#and then when the others decide to lower him onto her ostensibly because he's not participating as much | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dastardlydandelion · 4 years ago

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medium luci

ao3 link

content warnings: homophobia, comphet, child abuse, abusive relationships

It’s rare that Susan and Neil have the same weekday off. Neil typically works five days a week and she three or four, depending who’s on staff, being that she’s only part-time. But he’d had a dentist appointment midmorning so he’d taken today off and decided to make his hours up by volunteering for a double next week.

Susan doesn’t typically care to spend any extra time alone with her husband. They have so little to talk about these days, now that he doesn’t try to butter her up or feed her honey sweet lies as much as he used to. Now that Neil doesn’t care to talk much at all unless ranting or complaining about the various things he doesn’t like, his son’s style of dress, women who sit with their legs open, cab drivers who don’t speak English. Susan doesn’t even remember the last time Neil had to take a cab but he has strong opinions on them nonetheless, and the list goes on and on.

He thankfully hasn’t done much of that today, however. He’d parked himself in front of the television after coming home from his appointment and simply nodded when Susan announced she was going out to garden. She only comes inside when she hears the phone ring and by the time she’s walking up the back steps, Neil’s already answered it.

She watches his expression change as he converses with whomever’s on the other end, nervousness fluttering in her chest as his eyes widen, then harden.

“I’ll be right there,” Neil concludes as he hangs up, turning those hard eyes onto Susan. “That was the school.”

“Oh dear…what’s Billy done this time?”

“Not Billy.” Neil shakes his head and Susan’s heart drops with the realization her husband isn’t just irritated but seething, knuckles blanched as his hands ball into tight fists. “Maxine. Did you know the Sinclairs have a girl around her age?”

“N-No, I didn’t. I’m not very familiar with them, Neil.” Susan never had much luck getting close to anyone anymore, not in the least because of Neil himself.

“Apparently Maxine is,” he declares icily. “A teacher caught her and the Sinclair girl fornicating under the bleachers.”

Susan’s heart turns to stone and sinks into her stomach.

No.

Please, no.

Neil has very strong opinions about sexuality in general and homosexual conduct in particular, and Susan can practically feel the outrage radiating from him. It crackles in the air like the promise of a lightning storm. Neil’s fists are still clenched and his posture goes taut like it always does before he explodes.

“W-Well,” Susan begins, swallowing past the lump in her throat.

She hates herself for what she is going to say. She says it anyway.

“Well, you know where she learned that kind of b-behavior from, don’t you?”

Because if Neil is going to explode, Susan can’t stop him. But she hopes she can at least encourage the worst of it away from Max. She watches Neil’s eyes flicker and knows they’re both remembering the day they came home early from the short vacation they’d taken for their fifth anniversary, a girl and a boy sneaking out of Billy’s bedroom window, neither particularly clothed. She watches the angry bulge of the vein pulsing in his neck and knows they’re both thinking of that short young fellow with the skateboard who worked at the used car lot during the day and spent his time with Billy during the night.

“Yes, I know exactly where she learned it from. I’m picking both of them up and we’re all going to have a family discussion.”

“I should come with you.”

“No.” Neil holds up his hand. “Stay here, Susan. We’ll be back soon enough.”

Neil has gun powder in his gaze and she dares not argue. She lowers her head and steps aside when he walks past to fetch the truck keys from the hook. He stomps down the steps and slams the backdoor shut behind him.

Susan watches through the window as he gets into the truck and pulls out of the driveway, feeling dreadfully ill. She doesn’t mean what she’d said, of course. There are a number of behaviors that Max has picked up from Billy, but that isn’t one of them. If anyone is to blame, Susan supposes it’s herself for passing it along intrinsically.

She has her own secret desires locked away within the chambers of her heart. Desire she dares not confront for her own sanity, for her own safety. She’s never acted on her wants, always chose to play private games of hide and seek with them in her head instead, those insidiously innocent wishes of hers. Never spoken aloud let alone pursued those urges that flush hot beneath her skin when she finds her eyes drawn to other women’s lips, hips, breasts.

Susan gave it to Max and unlike her, Max is brash and bold and brave. God save her, Max does what she wants to do and doesn’t care what other people think. Susan would admire her for it if it didn’t scare her to death.

Because Neil does care what other people think. He cares very much. And Susan’s seen him annoyed with Max in the past. She’s seen him frustrated with Max, displeased, exasperated. But never has she seen the silent stirring of a reign of rage to come where Max is concerned, never has she known that particular look in Neil’s eye to be directed Max’s way. She can only hope—

Oh, it’s such a despicable thing to hope for. Susan has poison in her soul, she swears she must. But Billy isn’t remotely hers and Max very much is.

* * *

Susan doesn’t know if it was actually her remark that spurred Neil to turn the blame on Billy or if this was the conclusion he would’ve come to anyway. Neil often blames Max’s mishaps and mischiefs on Billy. Billy being the older sibling meant to lead by example. Billy being the older brother, meant to keep his younger sister out of trouble to begin with.

Her remark or Neil’s default thought process, in any case, it’s Billy he’s glaring at in the living room. Angrily dictates that Billy take off his shirt, belt in hand. Susan grabs a very pale Max’s shoulders and begins to usher her down the hall.

“Where are you taking Maxine?”

Susan freezes, mouth going dry.

Neil’s looking their way now, brow arched, stern and skeptical.

“I-I—“

“She isn’t going to learn if she doesn’t watch, Susan,” he declares with no room for argument. “Bring her back.”

Susan swallows, hands tightening on Max’s shoulders. Something dies inside her when she turns her daughter around. She buries it silently as she’s buried so many other pieces before and avoids Max’s eyes boring into her as she marches her back to the living room. Neil motions for them to sit on the couch, sunlight glinting off the metal buckle. Billy doesn’t bother to disguise his disdain, glaring murder, nostrils flaring like an ornery bovine. Susan suspects he’ll pay for this too.

“Your behavior today was beyond inappropriate, Maxine,” Neil tells her coldly. “Unnatural, disgusting, absolutely unacceptable.”

Max squirms next to Susan, hands tucking under her thighs. She is stone faced but this close, Susan can feel her shaking.

“Now, I know it’s not all your fault. Big Brother here’s taught you—“

“I didn’t teach her shit!” Billy cuts him off, sharp and acidic. “I told her to steer clear from Sinclair, this isn’t on me!”

Neil punches his son in the stomach with all the affect of swatting a fly, once, twice. Susan flinches. Billy’s gasping, breath knocked out of him. He staggers and Neil viciously shoves him to the floor.

“She saw you with that faggot’s tongue down your throat, don’t think I don’t know! I know you, I know the kind of shit you think you can get away with behind my back!” Neil roars like thunder. “Well, now it’s my turn to teach her a thing or two! Pay attention, Maxine!”

Max stiffens beside her. She opens her mouth to protest and Susan grabs her arm, sinking her nails in. Startled, Max's eyes dart to her. Susan gives a tiny shake of the head, urging her not to speak. Max bends her elbow like a chicken wing and jerks her arm out of Susan’s grasp. Ire flares in her gaze but she holds her tongue. She does not challenge Neil as he begins beating Billy with the belt.

Susan can’t watch. She lowers her eyes to the floor. She can see the movement in the shadows, Neil’s rapid whipping of the improvised weapon and Billy’s form jolting with the blows. Susan shuts her eyes to the shadows but she can still hear it, thick, hard leather striking bare flesh.

“Don’t turn away, Maxine,” Neil barks at some point between the sounds of violence.

Billy doesn’t cry out. Eventually it’s over. Susan raises her head and cannot bear more than a glance at her stepson braced on his hands and knee. The belt now rests at Neil’s side and still, her stomach is churning.

“If there is ever a repeat of the conduct you displayed today, there will be consequences. Is that understood, Maxine?”

Max looks to Susan. Her eyes are wavering. Then they glean whatever it is they were searching for from Susan’s and harden.

“Yes,” she mumbles.

“Yes, what?”

Max clears her throat.

“Yes, sir,” she corrects, louder and clearer.

“Both of you to your rooms,” he commands. “I want both of you to reflect on your actions until it’s time for dinner.”

“Yes, sir,” Billy answers this time, climbing to his feet in the corner of Susan’s eye. She remains on the couch as her daughter rises and plods down the hall, cheeks as red as the cherry atop a sundae. Flushed as red as the welts on Billy’s back that have Susan’s stomach in ropes even though she only spares a brief glance.

Neil sets the belt aside and plops down in his armchair. “Can you get me a beer, Susan?”

She nods and rises, quietly fetching one. Pops the tab and then passes it to him before she excuses herself. In times like this, Susan wants to leave more than anything. She wants to grab Max and take her far, far away. But she can’t imagine they would get anywhere, truly.

Neil controls the finances. Susan makes less money than he does and every cent she does earn inevitably winds up under Neil’s attentive purview. In a distant, ostensible kind of way Susan understands there are shelters for women in her situation. Shelters out there, somewhere…aren’t there? For her situation?

Neil hasn’t actually put his hands on her. Not yet. Not like what he just did to Billy. Hasn’t actually done so to Max, although the threat of that unfolded in the living room in a way that could not be more crystal clear. The threat alone feels like a fist to Susan, invisible fist clenched tight around her insides and squeezing so hard she's nauseous.

Is the threat enough? Would Susan and Max be accepted on the basis of threats alone?

Provided she could ever find such a place to begin with. Susan doesn’t have the faintest clue of where to look for what feels more like a nebulous fantasy of a sanctuary than a tangible reality. A shimmering oasis in the desert. Even if she were to locate such a place, what if it were at full capacity?

What if she and Max got turned away?

That would mean choosing between being homeless or going back to Neil. Going back to Neil after a failed escape would certainly mean him making good on all those threats of his, the ones verbal and non. The examples explicit in his words and implicit in his actions. Above all, any failed escape would certainly ensure there would be no second escape.

Susan isn’t going anywhere. And neither is Max. The very notion is abstract and distorted, floating just out of reach in a gaussian blur of a wish. Their home isn’t a good home. But it is the home they have and so, Susan will simply have to do her best to make sure Max never does anything like this again. That Max never does anything to get Neil’s attention like that, nothing to stoke the coals always smoldering in his choleric soul. That as painful as it's sure to be, Max learns to keep certain parts of herself under lock and key.

When dinner is in the oven and Neil is engrossed in his program, Susan slips off to Max’s bedroom. She knocks quietly and lets herself in. Her throat knots up at the tear tracks on her daughter’s cheeks, far more gutting than the way she bristles as Susan steps closer, the sheer hurt in her eyes.

“What do you want?”

The same things as you, Susan thinks irresistibly. And I’d go after them too, if I didn’t know better.

“I’m sorry, Max.”

Max huffs and turns away. “Whatever.”

“I am.”

“No you’re not. You’re just like Neil, you think I’m disgusting,” Max spits, hiking her legs up on the bed and hugging her knees to her chest. “You think Billy’s disgusting too, you couldn’t even look at him.”

“No, I don’t…oh, Max.” Susan swallows and lowers herself to a sit beside her on the bed, gently placing a hand on her knee. She swallows her heartbreak when Max’s eyes flash as though the touch scalds her. “Neil and I disagree about many things. This is one of them.”

“Then why didn’t you say that?” The blaze in Max’s eyes dies down, voice softening to cinders. “Why didn’t you stop him?”

“Oh, he’s so much bigger than me, Max.” Susan sags with familiar defeat. “And I— I don’t think it’s wrong, you and this girl.”

“Lucy.”

“I’m sure Lucy is lovely,” leaves Susan’s lips, this fragile whisper she dares not tempt fate to speak above. “I could never think that you’re disgusting. But I’m just me, Max, and Neil is bigger, and the world…the world too, is so much bigger than I am. You can’t— never, ever in public.”

Max’s eyes widen. Susan shifts on the bed and moves her hands, finds both of Max’s and squeezes tight.

“You cannot be open with feelings like that. You can’t take girls to your school dances, you can’t kiss them where other people could see.”

Max lets out an angry growl even as her eyes well up.

“It’s not fair!”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“That’s not good enough!”

“I know.” She knows, oh, she knows, she’s never not choking on it.

Max chews her lip, scarlet and fuming. Susan halfway expects her daughter to headbutt her or holler right in her ear until she deafens. But after a moment it’s almost as if Max can decode all the things she cannot say because her hands twist under Susan’s and intertwine their fingers.

#my fic tag #susan hargrove #max mayfield #neil hargrove #billy hargrove #kinda an inversion of that one fandom trope #ig

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maleficar-writes · 4 years ago

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Of Unicorns, Virgins, and Other Such Things

Pairing: Female Lavellan/Solas

Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition

Rating: Explicit

Additional Tags: Only partially crack

Summary: A noble attempting to curry favor with the Inquisition gives Inquisitor Lavellan a unicorn. It gets in the way. A lot.

On AO3: Link

“But what is it?” the Inquisitor asked, ears flicking with annoyance as she peered at the massive white beast stomping around her courtyard, nickering nastily at everyone who wasn’t Cole. It was quite pretty, with a flowing mane and tail that shimmered like starlight. Its hooves and horn glimmered gold in the brilliant light of early afternoon.

“A gift,” Josephine said, a bit too cheerfully. “From a noble who seeks to curry your favor. It is a rare, almost mythical unicorn.”

The Inquisitor peered at it. “It doesn’t have a sword through its face like the other one.”

“Because this is a natural unicorn,” Josephine said with infinite patience.

The Inquisitor’s right ear twitched, her expression flattening. “You said mythical.”

“I said almost mythical.”

“And this from you,” Varric interjected, leaning against a wooden post and giving the Inquisitor one of those shit-eating grins. Her ears twitched again. “The woman who does at least ten impossible things before breakfast.”

She pulled her lips back and gave him a snarl. Any normal person would have seen that expression and pissed themselves, but Varric just laughed like this was all good fun. It was infuriating how she was supposed to be the most deadly person in Thedas – though, probably, the Hero of Ferelden was more so – but none of her companions seemed to treat her with the respect deadly people deserved. Actually, now that she thought about it, no one did. It was always Inquisitor, fetch this thing or Inquisitor, take this other thing to the place with the people or even Inquisitor, my wife is dying and my son knows how to cure her so please go to him but, oh, no, he won’t come back with the potion or even given you the recipe he’ll just give you the potion to bring back to me necessitating you making future trips to bolster the Inquisition’s reputation. Not that she had strong feelings about this.

“Also this unicorn is not dead.”

“Fluffy,” the Inquisitor said with sharp enunciating, “is not dead. She is respirationally challenged. More importantly, why doesn’t this one like anyone except Cole?”

Solas, who had been hovering at the edge of the courtyard with a studious expression on his face, swung toward her at the question. “Lore surrounding unicorns posits they prefer the company of virgins and will defend a virgin quite violently.”

The Inquisitor went still. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Oh,” she finally managed.

“Indeed.” Solas slipped closer to her. “Given the unicorn’s nature, it might be best to have—”

He broke off as the unicorn, with a whiny loud enough to burst eardrums, rounded on them and charged. He threw himself to the side, snapping a barrier into place around himself, Josie, the Inquisitor, and Varric, and stumbled. He righted himself only with Josie’s help.

“Oh,” the Inquisitor said as the unicorn paced in a circle around her. She felt heat rising to her cheeks. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of being a virgin. That didn’t bother her at all. It was just that a four-legged beast with a spike growing out its head was telling everyone in Skyhold that she’d never gotten laid.

Twenty-four years old, leading one of the most powerful political forces in the world, surrounded by men and women who pretty much oozed sex appeal, and she’d never had sex.

This was her life.

She dragged a hand down her face as Varric made a noise of pure delight. “Inquisitor, he seems to like you.”

“I’m going to kill you,” she muttered.

The unicorn’s muzzle rubbed against her face. It lipped her ear. With a shriek, she bolted away from it.

“He really seems to like you!” Varric called after her as she tore across the courtyard, the unicorn prancing happily after her.

She tried hiding in the great hall. She tried hiding in the tavern. She climbed the ladder to Cullen’s Blighted bedroom and crawled under his bed – much to his sputtering horror – and the damn thing somehow managed to follow her everywhere. When she decided to go out on missions, it was waiting in the stables, somehow saddled, looking at her with huge, watery eyes that seemed to say Ride me, beautiful virgin, and she’d go red to her ears.

Passing judgments was next to impossible. The Tevinter shem who had led the Wardens astray had taken one look at the unicorn standing proudly beside her throne and dissolved into giggles. Ser Ruth, who had turned herself in around the same time the Tevinter mage was brought before her, took one look at the unicorn and started choking. Ostensibly on laughter, but the Inquisitor hoped the woman swallowed her tongue.

“You can’t follow me everywhere,” she told the damn beast as it followed her across one of the ramparts. She and Cole kept putting him in the stables. He kept escaping. Somehow.

Vivienne thought he was possessed, and Bull tended to agree, but everything was demons and despair with those two anyway.

“You need to let me do my job.” He stared at her with watery eyes. She attempted to remain unmoved. “You need a name, too.”

He pranced, hopping from hoof to hoof as if he understood. In the back of her head, she heard Solas intoning, Unicorns are widely believed to be incredibly intelligent creatures. Do your best to be polite. That horn isn’t for show.

“Pokey?” she suggested.

The unicorn gave her a look that pretty clearly said, You’re shitting me.

“Fine, fair, I agree, it was a bad idea.” She was bad at naming things, though. The other day, she’d scraped together enough lambswool to make a new set of robes for Solas, and when asked by Dagna and Harritt to give the coat some kind of identifier, she’d just said, “Sheep’s Clothing.” They’d looked at her like she’d grown two heads before declaring it Resisting Magical Something or Another.

She had told Solas about the incident. He hadn’t approved, though she couldn’t fathom why.

Tugging on one of her braids, she gave the unicorn an assessing look. “You kind of look like a Bob to me.”

He blinked at her and that blink somehow managed to convey his dripping disdain.

“Not Pokey. Not Bob.” She chewed on her lower lip, and the unicorn made a sound that might have been horsey delight. It disturbed her. Deeply. She stopped chewing on her lip. “We could go with something noble. Charger?” He shook his head. Or ruffled his mane. Or something. She took it to be a no. “Dasher? Dancer? Prancer?” She paused. “Now that’s just ridiculous. You’re not making this easy, you know.”

He shuffled up to her and rubbed his nose against her shoulder. She, meanwhile, eyed the exceptionally sharp tip of his horn as it bobbed next to her face. Tentatively, she stroked the unicorn’s neck. “What about Hanal’ghilan? You’re not a halla, but it’s a noble name.”

He whickered and caught her ear with his lips. With an indignant shriek, she tore across the parapets.

In a rare moment of unicorn-free time later that afternoon, she slipped into Solas’s room to study the murals he was painting. And possibly to snuggle up to him and make him incredibly uncomfortable. There was something to be said for flustering him, and it was so delightfully easy that even a virgin could do it.

In her defense, she wasn’t much of a virgin. The unicorn might count her as one, but she’d done more than her fair share of playing poke and tickle with some of the other youths in her clan. She’d just never gone far enough to jeopardize her position.

“Solas,” she greeted cheerfully.

His head snapped up, his eyes darting all around her. Then he relaxed. “I see you’re without your stalwart protector.”

She slipped up to him. He wasn’t painting, was standing beside his table with a book in one hand. His fingers, long and lithe and delightfully wicked, were splayed across the pages of a book that lay open on the table before him.

Dancing her fingers up his tunic, she drew closer to him. “Stolen moments are so rare,” she purred, watching with delight as his eyes widened slightly.

“Inquisitor, I—”

“You?” she asked, rising onto her toes to brush her lips against his. It wasn’t even close to a kiss, but it was enough to get her a little tingly and a lot interested in actual kissing. She wanted real kisses, the fiery, passionate, he-shoves-his-hands-in-her-hair kinds of kisses. Kisses that involved tongue, but not Fade tongue. Fade tongue only got a girl so far.

He swallowed and made a strangled sort of noise in the back of his throat. “I don’t think…”

“Oh, but you do,” she murmured. “Entirely too much.” She canted her head to the side, sliding one arm about his neck. His book tumbled to the ground as his arm went around her waist, tugging her flush against him.

Their mouths were so close, his eyes so intent and filled with burning, desperate wanting.

From above them came a mighty crash.

“Confounded creature!” Dorian shouted. He followed that shout with many more, none of them understandable, all of them Tevene.

Solas all but shoved her away from him, throwing himself at the scaffolding to the side of the room as she heaved a heavy, beleaguered sigh and Hanal’ghilan tore into the room looking like a demon. He snorted, chest heaving, head lowered, and charged straight at Solas.

His horn missed Solas’s butt – and what a tight, sexy butt it was, she thought as he scrambled up the ladder – by inches.

Hanal’ghilan skidded to a stop between her and Solas, scratching the stone floor fiercely with his hooves. He huffed, dragging one hoof over the stone as if readying to charge, and she sighed heavily. “We need to discuss personal boundaries,” she said to him, patting him on the back.

It took her and Cole promising Hana’ghilan the best oats and a stupid amount of sugar cubes to get him to leave Solas’s rotunda. It took even longer to get the unicorn back to the stables, where the Inquisitor assured him up and down that she wouldn’t go anywhere near Solas ever again and he needn’t worry about her losing her virginity in the near to immediate future. He snorted, clearly not believing her, which was pretty much the right response because that night, Solas barged into her dreams with all the subtly of a charging druffalo.

He caught her face in his hands and kissed her, and she threw her arms around his neck, wrapping her legs around his waist and forcing him to hold her. They stumbled until her back pressed against a wall, and his tongue was in her mouth, tasting her, and it was so good.

Except for the part where it wasn’t real.

“I’m going to kill that creature,” Solas growled against her mouth, working his hands under her tunic to cup her breasts. That was also good. It was better than good. Heat lanced through her, and she dragged his mouth back to hers for more kisses.

She’d done a lot of kissing in twenty four years. Well, to be fair, it wasn’t as though she’d popped out of the womb and started kissing people. Maybe it was more like twelve years, unless she counted that time she kissed Theron when she was six. It hadn’t been a good kiss. She decided not to count it.

“I’m going to kill you,” she growled back, tugging at his clothes, wondering why he bothered with them in the Fade at all.

Probably because they never got much further than kissing shirtless. He always balked at that point.

“What have I done?” he asked as he caught her lower lip in his teeth, tugging gently.

She responded by grinding her hips against his, making him gasp with pleasure and shock and, really, he should be used to her doing this like this by now. “Nothing, hahren,” she replied in a throaty murmur, and he pressed closer to her, his eyes flickering with lust. “And that’s the problem.”

She heard something crash. It was a splintery sound. Rather like what wood might sound like when it shattered. She went stiff in his arms, and he noticed immediately. “Vhenan?” he asked, drawing his hands down her sides.

“Oh, by the Dread Wolf’s hairy ball—” The Fade dream fractured as a very large something pounded up her stairs and neighed loud enough to wake the dead. She bolted upright from her nest on the floor – she still wasn’t used to the concept of shem beds – and hurled her pillow at Hanal’ghilan’s face.

It hit his horn and stuck.

As he shook his head wildly, trying to dislodge the pillow, she threw another one. “It was a dream!” she shouted, hurling a third pillow. “It was just a dream, I was dreaming, and how did you even get in here?”

In the end, her pillow went flying off Hanal’ghilan’s horn and straight out her open window. It soared over her balcony and disappeared into the snowy mountains. Hanal’ghilan had the good sense to bow his head and give her those sad, watery eyes that were almost as guilt-inducing as puppy eyes.

“I’m still mad at you,” she groused as she patted a spot next to her pile of blankets. Hanal’ghilan happily settled there, and, after a moment, she dropped a pillow on his side and curled up against him. It wasn’t so different from sleeping with a halla.

The next morning, she stumbled into the tavern for breakfast with Hanal’ghilan on her heels, and Varric, who was always obscenely cheerful at all hours, saluted her with a mug of that wonderfully bitter, disgustingly perfect drink the shems called coffee. She made grabby hands at it and he surrendered it to her. “Looks like you’ve still got your unicorn chastity belt,” he said and she dragged her hands down her face, pushing the coffee aside and leaning across the table.

“All I want,” she hissed, “is to kiss him.”

“Who, the unicorn or Chuckles?” Varric asked, waving a serving girl over for another cup of coffee.

She pinned Varric with a glare that could probably melt silverite. At the very least, it should have seared the flesh off his bones.

Varric, however, was immune to such looks. She knew this. She still tried to employ them. They always failed. “My hahren—”

“That’s what the kids are calling it these days?” He rubbed his chin. “I’ll have to remember that.”

“That,” she sputtered, “is a term of respect for an elder and not some – some—” She broke off, still sputtering.

“Some salacious pet name?” he supplied.

Dorian dropped into the seat next to her. Aside from Cole, Dorian was the only man Hanal’ghilan let touch her. “Who are we giving salacious pet names to? Can I be next?”

She dropped her head to the table with an audible thunk. “It’s bad enough everyone knows I’ve never had sex with anyone,” she complained into the wood.

“And all you want is for Solas to throw you down and have his wicked way with you, but you have one very large, very white, very horny problem,” Dorian said with far too much cheer for the time of morning.

There was a beat of silence. Then he and Varric broke into laughter so loud it probably reached the Creator’s in the Beyond. She wanted to claw their faces off, but that wasn’t what civilized Inquisitors did.

The door to the tavern banged open, and she turned her head to see a very surly Solas in the doorway. He stopped there. Saw Hanal’ghilan. Hanal’ghilan saw him.

Some kind of energy snapped between the two of them, Hanal’ghilan pawing at the hardwood floor as she hissed at him to behave. Solas spun about on his heel and left. With a cheerful whicker of pleasure, Hanal’ghilan nuzzled against her shoulder.

“I’m going to die a virgin,” she groaned.

“Was this even an issue before our friend showed up?” Dorian asked. He had tried to pronounce Hanal’ghilan’s name once. She had told him if he ever tried again, she would burn all his silky robes and force him to wear cotton. The horror on his face had been priceless.

“No,” she moaned, reaching blindly for her coffee.

One of them, Creators bless them, pushed the mug into her hands. She picked her face off the table and hunkered over the steaming mug, taking small sips of the still too hot drink. It was black and bitter – as bleak as her sex life. She pointed to the mug. “This coffee is my sex life.”

“Hot and steamy?” Varric asked.

“Bitter and black and awful.”

“I thought you liked coffee,” Varric said.

“I don’t. I hate it.” She drank it anyway. “It’s just a good kick in the ass in the morning so I’m awake enough to wrangle all of you. Like whiny little halla who don’t want to go in their pens.”

“We have pens now?” Dorian asked. “That’s rather deviant, Inquisitor.”

“I hate you,” she muttered, throwing back the rest of the coffee in a single gulp.

She began to plan. She went to Cole, because Cole was the only one in Skyhold other than her, apparently, who was a virgin. It was awful. It was terrible. Because of Hanal’ghilan, she knew more about the sex lives of everyone in the Inquisition that she ever wanted or needed to know. The reverse, of course, was also true, and the only one who didn’t seem to care was Cole. Everyone else teased her mercilessly.

“Still have your white shadow,” Leliana had said idly in the War Room two days ago while Hanal’ghilan had lowered his horn at Cullen and proceeded to push the Commander around the room – the Inquisitor had not wanted to consider why.

Just yesterday, Sera had gone on at some length to Blackwall about being elbow deep in circumstances. And had asked the Inquisitor how her circumstances were. They’d both howled with laughter. The Inquisitor had wanted to die.

Or to stick them with something pointy.

Hanal’ghilan was off harassing someone else, so she was planning. With Cole. Planning with Cole was more like trying to herd cats than halla. He kept wandering off in his mind, and she kept having to refocus him. She understood the drifting; they were in the tavern, and there were lots of thoughts constantly brushing up on him. “We should have gone to one of the empty towers,” she said after two hours of getting nothing done.

“I can lead him away for a while,” Cole said abruptly. “We can make crowns of flowers and give them to you when it’s done.”

Her head hit the table with an audible thunk. “Couldn’t we have come to this conclusion at least an hour and a half ago, Cole?”

“Maybe,” he said. He tilted his head to the side. “But you weren’t ready then. You are now. Don’t worry, Solas burns, too. Heated, hot, heavy hands on his—”

Squeaking, she flailed, shushing him. “That’s private, Cole!”

“But he thinks it so loud.” Cole blinked at her with those huge eyes of his. “So do you. You think about him pushing, pressing, pinning. Holding you down and—”

She sputtered, pressing her face into her hands. “Private,” she groaned. When her face stopped flaming, she lowered her hands. “Let’s do it, then. You lead him away. Do the flower thing. And I…”

“Will have and be had,” Cole supplied.

“Yes, that,” she agreed.

So Cole left, and she watched him go to the stables. She watched him lead Hanal’ghilan to the gates. She watched him lead the unicorn out. And then she ran for Solas.

He was pouring over some book she was sure was very interesting, but it couldn’t be more interesting than him bending her over something and—well. She really didn’t know where to go from there, she’d just heard Dorian talk about being bent over things. Presumably, it worked the same way as everything else, but she just didn’t know.

“Hahren,” she said breathlessly, stumbling to a halt just in front of him.

He looked up at her with interest, but not interest.

“Forgive me, but I—”

“Cole took Hanal’ghilan out of Skyhold,” she said, and there was the interest she was looking for. She held out her hand. “Come with me?”

Creators, it suddenly occurred to her that he might say no. That he might gently rebuff her. He had hinted, on more than one occasion, that she was too young for him, that it was inappropriate for him as her hahren to act on any feelings for her. She would strangle him, she decided, if he told her no.

He shot to his feet, taking her hand. “You deserve better than what is sure to be a quick tumble,” he said as she all but dragged him out of the rotunda and hauled him across the great hall.

Behind them, Varric called out, “Unicorn chastity belt, Inquisitor!”

“I’m going to stick you on a spit and roast you, Varric,” she shouted back just before she pushed open her door.

She and Solas tumbled through the door and scrambled as quickly as possible around the tower to the actual door to her room. Then they were through it, and his hands were in her hair, dragging her mouth to his as he pressed her against the side of the stairwell and kissed her. Creators, it was a kiss. His nails scraped against her scalp as his tongue swept into her mouth. It was real and visceral and it flooded her with heat.

“Bed,” he said against her mouth, and he started to draw away.

“The wall is fine,” she protested, pulling him back.

His teeth found her lip, biting and tugging, and she whimpered softly before pressing another hot kiss to his mouth. “Not for your first time,” he said.

“Solas, you could fuck me in the dirt in the woods, and it would be fine,” she snapped, thrusting her hand into his breeches to find him achingly hard.

He swore, cleverly and creatively in Elvish, as she closed her fist around him and stroked. Creators, he was big. She’d stroked boys in her clan until they spilled in her hand, but they were boys and Solas was a man, and the idea of having this part of him inside of her was turning her brain to goo. Her smalls were a mess. She was a mess.

“Fuck me here, hahren,” she breathed, squeezing his cock. He gasped, his breath fanning across her lips. “Up against the wall, just like this.” She rubbed her thumb over his tip, rolling her hips against his thigh.

“Vhenan,” he said, strangled.

“The more you protest, the more time you waste,” she pointed out, taking his hand and guiding it between her legs.

He hissed, pressing the heel of his palm against her clit, rubbing her through the fabric of her trousers, and her mind went blank. She rocked against him, grinding herself on him in a rhythm that practically had her soaking through the fabric. Words escaped her. All she could do was gasp and moan, mewling for more as she worked herself over his hand, hers still stroking him.

Yanking his hand back, he deftly unlaced her trousers. Pushed them down her hips. They caught on her boots, but that didn’t deter them. He stepped between her legs, and she lifted them, trapped as they were, around his hips. His fingers pressed against her wet cunt, one sliding easily into her, and he groaned. “I should do more for you,” he said.

“Fuck me,” she demanded, sliding the fingers of her free hand behind his head. She urged him closer, feigning a kiss, then went straight for his ear. Her lips closed around the delicately pointed tip and he snapped.

He tore at the laces of his breeches, knocking her hand aside in his efforts to free himself. She kept sucking him, pulling broken groans from him with every drag of her tongue along the shell of his ear. And then his cock was free of his pants, and he was pressing it into her, and she had to release his ear so she could let her head fall back against the stone.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she hissed, clawing at his shoulders as he worked himself inside her.

He murmured something in Elvish she couldn’t understand – he was always doing that, speaking far more of their language than any elvhen had a right to – and then he was all the way inside her. “Vhenan.” He sounded strangled.

She brought his lips to hers. “Doesn’t hurt,” she told him. “Shouldn’t it hurt?”

“Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t,” he ground out, and she ground against him, rocking her hips over his. They both gasped at the same time.

“Lucky me,” she said on a soft exhale. “Now, won’t you shut up and fuck me?”

He did. Creators, he did. He wasn’t tender or gentle. He was demanding, taking what he wanted with brisk thrusts that had her moaning his name every time he pushed into her. One hand curved around her ass to support her, to give her more leverage, while the other worked between their bodies to stroke her clit.

That was a revelation. Having a man inside her as he played with her? She could hardly breathe for how good it felt. Some demented part of her thought it felt so good in part because it was petty revenge on an obnoxious unicorn, too.

Then she was lost to thought, drowning in the feel of him. He made her cry out, made her quiver and shake in his arms, until finally, finally, her body clenched around his cock. It was the strangest, most delightful sensation she’d ever experienced, the orgasm somehow more intense for having him inside her. She swore – something about the Dread Wolf’s balls – and Solas swore – something about Mythal’s tits – and then he was coming, too, with jerky, abbreviated thrusts and a look of ecstasy on his face.

They slumped against each other, gasping.

“Vhenan,” he began, but she cut him off with bright, wicked laughter, peppering his face with kisses.

“Finally,” she crowed, laughing, kissing him, wrapping her arms tight around his shoulders and just hugging him. “Finally, finally, finally!” She pulled back, eyes widening with delight. “You know what this means?”

“I’m damned for all eternity for despoiling you?” he asked mildly.

She knew her expression was demented from the way his brows rose slowly. “That Blighted unicorn is going to hate me now!”

An hour or so later, Hanal’ghilan came screaming into the great hall, flowers braided into his mane. He slid to a halt before the Inquisitor’s throne, where she sat idly drinking coffee. He approached slowly, his nostrils flaring, and then recoiled from her. There was, interestingly enough, no condemnation in his eyes. Just quiet acceptance. He trotted away.

“I almost feel bad,” she said, taking a noisy sip of her coffee, as Solas drifted through the great hall toward her, a predatory look in his eyes.

At her side, Varric said, “Do you really?”

“Mmm. A little. A very little.” She sighed happily. “My sex life is still like my coffee, though.”

“Bitter and black?”

She gave him a wicked smile. “Hot and steamy.”

“More than I needed to know, Inquisitor,” he said, and he fled as Solas gained the dais.

“I believe I owe you hours of leisurely lovemaking, vhenan,” he said.

She tossed back the rest of her coffee and set the mug aside. “Let’s see if you can keep up, old man.” He did. But so did she, and it was wonderful.

#solas #solavellan #dragon age #dragon age: inquisition #fanfic #dai

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fanforthefics · 5 years ago

Note

Barrie/Landeskog 42? Please?

I’m going to save you from the terrible date you’re having

Tyson likes to think he’s a bit of an expert on bad dates.

It’s not from personal experience. Well, not just from personal experience; he’s got plenty of his own stories about it too. But mostly it’s because as a bar tender, he gets a front row seat to a lot of dates, and statistically, most of them are bad.

He’s seen it all, really--from the ones that he’s actually worried about and has had to extract women from, to the ones where he has to go into the back before he starts cracking up. It’s an actual scale, one that he and the other bartenders --it started as a joke but Kerfy got weirdly into it and now Tyson thinks there are graphs, but he doesn’t question Kerf when he’s got that look in his eyes.

Anyway, he judges the one in front of him now to only be about a 3.5, in his expert opinion. No one looks in danger of getting hurt or getting soaked in a drink, there are no crazy eyes involved, one of the guys involved is just...boring.

Tyson’s not even being judgmental here. He’d seen Colin roll his eyes when he was serving him, and Colin’s the nicest guy there is, so if he’s bored then Tyson must be right.

It is getting kind of painful to watch, though. It’s a slow night--not many people are out on a Tuesday--and so Tyson doesn’t have much else to do other than watch. Not to mention, well. The guy who isn’t boring is probably the hottest guy he’s ever seen. (There’s a scale for that too, with some sort of formula between hotness and amount they tip. Kerf really needs his white board taken away from him).

Tyson’s seen him around before, anyway; he suspects that he works or lives nearby, because he comes in a fair amount both in work suits and otherwise, and he’s brought dates here before. The dates tend to be very attractive too, in the same way the guy is--like they’re out of a magazine. Tyson doesn’t think he’s ever seen a repeat, though, which says something. (Nate thinks it says that Tyson pays too much attention to the guy, but Nate doesn’t have to work long boring weekday shifts at a bar, so he can shut up).

Today, the date’s hot, as usual, but Guy Who Breaks the Scale looks like he’s actually about to fall asleep. That’s not usual, even when it’s bad, he’s generally way politer than Tyson would be if tips weren’t on the line. Although maybe sex is on the line for him, so it’s sort of the same? But today, GWBS is clearly fading, and his date is clearly...not.

Tyson scrubs at the bar, a little, so it’s not clear he’s just blatantly using customers as amusement. It distracts him, so when he looks up again and GWBS is there, he almost jumps.

“Hey,” he says, and straightens. Resists the urge to touch his hair, just because GWBS’s is so good that he feels like he needs the extra mile in comparison. “What can I get you?”

GWBS leans over, looking sheepish and very charming, his blue eyes sparkling. “I hate to ask this,” he says, with a twist of a smile. “But would it be possible for you to, um, spill something on me in the next few minutes?”

Tyson snorts. “Not usually the request people make of their bartender. Usually we do a lot for the opposite.”

“Yes, but.” GWBS glances over his shoulder, leans closer so he can lower his voice even more. “If you spill something on me, I have to go home to clean it off.”

Tyson can feel himself start to grin. “You know, there are easier ways to get rid of a date than ruining a suit.”

“Yes, but this one gets you a big tip,” GWBS says, but there’s something about the way he’s smiling that makes it not a dick statement, just a fact. GWBS does well on the scale generally because he’s also a good tipper, so that probably helps. “So--”

“Yeah, give me a few minutes. I can handle a spill, trust me.”

“I am,” GWBS says. "With my sanity, if not my life.”

“Oh, that’s a bad deal, anyone’ll tell you that. I’m not big on the not driving people insane thing,” Tyson informs him, but GWBS just smiles again, before he heads back to his date.

A few minutes later, Tyson goes over, ostensibly to clear the empties; he manages a pretty smooth trip and spill of some juice onto GWBS’s lap. He hopes someone got it on film, because it was way smoother than Tyson expected it to go--he mostly expected to end up in GWBS’s lap without spilling anything somehow, because that was how his life would go.

But he doesn’t--he spills, and GWBS jumps up and starts patting at it as Tyson apologizes as sincerely as he can--he thinks about it as apologizing to the suit for its sacrifice to the cause--and the date is horrified and GWBS makes his excuses and leaves, but not before leaving a 200% tip and mouthing ‘thanks’, so in Tyson’s book it was a good night.

GWBS is back a few nights later, with another date. She’s a very pretty blonde woman, but Tyson just gets the feeling that she’ll be low on the scale anyway--you get good at picking out bad tippers after a while behind the bar. He can see the date crash and burn, anyway; GWBS’s face starts out smiling and slowly horror comes out behind his eyes, though he keeps smiling. Tyson’s guessing a 5.3, though without hearing what she’s saying, he can’t quite tell.

“I’m not spilling anything around her,” he says anyway, when GWBS comes up to the bar, something of that sheepish look in his eyes again. “She looks like the kind of person to give bad yelp reviews, and you can’t make that up with a tip.”

GWBS pauses, which makes Tyson think he really was going to ask. “Also,” Tyson goes on, “That’s a one of your nicest date shirts and I’m not ruining it, as like, a service to the world.”

GWBS grins crookedly--Tyson is definitely sticking with the nickname--and runs a hand through his hair. “Okay, do you have any better ideas?”

“Yeah, it’s called, tell her it isn’t working and go your separate ways.” Tyson pauses. “Unless something sketchy is going on. Do you need me to actually get you out?”

“No, it’s just--” GWBS sighs. “She’s said some shit, about like, immigrants? I didn’t realize...”

“That’s gross, but yeah, I’m sticking with the ‘telling her’ plan,” Tyson says. He’s so rarely the sensible person in a conversation. It’s kind of throwing him. “That way leads to way better reviews for me.”

GWBS makes a face. “I’ve had, um. Bad reactions to that, in the past.”

“Sometimes you get drinks thrown in your face, such is life, bud,” Tyson tells him. “You might be too pretty to understand that, but us mortals deal with it.”

"No, I mean. Once a guy followed me home anyway, to prove I was wrong?” GWBS explains, which, fine, that’s obviously creepy.

“Ah, the price of hotness. I clearly know that too,” Tyson says, gesturing to himself. GWBS snorts, which Tyson thinks he should be offended by. “No, dude, I totally do. Who among us hasn’t been catfished?”

“You--” GWBS cuts himself off, shakes his head. “Okay, but can you help me?”

Tyson sighs, but GWBS is very attractive and a very good tipper and Tyson’s kind of invested at this point. “Fine,” he says, “But I expect a really good review.”

“It’ll be glowing,” GWBS promises, and goes back to his date. Tyson waits a few seconds, then grabs Josty when he’s coming around from bussing tables, because he’s always up for shenanigans and has no room to judge.

“Talk to me and look very worried at that dude over there,” Tyson tells him, nodding to GWBS.

Josty immediately narrows his eyes into his best worried face. Tyson solidarity FTW. “Guy Who Breaks the Scale?” he asks, looking at him. “What’d he do?”

“Nothing, we’re scaring off his date.”

“Oh, sick.” Josty makes a shocked face, then looks again and points. Tyson nods. He can see the date noticing, and giving GWBS nervous looks. “We should get Kerf, he can do scandalized like no one’s business.”

“And how do you know that, junior?”

"What happens in the apartment stays in the apartment,” Josty tells him, and then gasps loudly. Tyson shakes his head sadly.

“Yeah, we should totally get someone else out here, though,” Tyson decides. “More dramatic. Hey, come here a sec,” he calls into the back. He gets Colin, which is less ideal because Colin’s too nice to really play along.

“What’s up?” he asks anyway, rubbing his hands on his apron.

“Look horrified at that guy over there.”

“Guy Who Breaks the Scale?” Colin asks. he doesn’t look horrified. “Why? Did he doe something?”

“We’re scaring his date,” Josty tells Colin cheerfully, though it’s at odds with his dark expression.

Colin’s face shutters a little. “Guys, that’s--”

“She was being racist, if that helps,” Tyson puts in, and Colin goes angry. He doesn’t do angry often, because he does a lot of work to be mindful or whatever, but he does do it well. Tyson points again at GWBS.

The date says something, then she’s getting up, and--yes, leaving.

Tyson waits a few beats, then high fives Josty and Colin. “Nice job guys.”

“Thank you,” GWBS says, coming over to the bar. He gives them all a grateful smile, which, Tyson isn’t at all jealous he’s sharing it even though he was the mastermind here, whatever.

Colin looks like he’s thinking about giving GWBS a lecture on how that wasn’t like, a great way of handling problems, but also GWBS is a customer and so not someone lecturable. It’s clearly a difficult problem, so Tyson saves him by giving GWBS a Look.

“A great review,” he warns, “To make up for us compromising our morals.”

“Yeah, of course,” GWBS agrees. “I--”

There’s a crash from the back. “I need to...” Colin starts, and Tyson nods and lets him go. Josty follows him, probably because the kid’s got a nose for drama.

“Everything okay?” GWBS asks, and Tyson shrugs.

“Colin’ll handle it if it’s not. The kitchen’s his domain, I’m not allowed in.”

“Why not?”

“Because I get too involved.” Tyson makes a face. “Apparently no one wants like, a chocolate creation, and so I need to ‘keep it at home, Tyson’ or ‘do your job and stop experimenting, Tyson.’ I’m Tyson,” he adds, to clarify.

GWBS snorts. “Yeah, I figured,” he agrees, leans on the bar. It really sets off his arms, which Tyson thinks is unfair, because he already broke the scale. “I’m Gabe.”

“Oh, sick, a name. Definitely better than your nickname.”

“I have a nickname?”

“No.”

Gabe’s eyebrows raise. “Really?”

“Yes,” Tyson lies. He’s a very bad liar, though, and so Gabe keeps looking at him. “Look, you already promised a good review, you can’t take it back now. Also you just had us scare a girl away, you don’t have any moral high ground here.”

“Fair enough,” Gabe agrees. “What’s my nickname?“

Tyson sighs. He probably shouldn’t be saying this, but it’s not like he has a choice now. And also, Tyson’s not great at not saying things. “GWBS.”

“And it stands for....”

“Guy who breaks the scale,” Tyson admits. He knows he’s red. “We’ve got this whole like, scale formula thing, for hot customers who tip well, and you, well--” Gabe’s grinning, looking very pleased. “You got the nickname before all this,” Tyson warns, quickly. “So we didn’t factor that in.”

“How high does the scale go?” Gabe asks, sounding very cocky.

“Look, I don’t even know,” Tyson says, because it’s true and he’d rather say that than admit anything else. “Kerf set it up, and he’s like into numbers and shit and it’s way more complicated than it needs to be. I lobbied for a scale of like, Old Leo to Young Leo, but Kerf won.”

“And where would I be on your scale?” Gabe asks. He’s still looking awfully smug, which is unfortunately but not unpredictably a very good look on him, all twinkly eyes and warm smile and broad shoulders.

“Dude, no one compares to young Leo,” Tyson tells him, which is definitely true, even if he thinks Gabe’s still pretty close to breaking his scale. “That’s just, like, a universal truth. Also, you get points off for never going on second dates.”

Gabe draws back, a little. “I go on second dates.”

“Bud, you bring your dates here, and I see how many there are, and no one comes twice,” Tyson tells him. Gabe’s going a little red, which is a nice change. “No judgment, customer is always right and you do you or whatever, but--” he stops himself before he implies a customer is bad in bed, because he thinks that’s probably crossing some sort of line. He’s never been great at those sort of things, but he thinks Colin wouldn’t approve which is basically his benchmark.

“Glad to know I’m so entertaining,” Gabe says at least, a little more stiffly. Tyson snorts.

“You aren’t nearly the most interesting person, don’t worry. There’s this guy who comes in with his own like, miniature wine glass, i don’t know where he gets it from--” Gabe doesn’t seem like he’s prepared to stop Tyson, so Tyson keeps going, telling stories about the weird people who come to bars--Nate insists that Tyson just attracts all the weirdos, which Tyson hopes but isn’t sure isn’t true--until someone actually wants a drink and he has to go deal with that.

Gabe leaves before he’s done, but the next day Josty informs him that there is a glowing review on Yelp for the bar, complete with specific praise for how accommodating the barstaff is for out of the box requests, so like, Tyson’ll take it.

///

Now that he knows Gabe’s name, though, things sort of change. Or maybe it’s now that Gabe’s recognized Tyson out of all the other bartenders. Whatever it is, Gabe’s dates don’t slow down, but he seems to have a lot more trouble getting rid of them. Tyson suspects he just finds it easier to have Tyson do it than to risk doing it himself, because he doesn’t like looking ridiculous. Either that, or he likes Tyson looking ridiculous, which is fair, Tyson knows it’s pretty amusing.

So they get into a bit of a habit, and it starts getting easier--they develop a series of signals, for when Gabe wants Tyson to break in, which includes everything from tapping the edge of his glass (get ready this might be bad) to desperate looks (please do something ASAP before I throw something). Not that Gabe always uses them, or anything. Sometimes he comes in on a date and leaves with that person, and Tyson doesn’t wonder, you know. Anything at all about what happens after. No one comes in twice, anyway.

And sometimes, Gabe’s date leaves and then he wanders over to the bar, sits there and bugs Tyson as he’s working and tries to get Tyson to give him free drinks, even though it’s not like he can’t pay for them and anything Tyson gives for free comes out of his pay. It’s--nice. Gabe’s funny and much weirder than his looks make him seem and he laughs a lot at Tyson but he eggs him on, too, banters with him, which is a trait Tyson enjoys in a friend. Also sometimes he tilts his head right and sort of blinds Tyson with his hotness, but that’s an occupational hazard, Tyson thinks.

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” Gabe says one night, after Tyson managed to get his date away after a record twenty minutes. He stares mournfully at his glass like the end of the world is in it. “I’ll never find love.”

Tyson rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure. If someone who looks like you can’t find love, good luck for the rest of us.” He doesn’t have time for Gabe’s self pity today; a big party of post-happy hour crowd just came in and he has to deal with them. He circles back to Gabe a little later; the drink is significantly lower.

“No, you were right,” Gabe tells him. “I don’t go on second dates. It just--no one ever clicks, you know? It’s never...right with someone. Even when it’s fun, there’s no...” he trails off, bringing his fingers together. Tyson rolls his eyes even harder.

“Maybe there’s a reason for that.”

“Yeah, that I’m going to die alone and unloved by anyone except my dog,” Gabe agrees mournfully. “Because something in me doesn’t work for romance.”

“Okay, first off, you’re cut off.” Tyson takes Gabe’s glass as he says that, ignoring Gabe’s offended huff of breath. “No one likes a negative nancy, Gabriel, get it together.”

“I’m together,” Gabe mutters. Tyson ignores that.

“Second of all, you’re not--there’s nothing wrong with you,” Tyson says, because that’s ridiculous. “You’re hot and funny and smart and charming, and people like that. I mean,” he goes on, quickly, “People who are like, looking. And stuff. And don’t mind that you’re also kind of mean and super overdramatic and don’t let innocent bartenders do their job.”

Gabe makes a tragic face. “If I’m really disturbing you, I can go,” he says, reluctant.

“Oh my god, Gabe. That wasn’t the--” Tyson groans, then grabs Gabe’s face, tilts it up so he’ll meet Tyson’s eyes. “There is nothing wrong with you, and you’re totally loveable. That’s not the problem.”

For a second, Gabe just looks at Tyson, his lips pink and just a bit open under his beard, his eyes big and tragic. Tyson doesn’t know if he’s breathing.

Then Gabe swallows, and tugs his face away. “Well something is,” he mutters. “Because I’m here.”

“You want to know what’s wrong?” Tyson asks. Gabe makes an irritated grunt, which Tyson takes to mean ‘no fucking duh.’ “Fine. You always go for the same type of person, and that person is you. And clearly that’s not working, even as vain as you are.”

“What does that mean?” Gabe demands.

“Vain, it means you like to look--”

“Tyson,” Gabe hisses, and Tyson snaps a rag at him in response.

“It means that the kind of person you always bring here is--I don’t know where you’re meeting them, but they’re all a lot like you, like, attractive and polished and kind of boring.”

“I’m not boring!”

“You seem like it, though. And like, if no one was here to make you more interesting, you would be.” Tyson shrugs. “I mean, what do I know, I’m just your friendly neighborhood bartender, but it seems like maybe you need to branch out a bit in who you date. Like, people who aren’t just dateable but are also, you know. People you like to talk to, even if they aren’t in your league.”

Gabe blinks, slowly. His head cock. “Leagues are bullshit,” he says, also slowly. Tyson hadn’t actually thought he was that drunk, but now he’s worried.

“Easy for GWBS to say,” Tyson retorts, “Us people playing in the minors know better.”

Gabe laughs, and it’s, as usual, way too fucking much for Tyson to deal with. Tyson turns away to go see if anyone else needs help so he won’t have to deal with it, but then Gabe’s reaching out, and his hand’s on Tyson’s arm, keeping him there. “Leagues are bullshit, but no way you’re in the minors,” he says, and his earnestness as he looks at Tyson is another thing that’s too fucking much, but this time Tyson can’t look away.

“I--”

“Brutes, stop flirting for tips and do your job, eh?” Comph throws at him, tapping his shoulder as he eases past him. Gabe’s hand’s back at his side, and Tyson can look away, can breathe again.

“I’m, um. Gonna do that,” Tyson says, jerking a thumb at Comph. Gabe’s still looking at him, something thoughtful in his face. “Don’t drive home.”

Gabe hums out an assent. He’s still looking at Tyson when Tyson goes down the bar to help someone else.

///

Tyson doesn’t know how it happens, but somehow all of Gabe’s dates get even worse. Clearly whatever he said to Gabe didn’t work, because suddenly none of them are working out. He comes in with this tall blonde guy who Tyson almost wants to card, and they seem to be laughing a bit until everything goes wrong and Tyson ends up spilling a drink on Gabe; there’s another massive guy who very loudly, in a heavy Russian accent, declares that he’s there because he wants to see how good Gabe is in bed. Gabe goes red, and Tyson manages to get him away with by coming to Gabe with an emergency phone call. He hears Gabe call another guy ‘Naz,’ which Tyson can’t tell if it’s a nickname or not, but there seems to be some dog vs. cat controversy that ends with Tyson and Josty doing their ‘something is wrong with Gabe routine.’

It keeps happening, but Gabe seems less bummed out by it, anyway. He takes it all in good faith, and comes over to the bar and tells Tyson about how bad it was and steals all the bar food. It means he’s there a fair amount, which Tyson isn’t complaining about, even if, like. Maybe he’s getting a little confused. Gabe’s got to have better things to do than hang around a bar after his date is over.

But apparently he doesn’t, and he keeps hanging around and they keep bantering and Tyson’s can’t tell a customer to leave, that’s bad etiquette.

“You’d probably get more work done if he stopped flirting with you, though,” Colin says, not unkindly, when Tyson tells him all this before it’s time for Gabe to come in with his date.

“It’s not my fault if I’m so easy to flirt with,” Tyson retorts, “That’s what keeps you in tip money.”

Colin chuckles. “Sure, but he’s not flirting with Josty,” he points out.

“Maybe I’m more flirty--no, I heard it as I said it,” Tyson says, before Colin can point out that that’s probably not true. “Whatever. He has bad dates, I’m not driving him away.”

“Yeah, that’s why you don’t want him to stop,” Colin replies with an unnecessary amount of sarcasm, because even if he’s the nicest Tyson’s incapable of being friends with someone who isn’t kind of a dick sometimes.

Tonight, Gabe’s date is another tall blonde dude, who’s missing a fair number of teeth, though his confidence doesn’t seem affected by it which makes it almost attractive. Tyson’s sort of fascinated despite himself. And despite the fact that very early in, Gabe’s face starts going panicky, and it just keeps escalating as long as they’re talking.

“It’s something about horses?” Josty reports back to Tyson, after doing a round. “I don’t know, but Gabe’s doing the glass tapping thing.”

As Tyson expected. “Let’s do the whisper,” he tells Josty, and they do. They definitely make eye contact with the guy, and do the best ‘get out while you can’ looks, but the guys just smiles at them and keeps talking.

Okay, fine. Tyson can escalate.

Except--apparently he can’t. An emergency call is met by, “If it’s an emergency why didn’t they call his cell?” which Tyson has no real response to, a water spill is met by “Don’t worry about it, I can help with that,” which gets Gabe to shudder a little at the guy’s almost predatory grin. Tyson pulls out all his tricks, one after the other, and none of them work.

“I think he might have you beat,” Comph says, from where he’s stuck his head out to watch, because Josty is a dirty gossip.

“I will not be beat,” Tyson tells him. He has a reputation to maintain. Also, Gabe’s getting desperate face.

Desperate times, desperate measures. Tyson squares his shoulders, walks over to where Gabe and his date are talking. They both stop talking, look at him--and Tyson grabs Gabe’s face and kisses it. Gabe apparently gets the play fast; he pushes into it, his hand around Tyson’s neck, and it’s all--Gabe’s beard scratches at Tyson’s cheeks and his lips are warm and he’s a good kisser of course he is even when it’s not like, anything not okay for a bar and Tyson maybe made a huge miscalculation here.

Gabe’s hand keeps him there a second longer after Tyson lets him go, then drops, and then it’s just Gabe staring up at Tyson, his mouth a little open. “Tyson?” he breathes, and--he must know the play, he’s good, no one will stay when their date says someone else’s name like that. Tyson’s gaze darts over to the guy--who’s grinning.

“Fucking finally!” he says, clapping a little. “Gabe was running out of people he could call.”

“Um.” Tyson is confused. “I’m confused.”

“Yeah, Gabe said you weren’t the fastest on the uptake, but you got there in the end,” he says, and pats Tyson on the shoulder.

“I’m not fast on the uptake?” he demands of Gabe, then, “Wait. No. Actually. What the actual fuck is happening?”

“Um.” Gabe runs a hand through his hair, looking as sheepish as he had that first night. “This is EJ. He’s a--friend of mine.”

“A friend,” Tyson repeats.

“Nice to meet you,” the guy--EJ--says. He’s still grinning. It’s a little demonic. Tyson thinks that he’d probably likes this guy.

“A friend,” Tyson repeats. “Not a date.”

“Well, that depends--”

“What, exactly, does it depend on, Gabriel?” Tyson asks. He feels like a joke is happening to him and he’s not in on it, and he hates that feeling more than maybe anything. “Because it seems to me like you’re on a date or you’re not, and you were giving me date signals but he--” Tyson jabs a finger at EJ “--is not a date.”

“Oh, I was given strict instructions to go on a date with Gabe,” EJ says. Gabe looks like he wants to clap a hand over EJ’s mouth, but Gabe’s time for talking is over. “A very bad one. I think I managed it pretty well.”

“You--had him go on a bad date with you?” Tyson repeats, staring at Gabe. “Is that--I thought that cat versus dog thing seemed made up!”

“No, Naz really thinks cats are better, I don’t get it,” Gabe says, a little hopeful, like he wants to distract Tyson into that argument.

“That’s not even a little--what the fuck, Landeskog?”

“I’ll leave you two crazy kids to it,” EJ stands up, pats Tyson on the shoulder again. “Get him, tiger,” he tells Gabe, then heads to the bar. Tyson can just see Josty hand him a beer before he stops paying attention to that.

“What the fuck?” he repeats. “Have you been--why have you been getting your friends to come on bad dates with you? Has it all been just like, some weird performance art where you see if people will humiliate themselves for you? Are there like, cameras here, or--”

“What? No. No, it’s not--” Gabe’s hands on Tyson’s arm again, but it’s a lot less awesome now. “No, Tyson, it’s nothing like that.”

“Then why?” Tyson demands again.

“Because--fuck, it gave me an excuse to talk to you,” Gabe says. Tyson can feel his eyebrows shoot up fast enough he’s a little afraid he’ll lose them.

“Excuse me?”

“I have a bad date, you help me, we hang it, it’s our thing, right?” Gabe says.

“You know you’re allowed to just come into a bar, right?” Tyson asks. “And like, talk to me? That’s a thing you can do?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t just want to talk,” Gabe retorts, fast. his cheeks are sort of red.

Tyson take a second, but he thinks he might get what’s going on here. It doesn’t make him any less confused. “So you got your friends to pretend to go on bad dates with you so you could flirt with me?” Gabe’s definitely red, but he doesn’t deny it. “Instead of, I don’t know--asking me out?”

“I can’t ask you out at your place of work!” Gabe protests. “That’s not okay.”

“But this whole thing is?” Tyson’s voice squeaks a little at the end. He thinks he might carry it off, though.

“I wasn’t sure--god, Tyson, you were cute and smart and funny and hanging out with you was the best part of any date, but you had to make the first move.” Gabe’s giving Tyson big eyes, like that’ll help Tyson understand. It is, annoyingly, a little convincing. Also, the compliments are probably helping too. “It’d be creepy otherwise, but I needed an excuse to keep coming in. And then EJ decided he wanted to escalate to see what you’d do, because he’s an asshole.”

“Let’s watch who we’re calling assholes when we’ve just been caught red handed, eh?” Tyson suggests, and Gabe snorts and shakes his head.

“Okay, but you’ll see, EJ really is an asshole.” His face changes, then, softens. “I really didn’t--I just wanted to figure out how you felt before I did something creepy, that’s all.”

“And this is what you came up with?” Tyson waves a hand at the bar. But--Gabe is looking sheepish but he’s still so hot, and Tyson remembers how he felt kissing him, and Tyson just really does like him a lot. And also, “You are really lucky I like shenanigans,” Tyson informs him, and Gabe perks up like a dog hearing someone bring out the food bowl, and takes a step closer. “Also that I’m into relationships where I’m not the only one who’s a mess.”

“I’m not a mess,” Gabe protests, but he’s smiling bigger than Tyson’s seen.

“Trust me, I’m an expert on messes and I’ve seen you try to date, you really are,” Tyson informs him. Gabe’s still just looking at him, all intense and shit, and so Tyson keeps talking. “And you are taking me on a date that isn’t here. I know it’ll be hard to branch out, but I believe you can manage--”

“Yes. When?” Gabe asks, cutting Tyson off, and Tyson gulps down air. So. That’s happening.

“He doesn’t work tomorrow,” Josty inserts from the bar.

“What a coincidence, Gabe’s free tomorrow evening too,” EJ says.

“Tomorrow, then?” Gabe asks. He’s grinning a little wryly, like he understands that this whole thing is ridiculous, but also like he’s having fun with it. He really does break the scale, Tyson thinks, only a little annoyed.

“Anywhere but here. And I know your tricks to get out of bad dates, so--”

“No escaping this time.”

“You know, I think that sounds more like a threat than you want going into a date,” Tyson starts, and Gabe’s laugh cuts him off, but, yeah. He doesn’t think it’s going to be a bad date either.

#my fic #avs fic #leafs fic #tyson/gabe #avs tumblr fic #Tyson gets traded and I write a fic with exclusively avs supporting characters #whatever its fic i refuse to conform to these new characters #if Gabe can do shenanigans so can I #(also wow this got long sorry)#Anonymous #izzy answers

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mobius-prime · 5 years ago

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226. Sonic the Hedgehog #158

System Reconfiguration

Writer: Ken Penders Pencils: Ron Lim Colors: Josh & Aimee Ray

Things are looking pretty bad for ol' Eggy right now. Not only is M not responding to his commands, neither is A.D.A.M. who remains totally silent, meaning that whoever has sent the army of Metal Sonics after him (he suspects it to be Snively due to his betrayal the other issue) has hacked the systems of both of his personal assistants. Luckily, he has a contingency up his sleeve in the form of a remote control that Star-Trek-technobabbles the two back to normal. M punches some of the attacking Metal Sonics away from her "father" and they both run from the carnage. M takes Eggman to where she's stored his own Metal Sonic as well as the unconscious Shadow from before. They take a shuttle away from the place before any more robotic assassins can come after him, leaving Sonic and Rotor to handle the situation alone.

The Metal Sonics, strangely enough, seem totally uninterested in attacking Sonic and Rotor after recognizing the former as the person they're modeled after, so the two organic beings take their chance to run away, taking the same egg pod that brought them here back to Knothole. The Metal Sonics, witnessing their escape, decide not to give chase but rather to split up into several metal whirlwinds that spread out through the wilderness in search of Eggman, whom they're apparently programmed to destroy. Eggman himself, however, has safely ensconced himself in a new secure room, and as M downloads some files for him, Shadow awakens furious and confused as to where he is. Eggman immediately adopts an attitude of caring deeply about Shadow as part of his "family," given that Professor Gerald was his creator, pretending to be deeply affected by the events of the past when GUN shut down Gerald's project and killed Maria. Interestingly, he refers to Maria as his half-sister and states he was an infant when all this went down, but neither of these things are true, as Maria and he were merely cousins and Eggman wasn't even born yet when she died. I'm gonna chalk this up to Penders, yet again, simply not caring enough to familiarize himself with the canon established by the games, because Ian Flynn later "clarified" (read: retconned) that he was 100% lying here, ostensibly to make his and Shadow's "losses" seem more personal and connected to each other.

Oh come on, Shadow, don't listen to him! No matter what canon it is, he always ends up using you and trying to get in your head! Meanwhile in Knothole, Uncle Chuck calls Sonic, Rotor, and Elias down to a secret lab in a sealed-off lower portion of the castle, and explains that he and Rotor are actually somewhat responsible for what's going on here. Oh boy…

All right, Uncle Chuck, I'm gonna say this is one of your less-good plans. I can't imagine how creepy it would have been if those things had actually gone into service, and suddenly everyone had to watch their dead hero multiplied by a hundred fighting his old foe in robot form with no explanation. I mean, how surreal and upsetting would that have been for his parents and closest friends in particular, to constantly see the face of the one they so cared for copy-and-pasted onto the army of robots now coldly hunting down their foe? *shudder* Uncle Chuck at least did include a failsafe in the form of a button to shut them all down if they went berserk, but predictably, pressing this button does nothing, and one of the Metal Sonic tornadoes continues on its trajectory towards Knothole. Shadow, watching on Eggman's monitor, notices that the whirlwind is headed straight for Hope's house, but as Eggman seems more concerned with the fact that he's not the one in control of the Metal Sonics, Shadow immediately races out to intercept the swarm before it can hurt Hope, at the same time that Sonic himself does.

Oh yeah, this is another one of those weird things about Shadow in the comics versus the games - he doesn't understand the extent of his own Chaos powers. He knows he can perform Chaos Control when in possession of an emerald, but apparently doesn't know that he can use more limited forms of his powers even without one. Shadow heads inside the hut to check on Hope, and Sonic arrives on scene just in time for the majority of the Metal Sonics to head out, leaving only two behind. He begins fighting those two, who strangely no longer seem reluctant to fight him, while his parents, unaware of the danger, discuss things in their own house. Bernie is upset that they let him go off with Eggman, feeling it's their job to protect him as their parents, but Jules disagrees, thinking that Sonic by now has more than enough experience in battle to justify letting him do whatever he feels is necessary in the war, pointing out that when they last knew him before being roboticized he was merely a toddler, but he's all grown up now. Suddenly Knothole's alarm system begins wailing, and they both head outside to see the Metal Sonic whirlwind coming straight for two terrified children, whom Jules grabs out of the way in time. The entire populace begins filing into the castle for safety, and Elias discusses what will happen if their home falls, something Sally can't believe will happen. Sonic and Shadow, meanwhile, are still struggling with the two in Hope's house, trying to protect Rosie and Hope both from them, and when Sonic smashes one, it flies to the side and strikes Hope in the head.

I mean, a bit overkill there Shadow, but given he's still suffering from some serious trauma from Maria's death in the past, I suppose we can forgive him for it.

#nala reads archie sonic preboot #archie sonic #archie sonic preboot #sonic the hedgehog #sth 158 #writer: ken penders #pencils: ron lim #colors: joshua d ray #colors: aimee r ray

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unpack-my-heart · 6 years ago

Text

Unpack My Heart With Words

Read on AO3 HERE

@violetreddie @constantreaderfool @xandertheundead @tinyarmedtrex @eds-trashmouth @mrs-vh

Chapter Six: Thus of every grief in heart he with thee doth bear a part

From: Unknown Number:

How dare you make me worry about you.

The phone, sat on his chest, burns a hole straight down to Richie’s rapidly thumping heart. The messages, from an ostensibly unknown number, were imprinted on the inside of Richie’s eyelids.

blink – how dare you make me worry about you – blink – today was a fucking disaster – blink – how dare you make me worry about you – blink – make me worry about you – blink – worry about you

There was no question as to who sent those texts, and Richie could practically hear Eddie’s snotty tone ringing in his ears.

“You didn’t text me when you got in, you said you’d text me and let me know you’re safe but you didn’t”

“Eds, baby, I’m sorry, I forgot”

“I was fucking worried, Richie”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry”

“It’s not fair of you to make me worry like that”

“Baby, you’re killing me, I’m sorry”

“How dare you make me worry about you”

The familiar words burrowed deep into Richie’s gut.

To: Unknown Number:

Eds?

From: Unknown Number:

It’s Eddie. Where were you?

To: Eds:

trying not to vomit soz will b there on Mon

From: Eds:

Good. Feel better.

Richie doesn’t sleep at all that night.

– X –

The morning after the night before isn’t a rehearsal day. They have every Sunday off. Richie silently thanks a God he doesn’t believe in that he doesn’t have to face Eddie for another twenty-four hours. That gives him time to prepare, to try to school himself out of feeling too much. It doesn’t work, because as soon as Working for the Weekend starts pumping out of his speakers Richie is nearly sick into his cereal as he remembers leaping around his shitty little flat with Eddie, drunks as skunks on shitty three pound cider and a whole lotta love.

He decides to walk it off. Like a stomach ache. Or a cramp.

Richie aimlessly wanders the streets, scarf wrapped tightly around his neck like a dormant boa constrictor, pressing just firmly enough so that the constant pressure against his throat reminds him that he’s alive. His hands are numb. He can’t feel his heart.

Eddie had always hated the cold. He’d bitched and moaned when Richie dragged him out into the January cold, hats jammed on heads and clasped hands buried in coat pockets. Richie always laughed as Eddie’s nose always turned bright red, where it poked out above his scarf. A red scarf with a large black check. Soft. Always smelt like soft cotton. Sandalwood. Eddie.

Richie adjusted the red scarf around his neck. It was practically threadbare.

Richie used to love the cold. The kiss of the frost, the sparkling of the black ice on the road. The puffs of air when Eddie spoke, spiralling into the air. Dancing on the wind that bit at their noses, ears, eyelashes. Eddie would always huddle into him, a penguin seeking shelter from arctic gales. Richie would welcome him in with open arms. He’d let Eddie gut him, and sleep inside his still-steaming carcass for warmth, if he’d asked.

Perhaps he still would.

Richie walks until he finds himself in the park that sits on the outskirts of the city. The plush grass is still wet from the morning’s rain. Trees litter the border, and people scurry across the surface like ants, ever busy. Richie stands and stares at them, cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t bother to try and catch it when it falls, cherry red fading to inky, dull black.

A bizarrely familiar figure crosses the park.

The figure walks across the field, holding tightly to a lead attached to a large black Labrador that bounds next to them. The stilted, harsh lines of the figure remind Richie of late nights and early mornings, of running through London with fire in his veins.

The closer the figure gets the more familiar he looks, until he’s stood right in front of Richie and of course it’s Eddie.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Uh – yeah. Yeah I feel alright now, Eds, don’t you worry about me”

“How many times am I going to have to tell you not to call me that before you listen to me?” Eddie huffs.

“Oh, infinity and one more time, Eds. Infinity and one”

“Were you really sick?”

“Something like that”

“Are you going to tell me the truth?”

“Probably not”

“He likes you”

Richie glances up at Eddie, from where he’s crouched on the floor scratching the Labrador’s ears.

“Lots of people like me”

“He doesn’t normally like strangers”

“I guess he knows I’m not a stranger”

Richie watches Eddie close his eyes.

“Are you not?”

“No”

“I haven’t seen you for over a decade”

“Doesn’t mean I’m a stranger”

“I wish you were a stranger”

“I know”

“I wish you weren’t my Hamlet”

“Do you really?”

A pause.

“No, not really”

“It’s really great to see you again, Eds. I missed you”

“I – Yeah. You too, Rich”

Richie watches Eddie walk away.

– X –

“Jesus Christ, woman! I do have ribs you know. I am not, in fact, an invertebrate”

“Coulda fooled me”

“Wh–what?”

“I have no idea. Now shut up, I gotta adjust your inseam”

The costume department of the RSC was a jungle of dresses, powdered wigs, crowns, swords, handkerchiefs, and, of course, a large Papier Mache donkey’s head hanging from the ceiling attached to thin wires. Richie was standing on a rickety wooden chair, balanced precariously whilst Beverly Marsh, head of costume, poked and prodded at him.

“I need to take around 50 measurements, Rich, so you gotta stay still for me so we can work as quickly as possible. I’ve got to do the first fitting of Mike’s dress later, and god knows how long it’ll take me to pin the corset around his waist”

“Bev?”

“Hmm?” Bev responded absently, pins sticking out of her mouth. Brave.

“You were in my year at RADA, right?”

“Yup”

“Do you remember Eddie?”

“Sort of. I was only in one class with him, and I dropped out of that to take more costume classes but – Motherfucker! Leather really is the most annoying fabric to work with, I swear to God, why did Eddie have to decide that this damn production needed you to be wearing skin-tight leather fucking trousers”

“We both know why he made that decision, Miss Marsh, have you seen my ass”

Bev stepped backwards, bringing her hand up to stroke her chin pensively as she stared at Richie’s leather-clad ass.

“So?” Richie prompted, waggling his ass at Bev as much as the constricting leather would allow.

“Yeahhhh,” Bev drawled, still stroking her chin, “I still don’t get it”

“You’re a fucking liar, my ass is great. Eds says that – I mean, Eddie used to say that – Aw, fuck”

Bev patted Richie’s arm comfortingly, helping him down off the chair.

“D’ya wanna grab a smoke?”

“Aw, Dahlin’, I thought you’d never ask”

Bev helped Richie shuck off the tight leather trousers, and they walked out into the biting November cold. Leaning against the wall, they puffed on their cigarettes in silence, listening to the wind whip around the walls.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Richie instantly knows what Bev means. She wants him to tell her about why he didn’t show up yesterday.

“About what?”

He’s not going to tell her if she doesn’t work for it.

“You know exactly what, why didn’t you show yesterday?” Bev responds, sharp as a knife but her words don’t slice at Richie’s skin.

“Red, we both know that you know exactly what happened yesterday” Richie deadpans, flicking the cigarette butt into the gutter. Bev offers him another one, but he declines with one sharp shake of his head.

“Do you still love him?”

“Aw, hell. What kind of a question is that?”

“The questioning kind”

“I haven’t seen him for fourteen years”

“And?”

“He left me”

“And?”

“He left me! He walked away. He made it pretty fucking clear he didn’t want me anymore”

Bev hums, flicking her own cigarette into the gutter. It lands next to Richie’s.

“He wrote to you, though?”

“He did”

“Did you ever respond?”

Richie stares at Bev with tired, don’t push it eyes. She doesn’t push it.

– X –

The door to the office was closed, and three minutes had passed since Richie was supposed to knock.

Three minutes, twenty-four seconds …

Eddie was waiting for him on the other side of the door. The days rehearsal had gone pretty well. He’d worked on the ‘get thee to a nunnery!’ scene with Mike, which had gone unexpectedly well. Mike Hanlon, it seemed, was an absolute tour-de-force and his Ophelia was heartbreakingly sympathetic. A rather large part of Richie’s brain was ecstatic that he’d have someone so technically skilled to bounce off of, but a small, nasty part of Richie’s brain was worried that Ophelia would steal the show. He’d have to work on that.

Three minutes, fifty-five seconds …

Richie still hasn’t knocked on the door. He nearly has, twice. He has raised his clenched hand to the door twice, and twice he has lowered it again without making contact.

Four minutes, three seconds …

Perhaps he will never knock.

Four minutes, fifty-nine seconds …

Perhaps he is locked in a cyclical system of nearly-knocking-but-never-knocking.

Five minutes …

The door swung open.

“Richie?”

Where the closed door once was, Eddie was now standing, hands on his hips, confusion imprinted onto his brow.

“Are you okay?”

“Uh – Yeah, yeah, sorry, I was just about to knock”

“You’ve been stood out here for five minutes”

“How did you know?”

“I could see your shadow under the door”

“Ah. Well, I was just about to knock, though, honest”

The ghost of a smile chased its way across Eddie’s face, left to right, until it had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. His eyes remained brighter, though, stars reflected onto the irises. Eddie stood to the side, motioning for Richie to walk into the office. Richie slunk into the room, standing awkwardly in the corner as Eddie rounded the desk and sat down behind it.

“Whatcha wanna see me about, then?”

“I just wanted to talk to you about your no show on Saturday. You don’t have to tell me the reason you didn’t turn up, I understand that we are all complex life forms and some of us are more complex than others, but –”

A disbelieving snort forced its way out of Richie’s nose before he could stop it.

“Problem?” Eddie challenged, crossing his arms across his chest defensively.

“Nope. No problem, not at all”

“Richard”

“Edward”

“Can we – can we not play these stupid games? I thought we’d be more mature than this, that we’d be able to get past all this animosity and act like adults. We have a job to do. You have a job to do. Please fucking act like it”

Richie blinked.

“Sorry, Eddie”

“It’s okay, Rich. I’m just – you really screwed us over on Saturday. I had to get Bowers to stand in,” Eddie stopped talking to scrub his fists into his eye-sockets, before continuing, “and he’s … he can’t do it properly. He’s not – You do it…”

Richie blinked again.

“You can’t just not show up. You can’t do that to me, to us” Eddie implored, eyes and eyebrows earnest as ever.

“I won’t, I won’t do it again, Eds, I promise”

From his current position, standing in the corner of the small office like a spare part, Richie thought that Eddie looked awfully small. He’d always been small, of course, a tiny firecracker threatening to explode in your hands and burn off your fingerprints, but this Eddie was not that Eddie. Past Eddie, Richie’s Eddie, didn’t have these eyes that looked permanently punched by tiredness, frown lines etched into his forehead, or shoulders that dropped when he thought no-one was looking. This Eddie, not-Richie’s-Eddie, made Richie’s heart thump with something past-compassion and not-quite-yearning. Sitting behind the desk was a black sweater clad, fully formed human being that Richie didn’t recognise, with glasses and wrinkles and a slightly wonky front left canine. It wasn’t wonky when Richie had known him, when he’d been Richie’s-Eddie, he’d have known, he’d stared at the sun in Eddie’s smile that many times.

Richie wanted to ask Eddie why his tooth was wonky, and why the skin around his nailbeds was red and raw, but he didn’t.

“S’that all?” is what Richie said instead, rubbing at his left bicep furiously, scratching a phantom-itch.

“Yeah, yeah, you can go. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Good work today. You work excellently with Mike”

Richie wanted to take advantage of this seemingly unguarded Eddie, sit down in the uncomfortable looking chair and rip his still beating heart out of his chest and serve it to Eddie on a platter.

Why did you leave me?

But he didn’t. Instead he waved his fingers at Eddie, an aborted attempt at a wave, and left the room.

– X –

Hamlet and Horatio haven’t spoken for fourteen years. Richie hasn’t spoken to Stan for fourteen years, and he can’t remember how to talk to his former-best-friend without causing him to roll his eyes. What makes this worse is that the pit of jealousy in Richie’s stomach grows ever stronger each time Stan stays behind after rehearsal for one-to-one sessions with Eddie.

Richie has never had a one-to-one session with Eddie. He knows he’s going to have a one-to-one session, to work on the various soliloquys. He knows this, and yet his gut still twists angrily every time Eddie dismisses them for the day, and Stan follows him back into his office. Smiling. Eddie smiles when he looks at Stan, but his mouth only twitches when he looks at Richie. It’s not a smile. It’s more like a grimace, but not quite as heated.

It all explodes before Richie realises he’d detonated.

“Why are you giving Horatio more attention than me? I’m supposed to be the lead!”

Richie holds his breath.

The rest of the cast filter out of the rehearsal space like liquid.

“Pardon?”

“I mean – I guess – No, you know what, I’m confused. I’m supposed to be the lead, and we’ve been rehearsing for nearly two weeks and we haven’t worked on my soliloquys yet”

Stan rolls his eyes. Richie wants to scream.

“Stop being a fucking child, Richie”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re the lead. We all know this, it’s not like we’ve forgotten, but that doesn’t mean that this whole production revolves around you”

“I just thought that–”

Stan strides over to where Richie was standing, and stands toe to toe with him. Faces close, breath mingling. They were close enough that Stan could headbutt him right now, if he wanted to. Richie doesn’t think he would.

“You don’t have a claim to his time anymore, Rich” Stan whispers, and it’s kind, his voice is kind and soft but the words burn through Richie’s skin like acid.

Richie steps backwards, burnt.

“Woah, woah woah, Stanely the fucking Manly, I never said anything about that, this is purely professional”

“Is it?”

“Yes!”

“It doesn’t look very professional”

“Well it is!”

Neither of them say anything, just look at each other. Waiting for the other to strike.

– X –

The sky is mottled with stars. Stan’s humming a song that Richie doesn’t recognise as they lie on the grass out the back of Richie’s apartment building.

“You’re my best friend, you know”

“Aw, is this soft hours with Stan?”

Stan huffs out a laugh and smacks Richie on the stomach.

“Yeah, yeah it fuckin’ is”

“You’re my best friend, too” Richie replies, honest as the day is long.

They don’t say anything else. They don’t have to.

– X –

“What happened to us?” Richie asks, not wanting to hear the answer that he’s sure Stan is going to give him, anyway.

“There hasn’t been an ‘us’ since you ignored me when Eddie left,” Stan replies, eyes downcast, “I missed you, Rich, I rang you for two fucking years, of course I missed you. But this petulant child isn’t you. You need to sort it out. You can’t draw him in when you’re pushing everyone else out”

Only then does Richie remember that Eddie has been in the room the entire time, that Eddie has heard everything.

#reddie #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #Richie Tozier x Eddie Kaspbrak #hamlet au #theatre au #thefutureisbright #ao3 #unpack my heart with words #unpack my heart

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anubislover · 5 years ago

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Welcome to the Heart Pirates, Nami-ya Chapter 4: Citrus in the Sun

“So, tell me about your old captain.”

Nami looked up from the shirt she was altering to pay attention to her roommate. In just a month, she and Ikkaku had bonded splendidly, the engineer offering up her limited wardrobe to the navigator, even if the curly-haired beauty was much taller and not as well-endowed. Luckily, she gave Nami full permission to tailor a few of her old shirts to fit on the promise that they go shopping together after the next job. Law said he had something big planned, and everyone was eager to gain a little extra spending money.

“Old captain?”

Chin resting on her fist, the brunette grinned at her. “Yeah. I didn’t exactly get to talk to him, what with the life-threatening injuries and him grieving for his brother, but we’re all curious about Straw Hat. I mean, I can’t even imagine a guy crazy enough to punch a Celestial Dragon over a Fishman.”

It annoyed her slightly that, despite her repeated insistence that her position as their shipmate was temporary, the Heart Pirates treated her like she was fully part of their crew. They meant well, but it raised her hackles when they acted as if she was no longer a Straw Hat. “Luffy’s an odd one, that’s for sure. I guess the best way to describe him is pure and straightforward.”

Ikkaku wrinkled her nose. “‘Pure?’ Weird description for a pirate.”

“Yeah, it is, but I don’t mean in the sense that he’s all goodness and rainbows. He’s just…his wants and needs are uncomplicated. He loves his nakama, his dream is to be King of the Pirates, and he doesn’t care about your past—just how you act in the present. It’s the reason I choose to sail with him; normally, I hate pirates.”

“Why?”

Pursing her lips, Nami considered just how much to tell her new friend. The tattoo artist was fun and friendly and kind, but she wasn’t nakama. So, she settled on the essential details that hopefully wouldn’t invite more questions. “My mother was murdered by pirates, and they held my town hostage for years.”

Sympathy lined her face, mouth turning down at the corners. “I’m guessing the Marines didn’t do shit to help you.”

“A few tried but got killed for their efforts. Mostly, they were bribed to look the other way.”

“That sucks. I’m really sorry.” The words were simple but sincere, and it brought a small, appreciative smile to the navigator’s face.

“It’s in the past. Thanks to Luffy, everyone on the island is free and happy, and I’m out on the sea fulfilling my dream. He’s reckless and stupid and I’m pretty sure I’m going to get wrinkles before my time because of him, but I couldn’t ask for a better captain. I just have to make the most of these next two years so I’ll be strong enough to guide him through the New World.”

Ikkaku’s mouth twisted like she wanted to argue but held herself back. “Well, I’m glad he helped you out—otherwise, you’d still be stuck in that village, and we never would have met!” she said with a grin.

You have no idea, Nami thought to herself, standing up to slip on the now cropped button-down T-shirt. It was a bit tight at the top, necessitating the top three buttons remain open, but the pink and white plaid was super cute, and with her modifications it nicely accentuated her trim waist and ample bust. “How’d you end up on this ship, anyway?” she asked, hoping to change the subject.

Grabbing her bandana, Ikkaku playfully bumped her hip as they left the room. “Captain found me in a shit port town when the Polar Tang needed repairs. My boss at the time insisted the whole engine was about to fall apart and would need to be completely replaced. It was actually only a few parts, and I told him so. Boss was furious and sacked my ass, but Captain Law told me if I could fix it as easily as I said, he’d hire me on the spot. By the next day, I was officially a pirate.”

“What, so he didn’t just decide ‘she’s my engineer. I found her, so she’s mine’?” Nami asked, head tilted to the side in confusion.

“No, why would he?”

“Eh, Luffy just always seems to recruit people that way. No matter how you try to argue, once he decides you’re part of his crew, you’re done.”

“Not gonna lie, that actually sounds like a pretty pirate-like recruitment system.”

“Right? I think Brooke’s the only one who actually asked to join up—the rest of us were basically shanghaied.”

The two shared a hearty laugh as they parted ways, Ikkaku making her way to the engine room to oversee some maintenance, while Nami headed topside, determined to enjoy some fresh air. Shachi and Penguin had initially been reluctant to surface—they’d switched out the sub’s air earlier in the week and had no real need to do it again so soon—but she’d gone over their heads and appealed to Law, arguing that the last few times they’d done so, the weather had either been miserable, or they had to submerge again prematurely due to sighting a Navy ship. It was driving her bonkers, and Bepo was especially suffering. Luckily, the doctor had easily agreed, apparently considering the navigators’ comfort important enough to excuse the minor inconvenience.

Pushing open the steel door, she breathed in deeply, relishing the familiar scent of the sea and wind. It was a beautiful, sunny day and the crew was taking it as the perfect opportunity to decompress, both literally and figuratively. Bepo was particularly appreciative of the reprieve from the stuffy hull, having taken all the charts and maps onto the deck to work on. Sprawled on his belly, he carefully sketched out an island’s details like Nami had instructed, though it was clear from the way his eyelids kept drifting shut he was close to falling asleep. Meanwhile, Law lounged against him, head tilted back to absorb as much vitamin D as he could, fuzzy hat nowhere to be found. There was just enough of a breeze to keep Bepo’s fur from becoming uncomfortably hot, allowing the captain to fully enjoy this rare moment of relaxation.

The click of her heels against the metal deck woke him from a light doze, and he spared the Cat Thief a grin, nodding to the spot next to him against the bear. “Care to join us, Nami-ya?”

It never failed to surprise her whenever she caught Law using his navigator as a pillow. Though she’d finally accepted that, around his crew at least, there was more to the man than the sadistic monster the World Government made him out to be, it was still weird to see him do something so (dare she say it?) cute.

White teeth sank into her plump bottom lip as she considered his offer. On one hand, she enjoyed Bepo’s company; he was friendly, always grateful for her help, and so incredibly comfy she found herself wishing she could lay on him instead of her bed some nights. On the other hand, she’d have to sit next to Law. When there was work to be done, like plotting courses or planning supply runs, he maintained a respectful distance, treating her in a similar manner to his professionalism in the infirmary. But during downtown like this, she’d feel his sharp eyes lingering on her, his expression calculating before morphing into a lazy smirk once he realized she’d caught him. It put her on edge, not just because he was a dangerous man, but because his gaze never failed to ignite a small fire in her lower belly. She did her best to brush it off, reminding herself that, attractive though he may be, he was Luffy’s rival, his intentions towards her were still unknown, she didn’t mix business with pleasure, and no man was worth risking the safety of her nakama for.

Too bad none of that stopped the warm tingles of lust that sparked at his come-hither smirk or ostensibly innocent touches.

Sensing her reluctance, the surgeon pulled out his trump card; a small basket of ripe mikans. “Care for one? The cook got these on the last island, but said if they’re not eaten soon, they’ll go bad. I’d hate to see them go to waste.”

A sudden burst of homesickness washed over her; not just for Cocoyashi, but for her mikan grove aboard the Sunny. Unconsciously, her feet moved forward, and she soon found herself snuggled up against Bepo, the rough denim of Law’s jeans brushing against her bare leg; he’d moved little more than an inch to grant her room, not even bothering to hide the way his eyes trailed along the pale skin of her thighs exposed by her white shorts. Her own eyes narrowed in annoyance, but it quickly dissipated as he handed her the bright orange fruit.

“Eat up, Nami-ya; an apple a day keeps the doctor away,” Law chuckled before going back to sunning himself, a victorious smirk lifting the corner of his lip.

As much as she wanted to be aggravated at his teasing, the citrus scent tickled her nose enticingly as she instinctively began peeling the mikan. Mouth watering at the deliciously familiar smell, she licked her lips in anticipation before biting into a succulent slice.

She was in heaven the second the juices hit her tongue; the mikan was perfectly ripe, with a fresh tang that balanced out the sweetness beautifully. The cook was absolutely correct when he said they needed to be eaten now. Even a day later and they’d begin going over-ripe and soft, becoming saccharine and not as pleasant to eat. A little moan escaped her as the bits of flesh burst between her teeth, crewing carefully to savor every last moment.

A low laugh in her ear broke her from her mikan nirvana. “Sounds like you’re enjoying that, Nami-ya,” Law whispered suggestively, reaching over to boldly steal a slice.

Hot red spread across her cheeks as she tried to smack his hand away, but he was too quick. Not that it would have really stopped him; another thing she’d learned was that he wasn’t above using his powers for petty, inconsequential reasons, especially when he was in a playful mood. She’d seen him move his crew’s tools around, switch sugar for salt, and a few other things that were surprisingly juvenile. Part of her wanted to roll her eyes, but another part was mildly comforted by it; it was similar to how Luffy would use his Gomu Gomu abilities to steal food from the other side of the table or swing around the ship. Such frivolity painted a slightly lighter picture of the infamous Surgeon of Death.

“Hey Nami!” Shachi called as he practically skipped over, Penguin in tow. Despite the initial reluctance to surface, both seemed more chipper now that they were above water, the beautiful day doing its job. “Enjoying yourself?”

She shrugged, managing to force down her blush and replacing it with a carefree grin. “I’ve got sunshine, mikans, and Bepo as a pillow, so the day’s off to a good start.”

“Hey, I was wondering if you could clear up a rumor for me,” Penguin began, eyeing the fruit. “Do you really have mikan trees on your ship?”

Popping another slice in her mouth, she chirped, “Yup! They’re from my family’s mikan grove. I know it sounds odd, but it’s extremely beneficial; I get to carry a little piece of home with me wherever I go, and the crew has a ready supply of fruit so we’re safe from scurvy, vitamin deficiencies, and colds. It’s a struggle keeping Luffy from eating them all, but Sanji-kun’s developed at least sixteen different mikan dishes for me.” A frown tugged at her lips, both at the memory and a sudden thought. “I wonder if anyone’s caring for them now. They might all be dead by the time I get back.”

Though the sun shone brightly, the men could tell her mood had darkened. Clearing his throat, Shachi said, “I’m sure someone’s looking after them! What about that mermaid and octopus guy? Considering Straw Hat saved them from slavery, it’s the least they can do, right?”

Bepo was quick to chime in behind her, “Sabaody’s weather is consistently tropical, so I’m sure they’ll at least get watered. You’ll probably just have some pruning and stuff to do when you get back.”

The possibility that her trees might survive lifted her spirits a bit, and Penguin added, “Honestly, I’m kind of jealous. Wish we could have an orchard on the sub!”

Even though it was obviously just a ploy to distract her from melancholy thoughts, Nami was grateful. Rubbing her chin, she said, “Well, I doubt you could fit any trees, but maybe you could set up a greenhouse and garden? With how hot and steamy it gets in some of the rooms, you could potentially make a biodome and grow tropical plants.”

“That’s a good idea.” Scratching his muzzle, Bepo continued, “The engineering team has been developing some lights that simulate sunlight. Captain ordered it because when we’re underwater too long, the lack of sun causes some of the crew to get depressed, kind of like Seasonal Affective Disorder.”

Nami hummed thoughtfully. No wonder convincing him to surface had been so easy. “I can imagine. My body’s still adjusting to the lack of discernable day and night down there.”

Penguin nodded in agreement. “It’s easier when you’re from more wintery islands; we’re already used to days with less sunlight. Still, I’m liking the garden idea. Plants would supply more oxygen. We wouldn’t have to come up to switch out the air as often.”

“What?” the Mink said, panicking. “I take it back; it’s a bad idea! I don’t want to be stuck in the stuffy sub for longer!”

“Quit being such a baby!” Shachi scolded as Penguin rolled his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he replied, a dark cloud of gloom surrounding him.

“I’m with Bepo,” Nami defended, reaching behind her to scratch behind his ear comfortingly. “Even with the plants recycling the CO2, your ship gets hot and claustrophobic. You may be used to it, but I sure as hell get stir-crazy after only a few days. You’re lucky I didn’t hijack the helm and bring us topside earlier.”

The two men shuffled their feet, contrite. “Sorry, Nami.”

Pleased to see the duo had been brought to heel, the beautiful navigator bit down on another piece of fruit, sucking at the juices gently. Movement out of the corner of her eye captured her attention; she’d nearly forgotten Law was there, as he’d stayed quiet throughout the conversation, but gold eyes now bore into her. The heat of his stare trailed down to where the sliver of mikan dangled past her lips, and Nami swallowed harshly. He looked…hungry, and not for the tangy fruit.

“I think a garden could be extremely beneficial,” he finally drawled. “I certainly wouldn’t complain about having fresh medicinal herbs at my disposal. We can clear out one of the storage rooms, maybe install some extra windows and sprinklers. It’s a clever idea.” Taking another mikan slice from her unresisting hand, he bit into it, tongue running along his lips to catch the juices. Hearing her breath catch slightly at the action, he smirked, honey eyes hooded and pleased. “I knew I was right to recruit you.”

Scoffing to hide her discomfort, she looked away. “Well, you’ve only got eleven months left to take advantage of my brilliance. After that, you’ll have to figure things out for yourself again.”

“Oh, don’t worry; I’ve got plenty of ideas on how to make the most of our time together.” He turned back to his oldest friends. “Why don’t you two run down and tell the engineering team about Nami-ya’s suggestion? I’m want them to start planning as soon as possible.”

“Yes sir!”

As the pair scurried off, Bepo let out a mighty yawn, and a few minutes later began softly snoring. It was no surprise; the sun had grown much warmer as they’d talked, and napping was the bear’s default method of dealing with the heat. Law chuckled before pulling off his hoodie, revealing a tight, black tank top.

Much as Nami wanted to ignore the sudden excess of skin, her eyes lingered on the scrolling tattoos across his arms and chest. She knew he had more than the ones normally exposed on his hands and forearms, but she hadn’t expected them to take up most of his chest and biceps. Nor had she expected the design; when Ikkaku had said she’d tattooed hearts on him, she’d expected something more anatomically correct, possibly with the individual parts labeled like in a medical textbook. Instead, they were bold, intricate, had an almost primal beauty, and were vaguely familiar.

“See something you like, Nami-ya?” he asked, preening at her rapt attention.

“Your tattoos just…my sister has a similar design.” Remembering the day Nojiko had come home with the swirling, indigo pattern made her smile. She’d been horrified at the time, but it was a touching act of solidarity on her older sister’s part, making her feel slightly better about the horrid Jolly Roger branded on her shoulder.

Law blinked, surprised at the answer. “Is she a pirate, too?”

“No, she’s back home taking care of Bellmere’s mikan grove.”

“And that’s in Cocoyashi, right? In the East Blue?”

“Yeah, so?”

One shoulder lifted in a nonchalant shrug, though his grin had an edge of cruelty. “You should be more careful what you reveal about yourself; you never know what could be used against you. For example, since I know you have a sister and where she is, I could potentially threaten her to ensure your compliance.”

A month ago, she would have completely flipped at the thinly veiled threat, but she’d gotten better at calling his bluffs. “You could, but you won’t—it wouldn’t be beneficial to our working relationship. After all, I’m as protective of my loved ones as you are of your crew. If I really thought you were a threat to my sister, I wouldn’t hesitate to end you.”

“That’s assuming you have the guts to kill me. I doubt you’ve ever taken a life.”

Thoughts of her numerous failed attempts to murder Arlong danced across her mind. “Not for lack of trying. And I don’t have get my hands dirty to take you out; Devil Fruit users risk death just by being at sea. I could potentially shove you overboard or lead the ship into a storm, and you’d be at the bottom of the ocean before anyone even realized.”

His smirk relaxed as he propped his arms on his knees. “That you could. It’s amazing the lengths we’ll go to for the ones we love. Mugiwara-ya was willing to storm Impel Down and take on the Marines for his brother, even if they weren’t blood.”

Secure in the knowledge that Nojiko would not be targeted by the Surgeon of Death, Nami tucked her legs underneath her, leaning against Bepo to get more comfortable. “Someone doesn’t have to be blood to be family,” she stated, idly playing with her bracelet.

“No, they don’t,” he agreed. “Whitebeard was a perfect example. When I heard he called his crew his sons, I spent years believing it was just a tactic to manipulate them into blind loyalty. But the deeper I dug, the more I realized it was legitimate. The man truly gave that much of a shit for the men that followed him.” His expression darkened. “On the other hand, I’ve known plenty of sick bastards that would shoot their own brother without a moment’s hesitation.”

Sensing his train of thought would likely lead them down an unpleasant path, Nami diverted, “I wish I could have met Whitebeard. And spent more time with Ace. Luffy clearly adored his big brother, and he was so incredibly polite. Should have been my first hint they weren’t related.” A sad smile touched her lips. Their brief time with the Fire Fist in Alabasta had been illuminating, and she doubted her captain’s goofy grin could have been any bigger with him around. “You, know, he actually asked Luffy to join the Whitebeard Pirates,” she laughed. “As if Luffy’d ever let someone else be captain!”

The smirk returned to the Dark Doctor’s face, chin resting in his palm. “It’s for the best he didn’t. For all the man’s virtues, Whitebeard had a problem with taking on female crewmembers. You probably wouldn’t be invited to join him.”

“Then Luffy definitely would have refused. After all the trouble he went through to make me his navigator, he wouldn’t just toss me aside.”

A midnight blue eyebrow raised, intrigued. “Now that sounds like a story.”

“Yeah, but it’s one you haven’t earned the right to hear yet,” she huffed, reaching across him to snag another mikan. “At least, not from me. If Luffy was as loose-lipped as you claim, he probably babbled the whole thing.”

“Hmmm, mostly he just talked about how great his crew was, nothing about how he roped you into service. Even if he did, I’d much rather hear it from you—fewer interruptions by agonized screams.”

Delicate fingers paused halfway through peeling the fruit, chest tightening as she remembered that Luffy hadn’t been casually trading stories with Law over a drink—he’d been on death’s door, suffering physically and mentally, and Nami hadn’t been there for him. None of them had. She’d been off with the weather wizards, and yeah, going there hadn’t been her choice, but she should have tried harder to leave Weatheria the second she heard about Ace’s impending execution. She knew how far Luffy’d go for his loved ones, knew where the inevitable battle would be, and instead she’d stayed on the floating island, fooling herself into thinking he would be fine without her.

She’d never been ashamed of her instinct to run away from a fight, but she doubted there’d be a single day in the next two years that she didn’t curse her cowardice.

The mood once more threatened to darken, so Law summoned his Room and switched the discarded mikan peel for a bottle of sunscreen. Breaking her from her guilty thoughts, he nudged her with the tube. “Someone as pale as you is susceptible to sunburn, Nami-ya. Put this on.”

Logical as it was, she bristled at the order. “I doubt I’ll be out here long enough to even tan.”

He shifted away from the still-sleeping Bepo to sit across from her, the heat of the day finally making his favorite spot uncomfortable. “Surfacing was your idea, and we’ll be submerging before dinner, so you’d best enjoy the sunshine while you can.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Scoffing, Law proceeded to squeeze some of the white liquid into his palm before rubbing it onto the back of his neck. His smirk turned mischievous, however, and he reached over to flick a few sticky globs onto her face.

“Yeek! What are you—!”

He laughed at her outrage. “You were being stubborn. I’m sure the last thing you want is to be horribly disfigured by skin cancer, so do as I say and put on the sunblock.” His piercing eyes grew hooded as he studied the white droplets splattered across her chin and cheeks. Leaning closer, he whispered, “At the very least, you should rub that in before someone sees you and gets the wrong idea.”

Heat blossomed across her face that had nothing to do with sunburn. She didn’t need a mirror to know what he was implying. Frantically, she rubbed at her face, fuming at his dirty trick. The orders were bad enough, but the innuendos, combined with that golden gaze, made her uncomfortably aware of how easily he managed to get the best of her. She was a lot more used to blatant perversion, like Brooke’s requests to see her panties, than Law’s more subtle double-entendres. In fact, she was surprised to find them harder to ignore, as they made her pick apart his every word and action, trying to figure out if he was hitting on her or not.

Enough is enough! she thought, a devilish gleam twinkling in her eye. It’s time to teach him that nobody teases like Cat Thief Nami! When her service began, she’d been too scared of the potential consequences to give as good as she got, but after a month of his flirting and touches and teasing, she was at her breaking point. She might not mix business with pleasure, but revenge with pleasure was fair game.

Studying her target, her clever mind began forming a devious plan. Scooting forward so she was directly across from him, she traced the tips of her fingers over the heart on his right arm. “Did Ikkaku do these?” she asked, eyes widened slightly to give the illusion of innocent wonder.

The way his eyebrow raised indicated he didn’t believe her act for a second, but the curve of his lips made it clear he wasn’t worried about a trap and was going to milk the sudden attention for all it was worth. “Yeah. Hiring her was one of my best decisions—I got an engineer and a tattoo artist all in one.”

Light as a butterfly’s wing, she trailed over his shoulder to the swirls across his collarbone. The tip of her index finger slipped beneath the neck of his tank top, tugging gently. “I’d love to see them all. Would you mind taking off your shirt?”

He closed his eyes briefly, amusement painted plainly on his face. “If you want to see them so much, how about you do it for me?” he suggested lowly, sitting up straight and smirking down at her in challenge.

Poking the pink tip of her tongue out playfully, she shifted onto her knees before running her hands down his chest, tugging the bottom of the shirt out of his jeans before slowly pulling upward. Inch by inch smooth skin and hard planes of muscle were revealed, the elaborate heart tattoo trailing elegantly across his pecs and abs. The whistle she let out was genuine—the shirtless man before her really was quite striking.

She sat back on her heels, taking a moment to admire him. He wasn’t quite as ripped as Zoro, but he definitely had a swordsman’s physique. She could easily imagine him doing one-armed pushups, sweat dripping down his sides, muscles rippling like an unsettled pond. Picking up a slice of fruit, she bit into it a little too hard, the citrus juices spilling all over her fingers.

Sharp gold irises honed in on the way the pale orange drops trailed down her palm to her wrist, and his Adam’s apple visibly bobbed. “Are you usually this messy an eater, Nami-ya?”

She gave him an embarrassed smile. “Not usually. I guess the heat’s getting to me.” Looking away, she stroked the tip of her tongue up her forearm, cleaning up the sticky streak. She could feel the intense way his eyes followed the movement, and when she met his gaze, the hunger had returned full force.

“Mind if I have another mikan slice?” he rasped.

Despite knowing he could easily get it himself, she nodded coyly, holding out a particularly fat and ripe piece mere inches from his mouth. When he leaned in to take it between his teeth, she pulled back, instead teasingly biting into it, more juices flowing over her lips and onto her fingertips.

She didn’t expect his arms to shoot out like vipers, hands grasping her hips to pull her onto his lap. She was forced to straddle his thigh to keep her balance, and she still nearly fell over in shock as he leaned down, lips less than a centimeter from touching her own as he stole half the dangling fruit straight from her mouth.

Never before had she imagined someone could chew smugly, but as he pulled away, that was exactly what he was doing. “Don’t play games you’re not prepared to do anything to win, Nami-ya,” he purred.

Idly, she draped her arms over his shoulders, tracing the tips of her wet fingers along his upper back in light, delicate patterns. “Are we playing a game, Law-kun?” she asked breathily.

The gleam in his eyes was answer enough, as was the way his palms trailed across the soft skin of her exposed waist.

Leaning back, she studied his naked torso through half lidded brown eyes, sucking the remaining mikan juices off her fingers. “I really do like your tattoos. Do you want me to put some sunscreen on them? I’d hate for you to get burned and risk the ink getting distorted.”

“That’d be much appreciated, Nami-ya.”

The pink tip of her tongue peeked out to wet her lips as she grabbed the nearby bottle, squeezing the coconut-scented cream onto her hands. Just as her palms made contact with his pectorals, his scorching hands encircled her wrists, pinning them there.

She looked up at him in surprise, to which he easily chuckled. “Just making sure your hands don’t stray anywhere inappropriate. I know how hard it is for you to resist the temptation of getting your hands on a man’s wallet.”

“Don’t you trust me, Law-kun?”

“I trust you to be a scheming little minx,” he replied, tone deceptively affectionate.

Her lower lip stuck out in a pout, though she quickly smoothed out her expression when his molten stare fixated on it, looking for all the world like he wanted to lean down and capture it between his teeth. Pushing away the thought that she wouldn’t exactly mind it, she focused on her task.

Up, down, and across her hands traveled, massaging the sunscreen into Law’s skin as his hands shamelessly guided her. His flesh was tantalizingly hot and deliciously smooth, a few faint scars visible now that she was so close. His muscles rippled as he flexed casually, and Nami was pleased when she felt his heart speed up when her fingers “accidentally” flicked a dusky nipple. Curious, she lightly scraped her nails over the ridges of his abdominal muscles, smirking when they jumped under her ministrations, a low rumble, almost like a purr, echoing through his chest.

“You’re looking a little flushed, Nami-ya,” he whispered in her sensitive ear, steamy breath smelling faintly of mikans. “Is the sun what’s getting you hot and bothered, or me?”

Looking up at him through long, dark lashes, she replied, “Definitely the sun. It takes a lot more than rubbing a guy’s chest to make me weak in the knees.”

“Ah, there’s the Cat Thief I know. You were acting so demure, I was beginning to wonder if your brain got fried.” His devilish grin turned smug. “Or were you hoping to get a little payback with the sunscreen?”

“Maybe I just wanted an excuse to feel you up,” she quipped, giving a cat-like smile.

“If you wanted that, you should have just asked. I’m happy to oblige.”

“Aw, but where’s the fun in that?”

“Good point.” At last, not a speck of white remained on her palms, so Law reluctantly released his hold on her. “Want me to return the favor?” he murmured, letting the tips of his fingers suggestively caress her bare midriff.

Though red still stained her cheeks, Nami managed to maintain her composure as she carefully stood up. One of her legs had started to fall asleep, and she didn’t need the Heart captain thinking he really had made her weak in the knees. “Nah, I think I’m going to go back inside for a bit. I’m feeling a little thirsty.”

With the woman out of his arms, Law rolled his shoulders, working out the stiffness that had started to form. “Fair enough. If you change your mind, the offer still stands.”

Before she could respond, one of the men called out from the lower deck, “Hey Captain! We need your opinion on something!”

Getting up with all the grace of a tiger, he lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Duty calls. Don’t stay inside all day, though; I can’t promise we’ll be surfacing again soon, and I don’t need you suffering from a vitamin D deficiency.” With that, he activated his Room, teleporting himself down onto the lower deck.

As she turned to go inside, motion caught her eye, and she found Bepo watching her, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Giving a catty wink, she pressed her finger to her lips in a shushing motion before gathering up Law’s hoodie, tank top, and the rest of the mikans, leaving one behind for the sleepy Mink to enjoy.

“I’ll just toss these in the laundry for him. I’d hate for them to blow overboard.”

“I guess it’s too hot for him to put them back on,” Bepo agreed hesitantly.

Her smile was sunny and painfully obvious. “Exactly! And fewer clothes means he’ll get exposed to more vitamin D, so I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”

Shrugging as he watched Nami skip away, the polar bear settled back down to resume his nap. Law was his best friend and his captain but considering how shamelessly he’d been teasing the Cat Thief, he was pretty sure the Dark Doctor deserved whatever Nami had in store. Besides, she was the reason the crew even agreed to surface in the first place—Bepo owed her his silence, just this once.

XXX

As the crew sat down to breakfast the next morning, Nami was startled by a large, firm hand gripping her shoulder as a voice whispered harshly in her ear, “That was very clever, Nami-ya.”

Forcing her heart to slow, she glanced up at Law with a smirk. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Somehow, the scowl on his face deepened. “Then the sunburn on my back, despite me clearly remembering putting sunscreen there, wasn’t your fault?”

“Oh dear,” she gasped, “maybe the fruit juices on my fingers washed it away.”

“And maybe someone who grew up in a mikan grove would know that the juice from citrus fruits, when exposed to sunlight and bare skin, can cause sunburn?”

“You know, you’re right!” she said, planting a fist in her palm. Batting her eyelashes innocently, she smiled. “But surely you don’t think I’d do such a thing on purpose?”

“You’re the one who so generously brought my hoodie inside to be laundered. Without asking for payment, I might add. Quite suspicious.”

“I considered the mikans you gave me payment enough. And it’s not like I stole them away—Bepo told you what I did with them, and you easily could have gone inside for another shirt. Instead, you spent the rest of the day outside with insufficient protection. Rather silly of a doctor, wouldn’t you say?”

Law’s glare told her he knew he’d been played and was already planning his revenge. “Just remember payback is a bitch.”

The whole crew had a hard time containing their sniggers as Law stormed out of the galley. Now everyone could see why he was so mad—across his shoulders, just above the neckline of his tank top was the word BREAD in shiny, red, sunburned letters.

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ranjxtul · 6 years ago

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Here, There, Everywhere Ghosts Hide || Katherine Howard

we love some soft aragon content and angsty kat content but there are tws here for sexual harassment, abuse mentions, slurs, and dissociation. lowkey i also kinda can’t decide if i hate or love this but any way, here we are

wc: 5,405

When Parr and Jane left for vacation Katherine thought she’d be fine. Slowly her day to day anxiety was leveling out, and she slept with Anna more often than not, so when she woke up with nightmares, someone was there. Cleves had also had the bright idea of getting Katherine a dog, and taking on the project of training her as a therapy dog with Katherine. In totality, Katherine’s life was better than it had been in a while (at least emotionally).

She still struggled to get a proper amount of sleep due to nightmares, and dealt with certain major triggers for anxiety, but she was more okay than she’d been in a while. The queens were all proud of her for that; they knew how hard she was trying to get better. Because of this, Katherine had encouraged both Parr and Jane to take their time off from the show together and go on a vacation. The two only recently stopped dancing around their feelings for each other, much to Boleyn and Howard’s delight. They’d been pining after each other for weeks, so to see them finally buck up and get together made the others happy.

For her time off, Parr had wanted to go visit France and relax and after a bit of persuasion Jane had agreed to go with her. Truth be told, the blonde queen was a but wary of leaving Katherine for two weeks. She understood that she had Cleves and two others perfectly willing to be there for her if something happened, but she also knew that she and Parr were still the two Howard went to the most often. Katherine had encouraged her though, citing her recent improvements and Anna.

It happened on the fourth day Jane and Parr were gone. Katherine still despised walking through London alone, especially if she didn’t have Wolfie (her dog) with her. So, when it was her turn to go on a grocery run, and Anna had elected to take Wolfie out with Anne, she searched out Aragon to accompany her.

The Spanish Queen, albeit a bit surprised at the request, happily agreed. The queens frequented a grocery store near their home so taking the car, or using the train was completely unnecessary. The walk there and actual shopping was completely pleasant, with the two queens making light conversation about various topics such as Wolfie, going to pride, and the show.

On the walk back, Aragon veered off into a hole in the wall bookshop saying she’d promised Parr she’d check to see if she could order in a certain title and have it there by the time she returned from France. Instead of venturing in, Howard elected to stand near the shop’s door so she could check the messages she’d gotten from Jane and Parr while they’d been walking. She didn’t just want to stand in the way in the bookshop, and Aragon said she wouldn’t be long.

Leaning gently against the brick wall, she unlocked her phone and clicked on the messages app. First she opened Parr’s messages. The curly headed queen had sent a few texts letting Katherine know what they were doing that day and how she saw something that had reminded her of Katherine. She’d also tagged on a question of how everyone was doing. Happily, she texted back replying that everyone was doing okay and that she was glad the couple was having such a good time.

Next she opened Jane’s messages. Ever worried, she’d sent a message checking up on Howard and a picture of her Parr sitting in a park together. Parr was leaning against Jane and Jane had arm around the smaller woman’s waist. Katherine smiled to herself; it was just like Jane to ask someone to take a cheesy picture of them like that.

“Beautiful smile there,” a man’s voice from a close radius rang out. Katherine’s head shot up, mid typing a reply to see a man wearing a button down tucked into jeans. A brunette, sparse beard covered his sharp jaw.

Ostensibly, her taking note of his original comment welcomed more. “That’s not the only thing beautiful you have,” he continued nearing her. He in no way attempted to hide the way his azure eyes swept the teenager’s body or how they lingered on her breasts and trailed down and around, presumably trying to get a look at her ass.

Katherine froze on the spot, unsure of how to respond, or if she should. All too soon he was in her personal space, still speaking but his voice was distant. It was like Katherine left her body. She could see everything he did, wrapping an arm around her waist, a bit too low around her back, and she could hear his slimy discussion of wanting to take her out and his slowly lowering hand.

She was also watching herself it felt like. Any motion she made didn’t seem to be cued consciously. She watched herself squirm away, only for the man to tighten his grip. She wanted him to let go. Why wouldn’t he? Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? Couldn’t he see how uncomfortable she was?

Katherine wanted to speak, but she couldn’t. She felt like she had no control. The next question that ran through her mind was: where’s Aragon? She attempted to move away again, her body once again not seeming like her own.

Just as the thought of the Spanish queen crossed her mind, in all of her intimidating glory she stepped out of the bookshop. The second she noticed the young man now practically groping Katherine’s ass. The young girl looked frozen, a distinct mixture of terror and vacancy clouding her eyes. Without hesitation, Aragon’s peaceful expression darkened and she put a firm hand on the man’s arm, “And what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The man looked away from Katherine, not yet letting go of her, “Oi! Trying to pick up a lady. What’s it you? You her girlfriend or something?” He spat, a certain maliciousness behind girlfriend.

“No, but she does have a girlfriend,” Aragon retorted arching a brow and tightening her grip on the sleaze’s arm.

With those words, the man let go, “Fine, let go of me lady! It’s not like I’d ever want to be with a dyke anyway,” he snapped shaking Aragon’s grip and storming out from in between the pair.

This sharp movement grounded Katherine. Once again she felt in control and she felt all of the emotions she should have felt while the unnamed creep had harassed her. She watched, her eyes wide with fear as he retreated down the street. The next thought that crossed her mind was wanting to rid herself of his touch in some way.

She hated that she’d frozen and dissociated. It made her feel so out of control. The delicate illusion that she’d been fully in control of her life shattered before her eyes. The man’s aura reminded her of Henry’s entitlement and Dereham’s insistence. He just wouldn’t stop, and his wandering hands made her think too much of everyone else’s.

“Katherine?” Aragon said gently. The girl didn’t respond, and it was then Aragon noticed her eyes had a glassy quality once more.

Katherine’s mind was no longer in the present. She could feel their hands on her body and she felt paralyzed. A ghost of hot breath hit her neck and the pressure of stronger hands pinning her down at her wrists. Their prying fingers ghosted across her skin in a manner which made Katherine want to shiver and recoil. Unaware of her breathing pattern, her heart sped up and her breaths became more anxious.

“Kitty?” Aragon tried again gently laying a hand on her shoulder. Faintly, the smooth sound of the eldest queen began to break through the haze of the flashback. Katherine forced herself to latch onto that sound, blink, and do anything to find a grounding point.

Slowly, Katherine found herself tethered in reality again, her heart rate still uncomfortably elevated and her breaths stunted. Wildly, she glanced over at a concerned Catherine of Aragon. “Are you okay?” the other queen asked quietly.

Katherine nodded shakily, “Yeah. I’m good.” Her tense posture and clenching and unclenching fists indicated differently; the way her brown eyes darted around warily for someone else who could pose as a threat also seemed to scream the opposite. Underneath the hyper-aware surface, there was a certain fragility and a certain splintering that Katherine was trying to fight. She’d be okay, at least she hadn't had a full out panic attack.

She had to be considering she wanted more than anything to go home and give Jane a hug and maybe even watch some of the show that Jane and Parr loyally watched yet Katherine knew nothing about. She just wanted to talk to the person she’d grown to view in a maternal way.

Of course she could talk to Anna, but Anna wasn’t always the best at emotions and she was very physical. That’s not to say that was the problem; the problem was that Anna was her girlfriend. Obviously the German would never hurt Katherine or push, but the type of comfort Jane offered was distinctly different, and that’s what Katherine wanted. However, Jane was in France with Parr. She’d told them she’d be okay, so she had to be.

Aragon nodded in return, though she did not believe for a second that Katherine was okay, pushing the matter now would only be detrimental. Instead she held out a hand in case Katherine wanted to hold it on the walk back before saying, “Let’s get back then, yeah? We need to get some lunch.”

“Yeah,” Katherine nodded, gratefully noting and taking Aragon’s outstretched hand. The fact that the youngest queen gripped her hand with a grip so tight it practically screamed how shaken Katherine was; this did nothing to assuage Aragon’s worries. Howard was normally tactile, but seldom did she latch onto someone with such firmness unless she truly needed it in that moment, at least in Aragon’s experience.

As the pair walked, she stole a glance out of the corner of her eyes in the girl’s direction. At least Katherine’s eyes were alert, even if they seemed so hyper aware of the situation. The motherly instincts in Aragon wanted to attempt to talk to Katherine, and be there for her; however, she also figured in a situation like this, Howard would want to talk to, or at the very least spend time with Jane.

It was understandable. Nobody could deny the mother-daughter bond the two had formed in their time together in this life. That didn’t mean Catherine didn’t feel any kind of maternal attachment to Howard, she did; the two weren’t as close as Jane and Katherine were, so she wasn’t as actively motherly toward the brunette.

In this situation did she need to be, she wondered. She definitely didn’t want to pressure Katherine or give her a reason to shy away. After several minutes of deliberation as they walked, she decided to play it by ear instead of making a decision then and there. She’d watch Katherine and offer a shoulder to lean on or an ear for listening if it looked like the youngest queen wouldn’t pull away from that.

Once the pair arrived back home after a mostly silent walk, they made their way into the kitchen. Aragon wanted to put away groceries and Katherine wanted to grab some lunch. The house was quiet, so it was safe to assume Boleyn and Cleves had yet to make it back.

As Katherine made her peanut butter sandwich, Aragon couldn’t help but to observe how jerky Katherine’s motions were and how silent she still was. The normally lively girl seemed mute. “Are you sure you’re okay after that?” Aragon finally asked her voice a bit softer than usual.

Catherine’s gentle question snapped Katherine out of her thoughts. Wide eyed, she glanced at the older woman, whose gaze rested on her expectantly. “Yeah, I’m good,” she paused attempting to conjure any proper words to placate the worry laced in Aragon’s gaze, “shaken, though. He was gross, but I’m fine,” she finally admitted forcing a small smile.

Thankfully that minute admission seemed to satisfy the older queen who returned the smile, “Good, I’m here if you need me.”

“Thanks,” Katherine nodded finishing making her sandwich, “I think I’m gonna head upstairs and eat,” she said turning to put everything shed used back in its place and the dirty knife in the sink.

As the brunette began the trek back to her room, the unmistakable sound of the door opening followed by the sounds of Anne squared’s voices and the jingling of the tags on Wolfie’s collar flooded her ears. A part of her wanted to turn back and go pet her dog, but the other part of her that only wanted to see Jane and nobody else told her to keep on to her room.

The reclusive, unsettled side won out and soon enough, Katherine found herself sitting on her bed eating her sandwich.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen Cleves and Anne were filling Aragon in on their morning. “So many people stopped us wanting to pet Wolfie,” Anne commented energetically as she recounted their walk through the park. A mildly interested Aragon nodded in acknowledgement of what Anne had said.

“She’s a winner with everyone it seems, just not around here,” Anna added.

Catherine let out a quiet chuckle in agreement, “It appears to be that way.” At first she’d been skeptical of having a dog around the house, but she caved when Anna had explained she thought a dog could be a good emotional support for Katherine, especially if trained right and from a young age. Now she not only tolerated the small white dog, but actually had grown quite fond of her.

“So how was your morning?” Cleves asked raising her brow.

Catherine shrugged, “Normal I suppose. I went with Katherine on a grocery run and checked on a book Cathy asked me to check on for her at the bookshop,” she paused unsure if she should mention the incident of the man on the street. It wasn’t her story to tell, but there was also a part of her that wondered if Katherine would mention it to anyone or just let it fester. She’d assured Aragon she was just shaken, but even so, she found that a bit difficult to believe.

“What is it?” Cleves asked snapping Catherine out of her internal debate.

“Hm?” the eldest raised a brow.

“You were spaced out,” this time it was Boleyn who spoke up.

Oh. Catherine hadn’t quite realized she’d let herself leaving her compendium on such a vague note and allowed herself to become lost in rambling thoughts.

Aragon tilted her head, “I was just thinking about something that happened.”

“And?” Anne huffed expectantly.

“And it’s not my place to tell. It’s Katherine’s.”

“Okay, where is she?”

“Room.”

Boleyn immediately stood up, curiosity driving her actions. Anna caught her arm as she stood, in a gesture intending to stop Boleyn. “Is it a good or bad thing?” she asked.

“Bad,” Aragon said scrunching her face up for a second. Boleyn’s curious and adamant expression immediately fell, as she wracked her brain for what could have happened. In that amount of times Cleves had stood.

“I’m going to go talk to her.” In her mind, she already had a few ideas of what could happened, none of them ending well in any way, shape, or form. By the time she made it to Katherine’s door, most of those hypotheticals had blossomed into fully formed scenarios, “Kitty?” she said as she knocked. No response. “Katherine? It’s Anna, can I come in?” she tried again. Still no response.

Hesitantly, she pushed the door open to see Katherine curled up into a ball on her bed. The girl lifted her head as Anna came in. She’d hoped her lack of response would have dissuaded her girlfriend from entering.

“What’s up?” Cleves asked gently approaching the bed. Respecting Katherine’s space she sat on the edge of the bed.

Katherine shrugged, “Nothing, just tired,” she lied. Anna raised her brow, clearly not buying it. With a sigh Katherine spoke up again, “Fine, when we were out some guy cat called me on the street.”

Unfortunately, one of the scenarios playing out in Anna’s head turned out to be true. “Oh, love,” she frowned. She knew cat calls in the past had triggered Katherine in different ways. The perceived exhaustion could be the aftermath of a panic attack or something else entirely.

Katherine forced a smile, “It’s okay. I’m just shaken. He was gross. I want to take a nap and sleep it off,” she supplied.

Cleves stood, understanding Katherine wanted to be alone. She crossed the room though to drop a gentle kiss on Katherine’s forehead, “I get it. Rest well, and I'm here if you need me. I mean it.” She would respect her girlfriend's wishes to be alone, but she hoped Katherine understood she was there if she needed her no matter what.

“Thanks,” Katherine said softly. As she watched Anna leave, she thought about how easily that fib had slipped out. In truth she just wanted somebody to tell her it’d be okay and to stay in her bed all day. If she thought about it she could still feel the man’s hands on her and her heart would start racing again. She couldn’t ask for that though. She’d promised Jane and Parr she’d be fine. Maybe she was making too big of deal out of what had happened and maybe it’d all go away if she ignored it.

“So?” Anne asked worriedly as the German reentered the kitchen.

“She said some dude cat called her and that she was shaken, said she wants to sleep it off,” Anna sighed.

Aragon who now sat with a plate of lunch in front of her at the table glanced up and spoke just before a clearly pissed Anne could get another word in, “That’s all she said?” Against her better judgement she continued, “The guy did more than that. He was practically eye fucking her, and touching her. I was in the bookshop when this happened, and when I came out he had one hand on her ass and the other feeling up and down her side. He also mentioned how a ‘looker’ like she should ‘go out with a nice guy like him.’ She was frozen I think. Oh, and he was homophobic. When I stopped him he made a snide comment and I offered that she wasn’t single and had a girlfriend. Then he said he didn’t want to touch her because of that.”

By the end of the story, Anne was visibly seething, “You left her outside alone?! On a busy London street?!” she practically screeched.

Aragon gave Anne a look, “I told her she was welcome to come inside with me. She said she wanted to stay outside and check texts from Jane and Parr. I wasn’t going to force her to come with me. You know how far that would have gotten,” she said vague irritation at Anne filling her voice.

Boleyn opened her mouth to snap back, but upon realizing there wasn’t much she could say in return she shut her mouth for a moment. Unsurprisingly though, she opened it not a minute later, “I would’ve beat the guy into oblivion.”

Aragon snorted, “Fat load of good that would’ve done.” Cleves had been notably quiet in this situation. While she wasn’t one to speak as brashly or as petulantly as Anne, she was one to voice her mind. When Catherine glanced at the German, the anger on her face was clear, but obviously muddled with worry.

“I’m worried she won’t shake that one off on her own,” Anna finally admitted. “And I’m not sure she’ll want me to help considering we’re romantically involved and all of the memories of ‘romantic’ partners associated with that type of thing,” Cleves continued with a frown.

Katherine ended up taking a shower to try and get rid of the disgusting feeling. Every inch of her body felt inexplicably disgusting and she wanted it to end. The water falling in the shower couldn’t wash away that feeling though. She wanted to scratch at her skin until it went away, but instead she felt tears beginning to fall down her cheeks as she stood under the water.

They were tears of anger, at herself and at that man. They were tears of guilt and tears of self pity. She’d thought she wouldn’t have reacted the way she had. She thought she was better. Then there was that slime bag of a person who felt so damn entitled. No matter how many times the logical part of her brain reminded her that it wasn’t her fault, a small nagging voice kept telling her it was.

When she managed to stop the tears and climb out of the shower, she dressed in sweatpants and one of Anna’s red oversized hoodies and fell into her bed. She had a show to do that night. She supposed she could call out, but Courtney and Grace were already going on. Of course she knew Vicki would be willing, but it wasn’t like she was physically sick. She could pull through and she would. She had to.

Katherine rolled to the other side and grabbed her phone off the bedside table, realizing she hadn’t responded to Jane. She typed a quick, ‘that’s a cute picture,’ before hitting send and locking her phone again.

She closed her eyes then, willing a peaceful nap. Maybe she could sleep some of this feeling off. She’d told Anna that which in the moment had been a fib, not wanting to divulge everything she felt, but maybe she actually could sleep. She was tired, and they did have a show to do.

Much to her pleasure, Katherine was able to drift in and out of a light sleep until a light knock on her door jerked her back to a fully waking state. “You awake?” a voice called. Anne.

Katherine blinked a few times, forcing herself into a sitting position, “Yeah,” she reluctantly called.

“We need to go so we aren’t late,” her cousin called gently.

“I’m coming,” the girl sighed pushing herself up and out of bed. Normally, Jane would be the one to get Katherine if for some reason she wasn’t ready on time, and it wasn’t that she minded Anne coming to get her, but she missed Jane. She wanted to hug Jane and talk to her about that morning. Jane would let her vent her anger and be there to support her. She knew that for a fact.

She assumed the others would be similar, but they weren’t Jane.

The walk to the theatre consisted of Cleves walking on the outer side of Howard with Aragon and Boleyn following. She didn’t voice it aloud, but being out of sight from most people on the street eased some of the newer anxieties that being in public once more that day had brought about.

Once in the theatre, Katherine was able to break off from the group. Jane and Parr were gone so that meant she was alone in the dressing room. She could get ready in peace and attempt to center herself for the show.

Meanwhile in the other dressing room Cleves and Aragon chatted worriedly, “She was still quieter than usual,” Aragon commented.

“I know, which means she’s probably still feeling off. Pushing it would be bad though. She’d retreat into her shell.”

“I hate to say this, but if Jane were here she’d probably have better luck,” Catherine sighed.

“Yeah, probably, but she’s not unfortunately.”

On stage that night, Katherine slid into the persona flawlessly, playing everything up as she usually did. That is until she got to her song. The lyrics all hit too harshly tonight. Every night the emotion she projected was genuine, but with an experience such as the one on the street that morning, everything was amplified.

When it came time for the others to put their hands on her in the choreography, Katherine’s body stiffened and subconsciously she flinched away; nevertheless, she continued to perform, the music pulsing loudly in her ear piece. Every bit of anger and disparity toward the world and those who’d hurt her coursed through her veins as she reached the climax of her song. Sometimes tears would fall sporadically, but this time they streamed down her face.

She didn’t understand why the world was the way it was and supposed she never would, but how was it in five hundred years men still found ways to demean women? Back then, as much as despised saying it, she couldn’t have done anything and it was almost the norm. But today, how was it that so many women were discredited, catcalled, and abused among other things. From a less emotional standpoint, things had definitely improved, but in her mind that night she sang from an emotional place.

By the time the final lyrics left her mouth, the normal moment of silence that usually descended before applause after her song fell quite a bit heavier than it usually did. From tne corner of her eye, she could see Aragon, Boleyn, and Cleves glancing toward her, their worry not well disguised. Regardless, in a split second Katherine wiped away her tears and slipped easily into her stage persona once more, and the show continued.

When the girls hit their final pose after the megasix and everyone made their way off stage, Boleyn’s usual, “Great show queens!” fell on tired ears. Admittedly, singing had helped expel the petulant anger she’d felt at the situation earlier that day. Katherine was ready to head home and maybe text Jane a bit. Even if the blonde wasn’t there in person, it’d be nice to speak to her. She wouldn't broach the subject of what had happened though; no need for Jane and Parr to worry about her. She'd be okay tomorrow, at least that's what she told herself. Her actions and feelings in the show really hadn't reflected that.

Even the queen’s light hands on her in the choreography made her feel disgusting. Maybe sleep would help, that is if she could sleep through the night. It was more than likely that she’d end up dreaming of Mannox, Dereham, Henry, or Culpeper after a day like today. Then Jane wouldn’t be there when she woke up and tonight was a night she wasn’t sure if she’d sleep with Anna.

Once the group finished signing programmes and taking pictures with people, Cleves spoke up, “Anyone up for a drink tonight?” Anne nodded her approval along with Courtney and Grace.

“I’ll pass. I’m tired, so I think I’m just going to head home,” Katherine shrugged. Momentarily, Anna frowned but quickly her face returned to a neutral expression before she leaned over to lay a gentle kiss on Katherine’s cheek.

“Okay. Be careful on the way home.” Truth be told, she wasn’t sure if Katherine needed to walk home alone, but she was clearly rundown.

Aragon glanced at Cleves’ and over at Boleyn whose face didn’t bother to hide her concern. “I’ll pass too. I didn’t end up getting much sleep last night and we do have a double tomorrow.”

On the quiet walk home, Aragon wracked her brain for a way to get Katherine to maybe talk to her. Everyone had noticed how she’d flinched during her song and the increase in emotion. It seemed she was bottling up whatever she’d felt after this morning, and even clearer that it was festering unhealthily. So much for not pushing Katherine.

Aragon understood though that when the girl internalized things like this it often did not go well. She remembered the last time and how on edge Katherine had been because she felt like she couldn’t talk about her night terrors.

Before Katherine could escape up the stairs to her room, she heard Aragon call her name. “Hm?” she asked turning back. The older woman’s eyes were filled with a care that she could only describe as being similar to that which Jane offered.

“Can you tell me what’s going on in your head? You don’t have to,” she clarified, “but I’m happy to listen and I think it might help you to air it out.” She asked raising a brow gently.

Katherine considered for a moment before making her way back to the living room and plopping on the couch. Aragon took that as a yes or at least not a no and cautiously sat beside her. After a moment of silence Aragon sighed imperceptibly, “Is there a reason why you won’t talk to anyone?”

Katherine fixated her eyes on her hands, “Normally I’d talk to Jane, but she’s gone with Parr and I encouraged them to go. I said I’d be okay, so I feel like I need to be. I’d go to Anna in any other situation, but this one is just… different,” she frowned.

“You couldn’t predict this would happen, Kat, and they want you to be okay. That doesn’t mean bottling everything up when something upsets you.”

Unable to form a cohesive response or logical argument, she just nodded. In a way she wanted to hold on to the illusion that she had control of her life and didn’t need help. She’d just learned to accept help from Anna and Jane without feeling guilty. Now she was tying Aragon down. “You can talk to any one of us, really,” the older woman continued.

“I know. I just… never mind. It’s inconsequential,” Katherine shook her head still not looking up at Aragon. “I guess, part of me wonders if I’m wrong to be so upset about what happened,” she continued. “It’s not like he did anything past just bother me. If anything I’m mad at myself for freezing like I did.”

Catherine shook her head, “No. You aren’t wrong to be upset about something like that. Your feelings are valid and your reaction was understandable considering everything else you’ve been through. It was just your brain’s natural reaction to protect you.”

Finally, Katherine glanced over at Aragon, “I- yeah. It’s just frustrating. I’ve seen men staring before and we’ve all been verbally catcalled and I’ve learned to not freak out when that happens. Why is this any different?” Katherine asked her voice ostensibly sounding thinner and increasingly upset.

“Because it’s a completely different situation. This person put his hands on you. That’s a completely different situation, one you shouldn’t have to acclimate yourself to.”

“Still, I just feel so gross and I was angry but singing in the show helped me work that part of it out. For some reason though, I just can’t shake the disgusting feeling and when everyone touched me tonight during my song it reminded me of not only this morning but Mannox and Dereham and Henry and Thomas,” Katherine said beginning to fidget with her hands. Actively talking about it was both helping and harming her.

It helped her in the sense that she could sort through some of her feelings and have them validated, but it also made her anxious. Recognizing how uncomfortable she’d felt and relaying how triggering the experience had been didn’t help her feel any more at ease.

“Would sleep help any?” Aragon asked tilting her head. She wasn't sure what else would help. Sleep would at least stave off some of the anxiety Catherine could see bubbling once more in the youngest queen's small ticks.

“Probably, but I’m scared I’ll have a nightmare,” she admitted with a nervous laugh.

“If you do, you can come find me. I’m happy to try and be there for you,” Aragon offered with a small smile.

Instead of verbally responding, Katherine leaned over to hug Aragon. She embraced her not only as a thank you, but in hopes she could feel some of the maternal comfort she so desperately wanted. Without a moment’s hesitation, Aragon wrapped her arms around the girl tightly. She may not have been as close to Katherine as Jane was but she loved the Howard girl immensely. She was family.

After a moment more of hugging, Katherine pulled away, “Thanks Catherine,” she said smiling a small but genuine smile, “I really appreciate you.”

“Anytime love,” Aragon responded in turn a smile spread across her own face.

“I think I’m gonna go try and rest and text Jane and Parr,” Katherine said standing up from her spot on the couch.

“Sounds like a good plan. Remember, if you need me, you can come find me. That goes for tomorrow too, if you still aren't feeling better,” she added.

“I will, thank you again.”

Aragon shook her head, “No need to thank me.” She watched as Katherine ascended the stairs toward her room contemplatively. That’d gone better than she thought. Perhaps she had been able to help Katherine out.

#six the musical #catherine of aragon #catherine parr #jane seymour #anne of cleves #anne boleyn #this is all over the place

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okaywhateverokayyes · 6 years ago

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To Always Forgive Me

Prompt: Isobel asks Alex to stop Michael from doing something rash, because of course he is. (Post 1x04); includes flashbacks in Alex’s POV

Alex rubs behind Toby’s ears, an easy smile settles on his face as the dog kneels bemusedly beside him, laying against his thigh as he ran his hand down his back. He leans over to press his lips against the paw resting on the sole of his shoe, gentle as he sets his foot down.

A jeep pulls into his driveway, a familiar army surplus. Isobel is swift as she slams the door, striding in his direction, offering a smile as an afterthought rather than out of convention.

“You need to stop Michael.”

Alex blinks.

Alex stands up hastily, his knee buckling from under him as a result of his swiftness. He winces as he shoves his crane into the soot, gawkily kneeling on one foot whilst he rests his elbow on the other.

Isobel was at his side, gripping him as she bolsters his weight as he moves to the timber porch post and rests against them. He was haggard as he caught his breath.

“Thanks.” He says, responsively.

She flicks her wrist, off-handedly. Isobel fixates on him, naturally, yet it does nothing but make Alex answer her glance with an apologetic smile.

“Is he leaving town?” He inquires.

Isobel shakes her head, pursing her lips as if what he had said was preferable to what Michael was about to do. “Something stupider. Unnecessary. Dangerous.” She adds, drawing her brows inward. “So, stop him.”

Alex’s apologetic smile fades into a slightly uncertain one.

“What do you think I can-?”

Isobel adopts a slightly altered pose, crossing her arms briskly across her chest. “Alex.” She says, impatiently, “We don’t have time to go back and forth.”

“Isobel, you and I both know that when he sets his mind onto something, he’s going to go through with it.” He snaps, wanting to add ‘Whether we like it or not’ but settles against it.

Isobel considers this. “You and I both know that’s not true,” she says with a familiarity that precluded Alex, “Please, do me this favor.”

If he was being honest, he didn’t need to be impelled. The thought of Michael having done something out of sheer indignation was emblematic of Guerin.

Alex accedes deferentially.

He ends up at Crashdown café, Isobel paying for his roast beef sandwich as consolation- as if he needed any; just to consume time, as needed, she ordered a fudge-blast off, orbit rings and a shower malt. When the order came in, Isobel had taken a bite of each, a cursory sip and dunked the ring into hot fudge.

Alex begrudgingly takes a bite of his sandwich. It tasted insipid. Or, maybe the flavor was unable to be savored by his parched mouth and numb tongue. His thoughts wavered nervously, fingers trembling as he pressed them in between his legs. His chest throbbed.

Shit. The idea that Guerin was about to do something shortsighted, inflamed him. Because, shit. Why did he decide it upon himself to be crucified and vilified?

No, he decides, Guerin probably thought it over a thousand-and-one timesbefore considering doing anything that put himself, Isobel or Max at risk. He was just that thorough with his decisions. When the past itches to resurface, Alex clears his throat.

Isobel scrunches up her nose, batting away at the waitress-Madeline- who appears by their table to refill their water. Alex offers an apologetic smile in return as she stilts on her heel to turn, rattled.

The thudof a glass slamming against the table has Alex whisk his head in that direction. “Are you-“

“There’s not enough acetone in this god forsaken world for my headache,” she rubs at her temple. “Never enough.” She’s gruff as she scoops a spoon of the malt, only to pause momentarily when her eyes catch onto something-not her particular choice of word which has Alex drawing his brows inwards-but someone.

Isobel waves her hand distinctly, flicking her wrist as to get their attention.

“You shouldn’t have. An exodus bash, for me?” Guerin’s voice cuts through the unspoken uneasiness stretching between the table separating the two. Isobel hisses condemningly, eyes wavering from Michael to where Alex crouched, urgent.

Michael stills, abruptly. Alex doesn’t have to look up to see the grin falling off of his face. Two clenched fists are jabbed to his sides as he adjusts his tone, his attention elsewhere. “What did you do, Izzy?” It’s sharp, furious, on the verge of sounding irritated.

He feels secluded, unwelcome.

Alex bristles where he sat.

“I’ll leave you to it.” There’s a warning intonation. Isobel mouths ‘thank you’ in Alex’s direction, gripping Michael’s shoulder as she makes a beeline towards the crowded entrance.

Michael doesn’t move. There’s tenseness that settles in his posture. “Whatever she said to make you come here, forget it. She won’t hold it against you.” He says, his voice low and rough with restlessness.

Alex thumbs at the ham sticking out, biting his lip. His mouth begins to prickle with microscopic thorns that has him reaching for the glass of water. He takes a quiet sip, gulping, only to have the thistles penetrate outwards, his nerves ignited to the point where he jabs his curled hand into his thigh.

Cool hands are pressed against his. Alex flickers his eyes open, which he hadn’t noticed he had shut close. He watches as Michael sits across him. His gaze moves to their bridged hands near the empty glass. Ostensibly, he feels the air leave out the room yet he lets out a freeing exhale he doesn’t realize he’s holding in, until Michael pulls back.

“Sorry.” He whispers, face clipped as he settles into the booth, leans against the side towards the wall, a habit by now.

They hold each other’s gaze. Alex struggles to think of how to initiate, opens his mouth but clamps it back down. It’s almost unsettling how even after all this time, the thought of dissuading Guerin seemed not only impossible, but unwarranted. Unwelcoming.

The uncertainty of where Alex stood in their friendshiphad him reminiscing of his second tour. When he woke up, both panicked and dopey with painkillers, a terrible combination that lead to him flailing sideways off the hospital bed, unable to speak with his numb, heavy tongue. It took a solid ten minutes for the medics to convince him that he wasn’t dead, that he was on bay, that he was alive.

Just his leg, they heed to mention. The loss of his limb had him at first, dazed becausesurely, this must be a dream. When he first reached to ram his bruised fingers into the sheet of where his shin would have been, only to press into the mattress, he bit down on his tongue to repress the sob clamped in his throat.

Dead, he surely must be dead.

Everything afterwards was a blur. Sensibly present, inherently absent. Removed. Uninhabited. Gone. Two tours later, he wasn’t convinced that the torture he had slighted in the abyss of his mind had ever left.

He was sure he was a word away from disintegrating.

“Don’t go.” Alex blurts forcefully, takes a deep breath and says, a little shakily, “Just, don’t go anywhere.” His lower lip trembles. He quickly bites it harshly.

Utter confusion met his comment. “What?”

“Idon’t want you to go,” he repeats, emphasizing the distinctive ‘I’ to make it evident that this was him, out of his own volition, saying it.

Michael reacts as if he is slapped. Because, ten years ago, he was the one to say that to Alex. It occurs to Alex that the tables have turned, the words are incendiary and suggestive of the manner in which they had fallen on deaf ears, his ears, back then.

“That’s not fair.” He grunts, drawing a sharp breath in. “Fuck you.”

Cold fear seizes Alex. He knows he’s being hypocritical. He knows that he has lost his agency, his right to ask Michael of something. It dawns upon him that it’s the only way he knows how to make him reconsider.

He bites the proverbial bullet as he recounts what needs to be said, “I felt too much pride back then to listen to you,” he answers a question that’s not asked but heavily weighing on the both of them, “I didn’t know-didn’t think that I could do what I wanted back then.”

Guerin is rigid, immobile, eyes glazed as he glares right into him. He says nothing, in return. It dawns upon Alex that the memories were all-too-clear and the numerous questions, all-left-unanswered.

“I didn’t tell you what happened that night because I didn’t want to hurt you anymore than I already had.”

Prom. He shows up empty-handed because he cancels last minute. Can’t go through with it. Hates how self-righteous his father feels as he takes a picture, that Alex was doing the right thing, by bringing someone, a girl,to the dance. He spurns when his father engages in a jovial chit-chat with her, as if she’s his saving grace. As if she’s fixing something, him, that needed to be fixed.

Alex lets her know in the parking lot of the school that he’s tired, not really interestedand tells her that he’s sorrybefore he asks her to get out, rigidly.

He hopes Michael does the same. Anger looms within him when he notices the blonde beside Guerin the entire night. She’s laughing at something he says, links their elbows together. Michael’s grinning ear to ear. It impales Alex. He leaves abruptly before the second song even plays. Doesn’t even realize that he has over 11 missed calls, from himthat night, until the day after, when he’s at the army reserve handing in his filled-out application.

He doesn’t check his voice-mail, not when he’s having his premature sendoff-get-together with his brothers and others, in the military personnel, people he wouldn’t have even known if it weren’t for his dad. Not when he received his order to mobilize at an operating base in Herat. Not when he takes the day off to say his goodbyes, to everyone but him. Not when he removes the sim from his phone and slips it behind the casing of a photo-frame.

He says things out of anger when Michael slips in through his window the day before he’s set to leave. Everything, forgotten, mostly burnt from his mind so he doesn’t have over 800 words that if unveiled, would have disintegrated him on the spot.

A pang goes through Alex. He knows that Michael hasn’t forgotten a single thing. It’s the way in which he grits down on his jaw, the jowls of his chin protruding out from under his skin. Michael stabs his fingers into the soles of his palms, his flesh turning white in the surrounding area. His face is void of any color. The blood rushes out and seeps under the fabric of his jacket.

The thing about Michael was, he never forgets. Even if he wanted to, it was impossible for him to. His worst burden, Alex notes. He has probably etched the words into the matrix of his bones, scorching it into his mind only to replay it repeatedly, distastefully-

Alex had the luxury of drawing a blank. It took years of practice but he was adept at it.

“I’m sorry, Michael.” He starts with, feeling immediately overcome by how long it’s taken him to even say it, “I’m sorry for everything.” Hopes it’s inherent that everything meant absolutely every. Single. Thing.

Michael is bitter as he scoffs, emotion making his voice tight. “You can’t do this.” He’s mostly speaking to himself. He rubs at his face as he laments into the palms of his hand. There’s defeat wearing thin on his shoulders; As if he’s imagined this exact conversation countless times but never concocted an outcome that would be sufficive enough to mitigate years of absolute agony he endured.

“You can’t do this,” he’s breathless as he repeats. He looks disoriented, reaches for the other glass of water and quaffs it down in futility. It doesn’t help. Alex reaches instinctively towards Michael, recognizes the conflict, far-too familiar with it himself-but stills when Michael gets on his feet abruptly.

The sound cuts through raucous room, everyone’s head whipped in the direction of the thud.

“I need air,” Michael is tight with fury and hurt; wistful eyes meet his, albeit for a second, before Guerin strides out the dinner, his torment puncturing into every stomp he made.

Alex tosses his head back, lips pressed in a thin, exasperated line; Alex owed Michael a lot. He owed Michael so much more than a mere apology. He owed him his time, his space and him.

Alex felt the familiar light-headedness, knows what’s to come. The detachment, the inhibition, the folds enclosing the locked void in his mind, threatening to unfold.

He reaches into his pocket, throws two bills of twenty, somehow makes it into his truck, drives out of town, into his driveway, into his room. He goes to close the blinds, removes the comforter off of his bed and kicks off his shoes.

Toby is scratching on the door to his room. He’s locked out. The scratching is incessant but not painful to Alex’s heightened hearing. He settles furthest away from the window, curls up on the wood floor with a blanket and his elbow, to support his head.

He has his phone beside him, has it on silent but watches the screen keenly. His eyes are heavy, lids looming lower. Alex presses his nose to the floor, breathes in the musk and concentrates on the splinters in the footboard slat.

It’s only when Isobel sends him a wordy ‘thank you, thank you, thank you…’ message does Alex succumb to his exhaustion.

#Alex's POV #rose well new mexico #Alex manes #Michael guerin #malex #fic #angst #post-canon #Isobel evans #pent up frustration #flashbacks #forgiveness

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poorquentyn · 7 years ago

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Remember Your Name, Part 3: When That Other Man Had Come This Way

Series so far here

“That era has passed. Nothing that belonged to it exists anymore.”

At the end of In the Mood for Love, the film’s protagonist visits the ruins of Angkor Wat. He’d earlier mused to a friend about how back in the day, if you had a secret burning inside that you couldn’t bring yourself to share, you dug a shallow hole into a tree and whispered your secret into it, filling the hole with mud afterwards to keep the truth at bay.

But when our hero decides to try and leave behind the story of forsaken love we saw unfold over the course of the movie, he does not seek out a living thing that can survive and change and grow. He instead unburdens himself to a ruin: a monument to the ravages wrought and distances forged by time. In the sequel 2046, he disappears into the rose-colored fog within, surrounded by his ghosts on parade. Try as he might, he could not seal them away forever.

I have come this way before. It was a dangerous thought, and he regretted it at once.

“No,” he said, “no, that was some other man, that was before you knew your name.” His name was Reek. He had to remember that. Reek, Reek, it rhymes with leek. When that other man had come this way, an army had followed close behind him, the great host of the north riding to war beneath the grey-and-white banners of House Stark. Reek rode alone, clutching a peace banner on a pinewood staff. When that other man had come this way, he had been mounted on a courser, swift and spirited. Reek rode a broken-down stot, all skin and bone and ribs, and he rode her slowly for fear he might fall off. The other man had been a good rider, but Reek was uneasy on horseback. It had been so long. He was no rider. He was not even a man. He was Lord Ramsay’s creature, lower than a dog, a worm in human skin. “You will pretend to be a prince,” Lord Ramsay told him last night, as Reek was soaking in a tub of scalding water, “but we know the truth. You’re Reek. You’ll always be Reek, no matter how sweet you smell. Your nose may lie to you. Remember your name. Remember who you are.”

“Reek,” he said. “Your Reek.”

The Drunkard’s Tower leaned as if it were about to collapse, just as it had for half a thousand years. The Children’s Tower thrust into the sky as straight as a spear, but its shattered top was open to the wind and rain. The Gatehouse Tower, squat and wide, was the largest of the three, slimy with moss, a gnarled tree growing sideways from the stones of its north side, fragments of broken wall still standing to the east and west. The Karstarks took the Drunkard’s Tower and the Umbers the Children’s Tower, he recalled. Robb claimed the Gatehouse Tower for his own. If he closed his eyes, he could see the banners in his mind’s eye, snapping bravely in a brisk north wind. All gone now, all fallen.

Memory and identity are inextricable. Who you were informs who you are, and who you are invariably filters your perspective on who you were. The weight of backstory has always been one of ASOIAF’s central claims to profundity. R+L=J, the story’s central revelation and the beating heart of the fandom, is also the burdensome duty that defined our fakeout protagonist Eddard Stark. What makes Ned’s life so meaningful is that he put it all on the line not to keep the secret that his purported bastard Jon is in fact his sister Lyanna’s son by Rhaegar Targaryen, but in the name of the values that keeping that secret instilled in him.

Time was perilously short. The king would return from his hunt soon, and honor would require Ned to go to him with all he had learned. Vayon Poole had arranged for Sansa and Arya to sail on the Wind Witch out of Braavos, three days hence. They would be back at Winterfell before the harvest. Ned could no longer use his concern for their safety to excuse his delay.

Yet last night he had dreamt of Rhaegar's children. Lord Tywin had laid the bodies beneath the Iron Throne, wrapped in the crimson cloaks of his house guard. That was clever of him; the blood did not show so badly against the red cloth. The little princess had been barefoot, still dressed in her bed gown, and the boy…the boy…

Ned could not let that happen again. The realm could not withstand a second mad king, another dance of blood and vengeance. He must find some way to save the children.

Jaime floats in heat and memory in the Harrenhal bathtubs, the truth finally swimming to the surface; Barbrey stares deep into a dead man’s face, the pleasure and pain of it eternally intermingled; Robert himself admits that all he wants most is to leave behind the crown it was all ostensibly for. They all sing the same sad song, the one Reek sings as he rides fearfully into Theon Greyjoy’s past at Moat Cailin: I tried to grasp a star, overreached, and fell. They followed the red comet, over the edge. Their songs broke, and broke them in their fall.

Following on Theon briefly coming unstuck in time in his first ADWD chapter, Reek II builds on that disorientation by externalizing it onto his environment. The chapter is thick with memory and riddled with decay, all swathes of mist that give way to fountains of blood, because that’s what the inside of Theon Greyjoy’s head looks like. That opening chapter in the Dreadfort gave us a blood-curdling glimpse of the crucible in which Theon became Reek before forcing him out of it; now, the story goes widescreen, taking in how the North has changed along with our POV since last he stepped out into it.

The hall was dark stone, high ceilinged and drafty, full of drifting smoke, its stone walls spotted by huge patches of pale lichen. A peat fire burned low in a hearth blackened by the hotter blazes of years past. A massive table of carved stone filled the chamber, as it had for centuries. There was where I sat, the last time I was here, he remembered. Robb was at the head of the table, with the Greatjon to his right and Roose Bolton on his left. The Glovers sat next to Helman Tallhart. Karstark and his sons were across from them.

The reference to time’s fire in which we burn (“blackened by the hotter blazes of years past”), the epochal weight of the table filling the chamber “as it had for centuries,” the evocation of the ghosts that haunt Theon--all of it grounds the business of the plot in memory and time, and thus in what’s happened to our POV.

Theon smiled. Reek cannot. Theon had friends. Reek is a pariah. Theon came to Moat Cailin with an army. Now, that army is dead and gone, except for those who turned on the rest...just as he did. Moat Cailin has been made a ruin all over again, defeat and despair folded into it like Lannister crimson into Stark steel, a testament like Tristifer’s tomb to a shattered kingdom. Theon helped shatter it, and now he stumbles back shattered to help melt down what’s left. He is Moat Cailin, more or less, the broken towers a misty mirror for our broken man, the splintered teeth of his smile writ large. The fog that cloaks the fortress reflects how he’s been forced to compartmentalize his past, which is now screaming its way to the surface. There are ghosts in Moat Cailin, and he is one of them.

(image by warsandpoliticsoficeandfire.wordpress.com)

This sense of desolation and loss is mirrored in the chapter’s purpose in the larger plot. The standoff between the Boltons and the Ironborn over the Moat (and by extension, the North as a whole) is little more than a feast for crows. Both sides went for the direwolf’s throat with no higher cause than plunder and the pleasure of it; all they’re fighting over is who did it more successfully. The Ironborn here were left to rot by their Lord Captain when he went chasing his brother’s crown...

“Victarion commanded us to hold, he did. I heard him with my own ears. Hold here till I return, he told Kenning.”

“Aye,” said the one-armed man. “That’s what he said. The kingsmoot called, but he swore that he’d be back, with a driftwood crown upon his head and a thousand men behind him.”

“My uncle is never coming back,” Reek told them. “The kingsmoot crowned his brother Euron, and the Crow’s Eye has other wars to fight. You think my uncle values you? He doesn’t. You are the ones he left behind to die. He scraped you off the same way he scrapes mud off his boots when he wades ashore.”

Those words struck home. He could see it in their eyes, in the way they looked at one another or frowned above their cups. They all feared they’d been abandoned, but it took me to turn fear into certainty. These were not the kin of famous captains nor the blood of the great Houses of the Iron Islands. These were the sons of thralls and salt wives.

...and the Dreadfort men can’t lay any credible claim to be acting as defenders of the North from the reaving invaders, given the Northern blood they’ve both happily spilled throughout. (Those who hunt people for sport shouldn’t throw stones, and all that.) Ramsay in this chapter is merely mopping up after and reaping the benefits of the hard-earned victory won by Howland Reed and his guerilla fighters, and even that he’s not doing himself, but forcing a helpless tortured prisoner to do for him. The Bastard’s unspeakably hideous treatment of the Ironborn after they surrender to him in good faith is the punchline to a very dark joke, poisoned icing on bitter cake. And of course, it’s all in the service of welcoming an army soaked in the blood of the men and women with whom they sat down to dinner, as allies, as friends, as guests at a wedding.

Three days later, the vanguard of Roose Bolton’s host threaded its way through the ruins and past the row of grisly sentinels—four hundred mounted Freys clad in blue and grey, their spearpoints glittering whenever the sun broke through the clouds. Two of old Lord Walder’s sons led the van. One was brawny, with a massive jut of jaw and arms thick with muscle. The other had hungry eyes close-set above a pointed nose, a thin brown beard that did not quite conceal the weak chin beneath it, a bald head. Hosteen and Aenys. He remembered them from before he knew his name. Hosteen was a bull, slow to anger but implacable once roused, and by repute the fiercest fighter of Lord Walder’s get. Aenys was older, crueler, and more clever—a commander, not a swordsman. Both were seasoned soldiers.

The northmen followed hard behind the van, their tattered banners streaming in the wind. Reek watched them pass. Most were afoot, and there were so few of them. He remembered the great host that marched south with Young Wolf, beneath the direwolf of Winterfell. Twenty thousand swords and spears had gone off to war with Robb, or near enough to make no matter, but only two in ten were coming back, and most of those were Dreadfort men.

Even as Reek struggles to keep Theon at bay (thinking of his life before the Dreadfort dungeons as the time “before he knew his name”), making contact with the people with whom Theon rode to war is stirring something inside him, and that’s reflected in the big picture of what it means for this army to arrive in the North. Grey Wind’s forlorn eyes from the House of the Undying are watching, and judging, and waiting. Wolves prowl and howl through the opening chapters of ADWD’s Northern half, singing the song of their fall, and of Jojen’s solemn promise: “the wolves will come again.” The ghosts of the Red Wedding follow this army to Winterfell, and hang heavy on the Ramsay-Jeyne wedding and everything that follows, crying out for redress. The gods have been insulted, and will have their due. Thankfully, there’s a man going ‘round taking names, and he decides who to free and who to blame...

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...but discussion of His Grace King Stannis Baratheon, the Wrath of God, will have to wait for later chapters, as will Wyman Manderly’s culinary interpretation of divine judgment.

For the purposes of Theon’s arc, the Ironborn at Moat Cailin serve as the mirror from which he’s trying so desperately to look away. I said last time that what Reek fears most right now, even more than Ramsay, is being Theon. That name carries so much shame and pain with it that he prefers to be “your Reek,” fearing not only the external consequences of defiance (more torture and maiming), but also the internal consequences of identifying as his old self. All Theon wanted to do in ACOK was take control of his life, and now that’s the last thing he wants, because of what he did with that power once he had it. He returns to Moat Cailin flying a white flag of peace, but it may as well be one of surrender.

“I am Ironborn,” Reek answered, lying. The boy he’d been before had been Ironborn, true enough, but Reek had come into this world in the dungeons of the Dreadfort. “Look at my face. I am Lord Balon’s son. Your prince.” He would have said the name, but somehow the words caught in his throat. Reek, I’m Reek, it rhymes with squeak.

“Ralf Kenning is dead,” he said. “Who commands here?”

The drinkers stared at him blankly. One laughed. Another spat. Finally one of the Codds said, “Who asks?”

“Lord Balon’s son.” Reek, my name is Reek, it rhymes with cheek.

One of the Codds pushed to his feet. A big man, but pop-eyed and wide of mouth, with dead white flesh. He looked as if his father had sired him on a fish, but he still wore a longsword. “Dagon Codd yields to no man.”

No, please, you have to listen. The thought of what Ramsay would do to him if he crept back to camp without the garrison’s surrender was almost enough to make him piss his breeches. Reek, Reek, it rhymes with leak.

What gives this chapter its charge is that our POV is being forced by the man who shattered his old identity to resume that identity. It’s Theon playing Reek playing Theon, and he’s being made to remember his name in order to sway the people who represent his old life, because they’d never surrender to Reek. He knows that, because he used to be like them...or he wanted to be, anyway. When Theon first became a POV, his mind was aflame with song, lashing his in-between identity to the values and visions of the Old Way:

Once I would have kept her as a salt wife in truth, he thought to himself as he slid his fingers through her tangled hair. Once. When we still kept the Old Way, lived by the axe instead of the pick, taking what we would, be it wealth, women, or glory. In those days, the Ironborn did not work mines; that was labor for the captives brought back from the hostings, and so too the sorry business of farming and tending goats and sheep. War was an ironman's proper trade. The Drowned God had made them to reave and rape, to carve out kingdoms and write their names in fire and blood and song.

Aegon the Dragon had destroyed the Old Way when he burned Black Harren, gave Harren's kingdom back to the weakling rivermen, and reduced the Iron Islands to an insignificant backwater of a much greater realm. Yet the old red tales were still told around driftwood fires and smoky hearths all across the islands, even behind the high stone halls of Pyke. Theon's father numbered among his titles the style of Lord Reaper, and the Greyjoy words boasted that We Do Not Sow.

It had been to bring back the Old Way more than for the empty vanity of a crown that Lord Balon had staged his great rebellion. Robert Baratheon had written a bloody end to that hope, with the help of his friend Eddard Stark, but both men were dead now. Mere boys ruled in their stead, and the realm that Aegon the Conqueror had forged was smashed and sundered. This is the season, Theon thought as the captain's daughter slid her lips up and down the length of him, the season, the year, the day, and I am the man.

This chapter, Theon I ACOK, slots right in between Davos I (the one with Lightbringer) and Daenerys I (the one in the Red Waste), both of them positively soaked with messianic imagery and focused on weighty questions of power, prophecy, and the price you pay. But in Theon’s chapter, the launching pad for the most stubbornly secular storyline in ACOK, the messianic mindset is stripped of its finery and exposed as pitiful self-delusion. This is who you are, Chosen One, all the more clearly with neither dragons nor shadowbinders at your back: a mirror-drunk fool dreaming of atrocities while your dick gets sucked.

Three books later, that self-image has been racked and flayed and castrated before being spat back out at us as Reek. He thinks of himself as having been born beneath the Dreadfort, molded like clay from Theon’s blood and pain; are you my mother, Ramsay? He keeps retreating to his new name in his thoughts, a mantra to keep the fear away. The identity of which he dreamed is now the nightmare he cannot shake. And what better way for the author to reflect that than by bringing him up against the death of his dream, the most unshakable images of the rot eating away at the Old Way?

Reek passed the rotted carcass of a horse, an arrow jutting from its neck. A long white snake slithered into its empty eye socket at his approach. Behind the horse he spied the rider, or what remained of him. The crows had stripped the flesh from the man’s face, and a feral dog had burrowed beneath his mail to get at his entrails. Farther on, another corpse had sunk so deep into the muck that only his face and fingers showed.

Closer to the towers, corpses littered the ground on every side. Blood-blooms had sprouted from their gaping wounds, pale flowers with petals plump and moist as a woman’s lips.

Ralf Kenning lay shivering beneath a mountain of furs. His arms were stacked beside him—sword and axe, mail hauberk, iron warhelm. His shield bore the storm god’s cloudy hand, lightning crackling from his fingers down to a raging sea, but the paint was discolored and peeling, the wood beneath starting to rot.

Ralf was rotting too. Beneath the furs he was naked and feverish, his pale puffy flesh covered with weeping sores and scabs. His head was misshapen, one cheek grotesquely swollen, his neck so engorged with blood that it threatened to swallow his face. The arm on that same side was big as a log and crawling with white worms. No one had bathed him or shaved him for many days, from the look of him. One eye wept pus, and his beard was crusty with dried vomit.

“What happened to him?” asked Reek.

“He was on the parapets and some bog devil loosed an arrow at him. It was only a graze, but…they poison their shafts, smear the points with shit and worse things. We poured boiling wine into the wound, but it made no difference.”

This is how the Old Way has always died, with broken towers and the stench of corpses, from Aegon melting Harrenhal to Robert smashing Pyke. Every time it falls, the seeds are sown for its next rise; the ideology’s exposed festering folly is folded into a Lost Cause mythos that weaponizes resentment and ennobles suffering. The last time it fell, part of the price paid was Theon’s identity, and his desperate drive to reclaim it by reviving the Old Way is what led him here. He’s unrecognizable to the very world in which he hoped to finally recognize himself.

The garrison will never know me. Some might recall the boy he’d been before he learned his name, but Reek would be a stranger to them. It had been a long while since he last looked into a glass, but he knew how old he must appear. His hair had turned white; much of it had fallen out, and what was left was stiff and dry as straw. The dungeons had left him weak as an old woman and so thin a strong wind could knock him down.

And his hands…Ramsay had given him gloves, fine gloves of black leather, soft and supple, stuffed with wool to conceal his missing fingers, but if anyone looked closely, he would see that three of his fingers did not bend.

That fall from grace, the violent collapse of his projected identity, is reflected back at him by the sorry state of the Ironborn garrison. They came here as an army, together, one people; they knew who they were. And now...?

Someone seized him and dragged him inside, and he heard the door crash shut behind him. He was pulled to his feet and shoved against a wall. Then a knife was at his throat, a bearded face so close to his that he could count the man’s nose hairs. “Who are you? What’s your purpose here? Quick now, or I’ll do you the same as him.” The guard jerked his head toward a body rotting on the floor beside the door, its flesh green and crawling with maggots.

“I am ironborn,” Reek answered, lying. The boy he’d been before had been ironborn, true enough, but Reek had come into this world in the dungeons of the Dreadfort. “Look at my face. I am Lord Balon’s son. Your prince.” He would have said the name, but somehow the words caught in his throat. Reek, I’m Reek, it rhymes with squeak. He had to forget that for a little while, though. No man would ever yield to a creature such as Reek, no matter how desperate his situation. He must pretend to be a prince again.

His captor stared at his face, squinting, his mouth twisted in suspicion. His teeth were brown, and his breath stank of ale and onion. “Lord Balon’s sons were killed.”

“My brothers. Not me. Lord Ramsay took me captive after Winterfell. He’s sent me here to treat with you. Do you command here?”

“Me?” The man lowered his knife and took a step backwards, almost stumbling over the corpse. “Not me, m’lord.” His mail was rusted, his leathers rotting. On the back of one hand an open sore wept blood. “Ralf Kenning has the command. The captain said. I’m on the door, is all.”

“And who is this?” Reek gave the corpse a kick.

The guard stared at the dead man as if seeing him for the first time. “Him…he drank the water. I had to cut his throat for him, to stop his screaming. Bad belly. You can’t drink the water. That’s why we got the ale.” The guard rubbed his face, his eyes red and inflamed. “We used to drag the dead down into the cellars. All the vaults are flooded down there. No one wants to take the trouble now, so we just leave them where they fall.”

“The cellar is a better place for them. Give them to the water. To the Drowned God.”

The man laughed. “No gods down there, m’lord. Only rats and water snakes. White things, thick as your leg. Sometimes they slither up the steps and bite you in your sleep.”

Reek remembered the dungeons underneath the Dreadfort, the rat squirming between his teeth, the taste of warm blood on his lips. If I fail, Ramsay will send me back to that, but first he’ll flay the skin from another finger. “How many of the garrison are left?”

“Some,” said the ironman. “I don’t know. Fewer than we was before. Some in the Drunkard’s Tower too, I think. Not the Children’s Tower. Dagon Codd went over there a few days back. Only two men left alive, he said, and they was eating on the dead ones. He killed them both, if you can believe that.”

Moat Cailin has fallen, Reek realized then, only no one has seen fit to tell them.

And now they are lost, turning on each other, their god forgotten. Cannibalism rears its head again and again in ADWD, as the taboo wilts in the face of winter and war. Theon came here with the knights of summer; Reek returns to find the living dead. Two different armies, two different peoples, as one in his mind now. After all, he’s been trying to bridge this particular gap for most of his life. The abyss awaited both armies to occupy the Moat, as it awaited Theon. Never forget Kubrick’s parting shot in Barry Lyndon:

In ACOK, Theon tried to shed the Northern self exemplified by that shining army at the Moat like dead skin, giving himself over to the image of the Ironborn self in his head. Now Reek returns to Moat Calin to play that image, only to sacrifice it as he was as a child, sacrificed like the men at Moat Cailin to the Old Way...

“Kill him,” Reek told the guard. “His wits are gone. He’s full of blood and worms.”

The man gaped at him. “The captain put him in command.”

“You’d put a dying horse down.”

“What horse? I never had no horse.”

I did. The memory came back in a rush. Smiler’s screams had sounded almost human. His mane afire, he had reared up on his hind legs, blind with pain, lashing out with his hooves. No, no. Not mine, he was not mine, Reek never had a horse. “I will kill him for you.” Reek snatched up Ralf Kenning’s sword where it leaned against his shield. He still had fingers enough to clasp the hilt. When he laid the edge of the blade against the swollen throat of the creature on the straw, the skin split open in a gout of black blood and yellow pus. Kenning jerked violently, then lay still.

...and then again as an adult, this time to the Bastard of Bolton.

Reek swung down from his saddle and took a knee. “My lord, Moat Cailin is yours. Here are its last defenders.”

“So few. I had hoped for more. They were such stubborn foes.” Lord Ramsay’s pale eyes shone. “You must be starved. Damon, Alyn, see to them. Wine and ale, and all the food that they can eat. Skinner, show their wounded to our maesters.”

“Aye, my lord.”

A few of the Ironborn muttered thanks before they shambled off toward the cookfires in the center of the camp. One of the Codds even tried to kiss Lord Ramsay’s ring, but the hounds drove him back before he could get close, and Alison took a chunk of his ear. Even as the blood streamed down his neck, the man bobbed and bowed and praised his lordship’s mercy.

When the last of them were gone, Ramsay Bolton turned his smile on Reek. He clasped him by the back of the head, pulled his face close, kissed him on his cheek, and whispered, “My old friend Reek. Did they really take you for their prince? What bloody fools, these ironmen. The gods are laughing.”

“All they want is to go home, my lord.”

“And what do you want, my sweet Reek?” Ramsay murmured, as softly as a lover. His breath smelled of mulled wine and cloves, so sweet. “Such valiant service deserves a reward. I cannot give you back your fingers or your toes, but surely there is something you would have of me. Shall I free you instead? Release you from my service? Do you want to go with them, return to your bleak isles in the cold grey sea, be a prince again? Or would you sooner stay my leal serving man?”

A cold knife scraped along his spine. Be careful, he told himself, be very, very careful. He did not like his lordship’s smile, the way his eyes were shining, the spittle glistening at the corner of his mouth. He had seen such signs before. You are no prince. You’re Reek, just Reek, it rhymes with freak. Give him the answer that he wants.

“My lord,” he said, “my place is here, with you. I’m your Reek. I only want to serve you. All I ask …a skin of wine, that would be reward enough for me…red wine, the strongest that you have, all the wine a man can drink…”

Lord Ramsay laughed. “You’re not a man, Reek. You’re just my creature. You’ll have your wine, though. Walder, see to it. And fear not, I won’t return you to the dungeons, you have my word as a Bolton. We’ll make a dog of you instead. Meat every day, and I’ll even leave you teeth enough to eat it. You can sleep beside my girls. Ben, do you have a collar for him?”

“I’ll have one made, m’lord,” said old Ben Bones.

The old man did better than that. That night, besides the collar, there was a ragged blanket too, and half a chicken. Reek had to fight the dogs for the meat, but it was the best meal he’d had since Winterfell.

And the wine…the wine was dark and sour, but strong. Squatting amongst the hounds, Reek drank until his head swam, retched, wiped his mouth, and drank some more. Afterward he lay back and closed his eyes. When he woke a dog was licking vomit from his beard, and dark clouds were scuttling across the face of a sickle moon. Somewhere in the night, men were screaming. He shoved the dog aside, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

The next morning Lord Ramsay dispatched three riders down the causeway to take word to his lord father that the way was clear. The flayed man of House Bolton was hoisted above the Gatehouse Tower, where Reek had hauled down the golden kraken of Pyke. Along the rotting-plank road, wooden stakes were driven deep into the boggy ground; there the corpses festered, red and dripping. Sixty-three, he knew, there are sixty-three of them. One was short half an arm. Another had a parchment shoved between its teeth, its wax seal still unbroken.

“So few. I had hoped for more.” The soul shudders. And oh, how casually “somewhere in the night, men were screaming” strolls into the middle of a paragraph, and Reek rolls back over to sleep...

To be clear, I’m not holding Theon responsible for what happens to his sixty-three fellow Ironborn left at the Moat. He’s in no position to refuse Ramsay, as GRRM makes clear in his inner monologue throughout the chapter. But Ramsay is deliberately putting his prisoner through a gauntlet of the self. He has our POV act as Prince Theon son of King Balon, forces him through a cruel mummer’s farce of “choosing” to stay at Ramsay’s side as Reek, and then viciously annihilates the people who represent Theon’s connection to that old identity. It has exactly the effect Ramsay wants: “He pulled down the kraken banner with his own two hands, fumbling some because of his missing fingers but thankful for the fingers that Lord Ramsay had allowed him to keep.” This is what it means to have been Theon and to now be Reek.

This pattern will repeat itself over the course of Theon’s next two chapters, as Roose and Barbrey conspire to have him give Jeyne away to Ramsay publicly, as Theon, and so help cement Bolton control of Winterfell. At every step, Theon's identity is weaponized and turned against him. He flinches from his past, drinks to annihilate his present, and can barely conceive of a future. He is unmoored, drifting through external and internal fog, and he has once again unlocked the North on behalf of heinous authority figures he desperately wants to please. Indeed, Ramsay has wrought a fearsome image of himself in Theon’s mind, a devil equally at home tempting and punishing, and that dynamic is recreated at Moat Cailin:

One of the Codds even tried to kiss Lord Ramsay’s ring, but the hounds drove him back before he could get close, and Alison took a chunk of his ear. Even as the blood streamed down his neck, the man bobbed and bowed and praised his lordship’s mercy.

On that note, one persistent critique of both AFFC and ADWD is that the violence stopped meaning anything--the author started leaning on brutality for brutality’s sake, because he bought into his own rep and/or was out of ideas. I think it’s a valid complaint when it comes to, say, Biter eating Brienne’s face. But on the flipside, the horrific violence in Theon’s storyline is consistently linked to intertwined themes of memory and identity in a manner that I find resonant. Look no further than the man who accepts Ramsay’s offer, and why:

It was the one-armed man who’d flung the axe. As he rose to his feet he had another in his hand. “Who else wants to die?” he asked the other drinkers. “Speak up, I’ll see you do.” Thin red streams were spreading out across the stone from the pool of blood where Dagon Codd’s head had come to rest. “Me, I mean to live, and that don’t mean staying here to rot.”

The one-armed man walked at the head of the procession, limping heavily. His name, he said, was Adrack Humble, and he had a rock wife and three salt wives back on Great Wyk. “Three of the four had big bellies when we sailed,” he boasted, “and Humbles run to twins. First thing I’ll need to do when I get back is count up my new sons. Might be I’ll even name one after you, m’lord.”

Aye, name him Reek, he thought, and when he’s bad you can cut his toes off and give him rats to eat. He turned his head and spat, and wondered if Ralf Kenning hadn’t been the lucky one.

“All they want is to go home, my lord.” And so does Theon, but he has no home to go back to.

Now, of course, Adrack Humble’s dream of counting up his sons is hardly a utopian vision--he kidnapped and enslaved most of their mothers. But the world to which he belongs is the world to which Theon wanted to belong, believing in it so badly he put his life on the line for it...and it failed him, just as it always ultimately fails your average [H]umble man of the Iron Islands. As such, Reek now thinks that the man who rotted without getting his hopes up was the lucky one. This is how he talked when the Young Wolf’s army marched south...

"But such a battle!" said Theon Greyjoy eagerly. "My lady, the realm has not seen such a victory since the Field of Fire. I vow, the Lannisters lost ten men for every one of ours that fell. We've taken close to a hundred knights captive, and a dozen lords bannermen. Lord Westerling, Lord Banefort, Ser Garth Greenfield, Lord Estren, Ser Tytos Brax, Mallor the Dornishman … and three Lannisters besides Jaime, Lord Tywin's own nephews, two of his sister's sons and one of his dead brother's…"

Theon Greyjoy was seated on a bench in Riverrun's Great Hall, enjoying a horn of ale and regaling her father's garrison with an account of the slaughter in the Whispering Wood. "Some tried to flee, but we'd pinched the valley shut at both ends, and we rode out of the darkness with sword and lance. The Lannisters must have thought the Others themselves were on them when that wolf of Robb's got in among them. I saw him tear one man's arm from his shoulder, and their horses went mad at the scent of him. I couldn't tell you how many men were thrown—"

...but his story is always interrupted, his comrades died at dinner, and now he dreams only of blood. We rode to war with songs on our lips, but by the time the last notes faded and left us alone with the silence, we were utterly transformed. When Theon eagerly embraces his wine and his half-chicken and his collar, trusting them to silence the screams, all I can think of is this:

“And the man breaks.

“He turns and runs, or crawls off afterward over the corpses of the slain, or steals away in the black of night, and he finds someplace to hide. All thought of home is gone by then, and kings and lords and gods mean less to him than a haunch of spoiled meat that will let him live another day, or a skin of bad wine that might drown his fear for a few hours. The broken man lives from day to day, from meal to meal, more beast than man. Lady Brienne is not wrong. In times like these, the traveler must beware of broken men, and fear them...but he should pity them as well.”

Two chapters prior to Reek II, half a world away, the Shy Maid sailed through another mournful ruin, and when Tyrion stared into the Sorrows, they stared back.

The grey moss grew thickly here, covering the fallen stones in great mounds and bearding all the towers. Black vines crept in and out of windows, through doors and over archways, up the sides of high stone walls. The fog concealed three-quarters of the palace, but what they glimpsed was more than enough for Tyrion to know that this island fastness had been ten times the size of the Red Keep once and a hundred times more beautiful. He knew where he was. “The Palace of Love,” he said softly.

“That was the Rhoynar name,” said Haldon Halfmaester, “but for a thousand years this has been the Palace of Sorrow.”

The ruin was sad enough, but knowing what it had been made it even sadder. There was laughter here once, Tyrion thought. There were gardens bright with flowers and fountains sparkling golden in the sun. These steps once rang to the sound of lovers’ footsteps, and beneath that broken dome marriages beyond count were sealed with a kiss. His thoughts turned to Tysha, who had so briefly been his lady wife. It was Jaime, he thought, despairing. He was my own blood, my big strong brother. When I was small he brought me toys, barrel hoops and blocks and a carved wooden lion. He gave me my first pony and taught me how to ride him. When he said that he had bought you for me, I never doubted him. Why would I? He was Jaime, and you were just some girl who’d played a part. I had feared it from the start, from the moment you first smiled at me and let me touch your hand. My own father could not love me. Why would you if not for gold?

Through the long grey fingers of the fog, he heard again the deep shuddering thrum of a bowstring snapping taut, the grunt Lord Tywin made as the quarrel took him beneath the belly, the slap of cheeks on stone as he sat back down to die.

And therein lies a theme that runs through ASOIAF but for me finds its richest expressions in A Dance with Dragons: you can’t go home again.

Quentyn did not want to die at all. I want to go back to Yronwood and kiss both of your sisters, marry Gwyneth Yronwood, watch her flower into beauty, have a child by her. I want to ride in tourneys, hawk and hunt, visit with my mother in Norvos, read some of those books my father sends me. I want Cletus and Will and Maester Kedry to be alive again.

Home is haunted, by the love you lost and the family you failed.

The door to the roof of the tower was stuck so fast that it was plain no one had opened it in years. He had to put his shoulder to it to force it open. But when Jon Connington stepped out onto the high battlements, the view was just as intoxicating as he remembered: the crag with its wind-carved rocks and jagged spires, the sea below growling and worrying at the foot of the castle like some restless beast, endless leagues of sky and cloud, the wood with its autumnal colors. “Your father’s lands are beautiful,” Prince Rhaegar had said, standing right where Jon was standing now. And the boy he’d been had replied, “One day they will all be mine.” As if that could impress a prince who was heir to the entire realm, from the Arbor to the Wall.

Griffin’s Roost had been his, eventually, if only for a few short years. From here, Jon Connington had ruled broad lands extending many leagues to the west, north, and south, just as his father and his father’s father had before him. But his father and his father’s father had never lost their lands. He had.

Home is a border wall, a chain digging and twisting.

“Do you have brothers?” Asha asked her keeper.

“Sisters,” Alysane Mormont replied, gruff as ever. “Five, we were. All girls. Lyanna is back on Bear Island. Lyra and Jory are with our mother. Dacey was murdered.”

“The Red Wedding.”

“Aye.” Alysane stared at Asha for a moment. “I have a son. He’s only two. My daughter’s nine.”

“You started young.”

“Too young. But better that than wait too late.”

A stab at me, Asha thought, but let it be. “You are wed.”

“No. My children were fathered by a bear.” Alysane smiled. Her teeth were crooked, but there was something ingratiating about that smile. “Mormont women are skinchangers. We turn into bears and find mates in the woods. Everyone knows.”

Asha smiled back. “Mormont women are all fighters too.”

The other woman’s smile faded. “What we are is what you made us. On Bear Island every child learns to fear krakens rising from the sea.”

The Old Way. Asha turned away, chains clinking faintly.

Home is leagues and years away, and yet so close you can almost touch it.

Bran closed his eyes and slipped free of his skin. Into the roots, he thought. Into the weirwood. Become the tree. For an instant he could see the cavern in its black mantle, could hear the river rushing by below.

Then all at once he was back home again.

Lord Eddard Stark sat upon a rock beside the deep black pool in the godswood, the pale roots of the heart tree twisting around him like an old man’s gnarled arms. The greatsword Ice lay across Lord Eddard’s lap, and he was cleaning the blade with an oilcloth.

“Winterfell,” Bran whispered.

“I have my own ghosts, Bran. A brother that I loved, a brother that I hated, a woman I desired. Through the trees, I see them still, but no word of mine has ever reached them. The past remains the past. We can learn from it, but we cannot change it.”

You have no home. You never will.

Water splashed against the soles of her feet. She was walking in the stream. How long had she been doing that? The soft brown mud felt good between her toes and helped to soothe her blisters. In the stream or out of it, I must keep walking. Water flows downhill. The stream will take me to the river, and the river will take me home.

Except it wouldn’t, not truly.

You’ll give up everything just to get home, please, please...

Jon flexed the fingers of his sword hand. The Night’s Watch takes no part. He closed his fist and opened it again. What you propose is nothing less than treason. He thought of Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair. Kill the boy and let the man be born. He thought of Bran, clambering up a tower wall, agile as a monkey. Of Rickon’s breathless laughter. Of Sansa, brushing out Lady’s coat and singing to herself. You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird’s nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell…I want my bride back…I want my bride back…I want my bride back…

...but it’s gone.

“I have no wish to die, I promise you. I have …” His voice trailed off into uncertainty. What do I have? A life to live? Work to do? Children to raise, lands to rule, a woman to love?

Home is a time, not a place, and there were so few times that Theon was at home. One of them was here, not so long ago, though it feels like it was. For a brief shining second as the banners caught the breeze, with roaring Umbers and fierce Karstarks, with a powerful army around him, with his brother in all but blood marching to avenge his (their?) father, he knew who he was.

And now, he can’t even remember his name.

How could who I was mean anything if it can be taken away from me like this? I was a Greyjoy among Starks, and then a Stark among Greyjoys; I was Theon and had to become Reek, I am Reek and have to become Theon. Forgive me, he calls through time to the smiling man he used to know, I was not strong enough. But Theon can’t hear Reek and never will.

...and yet.

A light rain had begun to piss down out of the slate-grey sky by the time Lord Ramsay’s camp appeared in front of them. A sentry watched them pass in silence. The air was full of drifting smoke from the cookfires drowning in the rain. A column of riders came wheeling up behind them, led by a lordling with a horsehead on his shield. One of Lord Ryswell’s sons, Reek knew. Roger, or maybe Rickard. He could not tell the two of them apart. “Is this all of them?” the rider asked from atop a chestnut stallion.

“All who weren’t dead, my lord.”

“I thought there would be more. We came at them three times, and three times they threw us back.”

We are Ironborn, he thought, with a sudden flash of pride, and for half a heartbeat he was a prince again, Lord Balon’s son, the blood of Pyke.

We are Ironborn. We are Ironborn. The point isn’t that being Ironborn is, in itself, some great moral progression for Theon. The point is that he just thought of himself as one of them, as Theon, in spite of Ramsay arranging everything that happens in Reek II to convince him that he is not. He has, just for a second, found himself.

This spark grows in strength when Roose Bolton and his army arrives to escort his bastard’s bride home. As I said last time, the identity shell-games extend beyond Theon himself; his arc in ADWD only works as well as it does because it resonates with what’s happening in the plot. The North went south united, but returns divided. Roose doesn’t exactly have “a peaceful land, a quiet people” on his hands, and bringing the hated Freys north will only further provoke Stark loyalists (as we’ll see in later chapters). Moreover, his army had to pass through the Neck, controlled by one of said Stark loyalists, Howland Reed. As such, it’s not safe these days to be Roose Bolton...so he outsourced the job.

Collared and chained and back in rags again, Reek followed with the other dogs at Lord Ramsay’s heels when his lordship strode forth to greet his father. When the rider in the dark armor removed his helm, however, the face beneath was not one that Reek knew. Ramsay’s smile curdled at the sight, and anger flashed across his face. “What is this, some mockery?”

“Just caution,” whispered Roose Bolton, as he emerged from behind the curtains of the enclosed wagon.

This is a terrific way to reintroduce a villain. We haven’t seen Roose since he shed all pretense and revealed himself, a snake with new skin, at the Red Wedding. What could be more fitting than for him to wrong-foot us along with Ramsay upon re-entry? We lean forward to see him, only to hear his soft voice behind us...

Reek pretending to be Theon paved the way for the man pretending to be Roose and the girl pretending to be Arya. It’s a mockery, a mummer’s farce, a hall of mirrors. By weaving the central question of Theon’s story--who am I?--into the characters and plot points surrounding him, GRRM elevates that story. It’s the classic existentialist quest: the eternal hunt of the elusive Real. The question of whether Theon will remember his name fits like a puzzle piece with the question of whether the North will remember its name. And the North remembers.

But Theon, try as he might, is not a Stark...and neither is Ramsay’s bride-to-be.

(image by Elia Fernandez)

Jeyne Poole is not Arya Stark, and everyone knows it. Her presence is a marker of Bolton success: the key to Winterfell, a gift from their Lannister patrons, a declaration that the old has been humbled before and folded into the new. Yet more than anything else, it is the lack of anyone willing to call the Dreadfort men on their fraud that points to their rising fortunes at this moment. This is precisely why Davos’ defiant stand against the Freys in the Merman’s Court (in the chapter immediately prior to this one, worth noting?) hits home so hard. The man who stuck his neck out for the truth will not suffer these noxious lies about what happened to the Northerners who went south, and it’s all the more admirable because he (seemingly) stands alone.

And after a chapter of his identity being used against him, rewarded with a collar for handing his people over to a butcher, telling himself again and again that he is Reek, not Theon but Reek...our POV finally drops the disguise.

The girl was slim, and taller than he remembered, but that was only to be expected. Girls grow fast at that age. Her dress was grey wool bordered with white satin; over it she wore an ermine cloak clasped with a silver wolf’s head. Dark brown hair fell halfway down her back. And her eyes…

That is not Lord Eddard’s daughter.

Arya had her father’s eyes, the grey eyes of the Starks. A girl her age might let her hair grow long, add inches to her height, see her chest fill out, but she could not change the color of her eyes. That’s Sansa’s little friend, the steward’s girl. Jeyne, that was her name. Jeyne Poole.

“Lord Ramsay.” The girl dipped down before him. That was wrong as well. The real Arya Stark would have spat into his face. “I pray that I will make you a good wife and give you strong sons to follow after you.”

“That you will,” promised Ramsay, “and soon.”

It’s only internal. There’s nothing moral about it yet. He’s yet to relate her fortunes to his own. But by allowing Reek to play Theon, Ramsay has unknowingly reintroduced his captive’s pre-captivity identity into his bloodstream like an antivirus, and Jeyne’s arrival crystallizes what this means for our POV. If she’s not Arya, then he’s not Reek.

The past is present. The mud you pack into that hole in the ruined wall won’t keep your ghosts at bay. But (to borrow from Barristan) mud can nourish the seeds from which you will grow, your past the fertilizer for your rebirth.

At the edge of the wolfswood, Bran turned in his basket for one last glimpse of the castle that had been his life. Wisps of smoke still rose into the grey sky, but no more than might have risen from Winterfell's chimneys on a cold autumn afternoon. Soot stains marked some of the arrow loops, and here and there a crack or a missing merlon could be seen in the curtain wall, but it seemed little enough from this distance. Beyond, the tops of the keeps and towers still stood as they had for hundreds of years, and it was hard to tell that the castle had been sacked and burned at all. The stone is strong, Bran told himself, the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought. I'm not dead either.

#theon greyjoy #ramsay bolton #a dance with dragons #theon in adwd #asoiaf meta #moat cailin #roose bolton #jeyne poole #a game of thrones

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prairiesongserial · 7 years ago

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3.9

“Welcome back, monsieur,” Ombre said - and, for a moment, looked genuinely surprised to see him. She hid it well, but not quickly enough. It occurred to Cody that she probably hadn’t expected him to come back, even though John was still being held somewhere within La Salle Rouge. Cody wondered just how many return visitors La Salle got.

Ombre hustled him towards the red door near the entrance, and Cody obligingly followed her, prepared this time to be washed and dressed. He scanned the pile of guests’ clothes and personal items for Pem’s backpack and outfit, and found them easily, but stayed straight-faced. Pem had entered La Salle roughly an hour ago, to borrow money and begin playing at some of the tables. He and Cody had agreed that it was better to stagger their entrance times, to keep the staff of La Salle from catching on that they knew each other. They could make the Mia con work for as long as possible if they could pass themselves off as lucky strangers who just happened to sit down at the same table.

“I don’t have a gun,” Cody said, watching Ombre reach for one of the numbered baskets stacked near the wall. He held his arms out, to show her that the holster at his hip was empty. “Thought I’d save you the trouble, this time. You can pat me down if you don’t believe me.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Ombre offered him a thin-lipped smile, and moved towards one of the room’s hidden doors. It seemed that Cody was already wearing out his welcome, here. Good. He preferred this to the veneer of hospitality.

“Here,” he said, fishing his five pieces of silver out of his pocket. “You can exchange these for chips, right?”

“Certainly,” Ombre said, strained. She stepped through the hidden door she’d opened, apparently eager to leave.

“Piquet,” she snapped, as she vanished out of sight. “Find our guest a suit.”

Piquet appeared in a matter of moments through a different hidden door. She looked just as Cody remembered her, dressed in the same black dress she’d worn the previous night, black hair cropped close to her head. Her skin was dark, maybe only a few shades lighter than Cody’s - he wondered idly if she was also Mexican - and there was a small scar under her left eye that creased slightly when she smiled. She was pretty. All the girls at La Salle were pretty - some bona fide stunners, even - but Cody didn’t trust any of them as far as he could throw them.

“Je suis - oh. It’s you,” Piquet said, hiding her surprise less deftly than Ombre had.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Cody agreed. He’d already started to strip down to his underwear, familiar enough with the routine that he hadn’t given Piquet time to ask. “I assume you didn’t save my measurements anywhere.”

“That’s not the sort of thing we keep on file,” Piquet said. Her measuring tape had appeared in her hands, and she stepped closer to Cody, to hold it along his chest, then his hips.

“Bummer,” Cody said, half-smiling at Piquet. The copper measuring tape was cold against his skin, and he noted - as he had the first time - how careful Piquet was not to touch him directly with her hands unless she absolutely had to. Either it was a touch aversion, or she’d been instructed not to get too close to La Salle’s guests. Maybe both.

“Are you here to find your friend?” Piquet asked, holding the tape vertically, to get his height. She still gave off a certain air of professionalism, though she was being less polite, now. More conversational. “I heard he was caught cheating. He’ll be put under an indenture, most likely.”

Her tone was conversational, but hushed, and a little harried, like she was worried they’d be walked in on. It occurred to Cody that not all of La Salle’s employees were as insidious as Ombre. Even Quadrille had been sort of helpful to him, his first time inside. Most of the girls were probably indentured to La Salle, too, now that he thought about it. And the dealers at the tables. But they were all working their indenture off here, instead of in the mines - likely because of their good looks. That set Cody’s teeth on edge. Whoever ran La Salle Rouge, he was sure that he hated them now.

“Do people get caught cheating here a lot?” Cody asked, taking a very roundabout path towards the thing he was really curious about.

“Well,” Piquet said, with a nervous laugh. “It depends.”

Wasn’t that a mysterious answer? Cody opened his mouth to ask something else, but Piquet had already vanished into the racks of clothes, searching for a tuxedo that matched his measurements.

“What if I’d prefer a dress instead?” he asked, to get her attention. She peered around a rack at him, blinking owlishly.

“Would you? I can look.”

“Not right now, but I like to keep my options open,” he said, with a wink at her as she disappeared again. “I doubt I’d look as good as you in one, anyway.”

“Monsieur is too kind,” Piquet said, loudly enough that Cody could hear her wry tone from across the room. “Wash your face, why don’t you?”

“Sure,” Cody said, stepping over to the washbasin and wetting his hands, rubbing them over his face to wipe off some of the grime. Practicing Mia outside with Pem most of the day had left him with a sunburn and a fine coating of dust, and he was actually grateful for the opportunity to wash up, even if the perfumed water was needlessly frivolous.

“You should do something with your hair,” Piquet told him, returning with a tuxedo for him to try on. “It looked nice slicked back.”

“I like it the way it is,” Cody told her. She looked away - ostensibly to let him have a little privacy while he changed, but he could see just the barest roll of her eyes as she did so, and laughed.

“Hey, Piquet,” he said, buttoning up his shirt. “Will you tie my bow tie for me? I just never got the hang of it.”

“Mais oui, monsieur,” she said, still wry, and stepped close to him, taking the two ends of the bow tie in her fingers and deftly beginning to tie them.

“Are you an indenture?” Cody asked quietly, as soon as Piquet was close enough to hear. “You don’t have to - just nod, if you are.”

Piquet’s eyebrows furrowed, and she was still for a moment, before nodding almost imperceptibly. Her eyes were still lowered, focused on his bow tie.

“Did you get caught cheating?” Cody asked, just to be sure.

She nodded again, the movement even smaller than the last.

Cody swallowed, his mouth feeling dry. “Do you know where John is?”

Piquet shook her head, once, just barely moving it from side to side. She’d finished tying the bow tie, and stepped away from Cody, plastering a patently fake smile onto her face.

“I’m sorry that took so long, monsieur,” she said, leveling her gaze with Cody’s. It was clear enough that her apology was for something else entirely. “Let me see if I can’t at least find you a tie for your hair.”

Cody glanced at himself in the mirror as Piquet did so, buttoning his tuxedo jacket and tugging on his clothes to straighten them out. They fit well. Whatever Piquet had done in her past life, she was just as adept at measuring people, and fitting them for clothes. Presumably she’d been trained by someone else at La Salle, or they’d given her a job to suit her talents.

Cody wondered where John was. Presumably somewhere inside La Salle Rouge, unless they’d moved him to the mines somehow. It seemed likely that the person (or people) who ran La Salle were either holding him to give Cody something to gamble for, or still trying to decide what to do with him. John was good-looking and silent enough to be one of the dealers, but strong, and a good worker - a good fit for the mines.

“Piquet -” he began, about to ask another question, before one of the room’s hidden doors opened and Ombre stepped back inside.

“My, the two of you have been taking quite a while,” she said, her voice almost cloyingly sweet. Her eyes were sharp, and focused on Piquet, who had re-appeared with a hair tie for Cody, and looked about ready to shrink back into the rows of clothes and costumes. “Piquet, let’s not keep monsieur from the tables any longer than we have to, hmm?”

“Sorry, my fault. I probably shouldn’t have been chatting her up,” Cody said, easily taking the blame. He didn’t want to think about what might happen if Piquet got in trouble for passing him information, or even just talking to him more than she should have. “I guess I’m kind of on edge, seeing as you accused my friend of cheating and kidnapped him.”

Ombre’s smile soured instantly.

“Yes, well, do hurry up,” she said, stepping back towards the door, but lingering in it, keeping a close eye on Piquet and Cody.

“Here you are, monsieur,” Piquet said, pressing the hair tie into Cody’s hand. Like Ombre, she was no longer smiling - she looked a little worried, actually.

“Thanks,” Cody said, returning to the mirror to tie his hair back in a small ponytail at the nape of his neck. He glanced over his shoulder at Piquet, flashing her a grin. “And thanks for the bow tie help.

Piquet managed a strained sort of half-smile, staying where she was near the clothes racks.

“You ought to go and gamble before the tables fill up, monsieur,” she said, politely. The wry edge to her voice was still there, but deeply buried.

“You know what, I think I will,” Cody said, giving her a wink before turning to Ombre. holding his hand out. “You get those chips for me?”

“Mais oui, monsieur,” Ombre said, through her teeth. She showed Cody the five black chips in her hand, counting them out into his palm. “Five pieces of New Mexico silver.”

“Great,” Cody said, closing his hand around the chips and stepping up next to Ombre, so she could lead him back into the main hall. Time to gamble.

3.8 || 3.10

#story

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shannaraisles · 7 years ago

Text

Dear Friend - Chapter 9

My festive project. A Modern AU heavily based on The Shop Around The Corner, in which Cullen Rutherford finds love between Satinalia and First Day. [Read on AO3]

Chapter Nine

Something had changed. Cullen just couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.

It wasn't as though the routine had changed, either at work or at home. With First Day approaching, complete with its variations in the rota to allow those who had worked Satinalia to have First Day free, he had his new responsibilities thrust upon him somewhat, having to work out that rota, sign the leave requests and pay slips, meet with the board to confirm his promotion. That should have been distraction enough. But no. He was finding Mila Trevelyan incredibly distracting this week.

Whether it was his being so aware of her when she walked into a room, or the simple fact that his daughter's deadline was approaching fast and he was battling true terror at the thought of confessing his deception, he couldn't tell. All he really knew was that this new awareness of a woman who could make his heart shudder with a smile was messing with his ability to hold more than one thought in his head at a time. And Maker's breath, that smile. The way her dark eyes lit up when she looked at him these days; the way her expression warmed, her whole being seemed to soften; the way she said his name ... was that what had changed? Was it worth daring to hope that she'd decided to focus her attention on him, rather than the pen pal that had inexplicably abandoned her?

"Daddy?"

"Mmm?"

Cullen looked up from his paperwork. He'd set himself up in the break-room to work on the staff rota for the first quarter of the new year coming, ostensibly because it was warmer in there than in his office, and better for Alys to be somewhere people were constantly moving in and out of. In all honesty, he was here because of ...

"Do you think Mila has a nice bottom?"

Cullen jerked sharply, dragging his eyes away from the shapely posterior he'd been absently focused on for the last Maker-knew how long just before Mila looked over her shoulder at him, that sinfully sweet smile rather wicked as she raised her brows.

"Why would you ask me that, Alys?" he asked, attempting to seem innocent. He knew as soon as he said it, however, that it had been a bad call. Alys had not yet learned tact.

"Because you keep staring at her bottom," his daughter pointed out with a grin that only grew when Mila laughed. "So you must think she has a nice bottom."

"You have been watching it move about for a while, Cullen," Cassandra added from the other side of the room, her own smile a little more teasing than he was entirely used to.

"Maker's breath, Cassandra, don't encourage her," he protested, trying to ignore the multiple grins pointed at him from the current inhabitants of the break-room. He was just lucky Varric wasn't here, he supposed; that would have been much worse.

"I have to admit, I'm curious," Mila commented in a teasing tone of her own, twisting to look over at him more comfortably. "I'd quite like to hear this answer."

Cullen felt his mouth working silently as he tried to think of some way to save himself from what he knew was going to be the inevitable embarrassment of either pretending ignorance or admitting his distraction. And since both Alys and Cassandra had so kindly pointed out the focus of that distraction ... He sighed, rubbing a hand over his neck.

"Yes, Alys, Mila has a lovely bottom," he heard himself say, feeling his skin flush with bashful awkwardness. But he was determined to come out of this with at least some dignity, raising his eyes to meet Mila's smiling gaze with defiance. "What I've seen of it, anyway."

The woman in question laughed again, that rich warm sound Cullen could have sworn he'd started hearing in his dreams this week. "If you want a better look, you only have to ask."

The explosion of laughter from Cassandra on the other side of the room told Cullen all he wanted to know about the look on his face. Even Alys was giggling, abandoning her little project to pad over and pat his hand gently.

"S'okay, Daddy," she assured him. "I don't mind if you want to look at Mila's bottom some more."

"Can we please stop talking about Mila's bottom?" he asked helplessly.

The question was badly timed - Sera had just walked in. Never one to resist the opportunity presented to her, the cheeky elf snickered at her welcome, stepping smartly over to Mila to squeeze said backside just for the hell of it.

"Softer than it looks, yanno," she informed the room in general, cackling with laughter as Mila batted her hands away.

"No touchy-touchy!" Mila laughed with her, handing over a cup of coffee to the bright-eyed elf in charge of the small primates. "Did you manage it?"

Sera grinned over the rim of her cup. "All settled," she agreed mysteriously. "Small Bits should get the full treatment."

"Of what?" Alys demanded in a curious tone. She knew her own nicknames among the staff at the zoo, after all.

Mila flashed her a cheerful smile. "Oh, a little bird told me you were interested in seeing the orangs up close," she said casually, not even glancing at Cullen as he grinned. He wasn't exactly a little bird. "I might have called in a couple of favors."

Alys' eyes were wide. "I can see the orange monkeys?" she asked breathlessly, excitement rolling off her as she bounced on her toes. "Up close? Like touching and everything?"

Mila chuckled. "Sure," she nodded. "If your dad says it's all right, we could go right now. I'm still on break for another twenty minutes, and Bull won't let anything bad happen to you with them when I have to get back to it."

At that point, Cullen found his face captured by two small hands squishing his cheeks between her palms as Alys looked into his eyes hopefully. He could only imagine how ridiculous he looked, judging by the poorly concealed snickers coming from Sera as she made her own lunch.

"Can I, Daddy? Please, please, please?"

He laughed, pulling her little hands away from his face to kiss her fingers affectionately. "If you promise to do everything Bull tells you to," he bargained with Alys. "Just because they don't have claws, it doesn't mean they're not dangerous if you don't approach them in the right way."

"But they're cuddly," the little girl began to complain, but to Cullen's surprise, Mila had his back on this one.

"No, sweetie, they're not," she told Alys, moving to join them. "They're wild animals, even if they do have to live in captivity. They're strong, much stronger than humans - that's why Bull is their keeper. If one of the males decided to grab hold of you, he could break your arm or your leg, and that wouldn't be fun, would it?"

Alys shook her head, sighing. "But if I stay with Bull, I can go see them and maybe shake hands or something?" she asked hopefully.

Mila's expression gentled. "That's the idea, kiddo."

"Okay!" Just like that, Alys' enthusiasm returned, and again Cullen was on the receiving end of that hopeful gaze. "Please, Daddy?"

He chuckled at her cheerful plea. "I'm still waiting for that promise."

"I promise I will do everything Bull tells me to do and I won't poke the orange monkeys," the little girl declared in a singsong voice, wiggling her little finger in his direction.

Despite the sheer inanity of being asked to join a pinky-swear in front of his colleagues, Cullen wrapped his little finger about Alys' without a second thought, squeezing gently as she beamed up at him.

"All right," he conceded, laughing when she let loose a loud cheer and threw her arms around his neck for a tight hug. "Go, have fun!"

"I'm goin'!"

There was something very endearing about the way Mila let Alys seize her hand and drag her toward the door, the two of them very natural together as they slipped out of sight. Very natural, he realized. They'd spent so much time together over the past year without knowing who they were to one another, and despite his animosity toward Mila and hers toward him, she had never let it colour her friendship with his daughter. How had he not seen that?

"You are staring again."

Cullen blinked, his head snapping around to look toward Cassandra with vague irritation. "I have not been staring," he protested quietly. "I've just been ... looking in that direction while thinking."

"Thinking about what's at the top of Legs's legs," Sera agreed with another cackle of laughter, taking her sandwich and coffee back out through the door. She never actually ate in the break-room, preferring to go and sit with her marmosets over the people she worked with.

"I wasn't -"

"Cullen." Cassandra's voice was surprisingly gentle. "Don't you think it is about time you told Mila the truth? It is clear that she likes you very much, just as you are. Surely the revelation will not be so very dreadful now you have made this connection."

Cullen sighed, leaning forward onto his elbows. "It's harder than it seems, Cassandra," he told her regretfully. "I ... I like her. Alys likes her. But what if telling her the truth destroys that? What if I all end up doing is hurting myself and two people I care about? That isn't so very hard to understand, is it?"

His friend frowned, her expression thoughtful. "She is not so unforgiving as you seem to think," she reminded him. "She has certainly forgiven you for a year of grumpiness, as you have forgiven her. I do not think the risk is so huge as you are allowing yourself to believe."

"But still a risk," he said in an unhappy tone.

Cassandra sighed, rising to her feet. "I do not know what to tell you," she said softly. "I see you enjoying her company; I see Alys enjoying her company. I see that you seem to make one another happy. But I also see you holding her at arms' length, keeping your shield up at all times. That is a sure way never to be hurt, yes. But it is a certain way never to be loved, either." She squeezed his shoulder gently. "Perhaps it is time to lower your shield, Cullen."

"Perhaps." He managed a faint smile for his friend, patting her hand. "I'm working toward it, Cassandra," he promised in a low tone. "Just ... just give me time."

She nodded, letting the subject go at that. Cullen was relieved when she left the break-room, able to turn his attention back to the rota in front of him, grateful for the distraction from those worrying thoughts that urged him into making a leap he was not certain he was ready for. Wrangling names and dates into some kind of fair distribution across four months of duty shifts was more than enough to keep him enthralled for a couple of hours, at the very least, in his own little world, unaware of the comings and goings of shift changes and coffee breaks happening in the same room.

Until a slender hand found his shoulder, and a fleece-covered chest leaned against his other shoulder from behind, urging him out of his scowling at the rota to look up and find Mila leaning over him, setting a fresh cup of coffee and an elfroot tablet down on the table by his hand. She was so close, he could see the smudge of dirt on her neck below her ear, flecks of hay caught in her hairline at her nape, smell the elfroot lotion she used on her hands overlaying the honest sweet musk of her clean sweat ... caught her smiling eyes with the quiet horror of a man who knows he's been caught staring. Her fingers flexed gently on his shoulder.

"You look like you're brewing a headache there," Mila commented in a soft tone, her own eyes scanning the draft rota in front of him. "Can I help?"

Swallowing, Cullen dropped his eyes to the page on the table. "I don't know, can you? I know there's a mistake somewhere here, but I've been looking for an hour and still can't find it."

It was embarrassing how quickly her hand fell to tap gently against the column for Wintersend. He knew before she spoke what the mistake had been.

"Zoo's closed on that day," she pointed out, her smile audible in her voice. "You've put a full crew on for a half-crew day."

"That does explain the problem." He nodded wearily, almost regretting his agreement when she drew away to slide down into a seat beside his. Missing the gentle pressure of her against his back, the strange sense of intimacy within boundaries that had become normal over the past week. Was that what had changed?

She watched as he made the correction, her hands tucked about her own cup. "Alys tells me you're on your own for Last Day," she said conversationally. "Something about staying at her grandparents'?"

Cullen let out a huff of laughter as he leaned back in his seat, gratefully swallowing the elfroot tablet with a swig of coffee. "They claimed her from me with the promise of staying up past midnight," he told Mila in amusement, shaking his head. "And since I'm working First Day morning, I thought it wouldn't do any harm."

She seemed to consider him for a moment, a flicker of something wary that might almost have been fear showing in her dark eyes very briefly before she shrugged one shoulder. "Well, it's no fun to be alone on the last night of year," she said in a casual tone. "Would you like to spend it with me? I have a party to go to but, uh ... well, no one to go with."

He stared at her. Did she just ...? "Isn't that rather a waste of an invitation?"

Mila snorted with laughter. "I don't consider it a waste to invite someone I like spending time with to come and ring in the new year with me."

She did. She asked me out. And despite the wariness, the nerves, the fear, Cullen heard his answer make itself known aloud before his caution could veto it. "I'd love to," he told her, his lips quirking into a smile that she echoed with startling warmth. "Shall I pick you up at eight?"

She nodded slowly. "Make it nine," she suggested. "I'm working the overlap shift - won't be home until seven. There's all sorts of things a woman has to do to make sure people in public don't realize she does anything but bathe in jasmine and sing princess tunes all day, you know."

Cullen chuckled, his own head bobbing in agreement. "I shall endeavor not to arrive before you have done all that you feel necessary to do to yourself," he assured her, "though you don't need to do any of it."

"Oooh, listen to the charmer," she laughed teasingly, leaning back in her own seat with a comfortable smile. "We should have a good time. Just leave the stick up your ass by the door before you leave home."

"Only if you leave the twisted panties in the dresser before you leave home," he heard himself counter, suddenly torn between guilt and amusement at how easy it felt to tease her in return.

Mila let out a burst of laughter. "You've got a deal, Rutherford," she assured him. "No panties, no stick. Should be a fun evening."

The wink she sent his way was enough to derail his thoughts yet again. No panties ... Maker's breath. How in the Void am I supposed to concentrate on work now?

#dear friend #modern au #shop around the corner au #cullen rutherford #mila trevelyan #cullen x mila #alys rutherford #cassandra pentaghast #sera #soooo close to the end now!

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