#and then beyond that him repairing their coat was just further confirmation of that fact

[i3utterflyeffect]

I think if selkie!Alan ever realized the Chosen was comfortable around him, he would just start bawling his eyes out. Like:

Alan: YOU TRUST ME, YOU ACTUALLY TRUST ME!! *procceds to cry for 3 hours straight*

Chosen: *awkwardly watching him*

Just a silly thought :)

honestly my only correction is that he ABSOLUTELY would not tell them why he's crying. they're both terrible at admitting that they care about the other especially since they're never really sure if the other even WANTS them to care about them in the first place so it'd be more like

Chosen: ...a. are you crying

Alan, on the verge of bawling: no

[novantinuum]

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: Teen Audiences

Words: 2.2K~

Summary: A series of shorts detailing what might’ve happened in the moments after I Am My Monster, told from six different points of view.

Greg apparently had a LOT on his mind, because this was supposed to be short and instead it’s over 2000 words, ahah. Final chapter!

If you read this and enjoy, I’d greatly appreciate your support through reblogs here, or kudos/comments on AO3. Thank you! <3

Chapter warning: Allusions to past non-canon character suicide.

____

Chapter 6: Greg

Hours pass.

Bismuth makes quick and quiet work of replacing the cracked slider door in Steven’s room while he sleeps, and secures a thick tarp over the open front of the house to keep the coastal breeze somewhat at bay until she can finish her repairs to the windows and siding. She warns that might take a day or two. Garnet, meanwhile, busies herself the rest of the afternoon and evening fielding all of the Diamonds’ frazzled calls, and reassuring them of the boy’s current stability. Pooling their knowledge, Dr. Maheswaran and Peridot make sure to confirm that. Beyond some minor scarring, neither his organic or Gem half seems to exhibit any serious physical health conditions in consequence of what happened today, news which works to ever so slightly lift the air of the household. With no other concrete tasks to complete, Pearl, Amethyst, Lapis, Connie, and Greg all rotate between sweeping debris off the floor, wandering the beach to mentally recuperate, and dutifully sitting at Steven’s side as he rests. It may not sound like a lot, but alas the level of emotional labor demanded by such a situation is immense.

All in all, the sun’s long since dipped below the horizon by the time Greg finally collapses onto the mattress laid out in the back of his van, craving if but a moment of privacy and respite from all the chaos. It’s been... an insufferably long day, to put it lightly. Busy. Tons of cleaning, and intercepting nosy neighbors, and bedside monitoring...

He offered to take the first night shift watching Steven a few minutes ago, but Pearl must’ve noticed the dark circles creeping ever wider under his eyes, because she proceeded to gently overturn his offer and remind him of humanity’s daily sleep requirement. And she’s right, of course. He can’t stay up as long as he used to in his twenties anymore. Plus, he probably deserves some time to himself after everything that’s transpired. There’s plenty of Gems left in the house who can keep watch, after all. Steven will be fine for a few hours. Surely nothing else can happen when he’s asleep, right?

 Right??

Exhaustedly slumping against the side wall, Greg offers a glassy, vacant stare at the contacts list of his phone, roughly wiping the damp from his cheeks with his other hand as his thumb hovers over one of the numbers. Does he dare drag someone else into this whole situation? Surely the kinder solution would be to refrain from widening the circle any more, from letting anyone else learn about today’s harrowing events. And yet if he fails to find a proper outlet for the raw emotions all of this has violently hauled to the surface, he fears he just may suffer a mental break himself, repressed memories bursting like a vicious flood through the dam he desperately tried to seal them behind all those years back. Much of this is just... far too familiar.

His phone slips right through his trembling hands as the cruel reality of what he witnessed today finally begins to carve its indelible presence in his mind. A strained sob leaking from between his tightly pursed lips, he buries his head between his knees, clutching at the worn bottom hem of his jean shorts like an infant to a parent’s finger. Small. Vulnerable.

Helpless.

His son... oh stars, his only son, he—

He can’t talk about any of this to the Gems; they wouldn’t wholly grasp the uniquely human nature of his concerns. And he doesn’t feel comfortable discussing these matters with Dr. Maheswaran, especially not after the stern words she dealt to him back at the hospital. He’s burdened her enough already, by this point. No, there’s only one fellow human he feels close enough with to engage in this sort of conversation.

Taking a deep, cleansing breath, he reaches for the phone he dropped on the mattress. Turns it on. Nervously clamps down on his bottom lip as he selects his cousin’s contact and dials.

The passing heartbeats slamming against his ribs are almost nauseating in their needy clamor as he waits, his calloused fingers tapping against the thick rubber of his phone case. Andy’s never been a particularly tech savvy guy, so honestly, it’s well within reason he might not even carry his phone on his person to answer. And that’d be fine, really. In fact, he might even prefer it, since he’s still not confident he’s emotionally prepared to discuss any of this at this precise moment, anyways. But just as he’s beginning to undergo mental preparations for what on Earth he might leave as a voicemail message, his older family member finally picks up.

“Greg?” Andy’s gravelly voice rings through, sounding somewhat tinny through their connection. “Hey, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? How’s the ol’ Universe family unit doin’?”

“Not great, honestly,” he narrowly manages in response, his throat constricting tight. “That’s kinda why I’m calling, if you have the time to listen?”

“Heh. I’m a drifter, you know I ain’t got no schedule. Carry on.”

“Well... geeze, how do I put this. There was, uh... a bit of an incident today. With Steven.”

“An incident?” his cousin questions, marked worry immediately painting his tone. “The kid okay??”

He falls silent for a few seconds upon this question, threading his hyperactive digits through the split ends in his hair on automatic, a stress-induced habit. “Unclear,” he says, a slight quiver making itself intimately known in his words. “I mean, physically, at the moment, yes, but—“

He cuts off once more. It suddenly occurs to him that little of today’s events would make sense to Andy without providing the appropriate context. Or, at least, what little context he’s capable of giving as a father. It’s still terrifying to admit the truth to himself— that he doesn’t possess the full story. That he hasn’t been paying close enough attention. That, in many ways, he willfully blinded himself to all the troubling events transpiring around his son throughout the years, foolishly believing that if he didn’t involve himself... that if he simply stayed out of the Gems’ hair... everything would go to plan, and Steven would finally receive the training he needed. He didn’t expect things would grow so complicated.

He didn’t expect that his teenage son would have to march into battle carrying nothing but his wits and a shield time and time again.

With a weary sigh and a quick apology, to which Andy brushes off, Greg begins to weave a verbal picture of everything that’s transpired across the last few days. First, the hospital call. Rushing home from tour, only to find his son giant and flushed pink, literally filling an entire room with the sheer volume of his trauma. The shattered x-ray in his chart, hinting towards hidden hurts that— before all this— even Steven seemingly hadn’t processed or quantified. Then, the road trip. The unwanted reminders of his childhood. That blasted CD. His expression sobers as he describes the fateful argument they had on the road home, one which lead to his son accidentally breaking the steering wheel and flipping the van. Next... his disappearance. No texts for four whole days, which is so unlike him. He was worried sick. And the next time he saw him, he was eight feet tall, glowing, and painfully manic in behavior, with each new sentence spilling from his mouth revealing an even more heartbreaking picture of the sort of poor mental state he’d spiraled into. It was nothing short of a father’s worst nightmare, propelled into horrifying, vivid reality.

Nothing in this corner of the galaxy could’ve prepared him for the primal surge of terror and anguish he was engulfed within when that nightmare distorted and transformed even further.  

His only son... colossal and coated in thick scales and spines, sclera black as night... roughly clawing at this unfamiliar form, smashing his skull against the cliffside, roaring with an inner pain so primal that the sound now haunts the depths of his very soul—

“I- you remember what happened with cousin Jo, back when we were young?” Greg says softly once he’s caught Andy up with the details of situation, his voice frail and unsteady, the tone of a man helplessly marooned amidst his anxieties. “Before she was sent to that mental rehab place? Well, I’m... with the addition of Gem magic, it almost felt like that. I mean, h-he’s fine for now, we have him resting, but... but I’m just so scared he won’t come out of this, like her, a-a-and that one day he’ll—“

A mewling sob bubbles up in his throat, swiftly severing that train of thought. N-no. No, he refuses to even utter that horrible idea out loud! After all, a world without Steven in it isn’t worth envisioning.

Andy’s eventual response— albeit tinged with a justified shade of awkwardness, given the emotionally charged nature of this conversation— is filled with genuine compassion, and for that he’s dearly thankful.

“Aw, hell... Greg, I’m- I’m so sorry. I, uh- I could fly over, if any of ya’ need me? For emotional support, or whatever?”

Upon this kind offer, he inhales deep to steady his breath, and wipes away dewy beads of moisture from the corner of his eyes, desperately hoping that he can mitigate the pitiful wavering of his voice over the phone. He’s gotta fight to reliably keep some form of composure in front of other people, damnit. His kid can’t have his dad breaking down around him too, of course.

“No, you’ve got places to be,” he replies evenly, pressing his thumb and pointer against one of his aching temples. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“You ain’t asking,” he retorts, the eye-roll evident in his tone. “I’m offering. Listen- family takes care of family, y’hear? And I’m only about a day’s flight away, anyways. It’s really the least I could do.”

He sighs. Absentmindedly tugs at a thick strand of his hair. Offers a long, contemplative stare at the rickety age-worn handle affixed to the inside of the van’s back doors. Truth be told— ignoring his deep-seated guilt at dragging Andy into all this to begin with— he’d love having another family member around to embrace, especially a human one who can more deeply understand the crux of his anxieties about this delicate situation. But in the end, he shouldn’t be prioritizing his own feelings and comfort. He’s not the one in crisis, his son is.

Desperately hoping he’s making the right choice, Greg flexes his fingers, and acquiesces to the offer, on one condition: only if Steven consents to having visitors, once he’s awake.

Andy hums in approval. “Understood. Don’t wanna overload the poor guy with any surprise visits, or whatever.”

“Yeah. The last thing I want to do is push him too hard, too fast.”

He pauses, braving waves of parental grief to spend a moment to reflect on Steven’s emotional progression over the past few months... a stray negative comment here, an unusually forlorn mannerism there... All of them events that, in isolation, wouldn’t point to anything more than your standard ‘teenage angst,’ but when observed in strong, unceasing patterns, begin to reveal deeply harrowing truths about the state of an individual’s self-image. How did he never notice? Why wasn’t he there to catch him in his fall?

“I think he hates himself,” he says quietly, his voice hitching up at the end. “He didn’t say so directly, but- but I can sense it. And I don’t know how to help him, I-I... I don’t know if I can.”

“Nonsense,” his cousin scoffs, “‘course ya’ know what to do! What does any good father worth their salt give their sons?”

Unable to evade the momentary temptation of feeling miserable and sorry for himself, he slumps back against the wall, giving a weak shrug that his current audience would never see.

“I dunno, maybe a stable, safe childhood? Not growing up poor as dirt in a van?”

“No, you numbskull,” Andy immediately cuts back, “you love on ‘em and support ‘em just as much as you always have! Y’ show him that you’re always gonna be there for him, and that he can trust you with anything.”

“But I haven’t always been there for him,” he exclaims petulantly. “That’s the whole problem! That’s one of the reasons he ended up like this.”

“Greg,” he says, his voice softer this time. “Listen to me, ain’t nobody perfect, okay? We’ve all made our mistakes with people. Me? More than most. But what we can’t do is let those mistakes cloud what’s happening right now. Y’know, that’s one of the hard lessons I’ve had to learn over the past two years, that you can’t always make things about you. Because right now, it’s about him. He’s dealin’ with some hard feelings, and he needs all of our help. So, let’s help him. Together. We’ll start with one foot in front of us, and we can take it from there. All right?”

Closing his weary, exhausted eyes and pressing his thumb firm against his still-aching temple, Greg Universe gives a long sigh and finally concedes to the reality that— just as he’s not solely responsible for the decline of his son’s mental state— no man should be an island when it comes to the task of supporting one’s journey towards recovery. As with everything, the extended Universe family unit will face the future together, hand-in-hand. Step-by-step.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, I think that’s do-able.”

[eirian-houpe]

The Library Beneath the Clock Tower - Chapter 46

Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Belle/Gaston (Once Upon a Time)

Characters: Belle (Once Upon a Time), Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Red Riding Hood | Ruby, Widow Lucas | Granny, Grumpy | Leroy, Maurice | Moe French, Evil Queen | Regina Mills, Merida (Once Upon a Time), Jiminy Cricket | Archie Hopper, Gaston (Once Upon a Time), Le Fou, Mad Hatter | Jefferson, Prince Charming | David Nolan, Gus | Billy, Huntsman | Sheriff Graham, Mother Trude (Fairytale Character)

Additional Tags: Bookshop On the Corner, slightly AU, Cursed Storybrooke (Once Upon a Time), Alternate Universe - In Storybrooke | Cursed (Once Upon a Time), Eventual Smut

Summary: Storybrooke has no library, and neither does Belle, not since the library where she worked in Boston discovered her past as an inpatient at a mental hospital. Taking her future into her own hands, Belle travels to Storybrooke where her intention is to open up the town library, but all does not go according to her plan. Obstacles and false starts, and diversion along very wrong pathways interrupt her journey toward fulfilling her dream, as well as taking her rightful place and becoming a part of the Storybrooke community.

Winner of the 2020 Espenson Award, Best Book AU.

Read previous chapters on AO3

Chapter 46 - The Sword of Damocles

Even though Belle knew she should feel good for what she had done for Chloe and Paige, and though she knew that things were going much better for them now that they had some help, in the days and weeks that followed, Belle felt a sense of foreboding that seemed to hang over her, like a pendulum ready to swing, or a shoe waiting to drop.

It was a heavy weight to carry, day in, day out, and it made her tired - weary. She kept herself to the library in the daytime, and in the evenings she stayed home with her books and her tea. She was relaxing. She didn’t need to be out gallivanting all night long, and certainly not painting the town Rabbit Hole Red.

Or so she told herself…

She sighed and walked to the window from which she could see the road that stretched away opposite the Library, looking to see if the tell-tale light was spilling from the pawn shop window. The pavement, still damp from the earlier rain sparkled with the warmth of yellow light that danced in mockery of her reticence to contact Mister Gold. Things had been… awkward, at best, since the argument they’d had the day after the Miner’s Day Festival, and she hated it. Still, she couldn’t avoid him forever, it was almost time to pay the rent, and if she knew one thing about Mister Gold that no one would dispute, it was that he was a stickler for getting his rent payments on time.

With another sigh she turned and leaned against the wall by the window, trying to convince herself that it was ridiculous, but in the end, all she ended up doing was making herself feel more depressed. Head hanging, she walked to the kitchen, and began to fill the kettle to make some fresh tea, but something stopped her.

This was not who she was. She was a woman who could stand up for herself; could move to a new town and get what she wanted. She was a woman who saw what was wrong and made things right, and that was damn well what she was going to do!

…starting tomorrow.

Tonight she needed respite. Tonight she needed something that would take her out of these four walls, would take her mind off of all the strange dreams and feelings that she couldn’t control; that would stop her from wondering just who Trude was, and why she’d got it in for Paige and wanted to keep her trapped in ignorance and squalor. She needed to get out of her head and find her heart again.

Before she could second guess herself, she set the kettle down, turned off the faucet, grabbed her coat and keys, and walked out of the door. She would take a walk. She would clear her head with a walk through Storybrooke and to the town line, to remind herself why she had fallen in love with the place from the very beginning.

Storybrooke after the rain was chilly, but it was a fresh kind of chill, the kind that nipped and enlivened and encouraged as one walked in it. As Belle walked she realized how much she had missed by making a recluse of herself, and all for what…? A weird evening, a foolish argument, and a bitter and twisted old woman. She let out a cleansing breath of laughter.

Her pace quickened a little as she left the lights of the town behind and walked along more rural roads, past the cemetery and out onto the road that cut through the woodland. She wasn’t afraid of the dark, but there was no telling when she might encounter a car coming along, and her overcoat wasn’t exactly reflective. Still, she was determined to reach the town line.

A smile came to her face when she spotted The Bend ahead; her tree would be nearby and beyond it, the town line not too much further out, but she slowed her steps and creased her face in a frown not too much afterwards. The silhouette of her tree was all wrong. It stood before her all misshapen, as though fungus had grown in nodules to stifle it from the air. Growing closer still she could see that they weren’t growths at all but book and packages and bags, which when she looked inside contained more books!

She hurried to the tree and began untying all of them. Some of the books were damaged beyond repair, water damage, the effects of wind and weather, but the others… If she took them back to the library, she might be able to salvage them.  She smiled again, bordering on laughing and for a moment forgot that she was angry, and why she was angry, and all but threw her arms around the book tree. Then, practical as ever, she reached into the pocket of her coat and drew out the collapsible shopping bag she carried everywhere with her, opened it up and filled it to the brim with the books she thought she could save. This definitely had to be Hunter’s doing, and she was going to thank him personally.

The weather, and temperature, by the docks was rather less clement than in town and Belle pulled the coat more tightly around herself as she waited in a shadowy corner of the cannery grounds. It reminded her of old times, some would say better times, but Belle wasn’t so sure. In fact now that she was waiting for him, she wasn’t at all sure that it was sensible to meet him after all.

She had almost talked herself out of it when the rumble of the big rig’s engine trembled through the packed dirt of the parking lot and up into her feet, like the growl of some great dragon, waiting to devour her whole. The analogue didn’t fill her with confidence. Remaining in the shadows she watched as Hunter parked the truck and then jumped down without setting a foot on the steps. She took a deep breath as he went inside to get the foreman and the fork lift so that he could unload.

She waited until he was done, but as he drove the last of the pallets into the warehouse, Belle slipped from the shadows, and skittered across the better lit center of the yard like a rat hurrying to avoid detection until she reached the lee of the truck, then she stopped a little way behind the driver’s door.

He saw her as soon as he rounded the truck after closing the back doors.

“Belle!” he called out and the delight in his voice almost made her feel bad for the was she had been angry with him when they met in Boston. He leaned down before she could move away and wrapped his arms around her to hold her in a tight embrace until she pushed at him, for quite some time, and then he moved away. “My Belle?”

She scowled at that, but forced herself to remember her purpose.

“I came to say ‘thank you’,” she said.

“For what, I…” he trailed off as though in realization and then said, “Oh, the books on the tree. Yes?”

“Yes,” she confirmed.

“You’re welcome,” he said, and reached out toward her cheek, where a strand of hair had blown loose from it binding, but she ducked away. He had no right to touch her in that way. One thing for her to do the polite thing and thank him for bringing all the books, but quite another to allow him to believe that she had forgiven him.

Hunter sighed, and Belle frowned, and then in a small and contrite voice, he confessed, “This is my last run.” He shook his head. “You will not have to worry about me bothering you any more.”

“What do you mean, your last—?”

His second sigh stopped her words before she could complete the question. “My bosses. They found me carrying… other things than their cargo inside my truck,” he said then added quickly, “Nothing bad, I swear it, but… rules are rules, and…” another sigh, “for you I might have fought, brought more books, but… instead I resigned before I could be fired, and they were going to fire me.”

“What?” she said, before her brain processed the meaning, and then find another spark of anger in his mention of the books he smuggled for her. “Oh, no. Wait a minute. You are not putting this on me!”

“No, no, of course not, my Belle, I just…” He looked down at his hands, seemed to be examining his fingernails, though she could barely see through the mist of new anger that whirled almost purple in front of her eyes. Emotional blackmail, claiming her as his… no. No it would not do. “…I want you to know that… well… above…” he shrugged, “Well… I would have done anything for you.”

“Including lie, and cheat, and goodness knows what else?” the words left her lips before she could stop them, though she didn’t really want to. She just didn’t want to be cruel. If truth be told, she did feel somehow responsible for his plight, even though it hadn’t been her books that had been his contraband this time.

The thought of that only made her more angry, not less, learning now that in spite of his words to the contrary mere seconds ago, she was little better, to him, than all his other conquests - and she had to believe there were more than just the mother of his child, because there had been many boxes on those shelves in the shed at his garden plot.

“Perhaps it is best we say goodbye, if that is how you feel,” he said calmly.

“Oh, that is how I feel,” she Belle said coldly, and tucked her hands beneath her armpits, not because she was cold, rather, to stop herself from lashing out and slapping the calm and sorrowful expression from his face. “I should go.”

“I will drive you,” he told her

Inside she growled a low, panther like rumble at the thought that he would try and tell her that she would comply with his wishes, though she merely shook her head and said curtly, “I’ll make my own way, thank you.”

[alvaar-aldaviir]

Wondrous Tails: Holiday Celebrations/Holiday Traditions

Time Frame: Irrelevant. No Spoilers.

Notes: No pairings, all friendships, 2 Prompts for the Price of 1. Just because it was easy.

Alvaar didn’t have grand traditions of his own for Starlight. Having grown up an orphan and poor before being taken in by Rosa, where he continued to grow up educated if still fairly poor, his celebrations were minimal and simple.

What memories still lingered, however faceless and hazy they might be, had at least instilled a habit for present exchanges. And while he couldn’t recall the name or face of his teacher, a kind elderly Elezen who had taught him much of what he knew and fostered his curiosity, he could distinctly remember having received his travel harp from the man on Starlight. The very instrument that still rested worn but easy in his hands over ten years later.

He could also recall the small trinkets and treats he would trade with Rosa on Starlight Eve. Somehow the White Mage had always managed to find him something he’d been eyeing, such as a new tool or book. Likewise, he would find a way to patch or repair or trade for something she had needed but been too stubborn to get.

It had never been very much, but the gesture had always sat warm in his heart anyway. Something richer than coin after his bitter youth.

He still had the habit of trying to make a small gift for everyone himself, a gesture that was born of practicality from the days he had almost nothing to his name and the only thing he could do for gifts were to make them from whatever he could get his hands on.

It was something that had become almost impossible as the list of people he wanted to get something for grew longer and longer. The act of buying presents for the holiday had been something alien to him when Tataru had brought it up. Apparently when one had a list that included every key player in the Eorzean Alliance plus a few dozen more, it was now completely practical to make use of wealth over effort.

Needless to say, he’d ended up being dragged into the markets by the resolute Lalafell, who had advised and haggled on his behalf.

And though it still felt a bit strange to purchase gifts for the holiday, the Bard had welcomed a new tradition nonetheless. A day of shrewd shopping and an extravagant lunch with his fellow crafter and Scion was considerably less time consuming and more fun than a month of scrambling to fill out the ever-growing list. It also meant he could focus his time making something personal for the people that he was especially close to. A boon, he figured, because even just getting the materials for the handful of people he parsed his list down to still had him running all over the continent.

    As the years had clicked by, his traditions had grown a bit too. Alisaie and occasionally Lyse and Y’shtola would accompany them when they went Starlight shopping. The Rising Stones now accommodated a small party each year, one he always managed to help cook for no matter how many Primals he’d just put down or errands he’d been cajoled into. A second party would also be thrown in his Free Company, which thankfully meant he could drink and pass out in his own bed guilt free at the end of the night.

It was a far cry from his first humble Starlight, eating tarts in front of the fireplace with Rosa while she talked with his teacher who reminisced on the old days. Much more raucous and louder and stressful if he was honest.

But listening to Hoary Boulder regale his small crowd of listeners with a recent adventure... the familiar snark and banter thrown about the basement of his Free Company... and managing for the third year in a row to track down that rare item Tataru had been wanting or managing to outdo himself on last years present...

It was different, but it was a new tradition he was equally as fond of. A measure of how far he had grown from that wayward angry orphan into someone that had earned a place among these many talented people who called him a friend.

And that was plenty gift enough for him every year.

       He cracks open an eye the next day and is greeted with blinding light from the window, and the steady painful throb of a hangover in answer.

Ah... perfect. Too much wine, too hard on the celebrations, and from the second and more cautious glance it was definitely his room in the Goblet. All according to plan then. The fact his chocobo wasn’t waking him up with repeated rapt pecks at his window also suggested they’d already been fed. Good. It was far too warm in his bed to want to leave it.

Nuzzling deeper into the blankets and pillow, he paused and groggily noticed it wasn’t his usual bedspread. Still his room, a third and partly panicked inspection confirmed, but he’d never had a blanket this soft and warm before. Well... not on his own bed at least... And it was his bed a fourth look, no less painful than the last ones, reassured.

Pressing his nose into the plush thick pile of the inside of the blanket, he mulled it over slowly. He’d almost drifted off again before he remembered Alisaie had given him something like it last night. A deep forest green throw blanket with a sleek and soft suede shell over the white cream colored shearling interior. Her teasing comment as he’d looked it over had been that it would be something he could pet and fuss with instead of the fur ruff of her jacket. It had at least distracted him from how terribly expensive it must have been given the craftsmanship and distinctively soft and high loft of wool known to the sheep of the Azim Steppe.

The brat...

He was almost content to nuzzle back down into the sheets and pass back out. And he very well would have if his mouth didn’t have the lingering acrid taste alcohol and feel like he’d slept with cotton in his mouth.

Steeling himself for another throb of pain as he opened his eyes, he peered at the canteen and probably sarcastic note stuck to it on his bedside table. No doubt Taelis’ penmanship, as for three years running the dour Elezen Black Mage has been the one to dump him into his room from wherever he’d passed out in the house. Alvaar had long gotten over his days of being a drunk floozy, but Starlight traditions were still traditions. It was the one day of the year he gave himself express permission to spend the next day remember why he’d stopped drinking so much. He knew from experience Taelis had left him water and painkillers, because for as standoffish and as much of a bastard as his retainer and guildmate could be, he still cared. ...Probably.

Pushing himself upright slowly and letting his headache ease, he pulled the canteen and bottle of pills into his lap, squinting at the bottle to confirm before tossing back two and then studying the modestly sized canteen, made with a durable lightweight and rustproof metal and bound in a dark tooled leather cover of scrollwork. A sturdy leather strap and chain were fixed into a ring fused to the neck and base of the bottle, solidly constructed so it wouldn’t come free from his belts or get in his way no matter how frantic battle might get.

Yet another gift, this time from Alphinaud, to replace his last one that had taken a bullet in one of his recent skirmishes. Also not especially cheap given the quality, a firm stamp from the Garlond Ironworks on the bottles screw top and Fen-Yll on the pouches strap. Custom work, and he could probably guess who’s hands it had passed through to get to him if he studied it closely enough.

A terrible trait for receiving gifts, but nothing he could help when he was part of most every crafting and gathering guild in Eorzea and a few beyond.

Plucking the note from the leather he confirmed it was indeed Taelis’ efficient script as he read it.

   ‘You insisted these two things specifically be brought to you, but the rest of your things are at your desk. I’ll handle your bird.

Happy Starlight and get some fucking sleep.

- T’

   Huffing a weak laugh under his breath he glanced up at the bag leaned against the heavy wooden desk on the other side of the large room. Several presents from yesterday tucked safely away; a new writing set and blank music sheets from Y’shtola for his music, a finely balanced hunting knife to replace one he’d lost from Thancred, a new collection of folktales from the Sixth Astral Era from Urianger, and a handmade custom waistcoat perfect for formal events courtesy of Tataru. There were a few other assorted items from his guild mates as well like a set of replacement strings for his harp from Taelis and a thick coat from Fei Yi so he wouldn’t ‘be catching the cold’ in his visits to Ishgard.

He didn’t think he was particularly materialistic but, it made his heart warm regardless. They were fairly simple things, but they suggested an understanding few could speak for. Because when it seemed like the whole world knew his name, it was nice to know that at least a few people knew Alvaar and not just the Warrior of Light.

Taking another long drink from the canteen he screwed it closed before setting it gently back on the side table and slipping further into the covers. Burying himself under the warm weight of the blanket and starting to doze back off rather quickly.

It was part of the celebration, and part of his tradition too after all. Though he spent nearly every other day running all over the continent, doing errands or jobs or smiting new evils, today was a day he didn’t do anything at all. And cozy and warm with a reminder of his many friends, the Bard was content to slip off into peaceful dreams for a change.

[fallout4holmes]

Journal 26

Dogmeat woke long before I did, I suspect with the first hint of food being prepared. I found him in the mess hall, begging from my two officers. Danse, sitting down and eating despite being in power armor, ignored the canine. Preston, sitting across from Danse, slipped something from his plate every third time Dogmeat nosed his knee.

“Preston, you’re spoiling him,” I said as I joined them.

“Morning, General. Can’t do too much harm, can it?” He turned to Dogmeat, “Not like you can get anything begging from him, can you?”

Dogmeat made a short sound between a whimper and an excited woof. Preston laughed, and scratched Dogmeat’s neck.

I smiled, “He doesn’t have to. The Minutemen recruiters and the Diamond City Guard all spoil him without my help. Not to mention Shaun. And I suspect Codsworth.” I frowned. “Valentine too, come to think of it, and I’m certain Piper does, if only just to spite me in good humor.”

Danse turned his laugh into a cough.

“Rebellion in the Holmes household,” Preston joked. “I’ll send over some troops right away.”

“I am perfectly capable of handling matters on my own, thank you,” I grinned.

A thrilled “Bonjour, Monsieur Holmes!” came from behind me, “And allô to Monsieur Dogmeat as well.” Dogmeat’s tail wagged as Curie scratched his head, and then went right back to focusing on Preston. “Colonel and Lt. Colonel, good morning!”

We all said our respective hellos, and Sturges appeared beside her with two plates of food. “Mornin’! Glad to see you, General. Mind if we join you?”

The answer was obvious, and soon Sturges was next to Danse, with Curie beside him. Even with Sturges between them, Danse seemed a bit ill at ease. My suspicion was confirmed when Preston leaned over to mutter softly, “Just found out about her… origins.”

“Ah.” A synth Danse could deal with, even one with such unique behavior as Curie. Finding out the mind inside the synth is actually that of a robot… that was a little too reminiscent of the technologies run amok he’d been trained to prevent.

Danse was watching Preston. He raised an eyebrow, and made a visible effort at relaxing. It didn’t quite work, but the effort was the important part.

Sturges and Curie wanted to know about Diamond City and the family, and I asked about improvements to the town and Curie’s continued studies. And then Mayor Hancock of Goodneighbor walked through the door.

All conversation in the mess hall went slightly quiet at the sight of a ghoul in eighteenth century red coat and tricorn hat, star-spangled-banner for a sash. Someone uttered a muted “holy shit the Mayor,” though I couldn’t tell who.

“Mayor Hancock!” I greeted him, “Help yourself and come join us.”

He grinned, devilish and preening, “Thanks, General. Don’t mind if I do.”

Discussion resumed. Preston frowned, doubtful. Danse scowled, and stood, “Excuse me, General, but I think it’s best if I return to duty.” He said, slightly louder, “If I reach the training grounds before my recruits, there’ll be hell to pay.”

Curie was puzzled. “Surely you will be hampered by the armor?”

“You ever seen him run in that armor?” Preston asked with a smile.

“No.”

“The recruits have.”

There was a sudden mass exodus from the mess hall. Danse looked pleased. “Gentlemen. Curie.” He followed his troops out.

Hancock sat down beside me, amused. “Crew-cut sure is the soldierly type.”

“More than you know,” I smirked.

We ate in silence a moment before Curie, unable to contain her curiosity, said, “You are a fascinating specimen, Monsieur Hancock.”

Hancock’s brow rose and opened his mouth, but before he could say anything Sturges said, “Honey, we talked about calling people specimens.”

Curie sighed, “I do not see why such a simple and general scientific term should be offensive.”

“Coming from you, it’s usually not, but some folks get touchy when you talk about them like they’re in a lab.”

“This is a struggle of mine,” Curie said to Hancock with an apologetic shrug, “adjusting centuries of programming for a precise vocabulary.”

Hancock blinked. “... Centuries?”

“Long story,” Sturges put out a hand, “Name’s Sturges.”

Hancock shook hands with an impressed, and bemused, smile, “Hancock.”

“Mayor Hancock. From Goodneighbor?”

Word of his fame, or infamy, never ceases to please him. “One and the same.”

“Huh. Ok. Well, I’m not sure how long the General’s staying, but if you want to lend a hand while you’re here, let me know. Always work that needs to be done.”

“And you’re the one that does it.”

“More often than not,” Sturges smiled. “I like working with my hands, and it’s not like everyone else doesn’t pull their weight. Everyone helps out.”

Hancock was skeptical. “Even the soldiers?”

“Especially the soldiers.” Sturges nodded toward Preston, whose frown hadn’t quite left his face yet. “Preston thinks it’s important the soldiers be as much a part of the settlement as everyone else that comes here, and the Lt. Col. agrees.”

“The guy in power armor,” Hancock clarified.

“That’s him. Curie here is the town medic, and if you need any supplies you'll want to see Al at the general store. He used to live in Goodneighbor, you might recognize his coat.”

Hancock was puzzled a moment before realization hit. “Wait. Yellow coat? That guy??”

“He sold my family our… room… in the Vault,” I said, “and then they wouldn't let him in. I understand he's set up some effective trade agreements for the settlement.”

Sturges nodded, “Nice guy. Well, I've got beds to build this morning. Young couple showed up a couple days ago, haven't said much, but they've got that look… I'm thinking Institute refugees. Past few months have been real hard for them. Dunno if they're synths or scientists, or maybe I'm way off, but that's the feeling I get from them.”

Hancock thought a moment, and then he shrugged and started rifling through his pockets. “Hell, Trouble here ain't gonna be much of it while he's playing General. Usually prefer a supervisory role myself, but I'm game if you want help.”

“Really? Well alright! Let's get to it, Mayor.”

Hancock found the canister of jet he’d been looking for, reconsidered, and stowed it away again. “Buildin’ shit, mentat’s better,” he muttered as he followed Sturges out the door.

Curie smiled, “I shall be in the medical facility - medbay. The Lt. Colonel calls it that, yes? Also clinic?”

“As it is your facility, you should decide what it’s called,” I said. “Danse will adjust.”

“Hm. I like this idea.” She smiled, and happily walked out of the mess hall.

I turned to Preston. His frown hadn’t lessesned. “You’ve heard of Hancock, I take it.”

He glanced away, and then attempted a nonchalant shrug. “I’ve never actually been to Goodneighbor before, but from what I hear it’s the sort of place you better watch your step.”

“That is accurate.”

Preston sighed. “Don’t let him talk you into anything you’ll regret later.”

“Honestly, Preston. Do you think that likely?”

He smiled, just a little. “Guess not. Still worth saying. If you’re finished, I’d like to go over some plans with you since you’re in town?”

“Of course.”

The rest of the day was spent “playing General,” as Hancock put it. The trade route north from Murkwater had to be re-routed around the Gunners headquarters, at least until a force could be mobilized to eliminate the threat. Stopping Gunners is always at the top of Preston’s list of things to accomplish, but he fortunately has enough sense to know Danse would be a more objective judge of Minutemen capabilities in taking on an entire Gunner stronghold. Our previously discussed plans for turning the nearby Red Rocket into an auxiliary settlement had come to fruition, with Sturges taking a special interest in the project. As Preston said, “The man built a teleporter. He wins all the arguments.”

It was later in the afternoon when Danse approached me. Sturges had somehow convinced Hancock to assist with further repairs. The Mayor of Goodneighbor was on a roof with a hammer, his coat hanging on the lone fencepost still standing in the yard beneath. I watched from across the street.

“A word, General?”

“Of course, Danse.”

“Permission to speak freely, sir.”

I was instantly a touch wary, though I suspected I knew what his concern was. “Granted.”

“I don’t think your decision to travel with a chem-addicted pseudo-anarchist dictator of a settlement of criminals and outcasts is wise.”

I blinked. “I’m proud of you, Danse, you didn’t mention the fact he’s a ghoul once.”

He frowned, “General.”

“Mayor Hancock takes great pains not to be dictatorial, actually. Though I’m not entirely clear what his day to day duties consist of beyond organizing the defenses against super mutant attacks.”

Danse scowled with a huff of frustration, “Holmes -”

“I’m taking you seriously, Danse. I know Hancock’s reputation does not inspire confidence, but do you honestly think I would travel with him if he was nothing more than what you have just described?”

He thought for a moment, “No, you wouldn’t. However I fail to see whatever redeeming quality you may have found.”

“He’s… how did he put it… ‘not out to hurt anyone that doesn’t deserve it.’”

“But he’ll stand by as people fall victim to crimes in his own town?”

“He doesn’t approve of cold-blooded murder. However, it doesn’t take much to justify violence, particularly against those who are oppressing others.”

“This is not reassuring. Who’s running Goodneighbor while he’s with you?”

“His second in command, a terrifying woman called Fahrenheit. He’s left town enough times they’re used to it. He says getting out keeps him honest, reminds him how the rest of the world lives.”

“You believe him?”

“I think it is both a sincere belief that no one in power should be comfortable for too long, and a desire for distraction.”

“Do you trust him?”

“I believe so. … you still aren’t satisfied.”

“I don’t think I’m ever going to be, but at least I am fairly certain my friend hasn’t gone insane.”

I scoffed. “That’s something.”

He sighed, “I hope you understand, you saved my life. I owe it to you to voice my concerns when I think you might be endangering yours. I know Garvey feels the same.”

“I understand, Danse,” I said, sincere. “Thank you.”

He nodded once. “You’re welcome.” We resumed watching the construction. Hancock was telling Sturges about a time Klio needed repair work done on her shop’s roof. Apparently the cause of the damage was a faulty weapon’s misfire… but he suspected it was actually the assaultron’s own laser, either fired in anger or frustration.

“An assaultron runs a weapons shop in Goodneighbor?” Danse’s question was mirrored by Sturges asking Hancock the same thing.

“Yes,” I said, and changed the subject. “I saw Nash and Crosby on their way to the Castle. They stopped in Diamond City.”

Danse was pleased - no, proud. “They performed admirably through training and I hope the Castle puts their talents to good use.”

“I hope they extend to all Minutemen the same loyalty they feel for you.”

Danse blinked. “For me?”

“There were Brotherhood soldiers in Diamond City’s marketplace the day they arrived. A Scribe insulted their training. They seemed to take it personally.”

Conflicting emotions fought across his face for a moment, “What happened?”

“Nothing, I stepped in when I saw the argument, set both parties aright and sent them on their way. They were reluctant, but they followed orders.”

“The Minutemen, or the Brotherhood?”

“Ha, both. You should be proud of the work you’ve done.”

“I am.” He hesitated, “Garvey worries I'm going stir-crazy. It's been a long time since I was in the field. Yet, he also says it's too much of a risk.”

“Hm. Is he worried about the truce, or is he worried about you?”

“He is more concerned with the possibility that I may be killed than he is with the idea of fighting the Brotherhood. In fact, he'd probably welcome the opportunity to test his precious artillery on the Prydwen.”

“This is a point of contention between you?”

Another hesitation. “Not exactly. I don't understand how someone so forgiving in general is able to hold such a grudge against an organization he's never had contact with, apart from me.” He scoffed, “Clearly I underestimated how distasteful the experience of meeting me was.”

I chuckled, “His opinion of you is not the same as his opinion of the Brotherhood. Not anymore, at least, and hasn't been for some time.”

Danse nodded, “I know. When you were last here, the night after you left he stood in my doorway and asked how I could think the Minutemen would let me die without a fight. I told him I wasn't worth anyone dying for, much less starting a war over.”

I cocked my head, studying Danse’s face, and thankful he dislikes wearing a helmet outside of combat. “Preston disagreed.”

“Strongly.” Danse remained expressionless for all of five seconds before a sort of embarrassment came over him. It was the same look I saw every time he told me something personal about himself back when he wore Brotherhood colors. “We've spoke a great deal since then. Neither of us quite understands the other, but at the same time there are some things we understand better than anyone else.”

I thought I understood, and the sight of Preston visiting Danse in the middle of the night gained new significance. “Nightmares.”

He watched me closely. “… yes. When did you arrive last night?”

“Just in time to see him go inside your quarters.” Danse blushed, which was not quite the reaction I expected. “And now my suspicion it might be more than talking about nightmares is confirmed?”

“It isn’t… not last night, most of the time not, but… ugh.” He clearly wished the conversation wasn’t happening.

I shrugged, “Honestly, it wouldn't matter to me at all if that were the case, as long as you are both happy and it doesn’t interfere with your work… though I suppose that is somewhat hypocritical of me. I'm hardly making regular patrols.”

Emotions vanished, the soldier gratefully declaring, “Neither are you commanding from behind a desk.”

“Kind of you to say so.”

His brow furrowed. “You answer when we call, no matter how trivial the matter. We value your advice, and will follow your command. Though,” he amended, “perhaps you should make an appearance at the Castle once in a while.”

I grinned, “You’re right, I should.” A thought occurred to me. “Have you ever been to the Castle, Lt. Colonel?”

“I have not.”

“A terrible oversight. It seems to me the man in charge of training my troops should at least be familiar with the facility he’s sending them to.”

The slight shift in his expression was almost mischievous. “I concur.”

“Could Col. Garvey continue training in your absence for, oh, a week or so?”

“Affirmative. However, he may be resistant to the idea.”

“I anticipate as much. Let’s go talk with him.”

Preston was indeed resistant, and understandably so. However, he also knew Danse needed some time outside Sanctuary, just for a bit, and he couldn’t argue that the third in command of the Minutemen, and the man in charge of training new recruits, needed to see the ‘official’ headquarters at least once in his life. It would take some arranging, so I planned to continue on my tour of settlements with Hancock and meet Danse in Diamond City before travelling on to the Castle together. He would escort the next traders passing that way, providing a convenient excuse for a man in full power armor to be on the road.

Sturges said he had an idea for making it clear Danse was ‘Minutemen’ and hopefully decreasing the chance of a hostile confrontation with the Brotherhood. I’m not sure what he has in mind, but I’ll find out the next time I’m in Diamond City.

[moonylady]

happy belated birthday  @magnusragnor  ♥

elle you are an incredible person and an amazing writer, i couldn’t be more grateful to have met you and call you friend. love you!!

i am so sorry it took me so long to post this but i hope you like it

(the biggest thanks to @maghnvsbane who was the most patient beta i could have asked for and went above and beyond when helping me with this)

Sometimes Alec reminds Magnus of a cat.

He can’t remember the first time the idea formed in his mind, but it had probably been before they started dating. Back then, Alec had acted like a stray cat, wanting affection but so afraid to receive it – letting his guard down one moment just to be defensive the next, wary and hissing every time he felt threatened. Magnus had found himself reacting in kind, scared of doing something that would only spook him further, instead extending a cautious hand and holding his breath, hoping it will be perceived like the offering it was but knowing it could be scratched instead.

Now that they are together, the image Alec conjures in Magnus’ mind is that of a content, spoiled cat. Never shy about seeking affection when they’re alone, closing his eyes and melting every time Magnus runs his fingers through his hair, practically purring when touched in the right places – and Magnus delights in discovering and exploring all the right places.

But right this instant, standing in the entrance of their living room, his jacket and shoes still on after being out all day, Magnus muses that Alec is the picture of a lazy sunbathing cat. He’s stretched out on his stomach on the sofa, one arm tucked under his head as a pillow and the other hanging off the edge, fingers resting on the floor. His breathing is deep and slow, his back rising every time he inhales as he naps in the fading light of the sunset; long eyelashes casting shadows over his cheeks. Shades of orange and pink dance over his face, making him scrunch his nose adorably, not bothersome enough to wake him.

To complete the picture, and this is Magnus’ favorite part, there’s an actual cat – a mix of white and grey, not very big, resting on Alec’s butt and sleeping just as soundly.

Eyes still fixed on the scene in front of him, Magnus discards his coat on a nearby armchair, taking off his shoes at the same time he approaches the sofa.

Silently, he grabs his phone out of his pocket and takes several pictures. This is the sweetest view to come home to, so he wants something to remember it by, something he can look at later and relive the warmth pooling in his chest right now. Besides, it’s not like he actually needs an excuse to take pictures of Alec. And his butt. He may or may not have a folder in his phone dedicated to such beauty. Sue him, it’s a nice ass and he appreciates it as he should.

Magnus slowly lowers his phone, suddenly realizing he’s grinning, that he probably has been from the moment he opened the door. It shouldn’t surprise him anymore, Alec’s uncanny but entirely natural ability to make him smile, the way his mere presence makes Magnus feel light and happy and safe. But it does. This beautiful man will never cease to amaze him, Magnus is sure.

Perched on the coffee table, Magnus feels his smile grow, but also turn a little wistful. He can still remember a time when he thought he would never get to have something like this. That he would never feel like this again, his ability to open up completely to another person damaged beyond repair. That no one could love him, all of him, and in return he wouldn’t allow himself to love them. That building a home with someone will always be an unfulfilled dream.

And now he’s here, sitting in front of his sleeping boyfriend and cat, basking in the domesticity of it, the normalcy of it; tranquil and content. He cherishes every second and every little snore Alec makes, because nothing has felt so right before.

You just needed to find the right person, whispers a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Ragnor’s.

At the thought of his lost friend, Magnus feels a twinge of pain in his chest. He doesn’t wonder if he will ever stop feeling it, he knows better than that. But he also realizes that it doesn’t darken this moment. It makes him wish for Ragnor to still be here, for him to be able to share this bliss with his friend and hear him groan about it while still being utterly happy for Magnus, for Ragnor and Alec to have met each other. It makes him wish for so many things. But as much as it hurts, it’s bearable. It’s longing but not despair, not anymore.  

“Hey.”

Magnus looks down at the sound of a raspy voice interrupting his thoughts and he’s met with a sleepy Alec squinting his eyes at him. Magnus moves a little to block the sunlight filtering through the window and he’s rewarded with a thankful smile.

“Hello.” He answers, extending his hand and caressing Alec’s cheek with the back of his fingers.

Alec’s eyelids dip closed and he hums at the contact, but doesn’t move much otherwise. Magnus realizes it’s because he can feel the cat still sleeping on him and doesn’t want to disturb him. 

His boyfriend is just too adorable.

“Good nap?”

Alec grunts softly in affirmation and opens his eyes again. Despite the sleepiness still clinging to his features, his gaze turns appraising, moving over Magnus’ face slowly.

“Did something happen?”

Magnus blinks at the question. He didn’t think he looked especially melancholic, but then again Alec can be incredibly perceptive sometimes.

He smiles softly and caress Alec’s shoulder when he retreats his hand.

“Nothing happened, darling. And even if something had, the view that welcomed me certainly would have made everything better.”

Alec maintains his inquisitive look for a second but doesn’t push; instead he twists his head to see the cat that’s still perched on his butt, refusing to wake up.

“I honestly don’t know when he got there.” He says with a lopsided smile.

Magnus didn’t think it was possible, but the soft feeling that manifested in his chest the moment he crossed the threshold, expands even more, grows stronger. He always feels like this every time Alec shows, in whatever way, how comfortable, happy and safe he feels in their home, how he can let his guard down here without a second thought, content and secure. While Alec hasn’t moved in officially, his presence is all over the loft: his books on the shelves, the brand of coffee he likes in the kitchen cabinet, his aftershave in the bathroom. It’s been awhile since Magnus stopped considering this place his and it became theirs instead.

“Now you will never be able to get up.”

Alec snorts at Magnus’ dramatic exclamation but still refuses to move beyond propping himself on his elbows.

“Don’t worry. I’ll rescue you.” Magnus says with a wink, not bothering to hide the laughter in his voice.

He leans forward and lets his fingers scratch the cat behind the ears. The little thing starts purring, pushing his head into the touch. Magnus coos at him and runs his hand along the cat’s back, trying to coax him gently from sleep. Alec arches a brow at Magnus when his hand goes a little lower, and Magnus answers him with his most innocent look.

After a minute or so, the cat decides to get up, stretching lazily. Then, he proceeds to knead Alec’s butt, one paw at a time for a while. Once that little massage session is done, he jumps down, rubs himself against Magnus’ legs and meows expectantly. 

Magnus smiles, completely charmed, waving a hand with an elegant flourish to replenish the cat’s food bowl.

“You spoil him too much.” Alec tells him, but it’s not even half as stern as he probably intended.

Magnus shrugs, because it’s true and he’s not apologetic about it in the slightest. He turns to his boyfriend again, who is now sitting up and leaning forward to kiss him hello, soft and lingering. When Alec pulls back, he takes hold of Magnus’ hand to drag him onto the sofa. Magnus goes willingly; he always does.

Alec settles himself against Magnus’ side, head resting in the junction between his neck and shoulder. Magnus turns his head and kisses his temple.

“We still haven’t named him.” Alec murmurs.

Magnus makes a sound of acknowledgement and sighs. They found the little guy a week ago when they were walking back home from a date. Meowing loudly in the back of an alley, shivering and still wet from the earlier rain, he looked and sounded miserable, but there was a a bit of hopefulness alongside the prominent wariness in his eyes when they approached.

Magnus’ heart had gone out to the poor thing. When he looked at Alec, his boyfriend was already taking off his jacket so they had something to wrap the cat in, completely disregarding the fact that Magnus could summon a blanket. In true Alec fashion, there he was, trying to help in anyway he could, putting this small yowling creature’s comfort above his own, honest and unhesitant in his desire to aid.

After Magnus managed to convince the cat to let himself be wrapped and carried, they walked back to the loft, not wanting to put him through the additional stress of a portal in his current state. After a warm bath, a magical instant dry, some food and a lot of more meowing, the cat looked much better.

Magnus is pleasantly surprised and a little relieved that the feline seems to be adjusting so well to living with them. They found him in a street that had many restaurants, so maybe someone had been feeding him. Then again, Magnus always loved cats and probably even this ferocious, fluffy creature could feel the protector in Alec.

They hadn’t talked about it at all, but after a few days it was obvious that by some tacit agreement, the little guy was staying. Alec’s words just confirmed it.

“How about Chairman Meow?” Magnus suggests suddenly, as if he had just come up with the name.

It takes a second but when realization hits, Alec groans at the terrible pun and hides his face in Magnus’ neck. Magnus laughs and the furball meows loudly from the other side of the room.

“Don’t encourage him” Alec mutters petulantly, his mouth moving against Magnus’ skin.

Magnus is not sure whether his boyfriend is talking to him or the cat, but now that he has what he considers their cat’s approval, he totally needs to defend his case.

“See? He likes it.”

When Alec lifts his head to give him an unimpressed look that seems to say ‘he just wants more food’, Magnus decides it’s time to stop playing fair. He turns fully towards Alec and lifts one hand to cradle his face, thumb stroking over his cheekbone. Alec leans into the touch and tips his head slightly, a silent invitation for more. They kiss softly and unhurriedly, lips molding together.

“You know you like it too.” Magnus murmurs when they pause to breathe, faces close together and noses brushing.

Alec’s sigh against his mouth tastes like victory; the way his smile touches Magnus’ lips feels warmer than the last rays of sun disappearing behind the city skyline.

“Chairman Meow it is.”

[bountyofbeads]

Intelligence Director Coats to resign next month, Trump says

https://wapo.st/2GwyUwo

Intelligence Director Coats to resign next month, Trump says

By Shane Harris | Published July 28 at 8:55 PM ET | Washington Post | Posted July 28, 2019 9:05 PM ET |

Director of National Intelligence Daniel Coats will leave his position next month, President Trump announced Sunday, capping a tumultuous relationship in which the two were often at odds over the wisdom of negotiating with Russia, the status of Iran’s nuclear weapons program and the severity of foreign threats to U.S. elections. 

Trump said in a tweet that he would nominate Rep. John Ratcliffe (R-Tex.), a third-term congressman and prominent supporter, to replace Coats.

The announcement comes just days after former special counsel Robert S. Mueller III warned that Russia will seek to interfere in U.S. elections in 2020 on Capitol Hill.

Ratcliffe launched a spirited defense of Trump at that hearing on Wednesday, grilling Mueller about why he hadprovided evidence of Trump’s possible obstruction of justice in his probe if, as Mueller wrote, he never intended to decide whether the president had committed a crime. 

“You wrote 180 pages . . . about decisions that weren't reached, about potential crimes that weren't charged or decided,” Ratcliffe said, arguing that Mueller had deviated from normal prosecutorial standards and treated Trump unfairly.

In an appearance Sunday on Fox News, Ratcliffe characterized Mueller’s report as an untrustworthy document written by aides and lawyers for Hillary Clinton. The Justice Department is investigating the origins of the probe, which also examined possible coordination between Russia and the Trump campaign. Mueller’s report “identified numerous links between individuals with ties to the Russian government and individuals associated with the Trump Campaign” but found that “the evidence was not sufficient to support criminal charges.”

Trump called Ratcliffe a “highly respected Congressman” who “will lead and inspire greatness for the Country he loves.” He thanked Coats “for his great service to our Country.” 

For months, Coats had recognized that his relationship with Trump, which was never strong, had frayed beyond repair, according to a former senior intelligence official who spoke on the condition of anonymity to discuss the sensitive issue. Coats had felt isolated and excluded from important national security decision-making, the former official said.

Representatives for Coats did not respond to requests for comment.

In July 2018, while speaking at a national security conference in Aspen, Colo., the intelligence chief infuriated White House officials when he said that if the president had asked his advice, he would have told him not to meet privately with Russian President Vladi­mir Putin at their summit in Helsinki. The two leaders met with no American officials or Trump aides present. 

Coats also did not hide his dismay when he learned, in the middle of an interview at the conference, that the White House had extended an invitation for Putin to visit Washington. 

“That’s going to be special,” Coats said to the audience of a few hundred people, who laughed.

While in Helsinki, Trump sided with Putin against U.S. intelligence agencies, which unanimously concluded that Russian intelligence operatives and their proxies interfered in the 2016 presidential campaign, with the goal of helping Trump. 

From the moment Trump nominated Coats in January 2017, he struck many current and former officials as more of a caretaker in the position, a former senator from Indiana and ambassador to Germany who had been coaxed out of anticipated retirement to take on one of the more challenging jobs in U.S. national security. 

As director, Coats regularly attended the president’s daily intelligence briefing session, along with CIA Director Gina Haspel and a senior U.S. intelligence official. But many aspects of the day-to-day running of the intelligence community have fallen to Coats’s deputy, Sue Gordon, a career intelligence officer who has bipartisan support from Capitol Hill. While Ratcliffe awaits confirmation, Gordon probably would assume the duties of intelligence director on an acting basis. 

Trump tweeted, “The Acting Director will be named shortly,” but he didn’t provide a name. 

In a statement Sunday, Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell (R-Ky.) said that he was “very sorry” to hear about Coats’ departure, adding that he has “devoted decades of his life in service to our country. I was reassured knowing that a man who took such a deliberate, thoughtful, and unbiased approach was at the helm of our intelligence community.”

House Speaker Nancy Pelosi (D-Calif.) said in a statement: “The departure of DNI Coats is bad news for the security of America. As a Republican Senator from Indiana, a George W. Bush-appointed Ambassador to Germany and Director of National Intelligence, he was respected by those on both sides of the aisle as an American patriot. 

“DNI Coats’ successor must put patriotism before politics, and remember that his oath is to protect the Constitution and the American people, not the President.”

There was concern from others on Capitol Hill that Trump could choose an acting director based more on loyalty than qualifications. 

“If the president names anyone other than Gordon as the acting director, the Hill will raise holy hell,” a congressional official said, speaking on the condition of anonymity to discuss the sensitive decision.  

It is unclear whether Ratcliffe would be confirmed by the Senate. He has no background in intelligence, though he did serve as a terrorism prosecutor and the U.S. attorney in the Eastern District of Texas in the George W. Bush administration. He also served as the mayor of Heath, Tex., a town of about 9,000 outside Dallas.

Intelligence directors have not always been career intelligence officers. But they have also not been such vocal political supporters of a president. Trump has repeatedly blasted the intelligence agencies as having tried to undermine his campaign and has, without evidence, accused former senior intelligence officials from the Obama administration of illegally spying on him. 

Ratcliffe echoed those allegations on Fox News.

“What I do know as a former federal prosecutor is that it does appear that there were crimes committed during the Obama administration,” he said, declining to identify anyone by name. 

Elaborating on his concerns, Ratcliffe said he wanted to know more about the interactions between a Justice Department official, Bruce Ohr, and Fusion GPS, the private investigation company that hired former British intelligence official Christopher Steele to conduct research into Trump and his possible connections to Russia.

Steele’s work has been a focal point of Republican critics of the Russia probe, including Ratcliffe, who say that the FBI improperly used it as a legal justification for beginning surveillance of a former Trump campaign aide.

Ratcliffe also queried Mueller about Steele’s research, but the former special counsel declined to comment because it is the subject of a Justice Department investigation.

“I want to find out if Russia interfered with our election by providing false information through sources to Christopher Steele about a Trump conspiracy that you determined didn’t exist,” Ratcliffe told Mueller.

Trump has given Attorney General William P. Barr unusual authority to investigate the intelligence agencies’ role in the probe of Russian election interference. Under an executive order, Barr is allowed to declassify intelligence about the probe and its origins. Some current and former intelligence officials have said they fear that could expose sensitive sources and methods or be used to distort the facts about how the probe began. 

The Justice Department’s inspector general is also examining aspects of the Russia probe.

Ratcliffe told Fox News that he expected the investigations to determine whether anyone acted improperly or illegally. 

In his confirmation process, senators probably will ask Ratcliffe about his views on Iran, North Korea, Russia and other global hotspots. As a member of the House Intelligence Committee, Ratcliffe has access to classified intelligence reports and assessments that are often contrary to what the president says publicly. Members will grill him on whose analysis he believes is true: Trump’s or the intelligence community’s, the congressional official said. 

In a statement, Senate Minority Leader Charles E. Schumer (D-N.Y.) echoed these points.

“It’s clear that Rep. Ratcliffe was selected because he exhibited blind loyalty to President Trump with his demagogic questioning of former Special Counsel Robert Mueller,” he said. “If Senate Republicans elevate such a partisan player to a position that requires intelligence expertise and non-partisanship, it would be a big mistake.”

Coats frequently stated views that contradicted Trump’s claims, which inflamed his relationship with a president who has long ridiculed intelligence agencies as inept and naive. 

From the beginning of Coats’s tenure, he struck some observers as a risky choice. Coats was a well-known Russia hawk, which placed him on the same page as many in the intelligence community but put him at odds with a president who ran on a promise to bring the United States closer to Russia and who consistently rejected the notion that the Kremlin had sought to help him get elected. 

In the Senate, Coats had called on the Obama administration to penalize Russia after it invaded Ukraine, and he co-sponsored a Senate resolution condemning Russia’s use of force to annex Crimea from Ukraine in 2014. Russian officials responded by placing Coats on a shortlist of Americans whose travel to Russia would be restricted. 

“While I’m disappointed that I won’t be able to go on vacation with my family to Siberia this summer, I am honored to be on this list,” Coats tweeted in response. 

In January, Coats further emphasized the distance between him and Trump on a range of key national security issues when he testified to Congress that North Korea was “unlikely to completely give up its nuclear weapons and production capabilities,” which the country’s leaders consider “critical to the regime’s survival.”

That assessment, which Coats said all intelligence agencies shared, undercut the president’s optimistic statements that a deal with North Korea was within reach, in large part thanks to the warm relationship Trump said he was forging with the country’s leader, Kim Jong Un. 

Coats also shared the intelligence agencies’ assessment that Iran was still in compliance with an international agreement not to produce nuclear weapons, a deal the president pulled out of last fall. 

And Coats warned that Russia probably would interfere in the 2020 presidential election, reprising its efforts to sow discord and distrust among American voters. 

“We continue to see a pervasive messaging campaign by Russia to try to weaken and divide the United States,” Coats said at a White House briefing with reporters last August. “The President has specifically directed us to make the matter of election meddling and securing our election process a top priority.”

U.S. departments and agencies are working to secure the next election and counter Russian efforts. But their work is at odds with statements from Trump, who has sought to play down the threat and recently appeared to make light of Russia’s interference during a meeting with Putin last month during the Group of 20 summit in Japan. 

Earlier this month, Coats created a new position in his office to oversee the intelligence community’s election security efforts. 

Current and former intelligence officials said Coats would be remembered for accurately describing the intelligence agencies’ positions and speaking candidly about threats to the United States, even when it infuriated the president. 

But some criticized him for not standing up to the president’s attacks on the intelligence agencies’ integrity, particularly when Trump accused officials of political bias and crimes. 

“I think Coats was an honorable man unprepared to succeed in an unusual time,” said John Sipher, a former CIA officer who ran the agency’s operations in Russia. “I personally believe he failed to publicly defend the institutions under his care when it was clear that the commander in chief was off-base. He may well have spoke truth to power in private. but failing to publicly defend his workforce was a mistake.”

David Nakamura contributed to this report.