dismissed the thought. “She’s mad. And she’s hurt. But just because she lashed out doesn’t mean she blames you, or me. There was nothing any of us could have done to change things.”

“I don’t agree with that,” Miranda spoke plainly. “There are always things we could have done differently. Those answers will materialise in time. We can’t change what happened. All we can do is learn from it. Try not to lose anyone else.”

Jacob regarded her with a sympathetic expression, recognising that Miranda’s calm, collected voice likely didn’t reveal the truth of her thoughts.

“I know what you’re like, so I know it may be pointless to ask you this, but...how are you doing with all of this? Not just losing Shepard, but...everything?” Jacob asked, leaning forward in his chair. “I mean really. Not what you tell the kids, or Bailey.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Miranda replied, keeping a rigid posture. “Like I said, I can’t go back and change the past, so there’s no sense dwelling on it.”

That was exactly what she tried to tell herself every time her mind stirred with thoughts of how she potentially could have saved the people who’d died under her command. How she could have avoided the shuttle crash entirely. Anything more she could have said to Shepard, when they spoke over that link.

“So...you reacting the way you did after we spoke to Jack had nothing to do with how you feel about losing Shepard?” Jacob sceptically surmised.

Miranda arched her eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware that I reacted a particular way,” she said, not certain whether Jacob was perhaps just projecting his own feelings into her, or whether he was waiting for her to feel things that simply didn’t mesh with who Miranda was as a person. “How did I react, exactly?”

“There’s no need to get defensive with me, Miranda. I’m checking in on you, like friends do,” Jacob pointed out, not appreciating her tone. “If you’re telling me you’re fine, then you’re fine. I’ll be happy for you. So, let’s have that conversation, then. Are you?”

“Am I what? Am I okay with the fact that I lost one of my closest friends?” Miranda rephrased his question, uttering a snort.

“You turned my genuine concern into a loaded question, but...yeah.” Jacob shrugged.

“Well, since it apparently interests you so much…” Miranda shifted her posture, leaning back slightly as she spoke, rhythmically rapping her fingers against the mattress by her side. “One the one hand, yes. I accept what happened, and there’s nothing I can do about it. On the other hand, and if I still had my other hand, no. Of course I’m not ‘okay with it’. I’m never going to be ‘okay with it’ because I didn’t bloody want Shepard to die.”

“At least you’re being honest,” Jacob acknowledged. Miranda had been pretty staunchly committed to denial since she woke up from her coma, like she was trying to outrun that dark shadow before it could catch up with her and make her confront that she wasn’t anywhere near as fine as she claimed. “At least you’re not pretending you don’t care this time, or that you don’t feel anything at all.”

“I’ve never been devoid of emotions, Jacob. They’re just...not constructive,” said Miranda, somewhat uncomfortable with the subject. She wasn’t heartless. She had feelings, she just wasn’t good at processing them. They were messy, and hard to control, and she’d never learned how to navigate them in socially appropriate ways. That was why she tried to move past things like this and get on with her life. 

“They don’t have to be constructive,” Jacob told her. “Feelings are feelings. They just are. You don’t have to do anything with them.”

“Then what more do you want from me?” Miranda countered, a hint of frustration and confusion creeping into her tone. “Yes, I’m upset. Of course I am. Shepard’s one of the only people I’ve ever considered a friend. What am I supposed to do? Break down and cry? That’s not who I am. That’s not how I feel things.”

It wasn’t as if Miranda had chosen to be this way. Hell, if it wasn’t for Oriana having the unique power to bring them out of her, Miranda might well have gone her whole life believing she was physically incapable of shedding tears at all.

“No, I know. And, look, I’m not…”Jacob trailed off, realising he wasn’t expressing himself well if Miranda was reacting like this - like he was judging her. Of course he wasn’t. After a moment, he considered taking a different approach. A direct approach. “Honestly, I just wanted the two of us to be able to talk,” he admitted. “You’re the closest thing I have to a best friend right now.”

Miranda softened, beginning to understand where he was coming from. “I could say the same about you.”

Jacob’s foot bounced against the floor, his fingers tented together. “This is going to be easier for me, so why don’t I start?” he suggested.

Miranda gestured for him to go ahead. She wasn’t the best person to confide in, but she was happy to be there for him if he needed to get any thoughts off his chest. She couldn’t promise that she would be able to help, or offer any advice. But she wasn’t a bad listener, actually. She paid attention to things, when she wanted to. It was why she’d never forgotten what Jacob had told her about his father, long after he’d forgotten telling her about it.

“It hit me today that Jack is the first one of us we’ve seen since Samara pulled you out of the rubble,” Jacob began, staring ahead at nothing in particular. “Out of how many people we served with on The Normandy? Four. We’ve found four of us.”

“The number four feels a lot...smaller now than it would have a few weeks ago,” Miranda acknowledged, her voice quiet. It hadn’t been lost on her just how fast the light of hope was fading.

The uncomfortable truth was, it had been well over a month since the war ended. And there hadn’t been a single word from anyone about the fate of the Normandy, or any of its missing crew, past or present. Nothing from Zaeed. Nothing from Grunt. Nothing from Kasumi, even. If they hadn’t heard from them by now, then that was a fair indication that they were right to fear the worst.

Maybe there were no other survivors from the SR-2 or SR-3.

“As if we didn’t already know things were bad. Legion, Mordin and Thane are already gone. By all accounts, Kelly Chambers was probably still on the Citadel when the Reapers attacked. The Normandy has vanished without a trace. And we know Shepard didn’t make it,” Jacob recounted. They’d found Jack, but...other than that, nothing had really changed. Maybe they really had been in denial from the outset, believing there was a chance of finding more than a small handful of their friends alive. 

“...It could be worse,” Miranda broke the silence, deviating towards a stable medium. “Wrex is the sole confirmed survivor of the original Normandy. He has none of his crew. Although, he is a krogan. Outliving people might be something he’s more accustomed to coping with than humans like us. I imagine he’s taking everything better than we are.”

“What about Samara?” Jacob asked. From a human perspective, she was practically the same age as Wrex. In reality, she was several centuries younger, of course. But, still, she’d been alive long before Gutenberg invented the printing press. By Miranda’s best estimate, she was younger than Magna Carta, but older than Tenochtitlan. She’d never specifically asked. It had seemed impolite.

“I suppose that applies to her, too. But I don’t know…” Miranda brushed her hair back behind her ear on her non-scarred side, contemplating the friend she’d been longing to speak to again more than any other. She knew Samara on a far deeper level than Jacob ever had. With that in mind, the comparison just seemed...wrong somehow. “Samara’s not like Wrex. She grieves for the people she’s lost. Deeply. But I understand why you might think she doesn’t. She carries it with such tranquility, because she’s a spiritual person. But she’s far from unfeeling. It takes a lot of strength for her to bear the things she does. I admire that about her.”

“If you admire that about Samara, why not learn from her example?” Jacob offered.

“I’ve tried to. Extremely hard, actually. And with...varying degrees of success,” Miranda replied, frankly. “But I’m not Samara. Would that I were, but...No. On second thought, I wouldn’t wish for that. I know the things she’s gone through. She’s felt pain and sorrow I could never imagine, let alone withstand. I’d be too much of a coward to endure what she has. My father made sure of that.”

“Wow. There you go. That’s...probably the realest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Jacob quietly but sincerely enthused. If nothing else, he took it as a good sign that Miranda was willing to open up to him like that, even if only a little bit at a time. “One of these days, all of this stuff you think is a waste of energy is going to translate into you actually being in touch with your feelings for once.”

“I’m only just growing accustomed to having someone in my life who makes me genuinely happy, thanks to my sister. Maybe we could not put the cart before the horse and settle for taking this one step a time,” said Miranda, silently asking Jacob not to push her too far out of her comfort zone too quickly. The more he expected her to start having the emotional reactions of a normal person, the more painfully obvious it would continue to be to both of them that she wasn’t one, and probably never would function the same way as everyone else.

“I thought that’s what I was doing.” Jacob scratched his head, confused. He was being extremely patient and gentle with her, not to mention supportive. “How long are you expecting to take between steps exactly?”

“If we’re assuming regular intervals, that would make it thirty-six years,” Miranda answered plainly. Jacob stared at her, unimpressed. “...I’m going to live longer than any other human, so I could work my way up to...six emotions that I can process healthily. Seven is probably pushing the limits of my lifespan.”

“Is this you trying to be funny?” Jacob remarked, arching an eyebrow.

“No. Not on purpose, anyway. I don’t possess that ability,” said Miranda. Samara was the only person she’d ever met who’d disagreed with her on that.

“Clearly there’s a reason for that. I mean, who the hell still says ‘put the cart before the horse’ anyway?” Jacob joked, pulling a puzzled face.

“I do,” Miranda answered, unfazed.

Jacob smirked. His expression faded, though, faltering as his thoughts returned to the subject of their absent friends.

“Miranda…” Jacob tentatively broke the silence. “I hate to bring this up, but...with Shepard gone and everything…”

“I’ve been looking, Jacob,” Miranda quietly assured him, knowing exactly what he was asking of her. He didn’t see how hard she was searching for the missing, or their closest of kin. How many people she’d contacted. How many inroads she’d made. She didn’t want to trouble him with it until she’d found some answers. Even just a trace of someone they knew. But there were thousands of bodies to count. Tens of thousands. Not to mention all those that had been vaporised into dust. Maybe they would never know.

He could tell from one look at her face exactly how dedicated she was to finding answers. The silence wasn’t from lack of trying. Miranda was just...tired.

“Have you written to the families yet?” Jacob asked.

“And tell them what?” Miranda responded, feeling woefully inadequate to address those poor people when everything was still so...uncertain. “I was hoping I’d have something more to tell them by now. We don’t know anything more than we did a month ago.”

“Miranda…” Jacob hesitantly began, not wanting to come across as critical, but....

“No, I know,” Miranda cut him off. This was her responsibility. She wasn’t going to shirk it. “I’m going to start sending letters out. It’s the least I can do for them. At least for those who have anyone left to contact. It’s just...not my strength.”

“Hey, just do your best,” Jacob encouraged, certain Miranda’s efforts would prove far better than she was giving herself credit for. Miranda wished she could share his confidence.

“I’ve sent one message,” she told him, thinking he should at least be aware she hadn’t done nothing. “I tracked down contact details for Falere - Samara’s daughter. She deserved to know that her mother is alive.”

“What did she say?”

“‘Thank you,’” Miranda quoted. “Literally, that’s all she said was ‘thank you’.” Jacob gave a snort. Miranda glanced down. “Shepard doesn’t even have any family I can notify.”

“Her family already knows,” Jacob thought aloud. Miranda looked up. It was clear from his eyes that he was talking about the two of them. Plus Jack, Samara and Wrex. Everyone confirmed to still be alive who Shepard cared about.

Miranda managed a small, sad smile at the thought.

“While we’re being honest, how’s this whole thing working out with the kids?” Jacob asked.

“Surprisingly well, actually,” Miranda answered. Jacob just gave her a look. “...Oh. So it’s that bad,” Miranda realised aloud. “Wait, how would you know?”

“Some of the kids came up and talked to me,” Jacob explained. “They wondered if they’d done something wrong, because you were acting like you hated them.”

Miranda squinted. “I’ve never done that.”

“You have a tone, Miranda. You come off very harsh. Hell, if I didn’t know you so well, I’d swear you hated me right now,” Jacob pointed out.

Miranda thought about making a sarcastic quip but, ultimately, she lacked the energy. She sighed. “Great. So it turns out this was a horrible idea and I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing,” Miranda mumbled in admission.

Jacob smiled, moving to sit beside her on the bed, placing a hand on her uninjured shoulder. “I know. That’s why I’m here.”

“No, I’m serious,” Miranda persisted. Much as she despised failure, she wasn’t too blind to acknowledge it. “...I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone else. Nobody except The Shadow Broker knows this about me, but...a few years ago, I tried to conceive a child. It’s how I discovered I can’t.”

“Wow.” Jacob blinked. That was a lot to take in. Miranda was nothing if not candid when she wanted to be. “With anyone specific, or…?”

“No. It wasn’t about a man. You know firsthand I don’t do relationships. It was entirely selfish. It was about...trying to feel something. To feel that same unconditional love I felt the day I found Oriana.” Miranda swallowed, her throat dry. “In hindsight, I’m glad I can’t conceive. I would be a terrible parent. This is just proving it.” She gestured towards the door, and the children beyond it.

“Don’t say that,” Jacob protested, refusing to hear Miranda beat herself up over making a few mistakes.

“It’s true.” Miranda shrugged. It wasn’t up for debate. “You know me. You know I don’t have those maternal instincts. I wasn’t nurtured by a loving family. I’ve made a lot of strides in trying to be a better person than I was back then, but...when it comes to this, I’m too much like my father.”

“No, you’re not,” Jacob insisted, shifting around and gently grabbing her by the arm to make sure Miranda looked him dead in his eyes. “The fact that you’re even worried about this proves you’re nothing like him. Besides, I’ve seen the way you treat your sister. You have a great relationship.”

“That’s because I gave her away, Jacob. By the time we met, she was already a normal, well-adjusted adult,” Miranda pointed out. “If I’d raised her, I would have messed her up the same way I’m messing things up with these kids. Probably worse,” Miranda trailed off at that. It wasn’t fun to acknowledge just how screwed up she was emotionally, and how it was affecting her interactions with Jack’s battle-scarred students. But facts were facts.

“Come on. You’re Miranda fucking Lawson,” Jacob encouraged. “It’s not like you to sit around and declare a problem unsolvable. Let’s focus on what you’ve been doing, and see if we can’t figure out a way to make things better,” he suggested, sensing that nothing would change unless he redirected Miranda’s focus away from criticising herself.

“I don’t know. I just...I was never like them. And you know I struggle with empathy,” Miranda began, at a loss. “I’ve tried to understand their frame of mind intellectually, based on what I know about them, but obviously that hasn’t worked. I can’t...put myself in their position the way a normal person could.”

“Is that why you’re avoiding them? Because you don’t know how to communicate with them? Or because you’re afraid that you can’t help them when you don’t understand how they feel?” he asked, getting to the nitty-gritty.

Reluctantly, Miranda nodded. “Both. When I’m around them, I start sounding like him - controlling, cold. So I’ve been keeping my distance, giving them space. And apparently they all want to leave no matter what I do.”

“Go easy on them, Miranda, and on yourself,” Jacob comforted her, recognising that she was genuinely making an effort, even if she didn’t know how to pull this off. “They aren’t good at expressing it because, well, teenagers aren’t, but they do seem to want you to like them. I think the problem is they don’t know that you already do care about them. I’m not sure you know that either.”

“Of course I care. As much as I can. I wouldn’t have taken them in at all if I didn’t,” Miranda answered. Low empathy didn’t mean no sympathy.

“So, why don’t you try to show it a little more?” Jacob suggested with a shrug.

Miranda sighed uncomfortably. “Jacob, this is literally the best I know how to do. I’ve just confessed to you that I’m aware I have the emotional intelligence of a dustbin most of the time. What more do you want from me?”

“In all seriousness, you’re a hell of a lot better now than you were. Even a year ago, it could be a struggle being around you sometimes,” Jacob admitted. Miranda couldn’t disagree with that. “I mean, back then, if I’d brought any of this up to you, you would have just said everyone who had a problem with you being forthright and direct was stupid and wrong and needed to get over it.”

Miranda managed a small smile. “I know. I know I’m improving, and that I’m slightly more tolerable to be around than I was before.”

“Slightly?” Jacob idly queried, pulling a face.

“But, when it comes to these students, that progress I’ve made doesn’t change the fact that I don’t have a loving parental figure to model myself on. I don’t really know how to…” Miranda gestured emptily instead of finishing that sentence, more than a little frustrated with herself, and at her lack of emotional competence.

“Well, in that case, why don’t you think back to when you were their age. Think about the things you needed from your Dad that you never got,” Jacob offered.

“That’s the thing - I never got them,” Miranda pointed out. “I can’t even say I know what it’s like to be their age. I wasn’t allowed to be a teenager. By their age, I was already a Cerberus operative, fighting batarian terrorism.”

“And they’re soldiers who just fought in a war,” Jacob countered. Miranda’s expression shifted. She’d never thought about it that way. She’d been so focused on what made them different, she’d completely overlooked potential points of commonality. “Sometimes, trying with people means a hell of a lot more than being good at talking to them. Seriously, make an effort, and they’ll see it. Even if you’re not a natural at doing the emotional stuff, at least they’ll get where you're coming from. And it’ll show that you’re not...unapproachable.”

Miranda frowned. This probably wasn’t going to work. But, damn it, the last thing she ever wanted to do was be as aloof as her father was. She knew how terrible it felt to be treated like less than a full person. 

“I’m going to regret this,” she said, getting up from her bed and picking up her cane, intent on following through with this while Jacob was still there to give her support, or to intervene if things went terribly wrong.

Jack’s students had finished making dinner, gathered around the kitchen counter and table. Miranda cleared her throat to make her presence known, eliciting glances from all of them. Some of the kids moved to politely stand to attention on instinct, but Miranda raised her hand to stop them.

“No, no. Don’t get up. I just...wanted to check in with how you’re all getting on. Living here, I mean.” Miranda paused momentarily, leaning on her cane. “So...are you settling in okay? Is there anything you need?”

“We’re, uh...I think we’re good,” Seanne spoke up on behalf of the group, looking around to make sure that she was correct on that consensus.

“Yeah, your pad is pretty tight, Miss,” said Rodriguez.

“...Right.” Miranda elected not to object to her choice of words.

Jacob gave her a gentle nudge with his foot, urging her to keep going. It must have been obvious to him that this was painfully awkward for her. It ran counter to everything that had been programmed into her from birth. But fine; if he wanted her to keep trying, she would.

“I’m aware that you’ve been through a very difficult time lately. We all have, with the war. I know you’ve...lost people close to you.” Miranda swallowed, not finding it easy to let her guard down. “I’ve lost people too. People I fought beside. People I care about. And I know how it feels to be lightyears away from the ones who matter most to you. So, if any of you need someone to talk to about what you’re going through, you’re more than welcome to come to me,” she said honestly.

Suffice it to say, the students were surprised to hear her say that. Even Jacob was impressed. “We don’t want to impose,” Jason Prangley was the first to respond.

“It’s not an imposition.” Miranda shook her head. “I know I’m busy a lot. And I can’t guarantee I’ll always be available. But, if you really do need me for anything, I’ll make time,” she promised.

“Thank you, Miss,” said Prangley, seeming reassured by that offer of unconditional support. “That’s genuinely really nice of you.”

“No, it’s not. It’s...normal,” Miranda replied, recognising that she wasn’t owed any thanks for what was essentially the bare minimum of human decency that these kids deserved to be treated with, which she’d failed at so far.

Jacob smiled at her in approval, happy with her effort.

*     *     *

Miranda’s lips were pursed. She sat with her arms crossed, one leg folded over the other, her foot impatiently bobbing in the air.

“Shall we begin, Ms Lawson?” Kelly Chambers cheerfully asked her. “First—”

“I’ve been sleeping fine. My diet hasn’t changed. I haven’t experienced any sudden downturn in my mood. I don’t get tired. I don’t hear voices. I don’t feel anxious. I don’t experience mood swings. I have no problems concentrating on my work. I don’t experience intrusive thoughts. I don’t have nightmares. My sex drive is normal. I’m confident and well-adjusted. Are we done?” Miranda rattled everything off in a single breath, keen to get this waste of time over and done with.

Kelly Chambers tried to hide her amusement. “Um, well, it’s wonderful to hear that you’ve read the latest edition of the DSM. But the purpose of these sessions isn’t to diagnose you with a mental illness. I’m not actually qualified to do that.”

Miranda snorted, rolling her eyes. “That’s useful.” Honestly, she still didn’t understand the purpose Yeoman Chambers served aboard the ship, or why she couldn’t have been replaced with someone more qualified. “So why am I here?”

“Because you sustained an injury aboard the inactive Reaper. We’re talking about it. Besides, it was about time for me to check in with you anyway,” Kelly replied. 

“Already?” Miranda snorted derisively. The last time they’d had a session was after she got hurt in the fight against the Shadow Broker. That had been, what, three weeks ago? “How often do you need to check in with someone?” Miranda dryly remarked, starting to feel singled out. 

“As often as I can. It’s what I’m here for. Which is why I find it funny that you never talk to me about my work. Or ask me about people,” Kelly observed.

“What do you mean by that? I chase you up for your reports every single time you do one of these...therapy sessions.” Miranda dismissively waved her hand, feeling she was being generous by deigning to give them that moniker.

Kelly stifled a laugh, glancing down at her lap. “You are aware why The Illusive Man hired me, aren’t you? I was given a directive to report to two people. One of them is Shepard. The other was you. My explicit instructions were to assist both of you in gaining some insight into the people you would be working with, and to assist you in navigating their disparate personalities. Shepard asks me for my thoughts all the time. You...never have,” she noted, somehow not surprised by that.

“What’s there to know about the crew that I haven’t already gleaned?” Miranda shrugged, failing to see the utility.

“A lot, actually. Maybe you should talk to them sometime. Or ask me about them,” Kelly replied, far sharper on the comeback than Miranda gave her credit for. “To the extent that it doesn’t violate anything I’ve been told in confidence, it’s...literally my job to tell you what I know, and what I think. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m pretty sure that’s precisely why The Illusive Man thought someone like me was needed here - to help you specifically.”

Miranda furrowed her brow. “To help me what?”

“You know...work with people, and understand them better,” Kelly stated frankly, shrugging her shoulders. “Don’t take offence to this, but you and I are both cognisant of the fact that Shepard doesn’t exactly need any assistance in that area. Whereas you, on the other hand...this is not your expertise, is it?”

Miranda resisted the unconscious urge to bristle at that. She never liked being confronted with the fact that she had weaknesses, even weaknesses she was self-aware enough to realise she had, and not too arrogant to deny. 

“Yes, well, I suppose it’s too late for that, now, isn’t it?” said Miranda.

“I don’t agree with that.” Kelly gave a small shake of her head. “We may be a few months into our mission, but learning about people is a process that never stops. I can give you far better insight now than I could have when I first met everyone. So maybe things have worked out for the best. But I don’t mean to talk your ear off. All I wanted to say was that I’m here to help you get to know the crew a bit better, if you want me to.”

Miranda paused. It was funny. A few weeks ago, that opportunity would have triggered a very different feeling in her than it did now. A need to feel in control. A need for knowledge, because knowing things was power. It meant certainty. Security. Protection. Stability. Back then, she hadn’t hesitated to download files from the Shadow Broker, and had never thought twice about spying on her squadmates, reading all their messages.

And yet, a single conversation with Samara had suddenly changed all that.

In a way, Miranda knew that Kelly had a point. She hadn’t tried to get to know most of her squad. At all. She didn’t care to. She wasn’t there to make friends, after all. But...what was the line between learning about people and being like her father?

Now that Samara had brought that comparison to her attention, it was hard not to feel like a monumental fucking hypocrite for monitoring every single person on the ship and reporting on their every single fuck-up, the same way her father had monitored Miranda and scrutinised her every mistake. But, maybe if she went in with less adversarial intentions, maybe if she went about things the right way and for the right reasons for a change, that would be a good place to start.

“...Okay. I see what you’re saying. Perhaps I have been...distant from other people on the ship. And it couldn’t hurt to get a second opinion,” Miranda reasoned. She wasn’t sure she would agree with anything Kelly said. But would it hurt anyone for Miranda to know what Kelly thought about them?

“Ask away, within reason,” Kelly gave her an open invitation.

Don’t be controlling. Don’t be controlling. Don’t be controlling.

“...What do you think about Commander Shepard?” Miranda started with the most obvious name, since that was as good a place as any to begin. 

“Andrea is remarkably well-adjusted for what she’s gone through,” Kelly answered upfront, without falsity. “She’s highly empathetic, and cares a lot about other people. It’s no wonder she’s such a remarkable leader, and why she’s such an expert at resolving situations through words rather than violence. She gets people. She understands them. But, even though I feel like I should know her so intimately by now, as I’m sure many of us feel we do, I also feel like I know so little about her. She’s always asking about us, never talking about herself.”

“Hmm.” Miranda had to admit, that was a rather astute assessment. She couldn’t fault it. “What about Jack?” she asked, not forgetting their recent clash in her quarters, and the discussion she’d had with Samara about it.

“Jack has grown up in an unfathomably traumatic environment. Her experiences have conditioned her to see others as hostile and to view her own survival as a zero sum game. But she’s young, and she’s never had the opportunity to seek treatment for post traumatic stress disorder, or even exist in a healthy environment,” Kelly acknowledged. “She has the potential to make a lot of progress. It’s just a matter of finding the right environment for her, and providing her with the support she needs.”

Miranda disagreed. It was hard to imagine Jack would ever become a well-adjusted member of society. Nevertheless, Kelly was entitled to her opinion.

“How about me?” Miranda inquired. 

Kelly’s eyes widened in alarm at that. “...Honestly?”

“You must have thoughts. I’m curious to know what they are.” Miranda shifted her posture, casually flicking her hair back over her shoulder. She was trying to do this whole...self-reflection thing, at Samara’s recommendation. She needed to start somewhere. “There’s no reason to be nervous. Frankly, you couldn’t hurt my feelings if you tried. So don’t worry that I’m going to be offended.”

Kelly chose to take Miranda at her word. “Alright. Where to start?” 

Miranda arched a brow. Oh, so it was like that? She glanced at the clock, wondering how long this would take, and whether she should have brought some coffee with her.

“You’re a brilliant woman, but...not when it comes to other people,” Kelly stated, electing to begin with the uncontroversial. “I don’t believe you have Narcissistic Personality Disorder, but you do show some narcissistic traits, such as a sense of superiority, an expectation for others to comply with unrealistic demands and a tendency to exploit other people without feeling guilt or shame. Honestly, though, that’s not surprising. By all accounts, it sounds like you were raised by a narcissistic sociopath. And it’s not uncommon for children raised in those situations to learn and replicate toxic patterns of behaviour.”

Miranda consciously said nothing, listening to Kelly’s opinions and letting her speak without interruption.

“You have difficulty reading other people and knowing how to react appropriately in social situations, beyond the extent to which you’ve developed social scripts to aid you in your professional life. To my knowledge, you’ve never formed meaningful, long-lasting connections, platonically or romantically. Perhaps this is partially out of a lack of interest on your part, but...if I had to hazard a guess, I also suspect it’s because you genuinely don’t know how,” Kelly speculated. “However, because you’re...stunningly attractive and extremely self-confident, people don’t recognise your social awkwardness for what it is. Instead, they interpret your behaviour towards them as deliberate rudeness and animosity.”

Miranda would have been lying if she said she didn’t recognise a grain of truth in Kelly’s words. It wasn’t exactly easy to just sit there and take it, but it was what she’d asked for. So she remained silent, allowing her to continue.

“I imagine that, when you were younger and first left your father, you most likely had several experiences where people reacted to you negatively for reasons you didn’t entirely understand. It makes sense. I mean, you had gone your entire childhood without developing normal social skills, and you would have had little to nothing in common with any of your peers, not that they had any way of knowing that. These negative responses would have further alienated you from other people, and reinforced your belief that you were superior to others, and that there was nothing to be gained from talking to them. That would go a long way to explaining why you seem to genuinely prefer being alone, and why you seem to lack any desire to socialise and interact with others,” Kelly reasoned.

Miranda shifted in her seat, the tip of her tongue tracing the top of her teeth, even as she kept her mouth shut. Okay, so, she had undergone a few unpleasant social experiences when she first joined Cerberus and met people her own age. But anyone could have guessed that. Getting lucky didn’t count as insight.  

“You’re also frequently wrong in your predictions of how others will act or react in any given situation, because you don’t understand people well enough to read their motives,” Kelly continued. Miranda had to will herself not to impatiently roll her eyes, realising Kelly still wasn’t finished. “From what I understand of your mission two years ago, you thought you would have to blackmail or bribe Liara T’Soni into helping recover Shepard’s body. It never seemed to occur to you that bringing the woman she loved back to life would have been motivation enough.” 

“Okay, in my defence, I didn’t know her then,” Miranda spoke up, raising a finger in objection, unable to remain silent on that.

She noticed Kelly studying her face a little nervously, searching for any signs of anger in her response. “...I didn’t just ruin this session, did I?”

“No,” Miranda nonchalantly replied, unperturbed. She didn’t care enough about Kelly Chambers of all people to be bothered by what she thought of her. But, that being said, she wasn’t so full of herself as to pretend Kelly hadn’t given her a few things that were worth thinking about. Just because she didn’t particularly care for her as a person didn’t mean she couldn’t learn something from her comments. “...I don’t agree with all of your assessments, but there was some legitimate criticism in there. And if that’s the case, I suppose I’m better off taking it on board than getting defensive about it,” Miranda admitted, somewhat humbled.

Being open to that level of criticism rather than taking it personally was certainly something new for her. The fact that Miranda hadn’t instantly rattled off a hundred different reasons why Kelly was wrong about her was definitely Samara’s influence. That and Miranda wasn’t stupid. She knew she didn’t relate well to others. And, if everyone was constantly giving her the same feedback about the way her demeanour came across, there was probably some truth to it. Maybe there was something to be gained from listening to them for once.

Kelly seemed relieved that Miranda had taken her comments constructively, even though she clearly wasn’t thrilled about them. “I’ve noticed some changes in your behaviour lately. I had my suspicions that you’d begun to realise some things about yourself. Maybe things you’ve known on a subconscious level for a long time. Either way, it’s been nice to see that happen. And it’s not just from reuniting with your sister, either, although that’s obviously made you a lot happier. Working so closely with others on the Normandy has been good for you, I think.”

“Perhaps,” Miranda conceded. “It’s funny. A few weeks ago, Shepard told me I have a tendency to interact with people like they’re objects, disregarding their thoughts and feelings, because I’m only concerned with my own goals. I disagreed with her at the time. But, in hindsight, I’ve realised she had a point. I do have a habit of only taking my own perspective into account, and treating others in ways I’d never want to be treated myself.”

Miranda neglected to mention that Samara had practically had to spell it out for her yesterday before she understood that, and that she’d felt...uneasy about her past behaviour ever since.

“This is all learned behaviour,” Kelly advised, believing that knowledge would both aid and comfort her. “Like I said before, you were raised by a narcissist, who possibly suffered from other personality disorders as well. As a direct result of being raised in that environment, knowing nothing except his treatment of you, you were taught not to empathise with others. You had no model to learn empathy from. In a way, becoming self-centred and emotionally closed-off was also necessary for your own survival. But this can all be unlearned, if you choose to.”

“Hmm.” Miranda paused to consider that, giving it some thought. It made sense that her problems relating to others were a result of nurture rather than nature, given that Oriana was her polar opposite when it came to those things. So why couldn’t those things be changed later in life, given enough time and effort?

Really, in a lot of ways, it wasn’t news to her that the way her father had raised her had affected her. She knew it had. She’d always known she didn’t fit in socially. The thing was, up until now, Miranda hadn’t cared. The prospect of working to improve those aspects of herself was one she would have scoffed at a few months ago - changing herself to appeal more to people she didn’t like, so that she could be better at faking conversations she found tedious.

Before the Normandy, Miranda hadn’t done friendships. She hadn’t done relationships. Jacob had been her only exception on both counts, and that had fizzled in a few short months. She didn’t go out for drinks with people after work. She didn’t want to, or care to. She’d seen how social other people were, and brushed it off as a massive waste of time. Something that didn’t interest her, or appeal to her in any way. So what had been the utility in working to become better at something she had no intention of doing anyway?

If the old Miranda had had her way, she would never have interacted with anyone unless there was a purpose behind it - getting something she wanted out of that person in return. Conversations were like transactions, or else what was the point of them? She valued others for their usefulness, just as her aptitude and her skills were what others always valued in her.

But none of that was true anymore.

On the Normandy, Miranda hadn’t been able to continue the same patterns of behaviour she had in the past. For as long as she’d been with Cerberus, nobody had ever really cared about her closed-off personality, as long as she’d gotten the job done. And her hypercompetence had quickly led her to rise through the ranks, into positions of authority.

She didn’t have to deal with people’s quirks. She was in charge, and she reported directly to The Illusive Man. So, when Miranda told people to do things, they did them, no matter how much they didn’t like her.

Miranda hadn’t been able to get away with that on the Normandy, not that she hadn’t tried. She’d issued commands and expected them to be followed, and it hadn’t worked the way it used to. Her squadmates weren’t Cerberus. Even the members of the crew weren’t really. They’d been recruited specifically for this mission. That made most of them fundamentally different from the diehard Cerberus agents Miranda had worked with in the past.

People didn’t respond to her the way she’d expected them to respond. They’d been difficult, and complex, and often baffling to her, like puzzles that had to be solved before they would heed her instructions and advice, which was something Miranda had no time for. Most of them would still begrudgingly do what she said, but it wasn’t lost on Miranda that she didn’t command anywhere near the same level of respect that Shepard did.

Being this close to so many different types of people had forced Miranda (however unwilling she was) to step out of her comfort zone. She still hadn’t learned how to talk to people, or figured out what wasn’t working with her regular approach. But, for almost the first time in her life, she’d formed actual bonds with people, made real friends. With a select few in particular, but, really, even the weaker social connections she’d formed on the Normandy were a huge leap compared to where she’d stood a few months ago - where she’d considered every single person under her command disposable. Shepard didn’t lead that way, for good reason.

For the first time in her life, Miranda had finally started to concede that she might have been wrong all those times before - that maybe she had actually been missing out on something for all those years that she’d dismissed the idea of pursuing friendships with people, or working to become more social.

Needless to say, there was one specific person who entered her mind when she thought about that. The one person who had been more responsible than any other for changing her perspective.

“Enough about me. What do you think of Samara?” Miranda prompted next, ready to change the subject.

“Samara…” Kelly trailed off, a slightly pained smile crossing her lips. “Samara is actually the person I’m most worried about on this ship.”

Miranda instantly straightened up, surprised to hear that. “Oh?” She shifted in her seat. She wasn’t sure if that might have been because Kelly had somehow accessed Samara’s old medical records too. Miranda still felt uncomfortable about having gone behind Samara’s back like that, and she knew she had to apologise for doing it, although it was a question of finding the right time to admit to her wrongdoing. “...Why, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Because I haven’t seen any signs of progress with her mental health, and I can’t foresee a path to recovery for her at this time,” Kelly conceded. “I mean, think about it. She’s been in pain for four hundred years. She’s taken the life of her own child. That’s unfathomable to either of us.”

Miranda’s brow creased. Kelly wasn’t wrong, exactly. She knew Samara still carried a lot of grief from her past. But ending Morinth’s killing spree had caused a fundamental change in her. Samara had been so quiet and reserved before that, so focused on the task that lay ahead of her. Since Morinth’s passing, she’d been so much more open, and conversational.

“You really don’t see any change in her after Morinth?” Miranda asked, unable to let that slide.

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Kelly shook her head. “Killing her own daughter may have closed a chapter in her life, but it hasn’t healed her wounds. She’s a strong woman, but she still carries that shroud of sorrow with her everywhere. I don’t think she knows how to live without it. And I’m not certain she wants to.”

“It’s not always there,” Miranda spoke up, much to Kelly’s surprise. “Most of the time when I talk to her, she seems perfectly fine to me. Happy, even. I imagine Shepard would say the same.”

Kelly was visibly intrigued to hear that. “You talk to Samara a lot?”

“Is there any reason I shouldn’t?” Miranda shrugged in reply, not sure why that warranted comment.

“No, no, not at all,” Kelly assured her, shaking her head and waving her hands to clear up any misunderstanding. “Samara did mention that you’ve been training together. Even meditating, which I admit I found difficult to believe at first. I just wasn’t aware you spent so much time with her. Do you...talk with her a lot?”

“Most days,” Miranda replied. Actually, she couldn’t remember the last day she hadn’t seen Samara. “I enjoy her company. She’s a very intelligent woman.”

“You have that in common,” Kelly acknowledged.

Miranda paused and glanced down, thinking about their connection over the past few months. “Samara’s...helped me a lot, actually. Sometimes it seems like she knows me better than I know myself. Those things you observed about me before, she’s the one who’s been...encouraging me to do more self-reflection, and reassess my perspective on things. And those changes you said you’ve seen in me, she’s a big part of the reason why I’ve taken those steps. Or tried to.”

“That’s wonderful to hear,” Kelly enthused, genuinely happy for her.

A small smile came to Miranda’s lips. “I’ve learned a lot from her. I’d say she’s been like a mentor, but it’s never once felt like she’s talking down to me. She’s never treated me as less than an equal. She’s simply offering her point of view, as I offer mine to her. But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t benefited from her advice far more than she’s benefited from mine. But I suppose wisdom and insight come easily to someone nearing a thousand years old.”

“You like her a lot, huh?” Kelly mused, idly resting her head on her hand.

“Of course. For as different as we are, we share a lot in common. And I know I’m supposed to be neutral and unbiased but, let’s be honest, she was always going to be my favourite person on this ship,” Miranda remarked.

Kelly chuckled. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

“I don’t know what I expected her to be like, but she’s so...non-judgemental, for someone whose role is to be judge, jury and executioner,” Miranda remarked, still trying to wrap her head around Samara the person and Samara the Justicar. The two were so intertwined that it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began, but there were definitely distinctions. The interplay between her personal views and this rigid Code were fascinating to ponder, particularly for someone such as Miranda who had never been religious or spiritual.  

“I suppose I can understand where you’re coming from, though,” Miranda continued, reflecting on Kelly’s earlier observation. “She does have a sorrow that she carries with her. I wish I could say that I fully understand it. I’ve tried to but I don’t. I think she’s used to dealing with it alone, not sharing it with anyone, which I respect. But the day after she killed Morinth, she even told me that she wouldn’t hold it against me if I didn’t want to be around her while she was grieving, and that she wouldn’t think any less of me for abandoning her at such a dark time. I was blown away. I virtually had to tell her, Samara, I’m not here out of a sense of obligation or a sense of pity. I’m here for you because I want to be.”

“But she accepted your help?” Kelly prompted.

“Yes, if you can call it that,” Miranda acknowledged. “I’m not a...sensitive person, by any means. I’ve never claimed to be. I couldn’t pretend that I know what to say or do when someone is going through something so...horrible. But I’ve tried my best to be there for her. Keep her company, when she’s needed it. I’d like to think that’s been of some comfort to her. I suppose it has, because she hasn’t kicked me out yet. I mean, there was one time where I said something that crossed a line, but I apologised for that and she accepted it.”

“What did you say?” Kelly asked.

“Ugh. I barely even remember,” Miranda lied. She remembered perfectly. “I made some flippant remark about Zaeed having a crush on her, and asked her if her Code allows for...dalliances. I realise now that was inappropriate, and she’s not comfortable with me joking about that. I certainly won’t do it again.”

“Good for you for owning that,” Kelly enthused, genuinely. That was progress.

“Yeah, well...” Miranda shrugged, rubbing the back of her neck. She didn’t feel comfortable admitting to Kelly that there was another, much greater sin she still needed to apologise to Samara for which she hadn’t owned up to. She couldn’t tell Kelly that, because it involved secrets that weren’t hers to share.

“So, uh...is that all you think about Samara, or...?” Kelly idly probed, as if trying to keep an unreadable expression. Miranda glanced back at her, curious. “Hey, you asked me for my opinion. It only seems fair that I get to ask you for yours.”

Miranda couldn’t exactly argue with that. “I don’t know where you want me to start. There’s a lot I could say. And a lot that I’ve said already. I mean, she’s an incredible woman. She’s strong, and she’s kind, and selfless almost to a fault, although she’s far from being a doormat. She’s patient, and understanding. When you see her in battle, she’s so graceful and precise. She can literally float on air like a feather. I’ve never seen anyone use such powerful biotics so elegantly, and so effortlessly, like an extension of themselves,

“One thing that’s really amazing about her that I don’t think a lot of people know is that, even though she’s been travelling around the galaxy for centuries, she still has this...youthful sense of curiosity and adventure. Honestly, I think she was secretly more excited about getting to meet and travel with humans than I was the first time I went into space. You’d expect her to be jaded, but she’s not. She really isn’t. Despite everything she’s been through, and all the injustice she’s seen, she believes the universe is fundamentally full of good people,

“There’s so much that I admire about her. Her wisdom. Her humility. How principled she is. Her honesty. Her tact. I wasn’t expecting it at all, but...frankly, it’s been an honour and a privilege getting to know her, and to be able to call her a friend. Everyone could stand to learn something from someone like her. And I think the galaxy would be better off if there were more people like Samara in it.” 

Miranda trailed off, not even really paying attention to what she was saying. It was a stream of consciousness, really. Thinking aloud. She only lifted her gaze after she realised several seconds of silence had passed with no response. She looked up to find Kelly grinning at her in a manner Miranda could only describe as disconcertingly cheerful.

“What?” Miranda asked, regarding her with an odd look.

“Nothing. It’s just...that was very sweet.” At that answer, Miranda tilted her head in confusion, not sure what that was supposed to mean. “You know, hearing you...say nice things about someone else,” said Kelly, waving her hand as if trying to downplay her reaction. Miranda wasn’t sure she was being entirely honest with her as to why she was so interested all of a sudden. “Ah, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to make you self-conscious. You know what? Forget I said anything.”

“I do that every time you say anything,” Miranda dryly quipped, suddenly remembering precisely what it was about Kelly that she didn’t like. To her credit, Kelly only snickered at Miranda’s snarky comment, not taking it personally. 

“You know, this is the sixth session we’ve had together, and this is the first time we’ve actually talked,” Kelly pointed out, very pleased with that.

Miranda rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll never make that mistake again. Am I free to leave?”

“Aw, I was really enjoying this…” Kelly playfully remarked, sensing that Miranda’s apparent disdain lacked most of the bite it once used to possess. “I swear, this stays between us. I won’t tell anyone you have a heart. I promise! It’s our secret!” 

The door had already shut behind Miranda before Kelly finished calling out to her.

*     *     *

Living with tinnitus was straight up hell.

If Miranda managed to get to sleep before 2am, it was a fucking luxury. Some nights, she didn’t get to sleep at all. When she did, there was no rest waiting for her.

The sounds of bullets and biotic blasts and banshees shrieking in the dark echoed in her head, unpleasant dreams drowning out the ringing in her ear. Every night when she closed her eye, the battle began all over again. She was back at the barricade. Back in that shuttle. Back to hiding from people who would track her down and kill her if she put a foot wrong.

Every night she ran from Cerberus.

Every night she felt Kai Leng stab her in the stomach.

Every night she went to war, and led her whole team to their deaths. 

Every night she watched husks, marauders and banshees tear her team apart.

Every night she woke up to the disemboweled corpse of the shuttle pilot dripping blood onto her face.

Every night the impaled soldier begged Miranda for help she couldn’t give him. Every night she left him to die.

Miranda rolled onto her back and pressed her hand to her forehead, not sure whether it was worse to lay awake with that piercing sound blaring like a siren in her soul, or to revisit the ghosts that were waiting for her in her nightmares, and that made her wake up in a cold sweat.

One way or another, it was a deafening cacophony. Louder than a hurricane. She couldn’t even remember the sound of silence anymore.

When was this going to stop? When was she going to be able to sleep again?

Sometimes, it was too much to face. So she just didn’t. She didn’t go through the torment of trying to block out the ringing in her ear long enough that she could go back to the harrowing memories that awaited her there.

Sometimes, she would slip out and climb up to the roof so she could breathe. Other nights, she would limp out onto the street and go somewhere near the water. The flow of the river was one of the only things that could drown out the ringing for a while. She would head back when the sun began to rise, before Jack’s students noticed she was missing.

Miranda had played Oriana’s messages on loop so many times in those restless nights, she knew them word for word. She would never get sick of listening to her talk about her day, and telling bad jokes to try and make her laugh. Miranda never did laugh. Not these days. But that didn’t matter. It was the thought that counted.

Miranda had taken the time to respond back, recording a message in the cold night air on the roof. She’d told her about the status of things on Earth. About finding Jack. About taking on responsibility for her students, at least until Jack recovered. Hopefully, she would get a response in the next few days.

She’d thought of Samara, and tried her hand at meditating. It hadn’t helped. She couldn’t focus. Couldn’t meditate. Because that ringing her ear was so loud. And it wouldn’t. Fucking. Stop.

Other days, she just stayed up and worked. She had a list of names. Everyone aboard The Normandy. Past and present. All the missing. And the scant few who had lived.

It wasn’t easy to track down next of kin, with how long and how widespread the war against the Reapers had been. But it was her duty to do it. With Shepard gone, and The Normandy missing, Miranda was the only thing left resembling a commanding officer.

She had to write to them eventually. She knew she had to. But how could she when she had nothing to say?

Why hadn’t they heard from them yet?

Miranda sat up and grimaced, running her hand through her hair. She couldn’t keep thinking about The Normandy. She couldn’t. Because, if she did, she couldn’t keep living in denial.

She would have to acknowledge the fact that nothing could ever be changed or remedied or healed. She’d gotten a second chance with Jack. A chance to rectify past wrongs, and admit her faults. But what about Shepard? Tali. Garrus. Doctor Chakwas. Kelly Chambers, who’d most likely died on the Citadel. Zaeed. Grunt. Kasumi. Not to mention Mordin and Thane.

It was too late. No apologies could ever be given for her mistakes. She’d never be able to tell them that she’d changed from the person she was a year ago. That she understood now why they hadn’t liked her. That they’d been right about her. Things that never bothered her before now curdled in her throat with the bitter taste of impotent regret.

Miranda’s jaw clenched as her fingernails dragged against her skin, her hand tightening into a fist, that incessant ringing growing louder and louder. 

No. She couldn’t lose her cool. She wouldn’t. Getting frustrated, getting emotional, it felt like admitting defeat - letting that damn ringing win. She could do this.

Miranda drew a deep breath, trying to will herself to let go of her thoughts, and to stop letting them eat away at her. Beating herself up wouldn’t change anything. It was pointless to stew on the fates of her crewmates, or the team she’d led to Earth, or the soldiers who’d died in the shuttle. So why couldn’t she chase those ghosts from her head?

She rubbed her palm across her eye, trying to compose herself.

Not for the first time, she wished Samara was there. She was the only person Miranda could have talked to about something like this - the only person whose advice ever helped her make sense of what she was feeling, and the only person who knew how to guide Miranda to put things into perspective. Never patronising. Never condescending. Honest, but fair. A confidant.

But this wasn’t like the old days. She couldn’t just walk into the Starboard Observation Deck when she needed Samara’s advice. Miranda had no way of contacting her now, wherever she was. No way of knowing if she was ever coming back. Whether she was still alive.

She had to deal with this alone.

And, despite being surrounded by people, she’d never felt more alone in her life.

A knock on the door disturbed her restlessness. For a moment, she thought it was a hallucination. But then it happened again. “Who is it?” Miranda grumbled. She felt sick. Her head was throbbing.

The door opened a crack. “Sorry, Miss. I didn’t want to wake you up,” Rodriguez’s recogniseable voice apologetically began.

“It’s alright,” Miranda murmured as she sat up, cradling her blaring forehead, concealing her grogginess. It wasn’t as though she’d been sleeping anyway. “What do you need?”

“Yeah, um. Reiley’s been coughing a lot. Think he might have caught something. I was wondering if you had something to give him for it,” Rodriguez asked, shifting back and forth between her feet.

“Check the middle cabinet above the sink. There should be a blue bottle with cough medicine,” said Miranda, fingers perched against her forehead in a futile effort to fight off the headache attacking her skull from the inside. She’d tried to use cold medicine as a sleep aid before, to little success.

“Right. Thanks, Miss,” said Rodriguez, turning to leave. 

The door clicked shut. A bleary-eyed glance at the clock beside her bed told Miranda the time. Four o’clock in the morning. She hadn’t slept a wink. It didn’t look like that would change anytime soon.

With a heavy sigh, Miranda pushed herself up and headed to her desk. She had nothing but time. She might as well use it constructively, and address one of her problems. Something she had been putting off for too long.

She began to type.

To Admiral Shala’Raan vas Rannoch,

To Castis and Solana Vakarian,

To Feron,

To Abby, Lynn and Sarah Williams,

Regarding the status of

your husband

your daughter

your mother

your brother

I regret to inform you that the whereabouts of

Samantha Traynor

Steve Cortez

James Vega

Greg Adams

are still unknown.

I had the pleasure of serving with

Gabriella.

Ken.

Karin.

Jeff.

They were fine people. Among the finest.

Rest assured that I will do everything in my power

will personally see to it

will not abandon this cause until answers are found.

I will not stop until I can give

Ensign Copeland

Private Campbell

Private Westmoreland

Diana Allers

the justice of knowing what happened to them.

I will continue searching until I find out what happened to

Rupert Gardener

Sarah Patel

Zach Matthews

Jennifer Goldstein

Kelly Chambers

I understand this is a difficult time for you, as it is for all of us. I know that there is little that I can say that would ease your pain. But I hope it is of some comfort to you to know that not one soul who has ever served aboard the Normandy, past or present, has been overlooked.

That is my oath to you; that none of these names will ever slip through the cracks. If there are answers to be found, I will find them. No one will be left behind.

As long as I am alive, they will never be forgotten.

Yours sincerely,

Yours faithfully,

Regards,

Miranda Lawson.

*     *     *

“See, this is why I don’t understand Shepard’s obsession with collecting fish,” Miranda commented, taking another salmon nigiri in her chopsticks. “Every time I look at that tank, all I can think about is which one of them would taste best with wasabi. And, yes, I am aware that makes me sound like a krogan; they’re not right about many things, but we see eye to eye on fish being delicious.”

“Did you never have a pet?” Samara remarked, finding it very difficult to believe Miranda legitimately didn’t understand Shepard’s attachment to those fish.

In response, Miranda merely paused and stared at her.

“...That was an uninsightful question,” Samara acknowledged, shaking her head at her poorly judged query. Of course the answer was obvious. Miranda’s father had deprived her of anything resembling joy.

“No offence, but part of me is glad that you’re capable of making mistakes. I was starting to wonder for a while there. It’s nice to remember that you’re still human,” Miranda light-heartedly told her. She blinked, catching her own error. “...Figuratively speaking,” she added belatedly.

Miranda didn’t fail to notice the glimmer of amusement in Samara’s eyes at that comment.

It was a nice change of scenery, spending time with Samara on the Citadel. Shepard had granted everyone some shore leave while EDI was busy installing the Reaper IFF. Shepard was off somewhere in Zakera Ward, probably looking to purchase some more upgrades. Everyone else had been left to their own devices.

Samara had been curious to see how much the Citadel had changed since her last visit, which had been many centuries ago. Miranda had been only too glad to follow along at Samara’s invitation, watching as she wandered the Wards, listening to stories of what used to be there, and hints of the memories they held.

She’d pointed out a bank that used to be a nightclub. The mercenary group that Samara used to travel with frequented it. Apparently, they’d had some...interesting times there, in her youth. Samara hadn’t elaborated beyond that, but Miranda certainly wasn’t naive to the implication.

That clothing store in the corner used to go by a different name. It must have changed hands dozens of times in the intervening years. One of Samara’s sisters used to work there, and eventually became the owner of the store. Samara had wondered aloud what had ever become of her half-sister - if she ever did realise her dream of becoming a fashion designer.

Over by that fountain, Samara’s father had nearly gotten arrested there. All a big misunderstanding, of course. Evidently, she hadn’t realised the hanar would take the comment so personally. The young Samara had been mortified, and had apparently yelled at her father for a solid three hours for being so thoughtless, earning comparisons to her mother. 

It had been a refreshing change, seeing Samara so relaxed and casual. It wasn’t lost on Miranda that this was probably the closest thing Samara had had to a ‘day off’ in four hundred years. She was clearly enjoying it, nostalgic for happier times.

Once it started to get late, Miranda had invited Samara to visit her favourite sushi joint. She hadn’t been keeping track of how long it had been since they got to the restaurant, but the time they’d spent there had just flown by. Tables that arrived after them had already finished their meals and left, but Miranda and Samara were in no hurry to join them. Not a moment went by where they didn’t find themselves comfortably drifting into some new and interesting conversation.

“If I may ask, how old were you when humanity first made contact with other species?” Samara asked her. 

“Seven,” Miranda answered, cleansing her palette with ginger. “Why?”

“Being among the crowds and diversity of the Citadel reminds me that, however quickly humanity has adapted, this is still a novelty for your species,” Samara observed. “I have known many things, but I have never known a time when asari were alone in the galaxy.”

“Well, we knew there was other life in the galaxy because of the Prothean technology uncovered on Mars. That discovery wasn’t terribly long before I was born. We had already begun to colonise other planets by the time I was aware of the world. We just didn’t know how long it would be before we met you,” Miranda explained.

“I am not particularly familiar with human aging, but seven would be more than old enough to have distinct memories and some comprehension of The First Contact War, would it not?” Samara asked, curious. Miranda nodded. “What do you remember of that time?”

Miranda paused. “...It was the first and only time in my life I ever saw my father afraid of anything.”

“Intriguing. What did he fear?” Samara prompted her to elaborate, levitating a piece of sushi towards her with her biotics.

“That we had been foolish, delving out into space,” she answered. “That any aliens we made contact with would be hostile conquerers, and that the skirmish on Shanxi was just a prelude to a turian armada finding their way to Earth and wiping us all out.” Given his response, it had been no wonder why he had become a Cerberus supporter once The Illusive Man published his manifesto. “Your species helped calm things down pretty quickly, though. I respected that. My father didn’t.”

“It is not an unfounded response,” Samara acknowledged. “The Rachni Wars and the Krogan Rebellions were long before my time, but they are evidence of how contact with new species is not without danger.”

Miranda’s expression darkened at her response. “You agree with my father, then?”

“No.” Samara shook her head, at ease. “My experience of the galaxy, and that of my kind as a whole, is that meeting new species is most often a beneficial and positive experience, and rarely a negative one. We would all be lesser without the galactic community. However, it would be arrogance to simply dismiss alternative points of view. They are not entirely unwarranted.”

“I don’t really need you defending my father’s views on anything,” Miranda somewhat curtly replied. There was no anger in her words, just a frank statement of fact. Samara blinked, mildly taken aback. “I was exposed to them relentlessly. He tried to control me and make me think the same way. I was never allowed to disagree. So, suffice it to say, if I hold a different opinion, it’s not for lack of ‘seeing his side’,” she muttered, turning over a piece of sushi between her chopsticks before picking it up.

“...Forgive me.” Samara bowed her head slightly, in respectful deference. “I am aware you did not have a...pleasant relationship with your father. It should have occurred to me to be mindful of your history with him, especially after I have advised you to do the same for others in the past.”

Miranda sighed, realising how she’d come off. “No, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. It’s not your fault. But a lot of things remind me of him. And it’s never in a good way.”

“Nevertheless, I apologise,” said Samara, unfazed.

Miranda frowned. If she was being entirely honest, the ‘father’ issue had been more of a raw nerve with her than usual ever since Miranda had been forced to confront just how much her own behaviour echoed that of the man she despised. 

“Did you have a good relationship with your parents?” Miranda asked, changing the subject.

“Yes, although I was often unappreciative,” Samara told her, floating another piece of sushi towards herself.

“Again, very hard to imagine,” Miranda commented, accompanying that with a pointed finger from the hand that held her chopsticks. Young Samara really did sound completely unlike the Samara of today. Most of the time, anyway. The parts about lecturing people on the virtues of independence and self-sufficiency Miranda could totally believe.

“As you are aware, both my parents were asari. I was raised by both my mother and my father, though never at the same time,” Samara explained.

“Were they separated?” Miranda intuited.

“They were never bondmates. But yes. Their relationship was brief, and I was the only child of their union,” Samara answered. “I primarily lived with my mother. My father was adventurous, often absent-minded...”

“Prone to getting arrested in front of fountains,” Miranda added, dipping another piece of sushi into some soy sauce.

“Yes,” Samara acknowledged, which almost made Miranda snort. “She was by far the more permissive parent. She did not believe in structure or discipline. She was also, shall we say...very generous with her affections.”

“Is that why you have so many half-sisters you probably don’t even know about?” Miranda wryly remarked, remembering their prior conversation about that.

“It contributed,” Samara conceded, perhaps missing Miranda’s half-joking tone. From her demeanour, Samara clearly didn’t bear any negative feelings towards her father for that. Miranda wondered if she once felt differently, or if that kind of sexual freedom was so normalised for asari that it simply wasn’t an issue. “In contrast, my mother was stern and strong-willed, which meant we often fought. From an early age, I yearned to travel the galaxy. She...did not encourage that ambition, and wanted me to focus on my studies. It was only later in life that I realised her strictness had been born from love, and that her desire for me to remain close to her on Thessia was the only way she knew how to express it.”

“Reminds me of someone I know,” Miranda observed, regarding Samara with knowing eyes. Samara didn’t deny the similarity. She definitely took after her mother, even if she had inherited her father’s adventurousness. “I remember you mentioning before that you felt like you lost your opportunity to reconcile with her.”

Samara’s eyes glistened wistfully. “That is correct.”

“What happened?” Miranda asked, curious to know.

“The last time we spoke, we had a terrible argument. I was young, and fed up with her restrictions. I told her I was going to come here to live with my father. She insisted I was making a terrible mistake and that, if I left, I would not be welcome to return. I took her at her word,” Samara relayed. 

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Miranda commented, in an effort to be comforting.

“That is because I am skipping over the part where we each said some very hurtful things to one another,” Samara pointed out.

“Oh.” Miranda’s shoulders sank a little.

“Forgive me. This must sound trivial to you.”

“No. Not at all.” Miranda shook her head. That was the opposite of true. “Why didn’t you reconcile earlier?” Miranda asked, shifting the subject away from herself. Based on her mental timeline of Samara’s life, Samara and her mother could have gone as long as three hundred years without speaking before her death.

“We were both too proud to apologise. But I did love my mother, and I know she loved me, in her own way. I am fortunate that I have many happy memories with her,” said Samara, at peace with that aspect of her past. 

“What about your father?” Miranda prompted, listening intently.

“I was not with her when she died, but we parted on good terms the last time I visited her. It pains me to say it, but...I honestly cannot remember what the last words I said to her were, nor her to me,” Samara confessed.

“If it’s any consolation, at least you know they were better than the last words my father said to me,” Miranda offered.

“What were they?” Samara queried.

“’Shoot to kill. Don’t let her escape’,” Miranda bluntly replied. Samara didn’t react, which helped Miranda feel a little less like a freak due to her abnormal childhood. “I suppose that was technically a command to his men, not to me.”

“Does it make you uncomfortable to hear others talk about their relationships with their parents?” Samara asked, well aware that she had enjoyed privileges Miranda had not in that regard.

“No,” Miranda answered honestly. “My childhood was what it was. I don’t begrudge anyone for having a better one than mine.”

“You are not envious?” said Samara, genuinely impressed if that was the case. 

“Well, I didn’t say that, but it’s also hard to envy what I never had. My father was never a father to me. And I never even had a mother, or any kind of maternal figure. Just some altered genetic sequences taken from dozens of women I never met,” Miranda contemplated aloud.

“Do you wish that you had met them? Or that you had been raised by a mother figure?” Samara asked.

“That’s difficult to say. I might be a completely different person, if I had been. Unless she was exactly like my father. In that case, no - having one of him was bad enough,” Miranda muttered. It wasn’t the first time she’d thought about this, but there had never been a clear answer. “It’s complicated. Part of me obviously wishes I hadn’t had these experiences, and that I’d had a childhood more like yours instead. That’s why I made sure Oriana never had to go through what I did. But, at the same time, if I’d been raised differently, I wouldn’t be who I am today. I don’t know if I’d be better or worse. But I wouldn’t be me.”

“And I would not be who I am today had I not weathered great tragedy,” Samara replied. Miranda felt a sliver of guilt, well aware of the devastating events she had endured in her past. More so than Samara realised. “Would you tell me that I was wrong if I wished my life had been otherwise?”

“No. Of course not,” said Miranda. The agony Samara had suffered was...soul-crushing. Miranda wouldn’t wish that upon her worst enemy. “But I’d rather confront reality than dwell on things that could have been.”

“And you are right to. It is folly to deny that which cannot be changed. But that which befell you was not what created the woman I see before me today,” Samara assured her. “You do not owe your character to any aspect of your father’s mistreatment of you. That you have grown into a capable, determined and resilient woman in spite of his abuse can only be attributable to your own strength. And that cannot be accredited to him. Your response to those events came entirely from within you. That is what truly makes you exceptional.”

Miranda’s lip curled into a small, lopsided smile. “I don’t know whether I can believe that, but thank you for saying it. I appreciate it. And everything you’ve done for me,” Miranda added. This mission had been far less tolerable before Samara came along. So had Miranda herself.

“And I am also grateful that events transpired to allow the two of us to meet, just as I am content with the person I have become,” Samara concluded, her expression as peaceful as her voice. 

They both sat in contented silence for a moment, each grateful for the rapport they shared in their own way. For Miranda, this was the first time she’d ever formed such a meaningful connection with another person. For Samara, she was savouring a genuine friendship for the first time in over four centuries.

“If I may...” Samara began. “I do not know why you chose to spend your limited shore leave listening to this foolish, tired old woman prattle on about the distant past, but...thank you, for accompanying me. I have enjoyed this a great deal.”

Miranda smirked. “First of all, there’s nothing tired or foolish about you. So jot that down,” she said, gesturing as she spoke.

“I am flattered. Although, you greatly misjudge me,” Samara replied.

“Secondly,” Miranda leaned forward conspiratorially, “Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve had a lot of fun today too,” she half-whispered, as if it was their little secret. “And I would gladly listen to you prattle on about the distant past again any time.”

Samara’s smile reached her eyes. “Now I know you are flattering me.” 

Suddenly, Miranda’s communicator beeped, disturbing the moment.

“Operator Lawson,” EDI’s voice came out, “The Reaper IFF is nearly online. Commander Shepard has requested all crew return to The Normandy. We will disembark in approximately one hour.”

“Thank you, EDI. Samara and I are on our way,” said Miranda, ending the transmission. For as much fun as they had been having together, the mission always took priority, for both of them. “I still can’t believe we have a geth crewmate now,” she remarked, paying the tab remotely from her omni-tool, leaving behind a generous tip as she always did for this place. “If someone had told me that a few days ago, I would have sent them for a psychological evaluation.”

“You should speak to Legion, if you have the time,” Samara recommended, getting up from the table and following Miranda out of the restaurant. “I found him very enlightening, both as an…’individual’, and because he provides fascinating insights into a species we know little about.”

Miranda was sceptical, but she gave Samara’s opinion of Legion a hell of a lot more credence than she would have done for anyone else. “I’ll think about it.”

As they approached the cab terminal, a holographic advertising board lit up.

“Waiting for a cab, Miranda Lawson?” asked the digital projection of an asari. “An elegant woman like you with an education in -DATA UNAVAILABLE- and an income of -DATA UNAVAILABLE- should be taking charge of your own destiny. You could be showing Justicar Samara the sights of the Citadel in your very own luxury, hand-crafted skycar from Tennekont. Now, wouldn’t that be an impressive way to end a night out on the town?”

Miranda snorted and shook her head as the billboard rattled on through a series of commercials. “I hate these personalised ads,” she said, hailing a cab.

“Do not worry. If you ever did wish to impress me, I would not recommend you follow that advice,” Samara remarked. “Aside from the fact that Justicars eschew personal possessions, in my experience, Tennekont have never been able to manufacture skycars the way they used to four hundred years ago.”

Miranda smirked. Either she was just imagining things, or Samara was...actually funny for a second there. “Did you just make a joke?” she asked.

“I would never joke about something so important,” Samara assured her, a glint of humour in her eyes. That time, Miranda did crack up just a little bit.

*     *     *

[team-free-will-oneshots]

Way Too Good

Title: Way Too Good (part three of the Buried Secrets series) Request:  Hello! Can I request something kind of long? Reader notices Dean struggling(barely sleep, self deprecation) and uses witchcraft to help him. But he finds and is angry enough to kick her out. - anon, + one from @witch-of-letters​ that i won’t write here cos spoilers Summary: Feeling better about himself than ever, Dean finally shares his feelings for you. Everything seems to fall into place, and neither of you has ever been happier. Nothing could ruin that... right? Pairing: Dean x Reader, background Sam x Reader (fem pronouns) Warnings: almost smut ! things are heading that way but then they stop, also angst at the end but the rest is fluff. and some swearing Word Count: 3,500ish

note; here’s part three ! all i can say is OOF and sorry ?? enjoy ;)

Part One | Part Two

Sam was still in the kitchen when Dean approached you. Though you’d finally found yourself free of your headaches for the longest stretch of time in years, things seemed way too good - you were just waiting for the other shoe to drop. When Dean sat down across from you, wringing his hands nervously, you were sure this was it. There was no reason he’d ever look so downright terrified if everything was as a-ok as he’d been acting.

“Hey…” he said, swallowing thickly. You paused, placing aside the scroll you were translating and offering a tentative smile.

“Hey… you okay?” you asked, and Dean chuckled, nodding.

“Oh, yeah. I’m great,” he muttered, and your brows creased in concern. He looked up. “No, really - that sounded sarcastic, I didn’t- I’m just nervous,” he stammered. You tucked your hair behind your ear and reached over to touch his hand lightly. His skin was warm and rough, sending shivers up your arm at the proximity. You tried not to show how fast he made your heart race.

“Well… don’t be,” you said with a slight smile. “I don’t bite… hard,” you added with a wink, and that drew a laugh.

“Actually, uh… I was wondering if I could make you dinner tonight,” he said lightly, tone so casual you didn’t at first realise what he was asking.

“I thought it was Sam’s turn to make dinner tonight,” you said in confusion. Dean shook his head.

“No… well yeah, it is, but... I mean… dammit, Y/N, I’m trying to ask you out,” he blurted. You froze, eyes wide as he waited anxiously for your response. Your mouth fell open as you blinked a few times, scrambling to find the right words but coming up empty.

“O-oh!” you exclaimed eventually. “Really?”

Dean ran his hand over the back of his neck, looking like he wanted nothing more than the ground to swallow him whole. “Well… yeah. Look, maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Let’s just forge-”

“I’d love to!” you burst out. “I-I mean- yeah, I’d love to have dinner with you,” you finished shyly. Dean’s eyes lit up, and he grinned.

“Great! Awesome! I’d, uh, I’d say I’ll pick you up at seven, but… we kind of already live together,” he said awkwardly, and you half-heartedly bit back an amused smile.

“Is that you telling me to be ready at seven?” you asked, stomach churning with butterflies as you struggled to keep from smiling like an utter maniac. Dean nodded.

“Yeah, pretty much,” he replied, seeming just as thrilled as you were. You realised your hand was still resting over his, and you drew it back, pulling the scroll you’d been looking at back over.

“I look forward to it,” you said, before mentally beating yourself up for how formal you sounded. You paired it with another smile, and Dean ducked his head, eyes doing that little squinty thing you’d noticed he does when he’s happy and that you found absolutely adorable.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he said, tapping on the desk lightly as he nodded to the scroll. You nodded, and as soon as Dean left the room you found yourself shaking like a leaf with anticipation. Your stomach was churning with butterflies, you felt lightheaded and dizzy with excitement, and the very blood in your veins seemed to tingle. You felt like a giddy teenage girl about to go on a date for the first time, but you couldn’t find it within yourself to care how ridiculous you were acting, even if it was about something as simple as dinner. You’d cared for Dean for god knew how long, but you’d always dismissed it for fear of disrupting the wonderful bond the two of you already shared. The fact that he cared about you enough to make the first move… You bit your lower lip to restrain your too-wide smile.

Eventually, you forced yourself to take a deep breath. As the buzzing in your head slowly subsided, you got back to work. Dinner or not, Amara was still out there, and you still didn’t have a way of stopping her.

Maybe not everything was perfect.

---

“She said yes!” Dean hissed as he ran into Sam in the corridor. Sam chuckled, folding his arms over his chest.

“It’s dinner, Dean - it’s not like you proposed,” he teased lightly, pushing down the tightening in his chest. Great - he was officially doomed to be a third wheel for the rest of his life to the woman he loved, and his goddamn brother. Wonderful.

“Lighten up, Sammy,” Dean said, elbowing his brother good-naturedly, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“It’s Sam,” he corrected halfheartedly, keeping his expression bright until Dean had left. The moment he was alone, he sighed, running his fingers through his hair as his jaw hung loose. He trudged to the kitchen, fixing two sandwiches before joining you in the library.

“Hey,” he greeted, putting on a good face. “Here, I made you lunch.” He slid the sandwich-laden plate towards you. He could tell you were struggling not to burst with anticipation, and the sight sent a warm feeling flooding through his veins. He’d never seen you this excited before.

“Hey!” you said quickly, the word coming in a short, sharp burst that made Sam’s lips curve in amusement. “Thanks!”

“Someone’s happy,” he observed, raising his eyebrows questioningly. “You realise the value of a great sleep, too?”

You laughed, a sound like windchimes that was so contagious Sam couldn’t have kept a straight face even if he’d wanted to.

“Something like that,” you murmured, lips tight as you tried - and failed - to restrain another smile. “Dean actually asked me out,” you informed him, and Sam’s happy expression froze, almost unnervingly joyful.

“Yeah, he mentioned, actually. That’s great!” His tone fell flat, but you were too excited to notice.

“Yeah! God, you must think I’m acting so stupid, I’m acting like a goddamn school girl but… I dunno. It’s been a while since I’ve been on a date with someone, and the fact that it’s Dean, it just… it just fits, y’know?” you blabbered, expression softening. “And it’s like… I dunno, everything feels way too good right now, and it’s like I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop. So… so I’m just letting myself enjoy it all. While it lasts,” you confessed. Sam nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah, no, I get it,” he assured you, and you nodded to yourself as you took a bite of the sandwich, looking back over your work. Though you seemed studious at first glance, Sam could feel your knee bouncing under the table, and as much as he wanted to resent the whole situation, he couldn’t bring himself to. You were happy - ecstatic, even. And his brother was just as pleased. As much as it hurt, he’d dealt with far worse pain, and it was worth it if it meant the two people he was closest to finally found happiness, even if it was in one another. They deserved that much, after all they’d been through.

Sam cleared his throat. “Right. Well, good luck, if I don’t see you before your ‘date’,” he teased, and you beamed, nodding.

“Thanks. Seeya, Sammy.”

Though his eyes were sad, his smile was warm. “Seeya.”

---

You threw yet another flannel onto your bed, huffing as you realised your closet was now empty. The Winchesters had certainly left their mark on you - it didn’t seem like you owned anything other than jeans and flannels, and you didn’t feel either of those were appropriate for tonight. You slammed your wardrobe shut in frustration, collapsing back onto your bed, extra soft with the added fabric strewn over its surface.

Rolling onto your stomach, you rummaged through the mess until you found your phone, shooting a text to the one best friend who could help you at this moment.

Sam - I need your help!!!

A few moments later, a light tapping sounded from your door.

“Y/N? You okay?” Sam’s concerned voice queried.

“Come in!” you called in exasperation, and as the door creaked open, you bit back a laugh when you saw Sam’s gun in his hand. He glanced from you to it, and sheepishly tucked it away, running his fingers awkwardly through his hair.

“Not that kind of help?” he realised, and you sighed, shaking your head. You let it fall back in defeat.

“I have nothing to wear. What do I do?”

Sam frowned. “Uh- am I really the best person to be asking?” he asked slowly, and you shot him a look.

“Well I can’t ask Dean, and you’re my other best friend, and best friends help other best friends work out a date outfit, so square up,” you demanded, and Sam shook his head in bemusement.

“Look, you’ve got tons of stuff!” he said, gesturing to the bed piled high with clothing. You sighed in exasperation.

“This is all flannel!” you exclaimed, and he looked at you expectantly.

“Yeah. And?”

“And I can’t wear that on a date!”

“Why not?” he challenged, and you stammered, struggling to find a response.

“Because- because- it’s not fancy?” you sputtered, your statement reading as a question as opposed to a defense. Sam raised an eyebrow.

“Are you going to a fancy restaurant?” he asked, and you shook your head slowly.

“Well, no, but-”

“But what? You don’t need to hide behind a nice dress and jewellery, Y/N,” he said, making a space for himself on the side of the bed and taking a seat. “It’s Dean - he doesn’t care about any of that stuff. He asked you out because he likes you, he wouldn’t want you to act like someone you’re not.”

You managed a small smile at his words. “Yeah. You’re right. Thanks, Sammy. You always know the right thing to say,” you told him, and he suppressed a smile.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “You good?”

“I’m good,” you confirmed, and with one last tight-lipped smile, Sam left.

---

By seven, you were ready. You kept it simple - you’d put a little effort into your hair, and you might have slipped on some of your nicer lingerie, but aside from that, you’d dressed as though it were any other day. That said, it didn’t stop Dean from grinning when you appeared in the bunker’s main gathering room.

The lights were dimmed, and Dean had managed to scrounge up a tablecloth that he’d draped over the long wooden table, which was now laden with silverware and two plates of pasta, still steaming.

“Hey, you look- you look great,” Dean got out, and you bit back a grin.

“So do you,” you told him. When the two of you sat down and began to eat, beers in hand, the conversation began to flow. It was all too easy to forget you were on a date - it felt so comfortable, so natural, that it felt like things had always been this way.

You put your empty bottle on the table, feeling the alcohol loosen you up, a comfortable buzz that dulled what few nerves you had left. You declined when Dean offered you another, and raised an eyebrow in surprise when he didn’t fetch another for himself. Your hex bag must have been working - Dean was as happy as you’d ever seen him, and to your amazement, he wasn’t using alcohol as a crutch. Things really did seem way too good to be true.

When you finished, you insisted on helping clean up - Dean washed while you dried, and the easy banter continued until Dean shot you a cheeky expression, tossing a handful of soap suds at you. Your mouth fell open, and you shot him a look of mock offence before reaching in the soapy water and chucking a fistful of bubbles at the eldest Winchester.

Your laughter and squeals rang throughout the bunker as the two of you engaged in the most vicious duel of the twenty-first century. Within fifteen minutes, you were both sopping wet, the warm water quickly growing cold as it settled on your damp clothes. You wrung out your shirt with one hand, still laughing as you tossed another fistful of lukewarm water at your date - the basin was devoid of bubbles now, having run out long ago.

Dean managed to duck and avoid it, and when he stood back up again, the two of you were almost chest to chest, both grinning breathlessly. Dean’s hand found your waist, his eyes softening as they met yours before darting down to your lips and back up again, so quickly you almost missed it. You were close enough to feel his shaky breaths as your heaving chest mirrored his own. And suddenly Dean was leaning in close, one hand threading through your damp hair and the other pulling you closer by the hip as he pressed his mouth against yours.

As cliche as it sounded, the moment he kissed you, the rest of the world ceased to exist. And though it was new and exciting and passionate, and made your head spin and your skin tingle, the kiss felt unexplainably familiar and soothing - like your whole life had been leading up to this moment, and finally, you were home. There was only you and him, his lips firm and soft as they explored yours, the scent of dishwashing liquid melding with the cologne he’d dabbed on his neck. You smiled against his lips, hand fisting in his shirt as he pressed you back against the countertop, deepening the kiss as his tongue sought yours. It was only a few moments until his lips began to travel down your neck, and between kisses, he managed to gasp;

“Your room or mine?”

You thought back to your own bed, still overflowing with clothes as your wardrobe remained empty. You dragged his mouth back to your own.

“Yours,” you murmured into the kiss, and he grinned, his fingers intertwined with yours as he led you back to his room. Though you only glanced at it a moment, it was almost unrecognisable compared to the room you had seen the night prior - almost impeccably clean, not a hair out of place. But the moment the door fell shut Dean was pressing you up against it, and the state of his bedroom was the last thing on your mind. You hummed as you stepped into him, wrists locking behind his neck as his mouth found yours once more.

His arms supported your legs as he lifted you up, not breaking the kiss as he moved the two of you to his bed, where he was quick to climb atop of you. He busied both hands with clumsily unbuttoning his shirt, somehow managing to keep his balance as he kept his mouth pressed firmly against yours.

The bed creaked with the movement, and suddenly, there was the distinct sound of something hitting the floor.

The two of you paused, exchanging puzzled looks, and Dean ceased his unbuttoning to spare a glance over the edge of the bed. He stiffened, and the mood dissipated as quickly as it arose.

Dean climbed off you, face hard as he reached over the side of the bed and held up the hex bag. Your hex bag. You froze, breath hitching in your throat.

“What the hell?” Dean muttered. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was to come - you knew you had to come clean. It certainly wasn’t the most opportune time, but of course, you weren’t sure there would ever be a right time to tell Dean that you were one of the “monsters” he’d spent his life hunting. You cleared your throat, and Dean looked over to you.

“Um… actually, I-I put that there,” you stammered, and Dean’s eyebrows shot to his hairline.

“You what?” he demanded, voice taking on a hard tone. Your lip was trembling, and you bit it so hard you could taste blood. Pushing yourself into a sitting position, you drew your knees to your chest, folding in against yourself in a futile effort to shield yourself from his wrathful gaze.

“Y/N. What do you mean you put this there?” he asked, tone falling flat. You exhaled slowly.

“I… um… look, there’s no easy way to say this, Dean. I’m- I’m a witch.” His eyes widened and he got up, taking a step back from you. You closed your eyes, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady, refusing to show how much that tiny action had hurt you. “I noticed how upset you’d been and I- I was worried about you! You were drinking away your problems, not sleeping, your room was a total mess, and- and you wouldn’t talk to anyone about it, so- so I put together something that would help. It- it’s not dark magic, Dean! It’s just- I was born with these- these powers, so… I figured if I could use them to help you, I… should,” you finished tentatively.

When you glanced up, Dean’s expression was blank.

“Get out.”

---

Dean kept his face hard as he clutched the hex bag so tightly his nails began to dig into his palm, drawing blood from the warm flesh. He gritted his teeth and ignored the pain as Y/N’s eyes widened in shock.

“W-what?” she whispered. Dean clenched his jaw, throwing the hex bag on the floor, where it promptly fell apart. Y/N suddenly pressed her hand to her skull, wincing like someone had hit her. As the dried herbs scattered over the wood, Dean froze at the sudden emotional onslaught as he felt his good mood literally draining away. The sullen heaviness he’d grown so accustomed to washed over him, only to be quickly burned away by his fury.

“Get out!” he shouted. “You’ve been lying to me, to Sam, to everyone this whole time and you think I’m gonna let you stay here?” he demanded. “How the fuck am I supposed to believe that this was about helping me, Y/N? I didn’t ask for your help, I don’t want your help, I want you to get the fuck out!” he roared, his rage overwhelming the hint of guilt that flared in his chest when he saw the tears in her eyes.

“Dean, I…” she murmured tearfully, shakily getting to her feet. He shook his head.

“I don’t wanna fucking hear it,” he hissed. “Get out. I can’t- god, I can’t even look at you!” he yelled in disgust. He watched as she nodded timidly, shoving open his bedroom door and leaving as quickly as she could without running.

Sam passed her as she left, brows creased in confusion as he stormed into the room.

“What the hell just happened?” he demanded, and Dean scoffed, nodding towards the hex bag on the floor as he ran his hands over his face.

“She’s been lying to us, Sam. She’s been a filthy witch this whole time and she put that fucking thing under my bed-”

“So you kicked her out?” Sam demanded in outrage. Dean nodded, expression steely, and Sam shot him a furious glare. “News flash, Dean - not all witches are bad! And sure, maybe she should’ve told us, but- did you even ask what it was for?”

Dean licked his lips. “She- she said it was supposed to help me, but- but I can’t trust a word that comes out of her mouth, Sam!”

“Are you even hearing yourself?” Sam yelled. “It’s Y/N! She’s had our back ever since we met her! I can’t believe you’d just-”

“She lied to us, Sam!”

Sam scoffed. “Oh, and you’ve always been so truthful,” he spat sarcastically. Dean gritted his teeth.

“This is different-”

“Like hell it is, Dean!” Sam countered, fists clenched and jaw tight. He shook his head. “I can’t believe you,” he muttered, spinning on his heel and storming out of the room. Dean grabbed his shoulder.

“Sammy, wait-”

Sam shook him off violently. “It’s Sam,” he said coldly. Dean’s hand fell as he watched his brother go, calling her name as he went. When his voice had faded into the distance, Dean set his jaw and stomped to the kitchen.

I did the right thing, he tried to convince himself. It was way too good, anyways. She probably didn’t even feel the same. It was probably all just some huge manipulation because- because why the fuck would she choose me?

Maybe she really was helping, a small voice suggested, but Dean shook it away. No. I can’t be helped, his thoughts whispered. As his rage slowly died, it was replaced only with a familiar, sinking feeling. That was good - it didn’t feel good, but at least it was something he knew how to deal with.

He reached for the liquor.

__________

Read part four here!

Buried Secrets Tags: @clarinette07 @demonsofhunting @carryon-doctor-lock @coupleofgoons @colie87

Forever Tags: @babygirloreo @calaofnoldor @lmpala97 @sebastianshoe @81mysteriouslyme @castieliswatchingoverme @spnlovr73

Dean tags: @polina-93 @justagirlinafandomworld @coupleofgoons

Sam tags: @sammys-dimpless

If you want to be added to any of my tag lists just let me know !

[noona-clock]

Do You Dance?

Arranged marriage au with Park Seojoon

Of course, @banana-sol ! I know this is probably not what you were imagining, but it’s what you’re getting! Let me know what you think!

Genre: Regency!AU/Fluff

Pairing: Park Seo Joon x You

By Admin B

“Father!” you cried, your brow furrowed deeply in both annoyance and surprise. “You must be joking!”

“I assure you he is not,” your mother retorted in the snippiest of tones. “Lord Park comes from one of the oldest families in the history of nobility, but it is widely known they have struggled with money for quite a few generations.”

“And what does that have to do with me?!” you snipped back.

“We’re rich,” your father interrupted. He knew your mother would not say such a thing out loud, so he’d taken it upon himself to state the obvious. 

“But we have no noble blood,” your mother added. “If you can’t see it’s the perfect union, then I have raised an idiot of a daughter.”

“So, you’re making me marry somebody I’ve hardly met because he has a title and we have money? And he needs money and we need a title?”

“You are correct.”

“And... how is this fair, exactly?”

Your mother pursed her lips, just barely refraining from rolling her eyes at you. “Life is hardly fair, my dear girl. Besides, the wedding is not for another two months. You have plenty of time to get to know him before you marry him. I daresay you will find him quite agreeable. And handsome.”

“But I don’t care if my husband is handsome!” you shrieked. “I care if he’s kind! And smart! And funny!”

“He most certainly could be all three of those! And handsome! Just keep an open mind.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, letting out a short huff. “I can’t believe you’re doing this. Forcing me to marry someone not of my own choosing for such idiotic reasons as titles and money. This is my life we’re talking about! The rest of my life! You’re willing to marry me off to someone even though he may very well make me incredibly unhappy for the rest of my days?!”

“Stop being so dramatic! He may very well make you incredibly happy for the rest of your days. Now go upstairs and get ready. We’re leaving for the ball in just a few hours, and you’ll be meeting Lord Park for the first time as his betrothed. You must look stupendous.”

You let out the longest, most frustrated sigh, shooting your father a look which clearly said ‘You’re really going to let this happen?”

He simply shrugged in response, and you knew neither of you had a choice. Your mother had decided this would happen, and that was that. Both of you were powerless to stop her.

You stormed out of the room and stomped upstairs, alerting your maid you were coming. She scurried into your room and helped you dress into your very favorite dark green gown with gold, braided trim. She did your hair up in the fanciest of chignons, sticking jeweled pins here and there and letting soft curls fall around your face. She powdered your face and dabbed on your favored cedar and vanilla scent.

By the time your family’s carriage rolled up to the front of the house, you honestly felt more beautiful than you ever had in your life. But you also felt more nervous than you ever had in your life. You were going to meet your fiance within the next hour.

Your fiance.

The man you were going to actually marry.

And what if he turned out to be horrible? All the things you’d heard about Lord Park (his given name was Seo Joon, you were quite sure) pointed to the fact he was simply one of the bluest of the blue bloods and had one of the most charming faces in society. You had never heard anything of his personality. And that’s what truly mattered to you when it came to your life partner.

But you knew, even though your family had quite a lot of money, you truly had very little control over your own life. You were an unmarried, young woman, after all. You had no standing, no voice without a husband. And as unfair as that was, it was the truth.

When the carriage came to a stop, you let out a deep breath, allowing a footman to take your hand and help you step down.

To be quite frank, you despised balls. You were a fairly shy person who did not enjoy dancing, and you had only found a couple of other girls who felt the same as you. But one of your friends had just married, and the other had traveled to Egypt to become a companion for a spinster but very adventurous cousin.

So tonight, it would be just you and Lord Park. For you were positive your mother would not allow you to leave his side the whole night. And you were about to be engaged, so it’s not like it would cause a stir or anything.

When you stepped in through the ornate front doors of the Park family mansion, you found your heart was pounding with anticipation. You’d never been good at meeting people, and while you were still very much against this whole arranged marriage idea... you still wanted to make a good first impression on your future husband.

You were going to be married to him, after all. And you would rather not turn into one of those couples who lives in separate houses and barely even sees or talks to each other.

You wanted companionship, at the very least, and that most likely wouldn’t happen if you presented yourself as a shy, awkward, and unwilling fiance.

“Look, there he is,” your mother whispered after leaning in close to your ear. She nodded toward the other side of the ballroom, and your eyes followed hers, landing on a moderately tall individual with dark hair, wearing an extremely well-fitting suit. You had to wonder how he could afford such nice clothing, but you shook your head of that thought. It wasn’t your place quite yet to worry about his financial situation.

Your pounding heart sped up even more when you father led you over to him to make your introduction. You were sure you looked your best, but you never knew what to say when meeting someone for the first time. The fact this man was your fiance only made it that much worse.

You saw the moment when Lord Park realized you were approaching, your breath catching in your throat when you made eye contact. He looked as nervous as you did, though you were aware that could only be your imagination.

“Lord Park,” your father smiled once you reached him. “Good to see you again.”

The two men shook hands, and you tried to keep from biting your lip nervously. You didn’t want to mess up the tinted rose balm your maid had applied earlier.

“You, as well,” Lord Park replied with a curt nod.

“May I introduce my daughter, Y/N.” Your father turned his smile to you, and you immediately dipped into a curtsy, bowing your head.

You felt Lord Park take your hand, and you glanced up just in time to see him kiss the back of your glove.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he murmured.

“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.” You tried to smile, hoping it wasn’t nervous or fake.

“Do...” he gulped, and your earlier thought of him being just as nervous as you popped back into your head. “Do you dance?”

Oh, god.

“I... I do,” you answered with an awkward chuckle. “I’m afraid I’m not very good, though.”

Your father took this as his cue to leave, and you suddenly found yourself alone with Lord Park. Although, you weren’t truly alone since there were a hundred or so other people in the ballroom with you. But you felt like you were alone.

“Well, I believe we have to dance together... at least once. Since we’re... engaged.”

The way he spoke confirmed your thoughts. He was definitely just as nervous as you were, so you decided to be up front with him.

“Might I... speak candidly?” you asked softly.

He nodded quickly, furrowing his brow. “Of course, you may. Please, feel free to speak your mind whenever you’d like to.”

Well. That was a good sign. A husband who didn’t want his wife to be seen and not heard.

“I did not exactly agree to this marriage,” you began. “That’s not to say I’m wholly against it. I’m just... apprehensive. I would rather... marry... for love. I completely understand the situation, and I’m trying not to judge you before I really know you. But if I come off as, well, a bit strange... That’s why. And also I’m just not good at meeting new people.”

The corner of Lord Park’s mouth turned up into a slight smile, and he let out a soft chuckle. “I understand, Y/N. Truly, I do. I wasn’t aware of this until your father came to meet with my father yesterday. Everything had already been arranged by the time they called me in. I wasn’t thrilled, either, but hearing your side of it just now makes me feel a bit more at ease.”

“...It does?”

He nodded. “It does. I was afraid my future wife would be somebody just after my title, but...”

“That would be my mother, not me,” you chuckled. “But she’s tolerable in small doses. I take after my father, I promise you that.”

“You said you’re not very good at dancing... Do you like to dance?”

“Not particularly,” you admitted.

“Well, shall we get it over with now, then? And after, I can give you a tour of the estate if you would like.”

“Get it over with?”

“I’m not a fan of dancing, myself,” Lord Park told you, holding out his elbow so he could lead you out to the dance floor. “But we have to, so we might as well get it out of the way early, yes?”

You smiled slightly as you slipped your hand into the crook of his elbow. “Yes, that sounds like a good plan.”

Even though your fiance claimed he wasn’t a fan of dancing, he was still quite good at it. He successfully led you in a waltz, and you felt many pairs of eyes on you two as you twirled and danced your way through the ballroom. Although you rarely enjoyed dancing... you found you actually kind of had fun this time.

Lord Park made you laugh as you danced, so this was probably the reason why.

He proceeded to take you on a tour of the estate, showing you all the vast rooms and explaining the history of his family. He was incredibly polite and charming, and halfway through the tour, he insisted you call him Seo Joon.

“I find it strange when wives call their husbands by their titles.”

“It’s too formal,” you agreed with a nod.

“Exactly. And... I know, this is more of a formal arrangement, but...” He turned toward you, reaching out and taking your hand. “I would like to actually be friends with my wife. I hope... I hope we can be.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling like an idiot. “I would like to be friends, as well.”

At the very least.

Seo Joon grinned, and your heart skipped a beat. Another good sign.

“Now, shall I show you the library?” he asked with raised eyebrows.

“The library?!” you gasped. 

“You like to read?”

“Oh, I love it,” you told him.

“Well, then, you’ll probably be spending a lot of time in here. We have more books than we know what to do with,” he chuckled.

You followed him into a nearby room, your nerves now fully transformed into excitement and eagerness. 

You’d begun the evening almost dreading meeting your future husband, not knowing what to think of him or if you would ever come to like him.

Now, you felt as if you were actually comfortable with him. And you’d only met him a couple of hours ago!

You didn’t want to jinx anything, but... you had a feeling this marriage would turn out to be more than just a marriage in name only. It would be a partnership. You would be companions and friends, and you would actually enjoy each other’s company.

And maybe... just maybe... you might fall in love.

Psst. There’s kind of a part 2 to this. Read it HERE.

Master list // RULES // Submit a Request! // Read About the Admins

[mercerislandbooks]

Citizen of the English Language: An Interview with Bahiyyih Nakhjavani

Bahiyyih Nakhjavani is a teacher and the translator of Prison Poems by Mahvash Sabet:

The Sparrow

One day, returning from the prison walk I met a sparrow taking the air too, on my way. It was pecking at a piece of frozen bread, a cold crumb lying between us in the snow. "You and I are both hungry prisoners," I said. At that, it instantly let go the crumb and flew away, and I thought, ‘Are you less than this sparrow? Why don’t you drop the bread too, like this bird? Why can’t you free yourself from crumbs—and words?

She is also the author of three novels set in the 19th century. The first two of these share a fabulist, allegorical quality: The Saddlebag (2000) takes place along the pilgrimage road between Medina and Mecca in what is now Saudi Arabia, while Paper (2004) features a Persian scribe in search of the perfect writing surface. The Woman Who Read Too Much was published in 2015 and fictionalizes the revolutionary real-life figure of Táhirih, a Persian poet and scholar who rejected the veil and threatened society with her literacy.

Nakhjavani’s most recent novel is her first set in contemporary times, and was my introduction to her writing. Us&Them was published this spring by Stanford University Press (and as Eux&Nous by Actes Sud in France). At the book’s center is a trio of women, all displaced in one sense or another by Iran’s Islamic Revolution. Daughter Lili pursues an activist, academic life in Paris, while her sister Goli raises a family in “Tehrangeles,” California. Their mutual desire to extract their aging mother from her Iranian home conflicts with their equally fervent desire to keep her at a distance, leading to a kind of maternal time-sharing arrangement that has Bibijan shuttling back and forth across the Atlantic. This female triangle gets ample support, mockery, judgment, and gossip from the circle of fellow expats and immigrants that surrounds them, so Us&Them can cast its satirical gaze widely, on family relationships, modern Persian mores and manners, and the politics of international migration. Few novels are as adept as this one at balancing the issues of the day against the traditional pleasures of fiction.

Nakhjavani agreed to answer some questions from me about Us&Them. Once we began corresponding, though, the trail of crumbs I left her led her words down other paths.

--James

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

Island Books: Nowadays we have Instagram to provide us with misleadingly narrow, envy-inducing glimpses at other people's lives, but when I was younger there was only the book jacket. There you’d find a moody photo of the author accompanied by a teasing bio ("Arthur McAuthor divides his time between a modern Manhattan penthouse and a 16th-century farm on the Normandy coast"). The back flap copy for your new novel is reminiscent of this tradition, but I suspect there' a good deal of all-too- real life to be read between those lines. Can you elaborate a little about your background?

Bahiyyih Nakhjavani: I wish I were more interestingly "moody" in the photo; it strikes me as manically coy! But I assure you, no teasing was intended. The back flap only attempted to summarize what many “corridor people” like myself have experienced in life. Basically, the land in which I was born (Iran) was not the land where I grew up. The country in which I passed an idyllic childhood (Uganda) was not the place where I was finally educated. My boarding school (in rain sodden Wales) was as different as could be from the place I ultimately completed my studies (vibrant leafed UMass, Amherst) and the library (at Smith College) where I wrote a doctoral thesis on peeping Toms in the erotic verse of the late 16th century is about as different as could be from sun-baked Cyprus where I raised my daughter and poverty-stricken Sierra Leone where one of my brightest students at university died of cerebral malaria before my very eyes. There are millions of people currently drowning in the Mediterranean and crawling under barbed wire fences across the frontiers of Europe and elsewhere, who could tell far more interesting stories of where they began, where they went, and where they ended up. My story is dull by comparison. But we are all “corridor people” with a foot in several rooms and a belief in the world as our ultimate home. I found myself in France by accident some decades ago, and stayed, not for any exotic or romantic reasons, but for gratitude, because of a job and medical insurance! But it was precisely the fact of being at a loss for words in this culture that led me to write books. My citizenship is in the English language.

IB: I love the opening pages of Us&Them. They address almost all the concerns a reader might have about what kind of novel it is, for one thing. It's immediately apparent that this isn't a safe piece of historical fiction about a vanished fairy-tale land called Persia and neither is it an agenda-driven polemic about an oppressive fundamentalist terror state called Iran-- it's much more complicated than that, and much more fun. Did you write the first chapter first, or did it come later once you'd established the tone of the rest of the book? And how was it that you decided to use a collective narrator?

BN: The first chapter that sounded the notes of that collective voice of “we,” was actually “The Association.” I didn’t decide to use a collective narrator; it literally came to me and I thought, oh, how interesting. Who’s this? Soon after I wrote a very early version of “Apocalypse” and then “Conference” which brought in more threads of complexity and hinted at a back-story, and then suddenly I realized the floodgates had opened. There were a thousand and one tales to tell, each of which echoed the same narrative voice but evoked a different “we.” And that was when “we” began to wonder what the hell “we” were doing; “we” began to ask ourselves who “we” were and what kind of book, if any, “we” thought “we” were writing. Ergo, the first chapter. And that was when I understood that this “we” was not the Royal We; it was not the Editorial We either. It was the Persian We, the word ma used all the time by Iranians. This specifically Iranian “we” has associations across a wide spectrum--all the way from sincere humility, to false modesty, to a slightly sycophantic hypocrisy and finally to the edges of self-serving irresponsibility. Once I realized that my collective narrator was so utterly Persian, the rest was easy.

The story of Bibi and her daughters had already been percolating for some time and I just wasn’t sure where to take it, so I had it rolled up in a corner, waiting to see if it was worth pursuing. When the voice of the collective narrator came through, I realized this reversed King Lear story, this tale of a mother, her two daughters and her lost son, combined the narrative of “them” with the cameo chapters of “we.”

IB: One of the great strengths of the book is its delicacy, the nuanced way you depict subtle behavioral differences. In the "In-Laws"chapter, for example, your narrator oh-so-politely exposes the character flaws of both the Eastern and Western branches of the family, all to fairly devastating effect. Is this kind of close observation simply your gift as a writer, or is there a cultural precedent for it?

BN: You are very complimentary. I honestly don’t know how to answer the “gift as a writer” question, except to say that when one is particularly close and simultaneously cut off from a subject, as I am in relation to Iranian culture, one develops a curious love/hate relationship towards it. One observes it, perhaps, with a little more detachment, precisely because its pull is so strong, so engulfing. I needed to use satire for that reason--to observe the Iranian psyche at arm’s length in order to understand some part of myself. But for that reason too, the satire had to be inclusive, compassionate, forgiving. It couldn’t be ruthless or cutting or cruel, driven by Swiftian anger or Rothian revenge (!). Although I have been somewhat alienated from Iranian culture by geography, education, language and time, I am linked to it, nevertheless, by family and history and a sort of subcutaneous loyalty.

Also, though one cannot hope to emulate such masters, I was trained in the school of Shakespeare. How can one not learn from him, that the heart breaks “smilingly”?

IB: Much has been said in recent years, both good and ill, about the "Global Novel." Allegedly, such fiction has international focus and wide appeal (hurray!) but is also elitist and homogenizing (boo!). Do you see your work fitting anywhere in this context?

BN: So many of these labels are invented, I think, simply to flag readers to generic bookshelves for the sake of sales, as well as to protect publishers from risk, for the same reason. We live in an age of brand names, identity tags, cultural politics; we need to box and label everything we read, wear, eat and say according to code bars in this materialistic society. It is actually the reason I chose the title Us&Them and not Us & Them or even Us and Them--leave alone Us or Them or worst still, Us vs Them. I was aspiring to oneness, God help me, and if that is what the word “Global” means, in terms of international focus and wide appeal, why not, so long as it doesn’t provoke the reaction of Theresa May that a “world citizen is a citizen of nowhere” or suggest “globalization” in its most restrictive sense of elitism and homogenization. Certainly it is a book that is not rooted to one country only or one place. I couldn’t make it other than that; it spans the planet simply because Persians in the diaspora actually do! The story of the old woman begins in an airport, in transit, and ends in a graveyard which marks the transitory nature of life.

I hoped this story would go beyond the Persian diaspora. It is about all migrant communities, all refugees, all people exiled either by choice or because of necessity. We do need labels, to flag the limits of our knowledge, the extent of our ignorance, but as Aminatta Forna says, labels can also limit who we are. She is a Sierra Leonian Scottish writer: does that make her black, white, British, African, global? Her response is that she doesn’t want to be tagged as anything, even feminist, and would rather just be a “writer.” I would add, and if possible a human being.

In one of Ursula Le Guin’s wonderful little short stories, she writes (from the point of view of a dead worker ant): “Tunnels are long. But the un-tunneled is longer.”

IB: I kept thinking of Lore Segal while I read your book. Her fiction, like yours, treats themes of immigration, exile, and assimilation through comedy. Her writing, like yours, is feminist, sardonic, diasporic, and brilliant. This isn't really a question, just a compliment. But why don't I ask about your influences and antecedents while I'm at it? And about your favorite contemporary writers?

BN: Again, thank you for the compliment, most undeserved. I just read this wonderful interview in the New Yorker and would give my eyeteeth to meet Lore Segal. Do you know her? Now I have to buy everything she has written.

I have the greatest admiration in the world for Marilynne Robinson and find the depth of her compassion, the range of her reading, the lucidity and purity of her prose absolutely breath-taking. Somehow she has managed to write novels that are very American but very universal, because they are such eternal, human stories. I also love A.L. Kennedy’s sardonic Scottish voice, which hides pain so achingly well, as in her brilliant novel Day and the Irish, past and present, never fail to dazzle me--Colm Tóibín et al. José Saramago has left us but I found his Blindness terrifying and The Elephant’s Journey utterly hilarious, poignant, and sublime. I also loved Mohsin Hamid’s The Reluctant Fundamentalist and am very eager to read his latest Exit West which I keep buying and giving away to others… But I must say, I keep going back to the oldies--the cross-cultural ironies of Henry James and Nabokov, the exaggerated lunacies and terrors of Gogol and Dickens, the liquid flow of point of view mastered by Virginia Woolf. Recently I discovered Pushkin and Proust (to be taken in short doses) and Dante’s Inferno and Purgatorio. So much to read …

IB: Any future projects or publications you'd care to discuss?

BN: Well, I should turn this question round and ask you: what kinds of books do you treasure most and keep longest on your book shelves? I suspect from your deft way with words that you probably write yourself too. Do you have your own projects, besides your very eloquent blogs and on-line commentaries? Do you believe in writing with the aim of publication? Or does that in and of itself scotch the project?

IB: Flattery will get you everywhere. While I do admit to the usual fantasies about being a “real writer” and have toyed with various projects both fictional and non-, I have no illusions that anyone will be publishing my thought bubbles any time soon. I certainly wouldn’t object if they did.

In the meanwhile, I'm content to write posts like this one you’re working on with me, brief essayistic pieces that use books as a lens for examining various other things. Often other books. They allow me to borrow the smart things other people have said and save me the trouble of coming up with my own ideas. Watch, I’ll borrow right now: I just ran across an interview with the Argentinian writer Rodrigo Fresán in which he self-describes as “a reader who writes.” That’s me.

As for my most treasured books, there are far too many to mention here, even with the infinite resources of the web at our disposal. I can narrow the list with the help of your comments, though. You referred to a favorite above, Ursula Le Guin. While I can’t imagine parting with any of her books that are on my shelves, the newly collected Complete Orsinia would probably be the last to be pried from my hands. When I think of “novels that are very American but very universal,” the first name that springs to mind is Melville’s. Your quote about being a citizen of the English language reminds me of similar remarks made by a Hispanophone resident in my personal pantheon of authors, Roberto Bolaño. And speaking of voice, as you were, requires me to mention two inimitable (though often-imitated) stylists: Donald Barthelme and W.G. Sebald.

Lately I’ve also discovered the work of Gregor von Rezzori, someone who would have qualified as one of your “corridor people” even if he’d lived his whole life in the same place. Born in Czernowitz in 1914, he was successively a citizen of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Romania, and the Soviet Union before becoming an officially stateless person. Continually buffeted by shifting borders, he found a home in literature as it seems you have. The book-lined corridor in which you live is growing ever broader. Among the recent occupants are Valeria Luiselli (Mexico City native, sometime resident of eight other countries), Pajtim Statovci (Kosovar-Scandinavian? Finno-Balkan?), and Kapka Kassabova (Bulgarian-born, French-educated, currently Scottish). They aren’t confined to the hallway in silence, they’re inspired by their experiences and busy creatively remodeling their surroundings. Out of the tumult comes new writing and with it, new possibilities.

Which makes me wonder: Is the specter that’s now haunting us, instability that sends people--you, the writers above, and so many millions more--careening across continents, going to be the very thing that saves us in the end?

BN: Wonderful James, you have sent me ferreting back into my book-lined corridors in a flurry of excitement--hoping the metaphor doesn’t too closely recall the flutter and hurry of that feeble, feathered Virgin Thel who runs howling back into Blake's Vales of Har at the mere whisper of the Worm reminding her of life and love and death--in an effort to come up with something, anything, worthy of your attention. 

How can I thank you enough for these pointers towards great books to read? I shall acquire as many of them as I can and as soon as possible. This correspondence with you reminds me of my few privileged conversations with Alberto Manguel, that great and magnanimous man, whose wonderful The Library at Night and A History of Reading, among others, not only shows one "the way" of books but as Sir Philip Sidney said of the poet, gives “so sweet a prospect into the way as will entice any man to enter into it. Nay, he doth, as if your journey should lie through a fair vineyard, at the first give you a cluster of grapes, that full of that taste, you may long to pass further…” Sometimes a single grape can make you drunk.

Your last question about the spectre that might save us--is it of instability or insecurity?-- the spectre that sends us careening across continents, is very appropriate in light of the journeying metaphor, and the ancient symbolism associated with the Way in its spiritual sense. We certainly need saving, from ourselves if not from our appetites. Will restlessness (pace George Herbert!), in and of itself, do it? Is this incessant movement a fleeing from or flying towards something? Should we be careening about for a reason or is the rootlessness of the flaneur precisely the sort of detachment from desire that is to be aspired to? 

The figure of the wanderer in the Sufi tradition reminds one always of the transitory nature of the life. This is why I so love the Old English lament of “The Wanderer” (quoted in one of my blogs for Stanford University Press) because he confirms that we are all refugees here, every one of us. To forget that for a moment, to imagine for a single second that we have the right of permanent residence on this speck of star dust is to fall for the sort of hubris that toppled Theresa May. Yes, the irony of her situation did not escape me, all the more since she mimicked to perfection, with that gesture, the folly of Cameron before her, and slapped herself in the face with the same arrogance as he did, less than a year ago. Will we ever learn?

Certainly, those who have been uprooted by force and been flung into the winds of war and fallen foul of fear and famine and utter desolation in this world have the most right to write of such things. They have learned; they, and not the rest of us, have seen the underbelly of continents. These are the souls who really have something to say. I think that is the answer to your question about future projects or publications. 

The bottom line is: I think one should only write (or speak) when one has something worth saying.

The more I write the less I feel my words have worth, to be honest; I have nothing to say which others, far better qualified, have not uttered more eloquently before me--“Once, or twice, or several times, by men (and women) whom one cannot hope/To emulate ...“ And don’t tell me there is no competition but “only the fight to recover what has been lost/And found and lost again and again: and now; under conditions/That seem (particularly) unpropitious ...” Precisely because times are so unpropitious--both from a political as well as publishing point of view--I pause and wait to hear the knock at the door.

An abridged version of this interview was originally published in EuropeNow Journal.

[skeletonwithabowtie]

REALLY  LONG CHARACTER SURVEY. RULES. repost, don’t reblog ! tag 10 ! good  luck ! TAGGED. @themisfitmouse​ TAGGING.  Uh... @pxmpkinprincess, @sallowscripts (any muse), @snake-eyes-11 (any muse), @thesundowncrew (any muse. Please. Don’t do all three), @outlandishboogiegirl (any muse), @supernatural-sister, uh... Clover already tagged a bunch of people I would have picked... And anyone who has a free hour and wants amazing character development!

(Sorry about the length. I’ve put it under a read-more after a point)

BASICS. FULL  NAME : Jack Skellington NICKNAME : Alright, here we go: Jacky Boy, Skellington, Bone Man, Bone Daddy, Taibhse (Tabby), Mister Unlucky, Pumpkin King, Skeleton Jack, ‘Get out of My House’ AGE : I have no idea. He doesn’t either. Over a thousand, at least. He acts like a 6 year old, a 10 year old and a 40 year old depending on the situation. :| BIRTHDAY : Funny you should ask this. We actually don’t know. I’ve been here for over three years and we’ve never decided on a birthday. At this rate we might just have to pick a day. ETHNIC  GROUP : Skeleton/Ghoul/Spirit NATIONALITY :  Hallowe’en Town LANGUAGE / S : English, Irish. Dabbles in a few other languages including French, German and Spanish. SEXUAL  ORIENTATION : Asexual.     ROMANTIC  ORIENTATION : Hetero demi-romantic RELATIONSHIP  STATUS : Married happily to @pumpkinqueensally​  CLASS : Technically, higher-class. HOME  TOWN / AREA : Hallowe’en Town CURRENT  HOME : Skellington Manor, Hallowe’en Town. PROFESSION : Pumpkin King, Master Scarer, Hallowe’en Organiser, Spirit Guardian

PHYSICAL. HAIR : .... Skull. But in the human form, it’s dark brown and mostly short. There are some longer strands that can fall over his eyes. For the most part, these are all combed back neatly. EYES : .... Eyesockets. Sometimes there’s an orange flame at the back of them. In the human form, they are a dark brown. They shine with curiosity. NOSE : .... Nose cavities. But in the human form, it is long with a little curve. FACE : .... Skull. But in the human form, his face is long with defined cheekbones and a rounded jaw. LIPS : Surprisingly, he has lips. They are marked with vertical ‘etches’. In the human form, they are narrow, a shade darker than his normal skin tone. COMPLEXION : .... A skeleton has a complexion? In the human form, he is pale. BLEMISHES : Nothing comes to mind? SCARS : An indent on one of his neck bones from having the rope around his neck in his scarecrow form. He also has a scar on the top of his right femur, which is where the bone healed after a crack. TATTOOS : None~ HEIGHT : 6′10″ WEIGHT : Uh.... According to Google, the average weight of a skeleton is roughly 30 pounds?? BUILD : S-K-E-L-E-T-O-N. Human disguise, on the other hand, is tall and lithe. He looks like an individual who is very active, but not intensely so. FEATURES : His height makes him stick out like a sore thumb in Hallowe’en Town. His mouth (and skull in general) is unusually animated for a skull, and can stretch nearly the width of his skull. ALLERGIES : Pink and cute. Nothing comes to mind off-hand. USUAL  HAIR  STYLE : The human form usually has the hair combed back in three parts. However, if he isn’t paying attention, some longer strands can fall forward onto his face. USUAL  FACE  LOOK : The skull, as mentioned before, is lively and animated. A lack of eyes makes it difficult to determine his mood. However, rest assured that he is observing with interest.  USUAL  CLOTHING : A well-fitted pinstripe suit. It is black with narrow white stripes. Compared to the traditional pinstripe suit, the stripes look slightly haphazard. In place of a tie, a bowtie sits at the bottom of his neck. It is in the shape of a bat, with the wings mirroring the stripes on the suit to create the illusion of veins.

PSYCHOLOGY. FEAR / S : Due to being the Master of Fright, Jack does not have fears. Even so, he is keenly aware of the passage of time. As a practically immortal being, he will have to watch those he cares about grow old and die. He knows it isn’t a comforting thing. ASPIRATION / S : Simply put, he wants to help Hallowe’en become better and better every year! But personally? He wants to do what’s best. He has always believed in redemption, using violence as a last resort. So in a way, he strives to help others see beyond ‘reputations’ and past experiences. POSITIVE  TRAITS : Honest, Loyal, Dedicated, Child-like, Love of learning, Energetic,  NEGATIVE  TRAITS : Impulsive, Obsessive, Stubborn, Prone to being self-centered, Chatterbox MBTI : PROTAGONIST (ENFJ-A) ZODIAC : See the ‘birthday’ question TEMPERAMENT : Jolly SOUL  TYPE / S : Leader/Spiritualist ANIMALS : Prairie Dog! VICE  HABIT / S : He talks with his hands sometimes, using them to make gestures (often dramatically). When by himself, more of these vices emerge. He cracks his bones, and he will drop everything to focus on a new thought FAITH : While Jack’s origins are based in Celtic times, Jack himself has no religious faith. However, he is fully supportive of everyone else’s beliefs (or lack of) and will try to learn more about them if the opportunity arises. GHOSTS ? : His dog is a ghost. Enough said? AFTERLIFE ? : Hallowe’en Town is considered an ‘afterlife’ to some species. REINCARNATION ? : Jack will neither confirm nor deny if he has met someone who has been reincarnated. ALIENS ? : VERY HOPEFUL. POLITICAL  ALIGNMENT : He himself is the Pumpkin King, but this is a title rather than his position. Politics aren’t really a thing, though. ECONOMIC  PREFERENCE : He would be considered ‘wealthy’, but it’s not something that’s isn’t required to survive. SOCIOPOLITICAL  POSITION : As the Pumpkin King, he’s held in high regard. His word is considered law. EDUCATION  LEVEL : He has a high level of education, and has furthered this through acquiring new books and self-learning.

FAMILY. (Personal note. Due to different relations with different characters, I easily confuse myself between the ‘main’ verse and side-steps of this. Consider the family information the basics, but bear in mind these will change depending on who he’s interacting with. @.@ ) FATHER : None, technically. MOTHER : None, technically. SIBLINGS : None, technically.  EXTENDED  FAMILY : His wife, Sally, and Doctor Finklestein (a father-in-law). NAME  MEANING / S : ‘Jack’ was chosen due to his turnip head being linked to the jack-o-lantern. ‘Skellington’ is a pun. HISTORICAL  CONNECTION ? : I... Don’t think this applies to Jack.

FAVOURITES. BOOK : Too many to list! At the moment, he’s fascinated with historical books. MOVIE : He hasn’t seen many movies, if any. 5  SONGS : Very flexible in music genres. But his only proper interaction with music is with the Hallowe’en Town band.  DEITY : He will always have a soft spot for Celtic deities. HOLIDAY : Hallowe’en! Followed closely by Christmas! MONTH : September! (surprise!) SEASON : Autumn! PLACE : Spiral Hill! WEATHER : Crisp autumn mornings. SOUND : Autumn leaves crunching on the ground, the wind blowing through the trees, the chatter of the local ghouls, Sally’s singing, fire crackling. SCENT / S : Wood fires, new books, cinnamon TASTE / S : Hot chocolate, jellybeans. (He’s a skeleton, he doesn’t need to eat, so his experiences in taste are rather limited) FEEL / S : Sally’s arms around his shoulders, snow, the warmth of a fire, the attack hug of someone close to him. ANIMAL / S : Dogs NUMBER : Thirteen COLOUR : Orange

EXTRA. TALENTS : Scaring, pumpkin carving, fire creation and manipulation, acrobatics, dancing, public speaking. BAD  AT : Using technology, Detecting sarcasm, understanding when he should stop and think about what he’s doing, maintaining a proper sleep pattern TURN  ONS : TURN  OFFS : HOBBIES : Reading, Exploring, pumpkin carving, violin playing TROPES : Here. :P AESTHETIC  TAGS : ........  I don’t have any. GPOY  QUOTES : ... A what now?

FC INFO. MAIN  FC / S : Himself. ALT  FC / S : M.att Smith OLDER  FC / S : None, but I was jokingly considering C.hris Sarandon or B.ill Nye YOUNGER  FC / S : Hm... None. VOICE  CLAIM / S : His own voice, so.. D.anny Elfman/ C.hris Sarandon. GENDERBENT  FC / S : Nah.

MUN QUESTIONS. Q1 : if  you  could  write  your  character  your  way  in  their  own  movie ,   what  would  it  be  called ,  what  style  would  it  be  filmed  in ,  and  what  would  it  be  about ?           A1 : I hate to inform you, but that’s already a thing. My portrayal of Jack is based on the movie, so his personality and whatnot are more or less the same. Q2 : what  would  their  soundtrack / score  sound  like ?           A2 : See A1. Q3 : why  did  you  start  writing  this  character ?           A3 : Okay, so basically, Jack arrived at my house January 2013 and was like ‘HEY DID YOU HAVE A GOOD CHRISTMAS??’ and hasn’t left since. Q4 : what  first  attracted  you  to  this  character ?           A4 : It actually started when I was 12. I actually completely missed the online fandom since the extent of my internet knowledge was y.outube. I knew of Jack, and three songs. But I didn’t see the movie for about... I wanna say 6 months after I discovered the songs. I dunno though. I’m not entirely sure why I liked him though. Probably because he could sing. Who knows?

Q5 : describe  the  biggest  thing  you  dislike  about  your  muse.           A5 : Regarding him himself? I think the fact that despite his love of research and learning, he’s impulsive and can make decisions too fast without considering the implications.

In general? I think everyone knows how I hate him being a mascot of the ‘g.oth and e.mo culture when he’s so bubbly. Q6 : what  do  you  have  in  common  with  your  muse ?           A6 : ....... The mun/muse line blurs dangerously sometimes. It might be dangerous for me to keep writing him in the long-term. Q7 : how  does  your  muse  feel  about  you ?           A7 : Honestly I’m too nervous to ask him because I hate asking people things like this aaaa

Ash is a charming human. Honestly, I fell she is a little too lazy for her own good sometimes, but what she is interested in she will pursue it with such vigour! Honestly, have you heard her talking about those electronic games? Mind-boggling.

I must admit, I am proud of what she has achieved. For someone who claims to not work well on long-term projects, she has managed to perform excellently.

~Jack (who hijacked this questionnaire because Ash didn’t want to ‘cause a fuss) Q8 : what  characters  does  your  muse  have  interesting  interactions  with ?         A8 : .... Why do you ask such hard questions? I can’t possibly start singling out individuals but... Jack has had some amazing interactions over the years. Befriending villains, being a father to his children, adopting others as his own, meeting strangers because he was hopelessly lost... It’s honestly been amazing. Q9 : what  gives  you  inspiration  to  write  your  muse ?         A9 : It comes really easy to me, actually. I’m at the stage where I can see something and go ‘yep. Jack would do that’. In fact, as I was skimming the questions earlier I was mentally answering them. Those personality quizzes were completed faster than I could probably do them for myself! Q10 : how  long  did  this  take  you  to  complete ?         A10 : I started at 10.20pm. It’s now... 11.50pm. :D

[elletromil]

Of Umbrellas and Phoenixes

So I watched the last season of Sherlock last weekend and couldn’t help but wonder where Mycroft had gotten his umbrella from and I came up with this little idea where he somehow knows Harry Hart. Does the timeline work? Most probably not, sorry for those that think of those things. But yeah, it’s set sometime after V-Day but before season 4 of Sherlock.

@sententiousandbellicose @lady-mephistopheles @insanereddragon and @agent-eggy will probably be interested in reading it ;)

Of Umbrellas and Phoenixes

If Mycroft Holmes is surprised to see a different Arthur than the one he’s used to see working behind the desk, it doesn’t show. Not that Harry truly thinks Mycroft doesn’t already know a few of the things that transpired at Kingsman during the events leading up and after V-Day. And even if he hadn’t known anything, he could have deduced some of the outcomes simply by how Dagonet greeted him today when he entered the shop.

They might be an agency that works at the highest degree of anonymity, but they do need a minimum amount of official backing. In the UK, it mostly means dealings with Mycroft Holmes.

And while they could only be considered friends in the loosest of sense, they shared a mutual respect since the day Harry, then still agent Galahad, had protected him from an assassination attempt. Mycroft had of course figured the whole plot before Harry had gotten to him, but he would have been a fool to refuse the rescue from thirty professional killers intent on ending his life.

They had not actively kept in touch after that, but they had been thrown in together on occasion along the years.

“Mr. Holmes, a pleasure to see you still have your head attached.” The contrary would have been far more surprising, troubling even. Mycroft operated from the shadows far more than Kingsman could ever hope to and the only way Valentine could have ever gotten his hand on him would have been if Mycroft himself had walked up to the madman.

“Arthur,” he is greeted in return with his new code name, not that his visitor isn’t one of the few people on this earth that knew everything there was to know about him from unavoidable paper trails and whatever deductions his mind could work, “still around and kicking I see. I daresay you’ll outlive us all at this rate, even James Bond.”

In the early days, he might not have taken it as the compliment it was meant to be. After all, James Bond might have been MI-6, but the 00-agents didn’t have that much of a life expectancy. However, much like agent Galahad, agent 007 had a propensity to do phoenix impressions.

“With the newer Knights we’ve just welcomed in our ranks, I’d sure hope not.” As Arthur, he would be in much less danger than Eggsy and Roxy would, but he holds hopes that they would be good phoenixes too, if only because he has become too sentimental in his old age and doesn’t know how he would live with himself if something happened to them on his watch.

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard you had knighted some new blood. They don’t seem to fit the usual mold.” It isn’t an insult, simply a mere observation, Harry knows this, and yet he cannot help to feel slightly protective over his two younger Knights.

“I assure you they are as efficient as any other Kingsman.” There’s no way Mycroft will miss the defensiveness in his tone and he knows he just lost the first point in their little verbal game, but Harry feels keenly the weight of responsibility he has for the people entrusted in his care. It doesn’t matter if they never come to know it, no offenses, either real or imagined, will go undefended as long as he holds the title of Arthur.

There’s a calculating gleam in Mycroft’s eyes even if his body language immediately goes into something that will register as non-threatening and even apologetic. Not that Harry buys it for a second. The day he underestimate Mycroft Holmes is the day he’ll make a deadly mistake.

*

His meeting with Mycroft lasts for a couple of hours and while he would be lying if he said that he enjoyed himself, their little “chat” is by far the least tedious he’s had to suffer through since he took Arthur’s mantle. It helps that Mycroft has very little time to lose and while they do yield their words like deadly weapons, neither truly have the intention to incapacitate the other entirely.

Mycroft is already by the door when Harry remembers the gift he’s put to the side for him.

“Mycroft,” the use of his first name is a sure way to let the other man this has nothing to do with the meeting they just had, “if you’ll please wait a moment, I have something for you.”

“Bribery Harry? Already?”

If Harry hadn’t done much worse in his career, he might have taken offence that what he thinks of as a token of his respect for the other man be considered as such, but if that makes Mycroft feel better about receiving a gift, he doesn’t mind playing along.

“If you want to see it as a bribe, you can,” he shrugs, before offering up the umbrella.

It might seem like a strange choice of gift, but it is a little reminder of their first encounter. At that time, Harry had been a cocky little shit with more vanity than reason and he had not been in the habit of carrying the Kingsman-issued umbrella. He’s not changed that much since then, but he’s learned to step on his vanity if it means having more chance at surviving the sudden attack of a dozen trained assassins that have decided to join force after seeing what happened to their colleagues.

After seeing Mycroft successfully knock unconscious one of their attacker with a simple umbrella, then stab another one in the eye with one the broken edges, he had had to admit there was a certain undeniable charm to it.

His very next mission he had used one of the Kingsman issued umbrella nearly exclusively and since then, it had become a part of his signature.

“Of course, it’s only one of the older models, but I am sure you will find it handy if it ever comes to it.”

Mycroft has already found out the sword hidden in the tube and he smiles appreciatively when he notices that there is also a gun ingeniously incorporated in the design.

“I am surprised Merlin even agreed to this much.” It is no secret that there is no lost love between the two, even if they’ve never actually meet face to face. In fact, for some reason, Mycroft has a knack to infuriate anyone working in something resembling a quartermaster capacity, if the rant Harry has overheard from Q in a previous joint mission with MI-6 is anything to go by.

“What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.”

They both share a knowing smile, because they aren’t stupid enough to believe Merlin isn’t already aware that Harry has liberated the umbrella from the armory. Merlin might never be fond of Mycroft, but he understands the purpose of maintaining good relations with him. They could do without his support of course, but it would cause a spot of trouble no one wants to deal with.

They shake hands at last and it’s with a sigh that Harry closes the door of his office.

This meeting went well at least, but he always misses the stress of his good old missions after one. At least then, he only had to worry for his survival.

But his Knights and the rest of the Kingsman personnel have decided to trust him with the organization and he takes far more pride in not disappointing them than he ever did saving the world.

[mmrptest1]

♔ 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐆𝐎 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 ♔

𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄: Emma Vanity. 𝐇𝐎𝐆𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒: Slytherin, 1978. 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: Pureblood. 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍: Quidditch Player for the Montrose Magpies. 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: Neutral.

Most people see you more as a whirlwind than a girl, ambitious, vain and extravagant to a fault. You carry yourself like a queen too, hoping that it distracts both you and others from the huge weights on your shoulders. Dominating both the pitch and the social scene, you are the typical example of more than what meets the eye, the type of person that would rather defy expectations than conforming to them, but there are some you cannot escape, at least not if you don’t want to lose everything you’ve managed to build so far. The weights on your shoulders are pressing you down, and what can you do but dream?

𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐈𝐒 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓.

Storm clouds were gathering on the horizon ━ after a long period of uncharacteristic heat, it seemed like Britain was finally going back to its not-so-popular rainy weather. It was late in the afternoon, and Valerius Vanity was sitting in one of the gazebo’s on his large estate, sipping his tea (mixed with just a hint of Firewhisky) while reading the Daily Prophet. There was an article mentioning him ━ or so he’d heard from his teammates earlier that day while in the locker room. Even though it was excruciating to train in this weather, the Quidditch world cup was coming, and Valerius was desperate for his team to win. He’d been away from home almost a fortnight, traveling around the globe so he could check out the competition. It was three days ago he’d gotten an owl from his wife, the heavily pregnant Adelaide Vanity (née Montfort ━ though considering they are the wizarding branch of the house of Valois she used to prefer that name) stating she was likely to give birth in the next few days. He’d rushed home, not wanting to miss the birth of his first son ━ but when he’d arrived back on the Vanity estate, the doctor’s from St. Mungo’s told him it had been a mistake, and the baby would likely not arrive for another two weeks. His firstborn, Esmée, had been happy to see her Papa again, though, and that had made it all worth the hassle. He’d finally found the article in his Prophet ━ it was obviously written by one of his bigger fans at the paper, seeing as the title was ‘England’s Next Quidditch Legend, Valerius Vanity will single-handedly bring us the World Cup’ ━ when a high pitched scream came from inside the house. He shot up, shattering his tea glass in the process, and rushed towards the noise.

Piano tones had filled the house only moments before. Young Esmée, following lessons from her mother. The girl was only 6 years old, but she had a talent for it ━ somehow, sheet music came easier to her than normal letters, and it was one of the few things that she could do that actually made her mother smile. Adelaide had always been a complicated woman, back around her peers in France she was known as an ice queen, always calm, collected and most of all, cunning. She knew how to navigate social environments with seeming ease, and at the same time manipulated all those around her. The match with Valerius had been more of a business move for her than an actual romance ━ combining her own fortune and heritage with that of his would assure for a very high position in both the French and English pureblood societies ━ but he’d adored her instantly, and over time, she’d grown to care for the slightly eccentric man as well. Unfortunately, it had been incredibly hard for the pair to conceive a child. The doctors didn’t know if it was because of her or her husband, but it was very likely they would never have a large offspring, if at all. Esmée had been their first miracle child. She’d hoped for a boy, and though Valerius hadn’t seemed to mind much, his family had been desperately hoping for one as well. There were not much Vanity’s left, and his children were some of the last hopes they’d had to continue the family name (and inherit their insane fortune). Alas, their first had been a daughter, and though Valerius had been absolutely ecstatic, Adelaide couldn’t help but feel a hint of disappointment. Her mother-in-law had come to the house when her son was away and told her over and over again how she should’ve never approved their marriage, how Adelaide had been below them (this had made her especially mad), and how she needed to try for another child. Though she’d learned to hold her tongue and lock up her emotions, the old woman had hit a nerve. She hadn’t wanted a second child but followed the command anyway. It took six whole years, but when she’d finally felt that first kick ━ a sigh of relief had left her lips.

Esmée had just played a wonderful melody when she felt her contractions starting, she’d sent the young girl a smile, told her 'she was about to meet her little brother’ and called for one of their staff members. Though she’d lifted herself up carefully, the moment she’d let her feet hit the ground an intense pain shot through her back. Adelaide crashed onto the floor, a scream that could only be associated with the word pain leaving her lips. Hands reached for her instantly, lifting her off the ground and up in someone’s hands ━ whenever she tells the story now, she mentions the last thing she could remember being her first-born daughters’ face, looking at her mother being carried up the stairs in fear, followed by Valerius rushing after her. A sign had gone out to the rest of the Vanity family, for this was going to be their heir, the one who would set them for generations and carry their name into a new age. However, when they arrived at the estate, dripping wet from the raging storm that had finally burst loose outside, the mood was grim. Adelaide’s screams filled the house, and it felt more like the family was sitting vigil instead of waiting to hold a healthy newborn in their arms. Everyone thought neither the baby or the mother were going to be making it. But they did. They both did.

Emma Adelaide Vanity came into this world clawing for life, screaming and fighting and kicking, which she later used as a metaphor for her existence. It took well into the night hours to get her out, but when they finally heard the signs of new life coming from the bedroom, the Vanity family nearly broke their necks rushing up the stairs. While they were standing outside the door, letting Valerius and Esmée having a moment with Adelaide and the new baby, the whispers began. Was there something wrong? Did Adelaide pass away giving birth? Or Merlin forbid, did something happen to the baby? The door finally pushed open, revealing the new father with a small bundle of blankets in his arms ━ a glimpse into the door told them the mother was alright too, though looking deathly pale with tears streaming down her face. “Everyone, meet Emma” Valerius spoke, and a wave of understanding passed through the small crowd gathered in the hall, mixed with disappointment. Her father, however, was too busy admiring his baby girl to notice. She was female, and with the day the doctors concerned themselves over Adelaide, it seemed like she would also be the last of Valerius’ line.

Despite their disappointment in the couple having yet another girl, Emma was a beautiful girl (unlike her sister, as they’d often whispered behind her back), and that was something they could still work with. As soon as she was old enough to understand and agree to their requests, the women of the family were all over their little Emma, and it was obvious even their own mother preferred one sister over the other. If her parents could not have a son ━ she was the only chance they had of leaving the family with at least a legacy to remember. They would make the best possible match for her, someone who wouldn’t just profit of the fortune she would bring along, but someone who could help make sure it continued down the line as she passed. In a way, they were grooming her to be the heir, after all, her sister they considered too rebellious and not beautiful enough to fit the part ━ but it was different than what it would have been if she’d been born male. She was taught the proper etiquette for dinners, how to charm her way through the social waters of pureblood society, how to paint and sew and dance. She played instruments, learned foreign tongues and eventually, they started schooling her in magic too. Being a young girl hungry for knowledge, Emma never noticed how the goal was not to educate her but to turn her into a proper wife. The ribbons to lift up her hair and the pretty, custom made dresses from Paris were for her to look attractive enough to other pureblood parents to make them interested in arranging a match for her with their own child. Esmée, her older sister, was the only one who noticed, and she was not going to let them turn her Emma into a prize pony.

Even though the girls couldn’t have been more different at that age, they were incredibly close. Emma looked up to Esmée, admired everything she did and would’ve followed her lead, was it not for her family forcing the girl onto a different path. She was a Hufflepuff (the family couldn’t have been more ashamed), dressed like those people the Muggles called punks (the family was mortified every time she showed up to a social event, wearing, Morgana save them all, ripped jeans), and swore like a sailor (the family encouraged her to never open her mouth again almost daily). Emma loved her, though, and she loved her little sister in return. The family was worried it might be a problem someday, but a drunk Muggle driving his car just outside of Diagon Alley solved that problem for them. It was supposed to be a normal day, Valerius was out of the country with his team again, and Adelaide, bored and alone, took her two girls out to do some shopping. The mood had been surprisingly pleasant, and Esmée had even gotten a new broom from her mother (after trying on one of the dresses that had been selected for her, of course). By sheer luck, Emma had lingered on the other side of the road, tying up her shoelace, while the driver hit Esmée and her mother. A nearby witch had heard her screaming, and they were rushed to St. Mungo's ━ though young Esmée had already passed away out on the street. Adelaide made a full recovery, but it was Emma who bore the scars of the accident. Traumatized by the loss of her sister and even more traumatized by how lightly her family, with the exception of her and her father, were reacting to it, she still carries it with her up until this day.

After the accident, Emma was slowly but surely crawling out from underneath her family’s grip, she was unable to just sit still and look pretty anymore ━ she needed an outlet for her rage, a way to release the anger and hurt built up inside of her. It was only sheer luck her eyes fell upon the broom her mother had purchased for Esmée on that fateful day, but it was the best goddamn luck Emma had ever had. As soon as that broom lifted her off the ground and the wind blew through her hair, she felt something she’d never felt before. Freedom. She’d found her passion, but she knew her family would likely not approve of her spending her time on a broom instead of at a dress fitting, and she did not have the courage to face them. Not yet, anyway. It was a secret, she’d bribed the estate staff to keep their mouths shut and whenever her parents were out she climbed on that broom again. Emma was a fast learner, and it helped that she often attended the matches her father played in. Her fierce determination only encouraged her every time she failed, and soon she was zooming around the backyard with unparalleled speed and ferocity. She performed stunts and tricks that were normally laid away only for professionals on the highest level ━ and when her father came home early one day and saw his daughter performing a perfect Dionysus Dive, he knew that he could not let that talent go to waste. Emma was surprised by how positively he’d reacted ━ like he’d found a piece of himself in her, and how eager he was to defend her case to his family. He built her up high and told her that this talent of hers would bring their family more fame and glory than they ever hoped for. It took a week of arguing, but they finally had an agreement ━ Valerius could train her, teach her his skills and tricks, but in return, he would have no say in who they picked to marry her.

From the moment Emma set foot in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, she had only one goal. She wanted to be on the Quidditch team and dominate the Pitch in a way the school had never seen before, and with the training she’d already received, it was no surprise the young girl made the cut in her first year, the youngest Chaser on any of the teams, which made them all underestimate her skillset ━ according to Professor Slughorn, the faces the opposite team and their supporters made during their first match against her and the Slytherin team were quite amusing. It was no surprise when she eventually made Captain as well, her fierce determination and reputation as star player knocking out any possible competition. Despite her numerous complaints, Emma enjoyed being at Hogwarts. She enjoyed the Quidditch most of all, but the social part of it all, as well as the constant stream of knowledge being fed to her, did well too. It was all perfect, until it wasn’t.

It was at the end of her sixth year, right before the final match. Slytherin versus Gryffindor, a classic. Emma was tense, incredibly so ━ she wanted to win this game, there were going to be a couple scouts in the audience, and though they’d mostly be focussing on the seventh years, she still wanted to impress them. Stress often caused her to lash out, which meant most students knew to avoid her at times like this. Most students, but not all. It had been a stupid incident, a student bumping into her and trying to continue on their way without apologizing. She’d snapped at them ━ but instead of backing down, the other student just snapped back. With how incredibly tense Emma was, it was no surprise wands were whipped out and curses were sent towards one another almost instantly. A crowd quickly formed around them, cheering on both sides, with no one interfering ━ well, not until Emma’s opponent was disarmed and sent a physical blow her way instead. Fists collided with faces, and then suddenly, there was professor Flitwick, tearing the two apart. While she was dragged off to Dumbledore’s office, there was one thing she noticed that stayed with her for as long as she could remember.

Lucinda Talkalot, smiling.

When it later became clear Emma would suffer severe consequences for the brawl ━ though not as severe as they should’ve been, due to her excellent negotiating skills and the large sum of money her parents offered to the school ━ and she learned that not only she wouldn’t be allowed to play in the final game of the year, but she’d have to renounce her captaincy due to her poor show of leadership skills, the thought finally came up that this might’ve been a set up. Lucinda, of course, gratefully offered to take over for her at the last game, and Emma could not get that bloody smile off her mind. She refused to even hear what the fellow Slytherin had to say, anger overruling any other feelings she had. She was sure. She’d been set up ━ but Emma Vanity was never one to go down without a fight.

After spending the summer holidays training with multiple professional teams all around the world (bless her father and his connections), she’s coming back with a vengeance. To hell with what went on in the outside world, to hell with whatever Dark Lord was trying to control the wizarding world ━ Emma only wanted one thing: to show Hogwarts the incredible mistake they’d made by taking away her captaincy. She was going to work her ass off to become one of the most legendary Quidditch players that school had ever seen ━ though every now and then, she wonders if her motivations were solely out of vengeance and a way to prove herself, or just a way to distract herself from the terrible tensions tearing her world apart.

𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐄, 𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐄, 𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓.

𝒁𝑯𝑬𝑵𝒀𝑨 𝑺𝑬𝑳𝑾𝒀𝑵. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum. 𝑬𝑽𝑨𝑵 𝑹𝑶𝑺𝑰𝑬𝑹. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum. 𝑳𝑼𝑪𝑰𝑵𝑫𝑨 𝑻𝑨𝑳𝑲𝑨𝑳𝑶𝑻. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: Closed. 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘: Rooms. 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌: Phoebe Tonkin. 

[morsmordrehasbeensaved]

♔ WOLVES AND GIRLS; BOTH HAVE SHARP TEETH ♔

✤  Emma Vanity. ✤  Slytherin / Seventh Year. ✤  Pureblood. ✤  Neutral. ✤  Taken character.

Most people see you more as a whirlwind than a girl, ambitious, vain and extravagant to a fault. You carry yourself like a queen too, hoping that it distracts both you and others from the huge weights on your shoulders. Dominating both the pitch and the social scene, you are the typical example of more than what meets the eye, the type of person that would rather defy expectations than conforming to them, but there are some you cannot escape, at least not if you don't want to lose everything you've managed to build so far. The weights on your shoulders are pressing you down, and what can you do but dream?

BIOGRAPHY.

Storm clouds were gathering on the horizon ━ after a long period of uncharacteristic heat, it seemed like Britain was finally going back to its not-so-popular rainy weather. It was late in the afternoon, and Valerius Vanity was sitting in one of the gazebo's on his large estate, sipping his tea (mixed with just a hint of Firewhisky) while reading the Daily Prophet. There was an article mentioning him ━ or so he'd heard from his teammates earlier that day while in the locker room. Even though it was excruciating to train in this weather, the Quidditch world cup was coming, and Valerius was desperate for his team to win. He'd been away from home almost a fortnight, traveling around the globe so he could check out the competition. It was three days ago he'd gotten an owl from his wife, the heavily pregnant Adelaide Vanity (née Montfort ━ though considering they are the wizarding branch of the house of Valois she used to prefer that name) stating she was likely to give birth in the next few days. He'd rushed home, not wanting to miss the birth of his first son ━ but when he'd arrived back on the Vanity estate, the doctor's from St. Mungo's told him it had been a mistake, and the baby would likely not arrive for another two weeks. His firstborn, Esmée, had been happy to see her Papa again, though, and that had made it all worth the hassle. He'd finally found the article in his Prophet ━ it was obviously written by one of his bigger fans at the paper, seeing as the title was 'England's Next Quidditch Legend, Valerius Vanity will single-handedly bring us the World Cup' ━ when a high pitched scream came from inside the house. He shot up, shattering his tea glass in the process, and rushed towards the noise. 

Piano tones had filled the house only moments before. Young Esmée, following lessons from her mother. The girl was only 6 years old, but she had a talent for it ━ somehow, sheet music came easier to her than normal letters, and it was one of the few things that she could do that actually made her mother smile. Adelaide had always been a complicated woman, back around her peers in France she was known as an ice queen, always calm, collected and most of all, cunning. She knew how to navigate social environments with seeming ease, and at the same time manipulated all those around her. The match with Valerius had been more of a business move for her than an actual romance ━ combining her own fortune and heritage with that of his would assure for a very high position in both the French and English pureblood societies ━ but he'd adored her instantly, and over time, she'd grown to care for the slightly eccentric man as well. Unfortunately, it had been incredibly hard for the pair to conceive a child. The doctors didn't know if it was because of her or her husband, but it was very likely they would never have a large offspring, if at all. Esmée had been their first miracle child. She'd hoped for a boy, and though Valerius hadn't seemed to mind much, his family had been desperately hoping for one as well. There were not much Vanity's left, and his children were some of the last hopes they'd had to continue the family name (and inherit their insane fortune). Alas, their first had been a daughter, and though Valerius had been absolutely ecstatic, Adelaide couldn't help but feel a hint of disappointment. Her mother-in-law had come to the house when her son was away and told her over and over again how she should've never approved their marriage, how Adelaide had been below them (this had made her especially mad), and how she needed to try for another child. Though she'd learned to hold her tongue and lock up her emotions, the old woman had hit a nerve. She hadn't wanted a second child but followed the command anyway. It took six whole years, but when she'd finally felt that first kick ━ a sigh of relief had left her lips.

Esmée had just played a wonderful melody when she felt her contractions starting, she'd sent the young girl a smile, told her 'she was about to meet her little brother' and called for one of their staff members. Though she'd lifted herself up carefully, the moment she'd let her feet hit the ground an intense pain shot through her back. Adelaide crashed onto the floor, a scream that could only be associated with the word pain leaving her lips. Hands reached for her instantly, lifting her off the ground and up in someone's hands ━ whenever she tells the story now, she mentions the last thing she could remember being her first-born daughters' face, looking at her mother being carried up the stairs in fear, followed by Valerius rushing after her. A sign had gone out to the rest of the Vanity family, for this was going to be their heir, the one who would set them for generations and carry their name into a new age. However, when they arrived at the estate, dripping wet from the raging storm that had finally burst loose outside, the mood was grim. Adelaide's screams filled the house, and it felt more like the family was sitting vigil instead of waiting to hold a healthy newborn in their arms. Everyone thought neither the baby or the mother were going to be making it. But they did. They both did. 

Emma Adelaide Vanity came into this world clawing for life, screaming and fighting and kicking, which she later used as a metaphor for her existence. It took well into the night hours to get her out, but when they finally heard the signs of new life coming from the bedroom, the Vanity family nearly broke their necks rushing up the stairs. While they were standing outside the door, letting Valerius and Esmée having a moment with Adelaide and the new baby, the whispers began. Was there something wrong? Did Adelaide pass away giving birth? Or Merlin forbid, did something happen to the baby? The door finally pushed open, revealing the new father with a small bundle of blankets in his arms ━ a glimpse into the door told them the mother was alright too, though looking deathly pale with tears streaming down her face. "Everyone, meet Emma" Valerius spoke, and a wave of understanding passed through the small crowd gathered in the hall, mixed with disappointment. Her father, however, was too busy admiring his baby girl to notice. She was female, and with the day the doctors concerned themselves over Adelaide, it seemed like she would also be the last of Valerius' line. 

Despite their disappointment in the couple having yet another girl, Emma was a beautiful girl (unlike her sister, as they'd often whispered behind her back), and that was something they could still work with. As soon as she was old enough to understand and agree to their requests, the women of the family were all over their little Emma, and it was obvious even their own mother preferred one sister over the other. If her parents could not have a son ━ she was the only chance they had of leaving the family with at least a legacy to remember. They would make the best possible match for her, someone who wouldn't just profit of the fortune she would bring along, but someone who could help make sure it continued down the line as she passed. In a way, they were grooming her to be the heir, after all, her sister they considered too rebellious and not beautiful enough to fit the part ━ but it was different than what it would have been if she'd been born male. She was taught the proper etiquette for dinners, how to charm her way through the social waters of pureblood society, how to paint and sew and dance. She played instruments, learned foreign tongues and eventually, they started schooling her in magic too. Being a young girl hungry for knowledge, Emma never noticed how the goal was not to educate her but to turn her into a proper wife. The ribbons to lift up her hair and the pretty, custom made dresses from Paris were for her to look attractive enough to other pureblood parents to make them interested in arranging a match for her with their own child. Esmée, her older sister, was the only one who noticed, and she was not going to let them turn her Emma into a prize pony. 

Even though the girls couldn't have been more different at that age, they were incredibly close. Emma looked up to Esmée, admired everything she did and would've followed her lead, was it not for her family forcing the girl onto a different path. She was a Hufflepuff (the family couldn't have been more ashamed), dressed like those people the Muggles called punks (the family was mortified every time she showed up to a social event, wearing, Morgana save them all, ripped jeans), and swore like a sailor (the family encouraged her to never open her mouth again almost daily). Emma loved her, though, and she loved her little sister in return. The family was worried it might be a problem someday, but a drunk Muggle driving his car just outside of Diagon Alley solved that problem for them. It was supposed to be a normal day, Valerius was out of the country with his team again, and Adelaide, bored and alone, took her two girls out to do some shopping. The mood had been surprisingly pleasant, and Esmée had even gotten a new broom from her mother (after trying on one of the dresses that had been selected for her, of course). By sheer luck, Emma had lingered on the other side of the road, tying up her shoelace, while the driver hit Esmée and her mother. A nearby witch had heard her screaming, and they were rushed to St. Mungo's ━ though young Esmée had already passed away out on the street. Adelaide made a full recovery, but it was Emma who bore the scars of the accident. Traumatized by the loss of her sister and even more traumatized by how lightly her family, with the exception of her and her father, were reacting to it, she still carries it with her up until this day.

After the accident, Emma was slowly but surely crawling out from underneath her family's grip, she was unable to just sit still and look pretty anymore ━ she needed an outlet for her rage, a way to release the anger and hurt built up inside of her. It was only sheer luck her eyes fell upon the broom her mother had purchased for Esmée on that fateful day, but it was the best goddamn luck Emma had ever had. As soon as that broom lifted her off the ground and the wind blew through her hair, she felt something she'd never felt before. Freedom. She'd found her passion, but she knew her family would likely not approve of her spending her time on a broom instead of at a dress fitting, and she did not have the courage to face them. Not yet, anyway. It was a secret, she'd bribed the estate staff to keep their mouths shut and whenever her parents were out she climbed on that broom again. Emma was a fast learner, and it helped that she often attended the matches her father played in. Her fierce determination only encouraged her every time she failed, and soon she was zooming around the backyard with unparalleled speed and ferocity. She performed stunts and tricks that were normally laid away only for professionals on the highest level ━ and when her father came home early one day and saw his daughter performing a perfect Dionysus Dive, he knew that he could not let that talent go to waste. Emma was surprised by how positively he'd reacted ━ like he'd found a piece of himself in her, and how eager he was to defend her case to his family. He built her up high and told her that this talent of hers would bring their family more fame and glory than they ever hoped for. It took a week of arguing, but they finally had an agreement ━ Valerius could train her, teach her his skills and tricks, but in return, he would have no say in who they picked to marry her.

From the moment Emma set foot in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, she had only one goal. She wanted to be on the Quidditch team and dominate the Pitch in a way the school had never seen before, and with the training she'd already received, it was no surprise the young girl made the cut in her first year, the youngest Chaser on any of the teams, which made them all underestimate her skillset ━ according to Professor Slughorn, the faces the opposite team and their supporters made during their first match against her and the Slytherin team were quite amusing. It was no surprise when she eventually made Captain as well, her fierce determination and reputation as star player knocking out any possible competition. Despite her numerous complaints, Emma enjoyed being at Hogwarts. She enjoyed the Quidditch most of all, but the social part of it all, as well as the constant stream of knowledge being fed to her, did well too. It was all perfect, until it wasn't. 

It was at the end of her sixth year, right before the final match. Slytherin versus Gryffindor, a classic. Emma was tense, incredibly so ━ she wanted to win this game, there were going to be a couple scouts in the audience, and though they'd mostly be focussing on the seventh years, she still wanted to impress them. Stress often caused her to lash out, which meant most students knew to avoid her at times like this. Most students, but not all. It had been a stupid incident, a student bumping into her and trying to continue on their way without apologizing. She'd snapped at them ━ but instead of backing down, the other student just snapped back. With how incredibly tense Emma was, it was no surprise wands were whipped out and curses were sent towards one another almost instantly. A crowd quickly formed around them, cheering on both sides, with no one interfering ━ well, not until Emma's opponent was disarmed and sent a physical blow her way instead. Fists collided with faces, and then suddenly, there was professor Flitwick, tearing the two apart. While she was dragged off to Dumbledore's office, there was one thing she noticed that stayed with her for as long as she could remember.

Lucinda Talkalot, smiling. 

When it later became clear Emma would suffer severe consequences for the brawl ━ though not as severe as they should've been, due to her excellent negotiating skills and the large sum of money her parents offered to the school ━ and she learned that not only she wouldn't be allowed to play in the final game of the year, but she'd have to renounce her captaincy due to her poor show of leadership skills, the thought finally came up that this might've been a set up. Lucinda, of course, gratefully offered to take over for her at the last game, and Emma could not get that bloody smile off her mind. She refused to even hear what the fellow Slytherin had to say, anger overruling any other feelings she had. She was sure. She'd been set up ━ but Emma Vanity was never one to go down without a fight.

After spending the summer holidays training with multiple professional teams all around the world (bless her father and his connections), she's coming back with a vengeance. To hell with what went on in the outside world, to hell with whatever Dark Lord was trying to control the wizarding world ━ Emma only wanted one thing: to show Hogwarts the incredible mistake they'd made by taking away her captaincy. She was going to work her ass off to become one of the most legendary Quidditch players that school had ever seen ━ though every now and then, she wonders if her motivations were solely out of vengeance and a way to prove herself, or just a way to distract herself from the terrible tensions tearing her world apart.

CONNECTIONS.

LUCINDA TALKALOT ━ Used to sleep with, now despises for taking over the captaincy. EVAN ROSIER ━ It’s complicated. MARLENE MCKINNON & LUDOVIC BAGMAN ━ Party buddies, plays poker with.

THIS CHARACTER’S FACECLAIM IS PHOEBE TONKIN.