#and saw both of their profiles having that coloured halo

[somedayillbepeterpan]

I want this on my dashboard the way I want it— up close and personal and seeing both of their names close to each other.

I just find them both so unbelievably beautiful. Both of their twinkling blue eyes pierce my soul.

So happy to see them together. I love them so much🤧🤧

[supremeinlilac]

The Weeping Angel

Pairing: Billie Dean Howard X Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2007

Warnings: none???

Summary: An introduction story with Billie Dean, how you met on the Hotel Cortez's devils night

A/N: For @lilypadscoven !! Thank you for always pushing me and being so supportive, here's your little Billie fic :)) ps sorry for any mistakes, I have yet to go through it <3

Gif by: @illuminated-blue

It wasn’t the first time you’d had to spend a night in a sketchy motel in downtown LA, and although you’d hoped you’d gotten yourself to a place where you wouldn’t need to rely on them, you knew it wouldn’t be your last.

The wallpaper was dusty, peeling at the join of the ceiling to reveal the damp clinging to the walls. You tried to ignore the mildew that crept across from the corners, dark and whispering and eery against the dirty white paint.

There was a hole where a past resident had quite obviously punched through the wall and into the bathroom, showing the fragility of the plaster that separated you from the rooms next to you. The room was alive with past anger, souls in the walls with spindly arms that reached for the living.

It was cold, and you shivered beneath the itch of the hotel blanket, wrapped loosely around your shoulders. The motel windows did nothing to still the cool draft of the city night, allowing it to cut through ill-sealed panes.

You’d left your college accommodation earlier that evening, clothes thrown haphazardly into a rucksack as you’d hurried to leave. You hadn’t time to collect your personal belongings in the rush, so you knew you’d have to return there at some point.

There was no point worrying about the why’s now, you were locked in the room and you were safe. Safely unsafe in one of the roughest areas you could find, but you knew they wouldn’t think to look here. You couldn’t bring yourself to care about the details of your leaving.

You could hear the almost constant wail of sirens as police cars zipped past the motel, piercing and fading as they neared and went.

You sat with your back against the wall, in the space beside the bed. Your laptop balanced on your crossed legs, you connected to the flaky hotel Wi-Fi to try and get some of your college work completed before your food arrived. You still needed to keep up with your work if you were to have any semblance of a future.

A muffled sniff broke your concentration, cutting through the thin wall to you. Trying not to pry, you refocused on the illuminated screen, words blurring as the sound didn’t cease behind you. Sighing, you tore your eyes away from your work and onto the floor.

You were meant to be keeping a low profile, goddamn it.

Listening, an ear to the rough wallpaper, you closed your eyes to better gage if the occupant next to you was simply unwell or was crying. You settled upon the latter when a clatter of what you assumed was the bedside lamp fell to the floor, and the sniffling intensified.

“Are you alright?” you spoke to the wall, wrapping your knuckles against the plaster to show that you were talking to her.

Another sniff, this one an obvious attempt to disguise it as a cough. Feminine, you concluded, closing your laptop and sliding it onto the bed so you could shuffle around.

“Yeah, I’m alright.” Billie spoke, the pads of her fingers coming to wipe hesitantly under her eyes at the smear of mascara.

She stopped pacing at the sound of your voice, coming to kneel at the wall where she thought you’d come from. Unknowingly, you both reached up to the wall with searching fingers, resting on opposite sides in a fateful mirroring. Reaching out.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I-” she paused, voice cracking as she shook her head in surrender, “no.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“I- I can’t,” Billie confessed, forehead falling to the wall with a thud that you felt from your side.

You could practically hear the pain in her voice, the fear. You nodded in understanding, despite her not being able to see you. Luckily for the mysterious woman in room 124, you were capable in the art of distraction and it was an apt skill for moments like these.

“Okay. Well, urm- I, what’s your favourite colour?”

“I don’t- wait what?”

Her confusion had you subconsciously repeating the question, fingers pressed to the wallpaper as if you’d slip right though and into the woman’s arms, able to hold her and chase the demons that plagued her.

“Pink,” she rasped, “like the faded kind.”

You hummed, your stranger in pink.

“What’s your name?”

“Billie Dean Howard,” she paused, a small smile flickering at the corner of her mouth, “medium to the stars.”

“I’m Y/n. Medium to urm, LA?” you laughed uncomfortably, unsure of why she’d spoken her name as if a catchphrase.

Billie’s eyes narrowed to the wall momentarily, were you mocking her? She felt the tugging need to feel offended by your taunt, the familiar jolt of anger under skin. It would be easier to be mad, to rage at the world for giving her this gift and putting her in danger; but the silk to your voice softened her.

“You don’t know me?” She assumed, an expecting tone in her voice that made you faulter. You’d never really been one for reality television, even for factual programs like Billie’s.

“I’m sorry, should I?”

“No, I suppose not,” she trailed off, happy that you were in the dark about her personality. Glad you

People who knew her were curious, always asking questions she would be too eager to answer with a bat of her lashes and a confident tone. But on this occasion, she was relief that no questions would be asked.

Questions about what happened would be dangerous if answered. She knew she could never speak of the happenings if she valued her life, or those around her.

Billie Dean wasn’t stupid. But she was scared.

Your phone buzzed beside you and Billie jumped, hand to her chest to still the frantic beating of a nervous heart. Your food had arrived, and you moved away from the wall with a whispered goodbye.

Your new absence was overwhelming for the medium, panic looming as eyes darted around the dimly lit room. Lights from passing cars cast menacing shadows across the walls, each resembling ghosts from the hotel.

Reaching claws to drag her back to the Cortez, a change of their mind. Why should they let her go, when they could have much more fun with her in that chair.

Tears fell freely again and she let out a strangled sob. The phantom touch of the knife against her throat had Billie reaching up to push it away, the whir of the hand drill behind her closed eyes. She’d been so close to death, practically tasting its breath against her tongue as it mocked her.

The crack of a knock against her door pulled her from herself, and had her hastily wiping her tears with the back of her palm, smoothing down the dress with trembling hands.

Was it her, at the door, ready to finish her off?

Treading lightly against the scraping of old carpet, Billie Dean made her way to the door, fingers ghosting over the handle as she willed herself to be braver.

Through the peep hole, with Billie holding a nervous breath, she saw your back, and how you kept glancing up and down the corridor as if someone were to jump out. So you were frightened of someone, something, too. Just as she was, running.

With a shaky exhale, Billie drew the door open. You turned at the familiar click of the mechanism, a shy grin ghosting on your face as you held the takeaway bags up in silent offering.

Hello.

She was so familiar, almost as if you could reach out and touch her and remember. As if your past self was emerging to greet you again. A phoenix in fire from the ashes, a weeping angel from the rubble of death.

It’s you. It’s going to be you.

You couldn’t help but rake your eyes over the mysterious women silhouetted in the doorway. She looked out of place here. Too perfect to be haunted.

Your stranger in pink wasn’t actually your stranger in pink.

She wore a cornflower blue dress that held delicate white flowers, too dainty and too perfect to be dampened by the tears that tracked through her natural make up. It was cinched at the waist and just served to make her look ever smaller, more frightened. Like a child awoke by a nightmare.

Her hair was dishevelled, and it haloed her face in rays of glowing honey.

A weeping angel.

She wore pearls around her neck. Expensive and slightly scratched, as they get when they are someone’s favourite accessory and must be worn.

You could see where her rosy acrylics had picked her skin raw, worrying it unforgivingly between the nails. See the pain and fear reflected in her eyes, could she see it in yours too?

“Hey,” she whispered, ushering you past her and peeking into the empty corridor as if staying out in the open for too long was dangerous for the both of you. Maybe it was.

In her room you saw no belongings, nothing personal that would serve to tie her to the space around her. It was as if she were an echo before you, neither here nor there. An angel sent and trapped as a mortal, an echo.

She patted the bed beside her, drawing the table closer for you to place the bag on. You hesitantly set it down, moving to perch next to her and shyly look down at hands clasped on your lap.

Uncomfortable silence filled the air, thick and suffocating and it made your joined hands clammy with sweat. You busied yourself by unwrapping the food on the table, there wasn’t much due to your need to save money and only buying for one, but it would go round. You didn’t suspect that she’d eaten that evening either.

“Thank you.” She smiled, and you offered her one of the boxes of food with a shy glance. You assumed she meant for more than just the food. Her eyes conveyed what her words could not.

There was only one pair of chopsticks so you passed it back and forth, wordlessly, gratefully. The hum of the TV balancing upon the wall giving a welcomed distraction from talking, although you talked anyway.

You’d described your degree, your hopes and plans while she listened, the hint of a smile again on the smudged lipstick. She still looked beautiful, you thought, even with her messed up makeup and leg that bounced unrelentingly against the floor.

She still looked like an angel to you, one carved from marble, imperfectly chipped by the sculptor. Too broken to be granted eternity but ethereal all the same. A mortal angel among the living.

The angel spoke with chords of light and you were caught, hanging onto every word that dripped effortlessly from her silver tongue. She spoke about nothing, about everything.

At one point, Billie Dean reached her hand tentatively towards your, searching for the comfort of a strangers touch. You didn’t shy away from that touch; because even though there was safety in loneliness, you couldn’t help but feel the shelter from her invisible wings.

Perhaps Billie Dean Howard could be your safety, and you hers.

You knew she was running, and maybe she could run faster if she had an encouraging hand held fast in her own. Your hand. You weren’t an angel but your hands were steady. They were strong and guiding and made of your own marble. Forged by your own touch instead of the delicate chisel of an artist.

Neither of you asked the other why salty tears dried against the curve of delicate cheek bones, knowing that knowledge would do nothing but bring more pain. More pain that neither needed.

After all, misery likes company, and both of you were content to give that, even just for the night.

You hoped for more, but could learn to settle for a single moment of her presence, if that was all the weeping angel could allow.

taglist: @pearplate @billiedeansbottom @pluied-ete @notokpaulson @extraordinarilycelestrial @nothingbut-a-beautiful-monster @mssallymckenna @magnificent-paulsonn @shineestark @commanderspeach @grilledcheeseandguavajelly @darling-dontforgetme @amethyst-bitch @its-soph-xx @germansarechill @bluesxrgnt @d14n4ol @ninaahs @sarahp-stan @natasha-danvers @imgayandmymomdoesntknow @lovelypeasantjellyfish @rainbow-hedgehog @paulawand @saucy-sapphic @lilypadscoven @citizenoftheworld-stuff-blog @sapphicsarahpaulson @delias-bitch-craft

[hotchley]

i’m not bulletproof

Jesus Christ why am I so dramatic? Okay, my laptop is very close to dying, so I am cross-posting this, hotchner’s hoodie and the waiting game, then I will be gone... until tonight

Umm... yeah. This was my second fic. It’s literally for my pinned because I’m dramatic </3

Trigger Warnings: referenced child abuse, canon-typical violence, violence towards children and references to child deaths, suicide

read on ao3!

It started, not with a case, but with an argument. 

Jack wanted to go to a party. Hotch said no. He said no because it wasn’t safe, and the party was taking place on a school night, which meant Jack had to be in bed by ten at the absolute latest. He had hoped that by calmly and softly explaining his reasons for not letting Jack go, his son would understand why he was being told no and accept it with the same grace and dignity that he accepted most things in life.

Unfortunately, his son was a hormonal teenager muddling their way through puberty. And instead of accepting he couldn’t go, he kept pressing and asking why. On the third day of being asked, Hotch got irritated and raised his voice slightly, it became an argument.

“I just don’t understand why you never let me do anything,” Jack complained.

Hotch looked up from the budget report. He hadn’t wanted to bring work home- a remnant of the life he had once shared with Haley, but it needed to be done and he had wanted to spend time with Jack. With hindsight, it probably would’ve been better to stay at the office and let him stay with Jessica to calm down.

“I let you do plenty of things that aren’t irresponsible or dangerous Jack,” he replied calmly.

“But this party isn’t going to be irresponsible or dangerous, it’s just a bunch of teenagers. And doesn’t it count for something that I told you about it? I could’ve just snuck out the house and let you wonder where I’d gone,” Jack said, wildly gesticulating. 

He closed the file. “I appreciate you telling me, but my answer is no. You may be responsible, but not everyone is. I don’t want you being exposed to drugs and alcohol before you’re old enough to understand the effects it has on you.”

“You let me be exposed to death before I was old enough to understand what it meant,” Jack spat.

Hotch paled, all the blood leaving his body and turning him into a frozen statue, unable to move as the memory of Haley’s dark hair- of course it was dark, she’d gone into witness protection- spread out on the carpet like a halo and her eyes, still open but almost like the glass eyes of those dolls from that one case, haunted his memory.

“What?”  his voice was soft, dangerously calm.

Jack crossed his arms over his chest. “You heard me. You’re telling me I can’t go to a party, but I was just down the hall when mom died because of you. I’m not a little kid anymore, and you can’t protect me from anything anymore.”

“I can still protect you from some things,” he whispered, not making eye contact. The colours of the folder started to blur together as his eyes filled with tears. It was a morbid thought, but Jack’s words felt like the thorns his mother would throw in his side when she was angry at her husband and needed to let go of the pain.

“Well maybe I don’t want you to.”

“Jack, I’m still your father.”

“Are you? You’re never home at a normal time, you don’t know who any of my friends are, you always go on cases and leave me with Aunt Jess. Mom died because of you and your stupid profiling, but you still always answer when Miss Jareau phones, and you still go all around the country like I don’t even matter.”

“Of course you matter to me Jack. I love you more than anything in this world. But a profiler who catches the bad guys is who I am and-”

“I’m not five years old anymore. You’re not a superhero. You’re just the man that got my mom pregnant and sometimes makes me mac and cheese for dinner.”

Jack stormed off to his room before Hotch could say another word. He didn’t go after him, knowing that was the last thing his son would want. Rationale told him Jack didn’t mean a word of what he had said, that he was just angry and hurt, but he couldn’t help but wonder if it was all true. Of course Jack knew how to hurt him, what child didn’t know what would upset their parents, but he was also right.

He wanted to go and hold his son, to let him go to the stupid party and tell him he would stop being a profiler, but he couldn’t. He felt frozen in place, unable to do anything more than bury his head in his hands and wonder where he fucked up. 

Somehow he managed to get up and make them both something to eat- he went for stir fry instead of mac and cheese- before he went up to Jack’s room and knocked on the door.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” came the muffled response.

“I know you don’t. And I won’t make you.” I’m not your paternal grandfather, he thought. I won’t kick the door in and grab you by the back of your neck because you ran away. “I won’t let you starve though. Dinner is outside the door.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Hotch sighed. “Jack, please. I don’t want you to be angry at me.”

“And I want a real parent. We can’t always get what we want- isn’t that what you always say to me?”

Hotch had to step back, press a hand to the wall to stop himself from falling to his knees and crying. He wanted to tell Jack that wasn’t the way to speak to anyone, especially not an adult, but the words got lodged in his throat and he couldn’t speak, too scared of shouting or repeating the words his father had used the one time he had tried to fight back.

“I know,” he said instead, and walked back to the dining room. He pushed the plate he had set down away. 

His work phone lit up with Dave’s name. He answered.

“Hotchner.”

“Is everything okay? JJ tried phoning you but apparently you didn’t answer all three times. She thought you were with me, and when I said you weren’t, everyone got a bit panicked. In fact Morgan is on his way right now.”

Hotch felt bad for making everyone worry, especially given what had happened last time he hadn’t answered his phone and they had gone and looked for him. “I’m sorry. Everything’s fine. Do we have a case?”

He cursed himself for being stupid. Dave wouldn’t call if they didn’t have a case, even if all he wanted was for that to happen. For Dave to call once they had both gone home, just because he wanted to talk about something random.

“Yeah. It’s bad. Three kids have already been buried, fourth was reported missing twenty minutes ago. JJ will brief us on the jet. Morgan said he’s going to pick you up.”

Hotch was not stupid. He knew why Dave had said buried instead of killed. And whilst he hated the coddling, he couldn’t help but appreciate that he never needed to speak when it was Dave.

“Okay. How far away is he? I need to call Jess.”

“Garcia said ten minutes. She’s coming with us by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“Aaron. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Hotch ignored the warm feeling that came whenever Dave said his first name. “I’m fine. I promise.” He hung up before his answer could be profiled.

He had a short, polite conversation with Jess, then went to Jack’s room. He knocked to the theme of Harry Potter- Jack’s new favourite book series, courtesy of Reid. Whenever Jack saw Spencer, he came home with a glint in his eyes and a whole new shelf worth of books. And when Hotch went to chastise Reid for spoiling his son, Reid would give him the happy puppy eyes and he would relent.

“Let me guess. Aunt Jess will be here in twenty minutes, and you’ll call everyday. And you’ll hopefully be back as soon as possible.”

“I’m sorry buddy.”

“Don’t go then.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Then don’t apologise.”

He didn’t have a response for that. Instead, he headed to his own room to change. He entered the code to the safe- the day Jack was born, the month he was born, the year Haley was born and holstered his weapons. 

Before he left, he tried to say goodbye to Jack properly. The bedroom door was locked.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said. The only acknowledgement he received was a grunt.

Morgan texted, saying he was outside. Hotch sighed, schooled his features into a somewhat neutral expression and headed down to meet him. 

“Thanks for picking me up,” he said, once they had started driving.

“No problem. I have to ask, why didn’t you answer?” Morgan responded. “And you know I don’t want to pressure you to talk or anything like that, but everyone was really scared. We thought something had happened. I mean, Rossi was ready to get everyone from the FBI to look for you.”

His stomach twisted. They weren’t meant to worry about him. “I’m sorry. I was with Jack.” It wasn’t a lie. And Morgan was respectful enough to not profile the truth.

They rode the rest of the way in silence. 

“We’re heading to Boston,” JJ said, once they boarded the jet.

Hotch nodded, taking the file from her, ignoring the sick feeling in his stomach. Boston. One of those places he would never not associate with terror, blood and death. Just like Georgia. And Milwaukee.

“Over the past three months, three teen boys have gone missing from three different cities. They’re all pretty similar in appearance, all come from pretty similar backgrounds. All were found in their local parks. No evidence of torture or sexual assault. The only reason anyone made the connection was because of a conference, where two of the detectives spoke and realised something was up,” JJ explained.

Hotch nodded, feeling nauseous. He wished he had tried to force down some of his dinner. Then he opened the file and was suddenly glad he had skipped his meal.

For when he looked at the pictures, both from the crime scenes and of their smiling faces, all he could see was Jack. Dark blonde hair, light green eyes, wide smiles. He closed his eyes, focused on his breathing and looked back at the files. Focused on the victimology. Teenage boys, but no evidence of sexual assault. Mothers weren’t in the picture, either they had passed away or not received custody after the divorce. The fathers were all in high pressure jobs, most of them spending more time at the office than at home.

“Excuse me,” he said to no one in particular, heading to the toilet.

JJ gave him a concerned look but let him go without a word. 

To keep up appearances, he flushed the toilet and let the tap run to make it seem like he had actually gone to the toilet, as opposed to stare at his own reflection- tired, old, broken, absent father- and remind himself to maintain some sort of control.

Rossi was stood on the other side of the door.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Hotch nodded, ignoring the taste of bile in his mouth. He didn’t want Rossi to worry about him. He didn’t want anyone worrying about him, but especially not his best friend. Because every time he did, it only served as a reminder of everything he wanted but couldn’t have. The day he realised he loved Rossi had been terrifying, for a number of reasons. He had told Haley by accident, and she had laughed and said he was probably the last one to realise. She had told him to go for it, but he had been a coward and refused. It was another broken promise he had made to her. 

“Are you sure? Because you don’t look great. And you sounded distant on the phone.”

“I’m fine. It’s just a thing with Jack,” he confessed.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. I want to get to Boston and solve the case.”

He walked away, unable to stand the look in Dave’s eyes.

Things went from bad to worse when they landed. Hotch had gone with JJ to set up in the field office, only to find out that all four dads were already there and ready to give whatever information they needed to help the investigation. And with JJ talking to the detectives about how to handle the media, he was tasked with speaking to each of them.

He ignored the looks the officers gave him when he asked to speak to them in a conference room instead of an interrogation room. He knew none of them were responsible. 

After speaking to each of them, and promising to do his best to find the person that had taken their children from them, and bring the last one back home safely, he felt a pit in his stomach and a migraine starting to form. He had no idea when he had last eaten, or drunk anything, but he also knew he couldn’t handle anything.

Talking to the parents had made it almost impossible to remain professional. He saw himself in each of the fathers. They had all been working when their sons were younger, never fully prepared to tackle fatherhood alone. They had all argued with their sons just minutes before they were taken. When Hotch asked them how they felt after they argued, they all responded with some version of the word bad. When he asked why, all parents argue, they told him they felt like their own parents. It had been like staring at a mirror.

“My son died thinking I hated him,” the third parent had whispered. “What kind of person does that make me?”

Hotch softened his gaze and his tone, clearing his throat before he replied. “Your son didn’t die thinking you hated him. You’re nothing like your own father. All children argue with their parents. He knew you loved him and you cannot blame yourself for what happened. We’ll find the man who did this and bring him to justice.”

The man had just nodded before leaving. 

Hotch left the conference room, and was greeted by Rossi.

“Dave. I thought you were still at the M.E’s office.”

“We finished up there. You should listen to your own advice every once in a while.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, already brushing past him to go and talk to Prentiss about what they found at the last crime scene.

“Jack doesn’t hate you. No matter what he may say.”

Hotch turned, ready for an argument, when Rossi raised his hands in surrender.

“I didn’t profile you. But I am your friend. And the only thing that would make you this tense would be something with Jack.”

“Now is not the time to talk about it,” he hissed.

There hadn’t been any DNA found on the scene, which meant they only had a profile to go on. After a quick dinner, that he didn’t really eat, Hotch told everyone there was nothing more to do, and even if there was, they were all exhausted. Rather reluctantly, everyone headed back to the hotel, where it immediately became clear they would be doubling up.

“We can have a girl’s night!” Garcia exclaimed.

JJ and Prentiss laughed, but took the middle room, which for some unknown but helpful reason had three beds.

“Come on pretty boy, you can tell me all about that book you read on the way here,” Morgan said.

Reid’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

Morgan nodded, taking the cards and slinging an arm around Reid’s shoulder. Before they left, Hotch called out for him.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“We forgot his birthday. Listening to him is the least I could do.”

“Not just for that. Thank you for coming to check up on me as well.”

“Hotch, you may be a drill sergeant, but you’re still my friend. And JJ may have yelled at me after she found out what I said to you about trusting people. We’re cool man.”

He nodded. “Go, Reid’s practically exploding with excitement.”

“You going to stand there watching them all night, or are you going to get some well-deserved sleep?” Rossi teased, suddenly behind him and pressing a card into his hand.

“You seem awfully chipper for someone who hates sharing a room,” he said as they went to the elevator.

“I don’t mind when it’s you,” Rossi said.

Hotch blushed, ignoring the way the words made him feel, ignoring the look in Rossi’s eyes that left no room for doubt, ignoring the way his heart sped up and the lack of space between them as they were crammed into a tiny elevator. 

They both dropped their bags down. Hotch immediately sat on the bed, knowing Dave would want to shower before he went to sleep. He smiled as his friend- because that was all he was, all he would ever be- left and opened up the case file. Yes, he had told everyone to go to sleep, but something was bugging him.

“You can at least loosen your tie,” Rossi teased from the doorway after he had showered.

Hotch turned and felt his throat go dry. He was only wearing a towel, hair still dripping. “I- what?”

“Tie. Loosen it. Actually, better yet, take it off. Go for a five minute shower. And then sleep.”

“Rossi, I can’t.”

“You can and you will. Don’t make me phone Jess and put Jack on the line.”

That convinced him to get a move on, but not for the reason Dave was smirking at. 

There was so much blood everywhere, but he couldn’t work out where it was coming from. He couldn’t move. He was completely trapped, the weight of a body on top of his. There was a flash of something silver and then so much pain. He couldn’t show any fear, but the pain, oh the pain, it was so overwhelming that he couldn’t help but scream. All that existed in the broken home of his mind was that pain and the fear and the terror and that sudden, blood-curdling, chilling realisation that this was how things ended; this was how he was going to die. But someone was calling his name, who would be calling his name that urgently, Haley had Jack and-

“Aaron!” Dave yelled.

Hotch’s eyes flew open and he tried to kick the duvet away, only to find himself tangled in amongst the sheets and blanket and why couldn’t he move, why was it so dark, who was touching him, where was Jack- he was working the case, he needed to save him-

“Aaron, it’s Dave. You’re in a hotel room in Boston for a case. Jessica is at your apartment with Jack. Breathe with me.”

“Dave,” he whimpered.

“That’s right. That’s good. Just keep breathing. It was just a nightmare.”

“M’sorry for waking you up,” he murmured, clinging to Dave’s t-shirt like a lifeline.

“Nonsense Aaron. We all have nightmares. Remember what I told you all those years ago?”

He did. It had been the first case he had worked with the BAU that had involved victims of abuse. He and Dave had been sharing a room when Hotch had the first of many nightmares involving cases. Dave had woken him up, given him a glass of water and told him the nightmares reminded him he was human, that he felt, and however scary they were, however the case ended, they had done their best. There was nothing to be ashamed of. 

“Yeah. That if I have a nightmare, I should remind myself of the people that love me and of all the good things I’ve done.”

“Good. So let me start off that list for you, because it’s a very long one. Jack.”

Hotch snorted. “He hates me. I told him he couldn’t go to a party because he’s not old enough and he said I wasn’t really his dad and that it was all my fault Haley was dead. I dreamt about him you know? Foyet. But it’s been two and a half years, I should be over this, shouldn’t I?”

“You’ve always been open with Jack. He knows what will hurt you, and that’s why he said those things. He’s angry. But he loves you. And as for Foyet? He stabbed you nine times. He killed your wife. You don’t ever have to move on, not if you don’t want to. But you have to learn to cope. Let us help you cope. Let me. I’m your friend.”

There was that word again. Friend. He hated it. He didn’t want Rossi to be his friend, not anymore, but how was he ever supposed to look him in the eye and confess that? It would ruin everything. Rossi would probably tell Strauss, who would fire him, and then he would have nothing. 

“Yeah,” he ended up saying.

“Besides, every parent bans their child from doing something. At least you haven’t told him he isn’t allowed to date until he’s thirty or explore his sexuality. And don’t give me that look, you know you would be okay so long as they were a good person and he was sixteen and being safe.”

“I guess.”

Rossi patted his shoulder and Hotch didn’t even try and pretend that the touch hadn’t made him tingle. It had been so long since someone had touched him- it was always him hugging Jack or touching his shoulder. He thought of that time Reid had talked about being touch-starved. Was he touch-starved, or was he just an adult with a schoolboy crush?

He laid awake for the rest of the night, unable to do much more than close his eyes for a few moments.

They found the unsub the next day. And they bought the boy home safely. But Hotch couldn’t find it in him to be happy at another case solved. Because it hadn’t been successfully, not completely. The unsub- a man in his mid-forties- had been abused. And when he saw those children, who argued with their fathers over something trivial, he had snapped. He’d wanted to save them from his own fate. When Hotch tried to explain that the fathers weren’t bad people, that the children didn’t deserve to die, he hadn’t listened. When he tried to relate, the unsub realised what had happened. And seeing no other way out, he’d turned the gun away from Hotch and to himself.

Hotch couldn’t help but shout no as the bullet released.

“Strauss approved us staying for one more night,” Rossi said when they got back to the hotel.

“That was nice of her,” JJ said.

“God, I need a drink,” Prentiss complained.

“We should all go for a night out. It’ll be fun. And I’m here for once, so I can’t even complain about missing out,” Garcia said.

“That’ll be nice. Reid, you’re coming, no excuses,” Morgan said.

Reid shrugged. “Sure, why not. I’ll remember every embarrassing thing you do, so just be warned.”

Everyone turned to Hotch.

“Come on sir,” Garcia pleaded.

“I shouldn’t,” he said.

“Hotch, if they’re making me go, then you have to come,” Reid replied.

“It’s one night Aaron. And you’re not a newbie anymore,” Dave said, placing a hand on his lower back to steer him away from the elevator.

He blushed, both at the incident that was being referenced and the placement of Rossi’s hand. 

“I’ll go if you don’t bring that up,” he reasoned.

Rossi nodded. Everyone else looked curious, but Hotch shot them all his famous glare, with a small smile to soften the blow. And then they left, still in the same clothes they had been wearing as they had packed up at the station.

Hotch had made it a rule that he didn’t get drunk in front of colleagues. He’d drink enough alcohol to keep them off his back, but he wouldn’t allow himself to become even slightly intoxicated when they were present.

Some cases made all the rules go out the window. It was the only defence he had for getting absolutely shit-faced.

At some point he had loosened his tie, so he didn’t really understand why Rossi was complaining so much as he pulled him into their room and started complaining about the way he dressed.

“If Garcia can come on a case wearing a cat-ear hairband, I don’t understand why you need to always need to wear a suit,” he complained after he got the shoes off.

Hotch grinned. “It’s like my superhero costume. It protects me from people finding out who I really am.”

“Wow you really are drunk.”

“Is it bad that I’m drunk? I told Jack he couldn’t go the party because of the alcohol and he said I was being stupid. Maybe he’s right. I am stupid.”

“Why can’t you ever just stick to being a happy drunk? Why must you always go from happy to crying?”

“Are you mad at me too? I don’t want you to be mad at me. I care about you too much. I don’t think I could stand it if you were mad at me. Not when Jack’s mad at me- did I tell you about that? I think I did. He’s mad at me, Haley would be mad at me if she could see me now, so I can’t have you being mad as well.”

“Haley wouldn’t be mad at you.”

“You’re wrong. She would.”

“Oh, really. Why?”

“Cos I told her I liked this person and she told me to go for it but I was too scared of being rejected and ruining the team that I didn’t. At least, that was I told her, which is the other reason she’d be mad. I semi-lied. I was scared of rejection and ruining the team, but I was more scared that they’d be like my father. He caught me with a boy once. Only once. I was too scared after that. It’s stupid though, this person is as far from my father as you could get.”

At the mention of the person, Hotch went back to being happy. Rossi smiled, still wrestling with the suit jacket, unwilling to make his friend move his arms lest he break the spell and made that smile vanish.

“You going to tell me about them or do I have to profile it out of you?”

“Wouldn’t do that,” he slurred. “Too nice to. Unlike Gideon. Gideon never followed the rules. But you- you may be a pain in the ass, but you follow the rules that matter like not profiling us and not pushing and not using our pasts to get to an unsub.”

Rossi snorted. “Thanks Aaron. It’s nice to know I’m not like Gideon.”

“Be weird if you were.”

“Why’s that?” he had got the jacket and the tie off. He untucked the shirt and unbuttoned the top one, knowing Hotch wouldn’t want any more than that done. 

“Cos I love you. I love your stupid notebook and your Italian cooking and your don’t-be-stupid voice and your stupid face and how you’re always nice to me, even when I’m being stupid. I love you Rossi, and I wish you’d love me too, even though I’m a mess who-” the rest of his sentence was cut off by a yawn.

Rossi had no idea what to say. He’d never come out to the team because there had never been a need to. Yes, he had three ex-wives, and only wives, but that was because he hadn’t been able to marry any of the men he dated, and times had been different then. He hadn’t wanted a long-term thing with any of them.

But now, Aaron was drunk and confessing his love, and it occurred to him that he did love the younger man. He had just never realised.

“I’m a mess who can’t get the voice of their father out of their head long enough to ask you out on a date,” he murmured, falling back onto the pillow.

Rossi opened his mouth, but Hotch was already asleep. He sighed, brushed the hair off his forehead and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Sleep well.”

The morning came, and with it, a pounding head.

Hotch woke up with a groan, immediately pressing his hand to his temple. 

“There’s aspirin and a glass of water on the night stand,” Rossi said.

Hotch blinked the sleep out of his eyes. “Wha- why do I need it? What happened?”

Rossi stopped, his coffee halfway to his mouth. Hotch looked away. Not the time.

“How much of last night do you remember?”

“We went to the bar. I- oh. I drank far too much. I’m sorry. Had the others gone by then?”

“No, but they all agreed to spare you the shame and not mention it. Do you remember anything else that happened?”

“You were the one to bring me back. And after that it’s all a bit hazy.”

“Do you want to try and remember or do you want me to tell you?”

Hotch paled. “What did I do?”

“You told me you loved me.”

Hotch fell off the bed trying to scramble away. He noticed that Rossi had left him in his clothes, thank goodness for small mercies, but the sheet got tangled in his legs. Rossi stood as he managed to stand up, his head still pounding and the light making his vision hazy.

He felt a hand on his arm and managed to force it off. “Just let me go, Dave, please.”

“No. We need to talk about this.”

“What is there to say? I told you I love you. But you’re this amazing, caring, funny, handsome straight person and I’m me. Please just let me go. I’ll file my transfer when we get back, but I can’t be here and watch as you reject me,” he said, walking towards the door.

“Aaron. Stop.” 

He froze. Rossi had never bossed him around, even when he’d been the newest profiler that was still learning the ropes. But god, there was something about his tone that made him want to fall to his knees and do whatever he wanted. He’d been still for too long, Rossi would have realised too.

“Turn around and look at me.”

Aaron wanted to resist, wanted to run out the door and never come back, but something in him- probably the part of his brain that was self-destructive- made him turn back. And the sight that greeted him made his heart stop all over again. Rossi didn’t look angry or upset. He didn’t look like he was about to hurt him or force him to explain why he was such a coward.

He looked happy.

“I don’t understand, why are you smiling at me?” he whispered.

“Because I love you too. I just never realised until last night when you were drunk out of your mind, terrified that I was going to reject you, that I realised all I wanted was to hold you against me, listen to the steady beat of your heart to remind myself that you were still here and never let you go.”

Before he could even process what was happening, Aaron had crossed the short distance of the room and had buried his head in his shoulder. Hesitantly, Rossi bought his arms around the younger man in an awkward hug.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Aaron confessed, staring at him with dark brown eyes, still full of the fear of rejection. 

“We can work it out together.”

“I don’t know how to get over my fear, or tell Jack and the team- and what are we even supposed to tell Strauss, she’ll fire both of us and what about all the other things, like dates and the romantic things,” he rambled.

Rossi pressed a finger to his lips. “We’ll work it out. But that’s not the concern for right now.”

“Then what is?”

“Can I kiss you?”

Hotch nodded, suddenly feeling shy. “I’ve only ever kissed Haley. I doubt I’ll be any good.”

“I don’t want good. I want you.”

Without another word, Rossi placed his fingers under Aaron’s chin and tilted his head up. It was a chaste kiss, barely more than a brush of lips, but Aaron felt his heart speed up and fireworks explode behind his eyes. This. This is what he had always wanted but never had the courage to ask for, and now he had it and he just felt… good.

“We need to brush our teeth,” he decided once Rossi pulled away.

“Agreed.”

“Dave, what are we now? Because boyfriend seems immature, and I plan on telling Jack and the team as soon as possible so don’t even try and suggest lover. And other half is stupid, we’re both whole people without each other.”

“I’d like to think of you as my partner. That’s what we started out as- don’t give me that look you know I’m right- and it’ll always fit us. You the workaholic drill sergeant and me, the agent turned author turned agent-author with three ex-wives.”

Aaron laughed. “I have no idea how that makes any sense but okay. Partners. I like that.”

“It makes sense because it shows that we’re both adults that can depend on each other no matter what happens.”

“No matter what happens,” Hotch echoed.

It was going to be a long journey to undo all the damage his father had done, but he was willing to work through it. He was willing to do whatever it took to let him spend the rest of his life beside the man he could now call a partner.

The team essentially worked it out the moment they got on the jet. JJ just shook her head fondly, Reid smiled and told them that if they needed any advice he was there, Morgan smiled and patted Rossi, claiming he had his work cut out for him, Prentiss actually hugged Hotch with tears in her eyes and Garcia squealed and told them she was going to knit them matching scarves.

It was nice. Unfamiliar and different and scary, but nice. Rossi sat beside him, close enough so their shoulders brushed every time one of them adjusted the way they were sat. Every time it happened, Aaron smiled and blushed a little.

When they arrived back at Quantico, everyone at lot happier than they had been at the end of the case, there was an unfamiliar car in the lot. 

“I haven’t seen that one before,” Reid commented.

“It’s probably just someone for Strauss. Let’s go, write the reports and go home,” Hotch said.

“Home. Sounds nice,” Rossi said.

Hotch went pink as Garcia cackled.

Since Emily’s return, it had become tradition for Garcia to sit with them in the bullpen as they did their reports, mainly to annoy them, and if she had accompanied them, to do her own report as she only managed to do them on the job when she was on base. They all headed to the sixth floor, everyone looking forward to the few days of down time they would have once they finished their reports.

It was still early- or was it late- enough for them to be the only people in the building. As everybody else set themselves up in the bullpen, Hotch and Rossi went up to their respective offices, Morgan still talking to Reid and Garcia about something. When Hotch walked into his office, putting his bag down with unnecessary force, Rossi winced.

“What’s going on?”

Hotch bit down the urge to say nothing. “Jack still doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“Why don’t you try phoning Jessica then? Maybe he’ll change his mind once he realises just how much you’re willing to sacrifice for him.”

“Maybe.”

“And I know Morgan drove you in, so once you’re paperwork is done, you’re coming home with me. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, but this case must have hit close to home. I’m dating you now, which means I’ve signed up for the good, the bad and the ugly. I’m sure Jess would love to spend more time with Jack anyways.”

He knew trying to fight was a bad idea, and the thought of going home to an angry and hurt Jack was almost too much to bear. Did it make him a bad parent? Maybe. But he was tired and he wanted to give Jack space.

“I’ll give you some privacy to phone him then.” 

Hotch managed a weak smile, then dialled his home number. Jessica answered almost immediately. She sounded like she hadn’t slept and he wondered why he thought phoning her at three in the morning was a good idea.

“Hi Jess. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. It was a bad case that’s all. I should let you sleep. I’ll be back in the morning, well later in the morning so you can go once you’ve had breakfast if you need to do anything.”

She laughed, and his chest tightened. Her and Haley had been nothing alike, but when they laughed, it was like they were the same person. “It’s okay. I’ll stay for the whole day and let you get some rest. Jack, what are you doing up? Okay, get your water and then back to- actually do you want to talk to your dad?”

He heard Jack say no. Jessica made a few uncomfortable sounds.

“Jess, it’s okay. He doesn’t have to talk to me if he doesn’t want to. I get it.” He got that he was a useless father, that Jack had every reason to hate him and he didn’t understand why it had taken so long for him to start. He understood that he had failed to protect Jack and Haley, and that nothing he did now was going to ever make up for it.

“Are you sure? He’s gone back to his room but I doubt he’s sleeping. I can talk to him if you want.”

“No, just leave him. He’s allowed to be angry.” Because if you speak to him, you will stop seeing me as the angel Haley loved all through high school. You will stop seeing me as the man who has lost everything and start seeing me as the man who can’t be there when his son needs him, and the man that got your sister killed.

“If you’re sure. But before you go, just listen to me. You’re a good parent. And whatever Jack said, he doesn’t mean. He’s a hormonal teenager going through puberty. He loves you.”

“I know.” But did he really love his father? “I’ll see you in the morning then. Bye Jess.”

“Bye Aaron.”

Aaron. Sometimes he wondered where the lines between Hotchner- god, how he hated his surname, forever tarnished by the memory of his father and everyone in their small town who thought that little Aaron Hotchner was just the quietest little boy, just like his mother yet somehow the spitting image of his father, Hotch: the stoic leader that could be trusted with everything and somehow not collapse and Aaron: absent husband and father, the man that had loved and failed Haley, Kate and even Elle existed. 

Sometimes he just felt like that little boy, curled up in the basement of a house that never felt like home, wishing he could just let go and cry for once. But he couldn’t. Not when he was aware that the team were watching him instead of doing their paperwork.

He finished it in record time, unable to look at the images of smiling teenagers for any longer than was necessary. 

Dave was already waiting for him. Everybody else had gone home.

“Are you ready?” Dave asked.

Hotch nodded, unable to trust his own voice after having to read through everybody’s accounts of the victims, their parents and the unsub.

They drove to Dave’s in silence, Aaron having texted Jessica he was going to a friends but would hopefully back by late afternoon. He wondered again if he had made a mistake by letting Dave in. It would only be a matter of time before he realised Hotch was damaged and nothing in the world would fix it.

“Aaron, we’re here.” The sound of Dave’s voice, suddenly soft and gentle, lured him out of the darkness of his mind.

He got out of the car, still not knowing what to say. He wasn’t like Reid, who would rattle off statistics about any given topic when he was nervous. He wasn’t like Garcia who would keep digging a deeper hole when she was in trouble, or Morgan who managed to charm anyone with a few words.

Dave’s house, despite its size, had always felt homely. When staring at the wall where the bullet hole had been did more harm than good- and who was he kidding, that had been every time he’d sat there, surrounded by files- Dave’s house had always been a safe haven for him.

“I’m going to make some light breakfast and then try and get some sleep. Do you want anything? And don’t say coffee, I’m not letting you do anymore work until you get some rest.”

He shook his head, already sat on the couch.

Dave sighed, but he didn’t push the issue. Before he could leave, Aaron turned to face him.

“Dave?”

“Yes?” he was already in the doorway, minutely turning to see him properly.

“I’m having a bad day,” he whispered.

Rossi froze. Aaron Hotchner did not admit that easily. Only to him. Only when he was moments away from falling apart. He did not know whether to consider it a blessing or a curse that he was the only one trusted enough to piece him back together. He did not know whether or not he could do it this time. Things were different. He had only ever had to do this as a friend, or as a colleague. Never as partners- and wasn’t that ironic, he was the one to suggest the label but now it didn’t seem significant enough.

He walked back over, sat beside Aaron. Close enough so their feet- Hotch hadn’t even taken his shoes off- brushed, but far enough to let him move away if he wanted. He didn’t. He shifted closer, resting his head on Dave’s shoulder. Dave raised one hand to gently stroke his messy hair. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’m meant too, aren’t I? Haley always used to say there was no point in being together if I was just going to hide from her every time I had a bad day. I know she was right, but I just don’t know how to talk about it. It’s stupid anyways.”

“Don’t do this. Don’t act like your problems aren’t as important because you’re supposed to be an alpha male. That’s only at work. Here, we’re just Aaron and Dave, two old men who never learned how to communicate properly, so they’re muddling their way through life.”

“I just don’t understand why you’re here. And I’m scared you’re going to leave, just like everyone else. I’m scared that the ghosts of my past are going to be too much for you to handle and that you’ll get tired of waiting for me to be comfortable around you. I’m scared of ruining what we have with my nightmares and scars. I mean, I have a son who’s a teenager now. You never even wanted kids. And I know it’s stupid, but I’m scared I’m never going to be able to repair my relationship with Jack. We’ve never argued before. I don’t know what to do. My father would hit me if I dared speak out of turn. I never learned how to be normal. What if I hurt him?”

He had curled into a ball, his legs pressed against Dave’s stomach. His voice had started shaking, and Dave felt a wet patch forming on his shirt.

“I won’t leave you, ever. We’re going to have problems, but I won’t leave, and I will spend the rest of my life waiting for you to be comfortable around me if I need to. I have nightmares as well, we can keep each other up. I love Jack and he loves you too. I have no idea how to be a parent, but you do. You would never hurt him. And I’m sure Jessica has already told you this, but he’s a teenager. You’ll know what to do when you see him. If you don’t, just ask him. He wants to be there for you.”

“Thanks Dave.”

“I love you Aaron. You never need to thank me. Now move off of me so I can take you to bed. You need a good night’s rest.”

He obeyed. Neither of them were about to believe Dave was strong enough to carry a fully-grown man to bed, so Hotch forced himself to stand and let Dave lead him to the master bedroom.

“You’re practically asleep already. I’m glad. Would you let me undress you?”

Hotch hesitated, but nodded almost imperceptibly. “Yes,” he whispered.

“I’m so proud of you. If you want me to stop, just say the word and I will.”

He started shaking as Rossi pushed his shirt off his shoulders, the final layer of armour stripped away from him. He closed his eyes, the tremors only stopping when Rossi pressed their foreheads together.

“You survived. You survived them both. And there will be more, there always is, but I will be here to catch you. Believe that.”

Aaron nodded, tears falling onto the duvet. He couldn’t express how glad he was that Dave wasn’t spouting some bullshit about how the scars on his torso and the lines on his back made him even more beautiful. He didn’t know how to say that though, which he was coming to realise the beauty of their relationship: they just knew.

Rossi was tucking him, having successfully changed him into pyjamas without any incidents when he realised he needed to address something from earlier.

“You’re wrong, you know that right?”

Rossi laughed. “About what?”

“Earlier. You said you don’t know how to be a parent. You do. I see it in the way you tease Morgan, curse at Prentiss in Italian, protect Garcia and JJ, listen to Reid and the way you treat Jack and Henry.”

“Get some sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.” He pressed a kiss to the other man’s cheek, then left. There was one more thing he needed to do.

Aaron awoke when he heard voices. It took a moment for him to realise where he was, but when he did, he smiled. Dave hadn’t left. He left the room, trying to find the source of the voices. The search led him to the same couch where he had started crying only a few hours ago.

“Jack!” he exclaimed. 

Jack launched himself into his father’s arms. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so, sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of that stuff, it isn’t true and I love you. I won’t go to the stupid party I swear but please don’t be sad. Uncle Dave told me the censored version of your case. He also told me that you two are partners and I’m really happy about that because he’s cool and I have a vague memory of mom saying you were silly for thinking he didn’t like you-”

“Buddy, it’s okay. Sometimes people argue. I still love you too. And yes, Dave and I are together now but you’re still my first priority. You always will be. So if you need me to take less cases or spend more time at home, then just tell me. We don’t need to let it explode like that.”

Jack looked sheepish. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re my son. You’ll never be a burden to me.”

“Do you promise?” He looked so much like that little boy who believed his father was a real superhero that Hotch could only nod his affirmation.

“Will you stay for breakfast? Jessica dropped Jack here, but she said she’d go to give us some time alone and apparently he only ate a single piece of toast,” Rossi asked, almost nervously.

“Please can we do that?” Jack added.

Hotch nodded, letting go of his son. “Did you want any help?”

“No. Just go sit at the dining table and look pretty whilst you talk to your son,” Dave said.

Hotch flushed but obeyed.

Dave watched as Jack launched into a conversation about the pretty girl in his class and the tension Aaron had been carrying for far too long finally bled off his shoulders and saw as he went from FBI agent to loving father, eyes crinkling as he finally, genuinely, laughed.

There would be bad days. There would be arguments and reckless endangerment. There would be ghosts that would never leave them and fears that couldn’t be destroyed. But Aaron was smiling. And for one David Rossi, that was enough.

[monstersandmaw]

Here's July's story.  Back to a defined gender for this one, so I hope that's alright. The poll for the episodic story is now closed I think, but the naga came in second (when I last looked!) and a traditional fantasy setting was the runner up, so I present you with 6232 words of badass female pirate reader and one gentlemanly naga boy for your delectation :). No real content warnings for this one, I don't think.

Enjoy! And don't forget that the Discord is always open for all Patreon supporters, so come on over and say hello if that's something you fancy doing too!

Preview:

“Cheer up, sweetheart,” the lizardfolk sailing master grinned, slapping you on the back hard enough to make you stagger. “Only another few days til we make port.”

“I’m not glum because we’ve been at sea for weeks, Jaran,” you said, easing the tension out of your neck with a side to side motion and leaning on the gunwale of the small, agile schooner. “I don’t mind that.”

“Then what’s bothering you?” he asked, shifting to lean his back against the side of the ship beside you and crossing his arms.

With his lime green colouring and startlingly yellow eyes, Jaran cut an impressive figure. You’d always found yourself leaning towards non-humans when it came to attraction, and the reptilian folk fared better than most in your estimation. Jaran had more than caught your eye, but he had a sweetheart back at port that he was unwaveringly loyal to, so you made no efforts to flirt with him. That didn’t mean you couldn’t admire him, discreetly, of course. The canny bastard probably new it, but he never mentioned it.

You sighed and looked up at him with a wry and sidelong look. “You’ve got someone waiting for you, and half the crew will probably head off and spend the evening with their favourite ‘companions’ ashore… but…” you shrugged. “I don’t have anyone, and I don’t want to pay for a night of intimacy, you know? I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it, but it’s just not me.”

Jaran reached over and patted you fondly on the shoulder. “I know,” he said. “I worry about you, you know? You’re always on your own…”

A sad smile tugged at your lips and you looked down at the scrubbed timbers beneath your boots. Your hands were rough and coarse from years at sea, and you were hardly the most traditionally ‘feminine’ creature, with strong shoulders, lean muscles, leathery skin, and wiry hair that had to be constantly constrained or it sprang out everywhere in a wild halo around your face. As one of only two humans, both female, on the ship, you couldn’t help but feel the sharp sting of inadequacy whenever you disembarked and Anna got catcalled and you got ignored or sometimes even jeered at. None of the others stood for that, which was a comfort, but it still happened.

You shrugged and pushed yourself back off the gunwale and turned to stare the length of the deck. Fingal, a sea eagle aarakocra, chose that moment to soar down from the crow’s nest - which you’d all affectionately renamed ‘the eyrie’ since he spent so much time up there - and landed not far from the pair of you.

“Alright?” he asked, cocking his head to one side and staring at you both with unusual, ice blue eyes. “Oh, and land ho, by the way…” he added with a joyous ruffle of his feathers.

“What? Already? Where?!” you gasped, whipping round and squinting at the horizon where you saw nothing but the endless, pale blue sea and the haze of the horizon. After the storms of the previous week, this fair wind and gentle sailing was a boon.

He chuckled hoarsely and shuffled, dancing slightly from one taloned foot to the other. Extending his wing and pointing with flexed flight feathers, he said, “One point off the port bow, but you probably won’t be able to see it for at least another hour,” he said. “I’m off to inform our lovely captain.”

That evening, just before the change of the watch, the captain summoned you all on deck, a letter grasped in her hand. Half triton and half gargoyle, your captain had acquired the nickname ‘Sea Devil’, and she took it to heart. Six feet tall, with green-grey skin, a tail like a bullwhip, and leathery, bat-like wings, she surveyed her crew with a wry smile on her inhuman face. “Listen up, listen up!” she yelled, striding back and forth on lean, avian legs which ended in long, onyx claws. Her fanned, triton’s ears, almost like fins, twitched, and her mane of thick, pale hair swung freely in the breeze between her slender, backwards-curving horns. “I’ve got good news for you!”

“Land ho, Cap’n?” one of the crew yelled.

“No, you upstart little fucker,” she laughed. “I wouldn’t gather you all here like a flock of clucking chickens just to tell you that! No, we’ve got a very special invitation!” she said, waving the rolled up paper in her clawed hand and adding a playfully patronising emphasis on the word ‘special’.

A hush descended on everyone and you all leaned in a little closer to hear her above the constant creak of sails and stays and deck timbers. She was always fair and kind to her crew, but this was something new.

“Now that I’ve got everyone’s attention,” she said, hopping easily up onto a tall barrel with a little help from a flap of her wings. “The Governor of our dear little haven,” she said, “Is holding a ball in honour of some landlubbers’ midsummer festival or whatnot, and since the gods have chosen to smile upon me and my crew, and since we have dutifully paid our dues to the Governor to keep those pesky naval warships off our tails, he has seen fit to invite every last bilge-rat on this ship to his fancy dance! Oh, and you lot get to come too,” she added with a wink, and a cheer went up.

Captain Solveij let you all have your moment of excited chatter before giving an ear-bleedingly shrill whistle and calling your attention back to her.

“You’re gonna need to dress nice,” she growled. “Not expensive, but at least nice, and we’ve made enough with our last few captures that we can all afford that. If you don’t have something nice to cover your filthy hides, I’ll send you to a tailor once we make port.”

Jaran dug you in the ribs. “You got anything?”

You cocked an eyebrow at him. “Do I look like I’ve got anything other than these tatty old trousers and a few shirts?”

His lizardy smile stretched wide and he grinned. “Better go ask the captain for that tailor’s address then…” he said.

The tailor that Solveij sent you to was in a back street of Black Sands Bay, a rambling old town that had long been a notorious stopping point for pirates from the world over, but which was untouchable by any royal navy because it was privately owned by the Governor. A huge, black-coated minotaur with one horn supposedly made of solid gold, and a reputation for ruthlessness, Governor Aatlak ruled his corner of the seas as the world’s wealthiest prisoner; if he were to sail off the islands, those same naval warships that circled his archipelago of islands like vultures would descend on him. So he had established himself as a broker of goods, money, and information, and settled down.

Black Sands Bay, so named for the unique colour of the beach from which the town had grown up into the hillside, was his capital. All around you, the port bustled and thrummed with life. Before you had even left the dock where your schooner had berthed in the deep waters of the harbour, you glanced down into the water and glimpsed perhaps the strangest looking merfolk that you had ever seen. Jellyfish-clear skin fringed a tail, top and bottom, that was twelve feet long, with opalescent scales gleaming in the clear water. Their face was humanoid in shape, but they had enormous, milky, bulging eyes and a bobbing lure that hovered in front of a mouth full of spiked teeth. Floating beside them was a small raft with extraordinary looking shells and objects which could only have come from the deep.

You didn’t linger long, but you enjoyed some of the sights and sounds of the marketplace before turning to bid Jaran and the others farewell, and heading up into the heart of the old city with a definite weight in your chest. The captain wouldn’t care if you wore trousers or a dress to the dance, but honestly, dressing up like this made you feel as out of place as a mermaid on land. You wished it didn’t. You wished that you could feel something different; comfortable. Still, you were attending in the formal capacity as a member of Captain Solveij’s crew, and she was expecting you to be there.

The tailor’s shop, when you eventually found it after nearly an hour of wandering in the hot, tropical sun, had an attractive, dark, bay window at the front, showcasing outfits and accessories for a number of species, and as you pushed the glass-panelled door open, a brass bell trilled above you.

“Jusssst a moment!” a warm, tenor voice called from the rear of the shop. “I’ll be with you in jussst a moment!”

“No worries…” It wasn’t exactly as if you were keen to get started. Besides, you were more than a little sweaty. Perfect.

You had just put your hands on the inviting arms of a nicely upholstered chair and had been about to sink gratefully down into it, when a figure popped up in the doorway at the back of the room and made you jump. Leaping back up onto your salt-crusted boots, you watched, intrigued, as a naga slithered out to greet you.

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[longlivejasongrace]

the luck i've had can make a good man turn bad

i meant to make a more fleshed out companion piece to my erasermight fic halley’s comet with alternative universe scenes or more reunions but i never came around to finish it so i’m just gonna post what i had here because i want it to see the light of day, i actually quite liked what i had so far.

if you dont feel like reading the original story, it’s an au where yagi and aizawa met in the first workplace experience aizawa had while they both were in high school.

before.

“Ah, Aizawa!”

Shōta flinched and turned around. The 1-B class had moved to the training grounds to hold a practical exercise with the two top students of Yūei and now one of them was jogging towards him. Shōta looked at him, his eyes inevitably following the movement of blond bangs swinging from side to side.

“Yagi.”

It was…. cute.

“I didn’t know you were in this class!” The way his smile broadened when he caught up to him felt like a bludgeon to the face. “How’ve you been? I didn’t hear from you since---”

“Oooh, does Aizawa have a private tutor for today’s assignment?”

He rolled his eyes. “Yamada---”

“Oh, hi Yamada!” Yagi slightly bowed his head at the loud underclassman. “Thank you again for inviting me to your radio show!”

Any trace of sarcasm in Yamada Hizashi’s face was wiped away by the honest enthusiasm in that voice. Shōta saw how his best friend started to stand on his tiptoes, his center of gravity shifting towards Yagi.

“Ah! I’m so thankful you can appear on my humble attempt at journalism!”

Shōta  frowned. “You call hero gossip ‘journalism’?”

“Aizawa! So mean! It’s not gossip!”

“You always talk about your so called ‘sources’ but I have yet to--”

A soft chuckle made them both look at Yagi. His blue eyes crinckled at the edges and Shōta could see for the very first time how his eyelashes were the same color of his hair. Shōta closed his mouth so fast it made him wince.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to laugh at you! It’s just that--," he tilted his head. “You really make a great pair.”

They blinked almost in synch but while Yamada laughed in his outdoors level yet again, Shōta lowered his head, trying to hide his flaming cheeks behind his hair.

“Oh, right! You met at field training, right? Did Aizawa behave?”

He frowned. “You are the problem child out of the two of us, Yamada.”

“Aizawa, buddy, you flatter me but you do have a nasty mouth of your own.”

“It’s not nasty if I just state the truth.”

Yagi’s head jumped from one face to the other, like he was following a very close tennis match.

“I’m sorry to say no one wants your truth, dude.”

“Aizawa was a great help, really!” Yagi moved his hands in front of him, like he was trying to physically disperse their worries. “Even if his wording was a bit… eh.”

Shōta glared at him on instinct and Yagi scratched his cheek.

“Even Yagi noticed! Were you mean to him, Aizawa? That’s so not cool.”

“I wasn’t,”  Shōta crossed his arms and tried very hard not to look like a sulking child. “Plus, I learned a lot from my guide," Yagi perked up, his eyebrows lifting in anticipation. Shōta felt his face heating up again.

He knew that--- Yamada knew. His annoying best friend had gotten better at reading him and he was sure he was pale enough for him to notice his blush. If Shōta didn’t say what he knew they were expecting, they would just tease him until he gave in. He would probably feel even more embarrassed and end up in an awkward position. It would be better if he made it quick, painless.

Like ripping off a band-aid.

Shōta blinked. “And Yagi, too.”

That earned him a pleased smile and a soft flush colouring still-round cheeks. In the heartbeat before Yamada started cooing at him, Shōta thought it was worth it.

“Does Aizawa have---”

“Hey, Yagi!” They turned their heads towards the voice and were met by a menacing scowl. “Get your ass over here, we have to start the demonstration.”

“Ah, sorry, Todoroki!" He turned back, a slight frown creasing his forehead. “Aizawa, could you stay after class? There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Uh--”

“Hurry the fuck up!”

“Coming!”

They saw him jog to the front of the training field where Todoroki waited for him with his hands on his pockets. Shōta blinked. Did he---?

“Did you just get asked out?”

He inhaled. “If you say anything more I swear to god, Yamada, I’ll fill your locker to the brim with cockroaches.”

“Ew! Aizawa, you’re awful!”

The sun was high on the sky, and the nearby trees in the courtyard casted leaves-shaped shadows on Yagi’s face. The bell for lunch break had already rang and the soft buzz of chatter seemed to blanket them in an almost ridiculous amount of normalcy. Here, in his gray school jacket and not in those ridiculous primary colors of his hero outfit, Yagi Toshinori looked exactly 18 years old. A semester away from graduating, but very much a high school boy.

It made Shōta’s pulse quicken.

“So, what did you want to talk about that required this amount of dramatics?”

Yagi’s shoulders fell. “Dramatics?”

“You know, asking me to stay after class, meeting up by the side of the school building,” Shōta shrugged, willing his voice to stay in its usual monotone. “It’s kinda-- too much.”

A pretty red dyed Yagi’s cheeks. “That wasn’t my intention! I just didn’t want to make a big fuss about it, I know how you hate attention.”

“Unnecessary attention,” he corrected. Shōta huffed, moving a few strands of hair from his eyes. “And, Yagi, this probably had the opposite effect.”

He blinked.

“It did?”

“I’m positive, yeah.”

Yagi put a hand -big, with long fingers and thin white scars along the side of it- over his forehead and eyes and groaned.

“I just-- I wanted to ask you about your internship and if you were going to apply to the same place as in the workplace experience.”

Shōta lifted an eyebrow. “Why do you want to know?”

“I really liked pairing up in patrol with you,” Yagi let his hand fall until it was resting against the back of his neck. “I think we make a good team, and I like your perspective on battles.”

Shōta felt something warm expand from the center of his chest. His bones felt light, like they were made out of cotton candy.

“Oh.”

“Ah, but that doesn’t mean I want to force you to apply wherever I’m working! You can make any decision you want, of course!”

Shōta looked at him, at his rosy cheeks and sky blue eyes. At the way a few rays of sunlight had managed to reach his hair between the thick leaves, making a golden halo for the rising star.

He swallowed.

“I won’t be applying to the same hero office.” His voice was a whisper and he gritted his teeth at the way Yagi’s expression fell, how he seemed to wilt under his rejection. “Like I said, I learnt a lot from my guide and--,” he cleared his throat. “From you, Yagi. But that agency was too high profile for me, and I want to be able to work in more--- underground environments.”

He lowered his gaze.

“Ah, I see.”

There was something off about his tone. It was too subdued. It didn’t go with the boldness of his smile or the determination of his eyes. Shōta resisted the urge to look up.

It felt like something bigger had happened, bigger than just talking about a course. A divergence in the road, a clean cut. A crash of principles.

Shōta bit his lip until it became numb, shielded by his hair.

“Well, sorry about taking up your time, Aizawa.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’ll see you around, okay?”

But before he could respond, Yagi had left.

after.

Toshinori had been looking. Not as closely as he would have liked, not as openly either, but he had. That was how he could recognize him so quickly, even though his hair was longer and his scarf obscured most of his face. He grinded his teeth together to stop himself from saying his name out loud.

Aizawa Shōta restrained the unconscious villain with his capture weapon, tying him up to a lighting post.

Toshinori spared a heartbeat to look at his back, his figure framed by the soft glow of the street lamp. Then he wrestled the mutant user who had a shock absorption quirk to the ground, effectively burying him in the concrete so only his legs stuck out, flailing.

“Thank you, fellow hero!”

Eraserhead turned around and Toshinori had to restrain the shiver that wanted to follow the line of his spine. His eyes weren’t red but they bored into him like he was trying to dissect him by gaze alone.

Oh.

“If I knew you were at the scene I wouldn’t have come.”

Oh.

“Well, I am very glad you came to help! That villain’s quirk was proving to be quite annoying!”

Aizawa looked at the rest of the villain gang who were passed out in different parts of the street, some hanging from street lamps and others doubled over garbage cans.

“You say that but at most it probably delayed you by just a few seconds,” he hid his hands in his pockets. “Didn’t it, Mister Number 1 Hero?”

Toshinori wanted to pull at his bangs in frustration. He laughed instead.

“But my friend! A second can be vital in a fight where you are outnumbered!” He stretched his smile and saw him narrow his eyes. “Particularly something as dangerous as heat vision, if you hadn’t intervened the damages to the nearby buildings would have been greater.”

He didn’t reply to that, but knowing his underclassman that was probably the best response he could get. Toshinori started looking for something he could use as a rope to hold the members of the gang together while they waited for the police force to come get them.

But a faint rustling made him look up. Eraserhead was already on top of a lighting post, making his exit.

“You’re leaving?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Do you need me to hold your hand until the cops arrive?”

“Shouldn’t you stay to give your account of the attack so they can make their report?”

“I don’t need that, I’m not big on getting my name on police files.”

“But I didn’t subdue them alone.”

Eraserhead shrugged. “You can take the credit for all I care.”

“I don’t take credit for other people’s work.”

They both blinked. Toshinori unclenched his fists, wondering with a pang of apprehension if he had let his uneasiness leak into his posture. Aizawa’s eyes surveyed every line in his expression, but they weren’t glowing red.

They never were, when he was looking at him.

“My apologies, I didn’t mean to imply you did,” he licked his lips and he lifted his chin, like he was trying to get a better look at Toshinori. “It’s just that I don’t mind since I literally just spent two seconds actually doing something here.”

He felt his face getting warm and thanked the protection of the shadows of the night. He hadn’t let his temper get the best of him since his debut.

“I’m very sorry, I was rude.”

“You really weren’t.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that you were implying--”

Eraserhead snorted. “It really doesn't need to be as complicated as you are making it.”

“Oh, okay.”

They regarded each other for a few seconds. Toshinori searched for the last remains of that short lived laugh on his face but Aizawa’s capture weapon didn’t let him. He bit his lip, the distance between them weighing him down like lead. He searched for things to say, to break the silence, to reach him like when they patrolled downtown Tokyo during their high school years.

He found nothing.

“Thank you for everything again.”

Eraserhead made a noncommittal noise.

“I hope I see you again, hero...?”

“Eraserhead. And I’m sure you won’t need to.”

And with that, Aizawa  Shōta left. Toshinori kept his gaze on the lighting post, watching him leave him. Again.  

[darkwatercomics]

~ Issue # 6 ~ Book One: Chapter Six: When The Wheel Turns ~

PAGE 1, PANEL 1

Page width panel. High view of the Byzantine Academy with the Manhattan suburbs behind and the horizon with a sunset beyond. In the foreground seagulls and pigeons fly over the rooftops.

PAGE 1, PANEL 2

Page width panel. Close up of Tom’s hands bound together by restraints, fists clenched, the blue energy of magic building between them, more powerful looking than we’ve seen in past issues.

PAGE 1, PANEL 3

Two half page panels on this bottom tier. Head to waist shot of Tom dressed entirely in white as we saw him back in issue # 3. The energy in his hands is now a pure ice blue white, a bubble of blue energy expanding out from him as Ministry guards back away.

PAGE 1, PANEL 4

Full shot of him now breaking his restraints, spreading his arms outward, shouting out with a primal rage, a wave of blue energy erupting from him, blasting the guards backward across the courtyard.

PAGE 2, PANEL 1

FULL PAGE SPLASH: In the foreground is a full shot of Tom walking through the courtyard, his face bloodied, his expression filled with anger and power. There’s no border on this full page splash, instead the twisted main gates on either side are framing him. Behind him the front of the Academy is scorched and aflame and on the ground of the courtyard the guards lay dead. And now, with this wider shot we see there are also students laying dead nearby.

ARTIST NOTE: Written across the bottom of the panel between the open gates is the title, Book One: Chapter 6, When The Wheel Turns.

PAGE 3, PANEL 1

SPLASH: Exterior shot of a 17th century plantation style house, the kind often seen back in the old slavery days. This particular one is very much like the Seaward Plantation, Texas. On the porch area is an old wicker chair with Mother M waking with a start. This is a younger Mother M when she was a professor at he Academy and her name was Marissa Winters and shows she hasn’t aged.

MARISSA: No …  

CAPTION: North Carolina.

PAGE 3, PANEL 2

Three panels on this bottom tier. Full shot of her in an old study of the house. Its four wood panelled walls are filled entirely by shelves of books. The morning light is falling in through a mullioned window and directly onto a large mahogany desk. She’s bent over, studying a shelf, running her finger along a line of books.

PAGE 3, PANEL 3

Close up shot of a book she has chosen now open on the desk as she turns its old, yellowed pages. The words ‘Way Back When’ are written on the left hand page and on the right hand page are  Celtic and Runic markings similar to the Masque Of Magellan symbol.

PAGE 3, PANEL 4

Head to waist semi-profile shot of her with the morning light falling across her face. She’s talking into an old fashioned black telephone.

MARISSA: I don’t care if he is in a meeting. I need to speak to him now.

MARISSA: It’s urgent. I’m one of the Five. If I ask, you get it done.

PAGE 4, PANEL 1

Exterior shot of an old courthouse style building. Steps lead up to its front entrance and above its high open wooden doors a lopsided wire sign reads: HALOS. Cables snake out from the building to a series of generators placed nearby. Fire escapes have been welded to its façade, the style usually seen on buildings in cities like New York, with a series of tiered balconies between them, on these people are sat drinking, talking or just leaning and looking out at the surrounding shanty town. In the foreground is a full shot of Jesse and Izzie from behind as they walk toward it. On an old style bar sign are the words ’35 Years Later.’

ARTIST NOTE: I’ve used the lyrics to my own song ‘Hey, Do You Feel Loved.’ S.F.X: Baby faced angel, you’re honey for this swarm of bees. Inside, outside, red lights, shadow of your figure through a screen. You’re swinging your head, hair dripping like something you bled …

S.F.X: You’re in your own little world, everybody loves you. You’re dancing tip toes, you’re shedding all your clothes, everybody loves you …

JESSE: So this place is?

IZZIE: This place, Jesse Miller, is Halos. And it definitely ain’t no dive.

PAGE 4, PANEL 2

SPLASH:  Interior shot. In the background of the top right of the panel are Jesse and Izzie stood at the top of the elevated entrance and a double staircase that leads down onto a sunken dance floor. The interior is made up of the original courthouse pews with seated alcoves along the side walls. Also dotted around are Pool, roulette and card tables. The whole place has a grungy used, thrown together kind of look to it, it’s a scavenged kind of place, dingy, dark, with coloured disco lights that spot light the dance floor. In the foreground half naked male and female dancers cavort suggestively as they drag blue trails of magic using their hands.

S.F.X: You’re such a big splash, you’re a head long car crash, everybody wants you. You’re sister to my brother, you’re every son’s mother, you’re a little uptight until you get your fix. Got yourself your own little piece of heaven, got yourself the stuff you really love …

S.F.X: Hey sister tell me is it ever enough for you, sister, tell me do you really feel loved? Hey, do you feel loved at all, sweet baby child.

S.F.X: You’re a figure eight through the rising steam, inside, outside, red lights, shadow of your love behind a screen. You’re pouting through your lips, red rose tattoos upon your hips, you’re in your own little world …

JESSE: Jesus, this place is just so …

IZZIE: Yep, ain’t it just.  

PAGE 5, PANEL 1

Page width panel. Wide shot of them both sat in a semi-circle alcove booth. Both are sat back, sagged into the seating. On the table are a bunch of beer bottles dotted about two plates with  half eaten chicken pieces on them. They are clearly worse for wear.

ARTIST NOTE: I’ve used the lyrics to my own song ‘Little Miss Bombardier.’ S.F.X: She’s such a space age kinda girl, she knows it’s the future where it’s really at, she doesn’t want the latest fashion or any of that, it’s the real deal she’s after. She’s found her own style and you can be sure she knows it.

JESSE: So, where exactly do you live, Izzie Washington?

IZZIE: I live here.

JESSE: Yeah right, wait … seriously?

IZZIE: Yep, upstairs, in the penthouse no less. I got a deal with the owner.

PAGE 5, PANEL 2

Three panels on this tier. Similar to the previous panel but now a closer shot of them with Jesse holding a bottle beer, about to down it.

S.F.X: She’s never been part of the it crowd, but the it crowd can never really compare, she knows where she’s going and it’s so very far out there.

JESSE: Deal?

IZZIE: Well, she’s a business woman, and I’m kind of an entertainer. She makes deals, I dress up, I entertain her guests. I help the deal go through smoothly, grease the wheels, keep ’em sweet.

PAGE 5, PANEL 3

Similar shot of them but now Jesse is leaning her head on Izzie’s shoulder.

S.F.X: She knows just what it takes to really get ahead, she’s found her way and you can be sure she won’t blow it.

JESSE: When you say keep ‘em sweet …?

IZZIE: Whatever the deal requires, and I get pretty much whatever I want. Ain’t the best deal for sure but it’s mostly okay I guess.

PAGE 5, PANEL 4

Similar to the previous panel but now Jesse is sitting forward again as she spits her beer out, her surprise at Izzie’s comment clear.

S.F.X: Little Miss Bombardier, she’s going to war against the night. Little Miss Bombardier she’s flying so very high.

IZZIE: One of em’, he wanted me to stick my fingers up his arse and piss in his mouth, but we gotta make a living somehow, right?

JESSE: Uh, yeah, right.

PAGE 5, PANEL 5

There panels on this bottom tier. Head to waist shot of Jesse about to take another drink of her beer, with Izzie stood, gripping her arm.

S.F.X: Little Miss Bombardier, she’s a girl with her eyes on the sky.

IZZIE: Okay, come on, let’s hit the dance floor!

PAGE 5, PANEL 6

Full shot of them on a chess board like dance floor. Izzie is dancing suggestively, running her fingers through her hair, while Jesse is stood there stiffly, looking utterly and completely out of place.

S.F.X: Little Miss Bombardier, she hears the sound of the distant sitars. Little Miss Bombardier, she’s dreaming up among the stars.

JESSE: Um, it’s been awhile.

IZZIE: All the more reason ‘en. Now shift that southern booty Jesse Miller.

JESSE: I’m kinda stiff, not sure I can …

PAGE 5, PANEL 7

Floor level shot, looking up at both of them as they’re pulled upward into the air toward a bright shimmering watery light above.

S.F.X: She’s a dreamer, she’s a dreamer.

JESSE: Whoah!

PAGE 6, PANEL 1

FULL PAGE SPLASH: Full shot of them suspended in the air, holding each other, about to kiss, their hair floating like they’re underwater. Jesse is now fully in the moment, smiling as she leans in for the kiss. All about them lights glimmer and sparkle, full of colour, with the shadows of other figures faintly seen through the glow. The blue energy of magic twists and twirls about them, and at the top of the panel a glass ceiling, showing the starry night sky.

S.F.X: She’s a dreamer, she’s a dreamer.

JESSE: Oh.

IZZIE: Like I said, ain’t it just.

JESSE: Ain’t it just indeed.

PAGE 7, PANEL 1

Page width panel. It‘s night and it‘s raining heavily.  Wide exterior shot of the Norwood Club. P.O.V is from the opposite side of the street. The words ‘Way Back When’ are written on a nearby street sign.

CAPTION: 14th Street, Lower Manhattan.

CAPTION: The Norwood Club.

AGATHA ( O.P ): I’m not exactly clear why you called this meeting, Marissa.

MARRISA ( O.P ): I called it, Agatha, because this council has taken its eye off the ball.

PAGE 7, PANEL 2

Page width panel. In the foreground is a head to waist shot of Marissa from behind with eleven members of the Council sat around a long wooden table, including prominent members Agatha Richmond and Nathaniel Sparrow. Their speaker, Noah Hawthorne is sat at the head of the table facing her. Michael Valentyne stood by the wall, calmly and silently observing what’s going on.

NOAH: How so?

MARISSA: You’ve been focusing on the wrong enemy.

AGATHA: We only have one enemy.

VALENTYNE: If only that were true.

PAGE 7, PANEL 3

Page width panel. Head to chest shot of Noah from behind with a head to waist shot of Marissa at the other end of the table facing him.

NOAH: If you have a point, Marissa, please make it.

MARISSA: The point, Noah, is that yesterday I had a vision.

NOAH: A vision?

PAGE 8, PANEL 1

Three panels on this top tier. Full shot of Valentyne by the wall, observing.

VALENTYNE: Noah, if I have learnt one thing in my time on this planet, it is that when Marissa has something to say it wise to listen.

PAGE 8, PANEL 2

Head to waist shot of Sparrow, his expression arrogant, full of hubris.

SPARROW: Visions are not in the purview of this council, we deal in facts …

PAGE 8, PANEL 3

Similar to panel 1 but now it’s a head to chest semi-profile shot of Valentyne.

VALENTYNE: I once ignored one of Marissa’s visions to my lasting regret. I, for one, want this council to hear what she has to say.

PAGE 8, PANEL 4

Three panels on this bottom tier. Head and shoulders shot of Valentyne from behind with a shot of Noah looking across the table.

NOAH: Magellan.

VALENTYNE: Exactly.

PAGE 8, PANEL 5

Head to waist profile shot of Agatha, her expression one of scepticism, turning to Marissa, who’s still stood at the end of the table.

AGATHA: Are you saying I’ve travelled five hundred miles just for a …

MARISSA M: Yes.

PAGE 8, PANEL 6

Head to waist shot of Noah sat at the table, his hands resting on it.

NOAH: Okay, so what did this vision entail?

PAGE 9, PANEL 1

Half page panel. Exterior shot. Elevated shot through the rain, looking down on Marissa, now stood at the window and looking out.

MARISSA: A boy.

PAGE 9, PANEL 2

Two panels on this vertical tier. Head to chest shot of Marissa  stood at the window, with the others in the background behind her.

SPARROW: A boy?

AGATHA: Marissa, we are only willing to entertain your flights of fancy …

PAGE 9, PANEL 3

Head to waist shot of Noah turned to Agatha, now gazing directly across the table at her, his intent upon her, as he flicks a lighter on.

NOAH: Agatha?

AGATHA: Yes.

PAGE 9, PANEL 4

Two panels on this bottom tier. Head to chest semi-profile shot of Noah lighting a cigarette, his gaze still focused entirely on Agatha.

NOAH: Perhaps now would be a good time to get out of your own way.

NOAH: Marissa, please continue.

PAGE 9, PANEL 5

Head to chest semi-profile shot of Marissa, the shadows of the raindrops on the window on her face, her troubled thoughts are clear.

MARISSA: Well, basically if you think we’re in a shit storm now, then there’s a far bigger one coming up on the horizon, one that’ll bring this little house of cards of ours tumbling down to the ground.

PAGE 10, PANEL 1

Three panels on this top tier. Full shot of Marissa M now turned from the window, facing them again, with the rain falling outside.

SPARROW ( O.P ): How could a boy?

MARISSA: Hitler was a boy, Stalin, Genghis Khan. Even Magellan a very long time ago. It always starts with a boy, or a girl, every one of them born with the potential to do something good or bad.

PAGE 10, PANEL 2

Head to waist profile shot of Noah, smoke pluming up from his cigarette.

NOAH: And this boy will do something bad?

PAGE 10, PANEL 3

Similar to panel 5, page 9, but now it’s a head and shoulders shot of Marissa.

MARISSA: Well, that’s the thing, these visions aren’t ever totally clear, it’s almost always bits and pieces, kind of vague. Far as I can tell, this boy, he’s either going to save us all or he’s going to damn us.

PAGE 10, PANEL 4

Three panels on this bottom tier. Wide shot of her from behind, with the council members facing her in the background of the panel.

VALENTYNE: There’s something else though, isn’t there?

MARISSA: Well, you see, he hasn’t exactly been born yet.

AGATHA: Are you saying you had a vision about someone who doesn’t exist?

PAGE 10, PANEL 5

Forehead to chin semi-profile shot of Marissa, her face filling the panel.

MARISSA: I have to admit, it’s certainly a new wrinkle.

PAGE 10, PANEL 6

Head and shoulders semi-profile shot of Valentyne, partly in shadow.

VALENTYNE: It is that.

VALENTYNE: But maybe there’s a way to straighten out that wrinkle.

PAGE 11, PANEL 1

SPLASH: Wide shot of a small town street. Maybe something similar to one of the streets in a place like Jacksonville, Oregan, with red brick buildings either side. It’s deserted with empty shops, bars and cafes. Windows are smashed, cars abandoned, the road full of debris. The first hints of sunrise show at the street’s end with an orange tint. In the foreground rats scurry for food and a fallen bus stop sign that has the words ‘35 Years Later’ written on it.

PAGE 11, PANEL 2

Three panels on this bottom tier. High view of the camper van from issue # 2 approaching the town along a cracked, overgrown highway that has wrecked and abandoned vehicles all along its way.

CAPTION: “Will there be food here?”

CAPTION: “Yes, I would think anyway.”

PAGE 11, PANEL 3

In the foreground is the parked camper van and beyond it is a full shot of Jobe and Matilda from behind walking down the main street.

MATILDA: I’m hungry.

JOBE: I know.

PAGE 11, PANEL 4

Full shot of them from the front as they continue along the street, shafts of sunlight falling onto the road between the buildings.

JOBE: Just remember, feed small, feed slowly.

MATILDA: Small. Slowly.

JOBE: Yes, I will show you, just as we did before. It will be hard at first, but in time it will become second nature to you, as if did for me.

PAGE 12, PANEL 1

Half page panel. In the foreground is a full shot of Matilda crouched in an alleyway, holding a dead rat in her hands and biting down into it, her mouth bloodied, dripping down her chin. Her eyes have that familiar yellow tinge that represents Dark Magic. She resembles a feral animal. Jobe is stood nearby watching her.

JOBE: That’s it, bite slowly. Feed the hunger you feel but don’t let it consume you. Feel your heartbeat, that’s it, slow your breath, push the feeling down. You’ll feel it’s pull on you subside, that’s it now.

PAGE 12, PANEL 2

Two panels on this vertical tier. Head and shoulders semi-profile shot of Matilda, her eyes with a yellow tinge but fainter than before.

MATILDA: I can feel it, but not like before, I … I couldn’t control it before.

PAGE 12, PANEL 3

Head and shoulders shot of Jobe looking at her, shafts of daylight behind.

JOBE: That wasn’t your fault.

PAGE 12, PANEL 4

Three panels on this bottom tier. Similar to panel 1 but now Matilda is splitting the rat apart, her pale hands covered in blood.

S.F.X: Squelch.

MATILDA: Not my fault.

JOBE: Good, that’s it.

PAGE 12, PANEL 5

Head to waist shot of Jobe, the angle of the shot looking up at him, the broken sky of morning above him as he hands a cloth to her.

JOBE: Once we’re done here we’ll find some supplies, some proper food.

PAGE 12, PANEL 6

Shot of Matilda’s torn and frayed boots as she walks away, with the remains of the rat in the foreground, laying neglected in the alleyway.

MATILDA: Mmm, that sounds nice.

PAGE 13, PANEL 1

Half page panel. Overhead shot of them walking out of the alleyway and into an empty crossroads with long unused traffic lights.

JOBE: Has it passed?

MATILDA: Passed? Yes, I feel better now.

PAGE 13, PANEL 2

Two panels on this vertical tier. Head to waist shot of them in a main street, similar to the earlier one, but with more empty, parked cars.

JOBE: And it will get easier too. We can’t change what we are anymore than we can stop breathing, but we can at least control it.

PAGE 13, PANEL 3

Head to waist profile shot of them walking with Matilda in the foreground.

MATILDA: Will we always be like this?

PAGE 13, PANEL 4

Insert.

Head and shoulders semi-profile shot of Jobe frowning, thoughtful.

ARTIST NOTE: This insert is in the top left hand corner of panel 5.

JOBE: Always, at least as long as there is still Dark Magic in this world.

PAGE 13, PANEL 5

SPLASH: In the foreground is a full shot of him and Matilda from behind, looking across a car park to a Kmart building. They’re stood at its edge and it’s filled with empty rusted vehicles of all sorts and abandoned food carts laying about, many reclaimed by nature.

JOBE: But perhaps some day that may change.

PAGE 14, PANEL 1

SPLASH: High view shot of them now inside the Kmart walking along one of the aisles, Jobe pushing a food cart as Matilda walks beside him. Stock is strewn all over the floor, other food carts stand partly filled or just empty. There are cobwebs in the foreground.

MATILDA: What was the world like before?

JOBE: It was different, neither was bad or really good. It wasn’t perfect. There were things that needed to change, but I  think it was better.

PAGE 14, PANEL 2

Three panels on this bottom tier. Head to chest shot of Matilda leaning forward curiously and with a sense of wonder, studying a glamorous model on a hair dye product, the tips of her fingers on it.

MATILDA: Will it ever be like that again.

PAGE 14, PANEL 3

Full shot of them from behind near the tills. Above them is a big sale sign that has graffiti spayed over it that reads: MAGIC IS DEAD.

JOBE: No, I don’t think so, whatever comes next will be different, different to now, different to how it was before. We can’t go back now.

MATILDA: But it could be better?

PAGE 14, PANEL 4

In the foreground is the sale sign seen from the opposite side with a shot of Jobe and Matilda in the aisle below, Jobe looking up at it.

JOBE: It can always be better, but it’s up to us. If we want it to be better…

JOBE: …Then we have to change it.

PAGE 15, PANEL 1

Page width panel. Night. Broken cloud illuminated by moonlight. Exterior shot of the Norwood Club. In the foreground in a full shot of Elijah from behind, stood across the street, watching as various males and females enter and exit the building, going up and down the steps. The words ‘Way Back When’ written on a street sign.

CAPTION: 14th Street, Lower Manhattan.

CAPTION: The Norwood Club.

PAGE 15, PANEL 2

Three panels on this tier. Shot of Elijah stood in front of wooden study doors, the ones that lead into the inner sanctum of the council.

PAGE 15, PANEL 3

Full shot of Marissa, framed by the doorway as she opens it for him.

MARISSA: Come in, Elijah.

PAGE 15, PANEL 4

Full shot of them stood by the study doors, P.O.V from the interior the room, with Marissa holding the door, Elijah framed by it.

ELIJAH: There’s a lot of activity going on outside, Marissa. I assume it’s connected to why you’ve called me here at this ungodly hour.

VALENTYNE ( O.P ): It is.

PAGE 15, PANEL 5

Page width panel. Wide view of the study. Full profile shot of Elijah and Marissa stood by the doors on the right of the panel. On the left of the panel is the council table as seen earlier now only Noah is sat at it with Valentyne stood by the wall in the background.

ELIJAH: Michael.

VALENTYNE: Elijah.

NOAH: Please, sit.

ELIJAH: No thank you, I prefer to stand.

PAGE 16, PANEL 1

Two panels on this top tier. Head to waist shot of Elijah from behind at the end of the table, with Valentyne and Noah facing him.

VALENTYNE: You’ve never been comfortable here, have you, Elijah?

ELIJAH: Honestly, no.

NOAH: An open seat remains for you on this council.

ELIJAH: And my answer is still the same.

PAGE 16, PANEL 2

Similar to the previous panel but now it’s a closer shot of the three.

NOAH: Of course, shall we begin.

ELIJAH: I’m listening.

VALENTYNE: Marissa has had a vision.

PAGE 16, PANEL 3

Two panels on this vertical tier. Overhead shot of Elijah and Marissa.

ELIJAH: I see, not what I was hoping to hear. No offence Marissa.

MARISSA: None taken. Not what anyone wanted to hear, I’d say.

PAGE 16, PANEL 4

Head and shoulders semi-profile shot of Elijah. He’s frowning, thoughtful.

ELIJAH: So why call me?

PAGE 16, PANEL 5

Half page panel. This is a forehead to chin semi-profile shot of Marissa.

MARISSA: Well, it’s really kinda simple, we have a very special request of you, Elijah. One that may take you years of your life, but in doing so, you just might potentially save the lives of millions.

PAGE 17, PANEL 1

Page width panel. In the foreground is the interior of a rusted and wrecked pick up truck with a head and shoulders shot of a skeleton, and through it’s side window we see Jobe and Matilda walking past an overgrown basketball court. Jobe is pushing the food cart he has taken from the Kmart. A fence sign reads: ‘35 Years Later.’

MATILDA: Are you my friend?

JOBE: I can be if you want me to be.

MATILDA: Yes, I’d like that.

PAGE 17, PANEL 2

Two panels on this tier. Full shot of them walking along the sidewalk.

MATILDA: Have you had a friend before?

JOBE: Once, I’m not sure I was such a good friend to him though.

PAGE 17, PANEL 3

Similar to the previous panel but now Matilda is looking up at the sky.

MATILDA: Why not?

JOBE: He tried to help me, but I didn’t listen when I should have, I made a mistake and it cost him dearly. I can never repay that debt.

PAGE 17, PANEL 4

Two panels on this bottom tier. In the foreground a rat is scurrying ahead of them, and Matilda’s gaze is now clearly upon it.

MATILDA: But you’ll try.

PAGE 17, PANEL 5

Head and shoulders semi-profile shot of Jobe, half his face in shadow, the other half in sunlight. The sadness and regret clear in his eyes.

JOBE: Yes … I’ll try.

PAGE 18, PANEL 1

Page width panel. Overhead wide shot of Izzie’s penthouse apartment. It’s kind of high class but kind of trashy too, with leopard prints, bean bags, a large fireplace and rug. In the centre of the panel is a round bed. Jesse is lying face up as she wakes, stretching sleepily. There’s a satin sheet over her, her naked leg hanging out. The other side of the bed sheet is turned down and empty. Beer bottles, clothes and her NASA cap are strewn over the floor.

JESSE: Damn, I’ve had some nights, but last night, that was just …

PAGE 18, PANEL 2

Two panels on this tier. Head to waist semi-profile shot of her now sat up and squinting heavily as she holds her hand to her forehead.

JESSE: Izzie?

PAGE 18, PANEL 3

Overhead full shot of her, naked, her hair all over the place, looking down at her clothes on the floor, beer bottles lying about them.

JESSE: Okaaay.

PAGE 18, PANEL 4

Three panels on this bottom tier. Exterior shot through the penthouse window, her figure obscured as she puts her clothes on.

PAGE 18, PANEL 5

Full shot of her, now fully dressed, walking down the main stairs of Halos. It’s early, shafts of light falling in, and pretty much empty.

JESSE: Izzie?

IZZIE ( O.P ): Oh hey, Jesse J.

PAGE 18, PANEL 6

Full shot of Izzie sat on a bar stool, dressed in underwear and a vest. On the counter are discarded vials and she appears to be using a steam punk style needle of some sort to inject into her arm.

IZZIE: Just getting a little after party fix up, ya want some?

PAGE 19, PANEL 1

Three panels on this top tier. Head to chest shot of Jesse staring at Izzie, her expression a mixture of hurt, disappointment and confusion.

JESSE: Wait. What the hell is this?

PAGE 19, PANEL 2

Head to chest semi-profile shot of Izzie glancing over her shoulder.

IZZIE: Magic, what else.

PAGE 19, PANEL 3

Similar to panel 1 but now Jesse looks more annoyed than anything.

JESSE: You’re injecting it?

PAGE 19, PANEL 4

Three panels on this tier. Head to waist semi-profile shot of Izzie, looking down at the needle, pushing her thumb down on it as she injects.

IZZIE: One hundred pure percent I am, only the best around here.

PAGE 19, PANEL 5

Full shot of them both by the bar, Jesse slamming her fist on the counter.

JESSE: Sonavabitch, the first person I get under the sheets with in months and you turn out to be nothin’ but a godamn magic junkie?

PAGE 19, PANEL 6

Head and shoulders profile shot of them, Jesse up close, just staring.

IZZIE: Hey, if you was under any illusions, Jesse Miller, that’s your problem. Either get that stick outta your arse or exit the same way ya came in.

PAGE 19, PANEL 7

Two panels on this bottom tier. Head and shoulders semi-profile shot of Izzie, her expression changed, now disinterested and icy cold.

IZZIE: Comprende?

PAGE 19, PANEL 8

Head to waist shot of Jesse in the foreground, walking away, stone faced, with Izzie in the background looking down at the needle again.

JESSE: Yeah, comprende.

PAGE 20, PANEL 1

Half page panel. Full shot of Jesse walking along the main street. All about her the town coming to life. People stand on the street, others open window shutters, a beggar with a bowl, riders attending to their horses, dogs roaming, a juggler juggling blue balls of magical energy. Behind her are stables and a rusty old garage. Her head is bowed, the NASA cap throwing a shadow over her face.

PAGE 20, PANEL 2

Two panels on this vertical tier. Full shot of Mother M in the foreground with a full shot of Jesse stood by the front door of the hotel lounge, her face contorting as she yawns and stretches herself.

MOTHER M: Damn, either you had a bad night, or a really good one.

JESSE: I think it was a bit of both.

JESSE: *Yawn* Where is he?

PAGE 20, PANEL 3

Head to waist profile shot of them facing each other, Jesse looking blinkered as she rubs her tired looking and puffed up eyes.

MOTHER M: He came in last night looking just like you. Up with the sun though.

JESSE: He’s out already?

MOTHER M: Yep.

JESSE: Great.

PAGE 20, PANEL 4

Two panels on this bottom tier. Full shot of them now at the lounge bar, Mother M is stood behind it pouring orange juice from a big jug into a glass, and Jesse is leaning tiredly on the counter.

MOTHER M: I heard you two had words.

JESSE: He had words, I kinda listened, then I just left. Listen, if you’re gonna tell me he’s not such a bad guy I really don’t give a shit.  

PAGE 20, PANEL 5

Forehead to chin semi-profile shot of Jesse. Her face filling the panel.

JESSE: I just need to know I can trust him.

PAGE 21, PANEL 1

Three panels on this top tier. Mother M from Jesse’s P.O.V, now looking a lot more serious, a whole unknown history written on  her face.

MOTHER M: You can trust him.

PAGE 21, PANEL 2

Head to waist profile shot of them facing each other across the counter. Mother M now pushing the full glass of orange over to Jesse.

MOTHER M: You’re both wrong you know.

JESSE: About what?

MOTHER M: About magic.

PAGE 21, PANEL 3

Head to waist shot of Jesse, the glass in the foreground as she looks at it.

JESSE: Yeah? Someone else tried to tell me that lately. Funny thing is, they’re kinda dead, and it was magic that got them that way.

PAGE 21, PANEL 4

Three panels on this bottom tier. This is similar to panel 2 but now Jesse is holding the glass and is just about to take a drink from it.

MOTHER M: So, you’re going on that damn foolish quest then?

JESSE: You know about that, huh?

MOTHER M: Oh, I know.

PAGE 21, PANEL 5

Head to chest shot of Jesse from Mother M’s P.O.V, her gaze questioning.

JESSE: And you think we’re wrong?

PAGE 21, PANEL 6

Head and shoulders semi-profile shot of Mother M, her face partly in shadow, her eyes are full of wisdom. She knows about this.

MOTHER M: I think you’ve both got your reasons, but just remember, there ain’t nothing in this life ever goes the way you expect.

PAGE 22, PANEL 1

Insert.

Over the shoulder shot of Jesse about to down the rest of the glass.

ARTIST NOTE: The two inserts run along the top of the full page splash.

JESSE: Yeah, no shit. Do you know where he went?

MOTHER M: Yep.

PAGE 22, PANEL 2

Insert.

Head to waist profile shot of them facing each other across the counter, Jesse now cradling the empty glass and Mother M holding her hand up in a gesture of mock defeat, giving a wry smile.

JESSE: So, you gonna tell me?

MOTHER M: *Sigh* Yeah okay, I’ll give you the directions.

PAGE 22, PANEL 3

SPLASH: In the foreground is a full shot of Jeremiah from behind. He’s stood at the road end of an overgrown drive, broken fences either side of it, leading up to an old wooden house with a large elevated porch and steps. It’s an old place, full of neglect, broken boards, cobwebs, with creeping ivy all over its façade. Beyond it the morning sky is struck through with splashes of pewter.

CAPTION: “Not sure he’s gonna be in the mood for visitors though.”

[katzuyas]

carry on, darling, we were built to last

There was something incredibly beautiful about Victor, both soft and sharp, when he stood in the park in the late evenings, bathed in the dark that was dispersed only by the orange glow of the street lamp at his back. His hair looked like moonlight itself – translucent, yet human; there for Yuuri to touch. A halo seemed to wrap around the crown of his head, the dim light of the lamp playing its tricks with Yuuri's imagination, because truly Victor looked like an angel sent from above.

But the most change was on Victor's face, where the shadows and the light made him look young and happy one moment and old, dissatisfied, frowning the next. The dichotomy took Yuuri's breath away every day and, frankly, he didn't think he could ever get used to it.

Victor smiled at him when he caught him staring at his profile yet again. Yuuri blushed a little, but there was no escaping it.

"Hi," Victor said, the silly man that he was. He wrapped an arm around Yuuri's waist and plastered himself to Yuuri's side like the centimetres of distance between them were too much. (They were.)

"Hi," Yuuri mumbled back, but there was a grin blossoming on his face right behind the wool of his scarf.

"How are you doing?" Victor asked as if he didn't know. As if he wasn't there for every second of Yuuri's day.

Yuuri huffed a small laugh.

"Really good," he replied, leaning against Victor a little. He let his head rest against Victor's shoulder. "Even better now."

"You're so sweet," Victor crooned softly.

His arms wrapped tighter around Yuuri. Yuuri, smiling, lifted a hand up to run through Victor's hair and tilt his head down.

"And you're so beautiful," he replied, courageous for once.

There was a flush on his cheeks, there always was whenever he mustered up the courage to say what was buzzing in his mind. This time, though, he wasn't the only one blushing. Victor's face was already pink from the chill and the wind, but at Yuuri's words the colour deepened sweetly. Yuuri could get drunk on it, he'd bet.

Before either of them could move, before Yuuri could climb onto his tiptoes and kiss Victor like he so wanted to, Makkachin's barking made them both startle. They looked the dog's way and found him chasing after the leaves that the wind was picking off the ground every now and then. Yuuri felt Victor shake with silent laughter and he couldn't really hold back a grin of his own.

"He's so cute," Victor said, warmth and love in his voice.

"You're cute," Yuuri blurted out.

Victor's head snapped back to him: red cheeks, sparkling eyes, smiling mouth. Yuuri couldn't say he didn't enjoy this strange looseness of his tongue. Especially if it got Victor looking at him like that.

"Are we that couple now?" Victor asked, thoughtful. "Because you're far cuter than me, love."

"Lies," Yuuri replied, hard. "You're prettier."

Victor hummed. "Debatable. You're more handsome."

"I am not!" Yuuri gasped, offended. How dare Victor say that after looking into a mirror every single day? "You take that back!"

"But you are!" Victor protested. "Ask anyone!"

"Fine," Yuuri huffed.

He looked around, spotted a girl walking their way with a pup on a short leash, and threw Victor a look. Victor's face was drawn in a confused 'o' for a second when he saw Yuuri trot over to talk to her in his still wonky Russian. The expression cleared, replaced by a small, still uncertain smile once they both made their way towards him. The girl's eyes raked over Victor like she was judging an art piece and then did the same to Yuuri.

"Sorry," she said. Then, nodded her chin at Victor."He's more handsome."

Yuuri's face brightened triumphantly. He thanked the girl and, once she left, turned expectantly to Victor who still seemed a bit peeved about the whole thing.

"See? I was right," Yuuri said, oddly satisfied about it. It just felt so good to hear that other people were able to see how special Victor was. "You're so handsome."

Victor finally opened his mouth to argue, but Yuuri put a finger to his lips.

"So pretty," he said.

He stepped closer and took Victor's face in his hands, climbing to his toes to look him straight in the eye.

"So cute," he added when Victor's cheeks flushed.

He stroked his thumbs over the patches of colour, leaning close until their cold noses touched.

"So beautiful," he whispered.

"You're so unfair, Yuuri," Victor's voice was just a breath louder than the wind, but Yuuri heard the unmistakable whine in it.

He smiled.

"I am, aren't I?"

He closed the rest of the distance between them and, cradling Victor's face, kissed him softly, tenderly, lovingly – just how Victor had always made him feel. Victor's arms wrapped around him securely, pulling him into his body as if he wanted them to mould into one. Yuuri melted into it, against the wind and reason, and kissed Victor harder.

They were both flushed and panting warm puffs of air when they parted, but the quirk of Victor's lips was reflected on Yuuri's as well.

"You're so incredible, Victor," Yuuri told him once more, because it was true. Because he could. Because he wanted to. "And you're all mine."

Victor's amused face softened when he agreed, "All yours."

"How did that even happen?" Yuuri asked, happy, but also incredulous. Like he always was when he looked at their engagement rings, at their photos, at their apartment, their dog, their lives, Victor...

"Honestly?" Victor laughed. "I have no idea. But I'm so glad it worked."

Yuuri shared his laugh, even when Victor's lips claimed his again, because really: he was so glad, too. The luckiest man on Earth engaged to the sweetest man in the universe. That sounded about right.

[britesparc]

Weekend Top Ten #360

Top Ten Favourite Things About the Xbox 360

Well wouldja lookit that. Three hundred and sixty of these silly top tens (tops ten?). I actually had a whole other list lined up, one that chimed with some relatively-recent news, but I've decided to bump it as I feel the synchronicity of 360 cannot go unnoticed. Sadly because the next two weeks are earmarked for other date-relevant lists, this means my once-contemporary tenner will be old news by the time all of you (both of you) get to read it.

But wait! What is this synchronicity of which I speak, that means “three sixty” must be secured for a specific ten of tops? Could it be erstwhile ITV post production facility, threesixty media, whose services I utilised for a decade whilst at CITV?

No, it’s the Xbox. It even says so at the top of the page.

Yes, the Xbox 360. In many ways probably my favourite console. Sure, it had its faults - I went through three of them due to red-ring meltdowns, and the beast was noisier than a rhino in a blender – but it was gorgeous, and for a little while there totally represented gaming for me.

Yeah, there was lots to love, and the protracted nature of the last console generation meant that it saw a lot of evolution in its lifetime. And, really, gaming in general changed quite a bit in the noughties, and the Xbox 360 was at the forefront of that in a lot of ways. Resurgent indie gaming, online, casual, micropayments, DLC, achievements, annual release schedules for triple-A franchises... the list goes on. Microsoft didn’t lead the way in all of those areas, but for most of the last generation they were light on their feet and quick to exploit shifting trends, and the 360 strongly benefited as a result (also Sony faceplanted pre-launch with the tone and price of the PlayStation 3, which also benefited Xbox hugely; how weird that the tables turned so utterly come the launches of PS4 and Xbox One). It felt like a landmark generation and the 360 was a landmark console and I loved it.

Anyway, here are my favourite things about it. Ten of then, not three hundred and sixty. That’d be daft.

The Look: at a time when the prevailing trend for consoles seemed to be fairly inoffensive black or grey lumps (the delightfully purple GameCube notwithstanding), Xbox 360 bucked the trend with a sleek and sexy white design, complete with subtle curves that echoed throughout the interface, and a natty chrome trim to the disc tray. It was different, it felt new, it felt simultaneously cool and friendly. It was more of a piece with Apple’s then-recent iMac redesign than anything you’d expect from as utilitarian a company as Microsoft. It made the 360 stand out from the crowd, and also helped differentiate it from the huge black number that was (eventually) the PS3.

The Controller: Halo: Combat Evolved was the original Xbox launch game, and it sold a lot of Xboxes. It was really the first game that made first-person shooters really work on console. Part of this was down to the beautifully handled sticks and triggers of the original Xbox pad. The controller was subsequently redesigned and evolved into what became the 360 pad: better trigger placement; shoulder buttons; even nicer sticks; a much-improved d-pad; and the famous Guide button, that with a press brought up a nifty UI overlay that allowed for chatting, achievement checking, and all manner of things, across all games. It was probably the best game controller of all time, and although it’s been refined and, I’d argue, improved by the Xbox One controller, there’s something revolutionary about the 360 design that always makes it feel stand-out.

Achievements: ah, yes. I mentioned them in passing just now, but really, the concept of cross-title points and awards might not necessarily have been Microsoft’s (I’m hazy on the details) but their implementation was a game-changer. Suddenly people were clamouring to find secrets, to beat the top scores, to better themselves in the games, because there was now a tangible reward, an icon, bragging rights associated with it. It fostered competition and – in the best cases – encouraged repeated playthroughs. I know that, for me, I set myself goals in certain games based on the achievements. It’s something to work towards beyond “just” playing the game, and it’s something I still do to this day, even after the lustre of Gamerscore glory has faded somewhat with time.

Gamertags: of course, Achievements would be nothing without your associated Gamertag. Obviously the idea of having a “handle” online was not new, but I know that when I played Quake III Arena or Counter-Strike on PC, I didn’t always keep to the same tag (I usually did, mind, as “britesparc” had been my default online identity for a while). But a persistent username, across all titles, with an associated score, rewards, settings (I’m still baffled as to how and why the Xbox One lost the ability to set a default controller preference for all games across your profile – now I have to invert look on each individual title, and it’s a massive pain!). This would be a strategy eventually adopted across the whole industry, and although I guess it’s fair to say that Steam had already sort-of got there, and even Microsoft themselves (as Gamertags were necessary in the early, OG Xbox-days of Xbox Live), your profile’s implementation on Xbox 360 was a massive step-up.

Xbox Live: what is an Xbox without Xbox Live? Again, it’s something that premiered on the original Xbox (although I never took advantage of it; I don’t think I had a broadband connection back then, to be honest) but it really came to fruition with the 360. A fully-integrated online environment with matchmaking and voice-chat built into the console itself, it offered the best of PC gaming in a convenient form-factor that slid under the telly. I played online much more on my 360 than on the PC, simply because it was a lot easier and more user-friendly. And that’s before we begin to factor in the creative decisions made when you knew your audience was always online: downloading patches, DLC, online-only games, a digital storefront… the fact that you automatically got access to all of that with the free “Silver” subscription was like a gateway drug to the actual “Gold” multiplayer bonus. The decision to charge for multiplayer access, whereas it was free on PS3, was a touch controversial, but the money was funnelled into better, faster matchmaking services, meaning the 360 became the go-to console for online gaming. Eventually Sony, and even Nintendo, followed suit.

Xbox Live Arcade: speaking of downloading… the idea of small, indie downloadable games – games that weren’t the usual full-3D physics-fests filled with explosions coloured lights and deformable terrain – was quietly revolutionary. Sure, the indie movement was already in full swing on PC, but here it was delivered, curated, advertised, cheap to purchase and ready to enjoy in bite-size chunks, on your telly-box. At the time I just wasn’t really aware of the scale of indie, retro, and homebrew gaming efforts, and it totally blew me away. It gave new developers a fantastic opportunity to showcase their wares, and – eventually – it offered a new lease of life to older games. Braid probably remains the big XBLA success story – both critically adored and financially hugely successful – but from ‘Splosion Man to Trials HD to Limbo to Castle Crashers, it was a jumping-off point for a bevvy of new franchises and developers. The fact that Hexic HD came pre-installed was a masterstroke: a brilliant game, of course, but also a terrific proof-of-concept for just what XBLA was.

Keeping it Casual: Microsoft, as usual, had its eye on Sony, and in many ways the 360 stole the PlayStation 2’s crown. What Microsoft didn’t bank on, however, was a resurgent Nintendo, who had one of their biggest successes ever with the Wii. It brought new audiences into the gaming fold (I’m still overjoyed at the memory of how angry my brother got when our dad totally trounced him at Bowling in Wii Sports; “But he doesn’t even like games!”). Microsoft leant into this, and whilst it’s arguable that they went too far and began to take their core audience for granted, they did a great job in making the Xbox 360 family-friendly. From some genuinely very good and user-friendly content settings to the raft of all-ages XBLA titles, right from the start the 360 was a good all-round console for the whole family. Games like Scene It? and Lips attempted to do for Xbox what Buzz! and SingStar did for PlayStation. But it was when they went full-tilt after the Wii market that they scored their biggest success and sowed the seeds for their biggest failure: Kinect. Billed as revolutionary, in truth it was mostly a very fun gimmick that struggled to fit inside mainstream gaming (nowhere near as comprehensively as Nintendo’s motion control did, at least); but all the same it was impressive tech for what it was, and some Kinect games – notably Rare’s Kinect Sports, but also Dance Central and the child-focused Sesame Street TV – did great things with the camera and were fun to play. I’d say that Microsoft’s commitment to casual and family gaming continues, but to be honest I feel like it’s become entrenched industry-wide now, and that remains a very good thing.

The Games: I guess this should be the top reason, shouldn’t it? But all consoles have good games. However, the 360 had some absolute belters. Halo 3 is probably, on balance, the best Halo. Fable II is one of my favourite games of all time. Crackdown is a delightful and wildly original blast. From solid blockbusters like the Gears of War trilogy to delightful curios like Viva Pinata, the depth of the Xbox 360’s library is phenomenal. And that’s before we get to the multi-format games like the Mass Effect trilogy, BioShock, the first two Batman: Arkham games, Red Dead Redemption, and many more… most of which performed better or felt otherwise “definitive” on Microsoft’s machine. The last generation was just incredible in terms of solid-gold masterpieces, and that’s before we mention the exclusives on other platforms (hello, Super Mario Galaxy). Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, there were some great games on the Xbox 360.

The Apps: as the 360 aged, more and more non-game applications became available for it. there were flirtations with things like Twitter, but really it was the media apps – Netflix, Amazon Video, Sky Go – that established the machine as a viable home entertainment hub. During its lifespan, the 360 went from “games machine” to “centre of the living room” as we evolved from consumers of scheduled entertainment to people who could pick and choose their media. As broadband speeds increased (during the time I had a 360 we went from a 1mb connection to 20mb) streaming became commonplace, and I seem to recall that by the time of the Xbox One’s release more people were using the 360 to watch Netflix than to play games. Amazing, really, when you think how noisy the bloody thing was. All the same, the non-game content on the 360 was a harbinger of things to come and a flower in Microsoft’s cap. Too bad that, like with Kinect, they misread the tea leaves and bet the farm on a gesture-controlled multimedia future.

The Evolution: the Xbox 360 in 2005 was markedly different from the Xbox 360 in 2013, when its successor console was released. Not just physically, although two hardware revisions meant it looked very different too; but software-wise, operationally, it was practically a new machine. The beloved “blades” interface – the UI mirroring the curves of the machine – had been replaced by the so-called “New Xbox Experience”, which brought friend management and multimedia apps to the foreground, as well as showcasing the new Xbox Avatars. These Avatars were somewhat controversial, but gave the 360 a refreshing and friendly kick up the bum, adding a degree of spice to games where you could now play “as you” (A Kingdom for Keflings, Joyride Turbo, etc), as well as offering new unlockable rewards or purchasable items in the form of Avatar clothes or accessories. The interface would then be further refined one more time before the console’s retirement, but this evolution was representative of Microsoft’s philosophy with Xbox at the time. they entered the generation as an also-ran; the OG Xbox was certainly powerful, and surprised many with the quality of its games, but it was almost a proof-of-concept console. They wanted the 360 to win, and although the broadside of the Wii meant it never managed to be market leader, it still – just about – beat PS3 into second place. They did this by changing with the times, nimbly adapting to an evolving market; offering increased casual focus, new control methods, peripherals, multimedia functionality… Microsoft did a great job of continuing to make the 360 feel relevant, to feel like an essential console, despite the technical superiority of the PS3 or the absolute juggernaut that was the Wii. Again, it’s true that their ability to divine the market abandoned them come the design and release of the Xbox One, but throughout its life the Xbox 360 remained a fantastic, ever-changing yet thoroughly constant console.

So there we go. Ten reasons why, to this day, I adore the Xbox 360. My relationship with console gaming came of age, and really it’s that generation where I moved from being a PC gamer to a console gamer (apart from Civilization, pretty much). So bravo, 360; we may never see your like again.

[thevikingspromise-blog]

The Viking’s Promise

Don’t forget to check out the rest of my novel. The full list of chapters can be found here. Bi-weekly uploads.

Chapter Four

Silence screamed between them.

Frea could barely move. She knew they thought of her as less than human but this was a hundred times worse. In their eyes she was now an object to be given away. She wanted to stamp her feet and bang her fists against the grass. Esben had no hold over her—she wasn’t his to give.

“That’s enough, Stein,” growled Esben. He rose to his feet in one swift motion.

Stein backed down, dropping his gaze to the ground. “Captain,” he amended. “I didn’t mean—”

“Enough.” Esben voice boomed again. He towered over Stein, his large frame taut. “You know nothing of what you speak. Next time, say nothing at all.”

She blinked. It was the first time she’d seen Esben really take command of his crew. Before, they had bantered as friends, now they regarded him with undisguised respect. And it was all because he was ashamed of her. It was one thing to desire not to be owned ,and a completely different thing to be rejected. This proved it conclusively: he cared nothing for her.

Esben pulled Frea to her feet. She released his hand as soon as she was standing, but he could still feel her skin against his. She watched him with hooded eyes, whether scared or angry by his outburst, he couldn’t tell.

Shamed, he bit down a curse. He shouldn’t have reacted as he did, but when Stein had voiced Esben’s very thoughts he couldn’t stop the reprimand bursting from his mouth.

He was giving Frea away, and it was quickly becoming the hardest thing he’d ever done. There was so much life in her. Her spirit was broken but not completely destroyed and with a little time, she could have healed. He could have healed her.

A knot tightened in his stomach as he finally admitted the truth to himself. Frea fascinated him. He couldn’t get enough of her. He wanted to know everything. Where had she come from? What had her life been life before Alf? And he desperately wanted to punish the man who’d hurt her almost to the point of no return.

She stood just a foot away, but it could have been a hundred yards. She was beyond his reach because she was destined for Alf’s death journey. Frea could never be his.

“Look,” said Kormak breaking the silence and blissfully changing the subject, “you can just see the funeral ship from here.”

They all turned, staring in the direction of his pointing finger. Esben squinted down the hill towards the settlement, trying to distract himself from his unwelcome thoughts.

Alf’s longhouse was the largest building at the very centre of the settlement. From that point radiated a number of small streets and a handful of houses. Much like Esben’s family home, they were also made of wood and turf. He let his eyes wonder from building to building. At the furthest edge of the settlement was the shipyard. The ground was blackened from the fire that had eventually claimed Alf’s life. Among the ruins was the skeleton of a longship around which people were gathered.

He turned a small circle. To the west was the endless ocean, big and wild, and to his other sides, rocky countryside, not a tree within a five hundred yard radius. He squinted into the east. Somewhere, beyond the hills, was his old sister and younger brother. He hadn’t seen them in winters, not since their father’s death when she had married into another settlement.

“It looks as if they’ve just started,” said Tue, his eyes still on the shipyard. “I think it going to be a Drekkar. It’s grand enough.”

Esben studied the ship. Although incomplete, there was already an elegance to her. Like Frea. And both destined for the flame.

Stop! It had barely been a night and a day but already Frea appeared to have pushed her way into his mind and he couldn’t shake her.

He needed a greater distraction.

“Come on,” he huffed. “Let’s take a closer look.”

They strode down the hill. Esben grasped Frea’s right shoulder, his large hand firm and his thumb just brushing the skin of her exposed neck as if he believed she might try to escape. She did nothing to dissuade him—she couldn’t escape in the middle of the day anyway.

Ahead, the settlement was nearing. Her feet slowed. She didn’t want to return. The last day, as Esben’s promised, had been peaceful. On the top of the hill, she’d remained out of sight with nobody to order her around. She missed Alf, but she didn’t miss his mother, or Dalla. Or the other thralls, jealous of Alf’s affection for her. And she certainly didn’t miss the endless hours spent spinning smelly, oily wool.

Esben didn’t force her to sped up; his own feet seemed to slow. She glanced at him. His profile was haloed by a ring of early afternoon light as the sun travelled across the sky.

He refused to look at her, instead his eyes focused on the settlement. She bit her lip, it was disconcerting to be so close to a person and not know what they were thinking. His face was dispassionate and unreadable. It was the face of a warrior who didn’t want his enemies to know his emotions.

They passed the outer houses, skirting around the village.

Frea’s leather-souled shoes crushed against the burnt ground as they entered what remained of the shipyard. Before her stood the skeleton of a massive ship, held steady by temporary scaffolding. Several man worked large saws, cutting timber planks to size, while a carpenter chiseled away at the bow.

Esben paused, his hand slipping from her shoulder.

Even with her limited knowledge, Frea knew this was going to be a beautiful ship. She curved, from one end outwards and back into the another, her lines sleek and smooth. Almost instinctively, Frea took a step closer to lay her hand against the ship’s side. At it’s highest point, it was twice as tall as her and its prowl seemed to reach up into the sky.

She remembered little of Odin’s longship. The bells had only just began to toll a warning before the attackers where on them. All the men had been killed before they’d even drawn their swords, Frea’s father and brothers among them. Then, just as Frea thought she too would be killed, Odin had taken a fancy to her long hair and dark eyes. She’d been clapped in iron manacles and taken aboard. How much time passed, she didn’t know—she’d had spent the entire journey sitting at Odin’s feet, watching his body move with the motion of the ores.

She blinked away the memory. Before her, the carpenter selected another chisel from his belt, and continued to scrap back the wood in a downwards movement. Clouds shifted across the sun casting shadows over the shipyard and she saw the outline of a great dragon-like creature emerging from the wood. Its tongue swirled from its mouth, its ears pointed forward like sharp horns and, as she watched, the craftsman began carving the intricate scales.

This was a ship worthy of a great leader. A Norse chief.

“It’s—” Beautiful. But she couldn’t say the word aloud. Its beauty would crumble as the flames consumed its body, taking Alf and herself into Valhalla. Its creation was her death.

The carpenter’s cloak lay on the ground by her feet. It was a thick, woollen garment with a fur collar and would be the perfect tool to aid her escape. She just had to bend down and pick it up.

“Addled brain,” someone yelled and their voice echoed through the shipyard.

Frea jumped, looking around for a sign of the man who’d spoken. All the builders had their heads down, their eyes on their work.

Had they yelled at her?

She glanced at Esben and paused. His lips were pursed and redness travelled up his neck to colour his cheeks. There was a vulnerability about him she’d never seen before.

Not her, him. But why? He’d been Alf’s most trusted captain and from what she’d seen, his crew clearly adored him. She eyed the shipbuilders with renewed interest. What did they know about Esben that she didn’t?

Beside him stood Stein, Kormak and Tue. Each wore a grim expression and their hands rested on their weapons.

“Who said that?” called Kormak.

“Said what?” The carpenter shrugged, glancing innocently at the other builders.

“You heard,” hissed Stein.

But Esben raised his hand and they fell silent. “Frea.” He motioned for her to return to his side.

She hesitated, the colour had drained from his face, and he was wearing his warriors expressionless mask again—a look she was quickly associating with obstinacy. But she also recognised a command when she heard one and hurried back.

“I’m hungry,” he grunted. “Let’s get out of here.”

They turned, heading into the village.

“Son of madness,” another voice called.

Esben tensed but he didn’t respond. Frea peered behind—the shipbuilders watched them walk away, their eyes full of distrust.

They moved through the centre of the village. A huddle of wooden buildings were grouped together with a stone sheep pen to one side and a wooden table with chairs on the other. Ducks searched for food, their bills skimming through the fine dirt that covered the ground. Stein and Kormak waved to their mother, a large woman sitting on her front step weaving a length of woollen cloth.

The largest longhouse had been decorated with strips of black mourning cloth hanging from the windows. In the doorway stood Bersi, his right hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He eyed Esben with undisguised malaise.

“Horrible man,” Kormak muttered.

“Ignore him,” ordered Esben. “He’s nothing but trouble.”

Bersi glanced in the direction they’d come from and smiled. “Taking the seiðr for a look at the ship.” His eyes flickered to Frea. “I bet you liked that. Very grand, isn’t it? The perfect eternal resting place.”

She glowered but her hands started to shake.

Esben took half a step towards her, his arm grazing hers. “Why don’t you come over here and say that?” He was so large and furious looking she was surprised Bersi didn’t back down immediately.

Strangely, she wasn’t afraid. His anger wasn’t directed at her, rather it acted as a shield, protecting her against Bersi’s snide remarks. She shifted ever so slightly, letting her elbow rub more firmly against his arm. To stand so close to a Norse lord and know he wasn’t going to hurt her—it was a strange feeling. A little exhilarating.

Bersi’s smile widened, but he didn’t move closer. “I see she’s bewitched you, too. It didn’t take long.”

Esben growled and the sound rumbled through his body.

“Captain,” Stein took a step towards Bersi, “you want me to—”

“Neinn.” Esben said, barely moving his lips so Bersi couldn’t hear. “That’s what he wants. He’s not a common man anymore, he’s your equal, and you’d be punished by the council if you attack first. And he’s beyond my jurisdiction because he’s not a member of my crew.”

She peered at Esben, unable to prevent herself from drawing comparisons. Esben was infinitely superior to Bersi in masculine grace and manners. While Bersi was short and weaselly, Esben was tall and his very presence commanded attention.

Dalla stepped around Bersi to stick her head out the door. “Why don’t you come in? We’re just about to eat our midday meal.”

“Dalla,” Esben acknowledged. “That’s very...unexpected.” It appeared that he couldn’t lie to be polite, or perhaps he just didn’t care very much.

“You’ve important goods in your care, and she looks hungry. Have you even broken your fast yet?” She motioned for Frea to enter the house.

Frea swallowed. Dalla cared nothing for her health, but was suddenly acting as if it was of great concern.

The Carrier of Death fingered the sacrificial dagger hanging from her belt. “Come.” It was an order, not a suggestion.

They followed Dalla inside, Esben not removing his hand from Frea’s back. As they passed Bersi he sighed and hot breath washed over her skin. Frea flinched.

“Get out of the way,” snapped Esben and he stepped between her and Bersi, blocking the older man from her sight.

The room was covered with shadows; the black fabric over the windows blocked out the pale afternoon light. Frea squinted through the darkness and smoke. The rest of Alf’s inner circle and the Council of Elders were already seated at the long table while Gerd sat on a chair by the hearth. Her head was bent over a length of white cloth but she glanced up as they entered, her eyes narrowing.

“Mistress, you’ve started the shroud already,” said Stein, surprise touching his voice.

“No point putting off the inevitable,” she snapped, bending back over her work.

Even from across the room, Frea could tell it was going to be an ornate piece with small glass beads sewn down each edge.

Somebody shuffled in behind them and Esben stepped to the side, letting them pass. It was the blacksmith and he placed a silver circlet at Gerd’s feet. “A gift for your son’s journey into Valhalla,” he said, then backed out again.

Frea stared at the ground around Gerd. It was littered with small offerings—bowls, grain, weapons of daggers and arrows, jewellery and linen.

Stein and Kormak each withdrew a handful of silver coins and placed them on the ground too. Then they sat on the bench beside the rest of their crew, who shuttled up to make room for Esben and Frea. Esben guided Frea onto the bench, seating her between himself and Stein.

She looked towards the far wall. The curtain was pulled closed over the doorway leading into the private quarters. Was Alf’s body still there, his face pale with death? Her hands shook and she clenched them tight in her lap.

She didn’t want to be here. Everything reminded her of Alf—the chair by the fire where he used to sit in the evening, Frea by his feet, and the weapons’ rack on the wall proudly displaying his sword collection. Unable to endure the direction of her thoughts, she turned her head, examining the table.

Gerd had put down her sewing and taken her place at the centre of the table. Beside her sat Dalla, their faces turned towards each other in a private conversation. Tue had moved away from Esben to take a seat on his aunt’s other side. He looked up and his eyes briefly met Frea’s.

She averted her gaze. Slaves, even pampered ones, were forbidden to watch their superiors. But then again, she’d never been allowed to sit at the table with the freemen. She touched a hand to her chest where her heart lay. She could feel it pounding against her palm. The feeling was surreal, as if everything she’d known was slipping from her grasp. Death knocked on her door, but for the moment she was being treaded as a guest in Alf’s house.

A thrall placed at plate on the table before her, and Frea glanced up. It was Mildburg, one of Dalla’s own slaves. She watched Frea through her dark eyelashes.

“Thank you,” Frea mouthed but Mildburg turned away without recognition, her expression cold.

A lump rose in her throat. Mildburg’s neck was red beneath her slave collar. Alf had never made Frea wear one, but Dalla was particularly partial to the manacles. Frea had never resented the other slaves’ jealousy of her, Alf was the kindest of all masters, but today she felt like screaming. You take my place, she wanted to yell at Mildburg. Give me your collar and you can go to my death!

“Esben took Frea to see how the building of the death ship progresses,” spoke up Bersi, seated at the other end of the table.

Both Dalla and Gerd looked up, their eyes snapping to Esben’s face. “And how did she find it?” asked Gerd. Her upper lip curled displaying her true indifference to Frea’s opinion.

Esben clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth. Beside him, Frea stared down at her lap, her hands clenched into fists. Was this why they’d been invited in? They wished to torment Frea with talk of her impending death. His arms arched to pull her against his chest and shield her from the room.

He briefly closed his eyes. What, he demanded his traitorous body, happened to forgetting his desire for her? “Does it matter?” he called, feigning disinterest. Perhaps, if he pretended hard enough not to care the feelings would fade.

“I’m glad to see it doesn’t. Bersi was afraid—”

“What?” he snapped. “That she’d bewitched me? Have you no faith in your men to remember their duty? Isn’t honour the first thing every sea-warrior learns?”

“Honour?” Gerd raised her eyebrows. “Já, but it is stronger in some than others.”

He rested his hands flat on the table to dissuade himself from grasping his battle-axe. Then he remembered: he’d left his weapons' belt back at the house. “With you, why does everything come back to my mother?”

“Not just me. I hear there was a disagreement at the shipyard,” a smile tugged her lips.

That news had travelled fast. He wasn’t surprised. The people of this settlement loved gossip, especially when it involved his family. “The builders lack discipline.”

“Perhaps.” Gerd shrugged. “But when they speak their mind, it’s you they talk of.”

“And you would be swayed by their opinion? The chief’s mother, listening to craftsmen.” Anger spurred his words.

Gerd eyes narrowed, but didn’t respond. Instead, she motioned for the thralls to bring forward the midday meal. With well practiced precision Mildburg and two others scooped thick stew onto everyone’s bowls.

A tension filled silence fell across the room. Bersi speared a chunk of meat on the end of a small dagger and bit into it, gravy running down his chin, clearly at ease with everyone else's discomfort.

“We sent word to your sister of Alf’s passing,” spoke up Wodan, another of Esben’s thirteen crewmen.

He nodded his thanks.

“She knew he was injured,” interrupted Gerd, “but she didn’t return.”

“Vivi’s expecting again, she can’t travel,” he said, but it was useless arguing, Gerd would never change her mind about his family. He grabbed his spoon and picked moodily at his stew.

Frea shifted anxiously, her hip gently bumping him. She was warm; a shield against Gerd’s harsh words. What did it matter if Gerd thought badly of him, he had other, more important matters to contemplate.

It matters, muttered a mutinous voice at the back of his mind. He’d spent his entire life living in his mother’s shadow, striving to overcome everyone’s suspicion of his family. For winters he’d doggedly led his crew into uncharted waters, endeavouring to return with more and more extravagant wealth. Why else had he risked his life more times than he could count raiding? If he gave in now, all those conquests would have been for nothing.

He shifted across an inch, moving his body from Frea’s.

She turned her head to look at him, he could almost feel her gaze heating his skin.

“Eat,” he huffed. “You’re too thin.”

Her pupils contracted a fraction—she was obviously displeased with his masterful tone but she picked up her spoon. His raised an eyebrow. In only two days she’d already grown more confident. Think what she’d be like after a month in his company.

Neinn! That thought was forbidden.

“Please,” he amended.

Frea sighed. Esben was confusing. One moment he seemed to care nothing for her, then the next he was protecting her from Bersi and urging her to eat. She picked up her spoon and took a bite.

Her lips and mouth burnt. The spoon slipped from her fingers. Everything blurred, and convulsions shook her limps.

“Frea. Frea!” Esben’s hazy profile floated before her eyes. She dropped her hands, reaching for the table, but her arms wouldn’t respond. She couldn’t move. Her body tipped and darkness descended.