#at the end of cold shoulder she’s sad sure but after this stupid human agent survived when all of her robots died

[stellar-collective]

Could you draw Roxana at the end of cold shoulder mourning the death of her robots?

our girl is trudging through the snow after getting brutally betrayed but she’s so mad she can’t even feel the cold. only one thing is certain: she’s getting revenge. her robots won’t be the only thing she’s digging a grave for tonight.

[letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked]

Words On My Skin Chapter 30

Bucky Barnes X Reader (Soulmate AU)

A/N: I guess it takes a quarantine and deadly virus for me to start writing again, huh? LOL! TAGS WILL BE REBLOGGED ON THIS EVENTUALLY! I have like... a whole year of tag requests to sort through! So... Sorry LOL

Warnings: Be gentle... I’m rusty at writing lol

Main Masterlist // WOMS Masterlist

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Y/n: I'm on my way back! Happy is driving me! I'll tell you the details when I get home! I got you a surprise! <3

Bucky: I'm in the room, doing paperwork. Steal one of Steve's granola bars for me, please and thank you and I love you.

Y/n: I'm not taking the fall again if he catches me!

Bucky: He's out with that one blonde chick we don't like.

Y/n: Ew. Why???

Bucky: Why do you think?

Y/n: Ew. She looks like she has crotch crickets. Plus she was a bitch to me last time she was here. I tried to be nice. I think she's in it for his fame... and the D.

Bucky: ...that's disgusting.

Y/n: I'm making him an appointment for an STD check.

Bucky: He's going to kill you.

Y/n: He'll thank me when his dick doesn't fall off

Bucky: He's going to make you do more cardio.

Y/n: ...Okay, yeah, I'll just let his dick fall off. LOL fuck cardio

Bucky: You seemed to enjoy last night's cardio. ;)

Y/n: That was more like naked yoga... with a happy ending! Totally different!

Bucky: We can do naked yoga anytime you want.

Y/n: I'll take naked yoga over cardio all day every day

Bucky: All day every day? ;)

Y/n: Shut up, fool. <3

---------------------------------

Placing your phone back into your purse, you stared out the window, watching the busy streets blend into trees and snow. Stupid snow. You were lost in your own head, thinking about the meeting with your parents. Which had gone... surprisingly well.

Your mother was fairly civil to you - as well as the waitstaff - and your father actually had a serious conversation with you.

It was one of the weirdest days of your life... and you lived with a bunch of superheroes.

Seeing your parents like this, after so many years of loathing, arguing, controlling... You weren't sure where your relationship stood.

Though, it was nice to gain at least a little clarification and get everything out in the open.

They'd apologized for the way they treated you in your youth, as well as the way they treated Bucky. You'd apologized for all the shit you'd said to them before you'd moved away, as well as keeping them pushed away in your adult years. The excuses your mother had for acting like a controlling robot were just... sad. She talked about how your grandmother treated her the same - if not worse. She was the way she was because she wanted you to be better than her. No wonder you've never actually met your grandparents in person. Your mother hated her parents. Almost as much as you'd hated yours... until now.

Now... You just had sympathy. Not that it excused any of the behaviors over the years, but you understood now.

It seemed as if she'd convinced herself that the way that she raised you made you the positive person that you were, today. Which was true to some extent. It was recovering from the way you were raised that made you the person you were today. You may have been comfortable with money, but money wasn't everything behind closed doors. Money didn't solve the problems that you'd dealt with in your youth. In fact, it was living the stereotype of a rich family that had caused the majority of your problems. It was the cold, brash emotions modeled by your parents that made you want to be different. The controlled diets, the need to hide emotions and compartmentalize, the forced dating, the fights, the lying, the fake public image... it was dealing with those things after you'd escaped it that made you the person you are today.

Personal growth, and all that jazz.

After the emotional bit of the dinner, you'd actually enjoyed yourself. Your parents asked you about your job, the first day you met Bucky, college, your friends, and everything else they hadn't been a part of for the last decade or so.

They told you about their trip to Paris, where your mother had tripped over a crack in the pavement and they spent half the day in the emergency room so she could get stitches. They told you about how they got their entire office to donate a large sum of money to Bucky's charity that he had been running. They told you about the day that they realized that they needed a change of scenery from California.

It was almost... normal.

If you even knew what normal was.

"Y/n?" You heard Happy's muffled voice, followed by a light tapping on the cool window. He hadn't opened the car door, because your head was leaned against it. "You ready to rock and roll?"

"You're such a dad." You giggled, grabbing your purse and leftovers as he opened the door for you, "Speaking of dads, are you going to become Peter's step-"

"I DON'T-" He paused, taking a breath through his nose and blowing it out of his mouth, "I don't want to talk about that."

"Happy and Mae, sitting in a tree..." You sang, grinning as you skipped past him, "K-I-S-S-I-N-G."

"You're such a child." He rolled his eyes, slamming your door closed and walking to the driver's door.

"You love me, anyways." You pulled open the front door to the compound, leaving Happy to bring the car over to the garage.

You removed your coat the moment you stepped into the heated building, throwing it over your arm and hiding the bag of leftovers and Bucky's surprise. Glancing around, you saw the lobby was nearly empty, save for a few agents using the lobby to cut to the other wing.

Glancing over to the front desk, a grin spread over your face as you took in the sight in front of you.

Caleb was snoring loudly, mouth hanging open, head tipped back, and his feet up on the desk. The book you'd given him for his birthday was open, resting on his stomach like he had fallen asleep reading in his chair.

"FRIDAY, can you please do me a favor and record this please?" You whispered into your watch, sneaking over to the sleeping agent. "Send it to my tablet when it's done."

You were glad you wore flats instead of heels, so your shoes made no noise against the hard floors as you snuck behind the desk. You kept out of swinging distance, grabbing a clipboard off his desk and readying yourself for whatever happened.

"CALEB, WAKE UP!" You screamed loudly, slamming the clipboard repeatedly on the desk. "CALEB, THE SKY IS FALLING!"

He let out a loud shout, limbs flailing around, and chair tipping backwards. "I WASN'T SLEEPING." The obnoxious laugh you let out made his face scrunch up in confusion from the floor, "Y/n?" He glanced around, springing up gracefully and surveying the empty lobby before sending you a glare, "Rude."

You couldn't reply, leaning against the desk and tossing the clipboard in front of him, hysterical laughter echoing through the nearly-empty lobby. "I- You- Oh- Dying." You wheezed, trying to calm your laughter before you peed yourself, wiping the tears from under your eyes, "Oh my god."

"I'm glad my fear brings you such joy, you awful human being." Caleb grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair, "I hate you so much right now."

"I brought you dessert." You replied, finally able to pull your shit together, grabbing a box out of the big bag you were carrying. "It's chocolate and peanut butter cheesecake."

"I hate you less, now. You are forgiven." He lunged forward, a large smile on his face. "Gimme', gimme', gimme'."

You handed him the box, shaking your head and glancing at your watch, "I'm beat. I'm gunna' head up."

"Your soulmate is an asshole, by the way." Caleb informed you, mouth full of cheesecake, "He kept telling me he's going to get Claire an obscene amount of slime for Christmas." He glanced up at you with narrow eyes, "I'll hurt all of you if you get her slime, or anything else with loose glitter. My kitchen table is ruined."

"I cannot confirm nor deny that we got her slime for christmas." You shouted, jogging towards the elevator. "Love youuuuu."

"Fuck youuuuu." He sang back at you, as you disappeared from sight.

"My floor, please, FRIDAY." You requested as the doors to the elevator opened and you got in, "Is Bucky in his room?"

"Yes, Ma'am." FRIDAY replied.

Leaning against the wall, you inhaled deeply through your nose - trying to dispel any weird feelings in your gut. Ever since you'd left dinner with your parents, your shoulders felt lighter... but there was a sense of unease in your belly. You'd never expected in a million years that you'd actually have a relationship with your parents where they communicated with you in a semi-healthy way.

Was this real life?

Honestly, it felt like you were in a simulation or something.

Nothing felt normal anymore.

When the lift doors opened, a wave of delicious smells hit your nose - and you followed the scent to the kitchen, calling out, "Who's cooking delicious-smelling food?"

"That'd be me." Sam called, head in the fridge as he searched for something in the back, "Where the fuck did my strawberries go?"

"That'd be your not-so-little buddy Steve." You chuckled, watching as Sam glared at the fridge before moving back to the stove in a huff. It was actually Bucky, but you weren't about to snitch on your soulmate. "What are you making?"

"God dammit." He grumbled, stirring whatever was in the giant pot, "I'm getting a mini fridge in my room. This 'sharing' business is pissing me off."

"Sam. Food."

He turned to you with a grin, "Momma Wilson's famous lasagna soup."

"They make lasagna in soup form?" You frowned, walking over to the stove to inspect, confirming the fact that he had - indeed - made soup out of lasagna ingredients. It was confirmed by the broken-up lasagna noodles floating up to the surface, and the red sauce littered with spices. God, that smelled good... "Where'd your mom come up with this, and can I have the recipe?"

"Nope. Special made by only me." He shook his head, shooing you away with the spoon. "Go away. You already ate."

There goes getting the granola bar... Sam would totally snitch.

"Save me some for later?" You stuck out your lip in a pout, giving him your best innocent face.

He rolled his eyes, turning away from you and stirring his soup, "We'll see."

You giggled, turning away and walking towards the living quarters with a pep in your step, "I appreciate you."

"Yeah, yeah." You heard him grumble, "Since you do my paperwork..."

"And I do a fabulous job!" You called in sing-song, rounding the corner into the hallway and feeling giddy about bringing Bucky his surprise.

He'd been talking about how he'd been craving French Silk Pie, and you just so happened to spot a few slices left at the restaurant. The manager had recognized you from the photo of you and Bucky at the sushi restaurant and seeing you in that interview, and had offered to slip in a few extra slices of pie for next to nothing... so you'd taken a page from Bucky's book and tipped the staff an obscene amount.

Bucky was going to shit when he saw how many pieces of pie you were coming back with.

"FRIDAY can you unlock the door for me, please?" You called out quietly, listening to the door click as it unlocked. "Thank you." As you pushed open the door, you spotted your handsome soulmate sitting at his desk, sharpening a knife carefully. "You planning on murdering me with that, or what?"

"Ha-Ha. Very funny." He deadpanned, eyes trained on the knife as he examined it, "If I was going to murder you, stabbing you to death would be too messy."

"Comforting." You chuckled, shutting the door behind you and hanging your coat on the back of the door and laying the plastic bag full of food on his bed. You reached behind you to unzip your dress, heading over to his closet to grab a shirt to lounge around in. "I buy you a delicious treat, and you plot my murder."

"If it makes you feel better, I'm also looking at files for the new recruits." He replied, voice sounding really far away. "Jennings looks promising."

You frowned, pulling his shirt over your head. Trying to feel him out through the bond. He seemed... neutral. It was weird. Not upset, but also not happy. Peeking around the corner, trying to be sneaky, you watched him as he read through another recruit file flipping the knife around skillfully. He didn't look tense. He also didn't look like he was concentrating on the file, either.

"Why are you staring at me?" He asked suddenly, not turning around. His hair looked messy, like he'd been running his hand through it.

"Why are you being weird?" You asked, walking over to the bed and grabbing one of the small to-go boxes out of the bag. Setting it on his desk with a plastic fork, you leaned down and wrapped your arms around him from behind - resting your chin on his shoulder. "I got you french silk pie."

He turned his head, pressing a small kiss on your bare arm. "Thanks, sweetheart."

You didn't think you could frown any further, but you were wrong.

He was totally being weird.

"Okay, okay." You moved away from him, sitting on the edge of his bed and grabbing one of the pie slices. "What's wrong with you? What are you hiding from me? You're too... neutral."

"Nothing's wrong with me." He replied, not turning around. "I'm not hiding anything."

Bullshit!

"Lies." You sang out, digging into your piece of pie. "Can't bullshit a bullshitter. Especially when she's connected to you emotionally through a magical soulmate bond." You shoved a bite into your mouth, realizing that you'd grabbed one of the apple pie slices. A pang of annoyance nudged you in the chest, and you rolled your eyes, "You can be annoyed all you want, but that's not telling me what's up with you."

He sighed, leaning his head back for a moment, before spinning around in his chair and giving you a look of annoyance. "If I tell you, will you let up?"

"Maybe." You smirked, taking another bite of pie.

"I..." He looked down, picking at one of the plates in his hand - a nervous tick. "I talked to Tony, today."

Oh.

Oh shit.

You hoped it was a productive conversation. It had to have been, if Bucky wasn't upset. Then again, he was attempting to hide his feelings from you. Maybe it wasn't, and he didn't want to tell you?

You set your dessert down on the bed, leaning forward in interest, "And...?"

"He..." Bucky cleared his throat, not looking at you. "He wants to have us see Dr. Collins." He finally looked up at you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Together."

You smiled, relief washing through you. This was good. If they saw Dr. Collins together, they might get to the root of their issues in a positive way that didn't include destroying the building... one can hope.

So why did Bucky look like someone pissed in his coffee?

"This is good, right?" You asked, confused. "Progress?"

"Yeah." He mumbled, looking back down at the dark, metal plates in his hand. "I guess."

"But...?"

"But-" His leg started bouncing up and down, and you could feel the nervous energy outside of the bond. "I'm a little... afraid about..." He sighed, shaking his head and closing his beautiful blue eyes, "I don't know. Doing all this-" He seemed to be struggling for the right words. "-opening up."

You nodded along as he paused, waiting for him to continue.

"What if... what if he still hates me in the end?" He rushed out, leg still bouncing. "I'm just... I'm so sick of people hating me for something I did when I was... him." He stood up, beginning to pace back and forth, and you had a feeling that he was about to explode. "I'm trying so hard. SO HARD. I..." He stopped, rubbing his hands over his face in frustration. "I just... I hate what he did. I hate this. I don't want to go through all of this just for Tony to still hate me in the end."

He sat back down in his chair, hand running through his growing hair and leaning his elbows on his knees, "I'm just... I don't like this nervous feeling. That's why I was trying to hide my feelings. Because... I don't want to feel them." He looks back up at you, blue eyes full of sadness that hurt your heart. "Sometimes I feel like it's easier being him. He doesn't feel anything, and I barely remember half the shit he did."

"Bucky..." You sighed, standing up and moving to sit on his lap, wrapping your arms around his middle and leaning the side of your head against his shoulder. "It's understandable that you don't want to feel the hard feelings. They suck ass." He snorted at your words, arms wrapping around you, but you kept going, "But you're human. Even if you're a supersoldier with some crazy serum running through your veins, you're human. Feelings make you human. Feelings make you Bucky, instead of him." You looked up at him, as his arms tightened around you. "I'm not going to pretend I'm Dr. Collins and say something irritatingly profound, but... I think you know exactly what Dr. Collins would say."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." He sighed, pressing his face into the top of your head - warm breath sending a shiver down your spine. "He's annoying."

"He may be annoying, but he knows what's up." You chuckled, turning your head so you were looking into his icy eyes, "You know I love you, right?"

"Yeah, I know." He smiled, crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes, "I love you, too."

Shifting around, you moved so your arms were wrapped around his shoulders and your face was level with his, "I brought you french silk pie."

"You spoil me." He grinned, arms around your middle, "How'd your dinner with your parents go?"

You grimaced, rolling your eyes, "It was weird. It kind of feels like those two hours were a dream. I don't believe that my parents actually had a real conversation with me." He raised an eyebrow at you and you huffed out a sigh, "Yeah. Yeah. I'm happy. I'm glad that we can finally talk, but... it's just weird. I don't really know how to process it."

"Finally going to be one big, happy family, huh?" He laughed, poking you in the side. "Like The Brady Bunch?"

"First of all, when the hell did you have time to watch The Brady Bunch without me?" You narrowed your eyes at him, raising a brow in question, "Second of all, there's only three of us."

"I didn't watch it," He rolled his eyes, shaking his head at you before standing and setting you on the bed, turning around and grabbing his container of pie, "I read about it."

"STOP DOING THAT!!" You whined in annoyance, throwing a chunk of your apple pie at him. Oh my god, if he kept fucking doing that... "You need to actually watch these things! Stop reading the plot on Wikipedia! It's not the same!"

"I read faster than I watch!" He took a huge bite of his pie, crumbs falling onto the floor. "I can read the plot in a fourth of the time it would take to watch the whole thing." After another obnoxiously large bite of his pie, he set the container back on the desk, moving towards the bed, "If I try and catch up on all the shows and movies I missed over the last century, I'll be biologically ninety before I'm caught up."

As he moved the bag of containers to the floor, you held the slice of apple pie closer to your chest, "I'm not sharing my pie." You took another bite of the sweet pie, the taste of cinnamon on your tongue. He kept moving closer, and you turned your body away from him holding the pie away from him, "NO! You can't have my pie! You have your own!"

"If you don't put it on the nightstand it's going to be in the bed." He warned, an evil look in his eye. "I'm giving you three seconds."

You yelped, attempting to scarf down the obscenely large and sweet piece of pie as fast as you could.

"Three."

You scrambled away from him, but his arm wrapped around your middle as you continued to shovel the food in your face.

"Two."

"NO!!! I'm TRYING!" You giggled, tossing the fork onto the floor, but unable to reach the nightstand with the container full of whipped cream and a large chunk of pie still sticking in the container. You shrieked out a laugh as he tackled you into the bed, the slice of pie completely smearing all over your face and hair. "BUCKY!!"

"One."

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Part 31 ...coming soon to a Tumblr near you.

[blubberingmess]

[Little guy: Peach] *Bucky's view pt1*

Pairing: Bucky/Chibi!Bucky x male!reader

Continuation for [Little guy: Bubba]

Note: a few changes in Bucky's tactical gear.

[1930s!Bucky]

'Happy 18th birthday!'

      Bucky is practically shaking with excitement as he stares down at the cake in front of him, his smile so wide he could almost feel his cheeks rip. But the cake nor the presents he got was not the reason for why he was excited, no, it's so much more than that. He finally turned eighteen which means there's a high chance his soon-to-be chibi would appear, ready to shower him with affection and love just like his soulmate would - or hope they would.

But alas, day became night and there's still no chibi in sight.

"Don't worry, Bucky. She will come out eventually, just you wait." Bucky heard Steve said from beside him, placing a cold and thin yet comforting hand on his shoulder. He can't help but feel envious as he watched his friend pat the small female chibi on his lap, cooing up at him like a love-sick puppy.

"Yeah she will," Bucky puts on a boyish grin and puffs his chest out as he spoke with certainty. "And when she does, she'll the most prettiest chibi in the whole world."

And wait he did; his 20th birthday became 27th. At the same time as Bucky's getting older, the single flame of hope inside of him is getting weaker and weaker as the years gone by. The thought of himself not actually having a soulmate or her dying at such a young age is like a sharp stab in the chest; like of ice-cold water pouring down on that small flame until it was only a mere burn inside his chest, a scar to remind him of the sad, sad reality he's living in.

"Wanna come with us, Jamie-boy? Our last day in Brooklyn. Don'tcha think we deserve a little bit of fun, if y'know what I mean?" One of his so-called friends Karl nudged him on his side playfully, a mischievous grin on his face as he spoke.

Bucky eyes flickered at the small female chibi on the table that belongs to Karl, putting on a fake, tight smile despite him clenching his jaw in irritation for saying such things in front of his chibi.

"Nah, I don't think I can right now. You guys go ahead without me," declined Bucky.

Karl shrugs his shoulders, not really caring if Bucky comes or not. "Suit yourself. Hey fellas! Let's go!" The brunette was shocked and angered as he watched Karl harshly grabs the chibi from the table making it squeak in pain before walking away with his small group of friends, with their own chibis on their shoulders.

Bucky wanted to stop him, he really do, but he doesn't have the right to do such thing no matter how the person deserves a good punching.

Why haven't they said anything about Bucky not having his own chibi by his side? It's because he lied, saying he doesn't like to carry his chibi around and all that. How can he say the truth? Even himself doesn't know the truth! Does he or does he not have a soulmate? He's pushing thirty for Pete's sake!

Bucky's gaze is down as he propped his elbow in the table, sighing to himself before averting his eyes back up. Blue eyes danced around the bar, fiddling with the shot of whiskey in hand. Regardless of knowing how fruitless his searching was everyday, he can't stop no matter how hard he tried to - like it's now in his instinct to look around, to search for the small being that would lead him towards his supposedly other half.

Leaning his head back, he downed the whiskey in hand before slamming it onto the table a bit harder than intended, causing eyes to turn towards him. Bucky doesn't care, there's so much thoughts running around in his head to do so, tossing a few coins on the table before heading out of the bar to find his best and only friend Steve Rogers.

[Winter Soldier!Bucky]

The cold brittle December night and the harsh falling of snow from above barely made the winter soldier flinch as he crouches on top of the rooftop, aiming his sniper rifle at his target. His breathing is steady as well as his heart, like he isn't just about to kill one of the people who crossed Hydra.

3

He steadied his aim, locking at the target's head.

2

His index finger pushed the trigger just the slightest in a thrillingly slow--

Squeak!

His eyes narrowed at the sound, leaning his head back to look around his surroundings, ready to pull out his gun from its holster. He found nothing but snow and the fresh corpse of one of the guard at the center, he focuses his attention back on the scope and almost jumps in surprise.

Blocking his scope is a small almost human looking thing, curiously looking through the glass, tapping it a few times before grunting. The winter soldier immediately knew it was a male from the way he looks and sound, watching him waddles a few step back.

The chibi tilts his head to the side and unconsciously, Soldier tilted his head as well before registering what he had done a second later, shaking his head with a scowl. Bucky grabs the chibi with his calloused yet surprisingly gentle hand, and carefully placing him on the black case next to him before focusing back on his mission.

Fuck. The target moved away from the window, but it's nothing the Winter Soldier can't fix. With a small turn of the rifle to the left and a single pull of the trigger with no hint of hesitancy, the target fell down to the marbled floor, immediately causing the guests and securities to panic and run around like some headless chickens - pathetic.

The soldier straightens his back and turn his whole body to face the chibi who just casually continues to stares up at him with curious look on his face, once again, tilting his head to the side. Without a second thought, he lifts the chibi but now with his metal hand instead and started packing the sniper rifle in the case.

"Good job, Soldier. We'll be waiting for you." A familiar voice said from his earpiece before it goes static to silent.

The soldier for once didn't heard what has been said in his ear for all his attention is now on the chibi in his hand, face squished up at his grip but seemingly comfortable as it closes his eyes and sighs in content. The sight made his cold, steady heart skips a beat.

He's not stupid, he knows what chibis are and what their purpose is, and he don't like it. Anger surely bubbles up inside him and he don't know why, looking at the little thing makes him want to punch a nearby wall all while simultaneously wanting to just sit down and bask in the affection the chibi is currently giving him - peppering little kisses on his metal hand, like he's trying to comfort him.

The soldier closed his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh before grabbing the black case from the ground.

Having the chibi around isn't as irritating as he first thought it would.

He was apprehensive at first, the idea of having someone out there waiting for him; a cold-blooded murderer. The asset did not paid attention to the chibi whatsoever for a few days, only sharing his disgusting food with him; stale bread and just as unflavored mash potato, or some MRE food pack. To his surprise and relief, the chibi doesn't complain and would accept the food gratefully.

The winter soldier slowly warms up, letting the little guy in his very, very small, one person 'personal bubble'. He started to actually enjoy the little guy's affectionate actions and kisses, instead of pushing him away every time.

He once left the chibi alone to train one day, which caused to one of the agents almost finding out about while doing a quick survey of his room.

He never left the chibi's side since then.

The soldier isn't that heartless-- well, not much to the chibi-- for he is still... practicing, learning how to be gentle. Who could blame him? he once made the little guy cry, and truth to be told, he did not like it one bit.

He also found out that he likes-- loves peaches after leaving him on a unguarded stall that sells peaches because the mission is too dangerous, only coming back to him snoring on top of one with his tummy all big and full with four peach cores around him - thus the reason why he called him 'Peach'.

He cannot recall how many times he would wake up from a nightmare he couldn't remember at such ungodly hour with Peach crawling up to his rapidly rising and falling chest, patting his cheek and giving him a kiss on the forehead. Remembering all the night when he would just cry, letting out his frustration, anger, and confusion while holding Peach close to his chest.

The little guy don't talk, isn't that helpful, squeaky and loud, everything he hates to a person (except the first one) but he would be lying if he said it didn't provide him immense comfort.

Four years had passed. The winter soldier's chibi was there when it all happened, tucked inside his vest made from kevlar where no one could notice, not even Hydra which was quite shocking. A makeshift pocket the soldier himself sewn after stealing a small sewing kit from one of his previous mission, prickling his flesh fingers a few times. Reason why he started to clipped on his vest a bit loosely than how he normally does to avoid Peach getting squished or suffocate to death.

"You're my mission." Bucky roared as he throw a powerful punch after punch while the blonde kept his hands hanging off to the side, not making a move to fight back.

"You're my mission!" He repeats.

"Then finish it." Bucky immediately stops his fist in mid-punch as Steve continues.

"Cause I'm with you to the end of the line--"

A small squeak-like grunt was suddenly heard, freezing both men. Steve watches as something-- a mop of hair-- pokes out from inside his vest. A disheveled looking Peach looks around his surroundings, sleepy eyes swinging from Bucky to Steve before letting out a yawn.

"You have a... chibi," Steve whispers in shock.

Just then another explosion happened, sending the whole helicarrier to shake as the bottom of the falls, taking Steve down with it. Bucky watching him fell down after he managed to grab hold onto of the remaining part of the helicarrier, a sense of recognition and inner-conflict within the stormy blue eyes is the sight Steve last saw before he blacked out.

That and the particular chibi tucked in his vest. What shocked him the most is the fact that the chibi is a male.

Who would've thought?

Too long, Tumblr can't take it. Next will be the last part :) more shorter.

Excuse my poorly drawn sketch. Anyways, this scene makes me laugh now that I think about it 😂😂😂

Tags for [Little guy]: @fafulous @putinovertime @daybreakmistakes

[whimsywispsblog]

Nothing More

A/N: Hello Wispies, how have y'all been? So, I finally completed my first Chrisandra (Chris x Cassandra) ficlet! It is quite short and really dramatic, but I hope you like it!

"So, how's our little Cassie doing?" Emily asked, taking a big bite off her sandwich. Chris raised an eyebrow as he took a sip of his awfully cold coffee, trying not to spit the bitter liquid.

"Who the hell is Cassie?"

"Cassandra Demitrescu, of course," Emily gave a deadpanned expression, her lips slowly curling into a smirk, making a few crumbs of bread fall off. "Your...uh...midnight tryst?"

"She's not a midnight tryst, Em. She is just an asset for the intel on the inner workings of the Village and Miranda." Chris rubbed his forehead, slightly irritated.

"Sure." Emily mused, wiping her mouth with a tissue, swallowing down a chuckle that (fortunately) did not go unnoticed by Chris.

Maybe he should have let someone younger from his squad handle the asset. Cassandra Demitrescu. Daughter of Alcina Demitrescu. A dangerous biological weapon walking freely, killing several "preys" who were just innocent ignorant people. And she dreadfully reminded him of Jessica Sherawat, a triple agent. Jessica could hardly keep her hands off him. She was really irritating and petty. She was either dumb enough not to see that he wasn't interested, or she purposefully ignored the signs. He never knew which. Of course, compared to Cassandra, Jessica was a little less annoying. And stupid. Or more like naive.

The two of them engaged in a fight just near the exit of the castle. She was strong and difficult to kill, especially with the mutated insects. But Chris was able to keep up with her games until she took him over with her insects and brute strength. And just as she was about to kill Chris, Cassandra immediately dropped her sickle and rushed to grab a packet of granola that must have fallen off during their duel. Instead of killing her, Chris decided to try and get her to give him more information for a chocolate or a granola bar (Not like he could have killed her anyway. She might be a little distracted, but she could definitely overpower him easily).

A part of him felt awful about manipulating and rattling with her naivete. Still, another part of him knew that she was an uncontrollable and vicious bioweapon. They would always meet up at the Fort, past midnight on days when her mother was at the meeting. To her, it was her moment of freedom (and a chance to initiate a...ahem...a hush-hush intimacy with the handsome outsider). But Chris always tried to dissuade her approaches, at most giving her a peck on the cheek or on her hand. To Cassandra, that was enough for her. After centuries, she was being courted by a handsome gentleman. But Chris- he was stuck in a moral dilemma. Yesterday, they got the information that Miranda has indeed set her eyes on young Rose. They were in their final stages of setting up the cameras to monitor the situation before jumping to conclusions. The fortress was the last place. The squad intentionally left that for the Captain. How kind!

Just as he was ready to step out into the harsh Northern winds, the notification ring of his phone buzzed. There were only 4 contacts (besides his squad) that were never muted: Jill, Claire, Barry and Ethan. And the message was from Jill, a voice message.

"Hey, Chris! So, a little update for you. It seems Ada Wong is liked Connections. We're not sure how. Right now, we're trying to track her down, and we're calling in her little puppy, Leon. Also, I will be leaving for Paris today, there's some intel that we'd like to investigate, and Claire is there too, so hopefully, we'll get to catch up." The voice message ended with her usual goodbyes and see you soon.

Ada Wong. That one name that infuriates him (after Albert Wesker, of course). Although he did know that it was Carla's game and not Ada, after the BSAA received a drive with all the proof from an 'Anonymous Wellwisher' (AW = Ada Wong! Get it?!), he still found it difficult to not blame Ada for it. His fists clenched as he started reminiscing about the Lanshiang incident...Piers...Finn.

-

The inner wall of the fortress echoed the soft sounds of metal clanking and Chris' grunts. There was something about the frosty air and the quietness. Chris enjoyed the languid atmosphere. It was something he craved since the BSAA was formed. Maybe before that. Even sleep was tormenting- somehow, he could hear the snarl of the BOWs, and sometimes he could even feel the icky touch of the creatures. The smell- good lord. That sickening smell haunted him to no end. It was there in everything- even in his favourite burger and fries. But this day, there was something different about it. Or maybe he needed this- some time away from BSAA, away from civilisation and his mission. Just rejuvenate with nature's kisses. The wintery smell and the icy air was just perfect IF...If the sounds of the gravel crunching as someone walked- no, not walked, instead hopped towards him wasn't there. He knew exactly who it was- Cassandra Demitrescu.

"Chris! What are you doing here?" The girl giggled as she buried her face in Chris's shoulder, enjoying the feeling of the harsh fabric on her skin and his scent, of course. Chris gave a soft smile, patting her head a few times. It was only then that Cassandra noticed his gear. "Why are you wearing that funny thing? Are you going on a killing spree?" She giggled once more.

"No. I was just out on a walk before leaving for home."

"Will you come back?" Cassandra asked with her puppy dog eyes.

"Probably. Soon." He smiled.

"Will you stay then? When you come back?"

Chris shook his head with a neutral expression while Cassandra looked down sadly. Her sad face increased Chris' guilt. Ever since he and Cassandra started talking, he learned many things about her. One of the most important: She just wanted a normal life. A human life. Not in the castle, not with her sisters and mother, not in the Village. She wanted to experience a normal human life, and she got it from her time with Chris. It was short, yes, but to her, it was an adventure of a lifetime. A wish fulfilled, but at a terrible cost of having her trust and heart broken eventually. In this situation, he was the heartless monster, and she was an innocent girl who knew nothing outside of her castle.

"So...this is where it all ends?" Cassandra asked, her voice soft and low. Chris placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently.

"Yes. But I am glad to have had spent some time with you, Cassandra." He meant it. He truly did. As much as he could feel his inner voice breaking and howling, there wasn't any other way. Or the only other way was killing her, which Chris did not want to do. She didn't deserve that kind of heartbreak. Not today.

"Then...If you did like it, why don't you stay? I can talk to Mother-"

"I have a job and family back home. I am sorry."

"Bring them here! Stay here!"

"I cannot, Cassandra. I have other commitments." Cassandra's eyes teared up as her lips quivered uncontrollably.

"More important than me?" She whispered, pulling her hood back on. Chris nodded softly, whispering, 'Yes'.

"Maybe I shouldn't have met you," Cassandra said, clutching her dress. "Bela was right. Look at me. I was a fool to believe that this would..." She looked up at Chris, the tears trailing down her cheeks. Chris tried to wipe off the tears, but the girl pushed his hand away, turning her face away. "Just go, Chris."

"I am sorry, Cassandra."

"I don't want your apology." She said finally, bursting into a swarm of flies, flying away from the place. Chris stayed alone in the empty corridor, replaying the moment in his head. Cassandra's tears.

"Damn, Captain, you just broke her heart!" Lobo chuckled, unaware of Chris' growing sorrow.

"Yeah." That was all he said, and that was enough for Lobo to get the hint that his Captain had been, unfortunately, emotionally compromised by their enemy.

Little did Cassandra know that not only was that her last time meeting Chris, but it was her last week alive. Chris knew that she needed to be killed, and she knew that whatever was said and done, Chris cannot stay here in the Village because, unlike for her, this wasn't his home. But that never stopped her sad tears from falling, her soft gasps turning into audible whimpers and mewls, as she held the chocolate wrappers that Chris had given her close to her chest.

Her sobs got louder and louder as she collapsed onto her bed, crying harder and harder. Cassandra could have killed him then and there. She was powerful, and she knew it. She could take down Chris without much trouble. Or maybe even force him to live with her and abandon his home. But Cassandra loved him. Or maybe cared for him too much. She really did. And that is why she chose to let him go.

In a way, Chris, too, let her go. He could have taken her and given her the 'human life' she craved for. But knowing the BSAA, they would first imprison her. Then run several tormenting experiments on her, as if she hadn't lived through enough already. She would have been used as a weapon, and they'd make her do all the dirty work. And lastly, she'd be killed off once her purpose is served. It wasn't worth it, and that would have made her more miserable. In this, atleast she is at home. She has a family. Her death is inevitable, but she wouldn't die alone or in some unknown lands. And she was his mission. Nothing more.

"Nothing more," He muttered, walking towards the safehouse.

[fabricated-misslieness]

Reaper x male reader

Breaking the rules just to see each other again. 

Challenge (day 2: breaking the rules)

Requested: No

Word Count: 1,014

Warnings: STRAIGHT ANGST 

Against all his common sense, (y/n) risked it all just to see his husband again. He’d always doubted his death, the man wouldn’t go down that easy. In fact, there wasn’t even a body to collect.

He had no body to bury, no ashes to mourn, nothing to remember him by. His entire life was inside those Swiss Headquarters, all the pictures and his memories inside that place.

Childhood seemed so far away, everybody close to him seemed nonexistent now.

He was alone, no child to raise and no will to continue.

That didn’t mean he didn’t want to live. He was going to live, for him, for Gabriel.

If he was truly dead, then the least he could do was live and survive, remembering him every step of the way.

So when he got an ominous offer to see him again, even after the Overwatch Recall, he had to see him again.

Of course, it seemed sketchy, even smelling a little off, but he had nothing else to remember his husband by.

So at lights out, he left, sneaking out to the meeting area with a weapon to protect himself.

It was weird that the area was fairly close to the headquarters, but if he got to see him again.. It was worth it.

He leaned against the railing at the meeting area, a rooftop in the city nearby.

He had his eyes shut, sighing and shaking his head. Why did he even come? It could all be a ploy by Talon to kill a valuable New Overwatch agent.

He was stupid, so stupid.

But he couldn’t go back now. He’d gotten so far.

When he opened his eyes back up a cloaked figure stood before him, shotguns in their holsters at his sides, shotgun shells on their chest and belts, and a mask on their face. He hadn’t heard their footsteps at all.

They looked strong and ready to kill, but passive. They couldn’t have been an assassin, although he was quiet enough for one, shotguns were a loud weapon. Their hands weren’t on their shotguns, they hung by his sides.

“Who are you? Where’s Reyes?”

Although he didn’t go by Reyes anymore, he went by his own last name, but he insisted on calling him Reyes, as he used to in the old days.

The figure walked silently to lean on the rails beside him.

(y/n) didn’t budge to show how unafraid he was. It was a battle of courage as he narrowed his eyes at where the figure’s, if human, eyes would be.

“He’s right here.” The voice that came from the stranger was husky, deep, and raspy. The tone matched Gabriel’s, but this man sounded like he’d gone through one hundred packs of cigarettes.

The figure took off his mask, revealing Gabriel’s familiar face.

Tears pricked the corner of (y/n)’s eyes immediately. His husband’s scarred face held even more scars, and dark purple smoke whirled around him. His eyes were a different color, and his curls were reduced to nothing more than a short length.

No tears slid down Gabriel’s face, nor did they prick the corners of his eyes, but he still felt the same sadness.

They embraced, the Overwatch agent sniffling into Gabriel’s shoulder.

“It’s okay, mi amor. I’m here.” Gabriel whispered as soothingly as his raspy voice could.

“Gabriel, I--”

“I know, amor, I know.”

When the sobbing was controlled and a few mere tears rolled down his cheek, the rest drying, (y/n) looked back up at his husband's face.

He cupped it in his hands, running his hands along the skin of his cheeks and feeling the rough and scarred skin. “Mi amor…” (y/n) whispered, touching one of the wisps of smoke around his face. “What have they done to you?”

“You remember Moira’s experiments? Well, after Overwatch was done, we both… We both joined Talon.” Gabriel expected (y/n) to lash out or push him away, but instead, his love just nodded.

A wave of relief washed over him as he continued. “And she did her experiments on me again, now that she wasn’t bound by the law.”

(y/n) frowned, watching the smoke wrap around his finger as if it were looking for something to cling to. It didn’t feel like anything was touching him, except his finger was cooler than if it weren’t touching it.

“I’m sure you know I joined Overwatch again.”

Gabriel nodded, when he heard of the news reality had struck him hard.

Of course his husband would have answered the recall, he was always a hard worker set on doing the right thing.

“Ay, mi amor..”

They leaned in to share a tender kiss. Gabriel’s lips were as rough as his skin, but he savoured the kiss just like he would’ve five years ago.

“Te extrañaba, cariño.” Gabriel whispered as they pulled apart.

“Me too, Gabriel.” (y/n) replied, tears rolled down his cheeks again, salty tears that were kissed away with love from his husband.

They embraced in the moonlight, nothing about what they were going to do now in their heads, just the moment together and each other. It was all the time they had and all the time they needed.

Gabriel felt warmth again after all these years, while (y/n) felt the cold.

However, it didn’t affect him, he was remembering all their good memories together again. All the ones he’d forgotten from all the grief and the mourning and the loss.

They were fond of the memories, but they both knew they couldn’t live that way ever again. Those days were over, and now battle was all they had.

But they couldn’t sit there for hours on end, they had to speak about what they would do now. They both dreaded the talk, but knew it had to be spoken of.

They couldn’t run away from their organizations, one couldn’t join the other, there was nothing they could do except meet every time they could.

But they still thought about what they’d do, though they knew there was nothing.

There was nothing to do.

Nothing at all.

[muse-oleum]

The Flower Shop, part 3

Kingsman - Harry Hart x Fem!OC

Part 1; Part 2; Part 3; 

Hey folks! Here’s the third installment of my series. I hope you enjoy it! We’re getting into it, finally. Also, I’ve just added another prompt list that you can find here, go give me some inspiration!

Word count: 1.7k 

Warnings: none 

The camelias shivered in the evening wind. By their place on the windowsill, they overlooked the entire room, with its large bed, desk and the man sitting there. 

Harry’s books and notebooks had all been lost when his house was bombed to the ground, so he’d had to start again. Over the course of the past few weeks, he had purchased several anthologies and was still looking for new publications on the subject of entomology. 

He missed his old notebooks, relying entirely on the scribbled pages of the battered pad he’d used during his time away. 

Harry rarely referred to his time as an amnesiac entomologist as anything else except his “time away.” He was still grappling with the strange sensation of having recovered his life but he wasn’t so sure now, after so many months wishing for freedom to go find his butterflies, which life he wanted to lead. 

Kingsman had been his home for decades, ever since he’d left the army to become a secret agent. But before that? He’d been so invested in becoming an entomologist that it almost surrounded him in a shroud of wing dust for the rest of his career. His home was full of them; his head was full of them; and his heart was full of them. 

None of his friends had ever understood his passion for the small insects. To be honest, Harry himself did not understand it fully.

His father had been very fond of gardening, and his mother never allowed him to squash any insects he found in his room. Even if it was the biggest spider in the world - at least to the eyes of a little boy - she would just pick it up in a tissue and let it free outside. He had always supposed his interest came from them. But now, looking back on how he had cleaved to his ephemeral friends, he wondered if the root for his interest did not run deeper. 

Perhaps he was fascinated by their transience? The manner in which their sense of purpose carried them to their death? He envied that. The whole of the animal kingdom, except humans, seemed to have a purpose. Harry had lost his and didn’t know how to regain it. 

Sighing, he turned off the nightstand lamp, plunging the room into darkness. Before falling asleep, he remembered his promise to Rebecca to come fix her garden shed. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. At least, he had that to look forward to tomorrow. 

Monday ----, 9 a.m

The chime of the doorbell accompanied Harry’s entrance into the flower shop. At the end of a cold February month, the sight of so many blooms was a welcome start to his day. 

“You’re an early riser!” 

Rebecca stood at her cluttered counter, snipping twigs off small branches. Harry watched, strangely fascinated, as she arranged them in an elegant bouquet. She seemed to know just where to place them. 

“It’s for a wedding,” she said, matter of factly. “Apparently, the bride is fond of forest weddings and decided to go for a woodland theme.”

“A forest wedding in February? Good luck to them.”

Her singsong laugh echoed through the shop. 

“Yes, the groom seemed rather resigned, poor chap. Let me just finish with this one and then we can go look at the shed.” 

Harry followed, calling after her, “I didn’t bring any tools, I hope you’ve got something I can work with?”

Rebecca popped her head out of the shed. “Come and have a look for yourself. It’s in quite a state, but it still stands. My dad was strangely proud of that.” 

Harry fit his broad-shouldered frame inside the small shed as best he could without towering above her. Rebecca caught his eye as he attempted to squeeze himself in, chuckling slightly.

The shed was small, built out of wood that had begun rotting many years ago. Daylight filtered through cracks along the walls and dust shimmered in the air. In the corner, a box of tools, its bright red colour contrasting strangely with its surroundings, was waiting patiently for its next use. Rebecca had arranged a large pile of fresh wood and wooden panels next to it, probably to restore the cracked walls. 

“It’s dismal, I know, but the roof is still in a really good state so i’d hate it to collapse entirely.” 

Harry gently pushed against the walls. The wood cracked and moaned but it held. The problem was the rot, which had weakened the overall structure. 

“I’m afraid if you want it to stand for any number of years, we have to tear it down completely first. The wood is rotting. Best to rebuild entirely.” 

Rebecca nodded, biting her lips nervously. 

“I don’t want to ask you to do that, I thought it just needed a few repairs. But tearing it down and rebuilding it is a job for my brother; he loves to demolish things to rebuild them.” 

A small part of Harry’s heart - which he refused to acknowledge - rebelled at the idea. 

“Nonsense, I said I’d help and I will. We will just need a lot more wood than that.”

Wednesday, some weeks later ----, 6 pm

Dropping by Rebecca’s shop had become part of Harry’s routine. Nearly everyday after work, he’d go in, buy a few flowers and go. Every weekend, he’d drop by and work on the shed. He was grateful for the distraction it provided and, slowly, began to acknowledge that Rebecca had wormed her way into his heart. 

Harry Hart had never dared to think too much about love. The Kingsman code was explicit: no attachments, no weaknesses. Eggsy and, on occasion, Merlin, had expressed how incredibly stupid and bigoted the Gentleman Guide was but the former Arthur had been uncompromising. 

Kingsman was slowly adapting and changing, especially after Poppy’s missile catastrophe. A new Arthur had yet to be found but under the capable supervision of the older agents, amongst which Harry and Merlin, the newer recruits were coming into their own. Kingsman was still not operating at full capacity, what with the HQ and the London shop in ruins, but it was getting there. 

Exhausted, Harry shook out his umbrella outside the shop before coming in, tucking it neatly in a corner. It had been a long day: recruits to assess, Merlin to check on (he was adjusting to his wheelchair but threw a few dignified Scottish tantrums along the way) and paperwork to work through. 

The smell of freshly cut flowers greeted him and, immediately, he felt better. March had brought an early spring and the blooms were peeking shyly from under their green little sprouts. 

Harry heard a commotion in the back room and, nerves on alert, made his way slowly towards the garden. Carefully popping his head in, he saw Rebecca, on the ground, looking under the sofa and murmuring soft words of encouragement. Eventually, a small kitten emerged, sniffing her fingers curiously. He meowed a few times, noticing Harry by the door, and meowed even louder, asking for food. 

“I believe this little lad is hungry.” 

Rebecca gasped, nearly bumping her head on the sofa. 

“Harry! You scared the living daylights out of me!” 

He held his hands up, taking one step in, chuckling slightly. 

“My apologies. You looked terribly busy.” 

The shabby little cat, meanwhile, completely disinterested in the antics of those two humans, had made his way towards the kitchen, no doubt drawn to the smell of soup hanging in the air. One or two loud meows later, a large bowl full of ham and leftover meat had been placed for him by the table and he happily forgot all about everything else. 

“I found him in the street this afternoon. It was cold and he was shivering and crying, so I brought him in. He wasn’t a fan of being carried somewhere new and he hid under that couch for a solid hour before you came in.” 

“Well, he’s one lucky cat.” 

Rebecca laughed softly and shook her head, her long curls bouncing around her forehead. Harry resisted the urge to tuck one behind her ear. Tying an apron around her waist, she made her way towards the stove to check on the soup. 

Harry observed her, sleeves rolled up to reveal creamy skin, feet tapping lightly to no rhythm in particular, curls pinned up by a clip, out of the way. He felt his heart give a little tug and, unable to stop himself, took a few steps towards her. 

She didn’t seem to notice, absorbed in diagnosing what exactly was missing from the soup. The warm smell of tomatoes made Harry’s mouth water. He could tell what was missing from that distance. 

“Have you added basil?”

She looked up at him, noticing his closeness, and a pretty blush spread over her cheeks. She tasted one more spoonful before smiling broadly, dashing out of the door and back again. She came back with a shriek, shaking the droplets out of her hair. Harry couldn’t contain his smile. 

Suddenly, as she was taking off her boots, a sparkling flash of blue caught Harry’s eye. Looking more closely, he froze. There were two blue butterflies, Adonis blues, flying around her head. One settled into the mass of pinned curls, the other kept looking for a perch. 

Harry’s heart soared. how he had missed his butterflies! Their gentle movements mesmerized him and, unconsciously, he took a step forward. He didn’t notice the curious look Rebecca shot him when he reached up to touch one of the butterflies. She didn’t stop him, didn’t move, as if she knew something was happening that she couldn’t see. 

Harry felt the flutter of the butterfly’s wings on his fingers and smiled. Rebecca had never seen him smile like that before. He had never smiled happily, always offered small, sad, smiles. She wondered what it was that made him so happy tonight. 

The moment ended when their eyes met, Harry blushing furiously and taking a step back; Rebecca reaching up to touch her hair, her blush deeper than before. 

“I’m sorry, I-”

“I’ve never seen you smile like that.” 

Her tone was curious, not displeased. Harry couldn’t help but answer honestly: 

“There were butterflies around your head. Blue ones. I’ve always loved blue butterflies.” 

Rebecca frowned slightly. Butterflies? In this season? Surely that was impossible, and she would have seen them. Harry lowered his eyes to the ground, realizing how utterly mad that must have sounded. He was ready to take his leave when she said: 

“I love blue butterflies too.” 

Taglist: @justawriterinprogress; @tonystrksslut; @emilyyblackkk; the-sea-belt; @flybi91

Comment below if you want to be added to my HH taglist!

[tysonbaerrie]

say you love me (and i’ll shut the hell up)

A lovely anon requested Bennguin confessing their feelings at Jamie’s wedding. For the record, I worship at the altar of Katie Hoaldridge and while she’s only mentioned in passing their relationship obviously plays a factor here. I hope you like it, Super Specific Bennguin Nonnie! :)

Jamie’s never gotten married before. But, he thinks, it probably isn’t normal to be focused on the wellbeing of one of your groomsmen on the day of. Instead of, say, his future wife. Jamie reasons, though, that a large part of his life has revolved around Tyler Seguin for eight years, and it’s a hard habit to break. Either way, he finds himself watching his best friend as they get ready in the hotel suite set aside for them. Tyler is unnaturally subdued, only speaking when someone speaks to him directly. He smiles, but it’s small and fake and Jamie sees the tension around his eyes. He knows what Tyler looks like when he’s angry, or grumpy, and this isn’t that. This is…

This is Tyler hurting. This is Tyler in real pain. 

He feels something dark and uncomfortable swirl in the pit of his stomach as he continues to watch Tyler out of the corner of his eye. He knows the day is supposed to be about him and Katie, but Jamie is not only Tyler’s friend - he’s his captain, and his instinct is to take care of Tyler, support him, figure out what’s wrong and fix it if he can. The fact that it’s Tyler, who’s always been someone that has been a source of confusion for Jamie, makes him want to reach out even more. Given what day it is, Jamie doesn’t have the emotional bandwidth to deal with whatever that means. It’s been eight years, and Jamie’s just accepted his complicated feelings when it comes to Tyler Seguin and buried it deep down and locked it away in a box labeled “feelings: do not open.”

Still, he continues to watch as they all share a beer in Jordie’s to, as he said, “loosen up Chubbs.” Tyler participates, smiles when necessary, but he never looks at Jamie. And, really, Jamie’s used to Tyler looking at him pretty much all the time. On the ice, off the ice, Jamie is used to being generally aware of Tyler’s eyes on him. It makes his skin itch, the thought that Tyler can’t - or won’t - look at him. He wants to pull Tyler to him, draw his gaze until he has all of Tyler’s attention once again. Instead, he grows increasingly anxious as the ceremony time nears and Tyler is increasingly distant. 

At one point, Jamie catches Jordie talking quietly to Tyler in the corner of the living area. Jordie’s eyes are concerned, and Tyler refuses to look at him as they converse. Tyler’s shoulders slump before he nods and Jordie slaps a hand on his shoulder before walking away. Tyler must think that no one’s looking, because he curls into himself in a way that Jamie’s never seen. His heart breaks, and he finally waves Jordie over. 

“Hey, can you and the guys give me and Ty a minute?” He asks, and Jordie takes a breath. 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Chubbs?”

“What do you mean? Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Because, y’know, it’s your wedding day.” Jordie finally points out. “Do you think this is the best time to finally be dealing with this?”

“Dealing with what?” Jamie asks, but his stomach clenches with nerves because, apparently, Jordie knows. Jordie looks exasperated, rubbing his hand over his face and beard before rolling his eyes. 

“With the fact that you and Segs are stupid over each other.”

“We...it’s not-”

“You can’t lie to me, J. I had a front row seat to the Segs and Chubbs Show for years. But I thought you’d, I don’t know, worked it out and shit before you decided to marry someone else.”

Jamie has nothing to say to that, and Jordie only shakes his head before gathering the rest of the groomsmen and hustling them out of the suite with promises of more day drinking. 

“Not you.” Jordie tells Tyler, who looks confused but sits back down and looks anywhere but at Jamie. Once the door closest behind them, Jamie lets out a shaky breath before turning to Tyler. Tyler stares at the ground even as Jamie takes the seat across from him, waiting quietly until Tyler finally speaks. 

“I’m sorry.” He says, still not looking at Jamie. “I’m ruining your day.”

“Just tell me what’s wrong.” Jamie pushes him, and Tyler shakes his head. 

“I can’t.”

“We’ve always been able to tell each other everything.”

“Not this.” Tyler finally looks up at him, his eyes sharp and his tone cutting. “You know, not this.”

Jamie, once again, doesn’t have an answer to that. He leans his arms on his thighs, running his hand through his hair and messing up the effort he’d made earlier. 

“Ty, you know - you have to know…”

“Yeah.” Tyler’s voice is rough, and when Jamie looks up he sees tears in Tyler’s eyes. “I know. It just...wasn’t meant to be. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong profession.”

“I wish-”

“No, please. Don’t tell me you wish it was different. I’m not sure I could watch you marry someone else if…” Tyler trails off, and suddenly Jamie’s picturing a very different wedding. A wedding where Tyler’s not standing next to Jordie, but across from Jamie. Where he’s slipping a ring on Tyler’s hand instead of Katie’s. 

Katie

Katie

Suddenly, Jamie’s overcome with guilt. It’s his wedding day, the happiest day of his life, and he’s sitting here fantasizing about marrying his best friend instead of his fiancee. Katie, who’s loved and supported him through years of hockey, of injuries, who has never made him doubt her commitment to him. Katie, the person he’s marrying in an hour. 

That guilt doesn’t stop his need to know.

That guilt doesn’t stop him from reaching across the space between him and Tyler and wrapping his hand around the back of Tyler’s neck, pulling him closer until their lips crash together.

The angle is awkward, but Tyler tilts his head after a second and suddenly it’s so good that Jamie’s toes curl. He pulls again and Tyler climbs into his lap, cradling Jamie’s face in his hands as he deepens the kiss, biting at Jamie’s bottom lip until he opens up with a groan. Jamie’s hands find their way to Tyler’s curls, tugging on them and finding himself delighted when Tyler moans in response, grinding down on Jamie. It’s everything he’s denied himself for eight years and it’s everything he’s going to have to deny himself for the rest of his life. 

He pulls away, finally, and Tyler rests his head against Jame’s forehead, sharing the same air. When Tyler sighs, it’s sad and resigned and Jamie’s heart breaks for everything they’ll never have. 

“I love you.” Tyler whispers, and he pulls away before Jamie has a chance to respond. 

He walks out of the hotel room without looking back. 

Two Years Later

When the news breaks, Jamie’s not surprised when he doesn’t hear from Tyler. 

They’re teammates, lineys, but off the ice they’ve barely spoken in months. Jamie had tried to keep their friendship together, but nothing had been the same since Tyler had stood with him while he married someone else. Then, when Jamie’s marriage had started to fall apart, when he’d withdrawn from everyone and everything that wasn’t hockey, Tyler had let him go. He has a fantasy of Tyler knocking on his door once he hears the news, but then he realizes that Tyler doesn’t even know his address anymore. 

Jamie had figured that letting Katie keep their house had been the least he could do. 

The texts pour in in the hours after his agent released the statement. His mom, his sister, Klinger, Bish. He doesn’t answer any of them, but when Jordie’s face appears he answers. 

“Chubbs.” Is all Jordie says, and Jamie sighs. 

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I had to find out from fucking Twitter?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I thought you and Katie were fine. You said you were fine.”

“Well, I fucking lied.” Jamie snaps, collapsing on the couch.

“What happened?”

“I just...she wanted to start trying to have a kid and I realized…”

“Jamie?” Jordie finally asks after a long moment, his voice quiet and serious in a way that Jamie has rarely experienced. 

“I realized I couldn’t bring a child into this lie I’ve built. I couldn’t start a family when I’m in love with someone else.”

“It’s been two years. You barely speak to him.”

“Yeah.” Jamie’s laugh is dark and wet. “Yeah, and I still wake up every day loving him.”

Jordie is silent on the other end of the line, his breathing the only reason Jamie knows he hasn’t hung up. 

“Chubbs.” He finally says. “Is he the one? Like, do you feel forever about him?”

“Yeah, I do.” Jamie replies without hesitation. 

“Then go. Go now and tell him.”

“He doesn’t want me anymore.”

“Bullshit. That kid has wanted you from the moment he landed in Dallas. I swear to fuck, you two are the worst communicators I’ve ever met and you deserve each other. Go now. You’ve blown up your life, might as well get what you’ve always wanted.” And with that, Jordie hangs up. 

Jamie stares at the coffee table for a moment before his phone dings again, a text from Jordie popping up. It’s a selfie of him, Jessi, and his niece, all holding a thumbs up. 

We’re rooting for you, you disaster human.

Jamie smiles, grabs his keys, and bolts out the door. 

The drive to Tyler’s is both familiar and foreign. He hasn’t set foot in Tyler’s house since before the wedding, but it’s like his body knows exactly where to go. He grips the steering wheel and takes a few steadying breaths before climbing out of his truck. When he looks at the front door, Tyler is staring at him, arms crossed and his gaze cold. 

“What are you doing here?” He asks as Jamie approaches, and Jamie stops when he reaches the bottom of the stairs leading to Tyler’s front door. 

“I was hoping that we could talk.”

“About what?”

“Did you see the news?” Jamie asks, and confusion flits across Tyler’s face. “I...I left Katie.”

Tyler’s entire body tenses, and Jamie watches as Tyler’s face morphs from confusion to anger. 

“So, why are you here?”

“Ty, please. Can we go inside?” Tyler shakes his head, and Jamie rolls his eyes at the stubborn, dramatic ass he has chosen to love.

“Okay, fine.” Jamie sighs. “We’ll do this out here. I’m sorry, Ty. I’m sorry that I wasn’t brave enough to go after what I wanted all those years ago. I’m sorry I didn’t stop you from leaving that room the day of the wedding. Mostly, I’m sorry I haven’t told you every day since that I love you too. I never should have married Katie. I never should have married anyone that wasn’t you.” 

Jamie forces himself to look directly at Tyler, never wavering as Tyler stares down at him. This is it, the moment that will determine the course of the rest of his life. One way or another. Finally, Tyler uncrosses his arms and turns away, throwing open the front door and disappearing inside. Jamie feels his heart break in his chest, but he knew there was always a chance that he had ruined anything they may have had. He looks down, resigned, until he hears Tyler clear his throat. He’s leaning in the doorway, eyebrow raised as he stares down at Jamie. 

“Are you coming inside or not?” Tyler asks, and suddenly his grin is blinding. It’s everything Jamie’s wanted to see for the last two years, and he can’t stop himself from taking the steps two at a time until he’s in Tyler’s space. 

“I love you.” Jamie tells him, running his fingers across Tyler’s cheek. He silently vows to tell him every day, at every possible moment. 

Simply because he can.

[madpanda75]

“Cuban Affair”

Disclaimer: It has recently come to my attention that this story raised concerns about how it’s not necessarily accurate for a Cuban, such as Rafael, to actually want to visit Cuba, given the oppression that Cubans were and still are subjected to under a Communist government.

Growing up with a Puerto Rican mother who was active in educating her children about human rights, particularly in Latin America, has truly shaped the woman I am today. I have studied Latin American politics in college; visited countries such as Peru, Haiti, Uruguay, and Argentina; walked with the Madres de Plaza de Mayo; visited La Escuela de Mecanica de la Armada where 5000 men and women were detained, tortured, and killed by their government, and worked with the Latino community in rural areas of Virginia. I am embarrassed that I would write a story and get lost in the romanticism of returning to your roots without even thinking of the ramifications that may have when the country in question is still run by a Communist political party.

So when reading this story, please understand that it is purely fictional and was never meant to offend anyone and I apologize for my ignorance on the subject.

Soft music played in the background of the restaurant as Rafael drummed his fingers against the table, turning his head when he heard the door open. He sighed when it wasn’t you, checking his watch for the umpteenth time that evening. This wasn’t the first time you were running late, in fact for the past month or so it had become a bit of a habit, you had even been coming home later than usual, blaming it on work.

Suddenly, Rafael heard his phone buzz in his pocket, he quickly answered without even checking who it was. “Cariño, are you on your way. I just ordered your favorite bottle of wine.”

“Awww Rafael, you shouldn’t have.” Sonny replied. The ADA rolled his eyes upon hearing your partner’s voice on the phone rather than yours.

“Sorry, Carisi. I thought you were Y/N. Speaking of which would you mind letting my fiancé go so she can come to dinner already.”

“What are ya’ talkin’ about counselor. Y/N left work early today, something about an appointment she had to make. She didn’t tell ya?”

“No, she didn’t.” Rafael softly said.

“Oh…..well, I’m sure it slipped her mind. Anyways the reason I called is because we’re getting close to the holidays and it’s always a slow time around the precinct. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind me shadowing you on a case again.”

Sonny continued to ramble when you walked into the restaurant. Rafael barely listened to him, waving you over from the table. “Yeah, whatever Carisi. We’ll talk tomorrow.” He hung up the phone as you approached him, kissing his cheek.

“Sorry I’m late babe. I love Sonny but, my God, that boy can talk. I couldn’t get away from him.” You said, taking your seat across from Rafael.

He raised his eyebrow at you, “That’s funny...cause I just got off the phone with him. Carisi said you left work early for an appointment.”

You looked up from the menu in your hands over at your fiancé, your face turning red. “Oh….well.”  Rafael sipped his scotch, watching you squirm, he could tell you were lying. “You see….I had a doctors appointment….but I came back to work after that. “

“Sonny made it seem as if you didn’t come back to work.” The ADA said, quirking his eyebrow in suspicion.

“Well….. you know Sonny. He gets distracted. I mean the boy sees something shiny out of the corner of his eye and you’ve lost him. Anyways, let’s eat. I’m starving.” You said, quickly changing the subject as you picked up the menu again.

Rafael clenched his jaw, along with running late, you had been acting strange, always sneaking around and checking your phone. The other night you snapped at him for looking over your shoulder while you were working on your laptop. He stood there dumbfounded as you closed it quickly before storming off to the bedroom.  

The last time he had witnessed such behavior was back when he had been in a relationship with Yelina, which only ended in betrayal and heartbreak. It took a while, but Rafael had managed to open his heart to you. Your relationship was built on trust and love, he never imagined that you would be capable of cheating on him, until now. Not wanting to start a scene in the restaurant, Rafael decided to drop it and focus on his evening with you.

After dinner, the two of you made your way back home. Dropping your purse and phone on the kitchen counter, you headed towards the bathroom to take a shower. Rafael collapsed on the couch, kicking off his shoes and resting his feet on the table when he heard your phone buzzing.

The ADA stood up, moving over to the phone, the vibrations causing it to dance across the counter. Although he knew it would be a betrayal of your trust, Rafael couldn’t help himself and reached for it, two text messages popping up on your screen.

[Larry 9:02 PM]

“We’re all set for the week of December 16.”

[Larry 9:04 PM]

“You were so jumpy this afternoon. Relax, he doesn’t suspect a thing.”

Rafael’s heart dropped into his stomach, his hands began to shake, the room suddenly spinning, as beads of sweat began to form on his forehead. “This can’t be happening to me,” he thought. After Yelina had left him for Alex, Rafael promised himself that he would never be put in this situation again and yet here you were cheating on him with a man named Larry. Who has an affair with a man named Larry?!  Apparently you did.

Rafael poured himself a glass of scotch before deciding it was better to keep a sharp mind when he confronted you with your indiscretion. He threw the glass in the sink, glass shattering everywhere, running his hands through his hair, the ADA stood there waiting for you to come out of the shower.

You emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, surprised when you didn’t see your fiancé relaxing in bed. Walking down the hall, you saw him standing in the kitchen, his green eyes cold as they pierced right through you. “Raf…. everything ok?”

“Who’s Larry?” Rafael demanded.

You stood there stunned, turning redder by the minute, “I….don’t…….know who you’re talking about.”

“DON’T LIE TO ME!” Rafael boomed before taking a breath, trying to control his temper. “I saw your text messages. I know everything….I know all about Larry and the trip you’re planning in December. Did you really think you could hide this from me? How stupid do you think I am!?”

Now it was your turn to be angry at this blatant invasion of your privacy, “You read my text messages!? What the hell Rafael!”

“Oh so now you’re mad at me when you’ve been lying and sneaking around behind my back!” Your fiancé looked at you, a deep sadness settling into his frame, tears pooling in his eyes. “How could you do this to me after everything I’ve told you, after everything we’ve been through….you betray me.”

The realization that Rafael thought you were having an affair began to sink in, you stepped towards him, arms outstretched, “Raf, please let me explain.”

He shrugged you off, walking towards the door. “Don’t bother. I’m out of here.” You ran past him, almost losing your towel in the process as you blocked the door with your body. “Babe, please don’t leave. Just let me explain. Please I’m begging you! Please!”

He glared at you for a moment, rolling his eyes and moving towards the living room, sitting on the couch. “You have 5 minutes and then I’m gone.”

You ran to your bedroom, pulling a file out of your drawer before returning to the living room. Handing him the manila folder, you sat next to Rafael as he looked through the documents.

“What is this?” He asked, looking at various itineraries with a Cuban travel guide, hotel reservations, and plane tickets to Havana, one with his name on it.  “You’re planning a trip to Cuba….we’re…...going to Cuba. You and me?”

“It was supposed to be a surprise for your birthday…...so ‘Happy Birthday,’ I guess.” You softly said.

Your fiancé stared at you, a stunned look on his face. “That’s why you’ve been sneaking around.”

“Larry is an old friend of my parents, he’s a travel agent that specializes in trips to Cuba. I’ve been working with him to plan our vacation.” You explained. “We just need to make sure all of our documents, visas, and travel plans are in order before we go so he’s been helping me with that.”

“Oh my God….Y/N...we’re going to Cuba!” He shouted, jumping up and down on the couch, as if he was a kid on Christmas.

You beamed, nodding your head. In all the years you had known Rafael, you had never seen him so excited. “We’re all set for the week of December 16th. Figured it would be a nice change of pace from our traditional week of skiing in Switzerland.”

Rafael kissed you sweetly, smiling against your lips before pulling away, a somber expression on his face, “I’m so sorry I ruined your surprise, cariño and I’m sorry I thought you were having an affair.”

“Don’t apologize, I can see how you would think that but I would never cheat on you. I love you so much. You’re my world, Rafi.”

“I love you too.” Rafael cupped your face, caressing your cheek gently with his thumb. “For the record, you’re a terrible liar.” He said with a smirk.

You laughed, “I know...but it’s not easy keeping secrets from you.” Biting your bottom lip, you looked up at him through your lashes. “So…..you like your present?”

“Like it...I love it cariño.” He purred, pulling the towel away to reveal your naked form. “In fact, let me show you just how much I love my birthday present.” Rafael scooped you up into his arms, carrying you into the bedroom where he showed you just how much he loved his surprise.

A couple months later, you and Rafael were on an airplane flying into José Martí International. The ADA was beside himself with excitement, his nose practically pressed up against the window, looking out at the lush green island surrounded by deep blue water. As your plane slowly descended he could make out the colorful baroque Spanish style buildings of Havana.

He could hardly wait to explore the city that his abuela had talked about for years with such affection. If he closed his eyes, Rafael could still see the faint trace of sadness in her eyes, she had always wanted to go back, to show her grandson where he came from. “I finally made it, abuelita.” He thought to himself, holding your hand tightly as the plane’s wheels met the pavement, the sound of the engine roaring in his ears as his body was pushed back into his seat.

Suddenly the flight attendant came over the PA system, “Señoras y señores, bienvenidos al aeropuerto de José Martí Internacional. La hora local son las cuatro y 23 minutos de la tarde y la temperatura es de 27 grados centígrados.” As the flight attendant continued to speak, you looked over at Rafael, he was beaming with tears welling up in his eyes. “Cariño, I can’t believe we’re here. This is the best gift anyone has ever given me.” He said, kissing your hand. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too. Happy Birthday, mi amor.” You kissed him sweetly, before unbuckling your seatbelt, the two of you ready to embark on your Cuban adventure.

Translation: Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to José Martí International Airport. The local time is 4:23 pm and the temperature is 80 degrees.

@beltzboys2015-blog @obfuscateyummy @letty-o @sweetsummertime99 @sonnysdoll @amirightcounsellor @lyssa1385 @burningsorr0ws @katmstanton @mimiashton @gibbs274 @izzythefanfreak @southern-magnolias

[scarlettlawyer]

Part 8 of my reaction/commentary to the Phantoms & Mirages fanfic series by @renegadewangs

(Chasing Phantoms): Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

(Haunted Specters): Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

(Vanquishing Mirages): Part 7

Vanquishing Mirages, Chapter 11

“Phwwh- that’s kind of hypocritical, you know. You aren’t following your own advice either! Can’t you at least pretend to be a nice guy?” “… Like this?” He allowed a smile of his own to dawn on his face. The most genuine smile he could produce, because he knew exactly which muscles to use for it. It put an odd pressure on the corners of his mouth, on his cheeks, on his eyebrows. His features weren’t used to showing emotion and struggled against it.

Okay anyway, wow… The Phantom and Mirage flashback scenes are affecting me way more than I think they did the first time around? I’m actually getting so upset. They’re making me so sad, which they DIDN’T on 1st readthrough. Because Mirage really cares and the phantom just – arrrgh. I just want Mirage to be happy. I just want her to be happy.

I think because the first time around I’d read the phantom’s lines flatly, seeing and expecting nothing, as is the reality – with the full knowledge that him saying things like “how are you feeling?” contain no real substance. And then when Mirage would jump to interpret them positively it would just make me adore Mirage and go “aww cute!”

But this time around I’m somehow a damn fool stupidly falling for the same trap? I’m suddenly eager to read SOMETHING into what the phantom says only to be nastily swatted away, not remembering the exact contents of their conversations. So when he said “how are you feeling” this time I was like AWWW HE’S ASKING THAT MEANS SOMETHING RIGHT?! (And expecting it to be not commented on, as a nice subtle little narrative touch that he cares MAYBE A LITTLE? JUST A LITTLE? CAN WE HAVE THAT but no, we can’t.) Only to read on and find Mirage asking after just that. And getting SHOT DOWN. Ouch. I WILL SIT HERE AND FEEL A LIL SAD AND STUPID NOW. For once, Past Me had things more correct than Current Me.

“I think… maybe I’ll volunteer for a mission in America too. If the superiors will let me go.”

I think this line even caught ME on the first time around. (And moreso on this time around because I just HAPPENED to be in a sentimental state when reading it). IT’S THE ELLIPSIS. THAT DAMN ELLIPSIS. If it weren’t for that I would have read it as flatly as intended I just. HNNNNGH.

“Right, right. Then… Maybe I’ll see you later, Teach.” “Good luck, Calisto.”

Couldn’t find a picture of a crying cat to properly suit my emotions. You are spared from crying cat for now.

Then again… Perhaps she had no idea what she was doing. Perhaps desperation was driving her to reckless behavior and she could no longer apply proper logic. How shameful.

This man still sees fit to sit up on his little high horse…

He allowed the other Interpol agents to grab him and lead him from the room. At the moment, there was nothing he could do to stop Mirage. Her eyes were on him, after all. They followed him until he moved through the doorway and rounded the corner.

AAAAA

Only got eyes for you, phantom.

But bro for him to know this he was looking at her too. He has more reason to be looking at her of course. But this is just an extended few moments of them staring at each other sdkndsknldslk ~They locked eyes with each other from across the courtroom…~

Imagining this is just…!

“Whoever said anything like that? Just because I pin a murder on a guy and get him the death sentence doesn’t mean I want to kill him.”

xDDDD

I’m HOLLERING at how great this is. How WILD it sounds. You better believe I took this part of the sentence and sent it to one of my friends without context on first readthrough, it’s just too good not to

“Agent Shi-Long Lang holds the keys to my handcuffs, isn’t that right?”

[…]

“Uh… Yeah, he does. If you need more freedom to use your hands, I could go ask him to unlock them for minute.” “There’s no need. I can make do with this.”

When I read this I was SUSPICIOUS. I was like. No. He asked for a reason. He wouldn’t just dismiss it like that would he. It’s BECAUSE Lang has them that he brushes it off. He wanted to see if he could get them off Bobby without fuss. I WAS RIGHT.

A few more clicks and turns of the watch’s dials, then the Phantom halted his actions. “Bobby Fulbright, for what it’s worth coming from my mouth, I apologize.”

FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH

I APOLOGISE

!!!

Him apologising in and of itself is kinda huge though.

Bobby didn’t understand what the Phantom would need to apologize for. Not until a small needle popped out of the watch’s face. He didn’t have time to move out of the way. There wasn’t even any room to dodge in such a confined space. The watch was thrust towards him and the needle pierced two layers of fabric to touch his shoulder.  He wasn’t sure what happened next- what exactly it’d done. An electric jolt, maybe. Something strong enough to knock a person out cold instantly, because the next thing he knew, a pair of hands was shaking him back into awareness.

THIS WAS S O FUNNY TO ME BECAUSE IT WAS LIKE

THERE’S THIS BIG BUILDUP – THERE’S BEEN THIS HUGE BUILDUP RIGHT? OVER THE COURSE OF THE WHOLE LAST FIC PLUS THIS ONE SO FAR

And when the phantom is like “I need you to trust me” it feels like a poignant moment! Bobby takes the plunge! He makes that hugely important decision to place his TRUST in the phantom!

AND THEN IS IMMEDIATELY BETRAYED

And I just love it. It’s kinda hilarious. It INSTANTLY blows up in Bobby’s face.

Character development or no, huge buildup or no, the phantom is still the phantom ;D I just can’t get over this it’s such a huge moment like – if this was a TV show or whatever it would be played as a bait and switch to the best of the medium’s abilities. The music would swell. The camera would focus intimately on the phantom’s face and then Bobby’s face in turn. Bobby’s slight expression change – his expression softening - as he makes that decision to trust. To trust. And then in the blink of an eye it’s just – betrayal. AHAHAHA

Bobby’s eyes widened in shock. He whirled around to get a better look at the car. The door to the back seats was open and it was empty. The Phantom was gone. The Phantom was gone and Bobby was the one who’d given him what he’d needed to escape…!

THIS WAS ALSO SUPER HILARIOUS TO ME BECAUSE??? THE PHANTOM ESCAPING. AGAIN. I can’t believe… honest to goodness it almost felt like a running gag at this point with the sheer amount of times it had happened. As if this series is just a bunch of “the phantom escapes captivity in a series of increasingly creative and convoluted ways” ahahaha. I WAS LAUGHING

You have his initial breakout in Chasing Phantoms. You have his hospital escape, you have his escape from the human trafficking cell… and now this. It just felt like a hilarious amount of escapes and I was loving every minute of it. Like, I couldn’t even remember how many there were I just knew there’d been a LOT. Enough for me to joke to myself about it being a running gag.

Vanquishing Mirages, Chapter 12

“Now you’re just putting words in my mouth. Shame on you!~”

Was so interesting to see the actual inclusion of a tilde to demonstrate the playfulness of her tone! AND. I’m just gonna. File this away. For Later Review Post reasons. 👀

It was a shame that Bobby Fulbright hadn’t been trusted with the keys for them. It was a shame, but considering how naïve the man had been, it’d save Interpol at least some face.

OUCH!

“[…] You think Shi-Long Lang will just send you on your way as if you were a friend departing on a vacation?”

This has gotta be like my third read of this chapter and I’m only now noting it to myself but huh! That’s, I guess, surprisingly creative phrasing for him as opposed to complete flatness and directness.

She looked hesitant for a moment, then closed the distance between them. Raised her free hand to his own shackled wrists, her fingers stroking down to the skin of his lower arms. Peered up at him with innocent, pleading eyes. Just behind her, he could see Simon Blackquill’s gaze darken at the gesture. He drew away from her touch, as he’d always done.

AAAAA

Okay.

So.

Here’s what I thought was going to happen around this point when the phantom said “leave it to me” and he and Mirage started plotting: I thought that, somehow, Blackquill was going to escape/get rescued (not by the phantom) – I obviously didn’t think Simon was going to be killed. Something – some outside force was going to intervene and stop that from happening.

But I also thought that Mirage and the phantom were successfully going to escape together, even if not everything was going to go exactly to plan for them, they would escape nonetheless. I was like oh wow… oh wow… they’re gonna be able to get away (somehow)…!

And that, then the next fic (pfff reading through blind here, I didn’t know how long this fic was or how close/far I was to the end!) was going to be about the search: tracking down Mirage & the phantom, who would now be stuck cooperating, however temporarily. (I think maybe? On some level my mind knew there was a “Tracking Ghosts” fic ahead and had just skipped over “Lifting Spirits” as a title entirely and/or blurred the two together. IT’S WORTH NOTING that for the vast majority of reading through this series, I didn’t know how long it was and/or how many instalments it actually had. Going into it, I knew it was long and that there was a fair bit of separate fics, then “kinda” forgot along the way. During Haunted Specters I figured it was a trilogy. And then during this fic I thought there was only four. I was just reading through chapter by chapter after all – not taking full note of the overall picture.)

So, that’s where my mind went in those moments of reading: Mirage & the phantom escape, next fic is centred on a) our main cast’s desperate search for them and then apprehending them, (yknow the usual) and b) getting to see some awesome Mirage and phantom interactions in the process during their POV segments. AND c) the phantom still on the run and trying to function, but being forced to come to terms with his small character development that he’s managed to make up to this point. Also his trying to keep on functioning with the debilitating knowledge of his identity actually revealed now and how he copes with that too.

Of course this largely glosses over things like the phantom’s severe headaches and the fact that he wants to be put out of his misery and escape them… But these were once again temporary thoughts that flashed through my mind when in the process of reading this chapter.

And with those theories I came up with on the spot in mind,

For a… For a wild bit of time here as well, I kinda thought the series would lean right into an uh, Phantom/Mirage direction… I mean… C’mooon… It’s called Phantoms & Mirages… Partnered right there in the series title…! That alone kind of made me feel like it may be an obvious choice if you HAD to pick a… hah… pairing to go with. ‘Cause the title. I mean I wasn’t expecting anything to truly come of it perhaps, but in terms of taking that direction, what I mean is purely in terms of subtext and shiptease that would stay underneath the surface. That would be clear as day to the audience, but would remain in an unrealised realm canonically. Or at least, become MORE prominent than it already was through their flashbacks and such… heh. (Also to be clear, I’m saying “because of the title” because I figure the series “Phantoms & Mirages” was named in retrospect after the fact, meaning… if it became the most prominent ship teased… it figures that would be the name of the series? XD)

That’s at least what I thought at the time! Not necessarily the direction I wanted for the series or would personally go with. I didn’t necessarily ship it either, but if the narrative wanted to give it a shot, I was still willing to read it and see where it would go. Well I was way more invested in Mirage on this second readthrough, so, weirdly enough, I found myself just outright shipping it EVEN WITH the full knowledge that it was 100% not gonna happen, neeeeever gonna happen. If anything, the full knowledge that it wasn’t gonna happen is what made myself don shipping goggles anyway ahahaha.

So I’m sitting here reading, momentarily thinking that Mirage and the phantom were gonna be running off together, and that things were leaning spyshipping…

Before the narrative went LOL nope

And then just went full phantomquill.

And then there was Simon Blackquill himself. Despite all the cruelty and the persistent investigations into the Phantom’s supposed true self, the notion of killing Simon Blackquill…- the notion of Simon Blackquill’s life ending… It hurt. It hurt his chest and it hurt his head.  He whirled around, the barrel of the gun pointing at Mirage’s chest instead. She recoiled instantly, shock spreading across her features.

My brain, in like ten seconds flat:

And by “phantomquill”, look, I don’t mean romance or anything explicitly shippy or whatnot. You can put any spin you want on the duo – familial or WHAT have you. Phantomquill need not require actual “romance” in my eyes. It merely warrants the two characters having their lives intertwined and some kind of connection, having some kind of pull between them, whatever form that connection or pull takes. The both of them having SOME kind of influence over the other beyond mere hatred. The hatred and everything is there, but there’s ! A tiny little bit of something else too, whatever that something else might be. That’s one of the huge draws of phantomquill. This whole setup and the ensuing scene(s) are peak phantomquill to me – if it doesn’t constitute phantomquill. Then I don’t know what does.*

*(JUST GONNA LEAVE A LITTLE. ASTERISK HERE. DON’T MIND ME. I MAAAAY (see: will) BE RETURNING TO THIS IN FUTURE WITH A LITTLE BIT OF A DIFFERENT DEFINITION OF PHANTOMQUILL, SO UH – DEFINITION SUBJECT TO CHANGE IN FUTURE REVIEW POSTS…! But for now, for now, this is the definition I’m working with in this particular review post. The definition I was working with.)

“No!” She was beginning to look frantic, now. Pained and dismayed. “I’m on your side! I killed Lex Luster for you! That old son of a bitch- I punished him for you!”

I was kind of really of mixed feelings over Mirage on 1st readthrough around here cause like. Her saying this + her behaviour following did soften me up a little but at the same time. I WAS STILL KIND OF MAD AT HER BECAUSE LIKE? WAS this all just a game to her? Some kind of game to her? She’s the one who claims to have some kind of “investment” here in his best interests, right? But like. Does she really not realise just how much the revelation of the phantom’s identity felt like the very end of the line for him? He wanted to die. He had given up. He stopped eating and he – he was willing to die. He would have rather DIED. But Mirage, you ensured he was kept alive. You prolonged his suffering. You did that to him, YOU forced him to cross what he perceived to be an uncrossable line. That just feels super cruel! She made him suffer so much and now she’s claiming things like “I did it for you”! I was torn between, as I said, being softened a bit but also still being like WHAT THE HELL MAN?

The fact that she thinks they can just run off together is like – how much had something like that been part of her plans prior to this point? Did she have full knowledge that he was refusing to eat, watched the way he broke down (on more than one occasion), his intense suffering over the impending identity revelation and the aftermath, ALL of that, and seriously, SERIOUSLY think they could patch things up after so brutally crossing the line with him?! That he would even be in any state to, considering how it impacted him? How he had to be put on life support? Arrrgh, Mirage what are you doin girl! She planned to break him out or whatever, she says? Still planned to “look out for him” after all of that? Look out for what? As far as he was concerned it was all over. Did she not see that?

These were my primary thoughts but, there’s always some vagueness when it comes to interpretation, I suppose. The extent to which she might be spinning things because she is being held at gunpoint. The extent she might have either a) not realised the seriousness of the identity issue and therefore viewed the situation(s) way too lightly OR b) she may have been absolutely aware of how serious it was and using it to full advantage… he was utterly breaking, BREAKING and she knew that and went with it anyway. Because at least she was exerting power over him or something. Or maybe both. Or maybe despite knowing how serious it was she figured he could bounce back. He would disagree and yet, he still has the ability to conduct himself mostly normal which can in a sense be defined as “bouncing back”.

Also, also. There are some other things about this entire scene that can be interpreted in slightly different ways. How much of the phantom’s actions are fully premeditated throughout the whole scene vs on the fly. Let’s see… One wonders with what intent he entered to speak with Mirage with. Was he always planning on helping to free Blackquill? I doubt it, but that was the pretense with which he had Bobby free him. Did he ever plan on actually cooperating with Mirage? Or had he been planning on betraying her from the start? Perhaps he ultimately planned to shoot both of them. To wipe out two of his enemies, two birds one stone, and it’s simply that his subconscious would not allow that. Well there are a couple of lines we can examine for this.

“You’re right.” He gave a light nod of the head. “If you hope to fix the unsteady situation you’ve created, you will stand back and allow me to take over.”

So is this all just part of a ploy aimed at getting her to hand over the gun? Or is he actually considering cooperation to escape with her at this point?

Despite seemingly considering the matter, there was still an air of suspicion to it. She didn’t quite trust him just yet. He couldn’t blame her for that. He could only make it so she did trust him. He needed her to trust him.

Does this imply that he means to betray her from the start? That he needs her to trust him even though such trust would be misplaced?

Then she stepped aside, leaving him face-to-face with her hostage. He slid the gun around his palm until his index finger found the trigger. …Finally. 

I definitely read this as him fully planning on shooting Blackquill, right here, right now. There is a chance it might be “finally got the gun” but nah. Nah. He wants to kill that man, on a conscious level. Doesn’t he?

For a split second, he considered validating that very same suspicion. He considered taking advantage of a possibility that’d likely never present itself again. To put a bullet through that skull and end Blackquill’s miserable life once and for all.

This might… Imply that he wasn’t actually planning on shooting Blackquill originally, but upon getting control of the gun like this, the thought then does cross his mind to actually go through with it. I don’t think this is the correct reading, but it’s fun to point out nonetheless!

So when he whirls around to face Mirage… What’s going on? Is he sticking with his original plan to turn against her? Or is he actually turning against her purely in the moment? Did he plan to shoot Blackquill and then Mirage, and skips to Mirage in this moment because he found shooting Blackquill to be too difficult for him…?

IF the phantom had been 100% planning on shooting Blackquill from the start, or, regardless of whether he originally planned to or not, if he had actually gone through with it in that moment wherein he considers it?

That casts a whole new shade of light onto him apologising to Bobby earlier on – of his betrayal of Bobby in escaping. That would be unbelievably huge and unbelievably devastating. Simon Blackquill would have died as a consequence of Bobby trusting the phantom – a trust that resulted in the phantom’s escape. The phantom’s “for what it’s worth, I apologise” would mean absolutely nothing. ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. A completely worthless apology, because Bobby would have lost Simon. Betrayal in the highest degree. It means that Bobby would have trusted the phantom, and then the phantom would have gone right ahead and just shot Simon in response anyway. Was probably actually PLANNING to do just that.

For the record, my reading of the scene is, he didn’t have any intention of freeing Blackquill, and that most of his actions during this scene ARE spur-of-the-moment

She was the closest thing to a friend he’d ever had. His hand began to shake. Another headache was building- one that was much stronger than before.  “Do not shoot,” Simon Blackquill’s voice reiterated through the pain. He was faltering. He was faced with two of his greatest threats, the both of them defenseless, but he couldn’t bring himself to harm either of them. 

He was more broken than he’d assumed up until now. …He must’ve been broken.

THIS KILLS ME. THIS ABSOLUTELY KILLS ME. THIS IS GENUINELY HEARTBREAKING – HIS OWN THOUGHT PROCESS IS GENUINELY HEARTBREAKING BECAUSE HE JUST FAILED TO KILL TWO PEOPLE AND HE THINKS THAT ACTUALLY MAKES HIM BROKEN. He truly believes that. I cannot get over how sad that is, that their lives have been spared and he thinks that is a bad thing – a sign that he is DAMAGED, somehow.

He saw Mirage move and his first instinct was to prevent her from reaching the weapon, but she wasn’t going for it. She darted straight for the door. He couldn’t stop her.

I feel so sad because she’s just. Running. Getting the hell away from him. Because he just tried to kill her.

All in all, though. This chapter – and the next one – are god tier. They are just god tier.

Vanquishing Mirages, Chapter 13

Just thought I’d let you know, it’s around this point that I sent my friend this message:

Ahahaha. I just couldn’t DEAL with how great it was! Really! Like, it was causing actual overload, hence the “stop! Stop!” xDDD. Like, “It’s okay! It’s okay! This has already proven to be awesome beyond words! You don’t need to do any better than this, I promise! I may not be able to take much more greatness!”

Were it not for the Phantom speeding out the door without a second thought, Simon would’ve considered offering to break the chain tying the man’s handcuffs together. Then again, perhaps leaving them like this was for the best.

IT CERTAINLY IS FOR THE BEST SIMON. Doing that would noooot have ended well. We’d certainly have no Lifting Spirits, that’s for sure D: It would be Bye Bye Phantom!

Vaguely, he wondered just what sort of a physical state the man was in right now. He hadn’t properly eaten in two weeks, surviving only because Interpol had forced him to, and whether his shoulder had fully healed or not was another matter entirely. In a way, the Phantom hadn’t been well since February, because whatever chance at a complete recovery was cut short in one way or another. It was a miracle he was capable of running at all.

Man I loved this being noted cause it really goes to show just HOW… I don’t even know the right word… (persistent? Difficult to defeat?) that the phantom is. This guy can really just keep on going despite EVERYTHING ahaha. Legend.

There was only him and imminent danger, and then, all of the sudden, there was fluent cursing from nearby. The section of the walkway that the Phantom was lying on had tilted towards the street as well.

“fluent cursing”…

His shackled hands were raised over his head but were unable to reach anything to hold onto. He was slipping towards the abyss that lay below Simon. Slipping towards that same death that Simon was fearing for himself.

I felt so in the moment reading this. I could well and truly imagine the level of danger – the panic. I could barely look away from reading because this was just. Whoa. Life or death stuff going on right here.

He wouldn’t let the Phantom fall. Not again.

BRILLIANT TO LINK IT BACK. TIE IT IN PERFECTLY WITH THE GUILT THAT SIMON FELT. BRILLIANT. THIS ENTIRE SCENE IS SO GOOD. SO GOOD. I WAS HANGING ONTO EVERY. WORD.

There’s not even anything I can add or say about this whole scene, this whole dynamic of Simon holding on and the phantom protesting. It’s perfect.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Peak Phantomquill. When I think about phantomquill. Scenes like this one are exactly what I think about. It’s the pinnacle. You don’t get better than this. You just don’t.*

*Terms and conditions apply.

And then the “Fool Bright”… is the killing blow. It just kills me. With how GOOD IT IS GOSH THE EXECUTION OF THIS WHOLE SCENE IS AMAZING.

Through the dim of his mind- of what little emotion had seeped through- a desperate little voice had cried out for help. It hadn’t cried out in exact words, rather in feelings. His subconsciousness, perhaps. ‘I’m here,’ it had said. ‘I’m right here. Find me.’

You know what this made me think of?

‘Please come back,’ the voice had insisted. ‘Don’t leave me like everyone else has. I’m right here. I’m in pain and I’m right here.’

FEELS

Vanquishing Mirages, Chapter 14

“Fulbright! Don’t just…-!” –stand there with your mouth open as if you were attempting to catch insects? That wasn’t quite the right command to give. Too many words. “Help!”

Omgg

“What’s foolish about it? Rehabilitation is the best kind of justice! Criminals atoning for their misdeeds by helping others… It’s a much better fate for them than execution, don’t you think?”

So at this, I kind of just narrowed my eyes again once more and went “no, no, don’t you dare, story. Don’t you dare. He needs to die, remember? SO MAKE SURE HE DOES…”

BUT AT THE SAME TIME… This whole flashback segment with Simon and “Bobby” was nothing short of sheer brilliance. I couldn’t help but be impressed by it… If there was ANY way to introduce this rehabilitation concept into the story, to just throw it out there – this was it. So I was still in defensive mode, absolutely, and I was still fighting against it, but… The writing of the flashback scene is just so good that I kind of crossed my arms reluctantly and went, “WELL… I… I SUPPOSE I’M LISTENING? JUST A LITTLE?” How could I not grant the story at least a small little platform upon which it could make its case… For me to at least crack one eye open in attention… Even though, for all intents and purposes, I still absolutely wanted and believed it was necessary for the man we call the phantom –– to die. To be executed.

Anyway… also, the scene of Bobby and Simon holding onto each other, and the phantom… is so wonderful. I hope they stayed like that for minutes.

They sat there until the Phantom stirred in his hold. The movement managed to kickstart a semblance of Simon’s awareness and his hands released the spy’s shoulders. Even so, the Phantom didn’t push away from Simon’s chest. For a good fifteen seconds, he didn’t even speak. And then the words finally came. “Prosecutor Blackquill…”

Oh wow… OH WOW.

He became even more aware of just how closely the Phantom was pressing up against his chest and felt his brow furrow in dismay. Bobby said nothing.

Okay all I’m gonna say is… this is kinda… really funny in the sense that… Bobby’s perception of this situation and Simon’s perception of this situation are uh, VERY different.

“Wait! I’m not ready! I’m not ready to die! Wait! Let GO of me! ”

Oh goodness… Oh goodness… He’s not… He’s not ready to die anymore either… Which also changes things.

Vanquishing Mirages, Chapter 15

Ted Tonate and LaSoote go so well together – FIT well together, now that you mention the whole dismantling-designing thing. And I loooved their interactions when disassembling the bomb.

Vanquishing Mirages, Chapter 16

Bobby hesitated for a moment, not quite meeting Simon’s gaze. “… There’s more.” “More?” “I asked Athena and… She said that birth defects count as extenuating circumstances.”

Me: HMMMMM NARRATIVE. NARRATIVE. I THOUGHT WE TALKED ABOUT THIS…

Simon didn’t like where this was going. Not one bit. With that, his feelings on the matter didn’t seem quite so trivial anymore. “Fulbright. Whatever line of thinking you’re attempting to follow, I suggest you abandon it.”

IT’S SO WILD TO ME HOW CONSISTENTLY ALIGNED I AM WITH SIMON’S POV FOR THE VAST MAJORITY OF THIS WHOLE SERIES. Like. I barely need to say anything because Simon’s POV this chapter already has it all written out for me.

This whole line of thinking was so optimistic that Simon was sure it couldn’t be done.

The entirety of Lifting Spirits – (even the title is optimistic sounding!) – is just. The entire thing feels so optimistic and idealistic and – and it’s a thing that actually happens and it’s all so lovely and waaaah. We’ll get there. But yes, I, too, was sure it couldn’t be done. idealism & optimism way too off the charts.

Vanquishing Mirages, Chapter 17

To see whether a man who prided himself in having ‘no emotions’ would step down from his pedestal and become like every other mortal.

I LOVE THIS SENTENCE – THE WORDING OF IT – so so much you don’t even know. Like this is one of those sentences – one of many throughout this series from your writing – that was just left ringing in my mind well after I’d finished the chapter.

If Simon had thought the Phantom looked bad during the last trial day, it was nothing compared to this moment. Dark lines were set under his eyes, which were scrunched shut in some sort of lasting cringe. Simon was sure it was the regained memories that were to blame.

>:D hehehe…

It was Fulbright who ultimately broke the silence with a half-hearted attempt at a cheery disposition. “Hey. How are you feeling?” “Leave.” The Phantom didn’t bother to raise his head or even open his eyes. He uttered a single word and it was that.

When I sent my friend this snippet, she had such a perfect response to it that there’s nothing better I could possibly come up with, and with her permission I’m posting it here:

Oh my god… I’d totally forgotten about the phantom just taking it upon himself to roast them all in turn in this scene… It’s soooo good. This whole dynamic, of people – of characters being invested in someone who does NOT want it, who actively REJECTS it – just the whole image of anyone wanting to help the phantom and his SEVERE rejection of it is SO much fun.

“No one should have to ask. We were…” Bobby trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence. “Worried?” The Phantom asked in a tone of voice that seemed almost spiteful.

Sdkjbdakjadkj BLESS THIS FIC.

I just, love the scene. It’s very good. I know I’m just a broken record of saying “I love this” at this point, have been for a while, but it’s because it’s TRUE.

… The person sitting before them could be someone. “Who he will be from now on is a dead man,” Simon began, once again earning him a mean scowl from Athena.

OMG I ACTUALLY LAUGHED AT THIS ON THIS READTHROUGH

Anticipation seemed to rise as the Phantom rocked himself back and forth in a calm pace. His face was still hidden behind his hands, fingers ruffling his uneven locks so forcefully that they might as well become entangled in a mess of frizzed blond. When at last he spoke, it was so quiet they could barely hear him. “Do you really believe it? That someone like me could still become human?”

THIS IS…….. DARE I SAY IT……… C-CUTE……

I’m calling him cute and you can’t stop me

They couldn’t predict what sort of effect removing the bone sliver would have. Even if the doctor was sure the procedure was safe, brain surgery was a tricky thing. It could just as well leave the Phantom paralyzed. Or perhaps the system responsible for emotions was damaged beyond repair after all this time.

Ohh I’m glad this is taken note of here, because I felt like the surgery was being portrayed as a little too easily straightforward a little closer to the fact in the narrative!

The Phantom drew one more ragged breath before responding. “Then… I will try.”

AAAAAAAAAA :D

Also just also. Wow. Can’t imagine how it went when Palaeno went in to visit him afterwards. xD

Here’s… the thing? During Haunted Specters, things like Bobby’s behaviour towards the phantom was odd and FUNNY. Fun to think about. And the dynamic certainly is still pretty amusing, but… There was some kind of tipping point along the way. A tipping point that was passed way prior to this point. It’s… kinda less of a joke now… Bobby’s caring behaviour is well and grounded in the story, in the setting… The “liminal space” left behind, discarded long ago. And Athena by his side with the same mindset…!

So, continuing on, we

[glances at the next chapter]

AAAAAAAND THAT’S ALL WE HAVE TIME FOR TODAY FOLKS.

S-see you… next time…!

[washiwrites]

I Want To Be A Paladin

This was for the Paladin / Thief square on the Bingo card, but I did NOT get it written in time. I’ve got an outline for one more story based on the bingo card after this that I didn’t get to do, but since I’ve got them outlined, I’d like to still do them.

I hope this appeals to someone else besides me XD

Warnings: Angst, Shance / Pre-Shance (Although it can be read as friendship)

EDIT: Edited the story to be less bad AND put it on AO3!

Read on AO3 HERE

Shiro’s steps slowed as he walked, body hesitating without his consent as he approached the door to Lance’s room. The halls of the military hospital were quiet at night, only the night staff moving between the rooms on their rounds. Well, only the staff and himself. One of the perks of being ‘Takashi Shirogane: Captain of the Atlas’ was that the staff were willing to bend the rules for visiting hours slightly to allow him to visit his former team - his friends - while they recovered from the injuries they sustained in the last battle.

Lance was the last of the human Paladins Shiro had yet to visit in the hospital.

As soon as he could get away from his duties he’d gone to see Keith. The Black Paladin was still suffering the effects of the concussion he’d sustained during their last battle, although he'd refused any of the stronger painkillers he’d been offered despite the pounding headache he had. Instead he’d opted for as much nausea medication as he was allowed and conversations held in low voices only, which Shiro disapprovingly complied with. At least he was lucid; according to Kroalia he’d been worse in the varga or so immediately after he woke up, calling her ‘Crystal’ and asking her several times to slow the bed down because they were going too fast for him to steer it properly.

He drifted off to sleep mid-sentence, so Shiro had left him to rest and gone to visit Pidge next, sparing a quick but fond greeting to Matt and Sam Holt as they left her room to hunt down a late dinner for themselves. Pidge was still a bundle of energy despite being bedridden, talking easily with Shiro about what her family had been doing and how things were in the universe outside the Garrison while slowly making her way through what was left of her own dinner. Shiro stayed talking with her much longer than he should have, content to sit beside her and listen as she jumped from one topic to the next, some combination of her injuries,the painkillers she was on, and exhaustion rendering her unable to stay fixed on any single thing long enough to really finish a thought. By the time she was nearing the end of one idea she was already moving on to the next improvement she could make or the next thing she needed to look up. Shiro excused himself with instructions for her to sleep once the flow of words slowed down.

Hunk was the next closest, so Shiro made sure to check in on him to make sure he was okay. His family had snuck him extra food for dinner; The fact that he still had some tako poke left to offer Shiro told him more about how Hunk was really feeling than any number of assurances that he was doing fine and was just a little banged up around the middle.

Shiro had eaten all of the offered squid embarrassingly fast, not realising exactly how hungry he was until he’d started. It didn’t hurt that the food was amazing, which he’d mentioned about half a dozen times before Hunk had laughed, followed immediately by a pained grimace and a promise to tell his Mom how good Shiro thought her poke was.

Shiro beat a rather guilty retreat from Hunk’s room after that.

That left him here, slowly approaching Lance’s door. He hadn’t spoken much to Lance since his resurrection, at first because he was unconscious, then because Keith was a constant shadow at his side, then because he’d been traveling with Pidge… There were a lot of excuses as to why he hadn’t talked to Lance, but they all amounted to the same thing: Shiro knew he should talk to talk to Lance at some point, and he hadn’t. He didn’t even know why he hadn’t. Perhaps it was because he’d connected with Lance for a moment within Voltron when he’d been unable to reach anyone else.

Maybe it was because his clone been closer to Lance and worked with him more than Shiro had before his untimely demise, and Shiro hadn’t quite integrated all those memories. He’d spoken to Pidge about what happened during his time inside the Black Lion while riding with her, and she’d given him the cliff-notes version of everything his doppleganger had done, helping give context to the few scattered memories and sensations that had been trickling back into his mind through the cracks, but he still felt like there was a lot missing. Fleeting moments where an ache bloomed in his chest that felt familiar and completely foreign all at once, where he wanted to turn one way or move another, expecting something that just wasn’t there. A sensation that he should remember why he felt the way he felt, only to find nothing.

He’d stalled for long enough. He was going to go see Lance now, and if he was already asleep, that was fine. If he wasn’t, Shiro was going to sit next to him and talk to him like an actual adult. Holding that decision firmly in his mind, he covered the final three steps across the hall to Lance’s door and raised his floating hand to knock.

A pained, rasping sound beyond the door had him freezing before he made contact.

A shock of cold panic flooded over him as he shouldered the door open and dashed in, mind already racing itself to provide the worst case scenario. How badly had Lance been hurt? Was he having trouble breathing? Should Shiro be calling a nurse? His chest had been damaged, right? What if his lung had been punctured or collapsed or something, and the medical staff had somehow missed it, and now Lance was-

-Sitting on the hospital bed with his blankets pooled around his waist, staring at him in uncomprehending surprise. Shiro scanned over him quickly, checking for any visible sign of an untreated injury only to find treated bruises and bandages, nothing more. Tears ran over Lance's cheeks to drip from his chin and the tip of his nose, and his eyes were red and puffy, making both their natural blue colour and the dark circles under them stand out in equal measure.

As Shiro watched, Lance’s expression fell from surprise to horror before he turned deliberately away to hide his face and slide his hands under the blankets. Shiro’s panic faded into confusion and concern. It was obvious that Lance had been crying, so why was he trying to hide it? And what had he hidden under the blankets as soon as he’d realised that Shiro was there?

Lance scrubbed his face on his shoulder, using the hospital clothes he’d been put in to wipe some of the tears of his face while sniffing as subtly as he was able. “Shiro,” he croaked in greeting, voice low and rasped. Shiro flinched in surprise at the sound - his throat sounded like it had been badly injured during the fight, although Shiro didn't want to think about how. “I wasn’t expecting any other visitors today.”

“Lance?” Shiro stepped towards the bed, hesitating at the edge before sitting. “What’s wrong?”

Lance’s shoulders hunched up, his whole being tense for a long moment before he slumped and turned back towards Shiro. Something in Lance’s expression was familiar to him; a combination of hurt, defeat and sadness shining in his eyes as they met Shiro’s own.

He felt that familiar ache all over again, but he tamped down on the sensation and forced himself to smile as encouragingly as he could manage.

With a sigh, Lance pulled his hands out from under the blankets and held them out towards Shiro. “Veronica found these in the cockpit after the fight.” He paused to clear his throat, doing little to make his voice sound less rough than it had before. If anything it sounded more raw. “She thought they might be important to me, so she bought them here. Laughed at me a bit for being a big nerd first though.”

Shiro held out his floating hand, allowing Lance to place two objects on his palm. Lance’s hands lingered for a breath before he drew them back, letting his fingers brush briefly over the tips of Shiro’s own on the way back to his lap.

It took a long moment of staring at the gray figurines in his hand in confusion for a memory to spark.

They were Monsters and Mana figures. Lance’s Thief and Shiro’s Paladin. “You...you kept these?” He whispered.

Lance bit his lip and nodded. “It- It’s stupid, I know. I keep having to tell myself that he - it - He wasn’t really you, that he was sent in as a spy or sleeper agent or something. And I’m dumb, so I keep trying to tell myself none of it was real, we didn’t really…” he paused, taking another rasping breath, “we didn’t…” he tried again, only to choke back another sob before regaining control of his voice. “But then I look at that figure, and all I can think is that, whoever he really was, he just-”

Lance’s hands tightened on the sheets over his lap, words tumbling over each other as they fought to be first out of his mouth. “All he wanted was to be a Paladin. That was the best thing he could think of. He tried so hard to get back to us, and even though he was in pain all the time he just wanted to be a Paladin, and- I mean, I know it was just his programming or something Haggar did to him to make him want to fill your position, but I just- I just…”

Shiro didn’t catch the rest of Lance’s rambling. Too many thoughts and feelings were suddenly assaulting him, drowning out the rest of the world in a rush.

- Being in the Black Lion, but this time from within the Clone’s body. Begging them to let him pilot because the people he cared about most in the universe were in danger, and he could do nothing. Genuine fear of being without a way to help, being useless -

- Sitting with his team, playing an adventure game that made him feel foolish and carefree. Getting to play out all the ridiculous fantasies of being a hero he’d always had -

- Wanting so badly to be someone who was unequivocally good. Someone who would always be good, no matter what he had to do. Someone who was still him, but certain beyond any doubt that they were a good person -

- A Paladin. All Shiro - that other Shiro - wanted to be was a Paladin -

- Lance joining him on subsequent playthroughs, playing a Bard once and an Alchemist once, before switching back to his Assassin / Thief character again so that Shiro didn’t feel so awkward always playing his Paladin -

- The feeling of Lance beside him, feeling the warmth of his body whenever they traded the dice back and forth, whenever Lance would nudge him after a particularly daring maneuver -

- Nights spent together re-working their stats and build, planning the next part of their grand, meaningless adventure. A feeling of camaraderie he hadn’t had in a long time, as equals rather than captain and subordinate -

- The feeling of being alone with Lance, of laughing and being invested in what they were doing -

- Corran’s baffled enthusiasm, always coming up with new adventures for them even though the pair spent an entire session on a meaningless quest to set up a random turnip seller with the local tavern owner -

- Nights spent with Lance talking about their characters relationships bleeding into talking about themselves -

- The feeling of Lance hovering beside him, always watching him, always ready to step in -

- Knowing that he was someone doing good, letting himself believe that he was doing good things -

- The way Lance looked at him, smiled at him -

That hollow ache came back in full force, knocking the breath out of Shiro as the barrage of new memories clamoured for attention, not letting themselves be sorted or settled into a timeline yet. He’d originally chalked the feeling up to his missing bond with the Black Lion now that Keith had taken over full time as their Paladin, but he didn’t believe that was all it was any more. That was part of it, there was definitely a new empty place inside him where the Black Lion used to sit that he dealt with by keeping busy and taking command of the Atlas. But that wasn’t all of it. That hole hadn’t only held one thing. It was naive to think it had.

“- And I don’t know if I’m the bigger jerk for being sad that I don’t have that anymore when I know how much worse it is for you! I mean, how selfish do I have to be? It’s disgusting, but I can’t just make those memories go away, and… I’m so sorry, Shiro. I don’t think I can say it enough, but I’m so, so sorry.” Lance finished breathlessly, fresh tears rolling down his face. “I don’t think I can ever make it up to you, but I promise I’ll try, okay? I promise, every day I’ll try.”

Shiro wasn’t sure exactly how much of Lance pouring his heart out he’d missed, but that last bit was something he could try to respond to. He could tell Lance not to regret anything he did with the Clone. He could tell Lance that the Clone was him, just a him that was always in pain and afraid. He could tell Lance how much his presence meant to that other Shiro, how much it was starting to mean to him…

“I…” Shiro gasped, feeling tears spring unbidden to his eyes. He would absolutely tell Lance all of that. As soon as he could get out more than a few words, he’d tell Lance everything. He promised himself that.

Lance’s eyes widened, the flow of words stopping as he took in Shiro’s shaking form. He reached forwards cautiously, hands sliding up Shro’s arms to rest on his shoulders and neck, a gently offer of physical contact that Shiro ate up and dived in for more of. In a heartbeat he’d fallen forwards to wrap his arms around Lance’s chest, careful of the bandages and tubes that wound their way under his scrubs. Gentle over the bruises.

The only thing that he could force out of his mouth was a single phrase.

“I want to be a Paladin again.”

Lance’s arms tightened around Shiro as sobs rattled his frame, pulling him in and letting his own head rest atop Shiro’s. It felt like understanding.

Post Credits Note:

I swear to god I can write happy and fluffy. But it’s not this story. Or the next one. Maybe I should challenge myself to make the one after that be pure candy fluff and niceness without smut.

Or I could write my first Hanahaki, since I’m a fandom rube and haven’t done a bunch of stuff >_>

Anyway, in case you couldn’t tell, it’s unbeta’d and not my best work, but I wanted it. So there :P

[blueangelicrose]

Origins Of How You Came To Be: Chapter 2 (part 1): The Truth

Demencia kept staring at the beautiful scales and kept pondering of how this was possible. The possibility that she might have a mother and possibly a family somewhere. But the other part of her was telling her that it was just a crazy dream. But there was evidence in her hand! She didn't know what to say or do. She then started to smell a funky scent coming from her body. She sniffed one of her armpits and made a disgusted face. She then replied to herself in a disgusted manner, "Well the first thing I need to do is to take a long and well deserved shower! Now that I think about it, I didn't take a shower yesterday after all the exercise I did. Siiiiigggghhhh~ But it was worth it to see my darling Black Hat's smile at all the destruction of humanity and heroes that I was causing for him~!!! But what I didn't take in account was that crazy dream and how it made me sweat like crazy!"

She looked at the scales again and raised a brow. She thought to herself why did the woman give her four scales when she only wanted two? She shrugged her shoulders and said, "Oh well! Until I figure out what to do with these, I'll put them in my treasure box!" Her "treasure box" was a large high security titanium safe that she had "borrowed" from Dr. Flug's lab. It had a variety of things, some more dangerous than the other, some of these weren't even hers! Some of those things were Flug's, that even till this day he's still looking for them. She mostly kept these items because they looked interesting or just wanted to annoy the good doctor. Amongst the various devious looking items, there was but one object that looked like it belonged to a young girl. It was a small Victorian styled wooden jewelry box. Inside the box held her most precious items that could get easily lost if you misplaced it somewhere. Some of it was jewelry of both the innocent, like a pearl necklace, and some more hardcore, like a black choker with spikes on them. And some of the other items were "questionable." For example, a skin shedding from a snake, a tooth from a tiger, an eye of a newt, and a rabbits foot. She opened a small drawer that was filled with small and valuable gems, and placed the scales in there until she figured out what to do with them.

She shut and locked the safe and then grabbed her cleaning necessities for her shower and headed towards the bathroom. When she entered the bathroom, she took a deep sigh and stared into the mirror. But as she was staring into the mirror she nonchantely noticed that her wings were still there! It took her a few moments to properly process this in her mind, and when she finally understood her situation, she flipped out. She screamed out, "What the heck is this?!" But she suddenly realized that this was the result from what happened in her dream. "Okay, Demencia, calm down! You can figure this out! Hopefully nobody heard you." But unfortunately that wasn't the case. Just then, there was a gentle knock at the door. As Demencia was trying to buy some time she nervously asked/threatened, "W-w-what is it?! Can't you obviously tell that I'm using this bathroom?! Use the other one!" "Aroo?" Was the response she got. It was 5.0.5 the friendly blue teddy bear like creature with a flower on top of its head. He was probably the most loving, caring, and the most partially abused person (?) that lived at Black Hat Manor. Second only to Dr. Flug, who made him in the first place to be a creature of destruction, but was unfortunately flawed and couldn't sell him as a product of Black Hat Corporation. So they kept him as a lab rat/buddy co-worker of the business.

5.0.5 was trying to ask her if she was alright since she screamed in horror. Demencia replied that it was nothing to be concerned with and to go away and not to bother her. He raised a brow and asked her if she was sure. She was about to yell at him to leave again, when she realized something. If the doctor and her darling Black Hat saw her with these wings, they would definitely want to experiment on her. She didn't mind the prodding and the wires and such. But what she did mind was how boring the doctor's questions was going to be and the fear of his growing enthusiasm into figuring out what made her tick. There was also the fear that her darling boss would reject her the moment he saw her in her condition. So she thought up a plan. As 5.0.5 was about to walk away, figuring that Demencia didn't want to talk to him, he was caught off guard when she suddenly asked him to get her a large hoody from her room. She told him that she felt cold this morning and wanted something to warm her up throughout the day. 5.0.5 perked up at the fact that Demencia wanted him to do something for her that didn't involve him getting hurt for once.

After he fetched her an oversized navy blue and red striped hoody from her closet, he knocked on the door and told her that he had it. She opened the door a crack big enough for her hand to reach out and quickly snatch the shirt. He asked why she didn't open the door all the way and she replied, "Because I'm not decent! Just because I act like a pscho sometimes, doesn't mean I don't have self respect for my privacy! I AM a girl after all! Now get out of here you stupid bear!" As she slammed the door shut, 5.0.5 sadly walked away. But before he was out of earshot, Demencia opened the door a tiny bit and said, "Thank you anyways for getting me my hoody. But that's the only thanks you're going to get out of me! Ever! You hear?!" As she slammed the door one last time, the bear's expression went from sad to happy! This was the first time he had gotten a 'thanks' from Demencia. But as he thought about it more, why did she need the warm hoody if it was summer time? Was she sick? Can she get sick? It might explain why she said thanks to him. He thought up so many questions in his mind. But then his face went from confused to worry fearing that Demencia really might be sick! He decided to tell Flug about this immediatly! Fearing that the worst was yet to come! And in a way, he wasn't that far off. As he ran towards the lab as quickly as his two stubby legs can move, Demencia was trying to figure out how to reel in her wings back in her back. But her efforts were all to no avail. She then decided to just wash up then figure out a way to pull this off without anyone noticing. She scrubbed herself head to toe trying to get the stench off her. She even washed her wings just in case they smelled too. She oddly found it relaxing when she was gently scrubbing her wings. It felt like she was getting a spa and massage treatment all in one. As soon as she was done, she dried off, put her clothes on and made sure that the oversized hoody fit over her wings so that nobody noticed it. Which was a success! She stared at herself in the mirror, checking to see if everything was in place, then she slapped her cheeks and said, "Okay Demencia! You've been through a whole lot worse than this! Just think of this as a fun secret co-op agent game! You can do this! Nobody will know!" As she snuck out of the bathroom, she casually walked into the lab to bother Flug like always. But then, out of nowhere, she was greeted by Flug, 5.0.5, and even her darling Black Hat all in the lab, seemingly as though they were waiting for someone. The atmosphere in the lab was so thick with tensity that she could cut it with a knife. She asked what was happening and if someone was sick or dead or something. Everyone looked at each other then back at Demencia. Dr. Flug then asked, "Demencia, do you have something you want to tell us?"

To Be Continued....

End of chapter 2 (part 1).

To be continued in chapter 2 (part 2).

[themaddeningscience]

Originally published in “When the Villain Comes Home” (Dragon Moon Press, 2012) and “Hero is a Four Letter Word” (Short Fuse, 2013)

Warning: This story contains profanity and sexual situations

Bullets fired into a crowd. Children screaming. Women crying. Men crying, too, not that any of them would admit it. The scent of gun powder, rotting garbage, stale motor oil, vomit, and misery. Police sirens in the distance, coming closer, making me cringe against old memories. Making me skulk into the shadows, hunch down in my hoodie, a beaten puppy.

This guy isn’t a supervillian. He isn’t even a villain, really. He is just an idiot. A child with a gun. And a grudge. Or maybe a god complex. Or a revenge scheme. Who the hell cares what he thought he had?

In the end, it amounts to the same.

The last place I want to be is in the centre of the police’s attention, again, so I sink back into the fabric, shying from the broad helicopter searchlights that sweep in through the narrow windows of the parking garage.

If this had been before, I might have leapt into action with one of my trusty gizmos. Or, failing that, at least with a witty verbal assault that would have left the moron boy too brain-befuddled to resist when I punched him in the oesophagus.

But this isn’t before.

I keep my eyes on the sky, instead of on the gun. If the Brilliant Bitch arrives, I want to see.

No one else is looking up. It has been a long, long time since one of…us…has donned sparkling spandex and crusaded out into the night to roust the criminal element from their lairs, or to enact a plot against the establishment, to bite a glove-covered thumb at ‘the man.’ A long time since one of us has done much more than pretend to not be one of us.

The age of the superhero petered out surprisingly quickly. The villains learnt our lessons; the heroes became obsolete.

A whizzing pop beside my left ear. I duck behind the back wheel of a sleek penis-replacement-on-wheels. The owner will be very upset when he sees the bullet gouges littering the bright red altar to his own virility.

I’ve never been shot before. I’ve been electrocuted, eye-lasered, punched by someone with the proportional strength of a spotted gecko and, memorably, tossed into the air by a breath-tornado created by a hero whose Italian lunch my schemes had clearly just interrupted.

Being shot seems fearfully mundane after all that.

A normal, boring death scares me more than any other kind—especially if it’s due to a random, pointless, unpredictable accident of time and place intersecting with a stupid poser with the combination to daddy’s gun drawer and the key to mommy’s liquor cabinet. I had been on the way to the bargain grocery store for soymilk. It doesn’t look like I’m going to get any now.

Because only the extraordinary die in extraordinary ways. And I am extraordinary no longer.

I look skyward. Still no Crimson Cunt.

Someone screams. Someone else cries. I sit back against the wheel and refrain from whistling to pass the time. If I was on the other side of the parking garage, I could access the secret tunnel I built into the lower levels back when the concrete was poured thirty years ago. But the boy and his bullets are between us. I’ve nothing to do but wait.

The boy is using a 9mm Barretta, military issue, so probably from daddy’s day job in security at the air force base. He has used up seven bullets. The standard Barretta caries a magazine of fifteen. Eight remain, unless one had already been prepared in the chamber, which I highly doubt as no military man would be unintelligent or undisciplined enough to carry about a loaded gun aimed at his own foot. The boy is firing them at an average rate of one every ninety-three seconds—punctuated by unintelligible screaming—and so by my estimation I will be pinned by his unfriendly fire for another seven hundred and forty-four seconds, or twelve point four minutes.

However, the constabulary generally arrive on the scene between six and twenty-three minutes after an emergency call. As this garage is five and a half blocks from the 2nd Precinct, I estimate the stupid boy has another eight point seven minutes left to live before a SWAT team puts cold lead between his ribs.

Better him than me.

Except, probability states that he will kill another three bystanders before that time. I scrunch down further, determined not to be a statistic today. This brings me directly into eye-line with a corpse.

There is blood all around her left shoulder. If she didn’t die of shock upon impact, then surely she died of blood loss. Her green eyes are wide and wet.

I wonder who she used to be.

I wonder if she is leaving behind anyone who will weep and rail and attend the police inquest and accuse the system of being too slow, too corrupt, too over-burdened. I wonder if they will blame the boy’s parents or his teachers. Will they only blame themselves? Or her?

And then, miraculously, she blinks.

Well, that certainly is a surprise. Perhaps the trauma is not as extensive as I estimated. To be fair, I cannot see most of her. She has fallen awkwardly, the momentum of her tumble half-concealing her under the chassis of the ludicrously large Hummer beside my penis-car.

I am so fascinated by the staggering of her torso as she tries to suck in a breath, the staccato rhythm of her blinks, the bloody slick of teeth behind her lips, that it’s all over before I am aware of it.

This must be what people mean by time flying.

I’m not certain I’ve ever felt that strange loss of seconds ever before. I am so very used to being able to track everything. It’s disconcerting. I don’t like it.

And yet the boy is downed, the police are here, paramedics crawling over the dead and dying like swarming ants. I wait for them to find my prize, to pull her free of the SUV’s shadow and whisk her away to die under ghastly fluorescent lights, too pumped full of morphine to know she is slipping away.

I wait in the shadow of the wheel and hope that they miss me.

They do.

Only, in missing me, they miss her, as well. She is blinking, gritty and desperate, and now the police are leaving, and the paramedics are shunting their human meat into the sterile white cubes, and they have not found her, my fascinating, panting young lady.

Oh dear. This is a dilemma.

I am reformed. I am no longer a villain. But I am also no hero and I like my freedom far too much to want to risk it by bringing her to the attention of the officials. What to do? Save her and risk my freedom, or let her die, and walk free but burdened with the knowledge of yet another life that I might have been able to save, and didn’t?

I dither too long. They are gone. Only the media are left, and I certainly don’t want them to catch me in their unblinking grey lenses.  The woman blinks, sad and slow. She knows that she is dead. It’s coming. Her fingers twitch towards me—reaching.

A responsible, honest citizen would not let her die. So I slink out of my shadow and gather her up, the butterfly struggle of her pulse in her throat against my arm, and slip away through my secret tunnel.

I steal her away to save her life.

It occurs to me, when I lean back and away from the operating table, my hands splashed with gore, that I’ve kidnapped this woman. She has seen my face. Others will see the neat way I’ve made my nanobots stitch the flesh and bone of her shoulder back together. They will recognize the traces of the serum that I’ve infused her with in order to speed up her healing, because I once replaced the totality of my blood with the same to keep myself disease free, young looking, and essentially indestructible. The forensics agents will know this handiwork for mine.

And then they will know that at least one of my medical laboratories escaped their detection and their torches. They will fear that. No matter that I gave my word to that frowning judge that I had been reformed, no matter that the prison therapist holds papers signed to that effect, no matter that I’ve personally endeavoured to become and remain honest, forthright, and supportive; one look at my lair will remind them of what I used to be, what they fear I might still be, and that will be enough. That will be the end. I will go back to the human zoo.

And I cannot have that. I’ve worked too hard to be forgotten to allow them to remember.

I take off the bloody gloves and apron and put them in my incinerator, where they join my clothing from earlier tonight. I take a shower and dress—jeans, a tee-shirt, another nondescript wash-greyed hoodie: the uniform of the youth I appear to number among. Then I sit in a dusty, plush chair beside the cot in the recovery room and I wait for her to wake. The only choice that seems left to me is the very one I had been trying to avoid from the start of this whole mess—the choice to go bad, again. I’ve saved her life, but in doing so, I’ve condemned us both.

Fool. Better to have let her died in that garage. Only, her eyes had been so green, and so sad…

I hate myself. I hate that the Power Pussy might have been right: that the only place for me is jail; that the world would be better off without me; that it’s a shame I survived her last, powerful assault.

When she wakes, the first thing the young woman says is, “You’re Proffes—”

I don’t let her finish. “Please don’t say that name. I don’t like it.”

Her sentence stutters to a halt, unsaid words tumbling from between her teeth to crash into her lap. She looks down at them, wringing them into the light cotton sheets, and nods.

“Olly,” I say.

Her face wrinkles up. “Olly?”

“Oliver.”

The confusion clears, clouds parting, and she flashes a quirky little gap between her two front teeth at me. “Really? Seriously? Oliver?”

I resist the urge to bare my own teeth at her. “Yes.”

“Okay. Olly. I’m Rachel.” Then she peers under the sheet. She cannot possibly see the tight, neat little rows of sutures through the scrubs (or perhaps she can, who knows what powers people are being born into nowadays?), but she nods as if she approves and says, “Thank you.”

“I couldn’t let you die.”

“The Prof would have.”

“I’m Olly.”

She nods. “Okay.”

“Are you thirsty?” I point to a bottle of water on the bedside table.

She makes a point of checking the cap before she drinks, but I cannot blame her. Of course, she also does not know that I’ve ways of poisoning water through plastic, but I won’t tell her that. Besides, I haven’t done so.

“So,” she says. “Thank you.”

I snort, I can’t help it. It’s a horribly ungentlemanly sound, but my disbelief is too profound.

“Don’t laugh. I mean it,” she says.

“I’m laughing because you mean it. Rachel.” I ask, “How old are you?”

She blushes, a crimson flag flapping across a freckled nose, and I curse myself this weakness, this fascination with the human animal that has never managed to ebb, even after all that time in solitary confinement.

“Twenty-three,” she says. She is lying—her eyes shift to the left slightly, she wets her lips, her breathing increases fractionally. I see it plain as a road sign on a highway. I also saw her ID when I cleaned out her backpack. She is twenty-seven.

“Twenty-three,” I allow. “I was put into prison when you were eight years old. I did fifteen years of a life sentence and was released early on parole for good behaviour and a genuine desire to reform. The year prior to my sentencing I languished in a city cell, and the two before that I spent mostly tucked away completing my very last weapon. Therefore, the last memory you can possibly have of the ‘Prof,’ as you so glibly call him, was from when you were six.” I sit forward. “Rachel, my dear, can you really say that at six years old you understood what it meant to have an honest to goodness supervillain terrorizing your home?”

She shakes her head, the blush draining away and leaving those same freckles to stand out against her glowing pale skin like ink splattered on vellum.

“That is why I laughed. It amuses me that I’ve lived so long that someone like you is saying thank you to me. Ah, and I see another question there. Yes?”

“You don’t look old enough,” she says softly.

I smile and flex a fist. “I age very, very slowly.”

“Well, I know that. I just meant, is that part of the…you know, how you were born?”

“No,” I say. “I did it to myself.”

“Do you regret it?”

I flop back in my chair, blinking. No one has ever asked me that before. I’ve never asked myself. “I don’t know,” I admit. “Would you?”

She shrugs, and then winces, pressing one palm against her shoulder. “Maybe,” she admits. “I always thought that part of the stories was a bit sad. That the Prof has to live forever with what he’s done.”

“No, not forever,” I demur. “Just a very long time. May I ask, what stories?”

“Um! Oh, you know, social science—recent history. I had to do a course on the Superhero Age, in school. I was thinking of specializing in Vigilantism.”

“A law student, then.”

“Yes.”

“How urbane.”

“Yes, it sort of is, isn’t it?” She smiles faintly. “What is it about superheroes that attracts us mousy sorts?”

“I could say something uncharitable about ass-hugging spandex and cock cups, but I don’t think that would apply to you.”

“Cape Bunnies?” she asks, with a grin. “No, definitely not my style.”

“Cape Bunn—actually, I absolutely have no desire to know.” I stand. I feel weary in a way that has nothing to do with my age. “If you are feeling up to it, Rachel, may I interest you in some lunch?”

“Actually, I should go,” she says. “I feel fantastic! I mean, this is incredible. What you did. I thought I was a goner.”

“You nearly were,” I say.

“And thank you, again. But my mom must be freaking out. I should go to a hospital or something. At least call her.”

“Oh, Rachel,” I say softly. “You’ve studied supervillians. You know what my answer to that has to be.”

She is quiet for a moment, and then those beautiful green eyes go wide. “No,” she says.

“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to trade my freedom for yours. I thought I was doing good. For once.”

“But…but,” she stutters.

“I can’t.”

She blinks and then curses. “Stupid, I’m not talking about that! I mean, they can’t really think that about you, can they? You saved my life. This…this isn’t a bad thing!”

I laugh again. “Are you defending me? Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Don’t condescend to me!” she snaps. “That’s not fair. You’ve done your time. You saved me. Isn’t that enough for them?”

“Oh, Rachel. You certainly do have a pleasant view of the world.”

“Don’t call me naive!” The way she spits it makes me think that she says this quite often.

“I’m not,” I say. “Only optimistic.” I gesture through the door. “The kitchen is there. I will leave the door unlocked. I’ve a closet through there—take whatever you’d like. I’m afraid your clothing was too bloody.”

“Fine,” she snarls.

I nod once and make my way into the kitchen, closing the door behind me to leave her to rage and weep in privacy. I know from personal experience how embarrassing it is to realize that your freedom has been forcefully taken from you, in public.

I built this particular laboratory-cum-bolthole in the 1950s, back when the world feared nuclear strikes. I was a different man then, though no less technologically apt, and so it has been outfitted with all manner of tunnels and closets, storage chambers, libraries, and bedrooms. The fridge keeps food fresh indefinitely, so the loaf of bread, basket of tomatoes and head of lettuce I left here in1964 are still fit makings for sandwiches. I also open a can of soup for us to share.

She comes out of the recovery room nine thousand and sixty-six seconds—fifteen point eleven minutes—after; a whole three minutes longer than I had estimated she would take. There is stubbornness in her that I had not anticipated, but for which I should have been prepared. She did not die in that garage, and it takes great courage and tenacity to beat off the Grim Reaper.

“I’m sorry, Oliver,” she says, and sits in the plastic chair. I suppose the look is called “retro” now, but this kitchen was once the height of taste.

“Why are you apologizing to me?” I set a bowl in front of her. She doesn’t even shoot me a suspicious look; I suppose she’s decided to take the farce of believing me a good person to its conclusion.

“It sucks that you’re so sure people are going to hate you.”

“Aren’t they?”

She pouts miserably and sips her soup. It’s better than the rage I had been expecting, or an escape attempt. I wasn’t looking forward to having to chase her down and wrangle her into a straitjacket, or drug her into acquiescence. I would hate to have to dim that keen gaze of hers.

I sit down opposite her and point to her textbook, propped up on my toaster oven for me to read as I stirred the soup. It had been in the bloody backpack I stripped from her, and seemed sanitary enough to save. Her cell phone, I destroyed.

“This is advanced, Rachel,” I say. “Are you enjoying it?”

She flicks her eyes to the book. “You’ve read it.”

“Nearly finished. I read fast.”

“You didn’t flip to the end?”

“Should I?”

“No,” she blurts. “No. Go at your own pace. I just…I mean, I do like it,” she said. “Especially the stuff about supervillain reformation.”

I sigh and set down my spoon. “Oh, Rachel.”

“I’m serious, Oliver! Just let me make a phone call. I promise, no one will arrest you. I won’t even tell them I met you.”

“You won’t have to.”

She slams her fists into the tabletop, the perfect picture of childish frustration.  “You can’t keep me here forever.”

“I can,” I say. “It is physically possible. What you mean to say is, ‘You don’t want to keep me here forever.’”

She goes still. “Do you want to?”

I can. I know I can. I can be like one of those men who kidnaps a young lady and locks her in his basement for twenty years, forcing her to become dependent on him, forcing her to love him. But I don’t want to. I’ve nothing but distaste for men who can’t earn love, and feel the need to steal it. Cowards.

“No,” I say.

“Then why are you hesitating? Let me go.”

“Not until you’re fully healed, at least,” I bargain. I’m not used to bargaining. Giving demands, yes. But begging, never. “When no trace of what I’ve done remains. Is that acceptable? But in return, you must not try to escape. You could hurt yourself worse, and frankly I don’t want to employ the kind of force that would be required to keep you. That is my deal.”

“You promise?”

I sneer. “I don’t break promises.”

“I know,” she says. “I read about that, too. Okay. It’s a deal.”

I spend the night working on schematics for a memory machine. I’ve never tampered with the mind of another before—I respect intellect far too much to go mucking about in someone’s grey matter like a child in a tide pool—but I have no other choice. Rachel cannot remember our time together.

Rachel sleeps in one of the spare bedrooms. She enjoyed watching old movies all afternoon, and I confess I enjoyed sitting beside her on the sofa. We had frozen pizza for dinner, and her gaze had spent almost as much time on the screen as on my face.

In the morning, my blueprints are ready and my chemicals begin to simmer on Bunsen burners. I leave the lab and find her at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and flipping through my scrapbook. It’s filled with newspaper articles and photos, wanted posters and DVDs of news broadcasts. I’ve never thought to keep it in a safe or to put it away somewhere because, besides Miss Rachel, no one has ever been to this bolthole but me.

“You found the soymilk, I see,” I say. She nods and doesn’t look up from her intense perusal of a favourite article of mine, the only one where the reporter got it. “And my book.”

“It’s like a shrine,” she says. “I thought you’d hate all these superheroes, but there’s just as much in here about them as you.”

“I’ve great respect for anyone who wants to better the world.” I touch the side of the coffeepot —still warm. I pour myself a cup and sit across from her.

“See… that’s what’s freaking me out, a bit,” she says. “You’re such a…”

“What?”

“You seem like such a sweet guy.”

I laugh again.

“What?”

“Don’t mistake my youth for sweetness.”

“I’m not, but…I don’t know, you’re not a supervillain.”

“I’m not a superhero, either.”

“You can be something in the middle. You can just be a nice guy.”

“I’ve never been just a ‘nice guy,’ Rachel. Not even before.”

“I think you’re being one now.”  She leans across the table and kisses me. I don’t close my eyes, or move my mouth. This is a surprise too, but an acceptable one.

When she sits back, I ask, “Is this why you were studying my face so intently last night while you pretended to watch movies?”

She blushes again, and it’s fascinating. “Shut up,” she mumbles.

I smile. “Are you a Cape Bunny after all, Miss Rachel?”

“A Labcoat Bunny, maybe,” she says. “I’ve always gone for brain over brawn.”

“Who are you lashing out against,” I ask calmly, my tone probably just this side of too cool, “that you think kissing the man who has kidnapped you is a good idea?”

Rachel drops back down into her seat. “Way to ruin the moment, Romeo.”

“That is not an answer.”

“No one!”

“And, that, dear Rachel, is a lie.”

She throws up her hands. “I don’t know, okay! My mother! The school! The courts! The whole stupid system! A big stupid world that says the man who saved my life has to go to jail for it!”

“I am part of the revenge scheme, then,” I say. “If you come out of your captivity loving your captor, then they cannot possibly think I am evil. You have it all planned out, my personal redemption. Or perhaps this is a way to earn a seat in that big-ticket law school?”

She stares at me, slack jawed, a storm brewing behind those beautiful green eyes. “You’re a bit of a dick, you know that?”

“That is what the Crimson Cunt used to—”

“Don’t call her that.”

“Why not? The Super Slut won’t hear me say it. Not under all this concrete.”

“Shut up!”

“Why?” I sneer. “Protecting a heroine you’ve never met?”

“She deserves better, even from you!”

“Oh, have I ruined your image of me, Rachel? Am I not sweet and misunderstood anymore?”

“You still shouldn’t—”

“What, hate her? She put me in jail!” I copy her and slam my fists on the tabletop. My mug topples, hot liquid splashing out between us. “I think I’ve a right to be bitter about that.”

“But it was for the good! It made you better.”

“No, it made me cowed. I’ve lost all my ambition, dear Rachel. And that is why I am just a normal citizen. I am too tired.”

“But Divine—”

“Don’t say her name, either!”

Rachel stands and pounds her fists on the table again, shaking my fallen mug, and I stand as well, too furious to want to be shorter than her.

“Asshole!” she snarls.

“And she was a ball-breaker on a power trip. She was no better for the city than I! The only difference was that she didn’t have the gumption, the ambition, the foresight to do what had to be done! I was the only one who saw! Me.  She towed the line. She kept the status quo. I was trying to change the world! She was just a stupid blonde bimbo with huge tits and a small brain—”

“Don’t talk about my mother that way!”

Oh.

I drop back down into my seat, knees giving way without my say-so. “Well, this is a turn,” I admit.

“Everyone knows!” she spits. “It’s hard to miss. Same eyes, same cheekbones.”

“I’ve never seen your mother’s eyes and cheekbones.”

“What, were you living under a rock when she unmasked?”

I smile, and it’s thin and bitter. “I was in solitary confinement for five years. By the time I got out, it must have been old news. And I had no stomach to look up my old nemesis.”

Rachel looks away, and her eyes are bright with tears that don’t skitter down her cheeks. I wonder if they are for her mother, or for herself, or because I’ve said such terrible things and her opinion of me has diminished. They are certainly not because she pities me.

Nobody pities me. I got, as I am quite often reminded, exactly what I deserved.

“What does your mother do now?” I ask, after the silence has become unbearable. There is nothing to count or calculate in the silence, besides the precise, quiet click of the second hand ticking ever onward, ever onward, while I am left behind.

“Socialite,” Rachel says. “Cars. Money. Married a real estate developer.”

“Is he your father?”

She swings her gaze back to me, sharp. “Why would you ask that?”

“Why does the notion that he might not be offend you?”

Her lips pucker, and with that scowl, I can see it: the pissy frown, the stubborn thrust of her chin. There is the Fantastic Floozy, hating me through her daughter.

“It doesn’t,” she lies. She twists her hands in front of her again. “Fine, it does. I don’t know, okay? I don’t think she knows. She wants it to be him.”

“So do you,” I press. “Because that would make you normal.”

She looks up brusquely.

“Please, Rachel,” I say. “I am quite clever. Don’t insult us both by forgetting. The way you do your hair, your clothes, the law school ambitions, it all screams ‘I don’t want to be like my mother.’ Which, if your mother is a superheroine, probably means that you are also desperate to not be one of…us.”

“I’m not,” she whispers.

“I dare say that if you have no desire to, then you won’t be,” I agree. I lean forward to impart my great secret. She’s the first I’ve told and I don’t know why I’m sharing it. Only, perhaps, that it will make her less miserable. “Here is something they never tell anyone: if you don’t use your powers, if you don’t flex that extra little muscle in your grey, squishy brain, it will not develop. It will atrophy and die. Why do you think there are so few of us now? Nobody wants to be a hero.”

“Really?” she whispers, awed, hatred draining from her face.

“Really,” I say. “Especially after the sort of example your mother set.”

Rachel rocks back again, the furious line between her eyebrows returning, and yes, I recognize that, too, have seen that above a red domino mask before.

“Why do you say things like that?” she asks, hands thrown skyward in exasperation. She winces.

“Don’t rip your stitches, my dear,” I admonish.

“Don’t change the subject! You wouldn’t talk about the Kamelion Kid that way, or Wild West, or…any of them! You’d have respect! What about The Tesla? You respect him. I’ve seen the pictures on your wall and you—why are you laughing?”

And I am laughing. I am guffawing like the bawdy, brawling youth I resemble. “Because I am The Tesla!”

She rocks back on her heels, eyes comically wide and then suspiciously narrow. “But you…Prof killed The Tesla.”

“In a sense, he did.”

Her eyes jump between me and the door to my lab—the only door locked to Rachel—and back to me. “You were a hero first.”

“Yes.”

“And it didn’t work, did it?”

“…no.”

“Because people…people don’t want to change. Don’t want to think.”

“Yes. My plans would have been good for society. Would have forced changes for the better. But people just want a hero to keep things the way they already are.”

She looks at her law textbook, which rests exactly where I had left it the night before, propped on the toaster oven.

“So you made it look like The Tesla was dead.”

“Heroes can save the world. But villains can change it, Rachel.”

She looks up. “I think I want to hate you, Olly, but I can’t figure out if I should.”

“It’s okay if you hate me,” I say. “I won’t mind.”

“Yes, I think you would,” she says. She flattens her right palm over her left shoulder.

We sit like that for a long moment. I forget to count the seconds. Time flies when I am around Rachel, and I find that I am beginning to enjoy it.

Rachel sulks in her room for the afternoon, which bothers me not at all, as I’ve experiments to attend. When I come back out, she is sullenly reading her textbook on the sofa, and she has found the beer. One open bottle is beside her elbow and three empty ones are on the floor.

“It’s not wise to drink when you’re on antibiotics,” I say, wiping my hands on my labcoat. They leave iridescent green smears on the fabric, but it’s completely non-toxic or I would not be exposing her to it.

“I’m not on antibiotics,” she mutters mulishly.

“Yes, you are,” I counter. “There is a slow-release tablet under your skin near the wound.”

She makes a face and pushes away her textbook. It slaps onto the carpet.“That’s just gross.”

“But efficient.”

She looks up, gaze suddenly tight. “What else did you put in me?”

I walk over and take away her beer. And then, because it would be a waste of booze to dump it down the sink, and I have been on a limited income since I ceased robbing banks, and because I enjoy the perverseness of having my lips on the same bottlemouth as hers after having so recently admonished her for kissing me, I take a drink.

“Not that, if that’s what you’re implying, my dear Rachel,” I say. She blinks hard, my innuendo sinking home.

“What? What, no! I didn’t mean…”

“I’m more of gentleman than that.”

“I get that!” she splutters. “I just mean…where did you get the replacement blood? What kind of stitches? Am I bionic now?”

“No more than you were before,” I say. “Nanobots are actively knitting the torn flesh back together, but they will die in a week and your liver will flush them from your system. The stitches and sutures are biodegradable and will dissolve by then. The rest of the antibiotic tablet will be gone in two or three days, and the very small infusion of my vitality serum only gave your immune system a boost and your regenerative drive a bit of extra gas. You are in all ways, my dear Rachel, utterly and completely in-extraordinary. Your greatest fear is unrealized.” I finish off the beer with a swig, liking the way her green eyes follow the line of my throat as I swallow, and then go to the kitchen and retrieve two more.

I hand one to her and flop down onto the sofa beside her. She curls into a corner to give me enough room and then, after eyeing the mess on my coat, thrusts impertinent—and freezing!—toes under my thigh. “Dear me, Rachel, stepping up your campaign?”

“You started it,” she says. “Re-started it. With the…bottle thingy.”

I arch a teasing eyebrow. “Bottle thingy?”

She shakes her head. “I think I’m a little drunk.”

“I think you are,” I agree.

“Enabler,” she says, and we clink beers. She drinks and this time I watch her. Her throat is, in every way, normal. Boring. I cannot stop looking at it. Her toes wiggle. “How can you read me so well?” she asks. “I mean, I didn’t even have to say, ‘I’m scared of turning into my mom,’ but you knew.”

I shrug. “I’m a great student of the human creature. We all say so much without saying a thing.”

“Do you ever say more than you want to?”

I smile secretively, a flash of teeth that I know will infuriate her with its vagueness. “Rarely, any more. I’ve had a long time to learn to control my, as poker players would call them, ‘tells.’”

“Hmph,” she mutters and takes another drink. I swallow some of my beer to distract myself.  She wriggles her toes again, and pushes them further. Soon they will brush right against my…but I assume that is the point.

“Careful, Rachel,” I warn. “Are you certain this is something you want to do?”

“Yes.”

“You are drunk and you want revenge on your mother.”

“Maybe. Maybe I want to thank you for saving my life. Maybe I want to reward you for being a good guy.”

“What if I don’t want your thanks, or your reward?” I ask.

She smiles and her big toe tickles the undercurve of my testes. “Don’t you?” she asks, and her expression is salacious. I provided her with no bra, I had none to give, and under my borrowed tee-shirt her nipples are pert.

“I do.” I set aside both of our beers and reach for her. She comes into my arms, gladly, little mouth wet and insistent against mine as she wriggles her way onto my lap. Iridescent green smears up her thighs. “But maybe…oh!” I gasp into her mouth as clever little fingers work their way inside my waistband. I return the favour. Intelligence must be rewarded.

“Maybe?” she prompts, pressing down against my hand.

“Maybe I just want revenge on your mother, too.”

She jerks back as if I’ve bitten her. “Oh my god, how can one man be such a dick?”

I press upwards so her pelvis comes in contact with the part of my anatomy in discussion. “I am honest, Rachel. There is a difference.”

She sits back, arms crossing over the breasts I hadn’t yet touched. “An honest supervillian,” she scoffs.

I stand, dumping her onto the floor. “I think we’re done here.”

“Are we, Profess—”

“I’ve asked you not to call me that!”

She cowers back from my anger. Then it fuels her. “Fuck you, Olly,” she says, standing.

“I thought that was the idea,” I agree, “but apparently not.”

“You’re nothing like I thought you’d be!”

I laugh again. “And how could you have had any concept of how I’d be? Did the Dynamic Dyke tell stories? I bet she did. And you felt sorry for me. The poor Professor, beat up by mommy, hated – like you were. An outcast, like you were. Not good enough, like you were. Was I your imaginary friend, Rachel? Did you write my name in hearts on your binders? Did you fantasize about me?”

“Shut up!” she screams.

Her cheeks are red again, her eyes glistening, her mouth bruised, and I want to grab her, kiss her, feel her ass through the borrowed sweatpants. Instead I fold my hands behind my back, because I told the truth before—I am a gentleman. I say nothing.

“You’re not supposed to be like this!”

“Be like what?” I ask, again. “Explain, Rachel.”

She collapses. It’s a slow folding inward, knees and stomach first, face in her hands, physicality followed by emotion as she sobs into the carpet. I stand above her and wait, because she deserves this cry. Crying helps people engage with their emotions, or so I’m told.

When her sobbing slows, precisely one thousand six hundred and seventy-three seconds later—twenty-seven point nine minutes—she unfolds and stands, wiping her nose. I offer her a handkerchief from the pocket of my labcoat, and she takes it and turns her back to me, cleaning up her face.

She picks up the textbook. She opens it to the back, to those useless blank pages that are the fault of how books are bound, and for the first time in a very, very long time, I am shocked.

The back of the book has been collaged with photographs. Of me.

Computer printouts of me when I was the Prof. Newspaper clippings of my trial. Me, walking down the street, hunched into the shadow of my sweater’s hood. Me, buying soymilk. Me, through the window of the shitty apartment on which Oliver Munsen can barely afford to pay rent. Me, three days ago, cutting through that same parking garage.

Genuine joy floods my blood. A small shot of adrenaline seethes up into my brain and I can’t help the smile, because I missed this, I really did. “Oh, Rachel. Are you my stalker? How novel! I’ve never had a stalker before.”

She snaps the cover shut. “I’m not a stalker.”

“Just an admirer?” I ask, struggling to keep the condensation out of my voice. “Or do you want me to teach you how to be a villain? Really get back at mommy dearest?” Her expression sours. “Ah. But you already know that you can’t be. You knew before I told you that you were born boring. So this is the next best thing.” I reach out, grasp her elbows lightly, rub my callused thumbs across the tender flesh on the inside of them. She shivers. “Tell me, how were you going to do it, Rachel? Were you going to accidentally bump into me in that parking garage? Were you going to spill a beer on me in a bar? Buy me a coffee at my favourite cafe? Surely getting shot was not in the plan.”

“It’s not like that!” she says, but her eyes are closed, her lashes fluttering. Her chest bobs as she tries to catch her breath.

“Then what is it like?”

“I don’t know! I just…I just saw you one day, okay? I recognized you, from mom’s pictures on the wall, and I thought, you know, I should tell her. But I thought I would follow you first, you know, figure out where you live, or something.”

“Except that I wasn’t being dastardly and villainous.”

“You sat in the bookstore and read a whole magazine. And then you paid for it.”

I smirk. “How shocking.”

“For me it was.” She tips forward, breasts squishing, hot and soft, against my chest. “The kinds of stories I heard about you as a kid…”

“And you were fascinated.”

“And I was fascinated.”

“And so you followed me.”

“I followed you.”

“And then what, my dear Rachel?”

She wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me down for a kiss I don’t resist.

“You seemed so lonely,” she says, breath puffing into my mouth. “Are you lonely, Olly?”

“Oh, yes.” I pick her up and carry her off to her bedroom.

The mattress is new, she is the first person to ever have slept on it, but it still squeaks. After, she drops off, satisfied, mumbling amusing endearments about how wonderful it is to make love to someone who is so studious, makes such a thorough examination of his subjects.

Tonight I decide to sleep. I don’t do it very often, but I don’t want to be awake anymore. I don’t want to think. I close my eyes and force my dreams to stay away.

In the morning, I’m troubled.  I think I’ve made a very bad choice, but I’m not sure how to rectify it. I am not even sure how to articulate it.

Rachel was right. I am lonely. I am desperately, painfully lonely. And I will be for the rest of my unnaturally long life. But Rachel is lonely, too. Desperate in her own way, desperate for the approval of a mother I can only assume was distant and busy in Rachel’s youth, and then too famous and busy in her adolescence. Rachel wants to be nothing like her mother, wants to hurt her, punish her, and yet…wants to impress her so very badly that she is willing to take the ultimate step, to profess love for a man her mother once hated, to ‘fix him,’ to ‘make him better.’ To make him, me, good.

Only, Rachel doesn’t understand. I don’t want to be better, or good, or saved. I just want to live my boring, in-extraordinary life in peace and quiet, and then die. I don’t want to be her experiment. And yet her fierce little kisses…her wide green eyes…

I look down at the schematics under my elbow and sigh. The scent of burning bacon wafts in through the vents that lead to the kitchen, and the utter domesticity of it plucks at the back of my eyes, heating them. I ‘m still a fool, and I’m no less in over my head than I was two days ago.

I abandon the lab and rescue my good iron skillet from the madwoman who has pushed her way into my life. When she turns her face up for a kiss, I give it to her, and everything else she asks for, too.

And I can have this, because I am not a supervillain any more.  But I am not a superhero either. If I was, I could turn her away, like I should.

After lunch, I hand her my cell phone. It has been boosted so that the signal can pass through concrete bunker walls, but cannot be tracked back to its location.

“What’s that for?” she asks.

“Call your mother,” I say. “Tell her you’re okay. You’re just staying with a friend. The shooting freaked you out.”

She frowns. “What if I don’t want to?”

“You were arguing that I should let you call.”

“Yeah, before.”

“Rachel,” I admonish. “Do you really want her frantically looking for you?”

She pales. I imagine what it must have been like for her when she ran away from home for the first time. “No, guess not,” she mumbles and dials a number. “Yeah, hi Mom. No, no, I’m cool. Yeah, decided to stay with a friend instead of coming home from campus this weekend. No, no, it’s fine. I’m fine. There’s no need for the guilt trip! I said I’m fine! God!…okay. Right. Sorry. Okay. I’ll see you next…” she looks at me. “Next Saturday?” I nod. “Next Saturday. Right. Fine. I love you, too.” She hangs up and places the phone between us. “There, happy?”

“Yes. I am curious Rachel, how do you intend on springing me on your mother? And how will you keep her from punching my face clear off?”

She picks at her cuticles. “I hadn’t really thought that far ahead.”

“I gathered.” I stand from the table and go to do the dishes. I can’t abide a mess.

She comes up behind me and wraps her arms around my waist and presses her cheek against my back, and asks, “What do you want to do this afternoon?”

“Whatever you want,” I say. “I’m all yours.” I turn in her arms to find her grinning. She believes me, whole-heartedly, and she should. I never lie, and it’s the truth. For now.

When the week is over, I sit her down on my operating table and carefully poke around the bullet wound. In the x-ray, the bones appear healed without a scar. Her skin is dewy and unmarked. The stitches have dissolved and a scan with a handheld remote shows that the nanobots are all dead and ninety-three percent have been flushed from her system. I anticipate the other seven percent will be gone after her next trip to the toilet.

I do another scan, a bit lower down, but there is nothing there to be concerned about, either. We have not been using prophylactics, but I’ve been sterile since I used the serum. It was a personal choice. I had no desire to outlive my grandchildren.

Rachel hops from the table, bare feet on the white tile, and grins. “It’s Saturday!” she says.

“Yes, it is.”

“Time to go!”

“Yes.”

She takes my hand. “And you’re coming with me, Olly. You’re coming with me and then they’ll see, they’ll all see. You’re different now. You’re a good man.”

I smile and close my fingers around hers and, for the first time in many decades, I lie. “Yes, I am, thank you.” I use our twined fingers to pull her into the kitchen. “Celebratory drink before we go?”

She grins. “Gonna open that champagne I saw in the back of the fridge?”

I laugh. “Clever Rachel. I can’t hide anything from you.”

Only I can. I am. When I pop the cork she shrieks in delight. Every ticking second of her happiness stabs at me like a branding iron and dagger all in one.

I thought I would need a whole machine, a gun, a delivery device, but in the end my research and experiments offered up a far more simplistic solution: rohypnol. Except that it is created by me, of course, so it’s programmable, intelligent in the way the cheap, pathetic drug available to desperate, stupid children in night clubs is not. My drug knows which memories to take away.

Clever, beautiful, dear Rachel trusts me. I pour our drinks and hand her the glass that is meant for her. I smile and chat with her as she sips, pretending to be oblivious as her eyelids slip downwards, giving her no clue that there is anything amiss.

I catch both her and the glass before they hit the floor. Tonight she will wake in her own bed. She will honestly remember spending the week with a friend she then had a fight with, and no longer speaks to. She will wonder what happened to her backpack, her cell phone, her law textbook. She will not remember the Prof, or The Tesla. Her mother will be annoyed that she will have to tell her the stories over again, stories that Rachel should have internalized during her childhood.

And I will shut down this hidey-hole and go back to my apartment and cash my welfare cheque and watch television. And it will be good. It will be as it should be.

The stupid boy with the gun might have been the bad guy in our little melodrama, but I am the villain.

I am the coward.

[wayward-idiots]

The Apology of Gabriel, pt19

If you’re looking for remorse, look no further than literally anywhere but this. It’s not that kind of apology.

Characters: Sam, Gabriel, Dean, Castiel, Billie Pairings: Ambiguous/Gen Summary: Sam decides to play his role. Gabriel guest stars as “guy who shows up to call them all idiots”. WARNINGS: Sam’s aversion to angels as caused by repeated trauma.

[first] [prev]

"Sam, Sam, Sam," Gabriel says, strolling into the room. "Another terrible decision? I thought we were making progress, here."

"It was your idea!" Sam says.

"This? This was never my idea. You were never supposed to be the one doing it," says Gabriel. "Didn't you get my message in a bottle?"

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. "Would it kill you to just say something for once?"

"It's tough, being the Messenger and the Trickster. I told you, Sam. This Is The End. You're playing a role in the apocalypse again, but this time you're starring as yourself. Not Death."

"I'm not letting Dean do it," Sam insists.

Dean opens his mouth, and Gabriel mutes him with a flick of his hand. "I know," he says. "And Castiel – well. He's the leader Heaven needs, even if he doesn't want to be. But me, I'm not fit to lead. And I'm sure as hell not going up against Michael, or working with Lucifer. I'll be Death."

"No pornstars," says Sam. "Except dead ones. No Vegas, except for murders and overdoses. No – "

"No Heaven. No big brothers telling me what to do, no little brothers giving me big sad eyes, no civil wars, no family dinners. Just me, and the only people who can't annoy me. Dead ones."

"You can't."

"Sure I can. I make the deal with Death, and you three go kill Michael. Everybody wins, and no one has to know I was ever involved. Of course, that would've been easier if you hadn't gone haring off to do this yourself instead of letting me handle it."

"What if we fail? If Michael gets the scythe—"

"Michael's not going anywhere near the scythe. Believe me."

Dean says something – or mouths it, rather – and then waves at Gabriel angrily with the arm Castiel isn't gripping. Gabriel unmutes him with a sigh.

"If you're going to hide as Death – and you're not going to give us the scythe – "

"Uh, that thing could kill me," Gabriel says.

" – then how is you becoming Death going to help us?"

"Who says any of this was about helping you? Maybe I was just letting Sammy here solve something before I used my ticket out, even if it was just a riddle."

"Gabriel," Sam said, without a trace of disappointment or fear, because he knew Gabriel was just trying to get a rise out of Dean. Knew Gabriel wasn't hanging them out to dry the way he knew the sun revolved around the earth.

Gabriel turns his gaze back on Sam. His eyes harden, going cold. "That faith is gonna be the death of you, Sam."

"Probably," he acknowledges.

"If – if – Death accepts the bargain. I won't be needing this," he holds up his archangel blade, "or my Grace."

Sam stares.

Gabriel shrugs. "Don't look so shocked, kiddo. If it didn't come with phenomenal cosmic powers, I'd have carved out every scrap of everything that made me an angel years ago."

"So, what, you're going to hand over your Grace to Cass? Just like that?"

Gabriel throws his head back and laughs, a touch cruelly, like Dean's just told a funny joke. "No," he says. "You're going to need all the angels you can get. And sorry, baby bro, but you don't have the best track record with phenomenal cosmic power."

Cass makes a little fair enough kind of gesture.

"Then who," says Dean, eyeing him.

"No," Sam says. "Gabriel - "

"I told you. You're the horse I'm betting on here, Sam."

"Give it to Dean."

"It's you, or nobody."

"Why?"

"I have faith," he says, with a twisted little smile.

Sam really, really doesn't feel like laughing at the joke.

Gabriel lifts a hand, and every one of the candles lights.

"Gabe—" He says, uselessly, drowned out by Gabriel chanting the invocation.

There's a silence when he finishes the spell, and then –

"Billie?" Dean says in disbelief.

"Hello, gentlemen," says Billie, a little stiffly.

Sam turns to Dean, wide-eyed.

"We killed you," says Dean. As if she needs a reminder. "How are you—"

"When Death dies, the next Reaper to die takes on the mantle. Guess I just got lucky."

Dean killed Death and then sent a new one along. Someday, Sam thinks, they'll finally die and the entire universe will heave a sigh of relief that it can once again reach equilibrium. Assuming they don't just destroy the entire thing on accident.

Cass looks as alarmed as Sam feels. This pitch would be hard enough without the new Death being someone they'd killed.

Gabriel looks unconcerned. "Billie," he says. "You don't want to be Death, do you?"

"There isn't exactly a career fair, for dead Reapers," she says. "I am Death. What I want does not matter."

"What if it did?" Asks Gabriel. "What if what you wanted was not just relevant, but the key to us, too, getting the key to what we want?"

"And why should I help you?" She asks, bluntly.

Gabriel makes a noise like a buzzer. "That's not the right question."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I benefit from this. And so do these clowns. But that's just the why for me, for being willing. The question you should be asking is, what's the catch? Because you already know why you want this."

Her steady gaze falters.

"The catch," he says gently, "is that you can't go back to being a Reaper. You'll be a free agent. And you might not like that so much as you'd expect."

But Sam can see that she feels the draw of temptation nonetheless.

"Do we have a deal?" Gabriel asks, and Sam can't just stay back any more.

"Gabriel," he says. "Are you sure about this?"

"It's the perfect witness protection program," says Gabriel. "Even if Michael destroys everything else, he can't kill Death. And I can send other reapers after my brothers. This is the one place in the universe that my family won't be able to bother me."

And then he understands.

"You're finally getting out for good," Sam says.

"One of us should," says Gabriel, seriously. "Maybe both of us, Sam. It ends bad, if we don't."

Sam looks over his shoulder at Cass and Dean, who are watching them both very closely, Dean still gripping the arm Castiel used to block him from stomping into the ritual circle with usual Dean stubbornness.

"I know you don't feel the same way," says Sam, "but there are some things that are worth fighting for, no matter how bad it ends."

Gabriel looks at him. His expression is inscrutable, some strange and alien light in his eyes, and then he exhales, shaking his head. "You are so mind-bendingly stupid sometimes I wonder how you and those other two muttonheads ever managed to fix ANYTHING," Gabriel says.

Sam shrugs.

He looks to Billie. "Deal or no?"

"Deal," she says.

He looks to Sam. "You in or out?"

"I'm not getting out," Sam says, "so I guess I'm in."

"I need you to say yes," Gabriel tells him, hand settling on his shoulder, grip too tight to be comforting or friendly.

Sam. Doesn't like that. Doesn't even like the word anymore. Especially not drawn out of him. But he says, "Yes."

And Gabriel, bizarrely, grabs him in a hug, yanking Sam down to his level.

He says something in Sam's ear, and when the cold terror that washes over him at those two words fades, he nods. Agreement. Gabriel presses the blade into Sam's hand. "You do it," he says. "I want you to be able to tell the truth when you say you cut my throat and took my Grace. Don't you dare tell them where I went, Winchester."

"Wouldn't dream of it," says Sam.

Gabriel lifts his chin.

Blood trickles out when Sam cuts open his throat, but it's the Grace that curls towards him that makes his heart stutter.

He doesn't want an angel's Grace anywhere near him. Doesn't understand how he can take on Gabriel's Grace at all, unless Lucifer and Gadreel have left him not-quite-human, and that makes him want to be sick even more.

But Gabriel's eyes are fixed on him, steady, intense. There's nothing soft or tender in his gaze but it's reassuring nonetheless.

And he stops fighting it. Lets the Grace settle into him. It's warm, crackling like static electricity or pop rocks, reactive, and nothing at all like Lucifer's, which was like Niagara Falls: cold, fast moving, inescapable. It lacks the pressure of presence, the tension of two consciousnesses tangling together and forcing one to become dominant.

The golden metal is warm in his hand when he lowers it. And he's thinking about which pocket to tuck it into when it leaves his hand, and there's a quiet settling in the back of his – not his head, but his awareness. Sam knows from years of experience with angels that it'll fall into his hand when the time comes.

"The candy factory is yours, kid," says Gabriel. And he turns to Billie.

And Gabriel takes her hand.

And they both disappear without so much as a wingbeat, and Sam is left standing alone, Dean and Cass looking on with wide eyes.

[first] [prev]

[kfawkes]

Time tick-ticks Away - [Eggsy Unwin x Reader]

[Hi! Thanks for the prompt as always sweet anon! I wanted to at least get one out before I have to finish up my costume and get going to Anaheim for the weekend. So I hope you like it!! It’s def about him rescuing reader, but it’s pretty angsty Idk guys I can’t stop myself lol.

As always I use Tristan as your Kingsman Agent name, but I threw in some s/he’s and a y/n this time too for fun lol. Lmk if you don’t like this, and I will keep things either specific to the gender requested (most times its not provided though) or as neutral as possible!)

Pairing: Eggsy x Reader with a bit of Roxy thrown in here and also Merlin :) /some sad time mentions of pre GTC Harry ;)

Words: 2.6k

Warnings: Cursing, pretty angsty, some bloody bits. o.-

—Read on Ao3!]

“Where the fuck is Tristan?” Eggsy asked storming forward with chest raising anxiously, already partially knowing what Merlin’s reply would be.

Knowing what the answer would be didn’t stop him from asking the question however. His brows were crinkled tightly and his hands were gripped into strained fists; pinned to his side.

He needed to know– needed to hear it… Even though he was pretty sure he wasn’t gonna like the answer.

“Eggsy, please, you’ve got to relax. This is–” Roxy started with hands raised passively, stopping Eggsy from entering the room at the door.

He didn’t like that, but of course he didn’t. It was clear now that you were somewhere the Kingsman didn’t want him knowing about, at least not yet; and that only made him worse.

Eggsy pushed against the hands that held him in place, the urgency filling him full. In his agitation he threw his finger accusingly forward, pointing at Merlin with anger seeping off him like flecks of dirt running down a drain.

And he knew… something was terribly wrong.

More wrong than waking to an empty bed this morning. More wrong than the feeling he got when he noticed you’d taken your lucky pistol with you… It was a thick like syrup that stuck to him like tree sap and relaxing was the last thing he could do.

“Rela– are you takin’ a piss, Rox? It’s y/n we’re talkin’ bout here…” Eggsy wouldn’t look to her as she struggled to keep him in place.

He knew it wasn’t her fault, or Merlins for that matter. But they were in his way… keeping him from you. “Was you jus gonna tell me to ‘relax’ an have a seat… expectin’ I’ll say nothin’ bout it while I sit back and watch?”

Eggsy paused breathing deeply as a pained expression swept his otherwise pale face. “I done that before an it got Harry killed… I ain’t doin’ it again.”

Silence spread from him to the others as a reminder of Harry’s death rang once more.

Roxy sighed softly feeling guilty for stopping him now as she pulled her lip in and lowered her hands. “If you were there– you’d be dead too, Eggsy. That… none of that was your fault, and you couldn’t have changed it.”

He released the breath he’d been holding as he chewed his lip nodding shallowly. Eggsy really did know that, but knowing didn’t change the fact that he still felt responsible. That he would feel responsible if he didn’t get to you as soon as he could.

“Yeah, I know… but it’s gonna be if you don’t tell me where y/n is.”

“You already know where s/he, Eggsy.” Roxy stepped back from him, crossing her arms as she approached Merlin by his desk.

And Eggsy did know where you were, but he hoped he was wrong. He hoped you were somewhere else… somewhere with a little less certain death involved. No matter how good you were, this mission was bad news.

Now, he didn’t like using words like ‘foolish’ or ‘stupid’ when it came to you– because you were anything but those things. But going into a mission like this without him… Well, it was bloody fuckin stupid.

‘It’s likely a one way mission’ as Merlin had put it…

A moment later Eggsy pushed his hands through his hair, softening his eyes a fraction. “You never shoulda sent Tristan in without me–without tellin’ me. The fuck you playin’ at, Merlin?”

“Galahad, it was Tristan’s idea… It’s what s/he wanted.” Merlin pulled his cheek between his teeth as he shifted his weight awkwardly as an exasperated sigh left his lips.

“What? Why wou….” He started again with voice full of confusion, a face set perfectly to match.

But Eggsy realized halfway through his question, that he already knew that answer too…

——-

You were scared. Terrified even. You could feel the chills running up and down your spine like fingertips and you knew you had to focus. But how could you focus or think of a way out when you could hardly breathe.

How could you get through this,  any of this when you could hardly keep your mind from wandering to thoughts of your death. And for some damn reason, among all that– Eggsy…

You think you might be dead already honestly cause you’d been beat to shit but all you can feel is the way he kissed you. Instead of sinking into that pain you’re hearing the way he says he loves you. You’re remembering the way he’d throw you over his shoulder and carry you around HQ when things got boring; and how he’d make you watch all those crap movies each night…

At this point you’d give anything to just sit on the couch watching another B action flick with him. You’d even go back to the times he was a drunken mess after Harry died…

Truthfully, anything would be better than this. Better than sitting in a cold damp closet waiting to die.

Things weren’t looking good, you knew that. But there was no way that Eggsy was going in here… no way you’d let him throw everything away on this. And you came pretty damn close to finishing it all, didn’t you?

Just… not close enough.

The plan may have been as perfect as possible, but you just can’t anticipate what humans will do. Not really… You can guess, but really each person is different. You couldn’t anticipate every single possibility either, and this time you predicted wrong.

You’d fucked up and got yourself caught, and now–

A soft echo interrupted your thoughts like a gong ringing in your ear. You could hear the dull clinging of the locks turning and releasing from their prisons in the wall… And you felt the warm wave of light spreading over you as the door slid open in a low screech.

“Grab the Kingsman… It’s time we got some information on the organization that almost took us down, don’t you think boys?” A deep voice called, and all you could see was a silhouette of a tall man with broad shoulders…

Two more figures came towards you, grabbing your arms tightly. You struggled against their strength as best you could, kicking and punching when you broke free– but you didn’t make it far.

The tall man hit you hard in the jaw sending you back into the men that grabbed you. He hit you harder than you’d really been hit before, and it ached.  Bad. You could feel as the warm blood slid from your mouth and down your chin, and you wanted to scream it hurt so fucking bad– but you didn’t.

“That all you got?” You asked full of rage, glaring like daggers with a smile; not showing whoever the fuck this was that they were winning. “You hit like a fucking child.”

The dark figure walked forward slowly, the soft clunk from his shoes echoing around you as he grabbed your cheeks hard; squeezing until your lips pursed in the center. “We’re just getting started.”

——

The entire time Eggsy was looking for you he felt something low in his gut… something creeping and slithering around inside like maggots. That feeling made him more nervous than he wanted to admit or show Roxy, and that made keeping calm really difficult.

It was reassuring however to see how much of the space you’d cleared. But the more bodies he counted, the more worried he felt you were somewhere among them…

He could feel time running out as the panic set in.

“Merlin, you got a read on Tristan yet? S/he okay?” Eggsy asked running down the hall with gun raised high, pushing through the sludge at his feet…

His brows were lined dreadfully and his temples were warm to the touch… He was so afraid of the answer– but also, he sort of knew what he would hear.

“There’s,” Merlin paused over comms and Eggsy shot his eyes to Roxy almost desperately.

“There’s what, Merlin…” Roxy asked stepping closer to Eggsy, trying to remain and failing terribly.

“I’m not reading any life signs aside from you, and Galahad…”

Eggsy lost focus completely as silence gushed over him. His mind blended like a twister and he almost lost his balance as he heard Roxy muffled voice raising in a question; not understand at all… “–you think– what, Merlin?”

But he wasn’t listening anymore, not really.

He was focused solely on the idea of losing you; on the idea that you were lying there somewhere… dead. Eggsy definitely knew before he asked, but the question left his lips anyway. “Th– what’s that mean for…”

“I can’t sa–”

When Merlin spoke again, Eggsy felt the hairs standing straight on the back of his neck. By the time Merlin finished talking, his words had completely faded into full silence. That sickly chill spread over him like a venom poisoning his mind… Paralyzing him.

His eyes were wide, and for a moment he couldn’t feel anything aside from that same sick ache he felt when Harry died… He couldn’t hear anything but a faint ringing deep in his mind.

Their muffled voices blurred until he couldn’t distinguish where one started and another ended. The only thing that pulled him from his thoughts was Roxy shaking him fiercely by the shoulders…

He could see her mouth moving, he could tell she was upset… rushed and panicking, but he couldn’t move. He could hear his name being called faintly from her lips, but she sounded so damn far away.

Each call was a little louder than the last, until finally all of the noise returned in an instant; like a wave smashing him into the hardened sand.

“Eggsy, listen to me!” Roxy paused watching his eyes shifting as he came back to the room… “Y/n is going to be fine, do you hear me? There are lots of reasons Merlin might not be able to read em, you know that…”

He interrupted to protest, but of course he did. “You heard him, yeah? Nothin’s alive down here but us…”

“The only thing I know for sure here, Eggsy– is that you’re wasting time.”

Eggsy’s lips parted lightly at her confession, knowing she was right. He’d been worried about time, yet here he was watching it tick by… if you weren’t already dead, you would be soon if he didn’t get his shit together.

“Yeah,” he pulled his head hurriedly in a nod as he took in a deep breath of air; running his hands over his face. “we better go… uh, thanks, Rox.”

After a shared smile they continued down the empty corridor with more haste than before. Just outside of the last door there were two more dead guards; covered in bright red blood. When Eggsy pushed his hand to the knob he tossed Roxy a nervous look over his shoulder; for some reason he just knew you’d be back there…

“Merlin… S/he in there?”

Silence.

“Merlin, you there, bruv?” He asked again with a bit more urgency in his voice. But still, only silence cackled back in their ears.

“Some kind of block in this section.” Roxy smiled knowingly.

That meant you could be alive, didn’t it?

He pushed through the door with his shoulder, holding his gun ready for anything; scanning each bloodied surface with more and more terror than the last.

And then he saw you.

You were laying on a table, your suit was trashed and tossed to the floor. Roxy walked to a man freshly bleeding out with hands gripping a large knife sticking from his neck…

Clearly all your work, and if not for how terribly you looked he’d of smiled. But how could be when he saw how broken you were? You were laying in your undershirt with your hand hanging almost lifelessly off the edge. Your hair was in a thick mess of blood, and cuts decorated your arms and chest…

Eggsy’s jaw dropped as pain cascaded his exterior. His eyes immediately filled with warm tears as he pulled his mouth into a painful frown inching closer to you. He dropped heavily to the ground beside the slab you laid across; his mouth quivering and whole body shaking forcefully in disbelief.

He raised his hands hesitantly to either side of your bruised and bloodied face. “I’m so sorry… I’m so fuckin’ sorry, luv.”

And at this point, he couldn’t stop the tears from falling down, stinking his cheeks; because he was sure you were dead… He held your face close to his, sobbing into your neck, pulling you closer and still you didn’t move.

“Eggsy… I think…”

“Stop. Don’t you fuckin’ say it, Rox.” When he spoke this time, he looked to your face again. Scanning you like a painting he’d memorized.

Flashes of you smiling and laughing began dancing across the screen of his mind; taunting his sanity vigorously. Eggsy pushed your hair to the side, tracing his thumb over your battered cheek and over your crimson lips…

He pulled his reddened eyes from yours, throwing them to Roxy as if this was all her fault but really it was his. He’d taken too damn long and that guilt was overwhelming.

Roxy looked down, pulling her arms tightly around her chest hugging away the discomfort she felt as she watched her friend falling to pieces. “Eggsy, I–”

But she stopped suddenly, sliding her eyes passed his and to you. You were moving, she was sure of it…

“What is i…” Eggsy asked with eyes full of confusion, but when he realized what Roxy was looking at he knew everything would be okay.

“H-hey, Eggy…” You coughed out with words breaking; sporting what could only be deciphered as a smile. “I… I d-did it.”

“Yeah, you done good, babe.”

You couldn’t feel anything, which was the only comforting thing about this all. Or maybe it wasn’t comforting, and it was terrifying but at this point you didn’t care.

Eggsy was here… and you were alive, at least mostly.

Slowly you slid a trembling hand to the side of his face, a wave of his comfort slipped over you like a blanket. You watched as he shot his face towards Roxy, his eyes no longer heavy or haunted, but hopeful.

“But don’t you ever fuckin’ do that again, ya hear me?” When Eggsy spoke, his voice was soft and sweet like honey as he stroke your chin lightly.

“No promises…” You coughed back, and at that he couldn’t help but laugh.

“Thought you might say that…” Eggsy kissed you softly then stood; scooping you fully into his arms like you weighed nothing at all. “What if I can’t find you next time?”

“You kidding? You’re always g-gonna find m…me.” You placed your head to his neck holding him as tightly as your weakened arms could handle as he pressed his mouth to your forehead; holding it there for a moment, breathing you in.

“That ain’t an answer…” And he was right, it wasn’t really an answer. At least not the one he wanted to hear. But it was the only one you had.

“How about t-this?” You paused to cough again into his chest, pulling him closer. “Where you go, I go…”

Eggsy looked at you smiling clear to his eyes. It might not have been the answer he wanted, but it was one he’d happily settle for. “Where you go, I go, luv.”

[bethofbells]

Solace - A Criminal Minds (Derek/Penelope) fic

On FF.net | On AO3

(I’m rewatching the series and I’m like mid season three and my morcia shipper heart is getting to me)

At the end of a long hard day of seeing the worst humanity has to offer Penelope Garcia likes things to be soft and sweet. Old romantic comedies are a go to on nights when she can’t get graphic images out of her mind. She puts them on, turning the volume down to a pleasant murmur in the background. She likes the sound of people falling in love while she’s cooking dinner, early nineties soundtracks filling her cluttered apartment as she chops up veggies.

Her favorite is You’ve Got Mail. There’s just something about the texture of the film, Meg Ryan’s soft blonde bob and her decidedly taupey monochromatic wardrobe are soothing in a way. It’s the complete opposite of Penelope’s own bright and flashy sense of style, but it fits the character so perfectly she doesn’t mind. It’s comforting when someone leans into their own personality.

She contemplates the seemingly endless monochromatic collection of turtlenecks and slacks that the character owns, getting lost in the feel of the movie. She’s grateful for that. The BAU’s last case, while not the most horrific one she’d ever been subjected to, was so just unrelentingly sad. It had made her feel heavy waking out of the office tonight, melancholia clinging to her like a wet blanket.

She’s half way through a pint of her favorite Ben & Jerry’s, watching Meg Ryan happy-cry into Tom Hank’s arms when her door buzzer sounds. It’s only then that she realizes she’s crying right along with the movie, moving to dash away the moisture running down her face.

A quick glance at the time tells her it’s past midnight, and she can’t help the little thrill of fear that trickles down her spine. It hasn’t been that long since her apartment building was a scene of mayhem, a man hell-bent on killing her stalking the halls. She can still feel the cold metal of the gun Derek had pressed into her hands for protection. Shuddering, she moves to see who’s buzzing.

Her finger presses down on the button, only a slight tremor revealing her anxiety. “H-hello. Who is it?”

”It’s your knight, coming to release you from your tower.”

She smiles, the fear draining out of her completely. “I like my tower just fine, thank you very much. It has high speed wifi and a well stocked freezer.”

She buzzes him up before waiting for a reply, suddenly feeling a bit nervous. It strikes her as odd, but she shakes it off, attributing it to the fact that Derek has never really been to her home when circumstances weren’t dire.

He’s knocking on her door in minutes and she doesn’t have to fake the bright smile that splits across her face when she swings it open.

He’s come straight from the airport, and he looks tired, his travel bag hanging on his shoulder, eyes not their usual brightness. It worries her for a second, but she’s no profiler, doesn’t want to be, so she chalks it up to the exhausting nature of a transcontinental flight and invites him the rest of the way in

”Not that I’m averse to inviting a deliciously handsome and roguish looking gentleman into my boudoir in the middle of the night, but what are you doing here?”

It’s not normal, and they both know it, but Derek has a look on his face that Penelope’s not used to. It’s sad and tired. She has the strongest urge to step forward and wrap her arms around him.

After a long pause, he answers. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

It’s something of a lie, and they both know it, but his expression begs her to accept it and so she does. He moves further into her apartment, dropping his bag on the hardwood with a thunk. “This is the first week the teams been gone since…” He trails off, the mere mention of her attack seems like just one more thing that makes him sad and tired. “… and I know you were probably a little edgy the whole time.”

Somehow they’ve migrated into her little kitchen area, Derek leaning against her island in an almost obscene display of his natural tendency to strike a modelesque pose. Her eyes involuntarily give him a once over. He’s another one of those people who really leans into the image they present to the word. His dark fitted tee accentuating the line of his pecs, the sleeves cutting across his arm in the perfect place to make his biceps seem enormous. Internally she fans herself like a southern belle suddenly accosted with a bout of the vapors. Externally she’s as cool as a cucumber, a slight bite of her bottom lip the only sign of her inner struggle.

Of course he notices the small movement, one of his perfectly sculpted eyebrows arching upward in amusement. He leans forward, reaching up to catch her bottom lip with his thumb. “You alright there, Pen?”

She smiles at him, adopting her most sultry gaze. It’s her only defense against Derek’s charms, to play along with this game of his. It had been like this from day one. She knows his flirtation is not serious, so she responds flippantly. “Oh, I’m more than alright, Agent Morgan. Just enjoying the view.”

It has the desired result. His eyes crinkle at the corners and he lets out an amused laugh, moving in to land a smacking kiss on her cheek. The strange tension is broken, and he moves toward her fridge to rummage through it for leftovers. “I’m starving, baby girl. The jet of ours is seriously lacking in snack department.”

She moves him out of the way, digging around and making him a plate of what she’d had for dinner hours ago. In minutes they’re sitting side by side on her couch, watching the opening scenes of her second favorite romcom. Harry and Sally are arguing when Derek sets his empty plate on the coffee table, a satisfied sigh escaping him.

She catches him staring, a strange feeling fluttering in the pit of her stomach. For the millionth time since she met him she thinks about how unfair it is, the way he can unthinkingly melt her into a gooey puddle and just go about his life like it’s no big deal.

But he has an unusual expression on his face this time, like he needs to say something but just can’t find the words. He opens his mouth, but closes it, awkwardly waiting a second before he tries again. “I missed you.”

It’s her turn to feel awkward. Things have been different between them since her attack. The deep cut of hurt she’d experienced when he’d seemed skeptical about her romantic life was still in the back of her mind, and she’d definitely been calling the other agents more frequently with information when they were out in the field. She couldn’t help it, there was still a thin film of embarrassment. He’d been right, and god her cheeks still flamed when she’d thought about how angry she’d been at him. It was, she knew, a very revelatory response, one that she knew Derek (one of the bureau’s he’d profilers) had picked up on.

”Derek, look, I’m sorry. You were right about Battle. I just–”

”No, stop. You have nothing to apologize for. I, uh, wasn’t exactly using my abilities as profiler when it came to him.”

”Huh?”

”I was being selfish, I think.” He frowns, trying to articulate what he means. “I felt defensive when you told me you’d met someone, like it meant whatever our thing was might have to change.”

”Our thing?” The hope that springs in her chest momentarily takes her breath away.

”You’re my best friend, Pen… kind of all I have.”

”Oh.” It’s a quiet response, accompanied by a mixture of disappointment and affection. She hates the lonely note in his voice.

“…and when you said you blew him off… I was so relieved I said the first stupid thing that came into my head. It had nothing to do with you.”

She doesn’t have a response. Unspoken is the idea that he was possibly jealous. It sends a thrill through her, but she does her best to tamp it down. “Well, I am sorry too. I have a few sensitive spots, and you just… sort of accidentally found one.” She sighs. “And it’s not like you were wrong.”

She’s staring at the screen now, avoiding looking directly at him. That’s how she feels his touch against her face before she sees him move. His fingers slide under her chin, making her look at him. “Look at me, angel.”

She does. His eyes, when they aren’t sparkling with amusement are always so sincere. It’s no different now, and she feels the remnants of whatever made her cry earlier stir in her chest.

”He was a scumbag, yes.” Derek continues without relinquishing her gaze. “But I’m so lucky that you’re the one who’s on the other end of the lin when my phone rings, that you’re the one I get to come home to after spending a week in a strange place with horrible people. I don’t ever want that to change.”

She smiles, leaning into his embrace. “It’s not going to.”

”Promise?”

”Promise.”

And that’s how they sleep together the first time. Innocently. Penelope’s head tucked under his chin, her ear pressed against his heart. Whatever nightmares lie in wait for the both of them are shoved to the periphery, the sound of people falling in love coming from the television as the two drift into unconsciousness.

[sunaddicted]

Smoke (00q, Indigo sequel)

Smoke Q's lips were wrapped around the filter of a cigarette, vaguely pursed as if he was still unsure about what he was supposed to do - especially because of Eve's unsatisfying explanation. After a deep breath, Q took a drag and felt as if his throat was burning up, the smoke billowing down his throat trying to burn to ashes the moist inner lining of his trachea before reaching down in his lungs and prompt a dry-hacking cough that completely shook his wiry body and made his three hearts beat into a syncopated rhythm "It's awful" Eve hummed in agreement, arms crossed over her chest as she observed Q's tentacles sprout out of his hair, their whiteness freckled with red speckles that, hadn't she known better about Q's skin changing colours, would have made her immediately think of blood "I told you that it was a stupid idea" Q scowled at Eve and dropped the cigarette to the ground, heel stomping on it to make sure it would stop burning "They make it look so relaxing and easy in the movies" he grumbled. "The fact that you're angry at James is not going to disappear thanks to cigarettes" Eve sighed and tugged Q closer to her for a quick cuddle, one hand comfortingly rubbing his upper back "You'll just have to talk it out with him" "I talked it out with him" Q reminded her, burrowing deeper in her embrace even as he frowned darkly and purple streaks started to wound themselves around his tentacles, twitching with irritation. "I distinctly recall a lot of yelling on your part and not a bit of talking out" Eve pointed out "I love you to bits and you are right being angry: he's an idiot who made us all worry because of his pigheadedness" she soothed, petting the soft fabric of his sweater "But you also need to give him a change to speak - or apologise, at least" Q sighed heavily "I was so scared" he whispered "I thought I had lost him" he admitted, tentacles shivering like a leaves in the wind. Weeks after James had woken up from his coma and still Q had nightmares about all the time he had spent watching the man swaddled into the blankets, as still as a lifeless body; there wasn't a night the image spared him and Q was tortured by all the what ifs: what if James never woke up again? What if James had woken up with brain damages? What if James had died? "Shh" Eve murmured, noticing the black spots that had started appearing on Q's quivering tentacles; for what she knew, it basically equalled to crying to the alien. Sometimes, she found difficult remembering what exactly all the colours Q's skin could turn into meant but, thankfully, her friend's face usually was so open and easy to read too "He's alright now, driving us all insane with his moping but he's alright" she reassured. "Moping?" Eve chuckled "He's been haunting mine and Bill's office, asking for ideas to make you forgive him. It's quite hilarious, if I have to be honest" Q reproachingly nudged her with a tentacle "Don't be mean" he said before perking up a little and looking up at her "Has he really been making inquiries?" "Constantly, ever since you refused to go home with him and decided to go at your flat" Eve confirmed, a wicked and teasing smile lighting up her dark eyes. Q sighed "His flat is so much nicer, cosier and bigger" he justified himself, shrinking a bit in his shoulders; before James' stay in Medical, Q couldn't remember the last time he had stayed at his own flat: most of his clothes, geeky knicknacks and bathing products were at James' and he wasn't used to sleeping alone, the bed seemed too big and cold at night without the other man's broad and warm body to snuggle into "Fine, I'll talk with him" he agreed in the end. Eve bent down and kissed his cheek "Good. Nobody likes seeing you two so at odds" *** Q always knew where to find James, not only because he could admittedly see everyone and everything in MI6 thanks to his security cameras but because he liked to think he knew the man very well. He walked down to the training rooms, tentacles hidden again under his human form; despite the fact that basically everyone knew about his real nature, Q wasn't really comfortable about showing it off if James wasn't near and ready to protect him in case someone with bad intentions and low tolerance for what was different was around. As predicted, James was pounding his frustrations away on a combat dummy and Q leaned against the door frame to watch him a little, appreciating his body. Q didn't know whether he was an anomaly or his kind too had paid so much attention to muscles and broad bodies like he did: when he had gotten lost and crashed on Earth, Q had been still pretty oblivious to courting rituals and not particularly interested in relationships - he had no idea about what was the norm among his people and it made him feel awkward. Q cleared his throat, distracting himself from those thoughts that both made him sad and embarrassed "Hello?" "Q!" James turned around as soon as he heard Q's voice, striding quickly towards him; he stopped only when he was almost close enough to hug him, not wanting to crowd Q. The alien smiled a bit shyly before he walked closer and hidi into James' embrace "You're all sweaty" he complained, wrinkling his nose but still nuzzled affectionately in his neck and let his tentacles out; he liked it so much when James petted and played with them, making him feel completely loved and cherished despite the fact that he looked so different and unappealing to humans. James gratefully wrapped his arms around Q and bent down to kiss his head, laughing happily when tentacles sprouted and started to pet his face "I'm so sorry, Q" he murmured, nuzzling into the tentacles "I'm so very sorry" Q looked up at him, pouting "Are you really sorry?" The agent nodded "I swear" "Then you have to promise me you'll stop being stupid and to Medical for a check up every time you come back from a mission" Q glared up at James' shocked face "Promise me - or I'll stay angry with you" There really wasn't a choice, James didn't think he could cope another day more without Q smiling at him and cuddling into his side for warmth in the middle of the night - he could survive visiting Medical more than what he thought to be necessary, for Q's sake. He sighed loudly but kissed the other's forehead anyway "Fine, you blackmail monster - have you been taking lessons from Eve?" "She's a good friend" "That she is" James agreed, pushing Q's glasses up the bridge of his nose. "She persuaded me to talk to you properly" Q admitted "So, I would at least buy her very expensive shoes" he added with a bright green, unashamedly displaying his shark-like teeth: he was so happy. *** Once they arrived home, Q rushed to the bathroom to draw a bath, sorting through his vast collection of bathbombs and salts with glee; he almost was ashamed of having missed something so stupid and material, but bathing had become a way to relax and let go of all his worries since his first days on Earth. The ritual had only become more comforting since James had started joining him "Ocean breeze or lavender and chamomile?" He called out. "Lavender and chamomile" James answered, entering the bathroom with a steaming mug of tea for Q in hand. He put it down on the edge of the tub and proceeded to undress, folding his suit neatly before he bent down and tested the temperature of the water with his fingers "It's perfect, come on in" Q nodded, pushing the bathbomb in the tub with a flick of his fingers and standing up to quickly undress. As soon as he was naked, he joined James in the tub and nestled between his parted thighs so that he could lean against his chest and get his hair lathered up; James always insisted on washing it thoroughly before he let Q free his tentacles and completely enjoy his bath. "I'll be quick, don't worry" James hummed, shifting a bit under Q's body to avoid rubbing his crotch against him; he never wanted an accidental erection to ruin the tenderness of such sweet moments, he wanted to cherish them for what they were without anything sexual to bother them and ruin their peaceful bubble. With firm fingers, James started massaging Q's scalp "Close your eyes" he murmured, just before he began pouring water over his head to rinse it out. As soon as he felt all the suds slide away, Q let his tentacles sprout out and laughed with childlike glee when they sprayed James' face with water "Sorry" "You're not sorry at all" James grinned, flicking Q's nose. The alien shook his head as his whole skin turned a bright green "Nope, not at all" he confirmed and threw his arms behind James neck to hug him tighter, rubbing their cheeks together "I missed you" James let out a happy sigh "Me too, Q" he murmured, kissing the other's smooth and soft cheek "Me too, love" Surprising himself, Q turned his head slightly and pecked James' lips with his eyes squeezed shut and his skin tingling where stars started falling "Was that alright?" He asked, opening only one eye to spy the expression on the other's face. James looked at Q with amazement, thumb following the fall of a star down Q's temple to his chin "More than" he nodded and closed the distance between their faces again, lightly kissing Q's lips.