#ant is supposed to be fifteen-sixteen here

[headfullof-ideas]

AKA, Ant arrives three to four years late to his own show.

Do not take any of these designs (except Ant and maybe the pirates) as final designs. I actually really don’t like the way I drew Fontaine, and this is my first and second time drawing Nereus and Alpheus in this world respectively. Nothing’s cemented with any of them yet.

Except Ant, I really like how Ant turned out

[sariasprincy-writes]

Hollow Point 23

One // Two // Three // Four // Five // Six // Seven // Eight // Nine // Ten // Eleven // Twelve // Thirteen // Fourteen // Fifteen // Sixteen // Seventeen // Eighteen // Nineteen // Twenty // Twenty-One // Twenty-Two // Twenty-Three (here) 

Chapter Twenty-Three The longest road to nowhere…

“You’re sure about this?” Kakashi asked not for the first time.

Sakura didn’t bother him with a glance. She merely studied the bullet between her fingers, feeling its weight in her hands, the brass warm from her own body heat.

“We could always tie him to a cement block, drop him over the side of the pier. No one would ever find his body,” Kakashi said.

“No,” she said, loading the shot into the magazine with the rest before she jammed it into his rifle. “I want him executed. Publicly. This is a reminder to all my clients what will become of them if they try and betray me. Just like Kabuto did.”

Beside her, Kakashi said nothing. Like he knew there was no longer any point in trying to convince her otherwise.

Around them, the wind continued to blow. Up where they crouched on the roof, it was colder than down on the street, but it gave them a better view, a better vantage point to the shipping yard below. Kabuto’s men wandered between the large, storage containers. From here, they looked like little ants in a maze but through the scope, Sakura could make out each individual face. None were Kabuto’s.

“You’re sure he’s still here?” Sakura asked after a minute.

Kakashi nodded beside her, a pair of binoculars pressed to his eyes. “Give him a minute. He’ll show himself.”

Sure enough, only a few minutes later Kabuto appeared. His hands were deep in the pockets of his jacket, his collar turned up against the chilling breeze. The setting sun cast a long shadow out behind him, causing his scrawny figure appear even more lanky. A cigarette smoldered between his teeth, making his mouth and nose glow faintly.

That familiar rage simmered deep in Sakura’s chest. Just waiting to pounce like an angered jaguar in a cage, wanting to be released so it could skin its claws in. She zeroed him in on her sites, her finger putting the faintest pressure on the trigger. 

Only to relax a moment later.

Instead, she fished her phone out of her pocket and set it on speaker on the ledge beside her before she dialed. She only had to wait two rings before he answered.

“Where the hell are you?” Kabuto demanded through the headphone in his ear.

Sakura merely chuckled. “I’m sorry, Kabuto, but you won’t be meeting your contact tonight.”

Through the scope, she saw him freeze, his body going absolutely still as he recognized her voice. “Tsunade…”

“What? Did you think you could get rid of me that easily?” she asked, her voice light. Almost playful.

Even from here, she could see the way he pinched his cigarette between his teeth until he nearly cut it in half. He swallowed thickly, but didn’t reply.

It didn’t matter. She continued nonetheless. “You made a deal with me. And then you went and turned against me. You should know by now I’m the grudge-holding type.”

“It-it was a misunderstanding,” he stuttered. “I can explain.”

Sakura resisted the urge to sigh. “You see, that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re a big talker, Kabuto, but you’re nothing special. Just a little street rat. When you die, someone will just fill your place. As if you had never been here at all. And I’m done listening to your excuses.”

The moment the last word left her mouth, Sakura pulled the trigger. The first shot went through his shoulder, the round so powerful that it knocked him right off his feet. He hit the ground hard. Through the phone, she could hear his ragged breathing as it came out in short, pained gasps. He raised a shaking hand to his shoulder, only for his fingers to come away deep red with blotches of darker spots. Bloody tissue and clots. Behind her scope, Sakura smirked. She would never forget the look of pain and utter terror etched into his expression.

Around him, Kabuto’s men screamed and shouted as they ran for cover. None stopped to help the boss they had pledged their loyalty to. He would die there, alone and abandoned.

“There is one more thing you can do for me, Kabuto,” Sakura continued, as if she hadn’t just put a bullet through him.

Kabuto didn’t respond but she knew he was listening. The headphone was still in his ear.

“I want you to keep that terrified look on your face as the life drains out of your eyes. Do try not to disappoint.”

Then she hung up. Even from here, she could see the pure, honest fear in his eyes as he tried to pull himself up and drag himself to cover. Dark, twisted satisfaction rippled through her but it paled in comparison to when she fired the next shot.

Kabuto fell still and didn’t move again. Through her scope, Sakura watched the blood pool around his head before it spilled down the concrete. Nearby, his glasses lay abandoned, one of the lenses cracked and reflecting the light in fractured waves.

None of Kabuto’s men were out in the open. Those that hadn’t run away were ducked inside the shadows. Sakura didn’t pay them any mind. She did what she had come to do.

“You’re sure the police won’t be a problem?” she asked Kakashi as an afterthought.

He shook his head. “The bullets are untraceable. And the workers for this yard are on strike. Either Kabuto’s men will clean up the mess or his body will be found when the employees return to the yard. At which point, the trail will be long cold.”

Sakura hummed indifferently. She gazed at the yard below as a few of the men made a break for escape before she turned away. Her face indifferent. As if she hadn’t just taken a man’s life only moments before.

Kakashi stared at her but said nothing more. He merely packed up the rifle before they headed down to the parking garage where he had left his car. They were nearly at the state border before he spoke again, “You’re quiet tonight. What’s on your mind?”

Sakura drew her gaze from the window to glance at him. She met his eye for a moment before his attention returned to the road. A long sigh passed between her lips. “I spoke with Temari this morning. She found that the port downtown is under the control of Madara.”

“Madara?” Kakashi repeated, his brow furrowing in confusion. “But Akatsuki is using it to move product.”

Sakura said nothing when he glanced at her. Merely waited for him to put the pieces together. When he did, he almost forgot to stop at the coming red-light. “Madara is working with Akatsuki?” he asked after nearly slamming the car to a stop. His voice was full of obvious disbelief.

She nodded. “Which means we need to tread carefully. Very carefully.”

“Are you going to tell your CIA buddy?” Kakashi asked.

Sakura didn’t immediately offer him an answer. Her mind wandering back to that night in her condo only a few days ago when Itachi had wrapped himself around her. She had been so vulnerable then. She couldn’t let that happen again. She wouldn’t. Things were already complicated enough without adding emotion into the equation.

Blinking, Sakura jerked herself back to the present. “Yeah. They’re better equipped to take Madara down. We won’t suffer any losses by letting them take the lead on this one.”

“When are you going to call them?”

“Tonight,” she said. “I’ll go with my contact to the port tomorrow and then hopefully from there his company can track Madara and take him down.”

Kakashi nodded, turning down a dark side street where they had left her car. “Has Naruto told you anything new?”

Frowning, Sakura shook her head. “I texted him but I haven’t gotten a reply yet.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Pursing her lips, Sakura considered her answer. Recalled the last time he had asked her this very question and the consequences that had occurred when she said no.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “I can always use your eyes.”

Kakashi smiled in response, the look just a little forced in the corners of his mouth. Like he was remembering it too.

She smiled back comfortingly before she finally climbed out his car to head for her own. Only once she was back in her apartment did she finally text Itachi. Just like she always did: a time and a location. And an unsaid expectation that he would be there.

xx

The following night, Itachi arrived exactly on time. Sakura heard him before she saw him, the soft rumble of the car engine echoing faintly against the concrete walls of the parking garage. This time of night, only a few cars remained, though they all lay dormant on the lower levels.

Leaning against the trunk of her car, Sakura picked her head up when headlights began to cut through the stone, support pillars. She didn’t move. Merely tracked that familiar Lexus with her eyes as it rolled past the empty stalls and pulled into a slot across the way from her.

Itachi killed the engine before he slipped out of the car, his footsteps echoing faintly as he crossed the short distance to approach her. Sakura simply watched him as he glanced one way down the garage and then the other.

He wore a pair of dark jeans with a grey shirt under his black jacket. The look was casual, but somehow undeniably sexy. She wondered if he even realized how handsome he truly was. And then she shook the thought away immediately as she reminded herself she wasn’t supposed to be thinking these things. The voice in the back of her head quietly whispered that she was still allowed to look.

When Itachi finally stopped before her, his eyes raked down her form. Only the small tug in the corner of his mouth was his give away. She simply met his gaze evenly.

“I’m fine,” she told him.

His gaze lingered on the blotchy, purple marks around her wrist before they fell to her face. “Are you?”

The memory of Kabuto’s face before she shot a bullet through it crossed her mind. It was then that she finally gave him a small smile. “Yes.”

If Itachi knew what that meant, he spoke nothing of it. But the ridged set of his shoulders did relax as he peered absently about the garage again. “Interesting place for a midnight rendezvous. What did you want to meet for then?”

He asked the question like he knew she had a purpose. That she wasn’t interested in talking about that night she had kissed him. She wondered for a brief moment if perhaps he knew her better than she liked. But Sakura didn’t give that much more thought. Because she did have a reason for speaking with him and she might as well cut to the chase.

“Madara is working for Akatsuki.”

Itachi nodded. “Yes, I know.”

Surprise rippled through Sakura like a bolt of lightning. She straightened from her car as she fixed him with a hard stare. “What do you mean ‘you know’?”

To her surprise, Itachi simply tucked his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “You got us a copy of Madara’s phone, remember? We dug through some of his old messages and found some warning someone against a raid Hashirama’s men were planning in Newark. The one you told me about.”

“And were you planning to tell me about Madara?”

A strange expression crossed Itachi’s face then, as if he was actually offended by her question. “Of course. We only found out yesterday morning.”

Which was about when Sakura had learned the truth too. Her glare lasted a moment longer before it finally faded.

“So, what is the CIA going to do?” she asked.

“They want more intel. My company will not act until they are sure they can bring Madara down,” he told her. “We have had too many close calls, too many misses to just move in without knowing his next moves.”

Sakura frowned but didn’t voice her complaint. She couldn’t entirely blame the CIA for not jumping into action. She was just as aware as Itachi of how smart Madara really was. If they so much as misstepped even once, he would be long out of their reach before they could recover. And who knows when their next opportunity would be.

“Well then, I suppose it’s a good thing I know what Madara’s planning next.”

Itachi’s brows furrowed in confusion only for understanding to dawn on him a moment later. “The port.”

Her answer was a cunning smile.

xx

They took Sakura’s car to old town. Just a cheap but clean, little Honda she had borrowed from downtown earlier that day. It blended in with the rest of the rusting cars in the lot. She parked at the base of a building that overlooked the entire warehouse by the river before she led the way to the stairs that would take them to the roof.

Neither of them spoke as they climbed, but one check from her phone told her two things: the first was that Kakashi was in position at another abandoned building nearby and the second was that she still hadn’t heard from Naruto. Not the first time the blond had been slow to reply, but just as annoying.

On the top floor, both she and Itachi pulled out binoculars. For a few minutes they said nothing. Merely perched shoulder-to-shoulder as they observed the activity below, their breath turning a soft white and mingling together in the wind.

“Judging from Madara’s messages, I get the feeling he has been here awhile,” Itachi eventually said.

“At least six months,” Sakura replied, watching the men move about in the dark below. This time of night, they were only shadows, but there was just enough lighting to see them hauling and organizing crates. Her eyes narrowed. “And it looks like they just got a new shipment.”

She felt Itachi glance at her briefly. “Does that mean something?”

“Only that Madara was lying when he told Hashirama that Akatsuki had temporarily gone underground.”

“So Hashirama isn’t connected to Akatsuki,” he summed.

“No,” Sakura said, lowering her sights. “Madara has definitely betrayed Hashirama. And I assume Izuna has as well, considering he was monitoring the ports in the area in case Akatsuki moved in.”

Itachi set his binoculars down as well but didn’t immediately speak as a thoughtful frown crossed his face. “Hashirama doesn’t know this port exists then?”

“No, I never told him,” Sakura said, returning her gaze back to the movements below. She wondered if the double meaning in his tone was real or just her imagination. “With Madara watching him, he’s too unreliable. I didn’t want Madara moving his operation before we could act.”

Itachi didn’t reply to that as he too resumed his observation of the warehouse. They didn’t speak for a while as they surveyed the activity below, mentally noting anything that seemed of importance.

Eventually Itachi sat back again. “You’ve been watching this port for a while. How much product have they moved?”

“A lot,” she said vaguely. Because she couldn’t give him an accurate estimate until she spoke to Naruto.

Pulling her phone out of her pocket, Sakura unlocked the screen only to frown when she still found nothing from him. Instead, she shot off a text to Kakashi telling him they would be moving out soon and to find the dumb, blond idiot. Then she pocketed it again.

“I think we need to have a chat with Kisame,” Sakura continued, glancing at Itachi. “He didn’t know about this port so either he’s compromised or Akatsuki is moving in a different direction without his knowledge.”

A deep frown settled in the corners of Itachi’s mouth but he nodded his agreement. “I will contact him shortly and see if he can meet. Here. In New York.”

They packed up after that, ensuring they left no trace that they had ever been there. Sakura drove them towards the city as Itachi texted on his phone. The ride was quiet but comfortable, say for the soft, little ‘pings’ from his cell as he sent out messages. She wondered if he was texting his company or Kisame but didn’t ask. Merely navigated the roads in silence.

Eventually Itachi pocketed his phone. He peered out the window before he glanced at her. “What are your next moves?”

“I’m not sure yet,” she told him honestly. “I need more information.”

“On the port?”

“The port, Madara, Akatsuki, Kisame,” she listed. “There’s too many open ends for me to decide how to move forward yet.”

“But you will move forward?”

Sakura took her eyes off the road briefly to flash Itachi a confused glance. She caught a strange look on his face before her eyes turned forward once more. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“I just get the feeling Madara is more of an inconvenience to you than a problem.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” she asked flatly, not liking the direction this conversation was suddenly going.

If he read the tone in her voice, he didn’t back down. “No.” When she didn’t reply, he continued, “I think you don’t care if he lives or dies. As long as he is out of the way.”

“Well, what about you?” she redirected with a quick glance in his direction. “You still haven’t told me why the CIA is after him.”

Itachi shrugged. “Madara is a traitor to the company. The CIA doesn’t really need much more reason than that.”

They lapsed into silence for a few blocks after that. Sakura still didn’t think Itachi was telling the truth but she wasn’t in the mood to press for more. She doubted he would tell her anyway. And she didn’t want to risk having Itachi turn the conversation around on her. She couldn’t tell anyone of her true objective. Even Kakashi didn’t know about it. Still, it weighed on her mind. Already she could feel the time closing in on when she would have to act.

“Madara’s death is simply a means to another end,” she eventually said, her voice barely above a murmur.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Itachi look at her. “So, you have another purpose here in New York than Akatsuki?”

“You’re asking rather a lot of questions tonight. Are you playing bad cop right now?” she asked playfully. Because it was the easiest way to redirect the conversation. Still, there was an edge of seriousness in her tone. A warning to not press too far.

Sakura drew to a stop at the next red light and peered at Itachi to find he was now smiling, as if he too recalled the events in that interrogation room in Tel Aviv. It wasn’t too obvious. Just a little pull in the corners of his mouth.

The look was utterly adorable. She forced herself to turn away. Both trying to hide her own smile and to stomp down the feeling in her chest. She reminded herself that night in her condo was a one-time thing. An impulse after a rough day. Still, that feeling lingered like the heat on one’s skin after a warm bath.

At least until she glanced in the rearview mirror and saw two police cars behind her.

Like a light switch, her entire demeanor changed. Her smile gone as was the warmth in her chest. And in its place cold began to set in.

Itachi noticed the change immediately. He peered in the side mirror, not understand. “What is it?” he asked.

“This is a stolen car,” she said, her voice calmer than she felt.

He turned to her abruptly. “Why the hell would you take a stolen car?”

“I needed something that would blend in. Something that Madara’s men wouldn’t take a second look if they saw us.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him open his mouth. Whether to scold her or curse, she didn’t know. In the end, he did neither. He simply inhaled slowly. “What are you going to do?”

“That depends. Can you use your CIA immunity to get us out of this?”

His answer was clearly written on his face. They were on their own. She didn’t know exactly how the CIA operated in situations like these, but she didn’t ask. They didn’t have time for the details.

Without a word, Sakura turned her sights forward, her mind racing through the options. The light was still red but it wouldn’t be for much longer. As soon as she started to move, she was certain the police would hit their lights. There were still only two cars behind her, but she could already see a third coming towards them.

Like water trickling into pool with no exits, Sakura felt her body begin to fill with quiet adrenaline. Mentally she planned her escape route.

Forward was the fastest way to the highway, but she couldn’t go that way. The police were expecting her to head that direction. She’d have to try and outrun them through Old Town. It was a good thing she knew these streets. And that the police cars were Crown Vics. They didn’t handle nearly as well as the newer cars.

“I’m going to run,” Sakura eventually said, her voice quiet as if the officers in the car behind her could hear.

Itachi stared at her. He looked like he wanted to argue, but said nothing before he withdrew his phone from his pocket. She didn’t pay him any more mind as the streetlight turned green.

Like a bullet, Sakura shifted into gear and hit the gas. From the center lane, she took a hard left, cutting across the oncoming lanes. Though, this time of night, they were all empty.

Just as she anticipated, the police cars hit their lights and sirens as they gave chase. Her entire body thrummed with energy as she sped through the otherwise quiet streets. On either side of her, the buildings flew by, red and blue lights flickering off the cold, pale stone. Her grip around the wheel was tight and her heart pounded in her chest as her eyes constantly flickered to the mirror.

To her frustration, the police kept up with her. Two cars turning into three and then five, and she was sure there were more on their way. It was a serious crime to steal a car. Even worse given the fact that she was armed. Itachi undoubtedly was too.

“Wake up, I have a situation,” Itachi suddenly said in the passenger seat.

Confused, Sakura briefly glanced at him, only for her brows to furrow when she saw he was on the phone. She didn’t know what he was doing and she didn’t ask as her attention returned to the road. She took a hard turn right and then a left, cutting strategically between two, old warehouses, the alley between them barely big enough for the small Honda.

When they popped out the other side, she could already see a couple of approaching cars, their flashing lights closer than she had hoped.

“Shit,” she cursed lowly as she turned the opposite direction, her foot slamming the gas pedal.

“I’m on Broadway and…” Itachi trailed off as he squinted at the street sign as they blew through the next intersection. “43rd.  At least six units. Where are they coming from?”

Sakura half-listened as she drove, weaving through the dead streets. The closest cruiser was almost a block behind, but their engines were faster. They would catch up soon.

“Take the next right,” Itachi told her.

She didn’t question him. Simply slammed the brakes as she turned the car nearly ninety degrees to catch the turn. Whoever Itachi was talking to seemed to know what they were doing. It quickly crossed her mind that the other person could probably hear their scanners, but she didn’t ask.

Itachi told her to take another right and then a left. Down five blocks before turning again.

They were gaining some distance, but unless they lost the police completely, they wouldn’t get away even on the highway. State Patrol was likely already alerted.

A few blocks later, Sakura saw her opportunity. On the other side of the overpass, there was what appeared to be an abandoned chop shop. The long-forgotten building sat dark with peeling paint and broken windows. Beside it, old cars were piled in the small lot, parked together around chunks of old, rusted parts.

Killing her lights, Sakura went around the block before quickly circling back to it. She slipped into a narrow space between two rusted minivans, going so fast the brakes nearly didn’t stop them in time from slamming into the back of a car parked on the other side. Then she threw the car into park and killed the engine in the same second before both she and Itachi ducked down.

A breath later, they heard the scream of sirens as police cars sped down the road behind them, their lights flickering through the windows and bouncing around the roof of the Honda.

Neither of them dared to move. They barely dared to breath as they hunkered there. Sakura’s heart pounded so hard she thought it might rip out of her chest, the blood roaring in her ears loud enough that she had to strain to hear the sirens.

Only once she was certain she could no longer hear those familiar sirens did she slowly sit up again. Itachi did the same, the screen of his phone pressed to his chest to hide the faint glow.

When he was certain they were alone, he pressed the device to his ear. “We’re clear,” he said before he hung up.

Neither of them spoke as the silence stretched on. Sakura peered into the rearview mirror, checking for certain they had got away before she finally glanced at Itachi. Only to find he was already looking at her, some unnamable expression on his face.

Sakura wasn’t sure who moved first. All she knew was that in one moment she was sitting there staring at him and in the next, their mouths had found each other. There was nothing sweet or shy about this kiss. It was all tongues and gentle teeth and passion.

Somehow, she found her way over the center console and in his lap, the cramped quarters pressing their bodies flush together. Her knees on either side of him, his hips pressed against the inside of her thighs.

Sakura knew how dangerous adrenaline crashes were. To be so high only for nothing to come of it. They could make one think they were invincible. Take a bullet without any pain or consequence. Start a fight one couldn’t possibly win. Make decisions they wouldn’t normally make.

But none of that mattered now. All that mattered was Itachi’s hands were on her. Under her shirt, on her skin. His warm touch set her body on fire.

She tugged him closer, slanting her mouth against his. Letting him give and take as much as she did. He groaned low in his throat when her own hands found their way under the hem of his shirt. Itachi was of lean stature, but she felt nothing but muscle under her fingertips. Her hands smoothing over the firm ridges of his stomach before moving over his ribs where his shoulder holster kept his gun secured.

Sakura thought nothing of the weapon now. She didn’t even think of her own as his hand slipped over the one on her hip to grab her thigh just under her ass to pull her closer. A soft gasp escaped her at the sudden pressure, but there were too many clothes, too many barriers, and she pulled away just far enough to drag his jacket off his shoulders.

In the confined space of the passenger seat, it took a bit of struggling to get it off, but once it was, his hands returned to her, slipping her own jacket down her arms before tossing it aside. One of the sleeves landed on the center-console, the rest fell on the driver’s seat, forgotten.

Somewhere, so far in the back of her mind in nearly didn’t exist, Sakura knew she shouldn’t be doing this. But she gave it no thought. Only ground against him harder, wanting him around, against and inside her as heat and desire pooled low in her stomach.

If Itachi had any of the same, fleeting thoughts he didn’t show it as his hands gripped her hips, pushing her down harder, her name echoing out in each of his gasps. The simple sound did delicious things to her insides. She kissed him harder, her hands going for his belt.

That’s when Itachi grabbed her wrists. Not hard but with enough force to make her flinch at the old bruises still lingering there. His grip immediately loosened.

“Sakura, wait,” he murmured, his lips so close they nearly brushed hers with each word. “We shouldn’t…”

Sakura pulled back before she went completely still, not sure she understood. She could see the want and lust lingering deep in his onyx eyes, but something else as well. Something that made that little voice in the back of her mind come forward, reminding her of who she was and who he was. She knew he was right. They were just feeling the aftereffects of their adrenaline. Still, she couldn’t help the little sliver of rejection that embedding itself into her chest.

Closing her eyes, Sakura inhaled slowly before letting it out again. When she finally opened them again, she stared past Itachi to see the windows had begun to fog. Maybe that would have embarrassed her if she wasn’t so conflicted. So frustrated at stopping, so startled by wanting him so badly in the moment.

Itachi’s grasp on her wrists loosened to hold them gently, almost more of a caress as he leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to her forehead. Such a juxtaposition from the hardness she could still feel through his jeans. Where it pressed into her center. Aching and throbbing.

“Not here,” he said against her brow. “Not like this.”

Something Sakura couldn’t quite name swelled in her chest. She didn’t know what to say to that and so she said nothing. Simply met his gaze wordlessly before he maneuvered out from under her and slipped out of the car.

Sakura took that moment alone to gather herself. She inhaled deeply, forcefully stomping the still-smoldering embers of her arousal down, as she smoothed her fingers through her hair. She reached for her jacket as Itachi pulled the driver’s side door open, but didn’t bother putting it on. She still felt hot all over. Like his hands had seared her skin in the places he had touched.

They didn’t speak as Itachi started the engine and pulled out on the main road. Simply let the silence fill the space between them.

to be continued…

[shookethbrooketh]

stars

chapter 10

they looked into each other’s eyes for a split second, and dan caught a glimpse of phil’s eyes. he’d grown used to them, and it was the first time since they’d first met that he’d truly taken in the beauty of his eyes. even in the dark, he could see the yellow glint that shone through the blues and greens he knew blended into the tiny orbs in front of him.

summary: dan grew up in a normal 1930s london family with his parents and little brother. everything was completely and utterly normal… until the bombs started dropping. When dan was fifteen his father went off to war, and when he was sixteen he and his brother hayden were sent off to a foster family in rural england. he looked up at the stars and couldn’t help but wonder how something that beautiful could exist in such a broken world. just when he thought things would never get better, dan met phil, and he became the shining star of his life. but when phil turned eighteen and went off to war, dan couldn’t help but wonder when, if ever, the stars would twinkle the same way again.

rating: t

genre: angst, fluff, history au, strangers to lovers, teenagers

whole fic warnings: warfare (not descriptive), bombings, fire, panic attacks, ptsd, seizures, homophobia, death chapter warnings: panic attack, ptsd 

chapter word count: 2.2k total word count: 14.5k

read it on ao3 read it on wattpad fic masterlist

“I can’t believe you managed to fall out of a tree, get bitten by fire ants, and break an entire toenail in a matter of fifteen minutes,” Phil laughed as he walked into Dan’s room with a breakfast tray the next morning.

“Don’t remind me,” Dan joked, rolling his eyes. He’d been awake for a while, but his foot had swelled to almost double its size, and he couldn’t bear to put any weight on it. “Thanks,” he added sincerely as Phil set the tray on his lap.

Phil flung himself on the bed beside Dan and grinned cheekily at him. “First day of Spring Break. What do you want to do?”

Dan was a bit taken aback by this. “It’s your last year! You haven’t made any plans with your friends?”

“Nope! You’re the only friend I want to hang out with this spring break. Besides, there’s two weeks of it! If we get sick of each other by the end of the week, I can spend next week with my friends.”

“Jeez,” Dan said, stopping to think about it. “I think I’d go mad if you left for a week.”

“So, what’s the plan?”

“There really isn’t much of a plan; I can’t even walk!” Dan said.

A puzzled look appeared on Phil’s face. “This is true.” He turned abruptly and left Dan’s room, leaving him to burst out laughing at the impromptu exit. “I’ll be back!” he heard Phil say as he made his way down the hallway.

Dan sighed and took a bite of his toast. He definitely wanted to spend spring break with Phil, but he could barely move, and as much as he loved sitting by the radio with Phil, he didn’t want to do it for--however long it took to heal fire ant bites.

“Hey, Dan!” Phil said, peering his head into Dan’s room. Dan jumped, almost knocking over his glass of milk. “Sorry,” Phil said, chuckling as his cheeks blushed a bit. “Mum sent me with some ice for your foot. Said it’ll make the swelling go down.” Phil set the ice pack down on his foot, and an icy, wet rush of pain shot through him. He winced, and Phil immediately went wide-eyed. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, peachy keen,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I’m sorry...” he trailed off, glancing to Dan’s empty tray. “I’ll take that downstairs for you and be right back!” he said with a smile.

After he left, Dan took a deep breath and calmed himself from the pain of the cold on his foot. He could tell Phil felt horrible about what happened to him, and he couldn’t help but feel bad about it himself. It wasn’t Phil’s fault Dan decided to shove his foot in a mysterious hole in a tree.

Dan heard Phil’s footsteps coming up the stairs, and a moment later he was back in his doorway. “Do you want to do something?”

Dan just stared at him for a moment before cracking a smile. “Do what?”

“I don’t know...” Phil said, rubbing his toe into the carpet. “Listen to the radio?”

“Sure, but it’ll take me a while to get down the stairs.”

Phil contemplated that, biting his lip a bit. “I can carry you?”

Dan couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Carry me? Phil, we’re practically the same weight.”

“Come on, jump on my back!”

He walked over to the side of the bed where Dan was sitting and leaned over, exposing his back for Dan to climb onto. Dan raised an eyebrow at this, even though Phil couldn’t see it. “Are you sure about this?”

Phil nodded, and Dan pushed his weight onto Phil’s back. He heard a grunt from underneath him as Phil bent to a position Dan was confident human spines weren’t supposed to, and Phil straighted up, Dan clinging on for dear life. “I cannot believe this is actually working.”

“I’m stronger than you think,” Phil said, grinning as he made his way slowly down the steps. After about thirty seconds, they reached the living room, and Phil slung Dan down in his usual chair.

“Ouch! I’m a human being, not a rag doll.”

“Suck it up; you’re a big boy,” Phil said absentmindedly as he turned on the radio to their favorite jazz station.

The two sat in silence listening to the radio for hours, with only the occasional conversation. Hayden popped in once or twice wanting to go play outside and then immediately remembering Dan was immobile for the day and leaving, appearing disappointed. In all honesty, Dan was bored out of his mind, but even just having Phil’s presence made the day a bit less miserable, so he wouldn’t even think of mentioning his boredom. Phil even brought him lunch and carried him to the dinner table and back. All these gestures didn’t exactly help him fall out of love with Phil, but they sure did help him get through the day.

The sun had set, Dan was full from dinner, and he was sitting in his armchair, fully content with his day. Jazz played in the background, filling out his warm, cozy world.

But then the jazz suddenly stopped.

“We interrupt your program to bring you breaking news from London.” Dan leaned forward in his chair and glanced at Phil, both of them immediately alert. “We’ve just received word that bombs have fallen on the city for the first time in over a month; if the current pattern continues, it may very well be the worst bombing since the Second Great Fire of London on 29 December of last year.”

The man kept talking, but Dan didn’t hear him. Dan only heard the sounds of bombs falling and foundations rattling. His warm, jazzy haven had been destroyed by the explosives dropping on his previous home. It was as if every horrific memory he’d ever had from the city was rushing back into him at once along with fear for his mother’s life, and it was overwhelming him.

Dan’s eyes darted wildly around the room, and everything was shaking. The chandelier on the ceiling was rattling from the bombs he heard overhead, and Phil was in front of him, bobbing up and down along with the rest of the house.

“No-no-no-no-” Dan mumbled in between rushed breaths, his body rocking back and forth.

“Dan!” He heard a shout off in the distance. It sounded like Phil, but Phil was standing right in front of him. More explosions went off, and they sounded closer than the last.

“Not here. Not here too!”

“Dan! Come on, let’s get you out of here!” Phil picked Dan up and slung him over his shoulder, carrying him outside into the cool April darkness.

“No! We can’t go outside! The bombs! Hayden!”

“It’s okay, Dan, it’s okay.” Phil said, his breaths speeding up as well as he ran to dump Dan in the passenger seat of his truck.

Dan looked around the vehicle for a moment before hearing another blast go off. He shrieked and attempted to hide himself under the glove box, the small area acting as his only protection from the bombs falling all around him. He heard a door open, and then Phil was in the driver’s seat beside him. “Get up, Dan, it’s okay.”

“We shouldn’t be here. We’re going to get hurt.”

“No we’re not, Dan.” Another bomb went off, but it sounded more distant. “I promise.”

“But-the bombs-” Dan eked out, his voice rattling.

“There are no bombs. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

When he heard that, it was as if Dan snapped out of a trance, but the remnants still made him feel queasy. “There’s no bombs?” he asked, the sounds of the explosions having disappeared.

“Nope. Not here, at least.”

Dan took a deep breath and climbed back into the seat. He looked down at his shaking hands and then over to Phil, who was halfway up the hill towards the tree.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault. Just try to relax yourself back into the real world.”

Dan looked around, taking in the minor details of the truck’s dashboard and watching the blades of grass become illuminated by the headlights. Everything seemed to be moving slower than it was supposed to.

Dan felt a lurch as Phil stopped the truck by the tree and got out. Dan opened the door and hopped out himself, immediately feeling a sharp pain in his foot. “Ah!” He jumped on his other foot and put all his weight back against the truck. “Fuck. I forgot about my foot. I think it’s just covered in blisters now, and they did not enjoy that.”

“Here,” Phil said, picking Dan up and carrying him over to the truck bed he didn’t notice Phil open. The surface was cold and hard, but Dan was still content solely because his view was of the stars.

Phil climbed up on the bed beside him and turned his head to face him. “Are you alright? That was really scary.”

“Yeah, I’m okay, I guess,” he said, trying his best not to think about it. “Do you ever look up at the stars and realize that they’re all already dead?”

“What?” Phil asked, in an outburst of laughter.

“The light takes so long to reach us that there’s a good chance that most of them have already exploded. Burned out. We just can’t see them yet.”

“That’s dark.”

“I learned it in science last year.”

“Apparently your London schools are better than ours.”

They sat in silence for a moment. “But really, do you ever look up at the stars and realize that they’re the same stars that are shining over London right now? The stars we look up at and marvel at the beauty of are the same stars that you’d see in London right now after this tragedy, if there was a bit less light and a bit less smoke. That-that did happen, right?” Dan turned to look at Phil, and he nodded. Dan felt a pang in his chest; he was really hoping it was all part of the hallucination. “Can you believe that?”

“The stars?” Dan nodded. “Yeah, I can. I always try to remember to, honestly. Reminds me how small the world truly is. Brings me down to earth, I guess.”

There was another moment’s silence, each of them lying on their backs and gazing up at the stars.

“I’m cold,” Dan randomly said. “Why is it cold in April?”

“Do you want to go inside?”

Dan sat up and glanced down at the house, and he couldn’t help but remember the night’s earlier trauma. “Not really.”

Phil paused, appearing in thought. “Do you want my jacket? I was cold after dinner so I put one on.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Oh well,” he said, taking off his jacket and putting it around Dan’s shoulders. Dan hesitantly slid his arms through the sleeves, and he immediately felt Phil’s warmth around him.

“Thanks.”

“You know you’re going to have to go back down there eventually, right?” Phil asked, rolling over to face Dan.

Dan turned to face him. “We’ve only been here for ten minutes!”

“Still.”

Dan sighed. “I know. I just...” he trailed off, not even sure what to say. “It’s got bad memories now. You wouldn’t understand.”

He tried to roll back over, but Phil grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “Of course I do. I don’t have memories like yours, but I do have bad memories. I mean, do you really think I’m ready to go back to the Easter egg hunt next year?” Dan chuckled, but he still refused to make eye contact with Phil.

“I don’t know anymore. It’s just been so long.”

“I know. No news is good news.”

“Exactly. They waited until London let their guard down and then they struck. Everyone in the city had gone back to their lives; they’d repressed the memories, just as I had. If that happened to me, I can’t even begin to imagine what happened to them...or to my mum...”

By this point, Dan was struggling to hold back tears, and Phil took immediate notice. “Dan...” he whispered, pulling him closer with the sound of clothing scraping against the truck bed.

In Phil’s arms, Dan finally broke. “I was doing so well!” he bawled into Phil’s shoulder. “E-everything has been so g-great for the last few months, a-and now I’m f-f-f-f-falling apart.”

“It’s okay, Dan. It’s only human.” Phil let Dan sob into his shirt for a while. Eventually the tears ceased and Dan raised his head, finding himself a mere inch or two from Phil’s face. Phil pressed his forehead against Dan’s. “You’re okay. You’re safe here.”

They looked into each other’s eyes for a split second, and Dan caught a glimpse of Phil’s eyes. He’d grown used to them, and it was the first time since they’d first met that he’d truly taken in the beauty of his eyes. Even in the dark, he could see the yellow glint that shone through the blues and greens he knew blended into the tiny orbs in front of him. And then, suddenly, under the array of stars, their lips connected.

[qqueenofhades]

if the stars did not burn so bright

So I woke up with a shit-ton of feelings about young Garcia at the end of his first war. It was funny for about two seconds, because it was about his inability to talk to women, and then it took a sharp left turn into Pain.

Welp.

The Stradun is still in disarray from the shelling, the Old Town bears the scars – the siege of Dubrovnik ended just over three years ago, but it’s a mess, broken stones and rubble lying in the street, windows boarded up and kids rattling by on bicycles, shouting and waving flags, because most people still don’t have gas for their cars. The cheering is audible across the city, and bursts of fireworks keep breaking out. Every time they do, Garcia flinches. It is November 15, 1995, and the Erdut Agreement was signed three days ago. The war is over, everyone keeps saying. The war is over, and they are free.

Garcia is sitting with a few of his buddies from the HV at a sidewalk café near the Ploče Gate. It is serving everything it has in its kitchen, drinks or food, refuses to let them pay for anything, and total strangers keep stopping to kiss or hug them, whooping and slapping their backs. They’re in their military fatigues, they’re recognizable, and Ivan and Luka are clearly enjoying the attention. Garcia supposes he is, more or less. He wishes he could stop seeing that space between them, the one where Danijel is supposed to sit. It was just three months ago, in August. Operation Storm, the largest land battle fought in Europe since World War II. Four days, the fourth to the eighth. Just four.

(Danijel almost made it. He almost saw tonight. He almost was here. Instead he died in Garcia’s arms with Serb rockets going off overhead, and so, therefore, he isn’t.)

Garcia takes another drink from the glass in front of him. There are several on the table, he doesn’t know which one it is, and he swallows the dark-brown bitter as more fireworks go off close at hand. He jumps, and Luka punches his arm in a friendly way. “Hey now,” he says. “These are the good ones. Remember?”

“Yeah.” Garcia manages a grin. He tries not to think about everything he’s seen in the papers, in the reports of international observers, crackled through on radios. Close to a quarter of the country’s economy ruined, twenty thousand people dead, two hundred thousand more refugees. The massacres of Vukovar, Dalj, Lovas, Erdut, and Škabrnja, the prison camps, the artillery rounds, the crimes against humanity. It is quite easy to cast the Serbs and Yugoslavians, the JNA, as the monstrous antagonists, and one of the names for the war, the “Greater Serbian Aggression,” Velikosrpska agresija, reflects that sentiment very well. The Croatian army, Hrvatska Vojska, are the spirited, under-equipped rebels fighting for freedom against a merciless, overwhelming empire, and Garcia, since he is twenty years old and signed up to fight when he was fifteen, sees no difficulty or complication in this picture. He doesn’t even know why he doesn’t feel happier. It’s not for any lack of belief in the cause. He is happy, he tells himself. He is. He just –

He doesn’t know.

He’s not sure he knows anything right now.

“We’ll take your mind off it,” Ivan says. “Tonight we finally get you laid, Garcia. Huh?”

“I – I suppose?” The others are all reeling drunk, they’ve been catcalling every woman they see, shouting for her to come over and join the heroes of the homeland. Some of them laugh and do so and take a few shots. Others clutch their bags or their coats closer and put their heads down and walk faster, and Garcia half-wishes the guys would stop doing it. Not that he can say so, not that he wants to be the party pooper. He has already felt exquisitely conscious of himself, his place, whether he has any right to be here. The last name, Flynn, is that of his father’s British stepfather. His mother is American, and took refuge in Paris when the fighting intensified. Garcia put down his grandmother’s surname, Kovačić, on his enlistment papers, and used his cousin’s ID, since it says he’s four years older. He was born here, he grew up here, he’s lived here all his life, but sometimes he still feels like an imposter, masquerading in a war that does not really belong to him. Even after almost five years of this, though Croatian is his first language and he still has a heavy accent when he speaks in English, he does not know if he is a worthy enough soldier for the cause.

“What about her?” Milan says, pointing. “You like her, Garcia?”

“She’s gonna like him,” Ivan jokes. “He’s a military hero. The women go for that.”

Garcia starts to say something, then takes another drink instead. He is six-foot-four and weighs maybe a hundred and seventy-five pounds soaking wet; the height was useful in passing as older than he is, though the beanpole part hasn’t been helped by four years of shit army food and backbreaking, sixteen-hour days. He has a thick shock of dark hair and his father’s Slavic nose, broad shoulders and too much limbs for his body, gangly and thin and awkward, big hands and big feet and sometimes feels like a stumbling stork. He can fire three different kinds of rifle, half a dozen handguns, and any idiot can take the pin out of a grenade and throw it. He is, as noted, twenty years old. He has already killed more men than he can easily count, and seen his friends – Danijel is not the only one missing tonight, the only ghost that they raise a drink to honor – die the same. He is not old enough to drink in America.

Milan whistles at another woman, apparently on Garcia’s behalf, and she looks scared and practically runs up the Stradun, out of sight. At that, Garcia feels obliged to take a hand. “Come on,” he says. “I’m sure there will be plenty who actually want to talk to us.”

“But you can’t talk to her,” Milan points out. “We all know that, yeah?”

The others laugh, as Garcia feels his cheeks burn. His difficulties in saying anything whatsoever to the fair sex are well known, since he clams up and can’t be clever to save his life and has nothing remotely recognizable as what the American rappers would call “game.” He’s shy and self-conscious anyway, he has no sense of how to act like he’s not, and as a result, his continued virginal status is a source of amusement in his squad. They all seem to feel that now that the fighting is done, they get to the good part. Ivan’s talking about Mila back in Zagreb, he’s gonna go see if she’s still single (or, perhaps, alive). The others have similar ideas. Settle down, have some new Croatian citizens, forget that all of this ever happened. It seems like it might be easy for them.

Garcia doesn’t think it is, knows that they’re all putting on brave faces tonight, but it makes him wonder anyway, how they can just think they have no more stake in this, nothing left to fight for. Sarajevo is still under siege. Bosnia is likewise oppressed by the Serbs, they’re still fighting, dying, for their own liberty. The struggle isn’t done. There is a reason that “Balkan” is a byword for conflict, that “balkanized” is a verb describing a situation or state of being that is inexorably divided beyond repair. Serbian and Croatian and Bosnian are all essentially the same language, but they all have to be given their own name, their separate recognizance, so one does not suffer the shame of speaking the tongue of the enemy. The red-checked national flag now flies over the Banski dvori in Zagreb, and Ante Gotovina is a monolithic hero beyond any doubt or questioning. They have done this, they have separated themselves from the broken, crumbling corpse of Yugoslavia and communism alike, won the Cold War with the Americans, stepped out into the new day of democracy and freedom. Garcia wishes – he wishes – it felt like it was over.

The owner of the café comes out to see how they are getting on, leaves another round of bottles, and scoffs at Garcia’s insistence that they should at least give him something. “No, no,” he says. “You have given us everything. This is the least I can do. There will be other days to make money. You drink up, boys. You stay as long as you like.”

“You know any nice girl?” Ivan asks. “Who does not bite? We have our friend here, he is very shy. We’re trying to get him laid.”

“I’m sure there are many nice girls.” The owner chuckles, but Garcia detects a certain hesitance in his face, as if he is going to go inside and tell his daughters to go upstairs and lock their doors, just in case. “If you have won a war, how hard can it be?”

Luka and Milan and the two Antons laugh and agree that see, this is what they were saying, and the owner clears off with the empties. It’s November, it’s chilly at night, even if their position here on the Adriatic means that it’s not cold. The stars are huge and bright overhead, since patches of the city are still running on generators or intermittent electricity, and Garcia twists the cap off the nearest bottle. He’s starting to feel on the drunk side of tipsy, a condition none of them have been able to afford for the last several years, since it’s hard to shoot straight if you’re shit-faced. Milan reaches in his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, passes them around to the boys, and they all light up. The smoke curls into Garcia’s lungs like a rasping knife, he taps the ashes off the end, and thinks that he should probably find a way to call his mother. Maria Tompkins has been living in the seventh arrondissement, teaching part-time mechanical engineering at the Sorbonne, and she was very upset that he decided to enlist in the first place. You have American citizenship through me, she said. You could come with me, we could go back to the States, or –

At this point, despite his heritage, Garcia has never been to America, and he has been raised in Eastern Europe during the Cold War, a state of affairs that – despite Maria’s moderating influence – does not leave much space for thinking of it fondly. They spoke both Croatian and English at home, he’s effectively bilingual, but he’s always spoken Croatian at school and with his friends, and as noted, still has too much of an accent to think he’d easily fit in in America. Besides, he’s never been there, he knows nothing about it aside from what he sees on TV and the infrequent times Maria decides to talk about it, her old life in Houston and her dead first husband and son. All his friends are here, all his friends were fighting for freedom. Garcia wasn’t about to be the chicken, the scab, running off to a comfortable life in the godless West and leaving his comrades behind to suffer and die. He has spent four years now as Garcia Kovačić, explained the first name away almost apologetically. Even some of the guys at this table, guys he’s won a war with, don’t know otherwise.

He pays half-attention to the ongoing debates about finding him a woman. The others feel as if that’s a good idea too. Luka spots one he likes, who comes over and has some drinks with them, and then gets up with her, as the others wolf-whistle and waggle their eyebrows, to announce that he is in search of more privacy. Is it that easy, Garcia wonders? Is that what it means, being a man, that you can expect to have your way with a woman at any given moment? The one time he was disrespectful about a girl at school, talked about her crudely the way he had heard older men do, his mother almost bit his head off. It goes against his grain to think of doing that now. He doesn’t even know that he wants to.

(He kissed Danijel once, in the darkness of the foxholes. He remembers the taste of soot and nicotine and sweat, and Danijel’s callused hands on his face. He’s not a homo, he likes women. He likes looking at them, he feels something like a fishhook in his stomach when the sun shines on their hair and skirts curl around their knee and blouses mold to the curves of breast and shoulder. He definitely knows he’s not gay. Maybe it’s just that men seem easier.)

“Garcia?” Ivan says, slapping his knee. “Garcia, wake up.”

“I’m sorry.” He blinks, rubbing his hand over his face, discovering that he is not quite sure where one is in relation to the other. “Jesus, I think I’m drunk.”

“Oh no, you’re definitely drunk.” Ivan laughs, slurring more than a little himself. “I don’t want to be able to stand up. The owner, he’ll probably go to the neighbors for more if we ever run out. I don’t want to stand up.”

His eyes are a little manic as he says this, the bright patina of joy cracking to show something else underneath, and Garcia thinks how Ivan was one of the first members of the HV to get to Vukovar and how he has been a little too loud, a little too jocular, ever since. If he does go back to Mila in Zagreb and they get married, Garcia wonders if she’s prepared for that, the possibility that Ivan is going to wake up screaming one night and there is going to be nothing there, nothing tangible, except the heaped bodies of butchered civilians around their bed. More fireworks go off over the harbor, from the direction of Lokrum. They burst overhead in showers of blue and red and white, national colors. It’s like a fever. A naked man runs past them, yelling, “HRVATSKA ZAUVIJEK!” and jumps into the fountain. Nobody seems to care.

Ivan reaches for another bottle, and Garcia decides to do the same, even though he’s sure that any more drink is going to land him passed out on the paving stones. His head is floating, he feels numb and dreamy and delirious, as if this is the closest thing he is going to have that passes for happiness. Milan is saying he wants a joint, and more of the boys have girls on their laps by now. Their hair is bleach-blonde, their roots dark, and their lips are crimson. Garcia fixates on that, like he can’t see anything else. There is screaming in his head that even the alcohol cannot wash out. Anyone who thinks this is done is an idiot.

Garcia opens his eyes with pale sunlight in his face, his cheek stuck to the spilled drink on the tabletop, the residue of cigarette ash foul in his lungs, and a splitting headache. The Stradun looks barely more respectable by morning than it did the night before, though some of the shopkeepers are out with brooms, and the café owner is the one who shook him awake. “Son,” he says. “Wake up, son. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” Garcia pushes himself upright with arms that weigh a thousand tons, even though this is a fairly obvious lie. Pigeons are swarming down to peck at the crumbs, people are collecting the bottles and other rubbish, and he’s not the only one who has passed out in some public thoroughfare. “I – thanks. I should – I’m sorry for the mess.”

He fumbles for his wallet, thinking he’ll be lucky if someone hasn’t pinched it, and pulls out a few crumpled kuna, shoving it into the owner’s hand even as he protests and tries to decline. Garcia doesn’t let him, though, and stumbles to his feet, head sloshing violently. He makes it a few hundred meters before he has to stop and be sick in a side alley, and wipes his mouth, breathing hard. He wonders where the others ended up last night, or if anyone was going to come back for him later. He needs to go to the post office and write to his mother.

And yet, as he stands there, Garcia realizes he doesn’t know what to say to her, or if he could honestly promise that he would come join her in Paris and start a new life. Asher Flynn vanished when his son was twelve, Garcia has never known what happened to him, and there are no other family members in the picture. He wants to make his mother happy, he does. But the awareness of the remaining injustice continues to gnaw at him like a mouth of broken teeth, dull and constant. How could he excuse it, going off to France or America or wherever else, knowing that he could still have made a difference?

You know, Garcia thinks. Now that he thinks about it, if he is continuing on, there is some use to be had from his real surname. Kovačić has served its purpose, but it is also instantly and recognizably regional, insular, and it is, after all, a lie. Flynn is curt, crisp, cleaner. Impossible to mispronounce. Could mean he’s from anywhere, and professional anonymity is an asset he could cultivate. Can work harder on his thick accent, can sound less like Boris Borisovich the Vodka Drinking Soviet to American ears. He knows he’s good at what he’s done until now, and he could get better. He used to think about being a history or a geography teacher, his two best subjects in school, but he doesn’t think so anymore. There must be historians here now, dusting off the rubble and assembling it into a narrative, collecting evidence, shaping the story of the new nation. He has seen firsthand how it is made, in blood and struggle, and yet he knows it will end up antiseptic, organized, clean. That is their job, the historians. They make order out of chaos, a story and a meaning out of madness. They are dangerous people. History only happens once, but it has to be remembered. And those who keep that memory are ultimately more powerful than any rocket or bomb in existence.

(Maybe his hands will stop burning when he holds a gun again. Maybe he can stop one more person who is doing terrible things in the world, and this will be worth it. Maybe he will find a point where it feels like enough, and that it’s done, and that he can sleep.)

He doesn’t go to the post office. He crosses the Bosnian border, two weeks later, and heads up north to Mostar, and says that he’s from the HV, and he’d like to help them fight.

He tells them his name is Flynn.

[just-jordie-things]

The Night We Met - Peter Parker

word count: 5568 warnings: swearing, super adorkable peter a/n: this is my first posted peter fic so go easy on me? also this is really low key based on this song, but the sound of it not the words so much if that makes sense? idk i’m at a loss

[ i am not the only traveler who has not repaid his debt / i’ve been searching for a trail to follow again / take me back to the night we met ]

The facility was quiet as you padded through it, though it was common for it to be so silent when the sun had set hours ago.  It was late, one am, you presumed.  But this was the ideal time to go wandering around the building you lived in.  It was dark, only the moon and star’s light shining into the rooms, and the living space and kitchen were surrounded by windows, which casted shadows and small pools of light on the floor that you liked to dance around on your tiptoes in.  Wearing your pajamas and silently leaping short distances and twirling around on the cool tiled or hardwood floors.

You had lived in the facility for the whole past year that it had been built and functioning, and before that you’d lived at the tower for most of your life.  All but the first three years of your life, when you were stuck in an orphanage.  Before Tony Stark adopted you.  Why had he? You were never entirely sure.  You never understood why a man with his wealth and success needed a daughter to add onto his list of priorities but you’d never thought to question him.  Besides, you liked having a Mom and Dad.  Pepper was more of the parental figure, and Tony was mostly there to… well he used to get you into trouble but since you turned fifteen a year ago he became more protective.  You weren’t his little girl anymore, you were a teenager, blossoming into womanhood.  And when you turned sixteen his overprotectiveness only increased.

It hadn’t really mattered, you weren’t really an avenger.  At least, not one out on the battlefield.  No, you preferred working in the lab with Bruce, designing new suits, lighter weapons, deadlier weapons, faster engines for the jet.  But your favorite thing was creating new costumes, as you liked to call them.  Though the rest of the team wouldn’t prefer the term.  Sure, you worried for your Dad, and the others that had just as easily become your family, but you also knew that they were a special set of people.  Trained assassins, super soldiers, even Clint was… important.

(you never missed an opportunity to tease him, much to his displeasure)

So as you twirled around gracefully in the moonlight, your eyes closed as you enjoyed the silence, not even needing a tune to dance to, and found your peace.  You loved these secret nights of yours.  Your own special thing.

[ and then I can tell myself what the hell I'm supposed to do / and then I can tell myself not to ride along with you ]

You were working today, your hair pulled up into a high ponytail and your eyes focused on the sketch in front of you.  You tried not to rock on the stood you sat at while your hand moved swiftly over the tablet, the rubber tipped stylus creating lines of maroon on the screen.

“You know,” Banner spoke, making you jump slightly, and creating a long line throughout the entire design of Wanda’s new and improved outfit.

“Thanks a lot” You rolled your eyes, carefully hitting the undo button and making Bruce roll his eyes right back at you.

“Calm down you fixed it with a push of a button”

“Did Bruce Banner just tell me to calm down?” You asked, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“y/n just- just shut up.  God when did you become a teenager?” You chuckled, going back to your sketching with a smile on your face.

“You don’t remember? Because I do.  Vividly”

“That’s only cause Tony gave you the body talk” Bruce said, and you felt a chill go down your spine at the memory.  “Anyhow, I was going to say that that new recruit is coming here today”

“New recruit?” You asked, sitting up and abandoning your art now, your curiosity peaked.  “Why wasn’t I told?”

“You designed his suit, the uh… the bug one”

“Ant Man?”

“No, the other one”

“Wasp?” You asked again, Bruce shook his head.

“No no, the one from Berlin” You squinted for a moment, trying to remember.

“Bruce, just cause my Dad’s sorta a snake sometimes doesn’t mean he’s a bug, that’s rude” You chuckled, and Banner rolled his eyes, again.

“Seriously y/n stop being all sassy what happened to your pigtails and pink overalls?”

“I grew up” You stated, wasting no time in getting back to your work.  Bruce frowned sadly at your back.  You were right, you had grown up.  And while you still may only be sixteen, the world you lived in had forced you to mature much faster than you should have.  But nonetheless, he let you get back to your work while he went back to creating a new prototype for Bucky’s arm.

“And no, it’s Spider-Man”

“Alright kid, this is a big deal now” Tony said, clapping a hand on Peter’s back as they made their way into the facility.  “Whole team lives here, my whole family” He told him.

“Wow” Was all Peter could think to say as his eyes looked around.  They landed on everything, quickly, wanting to take it all in at once.

“Okay okay, slow down, you’re one of us now, you’ve got plenty of time to make googly eyes-”

Tony was cut off mid sentence as Peter had crashed into something, sending the box in his arms and the papers in the other person’s arms flying as his victim stumbled backwards onto the floor.

“I’m sorry! I’m so so so sorr-” He stopped abruptly upon seeing you there, gathering your things as quickly as you could.  He couldn’t help his wide eyes as he watched your every movement.  Before he shook his head and began helping you pick up his papers.

“It’s fine I’m just- I’m super late” You spoke quickly, stacking your sketches in your arms messily and in a rushed fashion.  You didn’t even look up at him until he seemed to be staring at the paper in his hands.

“You-you drew this? Wow” He said in amazement, but you snatched it away.

“That’s what y/n does here” Tony said, not being able to take the awkward tension anymore and scooping up most of your papers in his hands and giving them to you.  “Geez are these all Wanda’s?” He asked you as you held what was probably a hundred designs in your arms.

“Yeah, yep, I didn’t know what exactly she was looking for she just said something new, so..” You trailed off, trying to straighten out and align all of the papers in your arms.  You shot a glance over at the boy who had picked up his box, full of typical teenage boy items.  Until you looked more curiously and could tell instantly he was  a very studious boy.  “You must be Spider-Man?”

“Parker Pete- Peter Parker.  I’m Peter Parker that-that’s me” He stammered, making you send a goody glance at your father before looking back to the boy that seemed your age.  He had adorable puppy brown eyes and the same colored curls on his head.  He was adorable, cute, it was the only thing you could think of for a moment.

“Well hello Parker Pete” You said with a small laugh as you stuck your hand out while carefully maneuvering your stack of papers.  “I’m y/n” You introduced while he shook your hand, a bit too long but you didn’t really want to pull away either.

“She’s also my daughter, and off limits, so let’s keep walking” Tony said, grabbing Peter by the shoulders and steering him away.

“Wha- she-you have- you’re his-” Peter couldn’t even get a full sentence out as Tony directed him farther away from you, leaving you to stand in the hall and watch in amusement as your father dragged the poor boy away.

“Bye Parker Pete!” You called before heading off to Wanda’s room.

You liked Peter Parker.  He was a stuttering, adorkable mess.

[ i had all and then most of you, some and now none of you / take me back to the night we met ]

You were sat at the kitchen breakfast bar, sketching away as always.  Sometimes you just liked changing your setting.  Working in the lab could get loud, or stuffy, and it was good to have a little change of scenery.  Plus, the best things happened in the kitchen.

For instance, right now, everyone was trying to arm wrestle Steve.  Which was a very amusing sight to watch.  Currently, Natasha was flexing her arms trying to prepare herself for what everyone knew would be a failure.

“What’re you working on?” You heard a familiar voice, and turned to see Peter slipping onto the high chair next to you.  You smiled at him almost instinctively.  He’d been living at the facility for a week now, and at this point you were pretty good friends.  Being the same age really did help, seeing you were both the youngest ones there.

“Hopefully a new bow for Clint” You told him, showing him your design.  “I’m hoping he won’t break this one” You added with a chuckle.  Peter stared at the paper, genuine interest on his features.  You loved that about him, even for the simple things he always admired your work like it was the coolest thing he’s ever seen.

“Neat” He said, still staring at it even as you slid it back to your part of the tabletop.  “What’s uh… what’s happening over there?” He nodded off to where Steve was dangerously close to slamming Nat’s hand on the table.  You were a little worried about the Black Widow’s well being, but even more so for the table.  It wouldn’t be the first time Steve had broken the dinner table over an arm wrestling tournament.

“Steve’s daring people to arm wrestle him” You said, watching them again, just as Natasha lost.  She groaned in frustration, shaking out her sore hand.  “He only does it when Tony’s not around to scold him for it”

“Scold him?” Peter asked curiously.

“He usually breaks stuff.  Tables, vases, bones” Peter’s eyes widened with fear, making you chuckle.

“Calm down Spider-Boy, he won’t attack you” You said, putting your hand unconsciously on his forearm.  “It’s just a little competition he likes to do to show off.  No one’s ever beat him” You shrugged.  “Kinda like how Thor tests us to lift his hammer, we all know that thing won’t budge, but we try anyways” You said.  Peter’s eyes were trained on Steve and Wanda’s current match.  You took his distracted moment to admire his features, his starry eyes, gelled but soft looking hair, thin pink lips.  You smiled at him, and only then noticed your hand resting on him.  You removed it quickly, busying yourself with your design again.

“Hey new kid!” You perked up once more when you heard Steve’s voice ring out, catching Peter’s attention.

“M-me?” Peter pointed to himself, unsure if the Captain America was talking to him or not.  You giggled to yourself quietly.

“Yeah you, you wanna try and go a round?” He asked.  Your eyes went from gleaming to wide with worry in a matter of seconds.

“Peter you don’t have-”

“Yeah sure” Peter shrugged before you could give him a way out of it.  You watched as he hopped to the ground and walked over to the opposite side of the table as Steve.  All of your focus was on the two.  Sure, Steve would never heart him on purpose but Peter wasn’t like the other avengers, he was sixteen, and you were worried he’d get his arm broken or something.  You stared as their hands latched together, neither of them doing anything yet.  “Look, I-I just wanna say sorry about like- attacking you at that airport” Peter said, and you blushed slightly at his cute awkwardness.  Apologizing for the fight, no one had really done that yet.  Most of you just tried to look past it.

“Yeah, no hard feelings” Steve winked, and like that, you could see their arms struggling slightly as they put all their strength into it.  Your lips parted slightly when you realized Peter wasn’t losing.  He was actually doing really well, completely focused on Steve’s arm.  “Wow kid, you got quite a grip” Steve commented, and you could hear the struggle in his voice.

Well that was new.

“But hey, I’m still the strongest one here” Steve said, slamming the kid’s hand down onto the table.  Peter sighed, shaking his hand just as Nat had earlier.  You clapped while the others began to leave the room, tired of Steve’s party games.

“Wow! Parker Pete!” You rushed over to him and hugged him before thinking about it.  “Just- wow” You laughed, and Peter gave a short laugh with you, rubbing his now aching hand.  “No one’s ever done that before! Just how strong are you?” You asked him, and his face went red.

“I-I don’t know” He stammered out, and you hugged him again.  You felt him slowly wrap his arms around your waist, tugging you a little closer as he held you.  It was quiet for a moment, and your heart began fluttering as you lingered there together.  Somehow, it wasn’t just a hug, and you could both feel it.

“Hey hey hey, watch the hands there” You sighed quietly when Tony came in, pointing accusingly at the both of you, and you pulled away from Peter.  “Break it up” He said, snapping his fingers as he went to the fridge for a bottle of beer.

“Peter almost beat Steve at arm wrestling” You bragged, trying to ease up your father’s current mood.

“God dammit I told him no more of those” He grumbled, heading back out of the kitchen, the popped his head back in.  “Break it up!” He called loudly again.  “Both of you! Separate rooms pronto!” You rolled your eyes as he left, but squeezed a hand on Peter’s wrist before gathering your materials from the counter.

“Night Parker Pete” You said sweetly, then headed out the door and towards the elevator.  Peter slumped onto one of the chairs, staring at the doorway you just exited.

“Goodnight y/n” He said to himself.

“You like her?” He heard an accented voice and turned to see Wanda standing there.  The boy’s heart nearly leapt out of his chest, he hadn’t even realized there was another way into this room.  “Yes?” She questioned after not having received an answer.

“Yea-yeah I mean yeah y/n.. y/n’s great she’s a great-amazing friend” He said, all the while nodding his head and blushing like a fool.  Wanda chuckled, using her powers to snatch an orange off the counter, but opted to use her nails to peel it.

“I can read minds” She told him.  “I know you like her” She told him, winking a brown eye.  Peter opened his mouth but no words came out for a few moments.

“I… she’s great” He told her, unsure of what he could say.

“You also think she’s beautiful” Wanda continued, putting a slide of the fruit into her mouth.

“Well I-”

“Are we discussing Peter Parker’s feelings towards miss Stark?”

Peter fell of his chair, definitely not having expected Vision to simply face through the wall of the kitchen, joining the conversation abruptly.  Wanda nodded as she chewed, and Peter attempted to stand and straighten out his sweater.

“Well I think it’s… pleasing” Vision said.

“Pl-pleasing?” Peter stuttered.

“Yes, it is nice to think of you becoming romantically involved with miss Stark” He said with a nod of his head.  Peter’s eyes widened with fear.

“No, no no no no, y/n and I-I we- we aren’t- she’s my friend”

“Yes, and Wanda is my friend” Vision said, and the witch’s head snapped towards him.  “But that is no barrier to love”

Peter almost fell just from standing up.  He could feel his knees wobbling and his heart was pounding incredibly fast in his chest.

“Vizh…” Wanda said slowly, coming over and putting a hand on the android’s arm.  “Let’s go talk” She said, and he nodded again, allowing her to guide him out of the room.  “But if you want my advice,” Wanda turned to Peter before she could fully leave the kitchen.  “Go for it, y/n looks at you a lot, the way… the way I remember Pietro looking at his love” Wanda said.  Peter couldn’t even find the right words to say before she left the room.

Shortly after, he went running out, making his way as quickly as he could to the weight room.  It was nearing ten o’clock, but he needed a stress relief, and working out seemed much better than sitting in his room with his anxiety all pent up.

He practically burst through the doors, not even noting Steve dragging a punching bag to it’s hook as he tore his sweater off, leaving him in a tee shirt and khakis.  Not really the best chosen attire to work out in, but he didn’t care.  He needed to… to run, to punch something.  He stepped up onto the treadmill, setting it on a higher setting before just sprinting.  Racing over the spinning rubber sheet until sweat dripped down his forehead.

“Kid? Hey Parker?” Steve called, catching Peter’s attention but he didn’t stop running.  “You aren’t stress running cause I kicked your ass earlier right?” He asked, and Peter shook his head, his breathing ragged as he put the treadmill on a higher setting.  “Alright, then why are you stress running?”

“I’m not stress running” Peter grunted.

“Yes you are.  Why?” Steve said, his voice stern so that he’d open up to him.  Peter let out a sigh, but was still reluctant to stop running.

“Because” He huffed.  “I’m in love… with y/n… and she’s Tony’s daughter… and doesn’t like me back… deserves better than me anyways” He said in between sharp intakes of breath.  Steve chuckled, putting his hands on his hips.

“Alright, alright turn that off you’re gonna kill yourself” He said, and Peter didn’t even argue, just slowed it down before stopping it completely.  “Listen closely to me, alright?” Peter nodded shakily, and stepped down off the treadmill.

He walked over to Steve, and they sat down together on a bench.

“I’m going to tell you a story about a woman named Peggy Carter”

[ i don't know what I'm supposed to do, haunted by the ghost of you / oh, take me back to the night we met ]

You had just slipped out of your room, checking to make sure the halls were clear as you walked as lightly as possible down the hallway towards the kitchen.  You hadn’t changed into pajamas like usual, still wearing your simple white dress from earlier that night.  But you didn’t mind, you were just happy to finally be able to sneak out.  Earlier than you usually do, it was midnight and you often waited for one am to roll around but you were too eager to escape to your happy place.

After tiptoeing down the stairs, opting not to use the elevator because it made noise, you snuck into the kitchen, quickly and carefully closing the door behind you.  Even though it and the walls secluding it were glass windows.  You were a creature of habit.

“What’re you doing here?” You spun around, about to kick the owner of the sudden voice in the throat, but be caught your ankle.

“Peter?” You lowered your leg, smoothing out your skirt.  “What’re you doing? It’s late” He gave you a look before laughing.

“Well I can basically say the same thing” He said, and you blushed, looking down for a moment.

“I… I come here at night when everyone’s asleep.  It’s my way of sneaking out” You said with half a shrug.  “It was a secret until now” Peter’s face fell, and he could feel his stomach dropped.

Oh my god I ruined her special place for her

“No worries” You said with a soft smile.  “I’m happy you’re the first I can share it with” You told him, and began to walk off to the living area, in front of all the windows.  Peter scurried off after you, walking awkwardly with his hands behind his back as you were staring outside.  He looked over at you, awestruck by the way the moonlight reflected on your features, making parts of your dress look like it was glowing, but others hidden in a shadow.  “So Parker Pete,” You said with a smile as you turned your head to look at him.  “What’re you doing out here so late?”

“I- I was just… sitting” He answered lamely, making you chuckle and roll your eyes a little.

“Okay, but why sit in the kitchen in the middle of the night? Don’t you want your rest?”

“M-my rest?” You shrugged.

“I don’t know.  Everyone around here falls asleep so early when my Dad’s not throwing some big party” You told him.

“Does he have parties a lot?” You crinkled your nose and bopped your head side to side as if to say so so.  

“Not as much as he used to.  Now it’s just the small group of us, playing music, eating lots of food, dancing, it’s nice.  A good reason to dress up and have fun but kick back from the stress” You told him.  “I guess I like it better than they used to be.  Loud, lots of drunks.  I remember hiding in my room inside my closet until my mom would come kiss me goodnight and tell me he was shooing people out” You chuckled a little, leaning closer to the window and tapping your fingers lightly against the glass to a made up beat.

“As a rebellious teen, do you want more parties?�� Peter asked, mocking a reporter’s voice and making you laugh, shooting him a quick glance.

“I wouldn’t call myself rebellious, but that doesn’t mean I’m a total rule follower” You said.  “For the daughter of Tony Stark, I think that says a lot about my adoption” You said jokingly.

“I didn’t know that” He said, stepping closer to you.  He wanted to look out the window, enjoy the view as you were, but he couldn’t tear his eyes off of you.

“Yeah you can’t really tell unless you look close enough.  We’re really close” Peter smiled gently.

“That’s good” You nodded.

“Yeah… to me he really is my Dad, I don’t go out of my way to use the term ‘adopted’ it doesn’t bother me by any means, he’s just more to me than that.  Pepper too, but she’s the busy one nowadays” You told him.  “Anyways, that’s my life story you wanna share now?”

“Uh, it’s sorta messy” He said, awkwardly rubbing the back of his head.  You shook your head, brushing it off.

“I don’t mind.  I’d like to hear it Parker Pete” He chuckled, and licked his lips while he thought of what to say.

“Well, uhm, my parents were killed” He said, clearing his throat.  “In a hijacked plane crash when I was seven… and uh… I’ve been living with my Aunt May and Uncle Ben since then” He told you, avoiding your eyes.  “And not long after I.. well became Spider-Man uh…”

You noticed the way he was kicking his feet into the carpet, a nervous habit, and your heart began to sink as sadness washed over your features.

“My-my Uncle he- he got shot because of me” Your eyes widened and you moved closer to him, your back to the window now and completely abandoning the view you loved as you stared up at Peter with crinkled brows and big wet eyes.  Your hand reached out to grab his without a second thought.

“I’m sure it wasn’t your fault Peter” You whispered, but he shook his head.

“No, no if I’d just been honest with him and had been back to him on time like I said I would he- I would’ve-” You placed your other hand against his cheek, turning his head up to look at you.

“It wasn’t your fault, Pete” You told him softly, keeping your voice steady.  “And I promise if he could see you now, he’d be so incredibly proud of you and all you’ve done” You saw his lips quirk up for a short moment, and you smiled at him.  “I’ve known you for all of a week and I am” You said, and his heart surely stopped in his chest, only to speed up again.

“Thanks, y/n” He said, and you nodded, dropping your hand from his face but kept your hands latched at your side.  “He would’ve liked you” He told you, and for some reason it made your cheeks heat up in a pink blush.

“Really?” Peter smiled as he nodded.

“Yeah, you’d remind him of May I’m sure” A giggle slipped past your lips before you could stop it.  Why did this make you all bubbly?

“Am I like her?” You asked, and Peter pursed his lips.

“You’ve got the same attitude but secret softie thing going on” You quirked up an eyebrow.

“I’m not a softie, I used to be out on that battlefield you know” You told him, crossing your arms over your chest as you’d released his hand.

“Really?” Peter asked, narrowing his eyes and smirking playfully.  “Because you were all worried earlier when I was going to arm wrestle Captain America” You jaw dropped open at him.

“Oh really? Say that to my excellent combat skills” You said with a wink.

“Excellent combat skills?” He asked, and you nodded.

“Uh huh, only reason I’m not out there is cause someone’s gotta make your spandex onesie” Peter looked at you with an offended expression.

“It’s not-!” He groaned, throwing his arms down at his sides.  You let out a laugh and shook your head.

“I don’t know… I mean, I designed it I think I know a onesie when I make one” You told him.  Peter opened his mouth and closed it a few times, and you began to laugh again, your smile bright and your eyes twinkling with delight.  Peter couldn’t even keep up his facade of a straight face.  “Alright, alright, what else? What do I and May Parker have in common?”

“I don’t know, uh, she used to dance with him all the time, when I was little they’d dance around to his old record player” You smiled at him, and bounced a little on your bare feet.  “What? What?” Peter asked as you just kept laughing and bouncing.

“Come on come on” You tugged on his hands, pulling him closer eagerly, and planting his palms on your waist.

“You want to dance with me?” He asked like he didn’t even believe it.  But you nodded, your grin still present as you crossed your wrists behind his neck.

“Yeah” You said, beginning to bite back your smile.

“I-I don’t have my phone so I don’t have any like-like music or anything” You shrugged your shoulders and noted how he panicked a little.

“It’s fine, we don’t really need it” You told him, and you gave him a comforting smile.  “Calm down Peter, it’s just me” You said.

How ironic, he thought.

“Why’s it ironic?” You asked, and Peter’s eyes filled with fear at the realization that he’d said it out loud.  He didn’t say anything at first, his brain still turning and his heart beating impossibly faster than it already was.  You could tell that he was nervous, so you rested your forehead on his chest so that he didn’t have to look at you.  “Peter?” You called when you didn’t hear any answer from him.

“Sorry I-I didn’t know what to say you uh y-you make me nervous” You pulled away, looking up at him with surprised eyes and raised brows.

“I do?” You asked, taken aback by the confession.  Peter nodded, looking from his feet to you and partially wishing that he could drop dead right this moment.

But then you smiled at him, an airy laugh coming from your lips.

“You make me nervous sometimes too Parker Pete” You told him, and a small smile pulled on his mouth, his face red.

“R-really I-I-I do?” He stuttered, and you nodded.  Peter let out a small chuckle, looking down again before back up to you.  You nodded again, your bottom lip tucked slightly between your teeth.  He let out a small laugh, really just a puff of air.

“Why do I? I’m not mean to you am I?” You asked, chuckling quietly and he did too, shaking his head.

“No, no not at all you’re-you’re nice, very nice- to me! To me anyways I’ve seen you have at it with Clint” You laughed again.

“We don’t fight it’s just banter” You told him, shaking your head dismissively and wringing your hands behind his neck.  “Well?” You said softly, still waiting for his answer.

“Well.. uh… well you see you’re very good at what you do- v-very talented” He started anxiously, and the swaying that has been your dancing, halted.  “And-and I think you’re really beautiful” Your cheeks flushed red as you bit back a grin.

“Really?”

“Y-yeah well yeah” Peter said simply.  “And you’re- you’re a genius I mean you’ve got this capability to work with Dr Banner, and you’re my age I-I’d say that’s pretty neat” You let out a soft giggle, your eyes wide with adoration for this boy in front of you.  “Truth is y/n I… I like you, a lot, as-as more than a friend” Your heart stopped in your chest.

“I like you too Peter Parker” You whispered out softly.  I smile quirked on his lips, that turned into a grin within seconds.  You caught his eyes flicker down to your lips, and you licked over them subconsciously.  Your hands slid to his shoulders, resting at the base of his neck and you stepped ever so slightly closer.  His eyes kept looking from you to your lips, over and over and it made you chuckle.  “Well are you gonna kiss me or not?” You mumbled, your stomach flipping over repeatedly.

“Not! He is most definitely not!” You sprung away from Peter, your back and head hitting the window.  “Parker what the hell do you think you’re doing!?” Peter spun around to see your Dad standing there, his arms crossed angrily.

“I-I uh I-”

“y/n, go to your room it’s time for bed” He said, his tone frustrated.

“Dad I’m not six you can’t send me-”

“Bed” He gritted and you stood a little straighter.  You nodded your head, and looked to Peter quickly, waving a short and quick goodbye and rushing out of the room.

[ when you had not touched me yet / oh, take me back to the night we met ]

Peter was pacing in the hallways, contemplating whether or not he should go  back to his own quarters, like Mr Stark had so… kindly… told him to.  Or if he should knock on your door.

He liked you, that part was obvious now.  He liked you so much it hurt to not be with you.  If he’d known what love felt like, he could almost say he was in love with you.  He could sit down and talk to you all day about anything, he could go to sleep at night wishing he’d had just five more minutes.

Maybe if you weren’t Tony’s daughter, maybe if the entire team of Avengers weren’t standing guard over you, like they were all your protective older brothers, he would’ve told you sooner.  Maybe.  Peter Parker was never one for having confidence, in fact, before the suit, he was the shy nerdy kid that no one really knew the name of.  He wasn’t popular, or very out going by any means, but ever since Spider-Man, he had a higher self esteem, pushed himself more.

And he really, really liked you.

So, he knocked.

[ Take me back to the night we met ]

“Peter?” You said quietly as you opened your door.  You had changed into a tee shirt and sleep shorts for bed, your hair hanging down in loose waves hanging over your shoulders.  You wrapped your arms over your chest, trying to preserve the warmth you’d lost when you got out of bed.  “Hey what’re you doing he-” You were cut off when his hands flew out, cupping your cheeks and pulling your lips against his.  While at first you were surprised, you sunk into it instantly and wrapped your arms around his neck, completely melting against him.

When he pulled away you were a smiling blushing mess and all you could hear was your heart pounding in your chest.

“I’m sorry”

“Why?” You chuckled.  “I mean, I’m not apologizing” You said again, and he smiled back at you.

“I just- might not get the chance to do that again” He said, and you nodded, biting down on your lips slightly.  “So-so I had to… just once” You nodded.

“Yeah I… I’m glad you did” You said softly.  He hugged you before saying goodnight.

You would both be okay.

idk the ending makes me feel eh :/ it’s been a long couple of days so i’m sorry about this but this is for @high-functioning-fangirl02 bc of our love for parker pete

(update: the link for the dress didn’t work so here it is)

[adamderiver]

Night at Hosnian Farms

for @huxloween day 2: corn maze (3.4k, benarmie)

Of all the fall festivities he’s forced to participate in because of high school marching band, Hux thinks their night at the corn maze is his favorite. It doesn’t involve any American football, freshman welcome rallies, or screaming fans. Tonight, the only screams will be ones of fright as First Order High School Marching Band takes on Hosnian Farms’ Corn Maze of Terror.

Drum major Phasma says that the trip is all in the spirit of marching band bonding, and it’s practically tradition by now, since it’s their third consecutive year of driving an hour out of town to Hosnian Farms. Everyone in the band with a drivers’ license—even some with only learner’s permits—fills up their cars with band students and begins the long drive into the early October night.

This year, Hux is stuck riding with Mitaka. Apparently Mitaka’s nerves while playing his clarinet also extend to driving distances farther than ten miles, because his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel appears almost skeletal as he crawls along the highway at an obnoxiously slow speed.

Honestly, Hux thinks he would be a better driver, and he won’t be sixteen for another two months.

“When’s the exit?” Mitaka asks, eyes never leaving the taillights of Phasma’s Subaru.

“Not for another fifteen miles,” Hux says, flicking back to the page of his phone with the map. Since Hux sat in the passenger’s seat, he received the wonderful honor of being Mitaka’s navigator.

“Okay, just let me know when it’s coming up, I don’t want to miss it.”

Hux doesn’t deign that with a reply, choosing instead to watch the cars going in the other direction race past. It’s only eight o’clock, but it’s already dark enough to turn the oncoming headlights into stars shooting across the night.

It’s only been approximately thirty sections before Mitaka feels he must speak again. “What do you think the theme’s going to be this year? Last year it was zombies.”

“I heard that the year before that, it was clowns,” says Thanisson from the backseat. “They would crawl around on the ground and grab your ankles.”

“How would you know? You weren’t even there,” snaps Unamo. They’re both sophomores, like Hux, so neither of them would’ve been in high school for the supposed year of ankle-grabbing clowns.

“If it is clowns again, I’m leaving,” Mitaka says.

“You can’t go home; you’re our ride,” Hux points out, sighing. It’s just like all of them, to suck the fun out of even this. At least he might get to watch some of them scream.

“Right.” Mitaka bites his lip. “Hux, is the exit coming up?”

“Not for another thirteen miles.”

“Okay, just. I don’t want to miss it.”

Even after all of that, Mitaka does almost miss it, having to swing his Prius around the sharp turn in probably the most reckless driving maneuver Mitaka will ever execute in his life. It’s partially Hux’s fault, since he wasn’t paying as close attention as he should’ve been to Google Maps, and if it was anyone other than Mitaka, he’d have gotten yelled at.

Mitaka parks in the grassy field designated “Parking Graveyard” right next to Phasma, who beckons Hux over.

“Hux! Are you ready for this?” She’s practically bouncing with excitement, and that’s saying a lot, considering that Phasma is someone who never bounces.

“I suppose so,” he replies, feigning boredom by looking at his fingernails. It’s a game he and Phasma like to play, seeing who can appear to care the least about everything.

Phasma punches him on the arm, a signal to quit the game, and Hux cracks a smile.

“Everyone, let’s gather ‘round!” she says, addressing the whole band now. “It’s five dollars to get in, and then you’re free to wander the maze…at your own risk.” Phasma smiles wickedly at the underclassmen, trying to scare them.

As they all make their way down the path to the ticket stand, one of Phasma’s other friends shouts, “Seniors first!” and cuts to the front of the line of band students.

“Really?” Hux mutters to Phasma.

“Sorry, Hux,” she says, running to the front of the line. “I hear it’s more fun in the back, anyway!”

Right. If it was anything other than a haunted corn maze, Phasma would’ve stuck with him in the back with the other sophomores. She couldn’t care less about ridiculous seniority traditions.

At the front of the line, Hux pays his five dollars and joins the rest of the sophomores as they have the rules explained to them.

“Stay on the path,” a too-cheerful man with a plastic meat cleaver sticking out of his chest tells them. “Don’t touch our actors and they won’t touch you. And I know there’s gonna be a lot of things jumping out at you, but please try to keep the language clean. There are kids here. Hmmm…what else, what else.” The man pauses, stroking the handle of his meat cleaver. “Oh, yeah! This year’s theme is Butcher Shop Massacre! So should I say, ‘bon appetite!’” He sweeps his arm over the entrance to the maze before backing away into the corn.

The people in front of Hux surge ahead, eager to get spooked by the “actors,” but Hux hangs back. It’ll be more scary if he’s not surrounded by squealing flute players. At the first junction of the maze, the large group decides to take a right. Hux makes sure to take a left, and then he’s alone in the corn maze.

With the floodlights of the parking section fading behind him, Hux is soon enclosed by the corn. The path is only wide enough for maybe two people to walk side-by-side, and the stalks of corn are tall enough to make Hux feel like an ant crawling through a grassy field. The stalks look nearly gray in the darkness, more similar to something from an alien planet than anything more earthly. The October air is just sharp enough for Hux to leave his jacket zipped, and the light of the half-moon barely illuminates the dirt path ahead of him.

Hux can still hear the shrieks and laughter from other parts of the maze, but they somehow seem far quieter than than the whispering of the wind through the stalks of corn around him. It almost seems like the night is conspiring against him, waiting to release its monsters at a moment’s notice.

A rustling sound causes Hux to stop in his tracks. Someone is preparing to jump out and scare him; he’s an easy target now that he’s alone. They’ll probably laugh if he screams, scared by whatever meat cleaver nonsense Hosnian Farms cooked up this year. No, he won’t give them the satisfaction of hearing him scream. He’ll be ready; nothing can sneak up on him.

The rustling gets louder, and Hux thinks he sees a flash of something metallic to his right. He shuffles slightly to the left, keeping his eyes trained on the corn across from him. There’s suddenly no movement. The whole field around him has gone still. Hux lets out a breath.

“Boo.”

The voice is right in Hux’s ear, so near that the person’s breath tickles his neck. Hux’s fight-or-flight instincts kick in, and before he knows it, he’s rounded on the actor and socked them right in the nose.

“Ow, what the fuck, man!”

The shadowy figure staggers out of the corn, a hand over his nose. Hux has to hold back another yelp of surprise at his appearance before he remembers that it’s all just makeup to make the actors look scarier. This man sure has gone above and beyond, with fake guts oozing out of a massive wound in his side, charred flesh decorating his shoulder, and a bloody gash bisecting his face. He takes his hands away from his nose, and Hux realizes that he’s actually younger than he originally thought. The boy is probably around his age.

“Did you not hear Poe say that you’re not allowed to touch the actors?! This is assault.” His low voice is pinched. “I could have you arrested!”

“It was a reflex!” Hux protests. He’s pretty sure that this boy is under no authority to have him arrested.

“Still! You punched me!” The boy takes off his black beanie and runs his fingers through his dark mess of hair. “And you made me break character.”

“Break character?” Hux scoffs. “This is a corn maze, not bloody Hollywood.”

“A good actor brings his best to every role,” he insists, crossing his arms. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Right.” Hux rolls his eyes. “How do you know that I won’t understand? For all you know I’m an acting student myself.”

“Please,” the boy snorts. “You’re in high school. Don’t try to pull this I-know-more-than-you bullshit on me.”

Hux sniffs, slightly offended. He always thought he looked mature for his age, passable as someone quite a few years older. Something about his bone structure, he thought. “You can’t be acting superior either, then. You can’t be older than I am.”

“Yeah, but I go to New Republic High School for the Arts,” he snaps. “So I actually know what I’m talking about.”

Hux wrinkles his nose. “Oh, you’re one of those.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” The boy crosses his arms.

“It means that you’re one of those kids whose parents told them that they’re special and sent them off to become artists and musicians, when really they should be learning how the real world works.” Hux pauses, but the other boy doesn’t interrupt him, so he continues. “Also, you all have ridiculous names better suited for hippies in the sixties than for the modern era. Or you have a normal name, like Henry or Kyle, but your parents decided to be ‘creative’ and add extra letters, or switch up the vowels.”

The boy doesn’t say anything, and Hux wonders if he caused some sort of brain trauma when he punched him. After waving his hand over the boy’s eyes, he blinks and begins to speak. “First of all, I can’t believe you just used the phrase ‘the modern era.’ Second, my name isn’t Kyl-o or some shit, it’s Ben. Ben Solo.” He holds out his hand to shake, and Hux stares at it incredulously.

Hux takes another look at their surroundings, the stalks of corn, the moon, the bloody makeup on Ben’s face, and says, “Seriously? You expect to make friends here?”

“Who says I want to make friends?” Ben growls in what could either be perceived as anger or an attempt at a sensual growl. Hux hopes it’s the former. Ben isn’t exactly his type, with his broad shoulders and the few inches of height that he has over Hux.

Well, Hux’s type also usually isn’t spilling fake guts over a tear in his black hoodie.

“Fine. I’m Hux.” Hux glances at the empty path ahead of them, trying to find a polite way to end the conversation. He suddenly remembers their marching band schedule; First Order HS is playing New Republic next Saturday. “Maybe I’ll see you at next weekend’s football game, when our schools play each other. It was nice to meet you.”

Hux is only able to take one step before Ben interrupts his departure.

“You play football?”

“No, I’m in the marching band.” Hux rolls his eyes and gestures to his thin frame. “Do you really think I have the build to be a football player?”

Ben studies him in the low light, resting his hand on his chin. “Probably not. You wouldn’t look good in all that padding, anyway.”

“Excuse me?” Hux swallows. Was he supposed to say thank you? Was that even a compliment?

Ben shrugs. “You know, you’re just. Good as is, I guess.”

“Well.” Is it awkward to exit the conversation now? Ben has certainly ruined the spooky mood for Hux.

“Well,” Ben echoes him, rubbing his hand over his lips before jerking back a step. “Shit. I’m bleeding.”

Hux looks at Ben’s face quizzically. “Isn’t that the point?”

“No, not my makeup, my nose! You punched me and now I’m bleeding!”

“Oh,” Hux says stupidly, still standing completely still as Ben hops up and down frantically, pinching the bridge of his nose. He tilts his head back, and at least Hux knows what to say now. “Don’t do that. Tilt your head forward so the blood doesn’t run down the back of your throat.”

Ben complies without complaint, tipping his head toward the ground. A couple drops of blood land softly in the dirt, and Hux almost laughs. Hosnian Farms’ haunted corn maze, now with authentic blood splatters.

“I’m gonna go find the medical tent,” Ben mumbles, taking two steps farther along the path before stopping. He looks back over his shoulder, face still marred by both his fake wound and his Hux-inflicted one. “Can you help me find the medical tent?”

Hux sighs. This was not what he signed up for when he got into Mitaka’s car an hour ago. “I suppose. Which way?”

Ben looks back and forth, considering.

“You don’t know?” Hux sighs. He’d be able to muster up some more compassion if Ben just had some damn common sense.

“Hey, gimme a break, I might be concussed.” Ben removes his hand from his nose and wipes the blood on his hoodie.

“That would explain a lot,” Hux mutters.

“It’s this way.” Ben points farther down the path, away from the entrance Hux had come from.

“Okay then.” Hux takes three steps past Ben, but before he knows it, Ben’s linking his arm through Hux’s. Hux turns his head to look pointedly at Ben, who is suddenly close enough for Hux to make out the tiny particles of makeup decorating his cheeks. He just gives Hux a half-shrug.

“I could be concussed. I could get dizzy and fall,” he says, his breath tickling Hux’s cheek. It’s very warm, especially in the cold night air, and Hux has to stop himself from leaning closer.

He always forgets how warm other people are, their breath and hands and mouths enough to set Hux on fire.

They shuffle along silently for an awkward minute, Hux dragging Ben along beside him. Hux doesn’t know why Ben’s long legs can’t keep up with his powerful strides. Maybe he just likes to be dragged.

“You can turn left here,” Ben says, tugging on Hux’s arm.

“There’s no turn here.” Hux gestures to the wall of corn to their left. For the first time, he starts to wonder if Ben really is concussed.

“I know. It’s a shortcut. C’mon.”

“A minute ago you could barely remember which way the damn thing was, and now you think you know a shortcut?!”

“Yeah, it’ll be a lot faster, trust me.” Ben tugs on Hux’s arm again, and Hux sighs and steps into the corn.

When Hux said he wanted an immersive corn maze experience, he thought he was being a bit more metaphorical.

The stalks brush Hux’s arms as he weaves through the corn after Ben, their earthy scent surrounding the two of them as the moonlight reflects off Ben’s dark hair. At this point Ben is pulling him by his hand, staying almost a full step ahead of Hux. Hux doesn’t remember when Ben laced their fingers together, and he’s almost glad it happened without his notice. Otherwise, he would’ve protested, and Ben’s hands are quite warm. They have a quality of security to them, slightly calloused and covering his own. It’s nice in a way that Hux doesn’t want to explain.

Ben leads him in a weaving pattern that Hux is sure can’t be a shortcut of any kind. They seem to be getting farther from the corn maze itself, since the shrieks and laughter of Hux’s bandmates are fading behind them. It seems to get darker with each footstep, Ben’s fake injuries looking more real by the second. It almost seems as if Hux is truly being led out into a cornfield by some kind of monster.

“We’re lost.” Hux doesn’t phrase it as a question, too preoccupied with imagining the search party stumbling upon his missing body, years later.

“No, we’re not.” Ben stops walking between two narrow rows and turns to face Hux, their linked hands hanging in the space between them.

“Then why have we stopped?”

Ben exhales. “Okay, Hux, I’m gonna level with you. We’re not lost, but we’re not headed to the medical tent either.”

“Then what…” Hux’s voice blows away with the wind that ruffles Ben’s hair around his face. His eyes are as bottomless as the night sky and as soft as velvet. “Then what…” Hux tries again.

Ben rolls his eyes to look up at the moon, takes a deep breath, steps forward, and kisses Hux.

It’s a thunderous moment, the blood pounding in Hux’s ears as he melts against Ben, Ben’s warmth, Ben’s soft lips. He tastes like cinnamon gum, as fiery as the blush crawling across Hux’s cheeks. Ben kisses Hux as if his lips can banish the chill from his bones, and the warmth blooms all the way down to Hux’s toes, bright as a bonfire.

Ben pulls away after several dizzying seconds. He stays close enough that they’re still sharing breath, noses nearly brushing.

“Um,” Ben breathes, “was that okay?”

“What the hell, Ben?” Hux whispers back, but his voice is as soft and breathy as Ben’s. “You’re supposed to ask that beforehand.”

“But that would’ve ruined the moment of spontaneity! Plus, you were totally checking me out earlier.”

Hux leans back and whacks Ben’s shoulder with his free hand, the other still twined with Ben’s. “I was not!”

“Yes, you were. The moment was right; it was romantic.”

“Romantic?” Hux repeats, looking at their surroundings. “You think stalks of corn are romantic?”

Ben rolls his eyes. “I was talking about the moonlight, not the dumb corn.”

“Still.” Hux attempts to frown at him. “The moonlight hardly makes up for the fact that you’re dressed like some kind of murder victim.”

“Uh, yeah, about that…” Ben leans in closer again. “You got some of my, uh, blood makeup on your face.”

For the first time since they broke apart, Hux notices that the bottom half of Ben’s bloody gash has been transformed into a red smear. It looks more like Ben was gnawing on Hux’s face rather than kissing it.

“Fucking hell, Ben, what am I going to tell my bandmates?” Hux pats his pockets, searching for his phone to check the damage.

“Here, I got it.” Ben licks his thumb and starts scrubbing it over the corner of Hux’s mouth.

“Stop, that’s disgusting.” Hux shoves Ben’s arm away, stepping back. He finally locates his phone in his jacket pocket and takes it out. He’s missed one message from Phasma: Where are you?? The rest of us are all through the maze and want to start driving back.

Ben frowns. “What? It’s just my spit. We were literally making out a minute ago.”

“That was hardly ‘making out,’” Hux comments as he untangles his fingers from Ben’s to text Phasma back. Be there in 5, he sends her.

“Oh, really?” Ben says, sliding closer. He places his hands on Hux’s hips. “I don’t think I’m quite clear on the difference. Can you give me a demonstration?”

“Ben, I really have to go, my friends are leaving.” Hux steps out of his embrace.

Ben’s face falls. “Oh. Was it the cheesy line? Did I push too far? I’m sorry, but everything was just going so well I thought I’d try to say something smooth—”

“Ben,” Hux interrupts. “You’re fine, but I really do have to go, so if you could show me back to the entrance to the maze…?”

“Oh. Sure.”

Ben still doesn’t move, so Hux hands him his phone. “Put your number in, and I’ll text you sometime.”

Ben grins, and Hux can’t help but smile too. His fake scar almost suits him.

By the time Hux emerges from the corn maze, Phasma looks like she’s about to send out a search party.

“Hux, what the hell, where were you?” She squints her eyes at him. “And what the fuck happened to your mouth?”

Hux reaches up a hand to touch where Ben’s makeup still stains the side of his face. “I was kissing monsters,” he says dryly.

Phasma laughs, not sure what to make of this response. “Sounds romantic.”

Hux glances up at the moon. “You know, it kind of was.”

[mechagalaxy]

Sten Hugo Hiller - 627184: Mecha Combat #984 - August 3347 King of the Mountain

(By Sten Hugo Hiller - 627184) Mountain Climbing Mecha Combat #984

Brought to you by ANN

Highlighting the August 3347 King of the Mountain

Perhaps concerned about the possibility of Toshiko`s hordes breaking out, the Gaming authorities elected to have an unlimited event this time.

I had probably done a decent figure in the 40 event, because I had been promoted from K4 to K3.

This ment that except for the special invitees, I was the lowest ranked this time. Not that it mattered much, as I aproached the arena there was a dearth of formations on my top, so unless another handful enlisted, I was guaranteed a prize.

What prize was another question. I managed to grab the lowest slope and headed back to my Squad and the struggle against the marionettes.

As the scramble aproached I was given leave to return to the arena, but it was a disheartening sight who met me. My team had been pushed to the lowest possible foothill by Russ Painter of the Suicide squad, and the opponents were all in formation.

After several tries, Roman Himmelhan`s formation had to switch place with us, and we could contemplate a return to the slopes. That was a hard task. Chris Zimmer and David Sifford from the Brotherhood of Dragons are much stronger than me, and both myeponom from Death KoolAid Addicts and Russ Painter will in general beat me at least nine times out of ten.

As Painter was active, I could only hope myeponym was not. He was an even harder nut to crack than usual, it took twenty-four tries before the shattered remains of my formation managed to displace him. Question was what to do now?

If those on the slopes was strong, Kilotone Recoil from the Brotherhood of Dragons was much stronger. At best I might get one win against him in fifty tries. But as I still had some supers, and they would become useless as soon as the event ended, why not give it some tries? Fifteen humiliating tries later the light flashed. The best I had managed was to get a glimpse of his fourth line.

On the other hand, I had gotten enough footage to tell you this events winners had been?

Div 1 328+ (21 Commanders): Dexter Berry, Warlock (16m,24s) 2: TerryCole 3: Bernard Johnson 4: Fabio Favaro 5: Jeff Haas 6: Jaime Beltran 7: Gary Muenzel 8: Claude Poirier 9: Don Davis 10: David Buchanan Div 2 -327 (16 Commanders): George Warren, Northwind Dragons (15h,54m) Div 3 -215 (11 Commanders): KiloToneRecoil, Brotherhood of Dragons (7h,34m) Div 4 -171 (16 Commanders): Leopold Hackenbush, Death Masters (19m,45s) Div 5 -142 (28 Commanders): Jelloshots Suckeddown, T.B. BlackWatch (8h,7m) Div 6 -101 (12 Commanders): Neves7again, Phoenix (1h,21m) Div 7 -78 (25 Commanders): Mike Slowenski, Steampunk Dragons (16h,48m) Div 8 -57 (14 Commanders): Stug Hill, Behemoth 2 (8m,28s) Div 9 -39 (13 Commanders): Don Rafael, *R.V.* (16h,39m) Div 10 -27 (12 Commanders): Nick Mason, *R.V. 2.0* (21m,27s) Div 11 -18 (12 Commanders): allanbrainstorm, INA Squad (3h,7m)

Total Contestants: 180 Total medals claimed: 149 (of 165 possible)

Compared to the recent 40 ton event we had an increase of five fighting formations. Not having to change formations between the raid and the tournament might explain this. But the imbalance between the tops was there still. This time a total of sixteen Bronzes from six tops ended unclaimed and were returned for resmelting.

The last half-hour saw four Golds change hands at least once, while six Golds were held for more than two hours. Was this a case of strong winners, or a case of most focusing on the raid? To get an idea, we take a look at the number of medals held for more than 30 minutes in this event:

.............Silvers......Bronzes Div 1 ....0 of 4.........7 of 10 Div 2 ....4 of 4.........8 of 10 Div 3 ....1 of 4.........4 of 6 Div 4 ....3 of 4.......10 of 10 Div 5 ....4 of 4.........9 of 10 Div 6 ....4 of 4.........7 of 7 Div 7 ....0 of 4.........7 of 10 Div 8 ....2 of 4.........4 of 9 Div 9 ....3 of 4.........7 of 8 Div 10 ..3 of 4.........4 of 7 Div 11 ..4 of 4.........7 of 7

There was action on most of the tops. The two top that had no successfull medal attacks this time was K6 and K11. On the other end of the scale we found Mount Olympus and K8 where the majority of the medals were redistributed. The rest of the tops saw verying degrees of action.

None of the Squads/Clans managed to get more than one Gold this time. The previous events winners left without a fresh Gold, and none of the unaligned Commanders managed to get a Gold either.

Upcoming event: Red Ant Blitz

Here we have an event for the lightest of Mechs. The big star here is supposed to be the Red Ant, but Commanders are allowed to use up to two other Mechs as well. Those two non-Ant Mechs can not weigh more than 15 tons each, so Anzu and WarHorse are the two legal models to chose from.

Event ends May 26 between 1430 and 1500 New York Time

[abutterflyobsession]

Doctor Who AU: Part 28

prelude/one/two/three/four/five/six/seven/eight/nine/ten/eleven/twelve/thirteen/fourteen/fifteen/sixteen/seventeen/eighteen/nineteen/twenty/twenty-one/twenty-two/twenty-three/24/25/26/27/ao3

(I apologize in advance I don’t know where this chapter came from, it was not planned, and is also not the comforting you all deserve, which IS coming I swear)

Roland woke up in a small, white-walled room.

He was slumped over a plastic table, the side of his face resting in a not inconsiderable amount of his own drool. He felt lightheaded and oddly chilled and he couldn't quite put his finger on why.

“Who knocked me out?” He asked, sitting up, pulling a crisp handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing at his face, making a discreet check of the room for witnesses to his current state.

There was no one there but the Doctor.

Also, there were no doors.

“Sunny did,” the Doctor said in answer to his question, leaning back in a folding chair, her feet on the table. She threw a paper airplane and watched it spiral to the floor, joining the rest of its un-airworthy flock in a crumpled pile. From the size of the pile it could be assumed that she had been passing quite a lot of time waiting for Roland to wake up.

“Who's Sunny?” Roland asked, refolding his handkerchief.

The Doctor folded another airplane, rolling her eyes.

“Alright. Perhaps a better question would be: where are we?”

“The end.”

“Literally or metaphorically?”

“A little of both?”

“Dearest, assuming an air of mystery doesn't suit you at all. It's just you and I here, there's no one you have to play a part for. I already know all your secrets.”

Roland brushed dust off his sleeves and reached up to restore order to his hair. His fingers found an uneven stubble where his naturally luxurious hair should have been. He slapped his hands over the top, sides, and back of his head, somehow hoping that a little searching would reveal that his hair was not gone, simply momentarily displaced.

When nothing was discovered except more stubble and loose hairs tickling the inside of his shirt collar Roland made a strangled, wheezing noise.

“I left Dawn and Sunny unsupervised,” the Doctor tapped her newest plane against her fingers, “I really should stop doing that. Anyway, she charged me with telling you that this is revenge for breaking my heart and hurting Bog. I'm also supposed to inform you that the scalping process was recorded for posterity.”

Roland wheezed, hands clutching his ravaged head.

The Doctor sent another plane to its death.

It took Roland several minutes to collect himself and speak again, gathering the tattered remains of his dignity around himself.

“This has all been unnecessarily childish, darlin'. If you would just agree to talk about your feelings like a grownup I wouldn't have to resort to such tactics as I have and you wouldn't be sulking. How are we ever going to work on rebuilding this relationship if you refuse to see that it's in danger of falling apart?”

The Doctor took her feet off the table and sat properly in her chair, looking Roland in the eye, “I've never been sure, Roland, if you are willingly this delusional or if it's an act to get on my nerves.”

Roland pursed his lips and tilted his head in consideration, “A little of both?”

The Doctor looked irritated, but continued, “It's been an effective shield for you, my guilt. Reminding me that it's my fault that you're like this, my fault you're harming innocents. Somehow you manage to play the victim.”

“Look, that home-wrecking tree is hardly an innocent! Coming between us, breaking up our marriage--”

“What about the fifteen people that died today because of your plant army?” the doctor pulled out a newspaper and tossed it on the table, “I checked the numbers. I'm still waiting to hear about the people in critical condition, but so far your score is fifteen.”

Roland shrugged one shoulder, laughing and tossing his head in a way that would have bounced his curls if he had still had them, “Ants don't notice if their lives get cut short a day or two. It's your weakness, caring about insects, not mine. I only care about that meddling shrub. Or should I? I seem to infer that my little garden party was stopped, which means the tree must have died, yes?”

“And with Bog dead I would rush back into your arms?”

“More or less, sweet-pea.”

The Doctor stood up and walked around the table to stand in front of Roland. She lifted a hand, fingers posed as if to brush across his cheek.

A smug grin spread across Roland's face, “Aw, buttercup, I'd knew you'd come around--”

The Doctor's hand darted forward, quick as a striking snake, flipped up the collar of Roland's shirt and snatched a small electronic device from where it had been pinned to the fabric.

The smile dropped off of Roland's face as the small device pulled free. An electronic shimmer clouded his features, blocky pixels and flickering lines obscuring the look of wide-eyed horror that had replaced the smile.

Roland threw himself back, knocking over the chair as he bolted to his feet and stumbled into the wall, covering his face, hiding it from the Doctor.

“Give it back!”

“You've always been so proud of your face,” the Doctor turned the gadget back and forth in the light, inspecting its circuitry, “And now you hide it from me?”

Roland gave a strained giggle, “I'm not so sure you could stomach the sight of your handiwork, buttercup! How long have you known about my . . . condition?”

“I've always known. I let you have your vanity because you had precious little else to comfort you.”

“What changed?”

“The woman who loved you . . . she died today. There wasn't much left, to be sure, but traces of her survived, in her guilt. Even some of her nobility lingered. Or maybe I was just doing a fantastic job of pretending. Then, today, you held a piece of broken glass to my sister's throat. Today your nasty little hologram told my sister the truth about me.”

“So the plot has advanced that far, then?” Roland said, face still to the wall, “I really have missed a lot!”

“You told her the truth, Roland, and the truth broke the illusion. She knew her sister was dead and I couldn't pretend otherwise, not anymore. Dawn held the memory of her sister, of her nobility. Bog believed in the story, too. The story of the lonely, noble wanderer. Now neither of them believe in her.”

“Wait, is that tree dead or not?”

“As always, Roland, you're missing the point. She's gone. Her and her guilt were the only things shielding you from . . . well, from me.”

“Oh, darlin',” Roland's attempt at a mocking laugh was ruined by the fear that made his voice wobble as he sat on the floor, head in his arms, “You've carried your guilt all this time and now you expect me to suddenly believe you forgive yourself? Just like that? Forgive yourself for dropping me back into the fires of Gallifrey to die?”

“The woman I was grieved over the man you were. But when I realized that woman was dead I also realized that the man she loved is dead too. You wore his face to torment me, but you aren't him. He would never do what you've done.”

“I wouldn't have done any of those things if you hadn't left me behind to die!” Roland shot to his feet, springing forward to shove his face just inches short of the Doctor's, “If you hadn't then this would never have happened!”

Black chasms had been slashed into Roland's skin, the tears revealing neither blood nor bone, but a glimpse into the stormy time vortex. Black was eating at the edges of the slashes, pulling and twisting Roland's face until it hardly looked like it belonged to a Time Lord.

The Doctor had flown from the closing timelock, leaving her home and her family behind to die. Only Dawn, her timeloop chamber relocated to the TARDIS, was saved. But somehow Roland followed them, hitched a makeshift escape pod to the TARDIS, dragging them all back down to the planet. Half phased into the vortex, unable to fully shift, the TARDIS would have been torn apart.

Except that the Doctor cut the cord.

Sent Roland falling, caught in time, outside time, being torn to pieces as he fell.

Yet, somehow, he survived. Patched together with a crack in time tearing him up from the inside. It would have ripped apart the world around him if he hadn't created a shield to contain it. A shield fashioned to look like his old face, to keep him in the shape of a Time Lord and prevent him from slipping fully into the vortex.

The Doctor looked into Roland's face, her expression hard and unforgiving.

“I like to think,” she said evenly, “that the man I married would have cut the cord himself to save his wife and sister. Now, there's something I have to do. I wish I could say I was doing it out of nobility, for the sake of all the people who had died as collateral damage of your insane schemes. But it's really because I am angry. So very angry.”

The Doctor's face was hard and white, her eyes black with anger. She raise a hand and snapped her fingers, one white wall rolling away at the sound. Outside a storm raged, a storm of time, a roiling mass of past, present, and future.

“You should have been torn apart in the vortex, Roland, except that you froze that moment to keep the shreds of yourself intact. But that moment wants to happen, needs to happen.”

“No . . .” Roland fled to the other side of the room, pressing himself into a corner, as far from the storm as possible, “No, you won't! You can't! You would never--”

“The woman who would never . . . I told you. She died today. She would never do this, but I will.”

She snapped her fingers and another wall slid away.

“You—you can't do this!” the rips in Roland's faces were growing, ripping not only through his face but through the air in front of him, “If you do this I win! That's right, you'll be no better than me! You're the hero, I'm the villain—that's the game we play! I'll win! The hero will fall and I'll win!”

Another snap of the Doctor's fingers banished the remaining walls. The table and chairs slid off the platform and were sucked into the cold storm. The paper airplanes finally took flight, the small white flock gliding into the flickering dark.

“Congratulations,” the Doctor said, opening a door that hadn't been there before, the blue shape of the TARDIS appearing on the platform. She stepped inside, the platform sliding away just as her foot left it. There wasn't much left of Roland except his eyes, allowing the Doctor to look him in the face as she turned and said, “You win.”

The TARDIS doors shut and the bubble the Doctor had extended around it collapsed, the platform breaking up. By the time the last pieces of it vanished into the vortex Roland was completely gone.

Dawn and Sunny looked up when the gallery door opened to admit the Doctor.

“Sh!” Dawn raised a finger to her lips, “Boggy is still updating!”

A block had been raised by the wall into a bed-like shape and Bog was laying on it, asleep, Crackers curled up on his chest. Dawn had thoughtfully tucked a blanket over him.

As Bog had calmed down his awareness of his connection to the primrose had sharpened and he had found the constant stream of information disconcerting. It was controlled, but he said he found it weird to know so much information off-hand about his mother's genetic code. Dawn and the Doctor had helped him work out a way to wall all that out and make a few other adjustments to the system since it was still a bit scrambled from the recent changes.

The updates took a lot of processing power and Bog had fallen asleep without the primrose automatically stabilizing his body. Once the updates were complete that would resume but in the meantime Bog enjoyed a well-deserved nap.

The Doctor had taken the opportunity to “take care of a few things”, which Dawn found suspicious but did not challenge. Upon her sister's return Dawn asked, “You took awhile, everything okay?”

“Roland got loose.”

“What?! How—we need to find him!”

“I followed him. He . . . disappeared.”

“Oh! Before I got to see his reaction to his new haircut!” Dawn stamped her foot, then remembered Bog was asleep and winced. But a quick look showed that he hadn't stirred. She continued in a softer voice, “There's got to be a way to trace him!”

“Later. We have more important things to do right now.”

“I guess. Okay. Sunny, do you still have those sleep patches? We might need those later.”

“I am armed and ready,” Sunny held up the box.

Dawn gave him a thumbs up.

The Doctor kicked at the floor next to Bog's makeshift bed until a cube rose up to serve as a stool. She sat down on it, her face white with fatigue.

“Are you sure you're okay?” Dawn whispered, “Did Roland do something again?”

“Later,” the Doctor said, “I'll tell you about it later.”