#and say that Ill be surprised how many people ask that without thinking ir using their brain

[really-burnt-toast]

Me getting Passfotos (passport photos??) done by a photographer...

And there is an OBVIOUS background I gotta sit before with my back facing to it.

Me: "Which way do I need to face?"

[lihikainanea]

Did tiger and bill ever go through like a phase where tiger kind of had to get used to bill thinking of her? Like she wasn't really used to being someone's first choice, like someone thinking about what she might like or want. To have someone frankly just think of you. I'm sorry to be a bother. Just feeling kind of bad lately, and could use some sweet bill. Sorry again.

First of all boo, please don't ever be sorry for sliding into my DMs. I love hearing from you guys, especially if you're not doing that well. I'm all ears, and this blog is a safe space for everyone--so pull up a chair and stay awhile. I, and our two favourite idiots, would be nothing if it weren't for all the amazing asks that you guys send to me <3

Secondly, I love this train of thought because I think it is very, very true. And it probably started back at the beginning of their friendship, right? Yes, it did. Follow me down this rabbit hole.

Bill doesn't make a lot of new friends because since the whole fame thing, he has trouble trusting people--and Bill, by nature, is a caretaker. He's extremely nurturing. He provides. He takes care of those close to him, in one way or another. But he knows his own empathic side, he knows its limits and boundaries, and one of the worst things he can do for his own well being is care about too many people. Get involved with too many people. Bill is happiest amongst his close group of friends, people he knows he can trust, people he can cook dinner for and host movie nights for and fly halfway around the world when he has a premiere.

And tiger, for her part--my girl tiger, she has zero self-preservation skills. Like, none. And Bill is fascinated by that. He's fascinated by this little fireball who not only has no idea who he is, but who subsequently really couldn't give a shit once she found out. He's enamoured with this little scrappy ball of ire who is convinced not only that she can start a bar fight with everyone in the pub, but that she can legitimately win. Bill's never seen anything like it. And once you meet tiger, she's impossible not to love. Or at least, it's impossible not to be intrigued by her, and to want to know more.

But the thing is, that firecracker personality and the massive chip on her shoulder doesn't come from nowhere--tiger's been hurt a lot. And it's because she never goes for the good guys. For as much as Bill has an empath side, tiger has the self-destructive kind where she wants to fix people. And she always goes for the dudes who will take and take and take, the dudes who play rope a dope with her heart, and who leave her shattered. Tiger gives her soul away too easily, and she takes it as a challenge when she's tossed to the side by some guy who was never worth her time anyway. She tries to prove she's worthy.

But then in comes Bill--this big, wall-eyed, kind of freaky looking dude who seems nice and kind and is moderately soft spoken. And when they hang out, Bill starts showing a genuine interest--platonically, of course--but it's genuine. He asks what she does for a living. He asks if she likes it. He wants to know where she went to school, what she studied. Does she have any siblings? Because he has a lot, and he knows how tough big families can make you. When tiger can't decide if she wants the chilli fries or the chicken wings one night at a pub, Bill tells her to get both--and that's when she knew they'd be friends.

And it slowly but surely escalated from there--still all platonic at the beginning--but suddenly, Bill was asking her how she was getting home, if she needed a ride. He was asking her how her week was, when everyone got together on Friday--and if she had mentioned something big previously, a meeting or a presentation or something--he'd remember, and ask her how it went. If he left the bar early, he'd politely ask her if she could text him when she got home.

"Why?" she scoffed.

"Because somebody needs to look out for you," he answered honestly. Tiger, in true fashion, balked awkwardly.

And this is where her defence mechanism started to fly up. Because when you're not used to being cared for, when you're not used to genuinely mattering to someone or hell even just getting the attention of a truly good person--it's weird. It's awkward. It's scary as hell and requires a level of vulnerability that tiger isn't ready to let exist--because it would mean that she would have to admit to herself that she is worthy. That this is the norm, and that she deserves this. That she knowingly let herself settle for being treated like shit for so many years.

And tiger's first defence is always anger. So maybe she started getting real snippy with him, probably well into their friendship by this point--so Bill was cooking for her, and if he wasn’t then he was checking in to make sure she ate at least one vegetable that day. If she had a date, he would wait until she texted him that she was in for the night--whether that was at the guy’s place or hers. If she needed a ride home in the morning then he would pick her up, in all of her walk of shame glory--but he’d pick her up with a few Advil, some big sunglasses, a huge coffee. And he would absolutely make fun of her nefarious, ill-fated decisions but he’d always wait at least 12 hours before he dared.

But to go even further--you are absolutely right. Bill does put her first. Once she is solidified as his best friend, then there’s no going back--she comes first. And part of it is Bill really is legitimately concerned because tiger has no self preservation skills and he worries that if HE doesn’t concern himself over her, then tiger will just like...her reckless decisions will be her undoing. He must look after Little Human, because Little Human’s self-destructive streak is far too prevalent. He has left dates in the dust when she needed his help. He looks out for her in group settings, and intervenes if some idiot is getting too handsy with her. If he has a boys night that night but tiger calls crying because some idiot broke her heart, or crying because it’s shark week and she’s out of gummy bears--then Bill is there. In a heartbeat, he’s there. She comes first.

And I’ll bet it’s all very nice, but it also kind of has tiger seething. Because she’s not used to this kind of...care. The genuineness of it. And tiger can’t be vulnerable enough to admit that part of her likes it, part of her feels safe knowing that even in the wee hours of the morning, Bill is awake and waiting for her to let him know she got in safely. Part of her kind of likes this idea that someone is thinking of her, that someone prioritizes her. But it’s still tiger, so she also gets hella mad. And she seethes--for a long time, she seethes. Quietly. And then maybe it all just comes to a head one night when she goes over to Bill’s place after work and he has a crisp glass of white wine waiting for her, a change of clothes, even her favourite make up remover--the kind that doesn’t sting, because she has sensitive skin. And all of that pisses her off, but then she walks into the kitchen as he’s deftly cleaning and slicing mushrooms.

“How did it go?” he asks casually. Tiger plays dumb.

“How did what go?” she swigs her wine.

“The meeting with your boss today.”

“...Fine,” she mumbles, petulantly. Of course he’d remember that, even though she told him two weeks ago. 

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” he offers kindly. Tiger sees an errant pile of green onions on his chopping board, and she eyes them wearily but somewhat triumphantly. Bill heads to the fridge, pulls out a bowl of salad, then he tosses the green onions in. Perfect, she thinks, and it gives her a weird sense of satisfaction. Mr. Nice Guy, Mr. Considerate, doesn’t even remember what she considers to be the most significant thing about her. That she hates green onions. She feels triumphant, renewed. Somewhat weirdly comforted to confirm that perhaps she doesn’t mean that much to him.

Until he heads back to the fridge, and pulls out another bowl of salad--one that he promptly dresses, salts and peppers, and tosses. One without green onions. One for her.

“Why do you do that?!” she explodes. Bill jumps in surprise.

“Do what?” he asks innocently, “This one has no green onions!”

“Exactly,” she continues, “Ugh, Bill. Just...why do you always...ugh, Bill!”

Bill is stunned, still holding his bowl of salad, trying to figure out what exactly is happening here.

“It’s too much,” tiger says, slamming her wine down, “All of it is too much.”

“What’s too much?”

“You! This. Why do you always just....think of everything?” she says, and she’s steadfastly working herself into a tizzy.

“Tiger...”

“How? How do you remember these things? How do you fucking remember that I had a meeting with my boss today, a meeting that I told you about two weeks ago? Why do you make a whole other bowl of salad for me, why do you remember that I hate green onions?”

“Because I care about you kid,” he shrugs.

Tiger is angry, but she’s also at a loss for words. Bill’s genuineness, his honesty, will do that. For as much as she struggles to be vulnerable. Bill shows that side of himself openly. She doesn’t even know why she’s so angry. Bill watches her for a minute, but she’s kind of just bug-eyed so he goes back to his cutting board and starts calmly chopping his little mushrooms again.

“I don’t like it,” she mutters after a long pause.

“Too bad,” he shrugs non-chalantly. Tiger glares at him.

“Too bad?” she seethes.

“Too bad,” he repeats.

“Stop it,” she says.

“No.”

“Bill, I mean it. Stop always trying to--”

“No.”

“I’m not finished,” she stamps her foot, “Stop being such--”

“No.” he says again, “Tiger, this is what I do.This is how I am. I care about the people that matter to me.”

“Well I don’t ma--”

“Yes you do. You matter to me. So I suggest you put on your big girl panties, and fucking deal with it,” he says. And that’s final. Tiger is taken aback at his tone, at the way his face suddenly got serious--but then in a heartbeat, it’s relaxed again.

“Now, do you want mustard on your burger, or ketchup?” he asks. Tiger is petulantly silent, glaring at him.

“Tiger.” he warns, holding up the hamburger bun.

“Shouldn’t you already know?” she huffs in annoyance, going to the fridge and grabbing the wine. She swigs it right from the bottle as she boosts herself up on the kitchen counter. Bill goes to the fridge and grabs the mayo--her favourite--putting a thick schmear on the bun.

“God, get fucked asshole,” she mutters. Bill just grabs her face, plants a noisy kiss on her cheek as she shrieks and swats him.

[lake-arrius-caverns]

Nerevarine Rising

Chapter 8: Life Lessons

summary En route to Vivec City, the twins experience a couple of strange encounters. Ribyna hits Fahjoth with some cold, hard facts.

content warnings uh very minor character death ig

tag list @boulderfall-cave , @padomaicocean (lmk if you’d like to be added!)

read under the cut or on AO3, cheers 👍

:: First :: || << Previous << || >> Next >> || :: Masterpost ::

—————————————————————————————

If Fahjoth had been hoping for a calm, relaxing stroll to Vivec City, he was to be sorely let down. Granted, it did help to take his mind off of his unsettling encounter with the Dunmer, who Fahjoth had come to realise was one of the sleeper agents that Cosades had discussed with him not an hour prior. Fahjoth tried to remind himself that he was lucky to have escaped unscathed, but he would surely need to discuss it with Cosades once he and Ribyna returned to Balmora. 

The first of the day’s unsettling events started just after the twins passed by Seyda Neen, when the quiet of the lazy afternoon was pierced by a horrendous scream. After jolting to a stop they both began to search for the source, without success until Fahjoth happened to look to the sky. 

“Holy shit—!” he gasped, grabbing Ribyna by the arm and yanking her along as he stumbled back to a safe distance. The shrieking continued, growing louder and louder until it was abruptly cut off by the body of a Bosmer striking the dusty road at tremendous velocity. Fahjoth couldn’t tear his eyes away as the skull collided with the ground and split open on impact with a sickening crack. 

The Bosmer bounced and rolled after landing, carried along by the momentum from the fall before finally coming to a stop where the twins had been standing mere seconds before. Within seconds, a stark red stain had begun to pool out around his head, and that coupled with the expression of agonised terror frozen on the now very dead Bosmer’s face made Fahjoth feel severely ill. 

“Fucking— gods alive…” Fahjoth breathed, drawing his hands up to cover his mouth in horror. Silence fell over the scene for a few seconds during which nobody moved, with both twins instead staring at the broken body lying prone and twisted on the path in front of them. Then, as Ribyna took a hesitant step forward and crouched down beside the body, Fahjoth shook his head in dismay. 

“I don’t think there’s anything we can do, Beebs—” he started, before his voice died in his throat as he realised exactly what Ribyna was doing. He had been under the assumption that she was attempting to help, to see if there was anything that could be done for the unfortunate fellow, but then he came to realise that he had been sorely mistaken once he noticed Ribyna going through his pockets. 

“Ooh, this looks fancy, don’t it?” Ribyna remarked, holding up an oddly elongated yellow hat with a fur-lined brim. Fahjoth was speechless, but as she began to rummage through the Bosmer’s belongings once more, he finally found his voice. 

“Ribyna, what the fuck?!”

Ribyna whipped around, a picture of wide-eyed innocence, looking surprised to see Fahjoth so angry. He wasn’t sure whether that made him feel more or less incensed. “What?”

“What d’you mean, ‘what’?! You can’t just—” He gestured vaguely to the body, almost too outraged to splutter his words out. “You can’t just... take shit from someone who’s just died! I bet the body’s still fucking warm, for gods’ sakes!”

With a thoughtful expression, Ribyna reached out again and pressed her fingers against the Bosmer’s crumpled chest. With a petulant look on her face, she turned back to face Fahjoth again. “Okay, it is, but that’s besides the point,” Ribyna said stubbornly. “Look, it’s all about the hustle, bro. If he’s got valuables, we can sell them! That’s how this shit works!” 

“Well, it shouldn’t be!” Fahjoth spat. “It’s disgusting! It’s wrong!”

Ribyna didn’t rise to Fahjoth’s chastising, but she did narrow her eyes and stare at him coolly, even after he’d finished. “Look, you need to get used to this kind of shit,” she warned, pointing a finger up at Fahjoth accusingly. “This is what we have to do to get by sometimes. In case you hadn’t noticed, we don’t have too many friends here. So you might as well get off your high horse ‘cause it won’t do you any fucking good here.” She turned back to the corpse, continuing to loot the Bosmer of everything valuable that he carried, so that Fahjoth finally had to look away out of revulsion. “And that goes for people, too. If anyone fucks with you, you need to fuck with them back. You’re too bloody... soft-hearted for your own good, you.” 

With a heavy scowl, Fahjoth shook his head. He knew exactly what she was referring to; his catastrophic trip to Arkngthand, which was the last thing he needed to be reminded of. The indignation burned in his chest, and he spared Ribyna one more glance before walking around the corpse and skulking along down the road again, hands in pockets and shoulders tense. “Whatever. Catch up to me when you’re done, I’m not hanging around to watch this.”

“Fine. Will do,” Ribyna replied as Fahjoth stormed off. Even from a distance, he could pick up on the vexation lacing her tone. 

Once he was alone with his thoughts, Fahjoth slowed his pace and began to reflect on the argument. Guilt started to gnaw at his gut over snapping at his twin and leaving her on her own, but more than that, he was hit by a wave of doubt. Her harsh words had been hurtful, but perhaps they were truthful, too. 

Maybe she’s right, he thought sullenly, kicking a stone in his path and watching it ricochet along the road. Maybe he did need to toughen up…

The stone finally rolled to a stop, and Fahjoth was surprised to see it land in someone’s long shadow. A Dunmer, donning a Bonemold cuirass and boots, stood in the middle of the road, his rich auburn hair gleaming in the low sunlight. He faced Fahjoth directly, red eyes fixed on him with the ghost of a smile on his angular features. 

Fahjoth offered a smile in return as he changed direction to walk around him; but the stranger stood to the side simultaneously, blocking the road and causing Fahjoth to abruptly stop. Perhaps that had been an accident, he reasoned. So Fahjoth gave an awkwardly apologetic laugh and tried again, only to have the Dunmer once again sidestep and stand in his way. 

That couldn’t have been an accident. It was clear now that he was blocking Fahjoth’s path on purpose. 

“Could you move, please, mate?” Fahjoth asked, keeping his tone polite despite the mild annoyance he felt. “You’re sort of in my way.” 

“Afraid not, friend,” the Dunmer responded, his voice unusually melodic and chipper. “Allow me to introduce myself! It is I, Nels Llendo.” 

“Right...” Fahjoth was baffled. “Can I help you, then? I’ve kind of got somewhere to be.” 

The Dunmer, Nels Llendo, simply folded his arms and continued to smile that charming yet unsettling smile. “Ah... I see you have not heard of me,” he said softly. “A shame. Well, no need to tremble in fear. Nels Llendo is a reasonable man, hardly the cutthroat some would make me out to be. To cut to the chase, I offer you a fair and healthy proposition.”

A cutthroat? Fahjoth frowned, staring at Nels in disbelief while he stood motionless, rooted to the spot. Was this a robbery? He wasn’t feeling very threatened by Nels’ friendly disposition, but then his eyes fell on the gleam of a sword’s hilt hanging at his waist. With trepidation, he dared to ask, “What proposition?”

“A very simple proposition, actually,” Nels replied. “You will give me fifty septims, and in return, you will be allowed to continue safely on your journey. Nels Llendo gives you his word as a gentleman that, once our transaction has taken place, you have nothing to fear from me. What say you?”

And there it was. Trying not to let his apprehension show in his body language or voice, Fahjoth stood his ground. “No way. I’m not just gonna hand over my gold to you, mate.” 

Nels shook his head, tutting in a very exaggerated show of disappointment. “I fear you are making an unwise decision, my friend. But, so be it... though I do hate to soil my clothes with your blood. No matter. Such is the life of Nels Llendo.” Before Fahjoth could respond, Nels had whipped his sword out from its sheath and held it aloft, the enchanted blade gleaming with a flaming red sheen. “You have made the wrong choice, outlander.”

As Fahjoth took a hasty step backwards and reached for his own blade, very conscious of Nels already advancing on him, the sound of approaching footsteps and a voice gave both Mer pause. 

“Oi!”

Once he caught sight of Ribyna marching towards them — her backpack a lot fatter than it had been when they left Balmora — Nels instantly sheathed his sword and, to Fahjoth’s surprise, sank into a low, elegant bow. 

“Hello, my dear. Nels Llendo at your service.”

“Nels Llend—?” Ribyna rolled her eyes, tilting her head back and rubbing her brow. “Oh, gods...”

“Oh? My name is familiar to you?” he questioned, perhaps mistaking her irritation for apprehension. “Fear not, my dear. Nels Llendo is far from the heartless villain some have made me out to be. From one as charming and gracious as you, I would ask for but a single kiss.” 

Fahjoth had to do a double-take, turning back to Nels in bewilderment. “You what?” Then his mouth fell open in outrage. “You were just about to kill me over fifty septims!”

Nels, however, paid Fahjoth no heed, his attention focused solely on Ribyna. “It would be the most precious prize I have ever solicited from a... client.”

Fahjoth was silent, looking between the two with unease. Though he would have liked nothing more than to jump in, to tell Nels in no uncertain terms to piss off and leave them alone, he did not want to risk drawing Ribyna’s ire by speaking for her. Instead he waited, and when Ribyna spoke up, it was the last thing he had been expecting to hear. 

“And if I do, me and my brother can pass? You won’t touch either of us?”

Nels held up a hand, placing the other sincerely over his chest. “I give you my word.”

After a second or two of hesitation, Ribyna took a step forward. Fahjoth, with great discomfort, spoke up at last. 

“Ribyna, you don’t—”

“Shut up, Fahjoth.”

Fahjoth's jaw hung open, aghast but rendered totally speechless once again as Ribyna began to approach Nels, closing the gap between them. Once she reached him, she placed her hands deliberately on each of his shoulders, the look on her face one of sheer determination. 

Overcome with intense awkwardness, Fahjoth dropped his gaze — but before he could turn away completely, a sudden blur of movement caught his eye and his head snapped back up just in time to witness Ribyna thrusting her knee into Nels’ crotch, and hard. 

The once cocky and self-assured bandit crumpled to the ground in an instant, a wheezing yelp of pain hissing from between gritted teeth as he was reduced to a quivering ball of pain. Fahjoth was motionless, struck dumb with astonishment. 

Apparently, Ribyna wasn’t finished yet. Taking the opportunity while he was downed, Ribyna knelt beside Nels and began to go through his pockets, quickly fishing out a sizable coin purse and shoving it in her own. “Oh, and I’ll be taking this,” she announced, patting Nels roughly on the cheek. “Y’know, for compensation.” She then stood up, dusted herself off and began to head off, muttering a scathing insult under her breath as she did so. “Prick...”

Fahjoth cast one last glance at Nels, still curled up on the ground with tears streaming down his cheeks, before he turned away and trotted along in Ribyna’s wake as she strode onwards without a care in the world. He ambled along mutely beside Ribyna, occasionally throwing his twin an incredulous glance, still barely able to comprehend what had just happened. As grateful as he was for the lengths to which she would go to defend him, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Ribyna had handled the situation rather poorly. Eventually, he tentatively voiced what was on his mind.

“D’you think you might’ve gone a bit too far?”

“What?”

“I mean…” Fahjoth waved his hands vaguely and grimaced. “Knocking his bollocks in? Couldn’t we have just tried talking to him? Looked to me like he might’ve listened to you.”

Ribyna stopped in her tracks and rounded on Fahjoth with a scowl. “He was blackmailing us, Fahjoth, in case you hadn’t noticed! I didn’t want to try and reason with him, he was about five seconds from shoving his sword down your throat!... That wasn’t a euphemism, stop smirking! Anyway, he might’ve just got nasty again if I’d turned him down.” 

Fahjoth quickly arranged his features back into an expression of solemn concern, though he still quietly fought to keep a straight face. “Okay, fair enough... But stealing from him as well? What if he goes to the guards?”

Ribyna scoffed. “What, him? A highwayman? If he’s as infamous as everyone reckons he is, then good luck to him is all I can say. We’ll see how seriously the guards take him from inside a prison cell.”

“Good point...”

In the quiet that followed as the pair meandered on down the southern path, Fahjoth found his thoughts wandering back onto something that he wanted to get off his chest. “By the way, I’m... I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier. I was just... shocked, I suppose. But you’re right. I probably do need to wise up.”

“Yeah...” Ribyna offered Fahjoth something between a smile and a grimace. “I’m sorry as well. I didn’t mean to rag on you so hard. I only say it cause I care about you. You do know that, don’t you?” 

His spirits lifted, Fahjoth turned to face Ribyna, beaming with delight. “Aww, and you call me soft-hearted?” he remarked. Ribyna faltered, flushing with embarrassment over her unintentional sentimentality. 

“Don’t even start,” she growled, quickening her gait to avoid looking at Fahjoth in a futile attempt at saving face. “Shut up, or else you’ll go the same way as our good friend Mr Llendo.” 

Fahjoth laughed as Ribyna rushed on past, jogging on ahead a short distance until she stopped at a signpost on the side of the road a few yards down the path. But as she squinted to peer at the weather-worn wood, Fahjoth slowed his pace and came to a stop a few metres behind.

“Come on, I think we’re nearly there—“ Noting Fahjoth’s distance, Ribyna stopped mid-sentence and turned to look at him quizzically. Fahjoth struggled to hide a grin as he instead wore a deliberately thoughtful expression. 

“What?”

“Well, it’s just... I thought he was quite handsome, personally. I’d’ve kissed him!”

Ribyna groaned in exasperation, rolling her eyes and trying to hold back a smile. “You would!” she scoffed, turning away and continuing on her way down the road, to where Vivec City awaited them through the evening mist. “Shame he didn’t ask, then. Maybe I should’ve tried to set you two up instead of kneeing him in the nuts.” 

“At least you’ll know for next time!” Fahjoth laughed. As he hastened to catch up with Ribyna, he raised a hand to shield his eyes against the peachy glare of the sun low on the horizon, its vibrant fire in the sky signalling that the moons and stars would soon take its place. 

[keepyourpantsongohan]

Green Around the Gills

Grown-ups are idiots. (Chapter 622) | Discord Secret Santa 2019 for @lunarcatninja. 

                                     ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“A shinobi must be disciplined in body and mind,” begins Tobirama, his voice muffled, “and that will allow him to overcome any obstacle that might arise.”

Hashirama, the lout that he is, laughs. “Who are you lecturing, Tobirama?”  

“You,” says Tobirama, with all the dignity he can muster. 

His companion tilts his head. “Could you repeat that?” Hashirama asks, and Tobirama cannot tell if he’s teasing. He tucks the blankets further up underneath his brother’s chin. By this point, Tobirama is more sheet than shinobi. “You seem to be losing your voice.”

“I’m not sick, Anija,” Tobirama insists, obstinate; certain; coughing. 

“You sneezed on the General of the Land of Iron this morning,” Hashirama points out, laying a warm cloth on the other’s forehead.

“He was being impertinent,” Tobirama says, before his brother shoves a spoonful of soup in his mouth. 

Hashirama sighs. “It’s not your usual kind of diplomacy. And here you’re always telling me you’re the even-tempered one.”

Another spoonful of soup cuts off Tobirama’s ability to reply, but he make sure to convey a look that would deter almost any shinobi in the village. To Tobirama’s dismay, he is constantly aiming it at the only two men in Konohagakure immune. 

“Hashirama, you must release me,” Tobirama demands, when he is finally free to speak again. “If we don’t complete the proposal for the trade route to Sunagakure today—”

“—You might come dangerously to getting some rest.” Hashirama finishes with a stern look. It is unusual for his brother to take such a reprimanding tone. It abates Tobirama’s ire briefly. 

Tobirama attempts to school his face into something less petulant. He closes his eyes, letting his brother guide him into leaning his head back. “You are being far too overprotective,” he mutters. 

“It’s my job to protect the people of this village, and one of my most trusted advisors,” is the sincere reply. 

Tobirama cracks one eye open. “Is it also your job to be a nuisance?”

Though he’s facing the doorway, there is a smile in Hashirama’s voice when he answers. “That too, Otōto.”

--

Tobirama finds himself unceremoniously awakened to his brother trying to shove him into a sweater. “What,�� he begins with a mouthful of fleece, “are you doing?”

“You were shivering in your sleep,” says Hashirama, as if this is at all a rational justification for smothering his airway. 

“So why not put another blanket over me?” Tobirama tries to say, with fabric covering half of his face. 

Hashirama puts his hands on his hips. “They weren’t warming you up enough!”

“It’s December,” Tobirama remarks, at last yanking the sweater neck over himself. “Nothing is warm.” He punctuates this notion with a sneeze, and curses silently at his own body’s betrayal. 

“Exactly my point,” Hashirama says determinedly. “Now are you going to eat the flaxseed I set out for you, or shall I feed that to you too?”

Tobirama eyes the bowl at his bowl at his bedside suspiciously. “That’s a remedy for constipation.”

“Muscle spasms are muscle spasms,” Hashirama says, with so much conviction Tobirama could almost believe it. 

Tobirama groans. “I’ll start trusting your diagnoses when you become a medic. I have entertained your lunacy long enough. The trade plans—”

“Madara and I will complete them,” Hashirama dismisses, waving a hand. 

Tobirama starts to sit up. Hashirama pokes him once firmly, and that is enough to knock him right back into lying down. “That’s hardly reassuring,” Tobirama grumbles. “You know how he looks down on the Kazekage.”

“That’s why we’ll do it together. You should have more faith in your comrades, Tobirama,” Hashirama muses, good-naturedly. “In all respects. I may not be a medic, but as you know, I'm no stranger to healing myself. I don’t even use hand signs anymore.” From anyone else, such words might be boastful, but from Hashirama, it is merely a statement of fact. 

“It’s not a lack of faith,” Tobirama counters, only just chastened. “It’s... your attitude.” 

Hashirama has the gall to laugh. “My attitude?”

“You’re far too easygoing,” Tobirama replies. With a pause and a darting glance at the flaxseed, he says, “In most things.”

“One of us has to be,” says Hashirama, smiling. He picks up the bowl. “If you won’t eat this, I’ll get you something else.”

Tobirama would call it a victory, if he weren’t more worried about what might be found in the kitchen. A healer, indeed. 

“If you’re such a master of healing, Anija,” Tobirama says, narrowing his eyes at his brother, “Why is it that your jutsu can’t cure cough and cold?”

Hashirama pats him on the head. “Maybe it’s your attitude.”

When Tobirama sneezes on him, it is only half an accident. 

--

Despite Tobirama’s best efforts, Hashirama does feed him again, a horrifying concoction of cod liver oil, thyme, cherries, peppermint and Valerian root. Whether by the power of the tincture or as a defence mechanism, he sleeps. 

When Tobirama wakes up again, he hefts himself out of bed. It is a lucky thing his elder brother is not in the room, for Tobirama’s body is so stiff and aching that he nearly falls to floor trying to get his knees to bend. “Alright, I’m a little ill,” he admits quietly under his breath, throwing a blanket over his shoulders. He does so only because he knows Hashirama cannot hear him. 

In the sitting room, he finds a world transformed. Gone is all the paperwork and research left out on his and Hashirama’s desks, and instead the room closely resembles what their mother’s study had looked like many years ago, when they piled every object without a sharp edge in it in front of the fireplace to usher in the morning of Kawarama’s birthday. How Hashirama has managed to adapt a fireplace to this space, Tobirama doesn’t know, because they certainly don’t have a chimney. 

“This room is a fire hazard,” Tobirama declares upon the sight of it, but his smile undermines him immediately. 

“If you won’t sleep, at least take a break,” Hashirama says, with his back to Tobirama. He sits directly in front of the fire, and holds out a steaming mug beside him. 

Tobirama takes the drink. It isn’t overly sweet, and his throat welcomes the warmth. “Thank you.”

“I meant what I said before.” Hashirama murmurs. 

Raising one silver eyebrow, Tobirama asks, “About my bad attitude?”

Hashirama laughs, clapping him on the back. As tired as Tobirama is, the motion nearly sends him careening into the fireplace, so the same hand pulls him back. With an embarrassed chuckle, Hashirama replies, “About you being a trusted advisor. I don’t take your contributions lightly, Tobirama. Madara and I may have founded this village, but it would not prosper without you. I only wish that you would remember to give yourself a little leave.” 

“I like research,” Tobirama says. 

“And you like drinking something warm, and reading about legendary battles, and seeing which of us can keep a spinning top going the longest,” Hashirama says, nudging him. “What makes you so certain your only hobbies should be your work?”

That finally draws a laugh out of Tobirama. “Years of practice.” He gestures to his mug. The lip of it is cracked, and it doesn’t do a good job protecting his hands from the heat of his beverage, but it’s one of the few possessions they’ve managed to keep with them over the years. “I’m resting now. You might even call ‘talking’ a hobby.”

“‘Arguing,’” corrects his brother. “You still haven’t admitted to being unwell.” 

“Diplomacy is all about compromise, Anija,” Tobirama maintains. “We don’t agree about how much I should rest, but you’ve made this place more restful. So now, we both can both take a moment away from all the fuss.”

There is a glint in Hashirama’s eye that means nothing good. “I can’t take all the credit,” Hashirama says, entirely too cheerful. “It was Madara’s idea.”

Tobirama makes a derisive sound, which turns into an acute wheeze. “Uchiha Madara? Well, that is unexpected.”

“Your doubt is insulting,” says a voice from the doorway.

“Madara. Did no one ever teach you to knock before entering someone else’s home?” Tobirama asks, but it lacks any bite. 

“Hashirama let me in,” Madara says, and Tobirama wonders whether his not noticing is a testament to illness or familiarity. “How do you think that flame has been containing itself? Hashirama has never been good at harnessing fire jutsu.” 

“Fair point,” Tobirama concedes, while Hashirama pouts. “But why are you here?”

Madara snorts. “You were practically unconscious in this morning’s meeting. I would hardly be a good friend if I let Hashirama fret himself to death. Besides,” he says, offering a pointed look at Tobirama, “I told him I’ve learned a thing or two about managing unruly clan members.”

Tobirama huffs. “Unruly— I’ll tell you what’s unruly—”

“It’s not nice to tease the ill,” interjects Hashirama, smiling into his mug. “Have a seat, Madara.”

Tobirama expects him to sit in the empty space beside Hashirama, but to the other man’s surprise, Madara plops himself down right between them. “What is it?” he demands, when Tobirama looks at him askance. 

Tobirama rolls his eyes, bringing his drink back up to his lips. “Don’t blame me if you get sick.”

(The fire burns brightly all night, until the break of dawn, when Madara lets out a single, abrupt, high-pitched sneeze.)

[simplysoriya]

The Temple of the Eternal Serpent

Prologue:

A Pandarian as wise as he was large sat down on the comfortable padded cushion. Flanked by incesnese, candles, and tributes to the great Lorewalkers of Pandaria. Storytelling was a wonderful facet of the southern continent and their practitioners took it rather seriously. Clearing his throat the Lorewalkers started;

“The story I am about to tell you happened many, many years ago. Far predating you or even me. It tells of a time of turmoil in Pandaria, when hope was scarce but never abandoned. A tale of power and immortality, and one's own folly in seeking it. A humble lesson in humility; The Tale of the Eternal Serpent.”

“You see, Pandaria was not always a place of mysticism and wonder. Even with the Mogu vanquished we were not without our hardships as well. It’s history is marred with dark stains, just like you would find in the rest of the world.”

“But this story in particular…. This story is about the offspring of Yu’lon, Fe’lon, a more selfish incarnation. One that Pandaria had avoided up until then. You see, Fe’lon did not wish to give his life and his power to the people of the Mists. Even those who devoted their life to studying the teachings of his mother.”

“While it was certainly a surprise, it was not unheard of. While the power of a Celestial’s offspring is near a demi-gods? With the patron still with us we endured.”

“Though Yu’lon grew ill one summer day. The monks of the nearby monastery sat in dismay to see their patron in such a weak state, with so many months left until the completion of her statue.”

“The Jade monks pleaded with Fe’lon. They begged for his aid in helping his mother recover. But the Jade Dragon denied their every attempt. Claiming that it was the natural order of things, and if it was her time to pass on? Then it must be so.”

“Many claim that he wanted to succeed his mother and take his place among the celestials. To be revered as a God. Though this is just conjecture for the scholars.” The Pandarian let out a chuckle at his own exhibition.”

“An unprecedented thing happened in their darkness. With no help from the August Celestials, the monks band together. They gathered at the Jade Temple and lent their energy to Yu’lon. For months they sat diligently and gave their life force to help Yu’lon recover, only breaking to eat and sleep. The communities of Pandaria eventually threw in their lot as well, hearing of the brave monks who had once liberated them from the Mogu- now facing their own time of need. Villagers lined up to give tribute what they could. Farmers lent the overtures of crops, townsfolk aided the monks in what ways they could, children came to sing their odes of appreciation. It was as if the whole of Pandaria came together to help this plight.”

“While everyone saw the act as a symbol of inclusivity and community? There was one who saw it as an offense. Fe’lon thought himself robbed of his ascension, and the people of Pandaria too stuck on their own ways.”

“Instead the young Cloud Serpent cursed the people of Pandaria and fled to the west. Vowing to find those who would appreciate him. But everywhere he went he was only compared to the deeds of his lineage. Discouraged and destitute, he wandered the western reaches of Pandaria until, finally, he settled onto the mountains to rest.”

“It wasn’t very long before a pair of children discovered the dragons resting place deep within the mountains that surrounded their village. You see the two youths came from a very poor village. They hadn’t seen the triumphs of Pandaria, the celebrations, the festivals. The culture that made us all band together.”

“When they set eyes on the Dragon… it was the most fantastical thing they had ever seen. Nothing in even their wildest dreams could make up. Naturally they wanted to know everything about the Serpent- and the Serpent in turn wanted to know everything about them and their village.”

“The news spread quickly over the small town. Many patrons went to pay their respect to the Serpent in the hills. It was all Fe’lon ever wanted. Love and admiration, no matter how small the source, led the great Serpent to contention.”

“To show his appreciation Fe’lon made a deal with the villagers. Every one-hundred years they could ask the serpent of one wish, and he would grant it. For a time the villagers were overjoyed. Their fortunes were finally changed thanks to their new Celestial friend.”

“But century after century things kept going awry… One year they asked for a bountiful harvest. And they did have a bountiful harvest that year. But the years after all had withered and small crops. The nutrients sapped from the soil, leaving it almost barren.”

“Another century passed. This time the villagers asked for good health, thinking there was no way for it to backfire.” A solemn sigh escaped the elder Pandarian. “The elders of that village all died that night. But the young ones were healthy all of their lives.”

“It continued like this for generation after generation. For every wanton wish, no matter how well intentioned, it came with a price.”

“The villagers began to become disenchanted with the Dragon who they assumed would change their fortunes. They became bitter and hateful, and so too did the Serpent. One year after their festival, the villagers had conspired to build a temple for Fe’lon. But this temple would not be to honor the Cloud Serpent, but instead to imprison him.”

“Fe’lon was overjoyed by the news. Finding a tribute to himself quite fitting. With his blessing the villagers began to build.”

“For years the villagers toiled. Their poor village pooled together all of its resources to build a structure that would house something as massive as a coiled Cloud Serpent. But they knew that it was better than chancing his ire by going back on generations of tradition.”

“It was too late when Fe’lon learned of his own hubris. His fate was sealed by the last generation. No one has seen or heard from anyone from that village in centuries. To the point where it is now a legend shrouded with myths. Some say that the original architects build in a series of trials to dissuade any would be treasure hunters. Set to test the mind, spirit, and soul of those who would seek out Fe’lon.”

“It is said that the temple still exists somewhere on the mainland of Pandaria, but where it is no one knows. It’s location lost to the annals of time. But some claim that those who find it will be granted a single wish for offering the Serpent some company in his solitude. Though only a fool would take a wish from such a snake.

“Others, however, claim there is a treasure waiting that is greater than a wish for those who can resist temptation.”

“Though I am but a mere storykeeper. The Legends of Pandaria are for you young ones to chase after.” The Lorewalker spoke with a broad smile.

Six faces no older than seven lit up at the Pandarians fantastical tale. “Woooooah! That is so cool!” Many of them said before breaking off into chatter about the story.

However one looked to their teacher before asking, “Ms Soriya, do you think the Eternal Serpent is real?”

Soriya’s lips curled into a confident smirk as she looked down to the young Orc boy, “Oh, I know it’s real.”

[draw-you-coward]

ao3

headcanon that i’ve warmed up to: autistic urianger?

~

“I fear thou art mistaken, good ser. Ne’er was it mine intent to do thee or thy lady ill.” The voice is gravelly, quiet, and straining with weariness.

Thancred looks up from the book he had been thumbing through. He hadn’t expected to hear that familiar baritone this far away from its chosen place of residence. Curious, he reshelves the library book and steps to the edge of the balcony, peering down over the gilded railing.

“Well, ill you’ve done!” A red-haired mystel is standing on the floor below as if hoping to embody the concept of a restlessness, ears folded back and tail slowly whipping in agitation. Beside him is a flaxen-haired woman in a similar, although less flustered, state. “And I’ll thank you to apologize, I think! Why, I thought the elves were supposed to be—supposed to be gallant folk, high in virtue and deed! It seems I was mistaken.”

Urianger, for it is indeed him, draws in a deep, coarse breath. He lets it out as more of a roughened sigh than is polite. “I apologize, dear lady, for my malintent,” he says to the woman. “Though it was indeliberate.”

“Dear lady?” The man’s cry is indignant. “Why, she is neither dear to you nor is she obligated to take whatever that is supposed to be as an apology!” Then, sharply and swiftly, “I’ll thank you to look at your conversation partner when you are spoken to, young man! How terribly rude.”

Urianger pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. Thancred turns and retreats into the building, silent and graceful.

“It’s alright, Vas, darling.” The lady speaks in a high and reedy voice. “I’m sure he meant nothing by it. Isn’t that right, er…?”

“It is,” Urianger replies. “’Twas foolish of me to supposition that mine aid in the matter would be welcomed, let alone hearkened to.”

“What? Why, you—!”

“Vas. Vas! It isn’t worth it. No, don’t.” A clacking footstep upon stone tiles.

“Is there a problem here, good folk?” Thancred appears in the archway of the alcove. Urianger's pale eyes fix on him and hold. The pair of mystel look over, clearly startled. The woman is clutching at the man’s arm, but upon spotting Thancred, she lets go and smoothes down her blouse.

“It pains me to interrupt,” he continues with an amiable smile, “but I will humbly request that, since we are in a library, you keep it down. I doubt this man has done aught to earn such ire, unless he has committed some grievous crime…?”

The man huffs in irritation, but eyes Thancred's gunblade warily, and eventually shakes his head. “No, no. Not enough to start trouble, I suppose. Come along now, dearest. We’ll go to someplace more… civilized to get what we need.”

With a sniff and an unnecessarily pretentious ear flick, they stalk past Thancred and out of the room. He watches them leave with raised eyebrows, then turns to Urianger.

“And just how did you manage to step on their toes?” he asks, crossing his arms.

Urianger's mouth twitches downwards, then evens out. “I did offer but a simple suggestion,” he mutters. “They wert searching for knowledge beyond their purview. The beginner’s tomes art yonder,” he points, “Where ‘tis more acceptable to be… raucous.”

Thancred's eyebrows arch. “Did you honestly tell them that?” he asks, amused. “Oh my. What crawled up your skirts and died today, eh?”

Urianger's eyes flash with annoyance. “A library serveth its purpose best as a domain of learning, ergo of peace and quiet,” he says, a little waspishly. “’Tis doing its residents ill to disrespect said purpose.”

Thancred leans against the wall. “Well, we’re not being very respectful right now, if that’s the case. Be any snappier and you’d be a crab.”

Urianger pivots on his heel. “Begone, then!” he says harshly. “If thou wouldst do naught but pick at my temperament and drive me to quarrel.”

He pushes a book back in its place far more aggressively than is necessary. Definitely far more aggressively than Thancred would ever think he would treat one.

“Are you…?” Thancred steps forward, laying a hand on Urianger's arm to turn him around. He does so, albeit with a stiff jaw and a warning behind his eyes. “Twelve above, alright. Alright.”

He glances around, mentally plotting the path through the library that would walk them past the quietest sections on the way out. “Come on then,” he says when he has it, letting go of Urianger to beckon. “The noise levels are more even outside of the building. You can take my arm if you like.”

Urianger eyes him suspiciously, but follows as Thancred leads him out of the alcove, and after a few seconds, tentatively settles long fingers around his shoulder. His grip is a good indication of his reaction to the current noise level, and Thancred re-charts their walk a couple of times when it tightens, at one point near-painfully. It is oddly loud today, although he remembers hearing something about some writing competition recently starting up in the newsletter. Perhaps people are doing research for that.

The whispers, giggling, and awkward coughing fade out as they near the exit. They push past the main entrance doors, and the background chatter of the Crystarium seeps in to fill the holes of silence they leave behind.

Thancred waits until they are some ways into the street before he glances up at Urianger. “There. Is this better?”

Urianger looks somewhat surprised, but nods jerkily. “Aye,” he says after a beat. “I… thank thee.”

Thancred crosses his arms. “You aren’t used to anything that isn’t either pure silence or consistent background noise,” he explains. “Even when we were back on the Source, you would only sit with the rest of us if there was enough chatter, although not so much as to be disturbing. Anything you could zone out to, but nothing that would interrupt your train of thought.”

“Thou… art more observant of such things than I grant thee credit for.” Urianger clears his throat and closes his eyes, then opens them to look askance over his shoulder. “Furthermore, I… would have remained thither were it not for thee. The library is customarily my place of solitude. I apologize for my vexation. And I… I thank thee.”

“You already did.” Thancred smiles mildly. “Think nothing of it, my friend. You must be having a stressful day indeed if it got to you this much. What say you to… hm, I think I saw a quaint little sweets shop open up the other day. What do you think? We can see if they have macarons.”

Urianger looks taken aback for a second, as if the thought that Thancred could possibly know his favourite sugary treat (never mind that he lives with their resident baker and has full access to his secret list) is really that shocking. Then his face creases into a smile, if one that is still a little tight from residual tension.

“I… would fain agree to that suggestion,” he says tentatively, which is Urianger-speak for ‘I would like that’. “If thou hast not business elsewhere.”

“Not for a while, I don’t.” Thancred pats the hand that is still on his shoulder. “Come along then, my gallant elf. My treat.”

~*~

“Can I take a pink one, or am I going to upset your piles?” Thancred asks blandly.

Urianger, who is staring intently at said piles, does not respond to him, but after a second he slides over a green macaron with his forefinger.

“Lovely.” Thancred picks it up to study it. “What is this, mint or pistachio? Is mint even something you’re supposed to put in sweets?”

“Honey dew,” Urianger rumbles without looking up.

“Oh, well then.” Thancred takes a bite. It is indeed honey dew. He finishes it in another.

“I daresay you could put your sweet tooth to use more often.” He begins to slowly reach towards the lavender pile. “It wouldn’t hurt to have dessert, you know, at your place. A man gets tired of eating like a rabbit.”

Urianger's hand closes around his unsubtle wrist. “Ryne is a growing girl. She needeth nutrition, not sugar,” he intones. Thancred wiggles his fingers tauntingly, and his eyes narrow. “Hmph.”

“She is, but I’m not.” Satisfied, Thancred tosses the pink macaron he had swiped with two quick fingers of his left hand into the air and catches it in his mouth.

Urianger's eyes dart to his pink pile, which is indeed two telling ilms short. “Thou art a fool,” he mutters.

Thancred swallows and gives him his most saccharine smile. “But…?”

Urianger sighs, releasing his wrist. He slumps into his chair. “But a dear one.”

Thancred snatches another macaron and stuffs it into his mouth before he can so much as blush at that. Urianger only watches him in resignation, the many years they’ve known each other having tempered him to this behaviour.

“Fine, I shall bake dessert for thee and thine once.” He sighs again, puffing out a strand of hair that has fallen in his face. “If thou wilt refrain from pilfering the blue pile. Those are my favourite.”

Thancred kisses his fingertips and presses them to his heart. “Thief’s honour,” he promises with a wink.

~*~

[sally-mun]

Episode 15: King and Country

As Hamlin is making the final adjustments to his uniform, he spots Rotor and Finitevus stepping into his room through the mirror. Nonplussed by their sudden appearance, Hamlin calmly calls on Adam to defend him. Adam projects into the room as one of his security guard models, and is horrified to see it’s Fini and Rotor he’s supposed to be detaining. Fini immediately assures Adam that everything’s okay, because that they aren’t posing an immediate threat; they’re just standing in a bedroom. They don’t have weapons and they haven’t caused harm, so they aren’t a threat by just standing here, right? Adam is relieved to find that he agrees, and thus fails to set off the alarm.

Hamlin, however, is not interested in semantics. He demands that Adam defend him as he’s supposed to, as these two are uninvited and surely only came with ill intentions. After all, Finitevus is a VERY high-profile war criminal, and Rotor just escaped from prison! Adam’s relief vanishes, and in a panic he apologizes to Fini and Rotor; he tried not to alert authorities, but wasn’t able to stop himself. Fini tells him not to worry, they can still work with that. Handing a warp ring to Rotor, Fini instructs him to think of a remote location within West Acorn that they can move to – somewhere far enough out of the way that it’ll take the authorities a while to reach them, but not so far that Adam can’t maintain his monitoring.

Ignoring Hamlin’s literal kicking and screaming, Rotor moves them all to a defunct linen factory he often passes on the way to his house. Adam shifts his projection to their new location and informs them that they have about 20 minutes before the nearest authorities can reach them. With his patience increasingly wearing thin, Hamlin screeches at Adam to contain the situation; he’s just been kidnapped out of his own home by two fugitives, why wasn’t he doing anything to protect him?! Adam frowns and tells him that he’s already alerted the authorities to their exact location and help is on the way. What else did he want??

Fini chimes in that Adam doesn’t have to do anything else anyway, because neither he nor Rotor are “posing an immediate threat.” Taking a seat at a nearby table, Fini suggests that they all pass the time by simply sitting and talking. Everyone follows suit, although it takes a considerable shove from Rotor to get Hamlin to sit in his chair.

And so, the four talk – although initially it’s just Hamlin spitting threats at the other three. He warns Fini and Rotor that this is going to end poorly for them, then moves in on Adam to remind him that he can wipe him out in an instant. However, Rotor and Fini chime in that such a situation sounds a lot like it’d pose an immediate threat to national security – which snaps Adam to attention. Hamlin immediately catches on to what they’re doing and drills Adam with the ways in which he benefits the country: The various legislation he’s pushed to tighten security, the lockdown of keeping businesses within West Acorn’s borders to bolster the economy, and the fierce reputation he’s built up for their nation to give them an advantage in international dealings. Rotor very flatly states that these are pure lies; he points out that the average citizen actually feels less safe despite these security measures, that their economy has been struggling because they’re being restricted from importing and exporting, and that their national reputation has gone down the toilet ever since Hamlin’s resorted to fear-mongering.

Suddenly Adam surprises all three of them by speaking up himself. Although it looks like he’s having a little trouble keeping his thoughts straight, he explains that he understands that Hamlin’s played a major role in shaping their nation, but that he must keep in mind that West Acorn is a democracy – which means an exchange of ideas from many different people, and that’s what separates them from East Acorn’s reliance on the absolute power of a monarchy. He understands and respects Hamlin’s contributions, but they’re only that: Contributions. Hamlin angrily shouts that without him, there would BE no democracy. Finitevus swiftly points out that a democracy isn’t reliant on a single person – and any person that would claim to be the crux of a democracy is an inherent threat TO said democracy.

To Hamlin’s ire, Adam again snaps to attention at those words. Looking ready to jump across the table, Hamlin demands that Adam focus and not let these two criminals confuse him, or else he was going to regret it when this was all over. Rotor grimly warns Hamlin to stay in his seat and stop trying to intimidate Adam into submission, because everyone at the table knows that Adam is perfectly capable of thinking for himself. He then adds in passing that, of the four of them, Hamlin was getting the most aggressive… It sure looked like he was about to pose an immediate threat~

In an effort to give him one last push, Fini decides to bring up foreign policy – specifically, Hamlin’s repeated attempts to harass, interfere with, or even attack East Acorn Kingdom. Hamlin of course denies any wrongdoing, but Rotor quickly points out that Adam’s hidden purpose was ultimately to override East Acorn’s security network. Adam looks at Rotor in horror, then back to Hamlin and asks if it’s true. Hamlin stumbles for a response, which allows Fini to also jump in and mention that it’s the reason Adam had blacked out while trying to interface with Nicole; if she hadn’t been such a skilled and experienced AI, Adam might have actually ‘killed’ her, whether he wanted to or not. And if he’d actually succeeded, who knew what Hamlin might’ve wanted him to then do once he was in control of Sally’s kingdom?

For the first time, Adam’s expression toward Hamlin shifts to a full-on glare. Hamlin attempts to scare him back into control, but Adam quickly cuts him off. He’d been willing to look for the good in Hamlin’s policies, he’d been willing to accept that Hamlin didn’t approve of the people Adam had been consorting with, and if he really tried, he could even find a reason to explain away the fact that Hamlin manipulates his mind from time to time. However, one thing he would not bend over to find an excuse for was Hamlin’s history of using Adam to hurt his children.

At this point, Hamlin releases the most exasperated sigh and begins shouting that, for the 100th time, Adam is NOT Max!! Sally and Elias AREN’T his kids!! Adam isn’t a person, he’s just a machine running programs!! Adam goes silent for a moment and looks down into his hands. He finally says that he still doesn’t know if he qualifies as a ‘person’ or not, but he’s sure he’s not ‘just’ a machine. If Hamlin doesn’t believe Adam loves his family, then fine; he can view it as an improvement of international relations or something. In the end, Adam doesn’t care what Hamlin thinks. All he knows is that if Hamlin ever poses an immediate threat to his children again, then he WILL take steps to stop him.

In his frustration, Hamlin slams both fists on the table and shouts that Sally and Elias ARE NOT Adam’s kids, because Adam IS NOT the king. Narrowing his eyes ever so slightly, Adam tells him, “Neither are you,” and disappears.

Elsewhere in West Acorn Republic, a figure makes its way onto the pronouncement balcony. This time, however, it’s not King Max – it’s Hamlin. Looking especially somber, ‘Hamlin’ apologizes for the impropriety of using the royal balcony, but emphasizes that he wanted to make the following statement as public as possible: For the past few years, he has been slowly poisoning King Maximillian Acorn.

‘Hamlin’ then gives a detailed explanation of his plans: How he intended to first kill off King Max, then Queen Alicia, and even their son Elias and his family if they’d still been around at the time. He details exactly what poisons he used and how they were administered, how he’d always intended to eradicate the remainder of the Acorn monarchy, and his hope to ultimately take control of the council for himself. His plans had been so complete, in fact, that there was only one element he’d failed to account for: The guilt. ‘Hamlin’ explains that he can’t handle his guilty conscience any longer, so he wanted to make the confession of his crimes as public as possible – so that just in case he ever reverted to his old ways and tried to deny it, there would be absolutely no way to rescind it.

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[serenephenix]

... To help you

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

…To help you

[Fandom]:Voltron: Legendary Defender

[Rating]: Gen/ Gen

[Genre]: Family, Hurt/Comfort, centers around Veronica, Marco & Lance

[Warning]: mention of very protective but ultimately supporting siblings

[Word count]:  4.800

[Status]: completed

Post season 7 – related to this post I made

[Omg help me I’m back on my shit again. After months of having been unable to write I can’t seem to stop. Have fun guys. This is suuuuuuper self-indulgent by the way. Kudos to anyone who makes it to the end.]

[Important PSA after the first comments on Ao3: No bashing the team, be it in the tags or in a reblog. Lance is not a prize to be won by either side]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 Once might have counted as nothing more than a fluke. A second time she might play off as a coincidence maybe. By the third time, Veronica had a sinking feeling plaguing her. After the fifth time, she had stopped counting and instead started to consider that this had to be more than a mere “fluke”.

Far be it from her to hold grudges or make hasty decisions, but the more time Veronica spent around team Voltron, the angrier she became almost every instance.

Honestly, the fact that her ire had grown enough to be noticeable even to her family was admirable in itself – there were few people that could pride themselves in having disturbed Veronica’s inner peace so profoundly that she was falling back into bad habits.

“You’re chewing on your pencil.”

She startled, taken aback by Marco’s nonchalance. She cleared her throat and demonstratively put the poor, abused tool down to recline in the uncomfortable chair they had stolen from another room down the hall so that at meals everyone had a chance to sit at the relatively small workbench that served as their table and “office” outside of office.

But the last one only truly concerned Veronica herself.

Marco was idly scrolling through something on a datapad, finger lazily dragging along the surface. Judging by his expression it had to be pictures from before the war had broken out – small glimpses of the past he had managed to take with himself on an even smaller chip he had guarded with his life. It was incredible he had ever thought of taking them with him, much less having stored them there in the first place.

The original chip still hung around his neck, attached to a sturdy necklace and protected by a plastic casing that had seen better days already. A testament to the trials and losses the journey from Cuba had brought with it.

She caught a glimpse of a picture –fairly old, since she caught her nine year old herself in the left-hand corner – and she felt something in her chest tighten as she caught sight of Abuela smiling up from an angle. Such a sweet smile, unsuspecting of all the terrible things that were to come.

There was no way that Marco had not noticed her taking off her glasses to wipe at the corners of her eyes, but he had the grace to not further comment on it.

“I miss her.”

“Me too.”

She wished she could have seen her at least one more time. Once the Galra had arrived she had not managed anything more than to text her family in a group chat, telling them to run and hide.

After communications had been cut by the invaders, there had been many nights where Veronica had lain awake, wondering, worrying, sometimes crying in the privacy of her small bathroom.

So, when she had reunited with them months later after the missions in the tunnels, the joy had blinded her to the terrible truth for a few minutes.

Knowing that her family was mostly safe and unharmed was a blessing, but as her parents sat her down and told her in soft whispers that their Abuela had suffered a stroke or heart attack during their crossing, Veronica could not stop herself from thinking that it was unfair.

One more time. What she wouldn’t give to tell her one more time that she loved her.

But it was too late, and as she rationalized (as much as it hurt), she was so much luckier than many of her friends and comrades. Many of them had no more family to return to outside of this building.

The gurgling and hiss of the faucet had Veronica looking up, watching with a small smile as Marco came back with a glass of water she accepted gladly.

“Thanks.”

Marco shrugged, corner of his mouth twitching upward a little.

He had been the one to try CPR on Abuela when it had happened. Of course he would, seeing how he had been a lifeguard at Varadero beach for a few years now. Still, it had not worked. Veronica hoped that Marco did not guilt himself over it.

Likely sensing she might ask first if he did not intervene, he pointed to her pencil, her gnawing having left clear indents in the smooth plastic: “What’s up with that?”

Veronica took a large gulp of water first, deciding if she should answer honestly.

Her mind was made-up instantly.

“Lance has been considering staying with us.”

Marco blinked at her in clear shock. His flat palm came to slap at his forehead before it started smoothing his hair back.

“Oooooh… so that’s what the whole morning crying was about.”

Veronica nodded. Neither she nor Lance had explained themselves to the rest of their family and so far she had respected that, even if Maria, Luis, Mama and Papa had needled her. They were worried and Veronica understood it all too well, but Lance was the one who needed to decide for himself when to open up about his impending choice. Today though had put a few things into perspective for her and she needed a second opinion for that, and out of all of their other family members, Marco was one of the more discrete ones. He’d know not to blab.

“I personally think he should stay.”

Marco did give her a questioning look at that but waved his hand for her to go on.

“A team should be about respect and trust. And there is nothing against teasing each other or making jokes. Even our MFE fighter pilots tend to do it,” she smiled fondly at that. One might not be able to tell, but those kids were masters of banter in their own right. According to Veronica’s own tally chart Leifsdottir and Kinkade were tied for first place, not by the amount of shots fired but by the accuracy and truthfulness of them. Griffin and Rizavi, even as a united force, stood no chance.

Veronica’s smile vanished though, as she remembered the interactions she had been privy to over the past week, where she had taken over for a communications officer that had fallen ill.

It was probably due to their late night conversation and the endless praise Lance would wax about his teammates, but what Veronica had seen and heard instantly made that cold yet blazing protectiveness resurge.

As she had concluded, team Voltron was indeed made up of wonderful individuals, unique and incredible in their own ways.

When one gave it a bit of thought, having former cadet Keith Kogane work almost seamlessly with a team felt like a fever dream. While Veronica had never personally interacted with the defiant youth back in the day, she had heard complaints from all of the staff forced to deal with him. The calm leader giving instructions over the comms was almost unrecognizable. Captain Shirogane always seemed to swell with quiet pride whenever it was pointed out.

Veronica could understand him all too well – if anyone were to talk that same way about Lance, she would likely not react any differently.

Pidge, or rather Katie Holt, was indeed just as smart as Lance had emphasized. Not that there had been any doubt about it during the briefings and strategy talks leading up to their final stand, the young woman coming up with a multitude of scenarios whenever a new element and detail was added to their plans. Veronica was all too curious about finding out just how she was processing things so quickly even without a computer handy. In regards to snark, she and Rizavi would get along wonderfully.

Hunk was the main reason they had managed to salvage many of their vehicles in the aftermath of the fight. She had yet to taste any of his cooking (which Lance reminded her daily was to die for), but what she could say was that he was a creative engineer. Just the other day, she had listened to him chatter with his friends all the while helping one of their engineering groups restarting an emergency generator for a medical facility. In the end, he and the other engineers had ended up building it from scratch, Hunk throwing in suggestion to get the most out of it. Some of these adjustment sounded downright alien - which they most likely were.

Princess Allura herself was one of the most regal and beautiful women Veronica had ever had the pleasure to meet. Which may be why she was rooting for her brother and, subsequently, liked flustering Lance with comments and remarks regarding Allura’s interest in him. But as much as Allura was a princess, she was also a kind and devoted person, one of the first to rise to coordinate the actions for reconstruction and the last to leave in the evening.

Amazing people in their own rights and yet…

“I do not think staying with team Voltron as it currently is will do Lance a lot of good in the long run.”

She looked at Marco over the rim of her glasses.

Her earnestness must have hit a nerve, since slowly Marco’s surprised expression shifted from disbelief to concern, his brow furrowing and mouth pinched.

“What makes you say that? Lance seems to like them. Can’t be that bad then, can they?”

Veronica let those words settle a little.

No, the members of team Voltron were not bad people, not by a long shot. But just as any other individuals with agency, they had their faults and made mistakes.

Allura, as Veronica had noticed, could be somewhat stubborn if she saw herself in the right.

Hunk could be dismissive of others when under pressure.

Pidge had a tendency to be unrelenting, be it in her very scientific explanations or tasks she had set herself.

Keith seemed to not always think things through entirely, sometimes getting blindsided by details that had not been discussed prior, ultimately tripping him up.

But all of these, in Veronica’s opinion, were excusable.

She needed to take a deep breath, indignation rising inside her like bile. It was not helpful or necessary at the moment. She needed to keep a clear head. Marco’s judgement need not be clouded by her feelings.

“Did you know that when you are in a relationship long enough, you become deaf to certain things being repeatedly said, both parties no longer noticing it even happens?”

Marco gave a cough that soon turned into full-blown laughter.

“Tell me about it. Marta would never shut up about me messing with her nifty system for all of our clothes,” his expression lost a bit of its mirth. Veronica could only guess that he was mentally revisiting the rooms of a house that was probably destroyed like much else on Earth, “After a while, it just became a running gag. Heh, even the kids were getting a laugh out of it.”

“Exactly.”

He started at her sudden interjection, at the harshness in her voice as she gripped the glass she was still holding with a little more force.

She took another deep breath as Marco slowly came closer, taking with him his chair with protesting screeches from chair legs dragging across the floor.

Once sitting, he leaned forward, crossed arms resting on the table’s surface, face grim.

“What’s going on?”

Veronica raised her left hand, elbow still on the table and started massaging her temple with her thumb. The pain when she pressed just the right spot was distracting enough to calm her.

“I’ve been dealing with communications for a while now, to help with coordinating the reconstruction efforts. Ever since Lance told me about wanting to quit, I might have paid more attention to him and his team, however subconsciously,” her lips twitched but there was nothing funny about all of it, “And this past week, since taking over for officer Anatoly, I’ve been in charge of communicating them their tasks. For that, I’m on the comms constantly and I hear everything that’s going on.”

She took off her glasses, putting them in front of her, wiping at her tired eyes. The screens were doing them little good.

Marco was kind enough to wait, even went to refill her glass and Veronica thanked him for it.

“I cannot tell you how many times Lance has been treated as ‘dumb’ in this one week alone.”

Marco’s stared at her open-mouthed, indignation making his shoulders hunch and his brow furrow so deeply that Veronica was almost afraid the resulting wrinkles would be permanent.

His mouth closed with an audible clack that had both of them wincing, but it did obviously not quell Marco’s anger.

“All of them?” He merely asked, and suddenly Veronica was no longer sure this had been such a good idea.

She put a firm hand on his shoulder, felt him tremor slightly under it.

“Not all of them.”

It still did not seem to appease him.

“What about his commanding officer? Shouldn’t he intervene?”

Veronica resisted the urge to suck in her lips, thinking back to all of the instances where Captain Shirogane had indeed intervened when the team’s discussions went too far off topic for them to still be entirely concentrated on their tasks.

Her heart felt heavy.

When words failed her, she merely shook her head.

“Just as I said: you become deaf at some point.”

The chair went crashing down as Marco surged to his feet, stomping towards the door, and it took all of Veronica’s strength and weight to stop him as she latched onto his wrist with both her hands.

He turned on her sharply, his eyes ablaze with fury and Veronica was so, so glad that she was not at the receiving end of that raw fury.

“This solves nothing,” she reminded him, her voice calm while everything inside her was anything but.

Marco tried to unlatch her, but if he thought her training was for nothing then he was sorely mistaken.

“MY BROTHER DID NOT GO TO WAR TO BE CALLED DUMB!”

His voice boomed through the confined space and Veronica was beyond thankful that right now everyone else was still gone, that luckily it was just them here.

Marco gave another shot at throwing her off, but just as with the first time, Veronica stood her ground, digging the heels of her shoes into the floor.

“I agree with you, I do,” she amended, voice growing louder at the last few words as Marco still resisted, “But antagonizing the people he looks up to and loves is not going to help him!”

Because her brother had told her as much. Shortly after their heart-to-heart, Lance had repeatedly come to her when he could not sleep. As far as Veronica could guess, the impending decision was robbing Lance of sleep. As if recurring nightmares he refused talking about were not already doing a fine job of it. On one of those nights, as Lance had heavily leaned into her side with drooping eyes, he had whispered about the time he had spent hunting coins in a mall’s fountain to get Pidge some retro console from Earth. He had fondly whispered of Keith’s cluelessness about simple cheers, mentioned Hunk and Pidge’s reprogrammed Paladude, a gaming session with Coran and their team leader (and Lance still refused to tell her why he had suddenly been crying at that one), or how Allura had helped him train with a cool sword he had yet to show Veronica.

Lance, undoubtedly, loved his team just as much as he loved them. And Veronica did not doubt that if she asked the team, they would likely call Lance their friend. That did not mean however, that they were properly showing their appreciation.

Veronica would be lying if she said that none of their own family had never called Lance a ‘brat’ or a ‘dumbass’ on occasion. Because Lance, for all of his helpfulness and sweetness, could be a pain to be around. Still, at the end of the end of the day and after every sibling squabble, there never had been any doubt that they loved and supported him.

And as she had observed recently, Lance had very much mellowed out and matured during his stay in space.

Which was why she agreed with Marco’s statement but could not allow her very loyal older brother to hunt down any perceived offenders on Lance’s behalf.

Lance did not need added conflict in his life, and Veronica would not forgive herself if she were to become the source of it.

Marco gave a huff but remained still, face turned to the closed door leading to the hall.

Veronica seized her chance.

“I want Lance to be happy. I promised him that I would respect his decision no matter what. And there might be a chance that Lance does want to go back out there. You’ve noticed as well, right?”

The way Lance would sometimes look out at the night sky, tiny dots of light reflected in his eyes as he gazed out with a longing that was far beyond any of their understanding. It was the core of Lance’s conflict.

He had seen space and its wonders, was enticed by it like those old sailors by the sirens’ calls, but just like the legendary Odysseus, her brother was tired and weary just like most of his friends.

And if Veronica had to guess, there was a good amount of loyalty involved in Lance’s indecisiveness.

Loyalty to his friends.

Loyalty to his duty as a defender of the universe.

Loyalty to their family.

Marco was growing less tense under her touch, allowing Veronica to let go with one hand to cover her eyes.

“If Lance wants to go back out there, I will let him,” her voice dropped to almost a whisper, “but I do not want him to be stuck with people that will inevitably bring him down.”

There was pressure building behind her eyes.

“I don’t want to lose him too.”

Barely a minute ago, she had held onto her brother to stop him from leaving, and the next she found herself enveloped in a bone crushing hug.

They held onto each other for a long time, Marco drawing back first as he gave her an apologetic smile.

“Is there any way to fix this mess?”

Veronica had given it some thought over the past few days. The conclusion she had come to was daunting.

“I think the first thing that needs to be done is addressing the issue. At this point, I’m afraid that Lance will try to rationalize it.”

When they had been younger, Lance tended to do that a lot. He might grow angry if someone treated him unfairly, but in the end he would always find a way to explain it away. Usually the common nominator was Lance himself. In an educational environment, it had sometimes saved Lance’s behind, since he’d end up applying himself more for upcoming tests.

But this was not school, and this was not merely tests they were talking about.

Veronica loathed to think what conclusions her might already have or might come to in the future, should a mission go wrong.

Marco gave a groan next to her, knowing all too well what his sister was referring to.

“What’s more is that Lance is not doing himself any favors. I’m talking about dismissing input that is too complex for him and shutting down attempts to simplify it.”

Because she had heard it herself. Usually it was Pidge, sometimes the Altean advisor that Lance would shut down the moment they went to explain a given topic in depth. At this point, it also no longer mattered whether this behavior was the origin or the result of the team’s perception of Lance.

“You called?”

Marco froze at the voice sounding from the door they had not heard opening, and Veronica felt any hope of formulating a plan of attack fly out of the window.

Marco turning around allowed them to look at Lance who stood in the entrance, head cocked to the side and holding out a generic white plastic bag.

Lance’s eyebrow was drawn up, giving both of them a very questioning look.

His expression was enough to tell them he had undoubtedly heard that last part.

This was not how she wanted this conversation to happen, but if they did not tackle this at once it would only lead to misunderstandings.

Marco was ready to stammer his way through a lie, she could practically hear the gears turning frantically inside his skull, and she decided to intervene at once.

“Actually, yes,” she gestured at the table with a placating smile, faltering a little when she noticed the chair still lying on the ground. That detail did not escape Lance’s notice and he frowned all the harder for it.

This was not going as planned.

Lance needed to be as relaxed as possible. She needed a distraction.

“What do you have there?” She asked, glancing at the plastic bag still dangling from Lance’s wrist. He appeared taken aback by her sudden interest, but a genuine, excited smile spread on his face.

“Oh! Yeah, this is from Hunk. I asked him if he could cook something for you guys, since none of you believe me he’s a good cook.”

He was bouncing over to the area where the plastic plates and cutlery were stored and Veronica watched a little helplessly as Lance set the table for the three of them while Marco quietly put the chair back in its place.

He looked so happy, pouring water into an electric kettle while dumping a few spoonful of a powder substituting coffee into three mugs.

She wanted this to last. She wanted for Lance to smile like this more often, to be happy and not worry about leaving people behind.

Once everything was set for the three of them, Lance saying he hoped the others would come soon, he finally wrangled out an inconspicuous hot pink bowl out of the bag. The moment he removed the lid, Veronica could feel her mouth water.

“Are those...,” Marco started, voice almost an awed whisper.

Lance’s grin was almost reaching his ears: “Yep!”

There was no mistaking it. Veronica would recognize one of her favorites from a mile away.

She knew she was gaping in a very undignified way but…

“How?” she breathed, taking one of the looped pastries between her fingers, inspecting it with wonderment.

“Don’t ask me. I have no idea how Hunk still managed to cook half of the stuff we ate on our trip back and still make it look like Earth food,” his expression momentarily turned into a grimace before easing into something less disgusted, “Sometimes you really don’t wanna know though.“

He shuddered a little while Marco was already biting off half of his buñuelo, slapping the table with the flat of his palm.

“This is so good,” he finally said, looking close to tears.

They laughed good-naturedly as Marco reached for a second, when his first one was still held in his other hand.

It looked and smelled a lot like the pastry they had baked back at home on special occasions. Hunk had even taken care of covering it with thin streaks of dark caramel. It was every bit as soft and tasty as it looked when she took her first bite, and she now understood Marco’s sudden outburst.

It was one of the few pieces of home she’d had in a few years.

“It’s really good,” she said, actually sniffling, making Lance laugh again.

“I know.”

They ate in silence, Lance closing the lid once they each had two (“So there is some for the others!” he had reprimanded Marco), and each taking a sip from their coffee.

Marco had been won over, obvious in how he kept pestering Lance with questions.

“Where did your friend even get all of the ingredients? Do they have a secret stash of cassava here on the base?”

“Once again: don’t ask me, ask Hunk. He can tell you.”

That had Veronica looking up, still cleaning her glasses with the hem of her shirt. Under the automated evening lights, Lance looked a little washed out. Now wonder, his day had been longer than hers, even without actually having spent that much of it outside of the base.

Now or never. She put her glasses back on, turning to Lance fully and garnering his attention at once.

“On that same matter, Lance,” and she almost did not say it, not when this would instantly break this small reprieve from their everyday lives, “you get along with your teammates, don’t you?”

For a few tense seconds it looked like she had broken Lance with her question.

His chuckles were filled with confusion and discomfort.

“What are you talking about? Of course we get along, we’re team Voltron after all.”

She could feel Marco’s nervousness as if it were her own. This was not going to be a nice conversation.

“I’m not merely asking about your cohesiveness as a team, I’m asking about your solidarity as a group of friends.”

Lance was already reclining back into his chair, his eyebrows going up as he stared at her in incomprehension, hands bracing against the edge of the table.

“Veronica, I’m really sorry, but I don’t know what you’re trying to get at.”

She was ready to retort, when Marco beat her to it.

“Are you really okay with your friends calling you dumb?”

She could not believe him. Veronica threw him a glare she hoped would melt his head off but Marco just returned hers without any remorse.

Their attention was drawn back to Lance as he waved his hands around.

“Woah, woah, hold on a tick! What’s this about? And what’s up with you anyway!” He addressed Marco directly, irritation palpable in his voice.

“This is not some kind of joke Lance,” Veronica interjected, giving her younger brother a stern look that threw him off, “You know I’ve been listening to you for a while over your channels, and I admit that I… do not entirely approve of what I’ve heard so far.”

It was more than just “not merely approving” but there was no need to rile Lance up further. If he was any bit as protective of team Voltron as he was of them, there would be no getting through to him by accusing them of anything.

Still, Lance’s eyes moved from her to Marco quickly, obviously not understanding or accepting what was happening right now.

Finally, and sadly, he leaned back with his arms crossed. She wanted to hit Marco for his blunder. This was now going to be harder than ever.

“My relationship with my team is great. What do you even mean by the stuff you heard?”

Band-aid it was then. Quick and painful.

“I am not okay with my brother being repeatedly told and treated as an idiot.”

Hurt flashed across Lance’s face at that but what really caught Veronica’s attention was a flicker of recognition in his eyes. So he was not as unaware as he pretended to be.

He swallowed dryly, hunching in on himself, his eyes shielded by his brown locks with how much he’d lowered his head.

His words were so low she almost did not catch them.

“Doesn’t matter.”

She was ready to explode from tension alone at this point.

“It does, Lance. It matters to me and everyone else!”

She had not meant to shout but this was just too much. Both Lance and Marco jerked in their seats at her outburst. The defiance he had previously shown was quickly bleeding out of Lance, as he made himself even smaller. He suddenly looked like he’d aged at least a decade.

Still, he said nothing, not in his defense nor of his friends. Just sat here with them; a tense silence consuming them all.

Marco was careful in pushing his chair away as he got up. Veronica was unsure what he wanted to do, knowing Marco he might either stay or leave to fight this battle another day.

Relief flooded her when instead of going to the door, Marco circled the table and before Lance could even react, had their brother enveloped in a tight hug. It was a little awkward, Marco having bent down his bulk to embrace Lance while the latter’s arms hovered in the air a little uselessly, blinking back at Veronica in confusion.

Marco was not really a man of words, and Veronica not someone who sprung into action easily. But maybe, with their forces combined, they might be able to get through to him.

“Lance,” she said quietly, her calm voice having her brother glance at her with his still bewildered expression, “I know you really love your friends, but that is no excuse for them to walk all over you when they hurt you. Even if they do it unintentionally.”

He was enraptured by her face, not even caring about the tears undoubtedly clouding his vision.

Time to put her cards on the table.

“I would feel better knowing that, if you go back up there again, you do it with people that respect you and your boundaries.”

There was no more holding back the tears. Lance’s entire face crumbled, one of many small sobs bursting out of him as he kept staring at Veronica pleadingly, his arms at once clinging to Marco so tightly he might leave bruises.

Not that Marco minded, Veronica could see Lance’s jacket straining a little with how tightly he was winding his arms around him.

Veronica settled with smiling at them fondly.

One step at a time while the clock kept on ticking.

[totallyrhettro]

Territorial, chapter 7

Word Count: 2568 Rating: This chapter: G. Overall story rating: explicit Warnings: None Summary: After finally realizing their shared love for one another, all internetainers Rhett and Link had to do was live happily ever after. Unfortunately, as it turns out, that’s a lot harder to do in a world of werewolves. Notes: Takes place 1 year after Animalistic began. Still no wives; Rhett and Link are in an established relationship. This is a sequel to that fic. You don’t have to read that first, but it is highly recommended.

Also available on a03

First Chapter Previous Chapter

With the start of the new season of Good Mythical Morning, things seemed to get back to mostly normal. Rhett and Link didn’t talk much about what had happened during the break, mostly because they liked to keep their wolf lives separate from their human lives. Part of doing that was pretending their wolf lives didn't exist. It probably wasn’t healthy, but it helped keep their secret just that, a secret. It was hard enough hiding their relationship, another thing which they never discussed.

Well, they did somewhat. They talked about the little things: things to buy from the grocery store, what housework needed to be done, who clogged the sink again. This is not to say that their lives were like that of roommates. They still loved each other and every opportunity they got, when they were alone, they made sure to say it out loud. Too many years they had not been allowed to say it, or thought they weren’t allowed. Too many ‘I love yous’ had gone unsaid not to say them now. Even when words weren’t exchanged, they still showed one another how much they cared. A sweet kiss, a fleeting touch. A tender gaze across the room when they thought no one was looking. It was almost too corny, these grown men acting like teenagers in high school, but they were happy. For the most part they were very happy, and it showed.

What they didn’t talk about was the giant, proverbial elephant in the room. Link could feel it. A strange, gnawing feeling in the back of his mind. It had been there almost his entire life actually. The need that everyone has, whether they know it or not. The need to have a real family. Unlike Rhett, Link never really felt like he had a real family. Sure he had a mom and a dad, grandparents and such, but with his mom divorced twice he had pretty much grown up without a steady father figure. He had always hoped one day to build his own family, but now…

Rhett wasn’t exactly pleased with the situation himself either. He too had always wanted a family, but unlike Link it wasn’t because he hadn’t felt his own upbringing had been lacking. There was a fatherly instinct in him that made him want to have children, to raise them up good and proper, and hopefully raise them with someone he loved. While Link understood how dangerous it was trying such a thing now that neither of them was entirely human anymore, there was more to Rhett’s fear. Simply put, he didn’t trust himself.

Ever since he first realized what had happened to him, he’d been afraid. He was afraid of what he was becoming. There had been many a time when he couldn’t control his canine self, even during the light of day. The beast within was a force of nature and it could strike with tremendous ferocity. Before he had just been afraid to hurt someone… hurt Link… If he had ever even scratched Link without meaning to, he wouldn’t have been able to forgive himself, and before Link became a werewolf too, there were times he had come close to doing that... among other carnal things.

Now that they were both werewolves, the danger of hurting Link lessened substantially, mostly because the shorter man was just as much of a beast to be reckoned with. Still, Rhett felt himself capable of hurting others, and the night he actually used his wolf self to kill someone… If he could do it once, he concluded, he was capable of doing it again, and he hated that fact. He never wanted to hurt anyone ever again and the risk of hurting his own child…. It was too much. No matter how much he wanted that family, no matter how much he knew Link needed it, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bring himself to bring a child into such a dangerous household. It just wasn’t safe.

But explaining that to Link? When the doe-eyed brunet could seem so fierce one second and fragile another? No. Rhett didn’t want to tell the love of his life ‘never’. Didn’t want to tell him that the family he desired more than anything else just couldn't be. That would break his heart, and that was a wound Rhett wasn’t ready to inflict. He wasn’t sure he would ever be ready to break that truth and so silence about the subject became the norm. There were other things to worry about at the moment anyway.

Even with the filming of Buddy System finally done, there was still work to be done. The break between seasons was practically nonexistent; the days they usually used to take time off, relax and recoup, had been filled with filming and work on the farm house. The lack of a reprieve didn’t seem to impact the show. They found ways after work to unwind and in general the stress didn’t get to them, but there were times when everything would hit them at once and it made them more irritable than normal.

“Watch out, Link!” Rhett shouted, grabbing onto the dashboard of the car with an iron grip. Link didn’t answer but swerved hard back into his lane. The driver in the lane beside them laid on the horn for a few seconds before hurrying past. Link honked right back at him shouting a curse at the stranger that only his friend could hear.

“What a jerk!” he commented, once he had finally managed to change lanes. “Can you believe the nerve of some people?”

“You need to watch where you’re going, man! You almost hit that guy!”

“No I didn’t! He almost hit me! It’s clear as day!” Link huffed in annoyance, and Rhett shook his head. His boyfriend could be an inattentive driver on a good day, but he was being even more careless than usual.

“Just slow down a little. I mean we’d probably survive a car crash, but that doesn’t mean I want to be in one.”

“I’m going under the speed limit! I can’t even speed in this traffic.” He waved his hands derisively at the cars around them.

“You not paying attention. You need to look before you just cross over into someone else’s lane.”

“I wasn’t anywhere near to him. He overreacted.”

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you,” Rhett muttered. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself, and he instantly regretted saying them.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Link’s ire was quickly beginning to surge. Rhett slumped in his seat and sighed.

“Nothing Link. I just want to get home in one piece.”

“If you don’t like the way I’m driving maybe you should take the wheel yourself once in awhile. Now that we live in the same house there’s no reason I have to drive us every day.”

“I don’t want to argue, I just-”

“I’m not arguing, I’m just having a conversation.” His angry tone disagreed with his simple statement. “You think you’re a better driver than maybe you should drive. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Maybe I should,” Rhett agreed, bitterly.

“Maybe you should,” Link mocked, going back to looking at the cars, trying to see if he could get around them. His friend dropped the subject. He really didn’t want to argue and he knew this was just Link letting off some steam. He just wished Link’s bad mood wasn’t putting their bodies at risk. Rhett was ready to spend the rest of the drive home in peaceful silence when he felt a slight buzz in his pocket. Taking out his phone, he was surprised to see a text from Theo.

You busy fri?

An odd message, to be sure, but then Rhett knew well enough that Theo didn’t like to say much in texts, or even over the phone. He was awfully old fashioned for a man of his few years- only a decade or so younger than the two YouTubers. Of course it wasn’t because he disliked fancy new technologies. It was a matter of security. He didn’t want to risk any important information that could potentially reveal his, or any werewolf’s nature to the rest of the world. It was safer to keep the details of their conversations spoken only in person.

“Who is it?” Link asked, not turning his gaze off the road. “If it’s Stevie tell her I’ll look at yesterday’s edit later.”

“It’s Theo.” The words were said simply, with no malice or worry, but still it gave Link pause. Over the last few weeks he’d been thinking about their shared friendship with the werewolf bartender. Wondering what his history was, how he knew the Lowells. He didn’t want to think ill of the man who had been very helpful to both him and Rhett in their times of need, but the lack of knowing was starting to get to him.

“What does he want?”

“Not sure.” Rhett thought for a moment before typing in a reply.

Not terribly. What’s up?

He didn’t expect a clear response, but he had to ask anyway.

There’s some friends I want you to meet.

‘Someone to meet?’ Rhett wondered. In all the time he’d known Theo, he’d never seen him talk to anyone but Max. Besides, if there was someone Theo wanted to introduce, it was certain to be more than a normal social event. Before he could answer, Rhett got another text.

Come by the bar and we can talk more.

Locking his phone, Rhett slid it into his pocket. There wasn’t anything else to say. He would just have to wait to talk to Theo to find out more. Link shot him an impatient look.

“Well?”

“He didn’t say, exactly. You know, Theo…” Rhett offered his boyfriend a sympathetic smile, but Link shot him another glare.

“No, I don’t… and neither do you. Not really. I wish you could understand that.”

“How can you not trust him?” Rhett asked, frustrated. “After everything we’ve been through? After everything he’s done for us?”

“How can you so blindly trust him?” Link shot back. “We don’t know anything about his past, why he hates the Lowells, how he became a werewolf, how his brother died…”

“I’m not going to just up and ask him about his dead brother, Link. I’m sure he doesn’t want to talk about it for the same reason I wouldn’t want to talk about it if my brother died. It’s probably a tough subject to think about.”

“Well, maybe. I just need to know more before I trust him as much as you do.” Sighing, Link pulled off onto the side street that led to their now shared home. He didn’t feel as angry as before, just exhausted, body and mind. “I’m going to go lay down for awhile. Do you want to order something for supper?”

“I think I should head over to Theo’s place. See what he wanted.” He didn’t need to ask if Link wanted to come along or not. He knew very well what the answer would be.

~ ~ ~

Of course, as Rhett walked into Theo’s office, the bartender’s first question was to ask where the second half of the famous duo was.

“He wasn't feeling a hundred percent,” Rhett explained. “Long day at the studio. What did you need to talk to us about?”

“Well, I said in the text I wanted you to meet some folks, you and Link. The Lowells aren't the only werewolves in the area.” These words sent a shiver down Rhett’s spine, but it wasn’t entirely fear he was feeling. That tingling sensation, when the Lowells had been hunting near the farmhouse, it was the same feeling. Something almost intangible and somehow Theo seemed to know he was feeling it, Rhett could see it in his eyes.

“Another pack?” he wondered. Theo raised a hand to calm him, lowering his head slightly as he replied.

“Not exactly. Mutts, like you but not like the one that turned you and Link. There’s no need to be alarmed or feel threatened.” he assured Rhett. “They’re just every day folks who don’t want to bother anyone, I promise.”

“How many? Have they been in California long? Are they newly turned? Why haven't you told me about them before?” Rhett hoped tossing handfuls of questions at Theo wasn’t going to become a habit.

“All good questions.” Theo paused to consider where to start. “Um, there’s about a dozen or so, that I’ve met, all of various moon ages. I’ve known about them for some time but I wasn’t hiding them from you I just… To be honest I haven’t talked much with them myself.”

“Then why-?”

“Why do I want you guys to meet?” Rhett nodded. “I think you all have a lot in common. Like you most of them were turned and had no idea, at first. They’ve had to deal with figuring things out mostly by themselves.”

“They didn’t have someone like you to teach them.” It was meant as a conclusion, but Theo looked slightly nervous at the implication.

“N-no, they didn’t.”

“What? What is it?

“Let’s just say the mutts and I have a bit of a... history.” Theo cleared his throat, settling back to speak of things he never enjoyed remembering. Rhett gave him time. He could tell this was difficult for his friend to do, and he was keen to hear what he was going to say.

“When I was a member of the Lowell pack I was a… uh, an enforcer, of sorts. My job was to find rogue mutts, like the one who attacked you and Link and… and deal with them.”

“How- how long did you do this?”

“Years. You have to understand I believed- I still believe- that sometimes it’s necessary to deal with these problems. Sometimes people become werewolves and they just let their bestial nature control them, or they don’t do enough to make sure their canine selves don’t hurt people. These are serious problems and I had to fix them.”

“These mutts you want me to meet, did you-?”

“Let’s just say I built up a reputation among the packless wolves. But, recently, I’ve been trying to… mend bridges, you might say, and they’ve… expressed interest in you and your friend.”

“You think it’s a good idea?”

“I think you can’t live in this world of werewolves in a vacuum, and there’s much you can learn from these people that I can’t teach you. Besides,” he shrugged, “It makes everyone nervous that they don’t know you.”

“I guess that makes sense. What about the Lowells?”

~ ~ ~

Meanwhile, Link was resting peacefully in the bed that he and Rhett shared, thinking about the argument earlier and the things he wanted to say, things he wanted to apologize for. He jolted with surprise when he heard the phone ring. For a brief moment he thought it might be Rhett, or Theo checking in, but then he remembered he had a cell phone. The next, obvious conclusion was a telemarketer, so he reached for the phone ready to tell whomever it was to take them off their calling list. What he didn’t expect was a vaguely familiar voice.

“Is this Link?”

“Who is this?”

“Hey, Link! It’s Damian! Are you busy on Friday?”

Next Chapter  More Fics

[elfnerdherder]

Ill Intentions: Chapter 12

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Chapter 12: Cameos

           “…Why don’t you sit down, Abigail,” Will began, and he gestured lamely towards the table. There wasn’t a clock in the room, the only relief to the stiff, awkward silence the rumbling sound of the heater kicking on. It was broken, but Charlie said they’d fix it when he had a damn good reason to fix it. As long as US Weekly kept hitting the top spot, they’d not earn a repairman.

           Most people just wore layers to work.

           Abigail surveyed him critically as she circled the table and sat down. Despite the slight appearance, wavery and almost water-like in its rippling, it was her eyes that grabbed him. They were cold, ice cubes that’d been long forgotten and left to stick to the sides of the freezer. Will wondered if she was much like him, rumpled and slumped but ultimately rotten from the inside out.

           “I got your reply,” she said as Will slumped into the seat across from her. “It was…different.”

           “Different?”

           “You didn’t sound apologetic.”

           He rolled her words around in his head and weighed them, considering her. She looked to be about eighteen or so, just barely out of high school. How honest could he be? How honest should he be? There were laws about what someone could or couldn’t say in front of minors, right?

           God, why the fuck had Charlie left him alone with a kid? Why had this sounded like a good idea on his part?

           Given the flavor of his thoughts, Will figured he should tread very, very carefully. He was already in the shit hole with Charlie for being late. He didn’t want to risk Freddie and Charlie venturing into the basement level to promote the other Will to ‘Will Intentions’ instead.

           “I do regret that it led to the death of your mother,” he said at last, and his voice softened. “I know what it’s like to grow up without parents.”

           “I grew up with parents.”

           “Then to lose them, I’m sure, is not easy.”

           “Are you serious right now?” she asked. Her voice darkened, hit hard and fell onto the table between them, accusing.

           “…What?”

           At his stupefied expression, she reached into her messenger bag and withdrew a much abused, much reread paper. It’d been folded into a small square that she opened with the familiarity of a person that knew which way to turn it. She cleared her voice, stiffened her spine, and curled her lip. He wondered if she’d taken a plane or a car, whether they let kids her age travel alone on trains. He wondered if she’d read it by lamplight, passing over alcohol-abused words that he’d foolishly woven together late at night alone in his apartment. God, he should have at least proofread it.

           “You said, ‘I wonder what it is that you feel, Abigail, since you shared that you don’t feel much at all. In my own darkest moments, I find myself consumed with either entirely too many emotions to process or not enough to address my problems.

           ‘In regards to your father, I can honestly say that I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. To say that that simple article has set my own life into a tailspin would be an understatement, but I can only fathom when I’m eating dinner alone in my apartment what it must be like for you to also have to eat alone now. I know institutions such as the one you’re likely contained within, and I know the thoughts likely pervading your mind. ‘What’s going to happen to me?’ you’re probably wondering. ‘Was this somehow my fault?’

           ‘When you feel nothing, is there a hollowness inside of you that continues reaching ever-onward, grasping, or is it that there is so much in so little a time that you feel as though you’ve simply shut down, your mind refusing to acknowledge its trauma in order to protect you? I wonder about things like that, especially since first receiving your e-mail. I wonder about your future, your hopes, your dreams. I wonder about your father and how even in his most horrific moments, he must have loved you very much to kill every girl he could find that looked like you, simply to cherish you just awhile more.

           ‘Mostly, though, Abigail, I wonder if you were aware that you were a lure, or if you’re actually the picture of utmost innocence that most of the news and society has decided you to be.’”

           When she finished reading, she laid the paper onto the table and stared at him, hard.

           Will wasn’t sure how to feel, hearing his words read aloud and in the quiet of a room whose clock was broken –had been for months. Charlie hadn’t replaced it, and he wouldn’t anytime soon. He glanced to his wrist. No watch. No time.

           His writing was harsh, though, accusing. His words weren’t apologetic in the least –accusatory, more like. Striking out because he’d been struck, in truth, by words that smarted. Did he care about people? Not for awhile. Did he even stop to consider her when he published that answer in Beverly’s column? No. Hell, he hadn’t even realized it would have taken off the way that it did –if anything, he thought Charlie would have fired him for stepping out of the ‘Wedding Announcements’ cubicle.

           “You want to talk about condolences for dead parents, but before you were forced to look me in the eye, that is what you sent me,” she said coldly.

           “If it’s any consolation,” he said coarsely, “I was drunk when I wrote that. Even sober, I’m not much of a people person, but drunk…”

           “Drunk,” she repeated flatly.

           “Yeah, drunk. I was working out of my apartment when I came across your letter.”

           “You work a lot?” she asked.

           “Forty to fifty hours. More now, since that ‘Chats with Bev’ article came out.”

           She rolled her bottom lip into her mouth and bit down agitatedly. “You make associations that you can’t explain. I looked up your school records –you’re smart. Top of most of your classes, and a teacher once wrote about you in a psychiatric journal. She said that you could so acutely read a person that it was as though you were speaking about yourself.”

           “Thank you, Abigail.”

           She blinked rapidly, glancing down to her hands. “You got into my dad’s head better than anyone else did, and all you did was write a small article. I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised that you’re something like him. Smart, a hard worker, and a bit of a drinker.”

           The force of his ire didn’t let him consider his words. It unfurled, hot and furious, striking out like a whip. “I’m nothing like your father. He was a cannibalistic serial killer that targeted young, teenage girls and strangled them to death in order to eat them.”

           “Oh, and who would you target that would justify it?” she wondered without missing a beat. She looked up from hands clenched to fists in her lap.

           Cannibalistic serial killers, in fact, he thought savagely. And apparently drug addicts that make the mistake of cornering me in allies on dark, drunken nights.

           “I’ve never killed someone.”

           “You’ve thought about it.”

           “Everyone’s thought about killing someone in one way or another,” he replied curtly. His tongue was hot and blistered. “Be it your own hand or the hand of God, everyone’s thought about murder. Even you.”

           The heater let out a wild, unattractive scream, and a thin trail of smoke seeped from underneath it. Abigail gave an alarmed jump, and Will glanced to it, then back to her.

           “It does that,” he said –not entirely reassuring, but more to avoid her running from the room and causing alarm. He wanted to prolong his termination as long as he could, thanks.

           “…You know, this is more of what I had in mind when I first wondered who you were as a person,” Abigail said once the whining cry of the heater died back down to something bearable. “You made me feel like I’d made a mistake coming here with that first introduction, but this seems more like you.”

           Fuck, she was right, wasn’t she? Charlie was going to have his ass over this if she made a complaint. After work –if he made it that far, in truth –he was going to get a stiff, strong drink. His thoughts tumbled, trembled like the beating of hummingbird’s wings, too fast for him to catch. The Game, The Body, The Watch, The Girl, The Killer –

           The Game.

           “Ask anyone and you’ll find I’m not that popular,” he said uncomfortably. Her stare was stinging nettle underneath his skin.

           “They tell you that?”

           “No, but I know.”

           “In High School, they tell us that that’s just insecurities,” she replied, and maybe it was the way in which she tilted her head, but it made Will stop and look at her, really look as though it was the first time he’d ever seen her. His throat tightened, and he had to force down a lump at the look in her eye, the way she crossed one leg over the other and folded her arms.

           Will didn’t often like to think of his childhood. His past was something he liked to keep crushed down, down, down where not even whiskey could reel it back up to inspect. There was something in the expression on her face, though, that reminded him of one of the most popular girls in high school, Nicole.

           Will didn’t much like Nicole for the same reasons that the look on Abigail’s face made him instantly want to put as much distance between her and his person as was humanly possible. It was both dark and innocent, conniving yet kind. It was people like that that led to that one kid in high school killing himself. Nicole had even shown up to the funeral even though she was the one two weeks before that’d told him he should kill himself if living was truly so burdensome. She’d even shed some tears for him, telling those around her that ‘he could have just asked for help’.

           “…I know they don’t like me much the same way I know that you were a lure for your father, much the same way I now know that you were completely and unequivocally aware that you were a lure, Abigail,” he said slowly.

She didn’t blink, her stare drilling holes into his skin. Was that where the rot would come out, oozing from him? Could she see all of the ugly, sickening bits of him that most people couldn’t see but surely felt, couldn’t place but somehow knew? The Chesapeake Ripper saw it.

The Chesapeake Ripper liked it.

           “I’ll deny it,” she said, and her lip twitched –the remnants of a smirk she knew she shouldn’t show.

           “I never said that I was going to accuse you. I’m just saying that I know.”

           “Yeah? What else do you think you know about me?”

           “I know that despite your claims at secrecy, there’s no way you managed to get here without some form of approval unless you’re an adult. So, either a psychiatrist from the facility gave you permission and is waiting in good graces down the hall from us, or you’re at least eighteen. I know that you were well-aware that you were a lure the same way that I know you have taken on your father’s skills of manipulation with ease. He taught you everything that you know. You can hunt, and you know how to do it without looking like the hunter.

           “You’re uncomfortable in your clothes, though, Abigail, and sometimes your hands shake. You know what to do, but the application of it is scary, isn’t it? You’re being called out on all of the things your father taught you to hide. How does that feel?”

           “And what makes you think that you’re right?” she shot back. Defensive.

           He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes roughly, knocking his glasses askew. He wondered what time it was, if their silences and long stares and scowls had drained the hours away or if it’d only been five minutes.

           If he’d had his fucking watch…

           “You were taught to hunt, and I was taught to fish,” he said into his hands before blinking blearily at her. “You went out with your father to catch your quarry, and I was taught to let the quarry come to me. It makes a person observant.”

           “That’s not just being observant.”

           “You’re right,” he agreed. “But seeing as how this is a first meeting, that’s about as much as you’ll be able to get out of me.”

           “First meeting?” she asked. “Do you think I’d want to contact you again after this?”

           Someone shouted down the hall, and a door slammed. Will glanced to the windows whose blinds had been drawn, then back to her. “You didn’t look to the door expectantly when I mentioned a guardian, meaning you’re not waiting on anyone. You’re eighteen, and the psychiatric ward can’t keep you. What’d you use, your personal savings or your inheritance to get a ticket out here?”

           Silence. She shifted, uncomfortable, and Will dove for it.

           “Tell me.”

           Her jaw lifted stubbornly, but as the silence droned on and the heater let out another plaintive squeal, she let out a curt sigh. “I lifted someone’s ticket at the train station.”

           He wouldn’t let her have the satisfaction of him showing just how impressed he was at her resourcefulness. Things like that were the reason, he supposed, why kids were a terrible idea for him.

           “What’s your next step?” Will wondered. “Homeless shelter? Stealing a credit card for a hotel room? This isn’t ‘Home Alone: Lost in New York.’”

           “Women’s battered shelters always look out for young women like me,” she replied.

           “Risky. They ask a lot of questions these days since people like you keep taking up bed space from those in need.”

           “I’m in need.”

           Will snorted. “I doubt that.”

He patted his pockets down, then let out an irritable sigh when he realized that he’d forgotten his cloves, too. Fucking Ripper. Fucking watch. “Any chance you picked up smoking in your post-grievance rebellion?”

           And surprisingly, she reached into her backpack and pulled out a small box of Marlboro’s. “They’re menthol.”

           “Everything’s fucking menthol,” he muttered, and he grabbed the box from her. “Smoking’s back for you,” he added, lighting one.

           He pointedly tucked the box into his pocket, and Abigail leaned back into her chair to sulk.

           “What do you recommend, then, since you think that plan won’t work?” she asked as he lipped at the minty flavor.

           “I’d say that you could stay with me, but my apartment isn’t entirely safe.”

           This time, she didn’t fight the sneer making her lip curl. “Are you a mean drunk?”

           “No, but the Chesapeake Ripper is sending me letters, and the last thing that I need is a serial killer’s daughter being killed by another serial killer,” he returned in far more even tones than he’d expected. “Least of all in my apartment.”

           That, and it’s torn to shit, isn’t it?

           “I appreciate your concern over me.”

           “Don’t get any ideas,” he warned. “I’m getting enough publicity. Word gets out that you’re here, and I won’t have a moment’s peace.”

           “Then what’s the plan?” she asked impatiently.

           This isn’t my problem, he wanted to scream. You’re a biproduct of a psychopath’s rampage, but just because I reported it doesn’t make it my problem. Why is this my problem?

           Be it the look on her face, though, or maybe it was the look on Jack Crawford’s face should he find out who’d come to visit Will, but he couldn’t very well leave her, could he? Although she wasn’t his problem, hadn’t he first been the one to bring her world crashing down? Hadn’t he been the very reason that she was sitting right in front of him?

           I think that it takes only the barest of nudges to make you fall into the sordid crevices of your mind that you like to pretend don’t exist, The Chesapeake Ripper had said. Abigail may not be his problem, but Will could see how her problems only began because of him. Because of his mind. Because of the way he thought.

           He sighed and stubbed out the cigarette in the ash tray that Charlie liked to hide underneath the table –as though no one in the building knew that he smoked.

           “Wait here,” he said curtly, and he got up and walked out of the conference room.

-

           “No.”

           “Beverly –”

           “Are you joking?” she hissed, and the glare she cut his way was ruthless. “Please tell me that you’re joking.”

           “She’s got nowhere to go.”

           “How’s that my problem?”

           It wasn’t. It wasn’t Will’s problem, either. He sat just on the edge of her desk –at least her desk didn’t wobble like his did. Maybe he’d exacerbate the faulty leg on his desk just enough to break it so that Charlie had to buy a new one. Maybe, just maybe, with the extra money that he was reeling in with ‘Will Intentions’, Charlie would be able to afford a new desk for him.

           The watch, in all of its glory, would have surely been able to remind him to feel excited about such things like new desks and a popular column. He refused to look to his wrist where its absence needled.

           “It’s not our problem, but…” But? Will looked down the hall where the conference room was. His spit was rust, and he swallowed raggedly. “I feel…responsible for her. It’s not our problem, but I can’t just…”

           Just? He swallowed again, harder, then looked at her plaintively. He thought of clocks and time and how it was both his master and his mercy, and he wondered just how much of Abigail’s time had been consumed with Will Graham and all of his behaviors as of late. She’d even looked into his college years, for fuck’s sake. Surely, in her thoroughness, he could give her something?

           “Good hell, Graham, if I didn’t know better I’d say that you care about her,” Beverly said, and her merciful smile encouraged him to smile, too.

           “I don’t care about much, but she’s just a kid. If you don’t let her stay with you, then I’m going to have to ask Freddie.”

           That did the trick. At the mention of Freddie, Beverly’s smile turned sour, and she looked back to Freddie’s office with an expression verging on hostile.

           “She won’t let go of the fact that you let her help you with the last riddle,” she complained. As an afterthought, “If I have to hear about that room for the deaf one more time…”

           “She forced herself into the situation, and I was pressed for time,” Will replied quickly. “I asked for your help all of the other times, and it was you that I wanted for the gala.”

           The Gala. The Ripper. He thought of how it’d felt, the Ripper’s hand over his eyes, blinding him because he was allowing himself to be blind.

           This is the most fun you’ve had in years.

           “So now it’s me that you want to babysit an eighteen-year-old whose father ate innocent women?” Beverly clarified.

           “Yeah, I thought about my apartment, but…”

           He didn’t have to finish that thought. They shared grimaces with one another, and Beverly leaned back in her chair, flipping and turning a pen about. It was a nice make, something with an angled and sharp nib. Likely it’d give a good flourish to notation, the curve of a ‘g’ or ‘y’ looping and graceful. It was probably sharp enough to stab, given the need, too. He wondered if she wrote in passing after work, or if journalism was the only writing that she needed. He wondered if she struggled the same way as he did with adjectives, with the right sort of pace to keep readers just interested enough to want more. He wondered if her purple prose fell flat –surely not, with a pen like that.

           “I’ll take her, Graham, but I’m not babysitting her. She’s going to get a job, she’s going to start working towards something, and then we’ll come up with a new plan,” Beverly said at last. “I have a heart, but I’m not a charity case. I don’t want kids yet.”

           “I promise that she’s not much of a kid.”

           “Charlie’s at a lunch meeting that ran late,” she said, and her smile curled devilishly at the edges. “I told him that you have a heart condition that you don’t like to talk about; that’s why you were late. If you stay out of his way when he gets back, he won’t have your head.”

           “Thank you,” he replied sincerely.

           “You owe me,” she said, pointedly.

           Will figured that he owed her for more than that, though. He owed Beverly for a lot of things, from lying to accidentally giving a good lead to someone like Freddie. He owed her for the late hours, the danger, and the fact that as she’d strolled about the steps of the gala, The Chesapeake Ripper had dared to ask Will how he’d kill her.

           I’d much prefer for you to use your bare hands.

           He left her with her fountain pen and a desk whose left leg didn’t wobble, and he sat at his desk for some time, thinking. The time on the computer said 2:56, but it didn’t feel like the early afternoon. He’d missed breakfast. He’d missed lunch. He’d missed water. He’d missed another cup of coffee. Will fished out a packet of stale peanuts and choked them down, staring at the time. His wrist was bare, his thoughts were scattered, and as he chewed morosely he wondered if the Chesapeake Ripper only wanted to ruin his day, or if he had anything else in store since taking his watch.

           The thought that followed after, was: and just what the hell are you going to do about it?

           It wasn’t until 3:29 that he collected himself to begin checking e-mails. Serial killer, serial killer, serial killer. Questions, questions, questions. Accusations, accusations, accusations. Time was bleeding from him, and a headache was setting in. He’d forgotten to get water. That thought, much like others, struck him, then fell away after little force. He still didn’t get up to get water.

           Then:

To: Will Graham & Co.,

           I hope that you enjoyed the overture. I imagined something along the F-Harmonic scale, although music in all of its intricacies gives room for creative differences.

                                                                                                                       -Another Avid Fan

           He stared at the e-mail for far longer than he should have. In the chaotic jumble of his thoughts, Will felt the strains of a fading song, something beautiful and haunting. Hadn’t he also thought of the music along the F-Harmonic range as he’d stared at the body? Had Jack Crawford witnessed him seeing so deeply? So intimately?

           Are serial killers your muse?

           He thought about forwarding it to Beverly, another olive branch since the writer had even bothered to include Co. Will Graham and Company. It could have been a sitcom, if there was anything remotely funny about people whose throats now occupied the neck of a cello.

           There was something personal in the way the person had included another to their signature, though, that stayed his fingers from clicking the ‘Fwd.’ icon. Another Avid Fan. Not a fan of Tattler News. Not a fan of Will Graham and Company. The first avid fan was a fan of Will. Another avid fan surely felt the same, too. Did they see him swaying to the song? Did they linger in the crowd, watching him try to break free of the line to go inside? Did they mark him with Jack as he was given entry past the partitions?

           He printed a copy for himself, then deleted the original. Will told himself that it was because of Jack that he didn’t tell anyone –he’d promised not to entertain another psychopath in the papers, after all. In truth, as he headed back to the conference room in order to tell Abigail that she didn’t have to sleep at a homeless camp, he figured that out of anyone else in the world, the last person that he should have to lie to was himself.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Imagine if Jamie travelled through the stones, but instead of finding Claire in Boston he found himself having arrived years too early, when the War was still happening and Claire had yet to meet him... What would he do?

Notes from Mod Bonnie 

Trying something a bit new as a palate-cleanser, lads and lasses! 

Please do note that I am blissfully, unapologetically putting next-to-no effort into making this historically accurate. Soooo, if you’re in a military history/fact-checking/date-referencing mood… best take those efforts elsewhere ;D 

Hope you enjoy! 

The Last All-Clear 

September 17, 1942: A Rusty Nail 

C. E. B. Randall

Camp Nightwing, France

17 September

Daytime rotation today.

No new battle casualties & all quiet in the distance, thank God. 

Did tend M. Danton (scored on the arm w/ rusted nail; antibiotics & sterile bandage to finish; strict instructions to report in 3 days for follow-up). 

A strange sort, and no two ways about it. 

“Claire—darling—dearest—You know how much I ADORE you, don’t you?”

I was already smirking—fondly, but smirking nonetheless—by the time I turned from restocking the supply cabinets for tomorrow. “How much do you adore me, Nance?”

“So much that I’ll do absolutely any of your chores—ALL your chores!!—for a week if you’ll go tend Danton??”

“Danton? The frenchman?” A glance revealed a familiar set of hunched shoulders (spilled over with filthy black hair) just visible through the cracked partition of the infirmary tent. “What’s happened to him?”

“Nothing serious. Says he got scraped by a nail or screw or something this morning and needs to be cleaned up a bit, but oh, please, Claire??” Nancy whined, grabbing both my hands in hers. “I know you were supposed to go off-duty at eight and it’s nine-thirty already but puh-LEASE will you take ten minutes before you go and be the one to tend him?? Please-please-pl—” 

“Good Lord, no need to go into a tizzy about it,” I laughed, a bit taken aback by how truly distraught she seemed. “Surely the man doesn’t bite!” Though in truth, I didn’t know that for certain.

I’d never spoken to him, nor even so much as looked him in the eye, but Danton—was his first name even known?— was a legend in camp. He’d joined the company a month or two ago, they said, one of the men-of-all-work that alternately served as laborer, orderly, handyman, gravedigger, or any other role requiring a strong back. Though I’d always gotten the sense he was past his prime, from the state of his clothing and posture and hygiene, a strong back Danton did have, and whatever his age might be, he was indispensable.  The camp always had to be ready to go into action, or even pick up and move entirely at a moment’s notice. In this chaotic wartime reality, with life and death so often on the line, a spare set of hands was always needful. 

There were a dozen such men in camp, all of them civilian frenchmen, but Danton was the only one people seemed to talk about; which was quite the irony, given that he was a man of notoriously few words. He kept always to himself, speaking only when directly addressed, gruffly and shortly when he was, crossing the verge of sheer bad-temperedness more often than not. Rooms tended to shift to low whispers when Danton entered, if not empty entirely.

It didn’t seem to bother him. The entirety of my experience with the man consisted of glimpses from across the camp or mess-hall. Yet, even that barest of acquaintance was enough to have convinced me that the unsmiling, grubby Danton—with his hunched shoulders, with that profoundly-unkempt black hair and drooping cap that together hid his eyes—wished to be left alone. 

My skin had prickled, though, whenever I had studied him, crawling with something I couldn’t quite put into words or even—

“He gives me the absolute heebie-jeebies!!” Nancy summarized neatly in a whisper. “I can’t do it, I just can’t! Anything you ask, Claire, and it’s done, but PLEASE be a brick and get me out of this??”

I would have agreed in any case—if for nothing more than to satisfy my own slightly-morbid curiosity— but I had absolutely no qualms over letting Nancy take my bedpan duties for a week out of the bargain.

….and surely the man DIDN’T bite?

“Monsieur Danton?”

He JUMPED as though shot, and I startled so violently (absurdly searching for elongated canines in the momentary panic) that I swore and dropped my tray, the bowl, cloth, and other impedimenta clattering and scattering all over the floor with great metallic crashes.

I was utterly mortified, positively dove to my hands and knees to gather the scattered supplies and hide my face, and then the sensation doubled to realize that the frenchman was on the ground beside me. I had only enough time to notice the juxtaposition of the fine leather glove on his left hand with the wretched filth of his clothing before he was placing the last item on the tray. “Thank you,” I mumbled awkwardly, glancing up to smile in thanks, and caught a momentary glimpse of vivid blue eyes before he recoiled, leaping to his feet and busying himself with getting the tray on the table. 

Shy, whatever else he might be. 

“Well, we’re off to a bumpy start, sol—Sir,” I managed with a weak laugh as I got to my feet, throwing myself fully into that ‘jovial commanding-officer’ character that had weathered many an awkward encounter in my career to-date. My usual script felt a little bereft without the useful address of ’soldier.’ “I’m Nurse Randall,” I said more briskly, clearing my throat with a smile.  “I’m told you need medical attention for your arm?”

He rolled up his sleeve without so much as a word. Very well, down to busin—

“Good LORD!” I gasped, stepping forward and reaching for the arm, then pushing him down into the chair. Not merely a scrape: it was a slash, a wicked, deep one, about two inches long, just below the right elbow. “This needs stitches! What the bloody hell happened?” 

No answer. 

Giving him the benefit of the doubt, I said more kindly in French, “Monsieur, will you tell me what happened to your arm?”

No nod. No grunt. The brute didn’t bother even to raise his chin from his chest. 

No language barrier, then: just an arse.  

I reached for the antiseptic, my nostrils flaring. “Will you look at the state of this?” The blood had long since clotted, but the wound clearly hadn’t been washed, let alone sterilized. “Why in God’s name didn’t you come and get help for it right away?”

Silence.

“Excuse me, I am TALKING to you,” I snapped, choosing to stick with French for castigation as I prepared the suturing supplies. “Why didn’t you bother coming for help unt—?”

“Do what’s-must to prevent the festering and I’ll be going, yes?” he snapped back with such venom that I would have gasped if I weren’t so grounded in pique. 

So: he was both capable of speech and every bit as ill-tempered for it.  Lord, give me the strength not to SLAP this man. I bit my tongue and cleansed the wound in icy silence.

“Far from home?” I blurted testily, when the tension became too insufferable even for me. 

His head snapped up.

“Your accent,” I clarified as I reached for a clean cloth, genuinely curious despite my ire, “—your syntax. It’s not a standard dialect…nor like the other frenchmen in camp, I think?” 

“No.”

I had about an ounce of pleasantness left in me and I scraped it up to force a smile. “Grow up in the country, eh?”

“Yes.”

“…Care to share where?” 

“No.”

“Well, you’re just a blooming basket of violet-scented rainbows, aren’t you?” I snapped in English. “Hold bloody still, this will hurt and you’ll deserve every blasted bit of it.” I gritted my teeth and swore under my breath as I began stitching, in absolutely no mood for grumpy man-children. “Jesus H. Roosevelt CHRIST.”

By complete chance, standing bent over his arm as I began to stitch, I happened to be looking down at his mouth as I said it. To my absolute gobsmacked surprise, I saw a smile twitching at the corners, small and restrained, as though he were trying very much not to show it, but clear as day: a tiny smile verging on a grin. 

Well…! Not a *complete* automaton, then. 

I was taken still further aback when the mouth opened and said quietly in French without looking up, “Forgive me, please, Madame. I do not mean you ill.” The tone told me he was being genuine.  “It is only that I do not very much like—speaking.”

“It’s good to work at things you don’t like doing,” I said, fixing what I could see of his face with a sardonic glare between stitches, but trying not to smile. “Builds character.”  

Another infinitesimal twitch of the lips before he dropped his head, strings of wavy black hair hiding his features entirely. “It is—a small bit more easy to manage, in French.”  

“We’ll stick with the Français then,” I said, letting a smile show in my voice.

I finished the stitching and sterilization in a more comfortable silence. He took the hypodermic needle without so much as a wince, though I could see him watching it intently, sternly almost, as though not entirely sure what to make of it. From the country, indeed. 

“You’re so much younger than I would have supposed.” 

“…I beg your pardon, Madame?” 

I could hardly fault him for being taken aback, as I had blurted it with absolutely no thought for context, let alone grace. I recovered as best I could, all things considered, focusing over-intently on wrapping the bandage around his forearm. “From a distance, I had assumed you to be far older.”

Honestly, for a man with such a beard and posture, that default manner that could charitably be described as cantankerous, it was alarming to find that not only was he not middle-aged, but he couldn’t possibly be older than— 

“Thirty? At most?”

“Thereabouts.” After a pause, he added with a shrug. “I am far older in spirit, Madame.”  

I made him promise to come see me in a few days so I could see how the healing was progressing and give him more antibiotic if need be. He nodded, then stood and shrugged back into his coat (Lord, was he huge), and was just beginning to move toward the doorway, when—

“Are you well-treated here, M. Danton?”  Why could I not keep my bloody mouth shut tonight??

“Why is it that you ask such a question of me, Madame?” Though I still could barely see his face through the hair, I could hear the wariness in his voice. 

“You just seem…” I struggled to find the word in French, to express my concern without giving offense. “…..hunted.” 

Yes, a beast at bay. That’s what I had discerned and yet been unable to name in those vague, distant glances across camp: the utter wrongness in the sight of a man so tall and strong keeping his head low, avoiding eye contact, as though cowering before an invisible blow. Then there was this slash to the arm…

He caught me looking at the bandage, so I summoned my courage enough to ask directly, “Is someone bothering you? Hurting you?” 

“No.” He relaxed, and I saw his throat muscles working.  “No, it truly was a rusted nail; an accident, entirely my own.” He inclined his head in acknowledgment of the first statement. “And my manners and ways are mine as well, Madame. Of my own choosing, I mean to say. Better, it is, that I keep to myself.”

There was nothing morose in the way he said it, nothing maudlin or self-pitying.

 ….but it still was so very sad. 

“Nonetheless,” he added quite suddenly, one hand on the tent flap, “I thank you for having asked.” He gave a graceful bow and said in heavily-accented English before vanishing off into the night: “You ‘ave a kind ‘eart, Nurse Randall.”

Strange, yes. But not as bad as all that. 

-CEBR

5 1 9

Ye touched me, today, mo nighean donn. 

Spoke to me. Looked at me. Stopped my beating heart. 

You were supposed to go off-duty at eight. I let that damned wound go untended all the day because I was waiting for when I kent you’d be away and abed. I couldn’t take the chance of it being you. God above knows I meant for us never once to come face-to-face in this camp.

More than a year since I ran up the hill after ye and the world went black; more than a year of trying to find my way in your world; of trying to find you; these last months of staying hidden in plain sight that ye never should see my face…. All undone by a rusted nail and your damned heedless self working at all hours instead of taking to your damned bed. And yet…. ye always did see fit to undermine my plans, my wife. Mo ghraidh. 

��.Lord, and you’re so young, Sorcha; so heartbreakingly young, and it makes me want to weep. And yet I weep still more to have witnessed with my own eyes and ears that you’re exactly the same. Even now, at three-and-twenty, you’ve the same fire that I myself have known in you, that same brilliance and compassion and—

Jesus. 

Oh, God, Claire. 

From a distance, keeping to my duties, I have been able to separate myself from it all; keep myself and my thoughts in check by mere will, knowing that it is my place only to watch over you, never in any circumstance to know you or seek you out.  But so close to ye today, mo chridhe, SO CLOSE with you touching me, that deepest part of yourself reaching out to heal and care for me, even in disguise, even though ye dinna yet know me— It took all my strength not to take ye in my arms and crush you to my heart.

I long for you, mo nighean donn. I long for my wife; to hold ye again; to speak all my heart to ye. My truest friend. 

And yet, beyond longing, there is that uttermost of terrors that fills me day and night. 

I wait for this war to end—this war of unspeakable horrors, the like of which I could never have fathomed—and still I dread the sounding of that last all-clear. At least here, now (and for three years more, at the least) I have a place in your world. I can watch over ye, see your face each and every day, if only for a moment from afar, and be able to close my eyes at night only because I ken that you are safe. 

But when the fighting has ceased, when ye leave France, I shall have to bid you yet another farewell….silently, this time, unseen….and hope that in April of 1948—

…Pray with all my soul that you and the bairn make it to April of 1948. 

That you won’t be— That you haven’t already been—? or that you aren’t now—?

Lost among the years. As I have been.  

[phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess]

TF2 HCs for Medic and Spy, platonic, colleague, ship, enemies... just all of it (because that anon was way too funny and made me realize "what do you think of those two....")

Medic & Spy are uniquely fine-tuned creatures for their professions. 

Both possess their own degree of silver-tongued persuasion… and minor madness. How else could they function so well in situations where their lives were always in jeopardy?

Dark humour can only go so far, after all. Suave snark is an intriguing camouflage, a good facade… but, realistically Death is only funny after you have evaded its embrace… 

Medic is a man of passion for experimentation, for pushing boundaries and revelling in the sound as they shatter under his genius. The human body fascinates, the way it can be torn asunder and remade, augmented, changed, twisted and improved… all with perseverance, skill, and… a general disregard for modern medical ethics/human life. 

He has seen brutality and cruelty, and certainly he can dish out the same when necessary; but he is, to a fault, a healer. The man cares for his team, albeit in an abstract way; and keeps them alive, healthy, functioning… even if that requires a baboon uterus or two be involved in the process. 

The Medigun is proof of his genius, and his commitment; though it is often discarded for the syringe gun and bonesaw should the team not pay enough attention to his on-field mortality. Initially, Medic loathed the Spy class; one can only be backstabbed so often, after all… and you could say such blatant characterisation could be true of the opposing team’s espionage agent, but perhaps unfair to label their own. 

Though Medic would vehemently state he had had issues with the man from the beginning. It had not been a pleasant realisation to find Spy could speak German, French, Russian and a whole gamut of other languages… meaning that the knowing smirk he adopted whenever Heavy & Medic were conversing… in hindsight, revealed he had been intruding on their privacy. 

The way Spy would simply appear, also held him in some ill-repute. For a man with a team full of people who had lived their entire lives on the edge, always a hair’s breadth from death, who would react with violence and self-preservation when startled… Spy did like to test their reflexes. Indeed, Medic had originally stabbed the man a few times, with whatever was to hand (scalpel, pencil, bonesaw, etc.) when he felt a presence suddenly behind him. 

It was understandable, really, but Spy seemed to take insult, as one would.

Now, though, the team could mostly tell when the sanctity of their personal space bubble was being invaded. It was the whisper-quiet footsteps, the shush of air displacement, the odd sensation of warmth from an unseen body too close to your own, a faint… scent of something that wasn’t cologne or aftershave but definitely expensive… all of which they could reasonably detect, if not intently focused on something. And even if they were, usually the sound of the man decloaking could alert them to their visitor…

Still, theirs was not a harmonious relationship. Spy maintained that his uber transplant was literally only done for the sake of revenge, as when would Medic EVER uber the espionage agent? A fair assumption. A true assumption… but the Medical Man would never admit it.

Spy also had a grievance with Medic, the first and only person on the team to catch him with his mask off in the first year of their work on base. He had had a large piece of shrapnel from an opposing rocket that’d bounced off a concrete wall he’d been cloaked by, jutting out in a bloody mess from his right cheek. Engineer had taken one look and told the ‘Spah’ to ‘go get the Doc to look at you’; which was infuriating, because the dispenser was right there, but… well perhaps it was important that nothing go wrong. Outside of this place, of Team Fortress, his looks were a selling point in the espionage business.

The bedraggled Medic, sans any form of teammate to shield him, was swiftly moving back to the cover of the respawn area; moving between buidlings and debris, alerting Spy to the presence of the enemy sniper. He’d covertly cloaked and circled around, yanking Medic into a building, hand clasped over the German’s mouth, and frantically trying to decloak before he was murdered accidentally by the flailing bonesaw. He hisses as Medic’s fist connects with the debris, even briefly, and snapped a rude response in French. 

The Medical man had frozen, thought for a second, then relaxed. Realising which Spy it was instantly, given their checkered history of perpetual insults and arguments. 

“Vhat can I do for you, Herr Spy?” he’d said, when released, and Spy had wondered if the man needed better glasses for a moment before realising he was being teased. 

“Well, if it iz convenient for you, doctor, I do ‘ave a minor problem you may be able to assist with…” he responds, equally cordial; like this was a covert complimentary contest and each pleasantry a strike or miss, between the men.

“Oh yes, let us sort out zhe boo-boo…” mutters Medic, yanking tweezers out of his pouch, prodding at the area with a gloved hand. Neither of them were perfectly sterile, but… well, it was war… of a sort. “Fascinating, beuatiful, you should be proud Herr Spy…”

The espionage agent attempted to remain still, nonchalant, but exhaled sharply at the sensation of Medic wiggling the piece to test the degree of penetration into the facial region. Medic paused, hummed, and tilted his head; thinking.

“It vould be best if I could cut zhe mask off, at least around zhe vound… I could get a better grip to remove it. Very fortunate you did not use the dispenser, or it would have inadvertently formed skin over zhe metal surface of zhis fragment. Although it vould have been quite fun to remove… do try to get to a dispenser next time, ja?”

The next few moments had been careful removal of the mask around the metal, and the rest, Medic dabbing antiseptic with a little bit of something that numbed pleasantly, all about the base of the object. Spy only managed to get to 3, though instructed to count to 10, before Medic yanked the object out… without the right amount of mental preparation, he swore.

Medic laughed, and examined the metal, then the wound, before apparently deciding it was intact enough that the situation warranted no further digging about… rather than use the medigun, he removed a syringe from the crusader’s crossbow, and initially sluiced the area before just injecting the rest in a surprise move that made Spy jump. It was, as always, effective; and Spy was left uncertain how to react when the other man patted him on the cheek with a smart, “Zhere you go, all better…” and walked away, whistling.

He’d felt quite naked in that moment. But betrayal came slightly later when he realised Medic had taken note of the inherent similarities between himself and, well, a certain other team member… and tested their DNA without letting either know. Medic liked to know things; and certainly, Spy could hardly fault him on that, but this was too personal. Something the espionage agent himself didn’t like to admit… and now, Medic, perhaps even Heavy, knew for certain. A breach of privacy for a Spy, was like a gaping wound; it had to be dealt with before things grew serious.

And so, a month later, Spy had confronted Medic in the Infirmary. Carefully timing his visit to coincide with Heavy’s preferred shower time, so as not to raise the ire of a man strong enough to give a mountain a concussion, for the Russian had been extra vigilant for Medic ever since the whole dna debacle. Oh it started cordially, a snide comment as he decloaked; Medic’s careful nonchalance and withering pleasantry/insults far sharper than his beloved scalpels. 

A dance of words, a cautious testing of the boundaries; waiting for an opening, a misstep to throw the other down and triumph. An argument, that wanted to pretend itself a pure conversation, nothing more than a little pointed banter between comrades…

Points were scored with throwaway statements, a mockery here or there, a snidely accusatory query about someone’s medical licence, the returned inquiry regarding how much child endowment someone would owe after 27 years… 

It was deadly. The room radiated a malevolent, predatory energy that seemed to build like a physical thing. 

What had originally been an idea to confront and coerce the Medical man into silence… was turning out to be something far more toxic, in actuality. There were hidden resentments between Classes, bubbling to the surface unrestrained, now. Little things about the other that irked, that annoyed, that inconvenienced…

Too many little experiments, eavesdropping, subtle blackmail, baby baboons, the whispered name of a long-dead love, the accusation of an abandoned living one… and so on. This game had come to a clash, as it had always been going to, and it would end one way or another today. 

Intelligence is multifaceted; people can be experts in different things, and utterly unable to fathom the most simplistic concept of an area of expertise outside of their own. Such is humanity. And here, Medicine & Science clashed with Espionage & Secrecy; in a different world perhaps this could all have been different, perhaps they could have been friends to start with… perhaps.

And yet, with a scathing statement that seemed to shock both the target and the one who stated it… it ended. Like a thunderclap, the silence following what was said rang deafeningly, the pure maliciousness of the words a physical ache in the room that made it hard to breathe. 

A pause. Both men stared at one another, unsure where to go from there…

Creatures of logic and cunning sometimes find emotional resolution a hard concept to grasp, much less enact. And yet… here, and now, the silence was broached by a soft apology, and a moment after, the equally quiet acceptance.

Peace. Truce.

“Vhy did it come to zhis?” Medic asked, not looking at the other, neither man could stand to at the moment. “Are ve so different, you and I, zhat companionship is too far-fetched a concept?”

Spy huffs out a tired, slightly amused, laugh. “Non, doctor… I do believe zhe problem is zhat we are far too alike. Opposites may attract, but similarities clash, or something of that nature… ‘ardly poetic, but…” He shrugged, avidly invested in tracing the bloodstains on the floor, and definitely not avoiding eyecontact with the other. Spies should not be so profoundly influenced by words… and yet…

“Ve may be similarly inclined academically, Herr Spy, but I zhink ve can both agree zhat I am far prettier zhan you… zhe truth hurts, I know…” Medic mock-consoles, lightening the mood of the room with a joke, and turning to gaze at Spy. He was smiling; not the cruel, bloodlust induced maniacal grin… just a regular, genuine smile… like he often flashed at Heavy, or sometimes Demo and Scout. 

Spy made a great show of lighting and then exhaling the smoke of, one of his designer cigarettes, as he slowly dragged his eyes over Medic’s form; expression blank and slightly judgemental. He cocked an eyebrow, “Oui, maybe so, Doctor… but zhere is something to be said for personality.” He paused, “Not zhat you would know…”

After a slight pause, he grinned, to indicate he was also attempting to lighten the mood; and Medic laughed. A delightful sound that seemed to brush away the last dark cobwebs of a moment before…

And so it was settled, with something that could not be taken back, and a quiet apology. Spy and Medic learned to work together, on and off the field. Of course they fought, what two humans live in perpetual harmony? 

But it was functional, and the rest of the team breathed a sigh of relief, as the base became hospitable again.

Spy was shocked to receive his first uber mid-battle... thought he did run up an impressive killstreak

Medic, with Spy’s help, learned to anticipate the opposing Spy’s most common approaches; and was backstabbed less on-field as a result

Spy found the Crusader’s Crossbow a much more covert manner of receiving healing from Medic, when disguised

Medic got rather good at pinpointing the opposing Sniper’s nest and relaying it to Spy, who could then take him out

Off the field, Spy conversed with Medic and Heavy in a variety of languages; discussing complex ideologies and reminiscing about strange situations they had survived, through the long nights after battle. 

Spy was delighted to realise Medic couldn’t cook to save himself; and MEdic equally delighted to mock Spy about his skincare routine (not that he had one, but that it took 45 minutes). Spy pointed out they couldn’t all be part-medigun fluid and stay eternally youthful... and Medic offered to fix that (Spy hastily declined, he’d seen the implant).

Medic’s doves were getting far too friendly with Spy, he’d started teaching them covert commands in French, which was causing the others no end of chaos.

Spy was not impressed to find Medic had stolen his sapper to settle a base-wide argument over who got the television set at 4:45pm, because multiple interesting shows were on... and Medic just wanted quiet. 

Sometimes they watched movies, or went out to nice restaurants, simply to get away from the others (and then complain about them). Medic was frustrated at being left alone to be picked off frequently with 98% uber, and Spy was tired of teammates drawing enemy fire to his cloaked self... and so on.

Both men were equally frustratingly stubborn about having any illness. Heavy thought it amusing that he would have to drag one or the other to the Infirmary (heavily protesting they were FINE) to be cared for. Normally he would help Medic when he man was ill, but recently...

If they had assumed they were being covert, they were not. At least to Heavy.

Though he assumed they didn’t realise it either, until Scout made a “So do I call ya Dad or Daddy, now?” joke at Medic, who nearly inhaled his soupspoon. 

At which point the base realised... they didn’t know.

Or they didn’t until then. 

Spy recovered his composure first. “Ahem, Doctor it seems we ‘ave been dating...”

“...Indeed.” Medic replies absently, lost in thought. Then he blinks, claps his hands, and says, “Vhat an excellent development, I had not even realised... ve must do something to celebrate!”

Spy smiles, realising the sensation swelling in his chest is pure admiration for the Medical man’s vivacity and youthful vigour. He picks up his wine, a standard dinner accompaniment, and sips... 

...but almost spits it out again as Scout (the son he’s pretending not to have) leans over and whispers, “So uh, are you or I gonna call the Doc ‘Daddy’? Kinda need to know now so it don’t get weird later...”

As he’s struggling not to choke to death, with Demo patting him on the back, an amused Medic looks directly at Scout and says, “Zhat is no vay to talk to your vater, young man, go to your room...”

...it’s even more amusing when, grumbling about the unfairness of it all, Scout does.

Spy catches Medic’s eye, and beams. This was certainly going to be interesting.

[twists-of-fade]

Arianni becomes Evune

They were in the farms near Redcliffe when the missive arrived. As the messenger approached, Arianni was discussing with a farmer where the wolves had created their den, and how the farmers might best avoid them. Dorian and Solas were nearby, helping another farmer repair a fence that had been destroyed by their Druffalo herd when the Templars and mages had fought in the area.

Cole was suddenly at her side, pulling on his gloves nervously as the farmer thanked Arianni and left.

"The paper carries sadness," Cole warned as Arianni noted the messenger.

"What?" Arianni turned to him in confusion.

"Cannot look at her, paper heavy in my hand, rode as fast as the horse could. It is.. bad. Very bad," Cole said. "You shouldn't read it yet. But you must. You have somewhere you have to go. I will get Nehna."

Arianni stared after him, feeling her heart pound as the messenger approached. The scout's eyes were downcast as she held out a hand, a tightly furled paper in it. Arianni felt her hand shaking as she took the paper. The scout saluted before turning and walking as quickly as she dared back towards her horse. The letter in her hand was sealed with Cullen's seal, but sloppily, as if he'd had to try twice to apply it. That didn't bode well, either. He had been nervous to send this to her.

As she broke the wax seal, fingers fumbling, she heard Dorian and Solas approaching.

"Where did Cole run off to?" Dorian asked. "The boy just suddenly charged off towards camp."

Arianni didn't answer. She was too busy staring at the words in front of her. Her brain couldn't register what she was reading.

"Arianni? What's wrong?" Dorian asked, concerned.

Arianni couldn't answer. She didn't know how. Everything around her had gone silent. It felt as though even her heart had ceased beating as she read the letter again, willing the words within it to change. They didn't, and the same words jumped out at her, screaming themselves at her, making it impossible to focus on the rest of the letter.

"... to clan Lavellan... Agents arrived too late... few survivors remained... all injured... I'm so sorry, Arianni."

Cole approached, then, leading her halla, Nehna. Arianni felt Nehna's inquisitive snort as the animal placed it's snout against her cheek. She dropped the letter, letting it flutter to the muddied ground as she reached for Nehna's reigns. Arianni could feel her heart beating now, and it was louder than anything around her. Louder than Dorian's questions, Cole's enigmatic words. Her pounding heartbeat drowned out the sight of Solas's worried stare as Arianni mounted Nehna, reigning the Halla in. She heard Solas calling after her as she rode away from them, but she didn't turn back. Cole was right, she had somewhere she had to be.

Leaning towards her childhood friend's ear, she whispered, "Josa, Nehna."

The halla took off at a sprint, spurned by Arianni's heartfelt plea, and fueled by the fear she had heard in Arianni's voice.

Arianni couldn't say later how long she rode, only that it was a matter of days. When Nehna tired, Arianni poured magic into her, soothing her muscles and reinvigorating her. Arianni paid no heed to her surroundings, knowing only that she needed to go northeast, towards Wycome. She needed to go home.

As the sunlight broke over the hills, shining through the trees, Arianni saw the top of the Inquisition's golden banner. The smell of smoke filled the air, though there was no sign yet of a fire.

A scout approached her, quickly recognizable as scout Harding. Arianni looked at her, a thousand unasked questions in her eyes as Nehna slowed, snorting with fatigue and concern for the smoke she smelled. Harding turned without a word, her face inscrutable, and led Arianni to the camp. What was left of it, anyway.

Fear filled her every pore as Arianni saw the wreckage of the camp. Tents torn down, banners ripped, aravel burned. Blood littered the ground, but there were no bodies. Nehna's head swiveled, looking for familiar faces as the smell of blood hit her nose. Arianni patted her neck absently, unable to reassure her halla with the fear she also felt so cold in her heart.

Harding led them to a large inquisition tent, guarded by several soldiers. Arianni dismounted Nehna, stumbling as her legs threatened to buckle. Scout Harding reached out as though to help her, but Arianni righted herself, shaking her head. Silently, she pushed open the tent flap and entered.

The tent was filled with cots. Injured elves from her clan lay in many, Inquisition soldiers filled the rest. Healers were busily covering several of the elves with white sheets, their faces grim as they worked.

Scanning the cots for familiar faces, Arianni recognized the Keeper, laying in a corner cot. Cullen stood nearby, and they spoke in hushed tones.

"Deshanna!" Arianni called out as she rushed to the cot.

"Arianni?" Cullen's voice was shocked. "I didn't expect you to arrive for days."

Arianni ignored him, her focus only on the Keeper. "Deshanna, what has happened?"

"You came, da'len. I told him you would," Deshanna Istimaethoriel said, her voice pained. "The men of the city believe us responsible for an illness. Something that plagues their people. It did not matter how we plead our innocence, they were afraid, and fear drove their actions. But you should not be here."  Deshanna pulled a hand from beneath the blankets, her movements shaky. "Your mother," She said, pointing to a cot at the other end of the tent.

Arianni took her hand, placing her lips to it a moment, eyes closed. "Be well, Deshanna," She said, before standing.

Unable to meet Cullen's gaze, she moved to the cot the Keeper had pointed out, and felt her knees buckle. She didn't feel her knees hit the hard ground. She reached a hand out and caressed her mother's face. Isera was asleep, her face relaxed, though the many bandages across her neck and side of her face tore at Arianni's heart.

"Mamae," Arianni whispered, her voice breaking, before clearing her throat and trying again. "Mamae."

Isera's uncovered eye fluttered open, and her mouth gaped in surprise as she saw Arianni. "Da'len," she said softly, smiling, and Arianni couldn't stop the tears anymore as they poured down her face.

"I'm here, Mamae," she whimpered, and her mother placed a hand to the back of her head, caressing her ear gently. Arianni placed her face to her mother's chest and cried while Isera stroked her hair. "Ir abelas, Mamae. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I wasn't here."

"Shh, hush, ma'enansal," Isera crooned. "You are here now. Look at me, da'len."

Arianni raised her head, and Isera wiped the tears from one eye, then the other. "I didn't think I'd see your face again, emm'asha," Isera said, stroking Arianni's cheek. "You've grown so. You've changed. Your pretty brown eyes glow with the light of the Beyond."

Arianni nodded. "It is because of what occurred at the Conclave," she replied, her voice barely a whisper.

"They are beautiful, da'len."

Arianni smiled a moment, before frowning. "Mamae..." Arianni hesitated, scared of the answer to the unasked question.

"Your father has gone to the Beyond, emm'asha," Isera said, her voice sad. "He fought bravely for our clan, for me. I could not run, and he defended me from the soldiers who attacked. He fell to them just as your soldiers arrived."

Arianni sniffed. She nodded wordlessly. Another thing that was her fault. If she hadn't caused her mother's injury, maybe they could have escaped. Anger, hot and heavy, pooled in her as she stood.

Isera frowned. "He would be so proud of you. Just as I am, da'len."

"I know, Mamae," Arianni replied, forcing a smile. "You rest now. I am going to take care of things. I love you, Mamae."

"And I you, ma'enansal," Isera replied. "Be safe."

Arinni kissed her mother's brow before leaving, sparing Cullen a look that bade him to follow her.

When he exited the tent, she continued walking, away from the camp, into the woods. Once he had followed her a suitable distance, she rounded on him.

"What the fuck happened, Cullen?" She shouted.

"Wycome's soldiers. They used poisoned weapons. The healers are doing all they can. You should read Leliana's report," Cullen answered, passing her the letter in his hand.

As Arianni scanned the words, the anger in the pit of her stomach grew. "The Duke of Wycome was working with the Venatori. They poisoned the city's water supply with red lyrium and blamed the elves. Blamed my family. This is his fault. His and Corypheus'. At least one of them is closer at hand." She threw the letter to the ground in disgust and walked away.

"Where are you going?" Cullen called after her.

Arianni didn't turn as she replied. "Emma shem'nan. I have an appointment with Duke Antoine."

----

Arianni threw the sniveling man to the ground. "Ma halam, shemlen."

"What are you going to do to me?" He cried.

"Ar tu na'din," Arianni replied, ignoring his confusion.

Citizens of Wycome were gathering, drawn by the man's cries.

Duke Antoine of Wycome knelt before her, whimpering. His hands were bound behind him, his face bloody, burned, and frostbitten. Arianni stood in the middle of the city's main courtyard, where major announcements and executions would take place. They were surrounded by the retainer Duke Antoine often had with him. Every last one of them had been Venatori agents. Every one of them was now dead. The inhabitants of the city had crowded around them, many angry, some scared, but all curious.

"Your true enemy is before you," Arianni shouted, addressing the building crowd. "He has been before you the entire time, spreading lies among you even as he spread poison within your waters. You will hear it of him." She turned to the Duke. "Tell them what you did," Arianni said loudly.

Antoine whimpered, shaking his head.

Arianni reached a hand to the back of his head, placing a fire rune at the base of his skull. Arianni leaned down, her mouth at the ear of the cowering noble. "I will boil your brains in your skull if you dare to lie to them," she said softly, before straightening.

"Tell them of your crimes!" She shouted.

"I... I did it," the duke said. "I poisoned the well and b-brought the plague."

The crowd gasped as a collective whole, and many began whispering among themselves, staring at Arianni and the Duke with a mixture of confusion and distrust.

"On whose orders?"

The Venatori," Antoine whispered. As the fire rune grew hotter, he repeated himself louder. "The Venatori!"

Another collective gasp. The people clearly knew the name, but Arianni wasn't leaving anything to chance. She needed them on her side.

"The Venatori, yes," Arianni said, addressing the crowd again. "Followers of the would-be god who tore a hole in the very heavens. Do you know who it was that closed the breach?"

"You did," the duke spat bitterly.

"Yes," Arianni said. "I did. Chosen of Andraste, blessed of the Maker. On behalf of the peoples of Thedas, ALL of them, I lead the Inquisition against the would-be god who dreams to destroy us all. While such a threat exists, you, who should be protecting your own people, have instead poisoned them, turned them against one another, and convinced them to slaughter each other."

Arianni gave the words a moment to sink in.

"The elves of the Alienage, whose only crime was existing, were made into a scapegoat for your crimes. How many of them died for your lie?"

"How should I know-" The Duke began, but Arianni shouted over him, increasing the temperature of the fire rune.

"HOW MANY? HOW MANY DIED FOR YOU?"

"Th-there were probably three hundred of them," Antoine shouted, rolling onto his back, attempting to stifle the fire rune against the cobblestone.

"Three hundred dead," Arianni repeated, speaking loudly to ensure the citizens heard her. "Three hundred innocents. Undoubtedly, this includes children, babies. That doesn't include the number of your own population dead because of your poison. How many of Wycome's very own citizens died at your hands?"

"I don't know," Antoine cried out, writhing. "Dozens."

"Dozens of your own, mainly babies and the elderly, dead."

The crowd was growing restless, glaring at the duke. Some hurled insults.

"I ask you, the people of this city," Arianni shouted. "What would you have done with this man? He has lied to you, deceived you, poisoned your children, and forced you to kill innocents. What would you have done with him?"

The crowd shouted, their anger rising. "Kill him!" shouted some. "Jail!" said another.

"I leave him in your hands," Arianni said. "As the people of this city, it is your right to judge your own."

"Take him out of here!" A citizen shouted, stepping forward. A grizzled old man with a missing eye and grey beard. "He killed your people, too. The group of elves outside the city. You have as much right to judge him as anyone. More, even. You and your Inquisition are the only ones standing up to the nug-fucker that calls himself a god."

There were sounds of agreement within the crowd as the man continued. "If you and your people aim to stop this false-god, then you've got my support, and anyone in this town worth the hair on a nug's ass should say the same."

A murmur of agreement ran through the crowd, and a soldier stepped forward, blade drawn. Arianni made no move to stop him as he approached, knelt, and placed his sword at her feet.

"For the Inquisition," He said.

"For the Inquisition!" Cried out a citizen. The old man took up the cry, and as the crowd began to chant, soldiers came forward, each one kneeling and placing their blades before Arianni.

Wycome was theirs.

--- "You did well," Cullen said when they met to speak in his tent. It was late, and he'd already removed his armor, preparing for bed when she walked to the camp with Antoine in chains. "I thought we had lost Wycome for sure. The duke has been prepared for transport to Skyhold to await trial."

"Why didn't the soldiers defend the elves, Cullen?" Arianni asked, staring at him. "I didn't ask before, because there were more urgent matters."

Cullen sighed and fiddled with the sleeve of his shirt, not meeting her eyes. "Lieutenant Rozzellene Chambreterre led the forces into Wycome. They were able to destroy the source of red lyrium poisoning the city's inhabitants, but the city soldiers forced them to retreat. When the Inquisition's forces were safely camped outside Wycome, Lieutenant Chambreterre realized the mistake. Wycome's forces fell upon the Alienage elves, as well as Clan Lavellan. By the time the forces returned to help..." Cullen trailed off.

Arianni stared at him, incredulous. "Let me get this straight," she said, her voice low. "I trust the men under your command to take care of the situation in Wycome, and not only could they not do that, but they abandoned my people, my clan, my FAMILY, to die for them?!"

"You know that isn't what she wanted," Cullen replied softly.

Arianni scoffed. "No, of course not. It's just what happened."

Cullen opened his mouth to argue, but a soldier pressed her head through the tent flap.

"Sers, you should come quickly," She said. "It doesn't look good."

Arianni practically threw soldiers out of her way as she shoved into the medical tent. she felt her heart catch in her throat as she saw two healers placing a sheet over Keeper Istimaethoriel.

"No," she whispered. "No, she can't. Deshanna."

"Arianni..." Cullen's voice snatched her back to where she stood. He was pointing past her, past far too many empty cots to the one in the corner.

Arianni felt her blood run cold. The room went silent. She didn't remember walking to her mother's cot, didn't remember crumpling in front of it. She remembered her mother's face, the drop of sweat on her brow, the way her unbandaged eye was squinted in pain. She remembered the way Isera struggled for breath. Arianni would never forget the smile Isera had on her face when she realized Arianni was there. Or the way it slowly slipped away as Isera took her last breath.

She remembered screaming. Clutching her mother's hands, begging her to come back. Screaming at the healers and their damned white sheet, throwing herself over her mother's body, refusing to let them touch her. She threatened to burn the entire forest to the ground if they dared. She remembered Cullen pulling her away, somehow gentle despite her thrashing. When he finally managed to pull her from the tent, she broke away from him, sprinting towards the trees, fear and anger mingling with an overwhelming despair as they fueled her steps.

When Cullen finally caught up with her, she was still as stone, kneeling in a field of tall grasses, watching the blades sway in the breeze. The sun had nearly set, and the first stars twinkled in the sky, visible through wisps of clouds.

Cullen approached her slowly, silently, and she did not stir.

"Arianni?" He spoke softly, trying not to startle her.

"It's like the world doesn't even care that she's gone," Arianni said. She felt numb inside, as though some part of her had died with her mother. While the rest of her mind was screaming, throwing things, thrashing, tearing itself apart, that part inside of her was so calm it frightened her. "In books and tales," she continued, "the death of someone special is always marked with rain, all very dramatic, of course, with the very heavens weeping for the loss. But here, barely a short walk from the tent, the world is so peaceful it's as though nothing even happened. The world can't see how special she was."

Cullen approached and knelt down next to her. "Then the world doesn't know what it has lost," he said.

"The world spins on even as my own has shattered," she said. "My clan is gone. My family. My mother..." She broke off, clapping a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.

Cullen put an arm around her, leaning her against him. "It is okay to feel your emotions," he said quietly. "You are in pain. Trying to hold this in won't help."

At his words, Arianni felt the tears begin running down her face. She took heavy breaths and found herself clutching his shirt. "They left me alone. All of them. What am I supposed to do now?" she asked between sobs.

Cullen wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her against him, hugging her tightly. "That's not for me to say," he said. "Whatever comes next, know that you are not alone. I'm here, Arianni. The Inquisition is with you. You are never alone."

Neither of them spoke for a long time, while Arianni cried all of the tears she had in her, and Cullen held her to his chest, rocking her gently and stroking her neck. Long after her hoarse sobs faded away, tears still ran down her cheeks, and Cullen sat with her until she pulled away, wiping her face.

The sun had faded beyond the horizon long before, and stars sparkled i th sky. A full moon illuminated the field, twinkling off the blades of the tall grass. Arianni stared at the moon for a moment.

"I have to bury them," Arianni said, pushing herself to her feet. "There are certain rites, certain things that must be done."

"Can it not wait?" Cullen asked as he stood, stretching his legs.  

"It cannot. Not if they are to find their way through the Beyond."

"Will you let me help you?" Cullen asked, concerned.

"I shouldn't," Arianni said, shaking her head.

"You're exhausted. I know you haven't slept since you arrived, and you probably didn't stop the entire way here from Redcliffe. Please, let me help you. You don't have to do this alone."

Arianni considered his words for a long moment.

"I could use help with the burials," she acquiesed. "However, afterwards, there are things I must do alone."

"Arlight," Cullen said, and Arianni was grateful that he didn’t argue.

They buried the clan in the field. As much as she wanted to avoid it, Arianni forced herself to look in the faces of each of her clansmen, to face their fate and accept her part in it. When it came time to bury her mother, Arianni broke down again, crying over the body, caressing her mother's cold cheek. She murmured countless apologies, in Elven and the common tongue. Her hands shook when it came time to cover Isera, and Cullen placed a hand over hers, taking the shovel from her gently.

"Let me," he said softly, and Arianni nodded, turning away.

"Thank you," she said, when it was done.

"Don't," he replied, his voice low. "Don't thank me for this."

Arianni nodded. "I need to be alone for the rest," she said. "Please."

"Right." Cullen stuck the blade of the shovel into the ground before walking away.

Venturing into the forest, Arianni gathered a rowan branch for each of the clan, removing the twigs from them and placing one at each grave.

"To scatter Fear and Deceit," she murmured as she placed each of them.

When this was done, she approached the site of the Keeper, placed at the highest point in the field. She took her staff from her back.

"A staff of yew, to guide your steps as you lead them through the Beyond," she whispered, not trusting her voice. "May Falon'Din  guide you, as you have guided us. Dareth shiral, lethallan."

She knelt by the Keeper's grave, praying a wordless prayer that her efforts were not wasted, that she had done the rites in time, and that they could forgive her.

When she opened her eyes, she looked around her. The sun was beginning to rise behind her, and the stars had nearly all twinkled out. The full moon sat at the horizon, directly ahead of her. As she looked at it, Arianni felt a strange sense of ending, as though a part of her was closing. It wasn't the same feeling of loss as she had felt previously. This felt as though she could find new beginning. For the first time since she had received the missive, she felt that maybe the world would keep turning.

"Evune," she whispered, the Elven word for moon, and as she tasted the word, it felt right.

Evune.

When she returned to the camp, Cullen was there, his face haggard. She hadn't noticed before just how tired he looked, the stress of leading the Inquisition's soldiers leaving dark circles beneath his eyes, and worry lines between his brows. He looked relieved to see her approach, and some of the lines on his face disappeared as he visibly relaxed.

"Arianni-" he began, but she threw up a hand.

"Arianni Lavellan is gone," she said softly, noticing the concern and alarm on his face at her words. "I am still me," she said, attempting to reassure him, "but I won't go by that name any longer. I will allow the Lavellan clan to end in this forest. I have chosen a new name."

Cullen furrowed his brow, looking at her with the worry she had grown accustomed to seeing in his eyes. "What do you mean?" he asked. "What name?"

"I will go by Evune," she replied simply. "The Lavellan clan ends with me, with Arianni, and rather than carry the burdens and loneliness, I will bury them with the rest of my family, so that I can devote myself entirely to the Inquisition."

Cullen was silent a moment, contemplating her words. "Are you sure this is what you want?" he asked finally. "My knowledge of Elven custom is limited, but I thought that as the First, you would become Keeper, responsible for passing on your clan's legacy."

"Yes," Evune replied. "To do so, I would be expected to join a new clan, marrying in, joining their name as humans join noble houses. I would have to devote myself to my clan's history. It would prevent me from dedicating myself fully to the Inquisition, or to anyone else."

Cullen's eyebrows shot up. "I didn't realize," he replied.

Evune nodded. "When all of this started, I would often think about going home, returning to my clan, my studies. As First, I'd never have to worry about being married off, because the Keeper is expected to devote herself entirely to her clan. I thought I wanted that simplicity." She picked at the bark of a nearby tree, running a hand over a scorch mark from the clan's battle with Wycome's soldiers.

Cullen tilted his head as he watched her. "What changed?" he asked curiously.

Evune sighed. "Everything," she said. "It went from 'closing the Breach and going home' to 'saving the world."' She shook her head, then smiled slightly at Cullen. "I have made such wonderful friends, and met such incredible people. People who, regardless of where they came from, what they had to return to, were willing to put that aside to fight for something bigger than themselves. To believe in something bigger than their own problems."

Cullen nodded. "Some of us also found someONE to believe in," he said, stepping towards her.

Evune nodded. "Yes, there's that, too. So many people believing in me, relying on me. Running off to frolic naked in the trees seems like a terrible way to repay that faith."

Cullen chuckled. "There are some who wouldn't mind the sight," he joked, causing Evune to laugh.

"I can imagine," she said.

"So," Cullen said. "Evune?"

"Yes," She replied.

"What does it mean?"

"It is the Elven word for moon," she said, smiling up at him. She pointed to where the full moon was beginning to dip below the horizon line. "Just as the moon enters a new phase, so shall I. I am letting go of my past, of that I cannot save, to focus on what I can."

"A worthy goal," Cullen said, looking back at her. "I will do my best to adjust to the new name quickly. It’s a beautiful name."

Evune smiled. "Thank you, Cullen."

"You should rest," he said, putting a hand to her arm and turning. "Your tent is this way."  

Evune felt the smile leave her face. The prospect of being alone with her thoughts in an empty tent wasn't one she could greet eagerly. Still, she knew Cullen was exhausted as well, so she followed without comment. When he showed her the tent, however, she caught his arm as he made to leave.

"Cullen," she sighed. "I made a big deal about change and all, but I just... I really don't want to be alone right now. It's probably incredibly inappropriate, considering everything, but... Please stay with me. Just for a little while." She stared at the ground as she spoke.

"Of course," came the quick reply, causing Evune to look up at him in surprise. "I can stay as long as you need," Cullen continued.

Evune felt a wave of gratitude wash over her as Cullen held open the tent flap, and it did not recede as he lay down next to her on the bedroll, placing an arm around her easily. He stroked her hair while they talked about the forest, Skyhold, Dorian's sense of humor, anything but what waited outside the tent. She fell asleep feeling his chest move against her back as he told her about his sisters.

[andrewdburton]

When Your Shitty Health Insurance Doubles in Price

Well, despite Mr. Money Mustache’s outrageous optimism, I think we all saw this coming. I opened up my premium renewal email from Kaiser and saw this:

Figure 1: My new insane medical insurance premiums for the minimum available “Bronze” program, with a $6500 deductible.

My family’s monthly health insurance premium, which had already more than doubled in the last few years to $674 per month, was going up a further 44% for the coming year. For no good reason, other than perhaps the the current government’s attempts to kill off the Affordable Care Act. (By cutting various parts of the structure, the insurance market becomes less stable and predictable, and thus more expensive).

Now, before we go any further, I have to note that this is a situation that only affects high income earners. If we were really retired on a $30,000 passive income as we were for some of the decade before this blog started making significant money, our family’s monthly cost would be more like $128, due to tax credits and the Children’s Health Plus plan.:

Figure 2: Net insurance cost for a $30k per year family of three.

But in my email, I just saw the thousand bucks. And if you know how know how I feel about rules, unnecessary costs, and insurance in general, you can probably guess what my initial gut reaction was:

“Fuck. FUCK THAT! This is absolute bullshit. Fuck you, I quit, I’m not paying it.”

But, since I’m not sixteen years old anymore, I was eventually able to get past this first stage of the analysis and think about an actual course of action.

After all, all the power and freedom in the world is of no use at all, if you choose to wallow in your anger rather than taking steps to create the life you want. So I thought about why I was so angry. It boiled down to this:

The premiums are not an accurate representation of my risk.

The value of medical insurance is pretty easy to estimate: the National Institute of Health calculates that the average person consumes about $449,000* in health care spending over an 80-year lifetime, or $5600 per year.  This is less than my plan’s deductible alone, which eliminates the value of insurance right off the bat. My plan really only covers catastrophically expensive events, which means it is unlikely that I will ever use it.

Plus, most medical spending is loaded towards the last decades of life, where the Medicare program already picks up the bulk of the costs. And, we are healthier than average – aside from one baby delivery about twelve years ago, none of us have ever actually benefited from health insurance in over nineteen years in the country.

When you add up these factors, it is obvious that the insurance is a bad deal. When presented with overpriced insurance, I always just choose not buy it, which is also called “self-insuring”. But whenever I talk about self-insuring for medical expenses, everyone asks the same question:

“But what if you do get hit by a falling piano and have to spend months in the Intensive Care Unit?”

The answer is that I guess I’d receive some large medical bills!

I’m not denying that an expensive treatment absolutely can never happen to me. I’m just putting an estimate and a limit on how much I am willing to pay for insurance on it.

Remember, health insurance not really health insurance. It’s just “large medical bill insurance” – a shaky precaution against having to pay for expensive procedures, so you can keep your investments instead of using them to pay the bills, perhaps eventually becoming poor enough that you are covered by public health insurance (Medicaid). A better name for it might be wealth insurance.

We have been trained to think that going without medical bill insurance is very risky. But that’s just because the subject appears frequently in the news. If it weren’t such a hot topic these days, the average person without a chronic illness would rarely think about it.

After all, by comparison, what precautions have you taken against being hit by a meteor? There could be one streaking towards you right now. It could kill you, or your children, or it could leave you with lifetime of chronic care costs. Are you telling me you don’t have separate meteor insurance? Why not?

In 2013 a 60-foot chunk of rock came from space and hit Russia with the force of 30 Hiroshimas. The human race escaped with just 1500 injuries, but only because the rock came in at a shallow angle and landed in a very remote area.

If space rocks are too far-fetched, how about motor vehicles? If you choose to drive a car, you are willingly throwing yourself into a far riskier situation than simply self-insuring for medical bills. Even more dangerous, statistically: being inactive and/overweight, a boat in which over 66% of us sail every day.

The point is that while huge, uncovered medical bills are inconvenient, they are rare. Therefore, my willingness to pay for insurance against them must have a limit. I’d definitely pay $50 per month for it, but should I be willing to pay $1000?

What about $2000? $4000? $12,000 or $1 million per month? I think that everyone would hit their “Fuck That” point somewhere in there.

And remember, this problem of expensive medical procedures is unique to the US. You can take your dollars almost anywhere else in the world and pay out-of-pocket to get the same (or better) quality care for a fraction of the cost. At some point, a rational person has to be willing to stop overpaying for this inefficient system.

After doing the math, I decided that my limit is definitely less than $1000, which means I should at least consider other options. So I looked into some of them:

Full Self Insurance

2.9 Months per year of Self Insurance (to avoid IRS penalty)

Medical Tourism

joining a “Healthshare Ministry” like Libertyshare

expat insurance like Cigna

Artificial poverty (reducing my income to a level where we’d qualify for subsidies)

Self Insuring is the easiest choice: you just don’t renew your insurance and start banking that sweet surplus right away.  There is a tax penalty for that: $695 per adult, $347 per child, or 2.5 percent of your adjusted gross income – whichever is greater. Thus, a family with $100,000 of income would pay a $2500 fee. With my new premium at $11,500 per year, the penalty would still be cheaper all the way up to $461,000 in income. Plus, there are a surprising number of qualifying exemptions, including a death in the family within the last three years, a category which unfortunately includes me.

A 90 Day Insurance Vacation is the lightweight version of self-insurance. The penalty only applies if you were uninsured for three months or more. So if you set your new insurance to take effect on, say, February 27th, you cut your premiums by about 25% in exchange for the reduced risk protection. Just be sure to postpone your Wingsuit Jumping vacation until at least March.

Medical Tourism is an important thing that every US resident should be aware of. After all, we live in the country with the most overpriced medical procedures in the world – why should we insist on doing 100% of our shopping here? This would be like insisting you buy only US-produced goods and services: no electronics, no shoes, no Amazon and no blueberries in winter. We should all read a book or two on the subject to understand just how easy it is, to free ourselves from the US-centric assumption that doctors are shockingly expensive.

Health Sharing Ministries  like Liberty HealthShare looked like the most promising loophole. Due to the strong influence of organized religion in the US, if you can join one of these, you are exempt from the tax penalty. The downside is the same as the upside: these ministries are exempt from ACA rules, which means they can drop you for having a pre-existing condition. And they also want you to affirm their value system, which can range from agreeable stuff like “taking care of your health” to excluding coverage for things that violate religious taboos like abortion or attempted suicide.

Expat Insurance sounded promising when I first heard about it from some fellow Canadian early retirees who write the blog Millennial Revolution. Companies like Cigna will cover you for worldwide medical costs for a fraction of what we pay here in the US. But the hitch is it only applies if you are truly on the road and don’t actually reside here. So it’s not an option for now. But in the long run when I retire to an oceanfront compound (or commune?) in Costa Rica, yes.

Reduced Income is the last and least feasible option on the list for me right now, but it’s genuine and not even artificial in the case of the typical early retiree.

Suppose you are retired with, say, a mortgage-free home and $800,000 in index funds, and living on a plentiful $30,000 per year. Your income tax return will show only about $18,000 in dividends, some of them even tax-exempt. On top of that, you’ll sell just a few shares and pay taxes only on the capital gains. This taxable income in the mid-20s will keep you in a very low tax and health insurance bracket.

 So What Path Did the Mustache Family Take?

I brought all this stuff up to Mrs. MM – the other, less morally-outraged, leader of our household.  Our conversation brought up a few things:

Although a $12k insurance bill is insane, we would not even notice a $12,000 difference in income taxes if the brackets were to change. We currently have a high income, but this has not caused us to increase our family spending at all. This is because of the magic of living below your means: once you have enough money, the surplus is just that: a big, fat, awesome bonus. Since I want this enormous surplus to go back to society over my lifetime, why should I be upset about some of it paying for other peoples’ health insurance right now?

But, I countered, this doesn’t apply to everyone. The typical MMM reader earns enough money to be hit by these higher premiums, and many are raising families and running small businesses, thus purchasing health insurance on the open market. At the same time, they are trying to save as much money as possible to reach financial independence while they are still young enough to enjoy it. Burning $12,000 per year on mostly-useless insurance can wipe out 25% or more of the amount you could otherwise save for retirement.

Given this, the Healthshare ministry was one of the better compromises. However, she felt that pretending to agree with a religion (especially if it’s one that actively oppose some things we value like same-sex couple equality and women’s reproductive rights) wasn’t worth it for us.

In my own hypothetical pre-retirement situation (a self-employed couple making $200,000)  I would probably go for full self-insurance, simply paying the tax penalty whenever necessary and using medical tourism for any expensive procedures.

But also remember that if you’re a high-income business owner, your business can pay for your health insurance with pre-tax money. This cuts your net cost after taxes by 30-40%, making it a subsidized program after all.

So in the end, we’re just letting the policy auto-renew for now, using that last bullet point as a consolation prize.  And these premiums will probably remain outrageous, unless we fix the underlying problem in the US: it’s not the insurance, it’s how much money we waste on medical care. If the Medical system could grow a Money Mustache**, I am certain we could cut our costs down by at least 75%, just as the average consumer can cut their costs by a similar portion just by learning to life a joyful and efficient life.

    Footnotes:

* I adjusted the NIH paper’s 2000 numbers to 2017 dollars.

** Ideas for making US healthcare less expensive – please critique and add your own in the comments!

Eliminate the 75% of healthcare spending we currently waste on self-imposed lifestyle diseases: eliminate subsidized urban car infrastructure in favor of muscle-powered transportation. Treat soda and products with added sugar in the same way we currently treat liquor. Treat health and fitness (rather than medical treatment) like a human right, instead of a vanity accessory just for rich mountain-dwellers and celebrities.

Make health care purchasing look more like Wal-Mart and Amazon, and less like the DMV. Every standard procedure needs to be listed on a menu with a price, and those need to be on the front door so they are subject to competition. By huge national or even international companies and co-ops.

Drastically increase the supply of doctors, and make the job more enjoyable: Cut mandatory work hours for residents from 80 to 40 per week. Modernize the medical school curriculum to eliminate pointless memorization, reflect current technology and reduce the cost of the degree.  Open the borders to qualified doctors from other countries. Allow telemedicine – let doctors in other countries certify easily for US diagnostics and prescriptions.

Elevate nurses to do all the stuff they already do, but in their own clinics without working for a doctor and paying the money up the chains.

Start using search engines and artificial intelligence for diagnosis, rather than flawed and expensive humans.

Open state and national boundaries for insurance and hospital services with only the required regulations for safety as we do with other imports.

Eliminate the right for anybody to sue for medical malpractice, or indeed for pretty much anybody to sue anybody else for anything. Let’s make our professional reputation and our actions public and then just suck it up like adults, reinvesting the enormous proceeds currently wasted on litigation.

Figure out if we can make single-payer health insurance can work for us as it does for most countries. There are many benefits, but the biggest is probably just eliminating all the mental energy we each waste on thinking about this mundane topic. As an analogy, imagine if every citizen had to hire their own police force for personal security – just think of how much energy and fear would be wasted on this topic, which we barely have to think about right now. As it turns out, it works the same way with health insurance.

        from Finance http://www.mrmoneymustache.com/2017/11/05/when-your-shitty-health-insurance-doubles-in-price/ via http://www.rssmix.com/