#be etching his own tombstone with the names of yet more dead

[mixupmycota]

A lot of folks are, reasonably, using the term "redemption" to talk about the solas and mythal's essence ending. We're all super used to talking about "redemption arcs".

This is not, I think, the word to use in this case. Solas provides us one himself in the game. He is not looking for redemption - indeed, there is nothing he can ever do that would undo what he has done, what he actively chose to do at various points across Thedas's history. He is also, potentially, utterly committed to this act up until the last.

Solas doesn't need redemption. He needs to, and is is looking to, make reparation. Initially, for the harm he did in putting up the veil. His chosen path there is an act that would result in mass murder on a continental and theoretically global scale.

The ending in which he binds himself to the veil and sets out to soothe the titans is much closer to an actual reparation for the much deeper initial harm that he did: the mass tranquilization of those titans and the severing of the dreams of the dwarves, an act that has resulted in them almost being driven to extinction multiple times.

I really like that ending, because unlike his plan to unleash an apocalypse, it is actually an act of repair. It is taking responsibility for the damage he did, and rather than just feeling very sad about it or continuing to do fresh damage in the name of sunk cost, he sets out to for real do something about it. It is the most any single individual in these circumstances could do to address systemic harm they are responsible for.

It's also much less punitive. I really like that ending, because it provides potential to break a truly ancient cycle that has been making that man self-isolate more and more for an unfathomable amount of time, which also fed in to so many of his more fucked up choices.

It is a harrowing prospect for anyone to do alone, so the idea of the inquisitor going with him, while something I have personal misgivings about, is also something I think could potentially help him, even if their relationship did not remain romantic.

I think that ending is much more interesting when we stop thinking about it in terms of the typical associations for "redemption arcs", and instead think about it through a restorative and reparation focused lens!

[necro-maxing]

I just read ❝  i don’t feel like a whole person without you anymore.  i don’t fucking care if anyone else would say about that.  you’re part of who i am now.  the most important piece of me.  ❞ from your yearning prompts and I just imagine bruce saying this to jason’s tomb stone and now I’m crying

Oh that would be painful wouldn't it? I'm gonna make it Worse.

The graveyard was quiet. Well, Bruce figured that should be the case. The dead don't speak, they don't breathe, and those around them would do well to respect them. But then again, this was also a private graveyard, so for anyone else to be here at this hour would be rather odd indeed.

"It's been a year, lad." He doesn't know why he speaks. He kneels down in front of the stone before him, the letters etched clean and even into the face of the marble. Bruce lifts his fingers, traces the letters inch by inch as the cold air of December among the dead seeps into his clothes, his skin, his lungs and bones.

JASON PETER TODD-WAYNE stares back at him in capital letters, a generic 'rest in peace' statement etched below the name. It's silent, and Bruce wonders for a moment if Jason is cold where he is. Bruce does not believe in an afterlife, yet he worries all the same for the soul of his son.

"It's been a cold year since you left us. Coldest Gotham has ever seen." Bruce says, and the wet ground stains the knee of his suit pants. He sits the flowers down slowly before the tombstone, reluctant to remove his fingers from the only public standing testament to the life and death of his second child. The forget-me-nots sit silently, the only witness to the glassy-eyed haze that takes over the man by the graveside.

"I'm not supposed to bury my children, Jaylad." Bruce says into the empty air, his chest tight as he faces the grief within himself head-on. "I was never supposed to see this day. You were only seventeen."

Bruce is not a man that cries, certainly not easily. But today, he grieves. Just as he does for his parents, just as he would for any of his children, and just as he will on the unfortunate day that Alfred departs as well. The tears come without mercy, unrelenting in their course down the dips and curves of his face. His mouth draws into a tight frown, the words in his chest like caged birds that cry out in anguish at being trapped within.

"I don't feel like a whole person without you here. I don't care what others say, that you aren't related to me by blood. That doesn't matter, lad." Frustration takes hold for but a moment, and like smoke in the wind, it vanishes as Bruce rests a hand atop the tombstone.

"You're my son, Jason, the most important part of me. A legacy that should've seen so many more years, that should have made your own future, not filled a casket." The words come, and the birds fly. Bruce weeps, a man broken by the past year and the coming days. The manor is quiet without Jason, a silence Bruce has long forgotten how to handle.

The silence will linger. Bruce feels as though the hole in his heart where Jason resides, that the growing emptiness, will drive him to madness. The graveyard is quiet, and Bruce sees no difference between it and the manor. After all, the ghosts of memories will continue haunt the walls, and the memory of Jason's laughter will continue to rattle Bruce awake in the wee hours of the morning.

[kingreywrites]

So Pardon The Dust

Fandom: Tangled

Word Count: 2493

Summary: When they arrive in the Dark Kingdom, the king has been dead for years.

Note: this is bittersweet, but the idea couldn’t leave me alone, and i had to write it out! so yeah, edmund’s death is heavily talked about, be careful if that’s not your thing! I just love Destinies Collide, and love what-ifs, so this story was born from there asghdh

Read on ao3

When they arrive in the Dark Kingdom, the king has been dead for years. 

They don't know that. What they do know is that once their travel in a shaky gondola over an immense rift ends, everything seems too easy. The kingdom is dark, cold, smells of dust and rust permeating the air, and it makes it hard to imagine that anyone has ever lived in such a place. But Rapunzel's hair pushes her forward, and they don't spend any more time thinking about it. 

They enter the equally dark and cold castle, searching for the moonstone. 

Desperate for a flicker of warmth, Lance lights a fire in a lifeless living room with no windows. Eugene's gaze is drawn to a painting, throning above the fireplace and depicting a man and a woman he presumes to be the king and queen. 

He cannot explain the deep uneasiness he feels at the sight, or even why he can hardly tear his eyes away from the picture. His heart is racing, and he explains it by blaming it on his concern for Rapunzel. 

The queen's smile remains etched in his mind as he moves forward. 

The king has been dead for years. They don't know it, but Eugene finds a room filled with overhanging statues and, sitting in front of a gigantic door, is a tiny skeleton covered in too big clothes and dust. A dark crown still hangs grotesquely on its head, but the first thing Eugene sees is the purple gem necklace between the fingers of its single hand. The same as the queen's in the painting. 

Eugene has a bitter taste in his mouth. Rapunzel holds his hand, also upset, and he remembers that they are here for her, and for her destiny. He holds her fingers tighter between his, and they move toward the door. 

The ghosts are… certainly a surprise.

Death is not something new to Eugene, yet he can't help but feel nauseous when the king's ghost appears so close to his own skeleton, eyes full of a melancholy and anger that only he understands.

He doesn't seem to be capable of speech. He just groans and attacks, mindlessly guarding the stone that cost him his life. When Adira arrives to help them, she calls him Edmund, a soft grief in her voice, and Eugene keeps the name in a corner of his head. Edmund. Not a ghost, not a skeleton, but Edmund, who protected his kingdom until he died trapped within it.

Finally, Eugene is the one who destroys his statue. He cuts off its head, and tries to forget how a few seconds before, it was his own that could have been lost, if the king's axe had not struck beside it. Luck saved his life this time.

Adira asks Rapunzel to enter the moonstone chamber by herself. She says that it's her destiny, and hers alone. Eugene wants to protest, worry burning in his heart, but he doesn't even have the time - Rapunzel looks at Cassandra, and announces that the three of them will go inside. He should be relieved, but he can't help but take another look at the king's- Edmund's body. Many people have died for this stone, and the more time passes, the more terrified he is of what awaits them on the other side. He knows death, more than any other member of this group probably; he's been around it personally. He promised himself when he came back to life, that he would never let Rapunzel die the way he did, slowly and violently, when she has so much to live for.

He doesn't know where this promise will lead him. 

When they arrive in the Dark Kingdom, the king is dead. They enter easily, and though the ghosts of past rulers stand in their way, the path to the moonstone is far from the most difficult adventure he has ever experienced. Eugene is worried, of course he is - he's afraid of the conclusion of their journey, afraid of what he cannot predict. Rapunzel tells him she loves him, and he almost wants to throw up, because they're in the middle of a kingdom murdered by that exact stone Rapunzel intends to grab. I love you too, he thinks, but can't manage to say, because the words sound like a goodbye, and he's not ready for that. He'd die one thousand times for her, if she asked him to. He'd die for her against her will too, if necessary, but he knows he can't get in the way today. As desperate as he is to protect her, he knows how much she values being able to draw her own path.

He wants to grab the moonstone first because he loves her, and because he loves her, he stays back.

That's not the case for everyone. He notices too late Cass running for it, and Demanitus' warning echoes once again in his ears, mocking now that the only thing he can do is try to pull Rapunzel to safety as the world explodes in colours. The king is dead, and their friendship with Cassandra is too, the shadow of Gothel haunting Rapunzel once again despite how much she deserves to be free from it. Cassandra flees, Eugene hurts his arm when she pushes him away, and Rapunzel runs after her, desperate to salvage what can be.

It doesn't amount to much, in the end.

Things settle down, as much as they can while Rapunzel still sits listlessly near the broken bridge Cassandra left behind, and Eugene goes in the castle again, in search of bandages this time. His left arm hurts.

He doesn't expect to find Adira, standing silently in front of... Edmund. Her back is rigid, her mouth in a straight line, but when he calls her name, he sees a foreign melancholy in her eyes. He doesn't know her that well, but there's a lot Eugene can understand from looking into somebody's eyes.

Adira sighs, shoulders lowering, and he's sure she hears his unsaid question. "I shouldn't be surprised," she says, but it's clear that in a way, she is. "I… knew, that King Edmund was not well, when we left. I often considered that he might very well be…" she trails off, her eyes falling on his body again.

"It's different to be sure," Eugene responds softly, his voice loud in the silence of this immense room. Watching them - Adira, and this skeleton, barely hanging together enough to recognise a human shape - it was difficult to conceive that once upon a time, they had stood here together, alive and happy, perhaps. He can't imagine what it feels like to see an old friend this way, with no warning. "Adira…"

"It's okay, Fishskin," she smiles, and in her voice, he could hear the echoes of all the time Rapunzel told him she was fine, because she didn't know how to act when she was not.

He barely knows Adira. Both because he didn't ask, and because she didn't want him, or anyone, to know her. But he can guess easily that her life had never been one of peace, not even before leaving the Dark Kingdom, and losing contact with the other members of the Brotherhood. He doesn't think she's unhappy, per se, but he- he knows, they all know, especially now after everything that happened, that anger and fear and grief are not emotions that should be let to fester until they explode. Maybe it's his worry for Rapunzel speaking; maybe he's confusing everything, and Adira is simply dealing with the situation the way she wants to, but before he can think better of it, Eugene takes a step forward, and asks her if she wants to bury the king's body.

"To- To give him a better resting place," he explains awkwardly, her eyes piercing right through him. He's ready to say sorry and hope she doesn't kill him for overstepping her boundaries, but, to his surprise, she softens, a genuine if sad smile on her lips.

"Actually Fishskin, that's… a great idea."

And so they do it. Adira finds a bear hood that the King used to wear - Dabney, she says reverently - and they place his bones in it, carefully moving everything in tandem. They don't really talk while doing it. There's not much to be said. Eugene thinks of this king, who was so desperate to save his kingdom that he doomed it, and he thinks about death, too. About how lonely it is.

Adira leads them down a few corridors, and they emerge in a small, grey looking garden. They walk until they find an unmarked tombstone.

"The queen," Adira announces shortly, and Eugene wonders if she helped bury her too.

It's not the first time Eugene digs a grave for someone. He remembers starkly getting out of the tower with Rapunzel, both of them entirely different people than who they were before, and finding a cloak and ashes at the bottom of it. He remembers how quietly distraught Rapunzel had been, and how he had proposed to bury what was left of Gothel.

Shaking his head, he tries to think about something else, but it's hard given the situation. His arm aches at each of his movements. Surprisingly, Adira breaks the silence, and that's enough to distract him.

"I often disagreed with King Edmund," she says, without looking at him. "He was a good king, but his duty to the moonstone blinded him to the bigger picture, and I was afraid that it would lead him, and us, to lose everything. I was right, as I often am," she chuckles, but there's no mirth behind it. Simply grief. Something that can't be quite put into words.

"How did he lose his arm?" Eugene asks, voice low as they finally lower the bones into the ground. His eyes catch the sight of the necklace falling aside, and when they're done, he picks it up, thumb running over the smooth surface of the gem.

"The queen died," Adira whispers. She's looking at the necklace too, when he raises his head. "Edmund's grief led him to act on the anger he had been repressing for too long, but the moonstone was much more powerful than he imagined. Its retaliation costs him everything he held dear."

Gently, Adira takes the necklace from him, and Eugene can't explain the impulse that makes him want to hold onto it for a little while longer.

He's sentimental, he reasons. There's something deeply touching about this man dying while looking at the last thing connecting him to his late wife. These are good explanations, but neither of them addresses the unease and bitterness rising in Eugene's throat. He doesn't understand it himself.

Adira looks at the necklace for a long time, emotions he can't name in her expression. Memories she will not share make her frown, and Eugene feels more and more like he doesn't belong in this moment.

"Should we… bury that with him?" he asks awkwardly. Adira bites her lips, and finally shakes her head.

"This necklace was special for the queen. I know she intended to pass it down to her children."

A terrible voice in Eugene's mind reminds him that it's too late - they both died, and that necklace, that tradition, died with them too. He's hit by the tragedy of it all again, relentlessly reminded that the king passed away long before anyone could try to save him. And they would have, Rapunzel would have convinced him to let her through, she would have given him faith, Eugene is sure of that. He thinks that's why he's angry, too. The king has been dead for years, maybe, alone and desperate until his very last moments. And Eugene, Eugene wishes to go back in time, and give him another chance, get him the help he needed before it was too late.

He has never been good at accepting unhappy endings.

"When… When King Edmund banished us from the Dark Kingdom," Adira continues, "he also made another sacrifice. He sent his son away, when he was barely a baby, to be raised far from the moonstone and its dangers."

Son. A baby, sole survivor of the royal family, who probably doesn't know he is. A baby, who isn't one anymore now, but who is probably alive, and the thought is enough for Eugene to feel something new - he'd call this hope, but he's not sure that it fits. Closure, perhaps.

"You want to give their son the necklace," he smiles shakily.

"That's what needs to be done," Adira agrees, before putting away the necklace in her pocket. The gem catches the moonlight one last time, shining brighter than before, and it's easier for Eugene to let go, this time. "However, I did not keep track of the prince. I don't know what became of him, after we left, but I will keep searching until I find him."

"Hey," Eugene grins, wanting to lighten the atmosphere a little, "you searched for the mystical and maybe non-existent sundrop, and you found it, so I'm sure a prince will be no trouble. And if you need anything, we'll be happy to help," he adds, more earnest this time.

There's a newfound warmth in her eyes, and she inclines her head, acknowledging his words. The situation feels easier, somewhat. They finish replacing the dirt on top of the king's body, and Adira places a little stone to mark the emplacement.

The king is dead, and Cassandra is gone, but Eugene wants to believe that they all can find their own healing in time.

One wrong move reawakens the pain in his arm, and Adira gauges him when he flinches. She tells him that if there are any medical supplies around there, they're probably in the King's personal quarters.

With her instructions, it's not too hard to find them. The bedroom he finds is enormous, which only heightens how empty and dark it feels. Blindly, Eugene makes his way to a window, and pushes the heavy curtains away, letting the moonlight flood the room, and reveal the ambient dust like as many little stars in the night sky.

One side of the bed is unmade. Next to the other, there is an empty crib.

His heart is racing, and he can't explain it. He turns to the bedside table, and does find what appear to be bandages, next to a pile of papers, so close to the bed that it is easy to guess that the king often looked at them. 

Eugene approaches. He tells himself, without much conviction, that he should not look. That even in death the king deserves to keep his privacy. Whatever these papers are, they must have meant a lot to him, keeping him company in his darkest hours, and Eugene doesn't belong in this story.

It only takes him a step, and a second, to recognize his old wanted posters.

[katehuntington]

Title: All I Want - part three Fandom: Supernatural Characters: Reader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester (Bobby Singer, Castiel Mary Winchester and many more mentioned) Pairing: Dean x Reader Series summary: Sam and Dean come across an object that could be the solution to Michael. The Pearl of Baozhu grants the beholder’s deepest desire. Once Dean focuses on his wish, the archangel remains caged in his mind however. Instead his former girlfriend Y/N shows up, who was killed in 2010 in Detroit, by no other than Lucifer himself. Summary part three: Still in shock after Y/N’s unexpected return, the Winchesters fill her in on what has happened in the past ten years. Learning about all the ones they have lost, is a little too much for her to take in. Warnings part three: NSFW, 18+ only. Spoilers season 14 episode 13. Angst, fluff. Swearing, alcoholism. Descriptions of flashbacks and memories. Mentions of character death, time in Hell, torture and nightmares. Anxiety, grieving over lost loved one. Confusion that comes with time travel. Word Count: 5377 words Author’s note: Part three of a multi part miniseries, based on the 300th episode “Lebanon”. Beta’d by the lovely @kittenofdoomage​, @winchest09​, @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish​, and @thinkwritexpress-official​​. Thank you all so much for your feedback!

All I Want Masterlist

     “So, long story short,” Y/N summarizes, “Sam jumped into the pit with Lucifer riding piggyback, Cas pulled him out but forgot his soul. There was a civil war in Heaven. Cas declared himself God and released the Leviathan and when those ugly suckers were defeated, our angel buddy and you--” she nods at Dean, “- got sucked into Purgatory, which is a place that actually exists, apparently.”

     They are in the kitchen, seated at the four-person table. The hunters raided the liquor cabinet, all in need of a drink after the rather unexpected and staggering turn of events.      Y/N takes a shot of whiskey and puts the tumbler down on the varnished wood with a bang, shoving it across and motioning the older Winchester for a refill.

     “Meanwhile, Sam hit a dog and you escaped Purgatory, but Cas didn’t. Then there was this whole deal with the tablets and the trials, which almost killed your brother. You let an angel - who actually turned out to be a different angel - possess Sam in order to save him. There’s a second civil war upstairs…” She knocks back her head, downing the glass in one go. “I mean, what is it with those halo idiots? Haven’t they learned anything from watching humanity slaughter each other for centuries?”      “Y/N, I know this is a lot, but you need to slow down a bit,” Dean advises, but she snatches the bottle from his hand and pours herself another.      “I’m nowhere near done. Where was I?” She looks up at the ceiling of the kitchen for a second while thinking, until it comes to her. “Oh, right! The angels fell, you took on the Mark of Cain, beat that Knight of Hell chick Abaddon, then got yourself killed. Again. But, oh wait, it gets better! You woke up a demon and had a fun summer with Crowley.”      Her voice pitches a little higher, a hint of panic audible now. Dean watches her process the information which is so clearly overwhelming her and eyes Sam, who is fixing her something quick to eat behind the kitchen counter. Their gazes lock on each other, both men wondering in silence if telling her the whole truth was a good idea.

     “Sam cured you, but you still carried the Mark. You killed Death.” She laughs, cynically. “I mean, c’mon! Death! It’s ironic to say the least. Anyway, the Darkness was released, which - I kid you not - is God’s sister. Oh, and God? Turns out that horrible tween girl novel writer Chuck is actually the almighty creator! Ha!”      “Why don’t you eat something? You’re probably hungry,” Sam suggests, putting down a plate in front of her.      But Y/N isn’t interested in the sandwich and instead picks up her crystal glass again, having another royal amount of the brown liquor. Holding the tumbler to her lips while letting the whiskey linger in her mouth, she points her index finger at the younger Winchester now, who sits down opposite of the woman from their past.

     “Your mom is back from the dead, the British Men of Letters turned out to be stuck up dicks. Lucifer was sprung from the cage, became President of the United States, and knocked up an intern. He had a son, his name is Jack. How am I doing so far?” she rants, setting down the empty glass in front of her.      Dean looks at her, a worried frown drawing lines on his forehead. He knows her well enough to sense she needs to blow off steam. Interrupting her might not be his best move, but that doesn’t stop him from growing concerned about her current state of mind.

     “There was a rift between our world and this - this Apocalypse world, you called it? And Mary and Lucifer ended up on the wrong side before it closed. Luci killed Cas, Dean was sad, Cas came back. You guys went on a rescue mission, Sam got killed. Again!” She sighs deeply, burying her face in her crossed arms on the table. “Seriously, the amount of times you two have died is giving me a fucking headache.”      “Yeah, sorry about that,” Sam says, shooting her a sheepish smile before she continues.

     “So Apocalypse!Michael possessed you in order to kill the Devil once and for all.” She looks up again, focusing on Dean. “But he didn’t check out like he promised - shocker, by the way. He wreaked havoc here, then out of the blue let you go. And now you guys live here in this Men of Letters bunker with a Nephilim, an angel and your undead mother.”      “That’s about right,” Dean confirms.      Y/N lets a breath slip from her lips and stares past him absently, the gears in her head still on overdrive.      “I need another drink,” she eventually mutters, not even bothering filling up her tumbler, but taking a swig directly from the bottle.      When she sets it back on the table top and lets her fingers slip from the glass, Sam is quick to get up and take the bottle back to the kitchen, putting it away in one of the cabinets; she has had enough for one day.      “And I died…”

     The younger Winchester turns around and leans over the counter while observing his friend, his knuckles white on the surface. He studies the breadcrumbs that litter the stainless steel surface after he cut her sandwich in two, having difficulty addressing that topic. When Lucifer flung her into that wall with such magnitude that it killed her instantly, Dean lost the woman he loved, but Sam lost his best friend. He didn’t realize how he felt about her demise until after he got his soul back, which somehow made it even worse. Like he didn’t do her justice, didn’t mourn like he should have. He doesn’t have to reply to her words, though, because Dean beats him to it.      “On May 10, 2010,” he states, averting his gaze and focusing on his folded hands in front of him, still wrapped around his own whiskey glass.      The date is forever etched in his memory. Her mirage haunts him on a regular basis, but on the 10th of May she’s all he can think about, like a fog that refuses to lift at daybreak. It’s one of the hardest days to get through, the day that he misses her the most. Dean’s jaw flexes and he tries to swallow down the pressure that’s gradually building in his chest.

     “That’s - that’s in a year and a half,” Y/N stammers, after quick calculation. “At least in whatever time I’m from.”      “Yeah, just before the big title fight between the Archangels,” Sam confirms.      Y/N glances up at him, then back at Dean, who still can’t force himself to look at her.      “Who killed me?”      “Lucifer,” Dean recalls, venom in his voice.      Her brow lifts up at the reveal. She was killed by the Devil himself? Well, at least that would make a cool inscription on her tombstone.      “You guys salted and burned me, right?” she double checks, even though she cannot imagine the Winchesters giving her anything but a hunter’s farewell.      Dean pulls at his lip with his teeth, the memory of the burning pyre flashing before his eyes. He remembers it as if it was yesterday. The funeral that made sure her death would be irreversible, permanent. The sight of her body set alight. In order to stop the Apocalypse from happening, he lost his brother and his girl. Sam was suffering endless and horrific torture in the pits of Hell while she was going up in flames before his eyes. God, he was a mess. His brother came home, but looking back now, deep down Dean knows he never really recovered from losing the woman who will forever have his heart.      “I did,” he confirms.      I did, he said. All of a sudden, Y/N realizes Sam was gone too at this point; Dean didn’t even have his brother to lean on. Pitiful she watches the hunter, who has endured so much already. He lost the two most important people in his life in a day’s time.      “Then… how am I back?” she wonders. “You said something about summoning me?”      “We found a magical artifact called the Pearl of Baozhu. It grants your biggest wish, basically,” Sam begins to explain. “Apparently, it’s so powerful it doesn’t need remains to resurrect someone.”      “And I am your biggest wish?” She chuckles. “What? Not winning the lottery? Peace on Earth?”      A small smirk pulls at the corner of Dean’s mouth; oh, he missed her wit.      “No, it’s you,” he states after a moment of quiet, finally meeting her gaze.

     Astonishment silences her as she stares at him, the pain of having to go through life without her still evident in his eyes. He looks so much wearier than she remembers the tough hunter, the soldier who always marched on and kept grinding. Even after he came back from Hell, the experience that tore open wounds which bled even worse than those inflicted the night the hellhounds took him. Honestly, there were plenty of times she thought he would never recover, whenever he woke up screaming from another nightmare and she had to hold him until he calmed. And yet, he didn’t seem as burdened as he does now, and that is saying something. It’s as if time broke him down bit by bit as he grew older, until there was nothing left but a ruin. 

     Dean said it’s 2019, which means he’s forty years old now. His frown lines lay deeper, so do the crow’s feet by the corner of his eyes. There’s a scar on his chin that wasn’t there before, covered by his stubble. His hair is a little longer, but only by a quarter of an inch. Age has not done a number on him, because he’s still handsome, but trauma and loss surely have. Knowing that her own death had a substantial part in the neverending sorrow and guilt she knows the hunter carries breaks her heart, because if anything, she would never want to cause him such agony.

     “We were together,” she says, ending the silence. 

     It’s more a realization than it is a question, but Dean nods either way. Her jaw lowers slightly, her mouth opening, but she has no idea what to say. She was frightened when she heard she was on a collision course with death. But now she’s made aware that her future self and Dean are going to face evil as one hell of a power couple, that fear diminishes. She was a teenager when she first started developing feelings for the oldest Winchester brother. She never acted on it, the hunter’s life always getting in the way of their romance. But somehow, despite destiny, despite the horror show that is their reality, they found their way to each other. 

     Seeing just how much her departure wrecked him, she reaches out, moving her hand across the table to take his. She squeezes softly, running her thumb over his skin, rough from the many fights he’s faced. He visibly relaxes, cherishing the moment he never thought he’d have again.      Y/N forces herself to avert her eyes, aware they aren’t alone. She glances at Sam, who watches the two, smiling, but his content expression dissolves when she inadvertently turns the conversation in a harrowing direction.      “What about the others? How’s Bobby?” she wonders, oblivious to the painful reply that is to come.

     Dean’s face falls, closing his eyes in apprehension. Shit, he wishes he didn’t have to break the bad news to her. Bobby Singer was like a father to all of them, but Y/N spent the majority of her childhood under his wing. After her parents died, he took her in and raised her as his own, made sure she could go to school, that she could be a kid. Hell, he was her father, maybe not genetically, but he was the wise man who taught them that family doesn’t end in blood.

     Sam stares back at her, then swallows thickly, letting his head hang. Analyzing his stance, the smile on her lips dies down, frantically searching for an indication that says it isn’t so. When the tall hunter is unable to return her gaze, she fixates on Dean, tears already glazing over her eyes.      “Y/N...” He takes her hand in his now, trying to sooth her and cushion the blow, but he knows there’s nothing he can do that would take the pain away that is about to hit her like a freight train.      “No...” She shakes her head, unable to accept it. “No no no no...”      “I’m so sorry,” he says softly, his heart breaking as he breaks hers. 

     Her bottom lip begins to tremble, her face contorting as she fights the emotions that quickly overpower her. Shimmering pathways of anguish find their way down her cheeks, eventually falling to land on the wooden surface. Y/N wipes her cheeks dry, but it’s no use, new tears forming faster than she can erase. And so she brings her free hand up to cover her mouth, holding back a sob.      “W-when?” she stammers, her voice shaking. “How?”      “In 2012. He... he was shot,” Dean explains, trying to get the words across as gingerly as possible.

     She shuts her eyes now, her throat closing up and she bites her bottom lip, trying her hardest not to break down in front of the boys. She has so many questions of which the answers terrify her.      “Did he die alone?”      She barely dares to look up again, meeting Sam’s gaze this time. He shakes his head, offering her a comforting smile.      “No, we were right there with him,” he assures.      “He’s in Heaven,” Dean consoles, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the back of her hand. “Cas double checked.”

     Y/N nods slightly, sniffling as she digests the news. Knowing that he’s in a good place right now doesn’t stop the grief from tearing her apart, because she has no idea how to go through life without her mentor to council her, but at least he’s not suffering anymore. A shuddering breath escapes from her lungs as she collects herself.      “What killed him, is it--”      “- dead. Yeah, we made sure of that,” Dean guarantees.      “Good,” she says, her voice having gained some strength. “What about Rufus? Ellen & Jo?”      Sam sighs and looks down, painfully confronted with how many people they’ve lost over the years.      “They’re all gone,” he states, still leaning heavily on the countertop.      Shocked, Y/N stares at him, unable to believe how many have perished.      “So, of the original crew, you two are really the last ones standing, huh?”      “Yeah, I guess we are,” the younger brother confirms. “But we met some great people along the way, I’m sure they’ll be excited to meet you. We’re not fighting the good fight alone, by any means.”      “Glad to hear that. Just, not today? I’m not sure how much more I can take,” she almost pleads, her voice raspy from crying.

     Dean watches her closely, guilt constricting in his gut. Unknowingly, he has pulled her from a time where things weren’t all that bad. If she’s from October 2008, he has just returned from Hell. Bobby was alive, Sam was okay, so were the other people she considered family. They were growing closer, on the verge of giving in to the attraction they felt for each other. But now it’s just the three of them and a ten year gap between her lifetime and theirs. She must be feeling completely out of place, disorientated, exhausted.      “Why don’t we go pick out a room for you, so you can lay down for a bit?” Dean offers, squeezing her hand gently to get her attention.      She agrees and gets up from her seat without another word, mentally too tired to argue. The alcohol is coursing through her system, and although she doesn’t feel highly intoxicated, combined with the range of emotions she just went through, it’s doing a number on her. Honestly, she’s down for a nap, preferably one that lasts a day or two.      Dean lets her go up the two steps first, ready to catch her might her coordination fail her after all. He glances over his shoulder at his brother, who picks up the untouched sandwich and carries the plate to the sink.      “Go ahead, I’ll clean up,” Sam offers.      Thankful, the older Winchester forces a small smile before he leaves the kitchen. 

     Quietly, Y/N follows the broad shouldered hunter who leads the way, her arms crossed in front of her chest, the coolness from the stone walls chasing chills up and down her spine. It’s not just the cold, though, it’s everything. Too much information to process, too much heartbreak to endure. Her brain is overloaded, fatigue hitting her like a ton of bricks.      She watches Dean turn the corner and stroll into a long hallway with doors on either side, gold plated numbers below the Men Of Letters emblem. They stop in front of room 12.      “You can take this one,” he suggests, opening the door for her and flicking on the lights. “I’m right next door if you need anything. Sam’s in room 21.”

     Y/N steps inside, taking in her new accommodation. Despite the use of mostly brick and concrete and the lack of windows, the glow coming from the ceiling light and the lamp on the nightstand feels warm and welcoming. A large mahogany bed is situated against the far end, a matching desk on the left with an old typewriter and a radio sitting on top. Directly behind the door there’s a sink and a medicine cabinet with a mirror on the lid, and a wardrobe next to it.      “We can put a rug on the floor, if you want. I remember how you always had cold feet,” Dean suggests.      She turns in the middle of the room, a small smile on her lips; he’s not wrong.      “I’d like that,” she says, grateful.

     A little uneasy she lets her gaze linger over the still empty cabinets and bookshelves again, feeling foreign in this future that didn’t include her, before Dean wished she was. She realizes there’s nothing to fill them with, no clothes, no books, no picture frames.      “Could I maybe borrow a shirt and some sweats from you? I’m gonna have to buy some new clothes later today,” she asks, a little flustered.      “Sure, but actually, uh…” He rubs the back of his neck, the way he always does when he’s nervous. “I never threw away your stuff. It’s been in boxes in the storage room, so your clothes are probably gonna need to be washed--”      “- Wait, you… you saved my stuff?”

     She stares at him in awe. It’s been almost ten years since she died, and he still held on to all that she owned. Sure, it wasn’t much, since they were on the road most of the time, but still. They didn’t find this bunker until a couple of years later, which means Dean had stored it in a locker somewhere, or maybe at Bobby’s, and picked it up again when they found a permanent home. He had moved her things around for almost a decade, yet never threw them out, even though he knew there was no purpose left for the items that once belonged to her. Just painful reminders of what was and what was lost.      “Yeah, I - I couldn’t really bring myself to throw it out,” he claims, as if he was dodging a task that should have been done long ago.      He isn’t lying. Even though he knew she was never going to return to him, that her life was lost and his love was hopeless, he kept everything she held dear. Her books, her mixtapes, her photos, her jewelry. The clothes she wore, the guitar she played. The stack of coasters she collected, picking one up at every bar they ever had a drink at, from every town they ever crossed. The old school Polaroid camera she brought everywhere, snapping pictures of everything that caught her eye along the way. Sunsets, funny road signs, captivating landscapes, interesting people. There are a few of him, of the Winchesters together, some more portraying the three of them, all squeezed into the shot. She even caught Bobby on camera, ignoring his grumpy mutters when she had fulfilled her seemingly impossible mission.      There’s the music box she got from her mother when she was little, her parents’ wedding album. Lore books, weapons and crystals that Bobby gave her when she first started hunting. The enchanted good luck charm Dean gave her for her birthday. He held on to it all, because he couldn’t bear the thought of having to let her go completely.

     Sympathetically, Y/N observes him. His tough exterior only lets a hint of embarrassment over something so sentimental seep through. But she knows him, she has seen the knight without his armor. She knows how badly he’s hurting.      “Anyway, I’ll - uh, get you some clean clothes and dig up your stuff from storage.” He points his thumb over his shoulder a little awkwardly, excusing himself.      She nods. “Thanks.”

     With a faint smile on his lips he disappears, leaving the door ajar. Y/N breathes in deeply and allows the air to flow out, trying to calm herself down. It’s her first moment alone since she found herself in the year of 2019 and she cannot begin to comprehend what is happening to her. How she time-jumped a decade into the future, having history with Dean she cannot even recall. It feels like she’s in a bad daytime television show, where one of the characters has hit her head too hard and suffers from amnesia, not remembering her lover.      Rubbing her forehead she turns around, trying to massage away the headache. Her eyes glide through her new bedroom again. This is going to be her home now. After moving out of Bobby’s place, she never really had that kind of stability. The closest she came to a roof over her head was her minivan, her little house on wheels. 

     Fingertips grace the covers of her bed, the material soft under her touch, when she hears Dean’s boots echo in the hall. She turns around as he comes through the doorway, holding two boxes with a bundle of clothes laying on top of the stack in his arms. He lowers the neatly taped carton containers to the ground, her name written on them with black marker. Dean made sure to file on the label what’s inside them.      “There’s one more box, your clothes are in that one. I can put them in the washer now, so you’ll have something better to wear than my oversized stuff,” he offers.      “You don’t have to do that, Dean,” she objects, but he shrugs it off.      “It’s no problem.”      His voice is kind, but he’s not taking ‘no’ for an answer. It’s the first time he has moved her belongings without having to fight the tears, without having to pause in order to stop himself from breaking down. He wants to make sure she has something clean and fresh to wear when she wakes up later, finally being able to take care of her again. 

     Dean turns the corner and heads to the storage room, his heart finally calming with the simplicity of being able to do something as domestic as washing her clothes. After picking up the last big box, he exits the storage and pulls the door shut behind him, making his way to the dorm where the washers and dryers are situated. He sets the box down in front of one of the machines, pulls his pocket knife from his belt and cuts through the duct tape. The first item he pulls out, however, steals his breath; it’s the leather jacket she wore that night in Detroit.      Two days after they lost her, Dean wrapped her in linen before he laid her down on the pyre he and Bobby built, her lifeless body still in the jeans and band shirt she had on when she was killed. He took off her favorite black leather jacket, though, wanting to preserve it, even though it was a part of Y/N - or maybe because it was. Traces of faded crimson still stain the collar. Dean shakes his head, trying to ban the image from his mind. The image of the blood running from her nose and mouth as she hung from his arms, dead weight, the spark of life in her eyes long gone.

     After a deep breath, the hunter collects himself and lays the leather jacket aside, then begins to carefully pick out some of her clothes. He makes a selection that fits in the drum, adds a laundry pod and turns the machine on. He hopes the old thing does a better job at washing away the memory of her death than he’s doing.

     When he enters Y/N’s room again, she has changed into the black shirt and grey sweatpants he offered her. She spins when she hears him, an amused grin adorning her face.      “Nice socks,” she chuckles, showing off her novelty footwear with burgers and milkshakes on them.      “Shut up. Sammy gave them to me for Christmas,” he utters, a blush on his cheeks. “Your stuff’s in the washer.”      “Thank you,” she returns, grateful.

     A silence followers as Dean lingers in the doorway. This would be the moment to give her some space and retreat to his room, but somehow he can’t make himself step outside. He has spent too much time without her by his side already, he doesn’t want to waste a second not being with the woman he’s still unmistakingly in love with. She’s his girl, afterall. But that’s where it gets confusing, because he’s not sure how she feels about all this. Y/N was zapped from a time where they weren’t in a relationship yet, so where do they stand in this messed up mayhem?      “Y/N, about that kiss earlier…” he starts off hesitant. “I, uh - I didn’t know you were from a place where we weren’t… y’know, together.”

     The smile on her lips dies down as she watches the hunter, skilled in the field when fighting evil, but now stumbling over his own words. It’s only now that she realizes how surreal this must be for him. His mind probably has archives full of memories she has no clue of, simply because in her time, they didn’t happen yet.      “What I’m trying to say is…” Dean takes a breath, trying to get his message across. “If I came on too strong, or made you feel uncomfortable in any way, I’m sorry.”      He glances up now, watching how she slowly approaches. Gently, she takes his hand in hers, their fingers entwining. After studying their hold for a few seconds, she tilts her head and restores eye contact. The look she gives him is so warm and kind, it mends the broken man that he is.      “I’m not,” she responds, her voice soft.

     She leans in, tiptoeing, and presses her soft lips against his. For a good moment all his grief, the endless regret, the physical pain that became chronic, is forgotten. He closes his eyes and melts into the touch, returning the kiss without hesitation. The voices in his head are silenced, his anxiety calmed. After eight years, eight months and twenty eight days, he has found his missing piece. If her departure from his world didn’t make him realize how much he loves her, this moment surely does.

     The kiss lasts a few heavenly long seconds, but then Dean parts from her, resting his forehead against hers. He sighs deeply, the air leaving him with a shudder. Still high on the ecstasy that the undeniable connection induced, she opens her eyes, but his remain closed. Wondering why, Y/N squeezes his hand. When he does look back at her, the tears bring out his green irises, like holding an emerald gem against the light. Compassionate, she cups his face, tracing the lines of his jaw.      “You really missed me, didn’t you?” she perceives.      He huffs; she’s putting it mildly.      “You have no idea,” he breathes.

     Y/N does, though. Last thing she remembers is how Dean just returned from Hell. In the four months that he was gone, she was completely at a loss. Wildflowers blossomed on his grave from her tears alone. Knowing he was enduring unimaginable torment only made it worse. But when he returned and she was able to close him in her arms again, it magnified everything she had ever felt for the man who went to Hell and back. The rollercoaster he’s riding now is one she’s been on herself, but she doesn’t tell him that; it’s not about her right now.

     She kisses him again, shorter and more sweetly now, smiling at him afterwards until he returns her expression. His eyes are still shimmering, but it’s not sorrow she finds in the depth of his pupils, not anymore. It’s gratefulness, appreciation, love, for her, the girl he lost so many years ago.      “You should get some sleep. You had one hell of a morning,” he says after a quiet moment, unable to look away.      She scoffs. “Understatement of the week.”      He nods grinning, admitting she’s probably right.      “I’ll leave you to it.”      Dean is about to let go of her hand, when her grip on him grows a little stronger, causing him to glance up at her, questioning.      “Could you…” she pauses, not sure if she’s asking too much. “Could you lay with me, just for a while?”      He reads her carefully, pained to see the hint of fear; she doesn’t want to be alone.      “Sure,” he agrees, the single word soothing her.

     Y/N allows his hand to slip from hers now and circles the bed, folding back the covers as Dean sits down to take off his shoes. When he leans back into the pillow, his upper body still slightly elevated against the headboard, tiredness overwhelms him. He hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in forever, Michael always waiting in the shadows when he dares to close his eyes. But when Y/N crawls into his chest, filling the vacant place that has been cold for so long, he sighs content, letting the worry fall from his shoulders. Who knows, maybe with her by his side, he might actually be able to rest.

     She pulls the sheets to cover the both of them, feeling Dean’s sheltering arm wrap around her and pull her in. The kiss he presses to her hair has her bite back the tears yet again. She tries to hide it, not wanting to come across as weak or emotional. The man who has always cared for her, doesn’t fail to notice, though.      “Hey…” he says, softly. “You had a lot on your plate today, huh?”      She sniffles and nods, not brave enough to test her voice.      “It’s gonna be okay, we’ll figure this out,” he promises. “You got me, Y/N.”      “Yeah…” she whispers. “I got you.”

     Dean holds her close, giving her the security and the comfort she is desperately seeking, hoping she might forget about the world she’s in now and the one she was ripped from. Absently, he rubs his fingers up and down her arm, the slow, soothing rhythm lulling her to sleep. Within minutes she’s out, the warmth she radiates slowly melting away the tension in the hunter’s stiff muscles, tired and worn from endless battles with both monsters and himself. Exhausted, he lets his cheek rest against the top of her head, allowing his own eyes to flutter shut as well. The last thing that crosses his mind before he falls asleep is a promise. Past, present, or future, Dean will always be there for the woman who makes him believe in their little slice of apple pie life. A decade of time difference will not change his word of honor.

It took me long enough, didn’t it! Stay tuned for part four, I hope I have gained some momentum now and will able to finish this series sooner than later.

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[gavin-grey]

One-Sided Convos in Chicago

Wednesday Afternoon August 26, 2020 Chicago, Illinois  TW: Mentions death, blood Wordcount: 1645

TL;DR: Gavin goes to see his parents after more than 10 years for some advice on how to fix these relationship problems he has never encountered before. While his parents can’t give him advice, they do him a solid and send a little guardian angel his way.

“Hi, mom. Dad.” 

Gavin’s voice cracked as he stared down at the two headstones in front of him. It had been over ten years since he’d last seen their names etched into the grey stone. They seemed darker now, dingier, but unchanged other than that. Ten years hadn’t made them any easier to look at though. 

After three days in Chicago, he’d finally made it to the cemetery. The first day Gavin didn’t even make it out of his hotel. Day two he had walked by the entrance to the cemetery, trying to work up the courage to enter. Lucky day three had been the day he’d finally bought some flowers from a stand on the side of the road and entered. And now that he was there… 

Gavin had a death grip around the flower stems. A thorn digged into his thumb causing some blood to well and drop onto his shoe. Gavin glanced down, his mind was blank and not processing the small drop of red on his bright white shoes. He sucked on his thumb absent-mindedly while he tried to make sense of the words and emotions swirling around in his brain. Some time passed, he wasn’t sure how much, before he finally took the few necessary  steps forward to lay the flower next to his mother’s tombstone.

A few more seconds passed and Gavin sat criss-cross between his parents in the grass.

“I know it’s been a long time - since I’ve been to visit…” Gavin started, his voice already shaky. “Too long really...” And now he was here for completely selfish reasons. A selfish, impulsive reason. Then again, they were dead, so it wasn’t like they had been asking for him to visit. Still, he felt guilty for not having visited them. Who else was there to remember him except for Gavin and his aunt. He tried to push those feelings from his mind though, and took a deep, cleansing breath.

“It’s been a long time, I just - I miss you both so much.” Tears threatened to fall, but Gavin kept his feelings under control. “The first few years I was just trying to deal with what happened. School kept my busy. And- and- and- then college kept me busy. By the time I graduated and got a job, well…” He wasn’t sure why he was defending himself to his dead parents, but here he was. “Anyways… twenty-five was the year I decided I was going to try. With school and college I had always been alone, but I kept busy, so I could pretend things were moving forward. And I’ve got a great job now, but it doesn’t take up much of my time, and so I just - I knew I needed a change. And- and- and I did change. I started going to events. Meeting people. I’ve actually made a friend. A few actually. And they’re great,” Gavin said with a nod of his head. Gavin suddenly remembered how half of them were upset with him after his screw up on the double date though. And the reason behind his impromptu visit to his parents.

Now, small tears started to fall and Gavin wiped his eyes with the back of his arm. All he wanted was to ask his parents for advice. To talk out the problem with them. Heck, he wouldn’t likely even be in this position if his parents were still here. “God, it’s just not fair. All I want to do is to talk to you right now, and I can’t. This is a completely one sided conversation and I need you right now. I need your help. I’ve tried to be better and I’ve just screwed up everything. And I don’t know how to fix it. And sure, I could talk to Auntie, but she’s got her own things going on and I want to talk to you. You guys would know what to say. You always knew what to say. And now you can’t say anything and you can’t help me and it’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. You were my best friends and you’re just gone and I’m just supposed to figure out how to live in a world without you? It’s been ten years! If I haven’t figured it out yet then I’m not going to. I need you. I don’t know what to do without you. I don’t know how to fix anything without you.” 

Since he was rambling, he stopped himself and let himself have a good cry. A snotty, ugly cry that he hadn’t allowed to himself to have since they actually passed. This had been a terrible idea. It hadn’t brought him any insight like he hoped. The kind of moment you see in movies when the hero talks to their dead parent or at the sky so he can figure out what their motivation is. What their next step is. Gavin was more confused and upset than he was before he came to Chicago.

A hand was softly placed on his shoulder. Gavin looked up and was face to face with an old, wrinkly woman. Gavin jumped to his feet, apologies already flying off of his tongue. “I’m sorry. Was I being too loud? I can go. I didn’t mean to-” He sniffed and rubbed at his face with the edge of his shirt. 

The old woman shook her head, already trying to shut him up. “You just seemed like you could use some company, dear.” She led him to a nearby bench that was still in view of his parent’s resting place. “Your grandparents?” she asked him once they were sitting and he had calmed down a bit.

Gavin shook his head. “My parents.”

“How long have they been gone, dear?”

“Just over ten years now,” he replied in practically a whisper.

The other woman nodded in understanding. She pointed to a grave just a few spots over from his parents. There was a fresh bouquet laying in the grass. “My Gerald passed just three years ago. We were married for over fifty years.”

“That’s a long time…”

“It doesn’t seem so long now,” she admitted sadly, glancing over to Gavin.

They were quiet for a long moment before Gavin asked, “How do you do it? Figure out life without him, I mean. You were together for so long…”

She didn’t need him to finish the question. It was like she understood why he was there and what he wanted to know. “It’s not easy. He was my person, after all. But he’s with me every day. The little voice in the back of my head. The dollar bills he hid in different books because he thought it was a safe place to hide money. Things like that.”

“I feel like I don’t remember enough about my parents. They died, I moved to live with family, and it was just like my life with them was over.”

“Did your grandparents take you in?”

“My aunt… My dad’s parents died before I was born. My mom’s parents didn’t approve of the relationship. I’ve never met them,” he admitted with a frown.

The old woman gave Gavin’s knee a comforting pat. “Well, I know it’s cliche, sweetie, but the ones that love us never leave us. Your parents are watching over you. They’re the little voice in the back of your head.”

“But I messed up. I did what the little voice in the back of my head told me to do, and I screwed everything up.”

“Well, good parents have to let you mess up now and again. That’s how you learn.”

“Maybe… I just don’t know what I’m supposed to learn from this. What I’m supposed to do to fix things. And I can’t talk to them and the voice in the back of my head is silent.”

“Maybe that’s why they sent me,” she joked with a small chuckle. Even though he was still crying on and off, Gavin chuckled too. 

“Talking to you has helped,” Gavin replied politely. He still felt a little down, but he didn’t feel like breaking in half when he looked over at his parent’s graves. “Do you know anything about apologizing to people after you admitted to flipping a coin to decide who you were going to go on a double date with?”

The old lady chuckled, shaking her head softly. “That’s very specific, but I might know a thing or two about apologies. After fifty years of marriage, I’ve heard a lot of them.”

Gavin chuckled with a small nod at her joke. “He must have been very good at them…”

A beat passed and the old woman clapped her hands together. “You look like you could use something to eat, hunny. You’re wasting away in front of me. I’ve got some food at home I could bring you, dear.”

“Oh, I couldn’t impose. Mrs…”

“Geraldine.” 

Gavin nodded not trying to make a face at the fact a woman named Geraldine was married to a man named Gerald. “I’m Gavin, it’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Geraldine. I’m fine really.”

“Nice to meet you too, Gavin. I’m serious. I can just walk home and grab some leftovers. It’s already all of it in Pyrex dishes!”

Before Gavin could say anything, the old woman pulled herself up off the bench and was walking towards the exit. Gavin let out an exasperated sigh, and ran to catch up with the older woman. “Let me walk you home,” he hummed offering her his arm.

“I knew you were a good egg when I saw you,” she remarked, giving his arm a small pat. “We can talk about those apologies you need to make, hun!” She said excitedly as they walked out of the cemetery.

[myaekingheart]

80. Laid to Rest

🎶 Silent Song - Naruto Shippuden OST

               Rain pattered on the windowsill as Rei stared up at the ceiling, drowning in her own thoughts. Konoha felt so empty and quiet now that Naruto was gone, almost as if a death had swept over the village. She couldn’t get the day he left out of her head, the way she watched from afar as he and Jiraiya disappeared down the lane together. In a way, it all felt like the final scene of a movie where the screen would quickly fade to black and you would be left feeling as if nothing would happen in your life ever again. And yet there was something else, not quite an ending but the hint of a beginning. She closed her eyes and saw Kakashi gazing back at her the way he did that day and heaved a sigh. This was the beginning of a new era. Everything was about to change.

               When she sat up, she approached the windowsill and ran her fingers along the dried-up leaves of Naru’s chakra plant. It had been nine months since she had died and yet Rei couldn’t bring herself to let go. It was too much to bear. Now, however, a feeling of true acceptance had begun to take root. She had incubated her grief long enough. The time had finally come to birth that lump of self-hatred and sadness, rid herself of it once and for all. An emotional metamorphosis. Naru was gone and no amount of over-watering was going to bring her back. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting” she whispered, a sad smile touching her lips. “You’re probably so sick of me clinging to you like this. But it’s okay. I’m better now. I promise. And I’m finally going to give you what you want. I’m finally going to let you sleep.”

               The cemetery felt so empty, the ground still soggy and soft from the rain. She could feel the earth squish between every heavy footfall. Everyone else had already arrived by the time she reached Naru’s grave and a part of her felt guilty for having made them wait. The other part, however, knew she had a valid excuse. What lay before her required immense mental preparation. Just as there was a procedure for tethering chakra, there was a procedure for breaking it, as well. She had never severed a chakra bond before, let alone in the context of a death, and while she was confident in her technical ability, her emotional strength was questionable. How could she ever truly let Naru go? Rei tightened her grip on the little flower pot in her hands and sucked in a sharp breath. The entire world moved in slow motion.

               Sensing the uncertainty in her gaze, Chikara broke the stillness and strode forward. She placed a gentle hand on Rei’s shoulder and coaxed her nearer to their little group. “You know, you don’t really have to do this if you don’t—” she started but Rei immediately cut her off.

               “No” she insisted, perhaps a little more aggressively than she had intended. Shaking her head, she then added in a much quieter tone, “No, I-I have to do this. She deserves it. Really.”

               Chikara backed off then with a single, understanding nod. She hadn’t been sure what to say when Rei approached her with this whole idea, equally touched and torn. Missing Naru’s true funeral was something she could never forgive herself for, and every day since she cursed that awful lengthy mission that kept her at bay. Why did she ever think it was a good idea to leave? She should’ve known it was nothing more than a bad omen. And now she would never see Naru again—sweet, docile Naru, always so full of light and positivity. Chikara was certain she would’ve been heartbroken if she knew her own sensei had been absent at her funeral. At least this way, laying her flowers to rest, Chikara could finally say a proper goodbye.

               Rei dropped to her knees slowly before the tombstone, placing the flower pot between her thighs. She could feel the hot tears threatening to spill but forced herself to remain strong.  She glanced up to her audience, landing on each of their faces, and wondered to what degree they shared her pain. Chikara, of course, stood resolute but Rei could see the tiny cracks in her decorum. Beneath it all, however, there was an ounce of gratitude. This was a favor to her, too.

               Beside her stood Sekkachi with arms crossed, refusing to look at anything but Naru’s name etched onto the stone. That afternoon they shared here so many months ago still burned in Rei’s memory, the confession from Sekkachi’s lips as anger and resentment bubbled up from her core. The pain had dulled with time but never completely vanished. Rei knew she would never be forgiven, no matter what. It was just something she had to force herself to accept, in the same way she had to force herself to accept that Naru was truly gone. A pang of pain struck her chest, threatening to rise out of her throat like vomit, and Rei feared that perhaps she couldn’t do this after all. She moved on to the next face in the crowd before her resolve could dwindle to zero.

               Mikazuki watched on with modesty and composure. When their eyes locked, she fed Rei a small, encouraging smile. It was probably awkward for her to be here. She had no real ties to Naru other than the ANBU, but in the moment Rei had assumed that that was reason enough. Tenzo stood beside her with head bowed in respect. She had invited Yugao, as well, out of courtesy but work prohibited her from attending. Work, and perhaps the fear of revisiting her own grief for her dead lover, Hayate. It was a valid enough excuse.

               And then there was Kakashi. So much as a simple glance at him stirred up far too many extra feelings for her to manage at a time like this. Even when she wasn’t looking at him, though, she could feel his presence. It was calm and comforting and while it terrified her, it also fed her an unexpected strength to continue on. A reassurance that if she was to fall, he was guaranteed to catch her no matter what.

               The luminosity of the chrysanthemums before her had since shriveled and faded, flopping forward as if begging to be put out of their misery. She squeezed her eyes shut tight with pursed lips before wrapping her hands around the strong, thick stem. She could feel the weak pulse of Naru’s residual chakra beneath her palms and a yelp escaped her lips. Kakashi immediately started forward but Chikara whipped out an arm to block him, shaking her head minutely as a silent command to leave Rei be. This would take an incredible amount of concentration, especially in reverse, and as much as Chikara hated to see her own student in pain, she knew that once Rei began it was best to let her finish without interference. Kakashi tried to restrain himself but inside, his heart pounded. He could not lessen the tension in his muscles as he kept his eyes locked on Rei. She willed the trickling energy up the stem like a thick milkshake through a straw. Chakra was always easier to funnel into objects as opposed to out of them. A weak blue glow enveloped her hands as she siphoned the chakra into her body, disrupting her own chakra network in the process. It wasn’t enough to cause an overload but the chakra itself was clearly old and rotten, like the taste of spoiled milk sliding down her throat. Once she was certain all of the chakra had been purged from the plant, she rested her palms on the tombstone and released the energy in a slow, steady stream, returning it to it’s rightful owner. A twinge of anxiety punctured her as she felt her body empty itself of the foreign chakra, something malicious lurking beneath the relief. For a moment, she was desperate to cling to even the tiniest ounce of Naru’s energy, anything to keep her alive within her body, despite knowing that the presence of rotted chakra would undoubtedly make her deathly ill. But it would be such a small price to pay for a memento, wouldn’t it? Before she could further consider making the mistake, it was all gone. Her own chakra was cleansed, the flow returning to normal speed. Rei pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling a sob, as the consequential emptiness in the pit of her stomach overwhelmed her. She ripped a kunai from her holster and in one swift motion, severed the stem so that the blossom was officially disconnected from the roots. The dried-up petals fell to the ground slowly like snowfall.

               Rei’s chest heaved, clenching her fists atop her thighs, before she forced herself to her feet. She did not look anyone in the eyes. In a voice small and unstable, she announced, “It’s finished.”

               Mikazuki bowed her head in respect as Chikara leaned down to rest a hand atop Naru’s grave. A sad smile touched the woman’s lips as she whispered, “Sleep now, sweet girl.” She could feel the weight of her remorse disintegrate from her neck and shoulders, the sadness and regret washing away in the wake of Rei’s compassionate memorial. Chikara glanced up at Rei, then, only to find her eyes glazing over and her balance faltering.

               Kakashi surged forward to capture her in his arms before she could collapse. He cupped her cheek and tilted her face up to meet his gaze, asking “Are you alright?” She could hear the undercurrents of panic in his voice. There was hardly a hint of brightness in her eyes.

               “I’m f-fine…” she murmured. “I just…doing that takes a lot out of me.” Kakashi gave a single nod before Chikara rose to her feet and approached. She placed a gentle hand on the small of Rei’s back and in that moment, Rei could see she was fighting back tears.

               “Thank you for doing this” she whispered. “I can finally be at peace.” She brushed the long bangs out of her student’s face then and kissed her forehead like a mother to her child. And that was when Rei felt her shoulders shudder, her throat tighten, and the monstrous tears silently spill down her cheeks.

               This was all so melodramatic, Sekkachi felt uncomfortable just watching it all unfold before her. Perhaps her lack of ninjutsu made it hard to understand the implications of Rei’s chakra abilities, but either way no amount of well-intentioned homage was going to fix this. None of this was made Rei a martyr if that’s what she was after. None of this was going to change the fact that she was at fault for Naru’s death. If this made her feel at peace with her mistakes then fine, but she didn’t need to drag everyone else into it to validate herself. Granted, Sekkachi could’ve opted out of this. She didn’t care about hurting Rei’s feelings with a declination. And yet she felt obligated. She could stand to insult Rei, but her absence would in turn also be an insult to Naru and that she could not stand to do.

               “I’m sorry for your loss” a small voice then said, snapping Sekkachi from her ravenous thoughts. She whipped around to face Mikazuki standing beside her, eyes on the ground and fingers fidgeting. “I know you two were close. I can only imagine your grief.”

               This was all too much. All Sekkachi could manage to say was a half-hearted “Thanks.”

               “She really was something special” Mikazuki continued. “She was extremely talented. Whenever we worked together in the ANBU, she was always on top of things and knew exactly how to make us all feel confident in our abilities.”

               “Yeah, that’s great” Sekakchi scoffed. She rolled her eyes and increased the distance between them, hoping it would lessen the unnerving electricity pulsating between their bodies. It was that same sensation she felt the day the Akatsuki attacked, but she could tolerate it then. Now, it was inappropriate and unclean. Now it was a disservice to the grave right in front of her. If only it was possible to erase Mikazuki from the universe, to sell her timid little soul to the devil in exchange for Naru.

               Mikazuki’s face fell, recoiling in defeat. She tried to stammer out a response but to no avail. As she inched further from Sekkachi, however, she bumped right into Tenzo. A small, surprised sigh escaped her lips as he smiled softly at her as evidence that he was not perturbed. She saw in his eyes something warm and understanding, something she had perhaps instead hoped to find in Sekkachi. “She really was something special” he said. His eyes drifted back to the tombstone but she could still feel him focusing on her in his periphery. “She always had a way of making everyone feel welcome no matter what. She was a friend to everyone in the ANBU.”

               With wide, dumbstruck eyes, Mikazuki nodded slowly and uttered a soft, “Mmhmm.” She truly hadn’t expected this much from Tenzo. She knew him, of course, but not intimately. Not like this, outside of the required work interactions. In a way, though, he put her at ease. “I remember that night she invited me to the big sleepover in the dormitories” she then chuckled softly. “I was so unsure, but she made me feel like I was wanted there. And she always knew exactly what to say to make you feel better when you were sad.”

               As she overheard the conversation, Sekkachi seethed. How could they have anything to say to begin with? They hardly even knew her. Not like she knew her. They could likely name her favorite color (baby blue) or her favorite jutsu (Demonic Illusion: Hell Viewing Technique), but did they know that her mother used to brush her hair one hundred times while singing her lullabies every night before bed? Did they know that one time, on an espionage mission as the Tomiko Trio, she slipped onstage and her sandal flew off her foot and hit a man in the face? Or that on the rare occasion that she laughed far too hard, you could get milk to spew out of her nose? No, they were not privy to the most intimate details of her life and therefore had no place to reminisce about who they thought they knew.

               The sound of Rei and Chikara’s crying nearly made Sekkachi’s ears bleed. She couldn’t take any more of this. As she turned to finally leave, she met Chikara’s tearful gaze for only a moment. There was an inviting nature to her expression, a silent beckoning for her to join their mournful embrace. Sekkachi merely pursed her lips and kept walking. It was pointless. She did not need to wail and blubber and lean on anyone else like they did. Public displays of grief were only pleas for sympathy, and Sekkachi was not an attention-seeker. No, she would just go home to stew in her own bitter depression by herself like a dignified person. She glanced at them one last time over her shoulder before disappearing and couldn’t help but laugh at how ridiculous they all looked. Especially Kakashi.

               Normally, he would’ve felt awkward caught in the center of two wailing women like this but comforting Rei felt as normal as breathing. He rubbed small circles across her lower back and held her close, Chikara hugging her from the opposite side. For Tenzo, this was certainly a side of his comrade that he had scarcely seen before. He hadn’t expected Kakashi to be quite so warm and gentle but it was clear through his presence just how much he truly loved Rei. When Kakashi caught him staring, Tenzo dropped his eyes quickly but not before a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. As he turned, his hand lightly brushed against Mikazuki’s and a small static shock surged between the two of them. Her cheeks burned red as she turned away, then muttered, “We should probably head out.”

               When things had finally calmed down, Kakashi brushed the hair out of Rei’s face and whispered softly “Let’s get you home.” She did not protest and together they slowly made their way back to her apartment.

               Once in the hallway, he watched her struggle to unlock the front door but refrained from helping her. He didn’t want to make her feel stupid or incapable. Besides, he needed to honor her desire for independence. When they stepped inside, the room felt cold and empty and Rei’s eyes immediately landed on the vacant spot where Naru’s chakra plant once stood. It would take a long time to get used to its absence, and the thought of it left her on the verge of yet another breakdown. Kakashi sensed her distress and placed a hand on her shoulder, guiding her toward the bed and wrapping her up in a warm blanket. Without speaking, he turned and started some tea. Dirty dishes piled high in her sink and laundry was strewn across the floor. As the tea brewed, he opened a cabinet and pulled down a half-empty box of senbei crackers he knew she liked and poured some into a small bowl he recognized from when she was young. She murmured a soft thank you when he approached with the food and drink, watching her nibble and sip idly. A few minutes passed before she then asked quietly, “Kakashi…?”

               “Hmm?”

               “Can you do me a favor?”

               “What is it?”

               She sucked in a deep breath, pursing her lips, before shifting on the bed and requesting, "Can you, um…do you mind laying with me? For just a bit?”

               A small smile touched his lips as he scooted backward and curled up beside her, wrapping his arms around her. She wiggled her way out of the blanket just enough so that Kakashi could join her inside, and he obliged only because she seemed to want him to. He could feel her chest heave slightly and hear the quiet little whimpers of her crying and his heart broke for her. He rubbed her side and nuzzled the back of her neck until eventually, she drifted off to sleep. Passed out, she looked so sad and peaceful. He sat up and watched her for only a moment and his heart swelled. God, he loved her. He loved her so much. He glanced to the clock on her nightstand and knew he should probably head back home himself, but he didn’t want to think about his other obligations. He didn’t want to think about the mission he would be assigned in the morning or his own laundry needing to be washed. Right now, all that was important was this very moment here with her, watching her eyelids flutter and her fingers twitch. He wanted to cling to this scene for as long as possible so that nothing else could swoop in and ruin it. So that he could spend the rest of eternity by her side, just the two of them comforted within this liminal abyss.

[marauder--harder]

Let Her Go- A Sirius Black Imagine

A/N: Hey y’all! Long time, no talk to! I’m really sorry about how MIA I’ve been lately but I honestly haven’t had the inspiration to write anymore. This story is something that has been sitting in my drafts for a while, and I never was quite happy with it. There are some plot errors in correlation to the timeline of the books but I decided fuck it because maybe finishing this and posting it would help me get back on track. So yes, I know that it wouldn’t be plausible for Sirius to be in Godric’s Hollow at this time (or at least him heading back) but I liked this idea. This fic lines up with the song “Let Her Go” by Passenger. Hope you like it. Enjoy!

Sirius felt the cold snow seep into his trousers, his knees quickly burning against the soaked cloth—the only barrier between his legs and the frozen ground. His eyes were trained to the floor, staring at the muddied gray snow piled around a slab of stone. Words etched into it now show white, filled with years of leaves and dirt, only to be topped off with a fresh coat of frozen water.

Sirius had to dig his way to see the words; his raw and reddening hands both, somehow, burning from the cold and completely numb. He didn’t feel the way they shook against the freezing stone, nor the way his cheeks burned against the warm tears sliding down them. All he felt was the dizzying feeling as his eyes blurred out of focus, leaving only a swimming of the white, browns and grays in front of him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the voice was soft, yet firm in its convictions. He knew that Sirius was hurting, but it didn’t excuse him for being there.

Sirius didn’t have to lift his head to know that it was Remus, standing far enough in the shadows to not be seen. He was always so careful and meticulous—a reason that Sirius had once thought could have been evidence of being the leak. Remus was at just a far enough distance where it wasn’t obvious, that he would not be suspected of any connection if something were to happen. Years of being a werewolf made it easy for him to lie in the shadows, knowing how to adapt and survive—another reason Sirius had once suspected him of betrayal.

How foolish he had been.

“People can see—you’re out in the open for Merlin’s—” Remus murmur grew sharper, more scolding. It was as if Sirius was back in Hogwarts, on the receiving end of his punishment for another prank. How he longed to go back now; even if just to tell himself to hold onto those moments tighter. To remember them better, not waste every moment like he had in thinking that the world lay at his feet.

“I know.” Sirius’ own voice was nothing but a hoarse whisper in the deafening silence surrounding them. “I couldn’t just not—after all this time I had to—” The words cracked against his throat, leaving him raw and sore. He knew that he shouldn’t be there, in a place so obvious if anyone had wanted to look. Yet, after twelve years away he had to see them. Had to see for himself where they were; remind himself that what happened was real and just where he had let everyone go.

The dizzying swimming of colors ceased for a moment after he blinked once, then twice. Tears that he didn’t realize had trailed down his cheeks grew behind his eyes again. He relished in the burning sting as he kept them at bay. He had told himself nearly eleven years ago that he wasn’t going to waste any more energy crying over the life he had been served and this was not going to be a time he broke that to wallow in his own pity.

Glancing to his right, he slid his body closer to the matching grave, wiping at the snow covered tombstone just as he had before. He watched as the dull gray of the stone slowly revealed her name, beautiful and pure as she was, like magic. His fingers danced over the engravement, through the contours of her name reverently. His hands were nearly purple now, bare and positively aching down to the bone.

“I’m sorry, Evans,” he mouthed, the nickname still not lost on his tongue, even years after their marriage. Even years after their deaths.

Sobs, too broken to make any noise, wracked through his frame violently until he was leaning forward, curling in on himself as he cried. He didn’t want to cry and he actually wasn’t, not really. Only a few tears were shed as he shook, leaving him feeling hollow and just as empty as he felt when he first found them—their bodies, his mind had corrected—that night on Halloween.

“Sirius,” Remus prodded, closer now. The warmth of his voice made Sirius’ soul crack further just by the unfamiliarity of the feeling.

Looking up into his friend’s eyes, he saw the pain there, too. Remus, even if for many years did Sirius think was the lucky one in this scenario, was hurting just as much as he was. Staring for a few moments longer, he searched his face only to find hesitation dancing across his features.

His mind racing at the thought of the anger and yelling that was to come, Sirius flinched involuntarily. He prepared his body, without realizing, for the feeling of desperation and aching loneliness. Years upon years of being nothing but a delicious game for dementors left him expecting the worst when he was in trouble. The sobs that had him trembling like a small boy had long stopped, fearing that his crying over the friends he had lost would only upset Remus further. Who was he to be crying over them anyway? It was his fault that they had died.

Yet, Sirius’ long list for Remus’ expected anger had been interrupted by a hand slowly reaching out to stop in front of his face. Ignoring Sirius’ flinch, Remus simply sniffed and offered a sad grimace, “Pads, there’s something you need to see.”

On shaky feet Sirius allowed himself to be hauled up by Remus and followed him, wondering what could have been so important that he would risk being seen with one of the most wanted fugitives of the wizarding world. Sirius also noted the way Remus was guiding him, gentle and hovering as if he was waiting for his legs to give out.

A bitter scoff left his throat, but even it sounded weak. He must have really looked like shit.

As the two friends walked a few more meters, towards an old tree that would hide them from view, Sirius felt the pit deep in his stomach grow. He couldn’t think of many that Remus would need him to see, his mind already so tired of hearing about the people he had lost. Yet, Sirius’ whole body seemed to tense as he realized who that was six feet below him. Remus’ hand collided with his back when Sirius stopped dead in his tracks, unwilling to move another muscle.

“No,” he said, his voice louder than it had been in a long while.

“It was a few years after you had been in Azkaban and—”

“No,” he cut him off, head dizzy and eyes swimming with more unshed tears. “Moony, no.”

“Okay,” he relented, just for a few moments before Sirius felt the warmth of Remus’ hand leave him. “Just—”

Sirius heard Remus sigh and then walk closer towards the tree, before bending down and making a short wiping motion with his glove covered hand. It was the same motion Sirius had made at the headstones of James and Lily. He wouldn’t let it be the same motion for you.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he squeezed his hand into a fist at his side. For a few moments he felt nothing, until the low ache of his nails digging into his raw skin made its way to him. A cold wind swept by him and Sirius briefly noted how much he would rather have had the wind blow him away, back to Azkaban.

His feet moved on their own accord, knowing that his own mind would neither command them to move closer nor have the strength to do so. Slowly, the name Remus had been staring down at made its way into his line of focus and Sirius felt his whole world fall around him.

Sinking to the floor again, this time involuntarily, he wailed. It was a noise that made Remus’ heart shatter, sounding more like a wounded animal than any human noise he had ever heard. Sirius felt his empty stomach roll and heave against the cold, dead air. The bitter bile he tasted in his mouth made no show of itself yet he couldn’t stop his stomach from trying to contract over and over again.

He had remembered the only other time he had felt this hopeless, this lost. There were only two moments in his life: when he found his brother and his wife dead and the first night he spent in Azkaban. The way everything surrounding him was seemingly circling overhead, waiting to come crashing down, made the fear and panic set in.

You were gone and he hadn’t even known.

As the sun began to rise over the houses, Remus remembered just where they were. Even if partially hidden by the tree, it was only a matter of time before the rest of Godric’s Hollow woke. They couldn’t risk being seen. “Sirius, we need to go.”

The words fell on deaf ears as Sirius continued to rock himself ever so slightly, trying to remember the way you felt in his arms. He had known that he had lost you when he went to Azkaban, but he didn’t realize how little he ever had of you to begin with.

Your timing was always messed up, you’d said, smiling sadly at him. Things had happened in the world around you that neither had control over and things just hadn’t aligned properly. Sirius had spent years pining over you, trying desperately to ignore messing up the one good thing in his life. He, at the time, had not known that you were just as desperately pining away after him. Yet, once it had finally come out in the open, you both were in the midst of a raging war. There was no time for love or romance, not to him.

He had seen first hand the worry and stress love had put both James and Lily through and he couldn’t stand the thought of you caught up over him. Whether he liked it or not, ever since the birth of Harry, James was compromised in the field. He had been sent into hiding for Merlin’s sake! Naively, Sirius had thought, that James, while being smart to protect his family, was foolish to let himself love in a time like that.

No matter how hard you tried to fight for him, Sirius had told you no. That once this was all over and you were safe, he would allow himself to be with you. Because if you would still be gracious enough to have him, he would need to have you without being terrified that something would happen.

With a smile and a chaste kiss—the only one the two of you had ever shared—you told him that if it was what he truly needed, then you would wait. You would wait through the worried, paranoia filled nights and the long, gruesome battles. Because you had said that he was worth it.

“She—” he sobbed, remembering the soft lilt of your voice clearly for the first time since he had left you. “Did she believe that I—that James—”

“No,” Remus cut him off, throat catching as he tried to sound convincing. “She believed in you, Pads. Always had.”

Another wounded sound tore from Sirius’ anguished heap of a bony form and he slowly reached out to have his fingers dance along your name, just as he did with Lily’s. “Y-You’re not just saying that, yeah? She really thought I was innocent?”

Taking in a deep breath, Remus bit his lip and tucked away his own guilt that was gnawing at him sharply. “Yeah,” he chuckled slightly, rocking back on his heels, “caused a bit of a rift, actually. She was just so sure she knew.” There were a few more moments of silence, Sirius’ sobs have quieted again and Remus’ own tears had started flowing silently. “She had tried to get you a trial. Jumped through every hoop imaginable with the Ministry, but she—she never gave up. ‘Said that you wouldn’t give up on her, that waiting wasn’t good enough this time.

“She was trying to figure out who else could have done it, looking into every Death Eater she could. A-And that’s when they got the drop on us… I tried to help but—Sirius, I’m so sorry but we can’t be out here.”

“Go, Remus.”

There was a few moments of silence before Sirius felt the comforting squeeze of his hand on his shoulder. The presence was comforting and calm and just as he got used to the feeling, it disappeared. By the time Sirius had gained the strength to sit up and turn around, he heard the loud crack of apparition and saw nothing standing behind him.

He was alone again.

It was many nights later when Sirius had finally made his way back to the cave he had come to call ‘makeshift home.’ Finally, he let himself fully mourn the loss of you. Staring into the bottom of a bottle of cheap scotch—he had bummed it off of some muggle store; something to add to the list of ‘things he wasn’t proud of’—Sirius had realized that everyone he touched dies.

“Reg, James, Lily, Y/N…” he trailed off, lolling his head to the other side to stare at a sleeping Buckbeak. “I killed them all.” He paused for a moment, feeling his eyes blur with more unshed tears. “I’m a right fool, Beaky ol’ pal. I never told her I loved ‘er.”

Buckbeak simply shifted in his sleep, curling into himself further to shield himself from the rain now pouring outside. Sirius sobbed again, thinking to himself how pathetic it must be for him to be crying in the middle of the night, in a cave, while he was a hiding fugitive. If only you could have seen him now.

Closing his eyes, Sirius imagined the way you would have looked at him in both mild accusation and concern. You always were one to tell it to him straight, never sugar coating it to spare him. You preferred being honest, a quality that he always admired in you. Used to admire in you.

“Your honesty probably got you offed,” he mumbled, eyes still closed but speaking as if you were right there with him. In a way, maybe you were. You were in his mind and even if you were alive, this would still be all he had of you. “That and your smart mouth. You always did know just what to say to rile them up, love. ‘Get them right where you wanted them.”

Pushing roughly against the wall of the cave, Buckbeak woke with a start and tried to stand before Sirius was stumbling over to calm him. “Sorry, boy. Just can’t get her out’ta my head. You ever know what that’s like? A pretty bird,” he paused, snorting to himself at the slight joke before continuing, “ever catch your eye? Y’know how to love, Beaky?”

Buckbeak simply nudged him, tucking him under his giant wing. The action startled Sirius and the corner of his mouth turned upwards in a hint of a smile, splitting his cracked lip further. Sirius hadn’t felt that sort of comfort from anyone, human or creature, in so long that he didn’t know what to do with it.

“I really loved her, Buckbeak and I fucked it all up. Merlin knows how sorry I am; s’all my fault too.”

Staring up at the ceiling of the cave, Sirius’ mind went blank as his heart began to numb. The usual freezing shakes had not bothered him tonight as he carefully cuddled closer into the hippogriff; yet, he could not help the shiver that ran throughout his body at the thought of your cold, lifeless body six feet below him.

It just didn’t feel right; him being escaped from Azkaban, living a life—albeit a shit one—when you or James or Lily didn’t get to. You would never know how much he loved you, how much he had needed you. You would never be able to follow the dreams you had for after the war. You would never be able to sit and relax in his arms.

You would never be here, again.

As Sirius’ eyes slowly drifted closed, he hoped he’d have dreams of you. Because maybe he could have you in his sleep, never to touch and never to keep. Yet, it was as good as he would ever be able to reach, now that you were gone.

And maybe then he could tell you; maybe then he could have the life he so desperately wanted. Even if he didn’t deserve it.

Because he couldn’t let you go.

[inviciousx]

The Cardinal batted at the hat, forcing it to flop back down onto Caroline’s lap.

     “Keep it. I have, like, fucking … five-thousand of them,” the man slurred dismissively. Now that he was in the fresh air with the grounding sensation of cool mist on his face, he was forced to blink several times to refocus his vision, realising suddenly just how much wine he had consumed down there in the pounding atmosphere of the party. Now that he had been pulled out of it, the ground suddenly felt a lot more uneven, and it was becoming harder to translate himself properly into English. He moved to lean on the grave beside Caroline’s, finger scratching idly at the illegible name carved into it. He wondered briefly if the spirits of the occupants below were watching them, tutting and shaking their heads, and he snorted a little with laughter.

     “Maybe I was lying,” the man offered suddenly, something playful about his tone. Whether that was a good sign or not remained to be seen. “Pulling your tail. Or leg. I can’t remember which it is. Maybe I do want to kiss you, at least to only … to show what you’re missing. I am easily the very best. The rest of the Clergy are rigid as corpses, just, ehm … not rigid in the right places, you know? Rigid as rigor … rigor mortis and limp as wet spaghetti.” Amused by his own comparisons, the Cardinal smirked groggily. “Besides, it’s better to let them think that we’re fucking. They’re more likely to leave you alone that way, you know? There are men three times your age talking about you like you’re Venus rising from her shell. It’ll be our little - oh, shit -”

     Having made to move closer, his shoes slipped on the wet grass and he lost his balance. He grabbed the grave on the way down and ended up landing on his ass, legs splayed either side of the gravestone and staring blankly at the worn words etched into it. His hands were still holding the sides of it, coated with moist moss, but he was too far gone to care about that. In that moment, the Cardinal likely appeared less like the leader of a global Satanic church and more like the sort that would stumble their way home after one too many drinks in the bar.

     Brief reprieves like this were in their own way a blessing. Though he could still feel the vibrations of the party below, he felt apart from it, from the people within, and like he could breathe. Leaning forwards until his forehead was resting against the grave, he sighed and stared down at the grass below, his mood shifting as easily as waves in a storm. The graveyard hid many skeletons of those who had wronged the church. The chance of he himself having a grave up here, lonely and uncared for, was higher than he cared to think. An unwelcome intrusive thought.

     Copia then grunted and moved to lay there on his back. The world swam around him sickeningly for a moment before steadying itself, and he could see the dull colour of the sky above with better clarity.

     “Have you ever seen a dog dance?” He piped up suddenly, moving an arm beneath his head to rest on it. “They don’t tend to do it very well at all. You are a good dancer,” the man commended thoughtfully, then added in a teasing tone, smirking stupidly towards the heavens, “I suppose people are more than how they appear.”

The black hat fell back onto her legs lamely. Caroline glared at it, feeling she’d been insulted in some underhanded way, as if she’d stolen something he’d never cared about to begin with, making the whole exercise fruitless. She tossed it into the grass carelessly to continue being rained on, hoping the moisture and dirt ruined the fabric in case he ever asked for it back.

Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled over the tops of the trees, and the forest shuddered with a short blast of heavier rain before the storm settled back into a mist. Caroline ground her teeth as the quiet seconds passed, running her hands through her curls to push away the wet strands sticking to her cheeks. She anticipated rough handling again any second, hauling her up onto her feet and back into the catacombs. However, after a suspicious silence, she looked back at Copia. Her face pinched in brief confusion, wondering what on earth he was doing, just lingering, feeling the texture of a weathered headstone. Copia didn’t linger; he acted. The whole scene set her nerves on edge. Something was stirring in the stillness, but she didn’t move, fearing to set whatever it was out into the wild.

Caroline was already looking up at him when he spoke at last. She shook her head in bewilderment as the Cardinal mixed up his idioms, only to reel directly back into herself as he reached the point. The blank expression she ordinarily tried to project was obliterated by the bourbon that was keeping her warm in the night air. Her spine straightened like a steel pole and her skin singed with embarrassment. Caroline bit her lip, unable to find a word to object. Every next word he spoke to further his case on the matter of intimacy struck her as being more and more foreign. Whether Copia spoke in jest or in earnest was obscured by his thick Italian accent, though she couldn’t quite imagine a scenario in which he was doing either. Perhaps it was a test of some kind, meant to shock her into revealing the strength of her will or else testing the effect of his words, passing it off as a joke if she objected, but in success. . . Caroline stopped her mind right there. He had a stock-room full of willing partners inside, so surely he couldn’t be serious. Her mouth twisted a bit, wondering if any sincerity he had was something of a conquest, a desire to assert the power he’d wrangled over her, as if it weren’t obvious enough. All the possibilities mixed poorly with the alcohol, yet she suddenly wanted a lot more. 

Caroline opened her mouth and formed the beginning of an unknown question in the break of his soliloquy, but only managed to get the first syllable out before he pushed on. The next sentence shattered any semblance of composure she had maintained. Heat brushed up the nape of her neck. In blunt-force shock, she she raised her hands and looked around as if there was someone around to explain what he was on about. Caroline adjusted herself to face him more completely, wearing an expression that begged any kind of explanation for his suggestions. 

The tension was reaching the threshold of her limits. She leaned back upon seeing him start to round on her, suddenly realizing she might not be ready for the answers she’d just been considering. She froze to the spot, about as useless as the bones a few feet below her. Seconds passed before she registered he’d hit the ground, as if watching him in a dreamShe stared at him blankly, suddenly registering the full extent of their mutual intoxication. 

Caroline clapped her hand over her lips and exploded into a fit of laughter as the pressure in her chest released like a spring. She clutched her sides, lost in hysterics until she couldn’t keep her eyes open and tears rolled down her face. She rolled onto her back, kicking her legs up in the air and trying to clamp sniggers between her lips, but, upon looking at him again, still straddling a tombstone, she burst into a fit of giggles that took her breath away. Her abdomen ached from it, but it was all she could do to keep breathing. She covered her face with both hands, chuckling as the rain soaked through the back of her shirt. 

With a few final giggles, she rested her hands on her stomach, rolling her head over to look at the state of the man with perhaps the first genuine smile he’d ever seen, even if it was as his expense. He owed her that at least, she thought. After painting a rather vivid picture of his mastery of the human body, karma seemed to have picked up the slack she couldn’t. She made herself comfortable against the white marble below, closing her eyes, completely at the mercy of the storm. The earth seemed to rock gently under her, the air undulating with energy, a pleasant cradle to lay down arms in. The thought of lying next to Copia over the bodies of the dead did not cross her mind. 

It seemed she would have a few moments to continue decompressing, imagining her body was resting on the slopes of the Montana mountains, but Copia’s voice made her eyes blink open and back to reality. 

Her expression buckled into confusion again as her slowed reasoning connected the dots.

“Excuse me. . .” she said immediately, rolling over onto her side to see him. “Are you being. . . nice?” she finished, her voice rising. “Cause it’s great. Don’t get me wrong. But, uh. . . it rings a little hollow after you just suggested we pretend to     or actually     you know.” 

She regarded him with suspicion that bordered on humor, navigating herself out of the effect of acknowledging anything he’d just said. The makeup on his face was beginning to run in the downpour. Caroline bit the inside of her cheek, the questions beginning to flow again. She shook her head and laid back down, exhaling slowly in an effort to suffocate the slight electricity running through her muscles and navigated the stream of wet hair out from behind her back. Her clothes were beginning to truly cling to her skin with every passing minute, and while she relished the storm, it was a wonder Copia felt the same, even hammered.

“Anyway     “ she began again, a bit shrilly, wiping the rain off her face. At a momentary loss for words, she stuttered a chuckle out. “Uh, you know we, uh, tried that a few weeks ago. You got into it, then bragged about the amount of ass you pull, then you said I ‘ruined the mood,’ and I broke your arm, which, I mean, I’m outta practice, but I don’t think that’s how it works. . . Oh, then your actual fuck buddies stuck me with knives a few thousand times. So. . .” She clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth twice. “Not what I’d call foreplay.”

Caroline began circling her pointer finger in circles over the slick marble. It felt like ice. The muscles in her temples flexed in response to the situation. As she ventured further from the shock of his statements, some truths started to emerge. If people wanted bragging rights from her, it explained the odd behavior she’d seen since she’d been released from her cell. She wet her lips slowly, and sat up. The feeling of being so open suddenly felt unbearable. It was as if these people were inventing new ways to take her dignity.

Caroline leaned onto her bent knees, looking over at him with a small expression. She studied him silently. “Are you messing with me or not?” she asked quietly. She hushed again, swallowing a tremor. “Cause I was just    “ Caroline forced herself to laugh, but it was hollow, “messing with you inside. I wasn’t trying to like    lead you on, or, fuck. . . I don’t know. It was    “ She shook her head in lieu of anything audible, rubbing her arms. “nothing. So if this is your way of getting me back: haha, good job, but. . . drop it.”

@quod-quartus

[dreadhaus-literature]

{January Collection} #15

Your City’s Oldest Cemetery

Theme: Tender Tuesday

Something wicked this way comes...

“Have I told you lately that I love you?”

Monica resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but she was helpless against the smile that blossomed on her lips. “That’s a song, Dot, not some cutesy line you can use to win me over.”

“The fact that it’s a song doesn’t make it any less meaningful, love, especially if I call every radio station in Gotham and dedicate said song to you.”

“Please don’t do that. I promise I’m not upset at you.”

Monica glanced up at the cemetery’s iron wrought gates as they swung open, heralding her arrival to no one, as waking the dead was only a game children and teens played on Halloween. Considering it was January in Gotham City, the snow made the graveyard even colder than it stood to be on a good day, and made Monica rethink her previous statement.

Of course, she wasn’t actually mad at her girlfriend. This is what you do when you love someone, you do favors for them when they ask--or in Dot’s case, beg, because her girlfriend’s mortuary was teeming with bodies and the Mortician was swamped. Gotham was the seedier sister city of the shining Metropolis and it showed, even if one only took Dot’s Mortuary’s booming business as an indication. “It’s a morbid thing, to brag about our successful business in death,” Dot had once joked at a benefit gala the two had attended. “But hey, if the casket fits.” The casket was fitting a lot of hosts lately, all shapes and sizes, but thankfully Monica wasn’t transporting any bodies, today. Dot usually kept her away from that side of the business--not because Monica couldn’t handle it, but because Dot was overprotective. Even today, the haul was more of the same, and Dot was insistent that would never change.

“You’re Broadway’s biggest star, how could I possibly have you carting bodies around? Your fans would have me killed, and then you’d be transporting my body. No, this is just a simple headstone drop-off and flower deposit. I just need you to supervise the assistants while they do it.”

Monica shifted the phone, glancing around the SUV at the assistants that were currently with her while Dot half-sang the song dedication in her ear. The one across the backseat from her smiled politely at her. They all seemed so business-as-usual but Monica could appreciate that--she also appreciated they all treated her with reverence and respect, and not just because she was the Boss’s Girlfriend, but because she’d more than earned her own merit. Dot hadn’t been exaggerating, even if Monica was too polite to lead with the truth. She was the biggest star on Gotham’s Broadway; her name had been lighting up the street for months now, headlining Royal Truths: Betrayal, which was actually the second installment of the Royal Truths series. Monica had been a breakout star in the original Royal Truths and a natural headliner when the second act was ready to debut. Heralded as Gotham’s “Golden Voiced Siren,” Monica was beloved for her haunting voice and her classic beauty, and her off-stage pin-up look was sweeping Gotham so that fashion magazines were calling her manager all hours of the day trying to get the scoop on what her next new trend would be. It might seem a little beneath her to be managing Mortuary business, but Monica didn’t mind doing favors for her girlfriend, and Dot was always incredibly grateful for the help.

The sun was dipping beneath the horizon but Winter was solely to blame for that, the hour wasn’t late at all. Monica didn’t mind, however; she didn’t have rehearsal tonight and Dot had promised a nice, home-cooked meal in exchange for this little favor. The two rarely were able to eat at home, what with a Mortuary to run and Monica lighting up the night with her 5-star performances, so it was something both women were looking forward to. Really all that stood between Monica and their high-rise penthouse was this final task and it made her that much more eager to get it done and over with. She answered Dot a little absently as the SUV took a slow turn and then coasted to a stop, the driver shifting to park and the assistants immediately began to exit the vehicle.

“Oh, I think we’re here, baby, so I’m going to go, so I can get this done and then meet you at home.”

“Okay! Be safe, please, and text me when you’re on your way. I’ll see you at home.”

Monica smiled as she nodded. “Be safe getting home.”

“Always.”

Monica’s manicured nail tapped to end the call and as she was lowering her phone, she met one of the assistant’s gazes as he opened the back hatch of the SUV.

“We shouldn’t take too long, ma’am. You don’t need to get out of the truck unless you’d like to.”

“Thank you, Orlando,” Monica shifted, but another assistant was already there, opening the door for her. The second SUV in the convoy had arrived and the assistants were already exiting it, beginning their tasks--just as eager to get home as Monica was. “And thank you, Ian,” Monica added with a smile as she stepped from the SUV. Ian pushed the door closed with a smile and a nod, before moving to help Orlando get the floral arrangements out of the truck. “Do you have a lot to do?” Monica came around the side of the truck, watching the two men heft a large floral wreath from the trunk.

“No,” Ian shook his blond head. “Just a few set-ups, it shouldn’t take us more than fifteen minutes?”

“Eh, let’s make it a half hour,” Orlando corrected. “If we rush, Ms. Dreadful will make us come back. And if Ms. Dreadful makes us come back--”

“Ain’t nobody gonna be happy.”

Monica couldn’t help but laugh as every single assistant answered all at the same time, their joint reply all aimed at Orlando. Monica knew him to be one of the senior assistants who had been with the Mortuary for a long time, so he had seniority and rank, but he wasn’t over-bearing about it. He couldn’t even help the good-natured laugh at his own expense.

“Yeah, yeah, so move your asses but do it right, please.”

Monica’s sole role was simply being present to make any managerial decisions in Dot’s place should anything last minute arise, but normally those sorts of emergencies were few and far between, and it didn’t take more than a few minutes of supervising for Monica to tell this was going to be another routine evening. The assistants knew what to do, they were paid well enough to do it right, and Monica went from scrolling through her phone, sitting on the truck’s open back hatch, to glancing around Grimwood Cemetery. Unlike Gotham Cemetery, which was across the city, Grimwood became the resting place for the majority of the population. It was a little classist, sure, but there was an unspoken yet routinely followed rule that anyone of note was buried in Gotham Cemetery--the Wayne family, for example--whereas every day, normal people found themselves in Grimwood. Monica didn’t bat an eye at the difference between the two cemeteries, mostly because she knew she’d cemented herself so firmly in Gotham’s history that she could pick out a plot in Gotham Cemetery now and no one would bat an eye at it.

It was a common misconception that Gotham Cemetery was older than Grimwood, but in reality, bodies had just been relocated out of Grimwood to what is the new Gotham Cemetery. It’s a pretty well-kept secret, that Grimwood was once Gotham Cemetery, but was rebranded a half-century previous, the important bodies all moved, and people began speaking of “Gotham” as Grimwood.

“Gotham Cemetery? Oh, you mean Grimwood. Gotham’s on the other side.”

No, you had it right the first time, but that’s the thing about lies and secrets--you tell them enough, you’ll believe anything. Monica only knew because Dot was “in-the-know”, and Monica had to admit she got a good laugh anytime any of the “new money” of Gotham tried to put on airs about plots in Gotham Cemetery without knowing the truth behind the lie. Yes, Gotham Cemetery is important, now, but the fact of the matter is--

There’s still important, old parts of Grimwood that Monica would argue are worth far more than any plot in Gotham Cemetery. It’s where she found herself out of boredom, designer boots crunching through snow as she wound her way down the path between mausoleums and tombstones, idly wondering at the names etched into marble and stone. The further she went, the more distant the working assistants became, but she didn’t worry too awful much about them. She wasn’t here to baby-sit, after all, and she had her phone if they needed to call her for an emergency. It also spoke for itself that the further she went, the more timeworn and difficult to read the headstones became. The path took a steep curve down and she passed through a fence with no gate, simply an archway, but the grave markers beyond this point seemed kissed by Father Time himself.

This was Old Grimwood, graves from centuries ago, and despite the serenity of the snow, the silence was deafening and the air seemed just a little more crisp, here. Monica was overly aware of the crunch of her boots as she took in the scenery, from the barren, twisted trees curving and winding over her head, to the shadows from the path lights that danced through the twinkling snow banks. Some of the tombstones here were so old they were destroyed, collapsed onto their grave like the dust in the coffins beneath the earth. Graveyards are not known for the living, but Monica truly felt the dead space, here. It was...oddly comforting, the stark silence, the barren banks of snow and dead flora, even the bite of wind. It may seem, to some, a strange place to find inspiration, but Monica was tempted to sing, to harmonize using the quiet air as her orchestra. She quelled the urge, but couldn’t stop herself from humming all the same, reaching out to touch a frozen mausoleum door as she went. Her voice carried on the frozen wind, the dulcet tone a caress that some won’t have felt for centuries.

Not everything is dead in Old Grimwood. Some things just need a reason to rise.

The sound initially sounded, to Monica, like ice cracking. She stopped dead in her tracks, wondering at the echoing sound. It reverberated off the surrounding mausoleums and the solid tree trunks, the wind howling it’s displeasure at the macabre turn of events in a place where everything should be quiet, still, dead. The twilight sky darkened, and for one terrible moment Monica felt a shiver of fear from some unknown source, her instincts sounding warning bells that something was wrong. She held her breath as she glanced to her left and then her right, but there was nothing--the echoing was throwing her, warping her sense of direction and she realized too late the sound was coming from behind her. From the direction she’d come and as she slowly turned to look over her shoulder, she felt the air slam out of her lungs as the earth heaved and rolled a few feet behind her. What was happening?! For the first time in her life, Monica understood why some horror movie heroines stand, frozen in terror, uncertain what to do when faced with something otherwordly for the first time. The earth buckled, then seemed to cave into itself, bowing the headstone that rested at the top of the marked grave.

Cyrus Gold 18??-1895 Born on a Monday.

Monica could barely make out what it said, the stone looked so worn and old, and her terrified gaze was soon ripped from the stone entirely as electricity seemed to skitter across the frozen earth and snow--before a plume of dirt shot skyward. In the quiet of the graveyard it seemed deafening, but the silence that followed was even louder. Monica was rooted to the spot, uncertain what to do in a situation such as this. To get back to where she’d come, to the safety of the assistants and the sanity of normality, she’d have to run past an open grave...that had opened itself.

“What the hell even is Gotham City,” Monica muttered to herself as she folded her arms over her chest “It’s not wonder even my grandfather keeps asking me to move.”

She’d thought talking to herself would break the awful silence and she’d feel comfortable enough to move, but it seemed her voice did something else--it spurred someone else to move, and a guttural groan echoed out of the freshly opened grave. The sound was deep and low, rumbling up Monica’s boots as she took a frightened step back.

Oh...no, there’s absolutely no way in hell...Zombies aren’t real, right? Sure, Monica loved the zombies from horror movies and video games, and she could tout the title Queen of the Zombies like nobody’s business. Her Zombie Pin-Up from last Halloween’s Gala had been the top hash-tag in Gotham City for two weeks. But this? This was real life, this was happening, and she didn’t know how to feel about it.

A hand larger than she’d ever seen shot out of the open grave and slammed down on the frozen snow with such force Monica nearly fell over. She could only watch with wide, terrified eyes as a hulking behemoth of a man dragged himself from the split in the earth. The creature’s suit was in tatters, the white button-up missing entirely, likely rotted away, and revealing a physique and height any normal man would be wise to envy. He didn’t look rotted, but his skin had a disturbing pallor to it all the same. As he struggled to gain control of his motor skills, Monica watched silently as his bones creaked and cracked into place, putting him at over seven feet tall. He was flesh and blood, with the veins and muscle mass to prove it. As he straightened up, his eyes opened and she was greeted with milky white, but for some reason she just knew he could see her. She felt nailed to the ground, rooted to the spot as he sized her up, his silver-white hair neglected and hanging in uneven strands below his prominent brow bone. This...creature’s bone structure was something to envy, all square-cut and masculine, and Monica felt her heart drop into the center of her stomach as he took a single step toward her.

“Speak.”

Monica flinched as if he’d yelled at her, but he hadn’t. She wasn’t prepared for that voice. It was deep and commanding, as if time-tested and unafraid of even death. The creature followed his first step with a second as he waited for her to do what he said. When she didn’t, he raised his voice and tried again.

“Speak!”

“W-What?! What the h-hell are you asking me?” Monica cried, clutching the neck of her jacket defensively, but she’d done what he wanted and his entire body seemed to shudder as her voice washed over him. He actually staggered, but kept upright, and took another step toward her. Monica took one back. “W-What...What a-are you?”

“Solomon Grundy.”

Monica didn’t know if he was actually answering her or if that was just...him talking. Was she actually conversing with...with a real life zombie?

Unbeknownst to her, Monica’s inner turmoil, confusion, and fear was providing exactly what Solomon needed as he willed his new body to move faster, to close the distance between them quickly. He hadn’t been expecting this but when one’s experienced death, one learns to adapt quickly. He’d been sleeping so peacefully, soaking up the nutrients the earth had to offer so that he might one day rise again, but in a single instant the chord from her voice had rejuvenated him in his entirety. Solomon was whole--he didn’t need weeks, months, years in stasis. This woman had done it in an instant. Solomon didn’t understand how or why but he didn’t need to. He was a man of simple things, now, and what he understood, simply, was that she had done it. Had she done it on purpose? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. She’d done it, and that meant something. What did it mean? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter because a zombie only cares about one thing--

It’s baser instincts and needs.

What he needed was right in front of him. He staggered, lurched toward her like a man grasping at the edges of his grave but Solomon has been there, done that, and it didn’t matter where this beautiful woman went, he was a zombie. Zombies are relentless. He would find her, track her down, and break her for daring to run from him--but she wasn’t running. No, she was staying, standing, staring up at him with fear in her eyes but all Solomon could see was beauty. It was akin to Hades falling for Persephone, the beautiful flower growing in Death’s palm, and he was all too aware of how breakable, how fragile, how small she was. A tiny miracle, a winter rose blooming between the ice cracks. Solomon was a simple man, these days. Zombies only want what they need and Solomon knew in an instant what he needed. A normal man night brood, or question what he was feeling, but Solomon didn’t need to. And he didn’t much care if Monica would need time to come to terms with what he already needed.

Her.

“P-Please, d-don’t,” Monica stammered as the creature drew up before her, realizing far too late she should have run but honestly, would her legs have carried her? She didn’t know; they felt like buckling, now.

Solomon didn’t speak, not at first. He lifted one hand, his palm alone larger than Monica’s face. His muscles seemed to strain with the need to be gentle, but Monica was all too aware of the crushing power behind that giant hand. She flinched as he touched her, made a noise that he felt straight to his curiously beating heart. He was cupping her cheek, his skin like frozen stone against hers.

“Your name.”

Monica swallowed thickly, but couldn’t get past the lump in her throat. She tried to shy away from his hand, but Solomon’s rumbling growl stopped her from moving any further way from him, and he repeated his demand, sharp and heavy like a timeworn stone.

“M-Monica.”

“Monica.”

Solomon tested the name with his tongue and found it sweet; it lingered like wine and reminded him of the warmth of sun upon his dead skin. His eyes actually closed and there was that curious shudder in his hulking frame, as if he couldn’t handle anything to do with her. With Monica.

“Solomon Grundy.” Solomon patted his chest with his other hand, and Monica couldn’t believe she was...having a conversation with a zombie in Gotham’s oldest cemetery.

“N-Nice...to meet you, Solomon.” She didn’t know what else to say, but could tell immediately that disrespecting Solomon wouldn’t be wise. His body posture seemed to both relax and yet tense at her words, as if he loved what she said but couldn’t take how sweet her voice was.

“Again.”

“W-What?”

“Say name again!”

Monica repeated his name, and Solomon’s brutish fingers tightened, crushing the silk of her hair between his dead digits. He hadn’t meant to startle her by raising his voice but he’d grown desperate in that instant, to cling to the feeling of her saying his name. She had such a sweet voice, he could hardly take it, much like an addict craves just one more potent hit. She’d somehow completed him, made him whole, and her voice was the key to his heart, her touch would be what sustained him, her body would be what gave him life. Solomon’s impossibly broad shoulders hunched and blocked out the icy wind as he curved protectively, possessively around his new woman.

“Mine.”

Monica instinctively began to shake her head.

“Monica mine.”

Solomon ground out his demand so close to Monica’s cheek she flinched and tried to shrink away from him but there was nowhere to go. She could only tremble helplessly as Solomon’s arms closed around her, his bone-crushing fingers shaking as he tried to be gentle but she knew, she just knew if she pushed he wouldn’t be.

When Monica fell still in his embrace, Solomon smiled. It was more a baring of teeth, but the Zombie had time to learn how to smile like a man, again. He had a reason, like the sailors of long-lost seas who chased sirens in the dark. Solomon may be a simple man but he’s a man who knows what he wants. What he needs.

Monica.

And she’ll need him back, in time. The Beauty always needs her Beast.

[theheartchoice]

Just One Case 

dean/cas  |  teen  |  2.5k  |  coda for 13.06 

A profound bond and a resurrected Angel and movie nights and cowboys. 

Cas remembers Dean’s fascination with cowboys. A fetish, Sam called it. 

But Cas saw it as a harmless indulgence. 

The angel first caught sight of it when he sent the brothers back to the Old West to retrieve the ashes of a Phoenix. But for the way things were back then, Cas wasn’t around much. He couldn’t afford the luxury of spending casual time with them, with Dean, no matter how much he wanted to.

And then he broke Sam. And played God. And lost his memory. 

When he finally came back it was for battle purposes. And before long he and Dean were stranded in Purgatory. 

After a year in Monsterland they both somehow made it home again. And before Cas was snatched up by Naomi’s heavenly intent, he was able to share a few precious weeks with his favourite human, his favourite being in the whole world. 

It was during that time, when the angel feared to return to Heaven, that he was fortunate enough to spend some much coveted one-on-one time with Dean. Outside of hunting. Outside of supernatural wars and bloodsport. 

It happened by accident. 

One night, while indulging in some particularly good Chicago pizza and Thighslapper ale, a cowboy film appeared on tv. 

Dean lit up. His body perked up with excitement. This was his chance to introduce Cas to the wonderful world of America’s Old West. It was one of his favourites, too: Tombstone. 

Cas didn’t understand the appeal but Dean insisted he would love it. And he trusted Dean. So they watched. Together. Side by side on a particularly stubborn motel sofa - one that dipped in the middle. So if their bodies happened to migrate towards one another and come to rest shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh upon the cushion, Cas could not be blamed when their close proximity caused an unusual excess of body heat that saw him remove his trenchcoat and roll up his sleeves. 

By the time the credits rolled, Cas was smiling. He did enjoy it. Not so much the story or the characters or the dusty old setting, but Dean: Just being with him was enough. Seeing the hunter happy about something for a change pleased Cas to no end - because he deserved it.

Dean deserved every happiness.

And then there was the hand that found itself resting on Cas’ knee. Then his thigh. Then his inner thigh. Dean’s palm slid over the fabric, slowly tracing the curve of muscle. Up and down, over and back again. 

So slow, it took a half an hour to move from one side to the other.

So slow, it couldn’t be seen as an intentional. 

So slow, that the blood vessels rooting up Cas’ thigh and gathering in his groin couldn’t hold the hints of heat long enough to do anything about it. 

It was arousal in slow motion. 

Cas could have been frustrated by the drawn-out agony, the desire kept so far from reach and yet so close, but he simply didn’t feel it.

He felt oddly soothed, like a long, gentle massage that spread from his thigh throughout his entire body.

Over the years, Cas would always look forward to ‘movie night’. They even re-watched Tombstone a few times in the bunker. In Dean’s room. On Dean’s bed.

And each time they sat or lay together - watching anything, late at night alone in the dark - Dean’s movements increased infinitesimally in speed, in distance.

He dared to go a little further each time, Cas becoming aware Dean’s hand no longer moved of its own accord, but by conscious will. By want.

And with Dean’s progress, Cas made some of his own: he turned into his touch, turned toward Dean. It was subtle, just as Dean’s movements were. And over a dozen nights together Dean’s hand was curved full around Cas’ inner thigh. And Cas was turned on his side watching only Dean, the tv all but forgotten if not for the static glow shrouding their bodies.

The last time they were together, Cas had dared to touch Dean. 

Though he never went as far as the hunter. Just enough to show Dean he wanted this, too: fingers grazing his chest, curling to trace knuckles up his sternum, ghosting the angle of his neck and stubbled jaw. 

There had almost been a kiss. They were so near. A whisper of space between them aching to be closed, like magnets drawn to each other. Yet they resisted. With much difficulty.

Their exhales were sighs, mingling together in mutual awareness before they dissipated, falling away as a gorge opened up between them. They both thought better of what they were doing. They had let their bodies direct their will, and it was dangerous. 

They had opened up that void between them. Their motions were earthquakes underground and now they both risked falling in, even though they had returned to their own personal space. 

Cas had stayed long enough for Dean to fall asleep. But In the darkness, Dean felt a world away. They were apart, no touches or brushing they could willfully blame on the shadows. 

One eager move and they could fall. And it was a long way down. So they kept their hands to themselves and played it safe.

So much had happened between their last night together and this moment: in the bunker, alive and together against all odds.

Dean cursed himself for not keeping Cas close while he was human. And when he himself turned demon, his inhibitions threatened to draw him back to Cas, the magnetic field that always saw them return to one another was painful to resist. 

Dean had killed to resist it. He had screwed his way through countless, nameless lookalikes to resist it. Even he knew in his black heart that if he saw Cas again he would have him. Take him. But there was just enough Humanity left in his cells that he knew that would be wrong, that Cas deserved better. He deserved Human love, not demonic desire.

Standing in the bunker, everyone safe and together, Dean felt worries and pain and longing lift from his shoulders like a great weight, as if gravity had suspended his burdens - at least for now.

A cowboy case in Cowboy City. Cas returned from the dead. The son of Satan not so evil. Life was a dream. 

A favourite memory washed in: he had modelled western gear for Cas on a whim back when their was a lull in cases and Cas happened to stop by. Dean had gushed about its authenticity and how all the trouble he went through to find The Perfect Hat was so worth it.

Cas had smiled fondly at his giddiness, wide and bright. And that was too rare and beautiful a thing. 

Dean had felt a blush sweep up his collar, but turned and hid behind the partition to change before cas could see. 

Cas knew all about Dean’s love of cowboys. More than once, while watching over him, Dean murmured accented flirtations in his sleep. Cas knew that’s what they were, because they were often proceeded by shallow breaths and a crinkled brow, and Dean’s hand sneaking beneath the covers. 

Usually cas left him to his dreaming. But, on occasion, he would stay and watch the show - strictly for educational purposes. Or so he told himself. 

Though, that was early days. As they grew closer, Cas grew more and more curious about Dean’s desires, his fantasies, and (sinfully) whether he envisioned Cas in any of them. 

One night, after Dean was cured of his demonhood, Cas returned to the bunker.

Sam was away, and Dean was asleep. He only came to peruse some etchings of lost cuneiform stones housed in their archive, hoping to find a spell to help him locate the remainder of his grace. But honestly, he didn’t expect to find anything. He had just hoped to see Dean - to share a few hours, a few moments together. Share a coffee and some thoughts over some old dusty books. 

The bunker was dark and quiet, save for an echo down the hall and a light fading through the shadows. Cas found Dean’s door ajar. That familiar tv glow sneaking out, and the gravel sound of some old Western. 

Cas smiled. He had missed their movie nights. And if tonight’s feature was cowboy-themed, Dean would be in a deservedly good mood. 

He pushed the door wide, hoping to join in whatever fictional adventure Dean was immersed in. Hoping more to lay beside Dean for a few hours. He would be cautious of their void, but he couldn’t deny how much of a comfort it was to simply be near his Human again.

But Dean wasn’t enjoying the usual ‘movie night’. 

One hand was bunched in the pillow under his head and the other shoved down his boxers pumping in slow, sturdy movements, clenching and unclenching. Dean’s body was writhing in the mess of sheets, his muscles flexing and heels digging in.. 

..Cas had almost left.. 

..almost.

As Cas receded back into the hall he heard his name - breathless and ragged from Dean’s lips. He chanced a look, and found Dean’s eyes still shut, hand still moving. And his name came again. And again. 

Cas found himself glued to the floor. He didn’t make a sound, didn’t make himself known. He knew he should leave, but he was mesmerised. The planes and ridges and curves of Dean’s body, edged in shadow and illuminated by the aura of a desert at sunset. 

Dean’s laboured breaths sounded over the dialogue and Cas’ name left his lips again - desperate - layered over the score of the film. 

Dean chanted Cas’ name like a mantra, back arching and falling between the moans that filled the empty room, hips rising to meet the broken call for his wayward Angel. 

Cas felt himself heat and harden and swell with the urge to join Dean on the bed, to tangle together naked and restless in the sheets. He wanted to touch and taste and bond in every physical intimacy. 

He didn’t know much about sex, but he didn’t fear it - not with Dean. He knew he would be in good hands - the hands of someone caring, who cared about him. Also someone who was well-schooled in carnal pleasures. 

Fantasy took hold. Cas let his eyes slide shut and leaned against the doorframe, Dean’s voice echoing through him. He envisioned them together. 

He didn’t realise his own hand had moved to care for his own growing need until a loud groan jutted through the melodic moans emanating from the bed. It was a glorious sound, though Cas knew it was a one-time occurrance. 

Dean descended form his high, breaths quieting, Cas’ name disappearing from the air, from the steady stream that was building his own desire. Horse-hoofs and carriage wheels overlapped Dean’s calming breaths and soon became the only sound in the room. 

The Human lay spent in his sheets, still unaware he had an audience.

Cas’ hand was wet. His groin flooded with warmth. He chest was loose and his heart slowing from a wild dance. His breaths were low and thankful. 

A small tired laugh lilted through the doorway as Cas disappeared.

“Much obliged..”

Dean’s cowboy voice was unforgettable, and a fresh heat spread over Cas’ skin like the new dawn. He brought the door to a soundless close, leaning his forehead against the wood. 

The only light in the hall patterned his shoes with grated silhouettes. Cas could hear his own breaths fighting to soften, the blood in his ears stubborn to slow. 

A rustle of sheets and upping of tv volume on the other side of the door told Cas he was still conscious, that it wasn’t just another happy dream.

He almost knocked.. Almost. But the memory of their last night together came back to him: the void.

Dean was barely Human again, and Cas’ grace was fading fast. They had their own hurdles to overcome, their own strengths to build back up. 

There will be time for us, Cas thought. It was a promise, a prayer he wished he could send to Dean.

Silencing his footfalls, Cas withdrew down the hallway again. He left the bunker with all the quietness of weightless shadows, and disappeared into the night, leaving no echo behind him.

It was for that reason that Cas was not looking forward to working this case. 

Cowboys meant a happy Dean. A coquettish Dean. If they should find themselves alone and in the presence of a Western ambiance, Dean might just move to cross that void. Cas might leap, as well. 

And wouldn’t that be dangerous?

Then again, It’s been so long, and so much has happened.. Maybe the distance between them is no longer ominous. Maybe the gorge has closed up but they were too preoccupied with saving the world and each other to notice. 

Maybe they can finally move freely in and out of one another’s space.

“..Two salty hunters, one half-angel kid, and a dude who just came back from the dead - again. Team Free Will, 2.0! Here we go.”

Dean wanted this, and so it would be. And he did deserve to enjoy things despite whatever threat was looming over them. There would always be something.

And having just returned from The Empty, Cas had no intention of denying himself any chance to spend time with Dean - his living, breathing, walking-talking motivation for fighting to come back, to live on.. 

..Together.

Dean was his reason, his strength, his want.

There would be four of them on this hunt. Perhaps that would hinder Cas and Dean from getting too close. Perhaps they wouldn’t discover whether that void still stood between them, just yet.

Perhaps they would find out after - once they were home. 

It would be difficult, though. Cas could feel it already. He was scarcely back one day, but there hadn’t been time for only him and Dean. And he needed that. He needed to be alone with Dean. They both needed to see where the other stood - how far away, how much fear and uncertainty still kept them apart.

Just. One. Hunt.

Then, they would have their time alone - as themselves - to talk. To do more than talk.

In the meantime, Cas would muster every ounce of his strength to resist the Western charm of Cowboy Dean.

Just a crowded car-ride. Just a few nights in a shared motel room in cowboy-ville. Just Dean in those boots and that hat with that voice and that walk and those eyes and those hands..

..Oh.

This wouldn’t be easy. Matters of the heart were never easy. 

Here we go. 

[spideyxchelle]

Freshman year of high school Peter Parker and Michelle Jones orbit each other as not-quite-friends but more than acquaintances. Sophomore year of high school Peter Parker and Michelle Jones become sort-of-teammates because he is crap at keeping secrets and even teenage superheroes need help. Junior year of high school Peter Parker and Michelle Jones are inseparable but not in love, no matter what everyone thinks. Senior year of high school Peter Parker and Michelle Jones dance around what college could mean for them, for their friendship. Luckily, freshman year of college is in the same city so they stop worrying about distance ruining anything. Sophomore year is much the same and they are weirdly and wonderfully happy. Junior year of college they move-in together and start dating, but, uh, not each other. Senior year of college they break up with Gwen Stacy and Harry Osborn and finally, finally get together.

This is what happens after.

[prologue]

When Peter rejoins the world of the living, Ned nearly forces three glasses of water down his throat before his fiancée comes to the rescue. MJ startles awake when she hears Peter choking on the water and he is so glad she is stepping between him and Ned, tearing the water out of Ned’s grasp. She narrows her eyes and snaps, “He just woke up. Don’t kill him.”

Ned raises his hands defensively, “I just, uh, wanted to help.”

“By drowning him?” MJ challenges.

Peter grabs Michelle’s hand and he sees all the tension leave her shoulders. “Mi…El.” His voice is still failing him. Three days of no talking really, truly wrecked his voice. He feels so tired.

Michelle falls to her knees beside his bed and cradles his hand, “Hey, baby. You gave us a scare.”

Her touch soothes every demon in him. Its remarkable. She is remarkable. His eyes catch the engagement ring she wears, the engagement ring he had given her, and it’s a flint, sparking hope in his chest.

He wants to ask her everything. He wants to know what happened after. He wants to know, “…ob..in?” He hates how his voice fails him now when he needs it most. But, damn it, he has to know what happened to Norman. The last thing he remembers is the deranged older man’s hand on the trigger and the white, all-consuming pain of fire, but if he had survived the explosion perhaps Norman Osborn had as well.

Or he hoped. Because, well, he had seen him, at the end.

The Green Goblin had ebbed away and Norman Osborn had taken his place. His eyes had cleared and the man had replaced the monster that had ravaged New York for months. Peter wanted to save the man. The man clicked the trigger and blew both man and monster sky high. The explosion took an Avenger with them.

Peter had really thought he was going to die.

The press of MJ’s hand feels like living, though, so he knows he made it. But Norman’s fate is less clear.

MJ’s face falls and she turns to Ned for help. That is enough of an answer, but Ned leaves no room for doubt when he shakes his head. “He, uh, didn’t make it, Peter.”

Even though he had known, it still hurts. Spider-Man is supposed to save people. Yet, Norman Osborn is dead.

“Another thing,” Ned says tentatively, “Harry Osborn is missing.”

Gwen Stacy’s gravestone is strangely white and sterile. Harry Osborn remembers her with so much more life and color than the gravestone implies. And he hates the two words etched beneath her name—Daughter. Friend.—because that cannot be all she was worth. She was worth more than her relations to other people. She stood on her own, a force of nature.

Dead now.

Harry is beginning to know more dead people than living ones.

The tombstone reminds him of a time before she was buried six feet under ground. She had always been so kind, that much he remembers with perfect clarity. Even if his mind is mostly mist and glimmer than clear images now. The accident gave the world a green, foggy hue.

He had told Gwen once that her kindness was going to bite her in the ass. She had given him an indulgent but sad smile and gently offered unsolicited advice, “Harry, its easy to be mean. Being kind takes real courage.”

He had huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, “I’m not going to be a pushover, Gwen.”

“And I am?” she had jokingly accused him. He remembered flushing and stuttering to cover up whatever damage he had caused with that comment. But Gwen was always a far kinder, more understanding person than him. She had placed her hand on his arm, “Harry, you’re a good person. I know you are. You couldn’t love MJ the way I know you do if you weren’t.”

Harry had deflated, then, and slumped back in the nearest chair. She had sat at his feet and taken his hand. He did not remember his mother, she had died when he was a baby, but he recalled thinking that if could imagine the perfect motherly moment it would have been something close to what Gwen was that afternoon. “I’m so scared,” he had admitted.

She nodded, “I know. But MJ cares about you, Harry. You have to stop worrying that she’s going to run off with Peter. You have to trust her.”

Harry had sneered, ‘Like you trust, MIT?”

“Peter,” she had amusedly corrected him, “And yes. Like I trust Peter.”

He did not realize in the years that followed how much he had relied on the comfort of knowing the world had Gwen Stacy in it. Whenever things got too tough or he felt himself edging on cruel, he would think of her and think if the world had produced someone as inherently good as Gwen Stacy then perhaps everything would be okay.

She is dead now. And with her, the goodness.

He keeps his hood up to block out the rain and hide his jagged scars. The rain is falling so heavily and deafly he does not hear Peter Parker approach. He does hear his voice, though, when he asks, “Excuse me, can I help you?”

Harry tempers the anger swirling in his blood and turns to face Peter. The MIT graduate pales and Harry says with sharp mirth, “Laboratory accident.” He knows the scars on his face as extensive, nearly deforming, but if there is any person on the planet that would know Harry anywhere he is almost certain it would be Peter fucking Parker. Harry nods at the limp flowers in Peter’s hands, “You come here often?”

Peter swallows, “Often as I can. “ After a beat, he adds defensively, “I did care about Gwen, you know.”

“I didn’t know she died,” Harry faces the grave, showing Peter his back.

“Two years ago,” Peter expands.

Harry locks his jaw, “After my father was killed by the Spider-Man I did some looking into some of his other victims. Her name was on the list. Imagine my surprise.”

Peter rigidly places the flowers at the base of Gwen’s gravestone. Harry ignores Peter as he places his hand on the gravestone in silence. He doesn’t care about whatever misplaced regrets Peter Parker has in his life. In fact, he silently hopes that Peter stacks up more regrets in his long, pitiful life.

After a breath, Peter stands and looks Harry dead in the eyes, “The Spider-Man didn’t kill Gwen, okay?”

“Right,” Harry snorts, “Of course. I forgot you were Stark’s lap dog.” All of those tools working under Stark would swear the sun rose and fell by his misguided teams’ misfortunes. The Avengers are state-sanctioned murders. His father a casualty of their carelessness. Of the Spider-Man’s will.

“Gwen Stacy was killed by Hydra agents. Not Spider-Man,” Peter says quietly enough that Harry has to strain to hear him between drops of rain.

With an easy shrug, Harry hums a loopy tune, “The problem now of course is…to simply hold your horses…to rush would be a crime.” He can feel Peter staring at him worryingly. Good. Harry slides his eyes to Peter and Harry cannot help but laugh. His face is so funny.

“Harry-“

In an instant, Harry is stripped of all of his good humor. His tone has an edge of warning. Of danger. Of chaos. “There is no justice in this world. Only if you make it.”

“Harry, hold on-“

He turns and leaves Peter Parker behind weaving through the graveyard on a path of dirt darkened by the rain and, in the shadows of the foggy evening, it looks like he is walking a path to hell. Perhaps, he thinks, this is how God’s angels fell. Seeking the justice that the morally self-righteous refused to grant their lessers. Well, Harry muses, call me Lucifer.  

When Peter returns to base after his deeply unsettling visit to Gwen’s grave, Tony is waiting for him in the front hall. Michelle is relieved to see him safe and sound—she had been against him going on his weekly visit to Gwen’s grave while he was still recuperating but she knew better than to take his ritual fro him—but she was more irritated by Tony’s hovering. She was his caretaker. She was going to be his wife. Tony acting like some helicopter parent did not work for her. So, she goes to Peter and throws his arm around her shoulder so she can catch some of his weight as a clear sign that she had everything under control.

Tony ignores her clear messaging and demands, “Where have you been?”

“Gwen’s grave,” Peter says, his voice drained and raw. Tony steps forward to speak and Peter shakes his head, “Don’t. Okay, Tony? I need to lay down and talk to MJ, okay?”

“Let me help,” Tony offers.

He shakes his head and Michelle is grateful he has taken the lead on managing Tony, “She’s got it.”

Michelle doesn’t mean to but she preens when Peter speaks. She gives Tony a shrug, “You heard him.”

Tony mumbles but ultimately leaves them to it and with Tony gone Michelle picks up on Peter’s nerves. There is something wrong. He is radiating anxious energy.

When they make it to his room at the compound, she lays him down and joins him on the bed, pillowing her head against his chest. He exhales and she lets them lay in quiet for a while. She has learned over the years that words mean less to Peter than touch. He is not good at verbally expressing himself, but he is a master at making her feel loved with a simple caress of her cheek. When he twirls his fingers in her hair and kisses the crown of her head, she knows that is his way of telling her he is hopelessly in love with her and sets his world around her orbit. Peter Parker needs MJ and she never knew how remarkable love could be before him. Before one look rattled the stars.

“Okay,” she finally says, “What happened?”

“Harry,” he replies vaguely.

She raises her eyebrow, “Osborn?”

He nods. She wiggles up the bed to lay her head on his pillow so they are a breath away. Michelle affectionately brushes his hair off of his forehead, “What about him?”

“He was at Gwen’s grave today.”

That catches her attention. “W-what?”

Peter repeats, “Harry was at Gwen’s grave. And…MJ…something was wrong with him. He was all…scarred up and….off.” She waits for him to finish. She looks at him like she expects him to, so he relents, “He said Spider-Man killed Gwen. Said Spider-Man killed his father, too.”

Michelle softens and surges forward to slant her lips over his insistently. His bottom lip goes and she knows he is fighting back tears. They have spent early morning hours talking about Gwen Stacy over the last two years. She knows Peter blames himself for every person that Spider-Man could not save, but she always tells him that just because he could not save them does not mean he killed them. Usually, that speaks volumes and forces him to calm down. Gwen Stacy is a ghost he cannot shake because they killed her because of Spider-Man.

It’s different. And she hates that it haunts him. And hates that Harry inadvertently wielded a sharp weapon against her fiancé.

“Peter-“ she tries.

But he shakes his head and roughs out, “She is dead because of Spider-Man, though, MJ.”

She flinches.

She remembers the frantic voicemails two years ago. The way Peter had hunted down half the city to find her. She remembers the way she had been sitting at work, cracking away on a new story about some government scandal when Peter had come whirling through the bullpen. She had stood, embarrassed, and hissed, ‘Peter, what are you doing here?”

He had pushed five people out of his way to get to her and gripped her upper arms tightly, as if checking for bruises or harm. When he was satisfied, he sighed, “You’re okay.”

She shook him off of her and snarled, “I’m fine. I repeat: what are you doing here?”

She remembered it dawning on him that he was in a public space acting like a lunatic. He had, as gracefully as he could manage, led her away from the growing crowd and whispered under his breath, “I thought…I got….I got a message that someone had killed you. I was terrified.”

She remembered the way her stomach dropped. Michelle had cupped his face and kissed him firmly, “I’m here. I’m okay.”

He shuttered, “They said they killed Spider-Man’s girlfriend. Said they got you.”

“My name?” She blanched. “They know my name?”

Peter’s eyes widened, then, “They didn’t-“

Michelle searched his eyes, frantically, “Peter?”

He had said the words that changed everything, “They didn’t say your name.”

Later, she found out that the threatening message from Hydra agents had said they killed “Spider-Man’s girlfriend”. Close but no cigar.

The reality was that they killed his ex-girlfriend.

Some nights, Michelle still has nightmares of Gwen strapped to a chair slowly bleeding to death. She has a recurring night terror that Gwen prays for the pain to stop. She dreams that Gwen is in agony and that she dies knowing that no one is coming for her. There is no superhero to swing in and come to the rescue. She will die in a dark, damp place all alone.

If these are her dreams, she cannot imagine what sort of thoughts plague Peter.

Michelle tugs the blankets around the pair of them, “Peter, you did not kill Gwen Stacy or Norman Osborn. Harry is grieving.”

“No,” Peter shakes his head, “No, MJ. You didn’t…you didn’t see him. He hates Spider-Man. He hates me.” He pauses like that amuses him and adds, “Not that he didn’t hate me before…but…you know, the Spider-Man thing is new.”

“I love you,” she whispers, like a French love song, “It’s all gonna be okay.”

She senses it’s a lie the moment she says it. So she holds him a little closer that night and fights away his nightmares in the only way she knows how with gentle, lingering kisses. Some of them taste like ash and devastation.

And only when he snores fitfully, later, she goes for a walk in the compound.

Somehow she ends up in the empty sanctuary that Tony keeps for their most desperate hours, so whatever God is out there can hear their prayers when they need them. Without much thought, she falls to her knees and goes to task doing something she never does. She prays for help.

[eriks-journal]

The Lion in the Dark  - Part 5

The Bone Yard, no other place in Ishgard conjured such a vivid image of damnation. Here laid the heretics, the destitute, the damned. You could as a High Born spit on a commoner, but it was considered bad taste to wish them to the Bone Yard. It was a curse none would utter for it was so reviled. Children feared it, men feared it, Leon feared nothing for he felt nothing. Entering the unholy place he wandered a while.

After some exploring in the dank place he noticed carvings on each headstone, G-A, G-B, G-C, he then realized they were a code for cataloging the dead. Several of the stones bared no name, so the code would be the best way to keep records of the place. Taking the paper he had gotten from the thief out of his pocket he read it again, [F-11, B-Y, Cicero]. He looked back and made his way through the forest of tombs. Reaching the B's he walked down, the grid leading him to one. It read: Fiona, and was marked with an odd brand, a blade of some kind pointing down. The name Cicero was etched below the brand. He muttered to himself, "F-11.... Fiona? No, a coincidence." he assured himself as he turned to walk away only to be stopped by a familiar voice,

"It isn't though..." rolled the soft voice on the night air." Leon turned with true shock, there before him she stood, a simple white gown tattered but beautiful. She was as if made of mist, there but somehow not. Floating just off the ground, she still was below him in height. "Halone!" he called out. The spirit raised her hand, her finger to her blue lips. She had been young, and her beauty was without question that even now with ivied skin and shadowed eyes she was a vision. "Have a care Leon, you will call him. Please, be silent." Leon steeled himself and somewhat scolded himself for his fear. "Fiona... what has become of you?" She looked into his eyes, she had always liked him, though he was always distant. A tear would have come from his moment of gentleness, if the dead could weep, "I am dead Leon. Dead from this world, and though I was faithful I am shackled here, unable to travel on to Halone's Fortress. please you must help us." Leon became focused as he saw another sprit rise up from the next grave, a fresh grave with no stone yet. A young boy, Marc stood there now, though he did not speak, his neck gashed and blood over his clothes. Then others rose, twelve in all, all children who had died in Borghen's household over the years. He had known them all, victims foul play, accident, or illness, "What... what are you all doing here?"

None but Fiona spoke, "Not just we." she spoke as she pointed behind, men and women appeared, dozens, all with faces he knew, faces he saw as he had taken their lives on the executioner's block. "No... NO! What is this madness!?" he said as he collapsed to the dirt. "Not but one or two should be in this damned place, why are they all here?...." he looked up at her now, she knelt and tried to cup his face in her hands but failed as her fingers passed over him like a night breeze. Her face saddened then strengthened as he continued, "...why are you all here in this dark place?" he finally whispered. She began to answer then stopped, looking over her shoulder as if she had heard some frightening noise that Leon had not. The other spirits seemed to hear it too and all retreated to their graves. She looked back to Leon and with urgency spoke, "Leon listen to me. You must flee Ishgard! Tonight you must go. There is nothing but doom here for you. Poor Marc is the last of our damned company, though we are damned we are not lost. We will be if you completes his deal, if he takes you. Please you must run.... RUN!" she cried with such a wail that he found his feet obeying more then his will. A few falms away he heard another sound, a shrieking it was. He turned and saw Fiona sinking back into her grave, her eyes loving as she motioned for him to keep running. Then back to the lone building, a mausoleum she looked upon, terror in her eyes as Leon looked toward her sight. Seeing the beast he dived behind a tombstone and looked on.

He could have sworn it was a beast, a creature of the void itself. A trick of the eyes. He had for a split second seen a armored rider, but there was no such thing there. An elezen emerged from the tomb. Silken clothes covered his body, his dark hair seemed to shimmer in the moonlight with shades of indigo, similar to Leon's own hair. His face was fair, almost handsome if not for how he moved. His steps were unnatural, sudden, and shifting between slow and swift. A demon's grin rested on its face as he approached Fiona's grave. She was just falling below when he bent in an unnatural way and dove his hand into the earth as if it was made of air. He pulled her up by her shoulder as she pleaded with him. He held her as if solid and laughed at her struggle, "Now now my dear, for this is my cheer, from your soul I build upon my veneer." said the creature as Fiona seemed to weep. Leon looked on, frozen by dread the likes of which he had never known. The beast pressed his clawed hand into her breast, her transparent body showing the claws sink into her heart. She cried out and gasped and the void feasted on her aether. As it went on she seemed to grow more solid, her face aged and rotted as she seemed to have the beauty pulled forcibly from her. Her violent struggles grew slower then stilled. As she begged he dropped her. She seemed unable to float, hitting the ground hard. She began to sink into her grave, but it was now harder. It was as if sinking in tar, slow and heavy.

The demon laughed at her weakness and struggle, flipping his hand as if shooing a fly, "Now delicious I offer my best, though you suffer now, you will be whole again with rest. The earth will hold you in these tombs of a row, when your strength returns, so to will Cicero." he giggled and with that he returned to the mausoleum. Leon was horrified.... he was shamed by his fear... Leon was filled then with the strength and courage of the truest form from the truest source... rage. He stood and marched toward the tomb, whispering voices pleading that he turn back. He heeded them not as he opened the door and walked down toward where the void had gone.

[madokasoratsugu]

between hearses and caskets

[platonic saizou/kazuki]

a/n: boy do i love writing vent fics at 1am:”))

ao3 / ffnet

To Kazuki, September had always been a dreary month, with the dwindling heat and encroaching chill in seasons.

Somehow, September only managed to get worse as he grew older.

Kazuki tightens the scarf around his neck, the rare frown on his face pulling tighter as he crosses off yet another memorial visit off his calendar.

The first week is over, and the second is halfway through. Still, Kazuki cannot bring himself to release the tension settled in every knot of his body just yet.

Normally Juubei would have a ready hand at his shoulder, kneading out the knots. But today was...special. Today everyone silently left him be, and for that Kazuki was grateful.

His heels click against the pavement, and he mentally winces at how loud every step seems to be. Dress shoes were so stiff and uncomfortable, but he supposes, belatedly, that they were a tad better than geta.

Kazuki glides his train pass through the reader, then crossing the barricade in a smooth motion. The train comes running up the platform not five minutes later, and he gratefully takes a seat in one of the near empty carriages.

Not many visited this part of Shinjuku, not anymore. The greenery and bushlands had grown far too thick for recreational activity, and with the ever thickening botany, even wildlife seemed to shun it.

But Kazuki knew better. Everything was hidden from sight, that was all. The flowers, the sunspots, the animals.

Even the ancient households that bore the proud names of Fuuchouin-Kokuchouin and Kakei.

Crossing his ankles, Kazuki neatly folds the cellophane wrapping he’d been holding onto in halves. Condensation clings to the plastic, to his fingers, and he wonders if the chrysanthemums he’d left at the base of the mountain would be washed away by the rain; and decides cryptically it wouldn’t really matter.

After all, the act of leaving flowers and tombstones, existent or imagined, were all done for the comfort of the living. And he was comforted enough, with the familiar sight of the arching mountaintops and heavy scent of dew.

Sometimes Kazuki wasn’t sure if there was anything in him left to comfort.

The train jerks over a particularly rough spot on the tracks and Kazuki allows himself to be shaken with it.

Watching the scenery roll by, Kazuki finds himself unable to think of any other reason he’d returned, other than obligation and routine.

‘There isn’t anything left, anyway.’ Kazuki thinks as he leaned his head against the glass divide. ‘Even if there was, none of it would belong to me.’

At that, a pang strikes his heart. He isn’t so greedy to thirst after silly things like title and heirship, but he does miss his mother’s koto and his father’s short sword.

Abruptly, Kazuki shoves the cellophane into his bag by his side, physically pressing all these thoughts back into his mind. Into the very recesses, where they should stay until next September.

He pulls out his dairy, absently flipping to the ninth month that’s littered with neat writing. Kazuki is tempted to scoff at himself for trying to believe that by keeping a journal, it would mute the reality that every event of every day in September has been etched painfully into his brain, able to be recited at a moment’s notice.

Kazuki’s weary gaze drifts down the page. Two days later, the annual string-spar between the houses.

“If I may, I would like the right to spar with the heir of the Fuuchouin main house.”

- Silver slicked grace bearing honour most men would have crumbled under, had said.

Without his noticing, the scenery had melded into highrises and telephone poles, mixed with the occasional spray of leaves. Kazuki takes it, and the following announcement as a timely signal that his stop is nearing.

“The next stop is Shinjuku station. You may change to routes B, C and E here. The next stop is Shinjuku station. Please mind your step.”

Kazuki neatly packs the notebook away, standing as the doors slide open.

Stepping out into the crowded station, he briefly takes a breath and notices the ash filled gray it tastes like.

Putting one foot before another, he decides that he doesn’t want to spend on taxi fares today. Besides, if he moved fast enough, he would get there just on time for his appointment.

Leaves crunch and crackle beneath his feet. Kazuki doesn’t look down, nor does he think of the way leaves and fire sound too similar, too loud.

His mother’s kind words, stuttering past blood filled lips, blends into the reds. As did the passion of the Toufuuin heir, led back with a mayday string of the same colour.

The blacklit glow of his scorched kimono sleeve caressed orange. As did the vicious glint of reflected moon on spectacles, a moment before it had swallowed the man whole.

That bright, frightful blaze burned into the yellow. As did the pale uniform stutter, before it gave way to a clump of black strings and a forceful hand that tore it out.

Kazuki’s next step is especially vicious.

When he turns into Ura-Shinjuku, he’s mutedly glad that the metal fortress is devoid of nearly all plant life.

His walk to the Honky Tonk is quicker than it usually is, despite the roundabout to avoid Central Park. The bell clanks into the door that swings shut behind him, and Kazuki smiles at the duo that had called him here.

“Kazu-chan!” Ginji happily greets. Kazuki figures the pastry in his hand was what kept the blond from his customary pounce.

“Yo, thread spool.” Midou says, care less as ever. When he turns to face Kazuki, his grin all but falters at the brunette’s all-black attire. Kazuki chooses not to comment at the way Midou falls silent for a second too long.

“Hello Ginji-san, Midou-kun.” Kazuki says, instead. “I understand I was called here for a retrieval…?”

After an especially long plea from both, might he add. They had been coercive at best, and desperate at worst. It was the lengthy phone call and Juubei’s silent shrug that eventually wore Kazuki down to at least, agreeing to listen to the terms of the job.

Settling down at the barstool next to Ginji, Kazuki tilts his head, not missing the way he exchanged a look with his partner.

Ginji seemed unusually nervous. Fidgeting around much more than he would, constantly messing with the poorly knitted sweater. Kazuki suppressed a need to ask for the strongest shot of espresso.

September never bore good tidings.

“Actually, Kazu-chan,” Ginji twisted his barstool to face Kazuki, who followed suit. “The job’s done.”

Kazuki blinked, not understanding.

“I mean, we never needed your help for a job! Well, I mean this is still related to the job but not the doing part, just the retrieving! I mean, retrieval. The client wanted us to bring something back for you.” Ginji explained, floundering gestures at Kazuki’s encouraging nod.

Retrieve something for him? Kazuki wasn’t sure what there was of anything of his to retrieve that wasn’t ash and bone. An awning ache in his chest grows.

Ginji shoots a glance over his shoulder at Midou, who simply takes a mouthful of his coffee. Clearly, Midou had no plans in interfering with whatever reward this retrieval entailed. Kazuki isn’t sure what this forebodes.

Then, a warm hand is enveloping his own and his attention is switched back to the blond. Ginji clasps Kazuki’s hand, giving it a squeeze.

“...This is the retrieval item.” Ginji says softly, retracting his hand to dig into his pocket.

Gingerly, he pulls out a loosely held fist, turns it around and -.

An audible gasp escapes Kazuki’s lips before he can help it, throat clenching shut and brain wiring to a halt at the sight of a feathered accessory resting in Ginji’s palm.

A wild flicker, a charged grin and a dance too fast for eyes and string to follow.

Kazuki didn’t even notice his fingers were shaking until he grasped the earring, digits curling protectively around it. His other hand comes up to cup his first, a delicate shell protecting the one thing Kazuki had longed to take off his friend as he draped Fuuga’s flag over him.

String-accessories were considered the vessels of one’s spirit. To remove it from the dead was akin to desecration; and although Kazuki knew Saizou would hardly have minded him taking it as a memento, Kazuki knew the Eastern family would have mourned tenfold.

So he’d left it dangling quietly from Saizou’s ear, carving the peaceful smile into memory instead.

Kazuki wanted to smile, thank Ginji and Midou and even their mysterious client. But he found himself frozen, nothing but the feather soft against his calloused palms registering in his broken mind.

Facial muscles unable to move, eyes glazed and hands shaking.

“Kazu-chan?” Ginji tentatively asked.

Somehow, Kazuki was aware of the electricity user’s worried, floating hands, the concerned side eye of Midou, Paul, Natsumi and Rena’s careful disappearance.

Kazuki opened his mouth, willing a thank to roll off his tongue, even a careless comment or goodbye to sweep him out this establishment, but all that came tumbling out was a crooked wail.

Bending over, Kazuki sobbed.

Anguish cracked his weak pretense, the reds and oranges and painful blues bleeding through all the blacks.

Reality cracked into Kazuki once more - kind, beautiful Saizou who protected and loved honourably his whole life was no more.

The wails were almost unbearable, tearing him apart inside out, fighting to be let out.

Kazuki cried for all the years he didn’t, cried for all the funerals he couldn’t attend, cried for the Heavens that denied him passageway time and time again because duty and love would never have allowed him entry.

Guilt and regret and hurt flooded every sense of Kazuki’s, ringing in his ears.

What was he worth so much of, that people threw themselves to sacrifice for? What made his flesh and bone any more valuable than all those who had died protecting it?

“I’m glad I could protect you, my prince.”

“I - ,” Kazuki gasped, through the salty tears continuously rolling down his flared cheeks, “I ne-never got to thank him. I never even got to say - to say - goodbye - !”

Voice cracking, Kazuki bowed his head further, pressing the earring to his chest.

“He shouldn’t have - shouldn’t have died! I was - I was - The reason - And he still - still - !” Kazuki found his sentences half finished, uncompleted.

So he wailed, willing all the sadness to escape him in the form of the unsightly sounds.

Somewhere along the line, Ginji had captured him in a tight hug, muting the anguish with his sweater.

Eventually, when the anguish had exhausted itself into murmuring sadness, Ginji spoke.

“Saizou was a good man.” Ginji whispered, watery and sad. And Kazuki nodded, knocking his forehead on his clasped hands.

Blood torn uniform, a sad smile, thankful words.

“I wish,” Kazuki whispered back, “I had told him that.”

“Pretty sure he knows.” Midou says. “Anyone would figure that crying over a dying man meant that you treasured them.”

Kazuki sniffs, and Ginji presses his face into Kazuki’s hair.

“...Thank you.” Kazuki says, softly. “Both of you.”

.

.

September is still an awful month, Kazuki decides as he walks out the Honky Tonk half an hour later with bloodshot eyes.

But when the wind blows past and sets the feathered earring fastened to his left ear flying, Kazuki figures he can stick it out a little better this year.

[kashi-prompts]

Trigger warning: Attempted Suicide

Prompt: Kakashi has a failed suicide attempt.

Rated: M

Pairings: None. Team 7 love, man.

What did it mean to die?

Was it the cessation of life? Was it the loss of your spirit on earth?

Where would you go after you stopped breathing?

Kakashi stood before the monument in the Konoha cemetery. The steps that lead up to the monument honoring all those shinobi who lost their lives were wet with morning dew. Above, the clouds hung ominously, as if mirroring what the tall shinobi was feeling this morning.

His hooded eye gazed down at the polished marble, pondering what it would be like to have his name etched underneath it like all his other friends.

Obito, Rin, Minato, Asuma. Dad.

All their names hung in the air as his eyes skimmed over them. He frowned, feeling his chin quiver and he quickly reached up to his masked mouth to cover it. He felt like he was being suffocated.

It was something that always lingered in his mind, as if a small demon sat on his shoulder, poking him with these thoughts when he needed it least.

Often times, he tried to push it all away, diving into something else and transfixing his time on that. The first time his feelings overwhelmed him, he was still young. His adolescent body was just developing into the man he would become. He gutted himself and made himself into a shinobi after bloodlust, killing men in whatever situation he could. He invented the Chidori, punching his lightning blade into the chest of any man he felt should die at his hand. Minato-sensei had caught in, appointing him to the ANBU to perhaps distract himself. That time it only went away when he found purpose as a black ops captain. 

The second time was when he hung up his ANBU mask, attempting to find purpose after the black ops. When he returned back to the regular Konoha military, he seemed to lack what he had once found in the ANBU even though he knew he couldn’t go back. 

Then, Lord Third had mentioned he become a sensei to a new team of genin coming fresh from the academy. He didn’t seem to think he fit the bill for a teacher. He wasn’t like Iruka or Ibisu who seemed to have it within them. But nonetheless, he accepted and found purpose with Team 7. 

Now, they were gone. 

Kakashi had watched his young and inexperienced team grow into young adults. Naruto had been taken under the wing of Master Jiraya. Sakura worked under Lady Tsunade. And Sasuke was missing, rumored to be under the watchful eye of Orochimaru. 

His team had grown up with it much time for their old sensei. Kakashi shoved his hands in his pockets as the air became heavy with the anticipated rain showers of the day. He breathed in, turning around to gaze at the hundreds of tombstones that lined themselves in the lawn before him. He lowered his chin, making his way down the steps and out the gates. His hand reached into his back pouch for his book, brushing against its spine before his mind suddenly wandered and his hand returned to his pocket. He could do it, he thought. 

It would be easy. A kunai to the throat. A Chidori to the chest. He entertained the idea of leaving this world, wondering what it would be like to leave everyone behind. He wondered who would care. 

He thought of Guy, his oldest friend. Nowadays, he seemed more immersed in training with Lee. . 

He thought of Iruka and Yamato. Both of whom had their own troubles and work to take care of. 

He thought of Team 7, frowning as he mentally evaluated each of his students. They were older now, more mature. Or at least, Sasuke was. Perhaps even Sakura. He wondered how Naruto would react.

Kakashi’s chest constricted as he walked the desolate road of Konoha. He was caught between wanting to release himself from the memories and feelings, and not wanting to cause the ones he loved such pain. 

He remembered finding his father and how it had felt as though he betrayed him, left him for the dead to learn how to navigate this world on his own. It was such a disgrace to die of suicide back then. Kakashi walked passed a civilian who was sweeping the cobblestone, looking up briefly as the brooding shinobi passed. Now, as an adult, Kakashi felt something deeper than he had the past two times he felt this pain. He sympathized with his father’s actions, realizing the justification for them. 

He ached for silence in his mind. Nothing seemed to work. There was no Minato to save him, pushing him into his next ambitious agenda. For a moment, he looked up, thinking that he had to be his own hero. And yet, the sky above responded with a single raindrop that fell between his eyes. He curled his eyes shut, disgusted that he couldn’t help himself. 

So many men had died at his hand. He constantly felt as though his hands were soaked in blood. He continued to walk, itching his palm as he thought of the all the chests they had pierced with his chidori. 

“Kakashi,” looking back, he saw his young cherry blossom walking down the cobbled street, her heels clicking on it. He felt his chest tighten, looking at how much older she looked since the last time he saw her. She certainly didn’t need her old sensei anymore. 

“Sakura-chan,” he turned, bowing his head. 

“How are you?” She asked, placing a gentle hand on his lower arm. She smiled at him, and he suddenly felt exposed, as if she knew his thoughts, despite it being impossible. 

He looked down at her, wondering what she could possibly want with him. Perhaps she needed more training. His heart lightened, excited to feel wanted.

“Fine,” he replied shortly. “Why do you ask? Is there something you need me to do?“ 

She gently smiled, tilting her pink head and letting go of his shoulder. 

“No, Lady Tsunade suggested I come speak to you,” she told him. His heart sank again. "She said you quiet during your last mission briefing. More so than normal.”

“Oh,” Kakashi nodded, trying to hide his disappointment and sound surprised as he continued down the street. 

Kakashi waved a hand, dismissing his only female student, “no reason.“ 

He wasn’t about to confide in a 15-year-old student. She nodded your head as Kakashi looked away, not noticing the suspicious look in her jade eye as she gazed up at the copy-nin. She took his shoulder in her hand, stopping him. 

"Anything bothering you, Kakashi-sensei?” She frowned, looking up at him. He stared down at her, the look in his eye deep and forlorn. He felt his chest tighten, the demon on his shoulder whispering to him.

She doesn’t really care, it said. 

“Nothing,” he replied, turning away. 

The pink hairs kunoichi stood there, rain beginning to pour itself from the sky onto the stone road. She watched as he began to walk away, lifting a hand to wave a goodbye. 

* * * * * * * 

Kakashi sat on his bed, his elbows resting on his knees. His chest felt like a weight was sitting on it. His body ached for the sleep that only came in small intervals throughout the night. Dawn had just barely opened its eyes when the silver haired ninja stood, the rickety floor board creaking under his step. He walked into his bathroom, turning the light on to wash his face. 

He splashed water over his skin, feeling the cold water against his face. Feeling something other than the perpetual ache in his head. He opened his eye, staring at himself for the first time in what felt like days. 

The circles under his eyes were darker than he remembered. He lifted a hand, tracing the purple circle under his eye and down the scar that resided to just above his lip. He remembered how it felt to get that. The pain he felt. 

No matter how many memories Kakashi seemed to recall, none of them could penetrate him. He tried to think of happier memories, the feelings of joy and accomplishment. And yet, the sad, tired eyes stared back at him. 

He gritted his teeth, angry. He clenched his eyes shut, feeling tears spill from under his lids as he inhaled sharply. 

“I can’t anymore,” he whispered. “I just can’t do it anymore.” 

He felt himself kick the cupboard, his arms flailing and punching the mirror before him. It shattered, glass sticking to his knuckles. An ugly wail bubbled up in his throat, all the memories of people dying to resurface. Minato, Obito, Rin, Dad. He wanted to forget about it, to be the strong shinobi so many admired. But he couldn’t keep being strong. He couldn’t continue to be the strong one in the village. 

Kakashi bent over, yanking his mask off so that he could breathe. The air in the room felt so thick, like his lungs couldn’t handle it all. His teeth showed as he gritted them, feeling himself sob in a way he never had. He shoved things off the counter, anger, resentment and disappointment surfacing. He reached in the drawer of the bathroom, pulling out a bottle of painkillers. 

He walked out of the bathroom, throwing caution of the glass out the window as it cut the bottom of his feet, leaving footprints of blood as he reached into the nightstand next to his bed. He reached in, grabbing a kunai and twirled it in his fingers. Heaving, he pushed himself against the wall and slid down, staring up at the ceiling. 

Who would find him? Would he remain here, dead, for days? They only wanted him for his physical strength. And even that was wavering the older he grew. His time as a shinobi were numbered. He lifted the silver blade, pushing it against his finger. 

He contemplated his options. With shaking hands, he opened the bottle and shoved a dozen in his mouth, swallowing hard. He exhaled, looking up at the ceiling. In his hand, he clutched the blade, feeling it cutting into his palm. He considered lifting it, imagining it slicing him, and yet, he didn’t. 

He reached for the bottle again, shoving five or six more into his mouth. Kakashi leaned over, holding the back of his neck as he rested his head on his knees. He stayed there, feeling time ticking in his ears as he waited. The world drifted in and out of vision, his heart rate accelerating and then dropping. He felt the control over his body drift from him as his torso slid over the wall and onto the floor. 

His world turned black. 

And then, he heard it. 

* * * * * * * * * *

“Kakashi-sensei!” It sounded as though he was underwater. The world around him felt far away and his body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. 

In his living room were Sakura and Naruto, bursting into his living space with joyous smiles and a bag full of hot food. 

“We came to bring you breakfast to cheer you up!” Naruto hollered. 

When no one answered, both of his students frowned, lowering their arms. 

“Kakashi-sensei?” Sakura called, her voice lower than before. 

“Sensei, aren’t you happy that I’m home?” Naruto laughed nervously. No answer.

“Maybe he’s not home?” Sakura suggested, putting down the bag of food. 

“Not home so early?” Naruto frowned, “Or maybe he’s just sleeping. Let’s go wake him up.” 

Before Sakura could stop him, Naruto pushed past her and into his bedroom. The blood visibly drained from his face when he saw the scene before him. Kakashi laid on his side, arms tangled, holding the blade of a kunai. Blood trailed from his hands and into the bathroom, his feet bloody with shattered glass. 

“No!” Sakura yelled, running up to his lifeless body. Quickly, her hands began to glow green, assessing him. She gritted her teeth, tears streaming down her face and onto his mask. 

“Naruto! Go get Lady Tsunade!” 

* * * * * * * * * 

“You’re not going to die on me!” Kakashi heard through fogged hearing. He fell in and out of consciousness, feeling Sakura working on his body with her own chakra. His body didn’t feel like it was his own. 

More voices around him came into proximity. The voice of the Hokage yelled, barking orders. His body was picked up and put on a stretcher. He drifted back into darkness. 

“You’re not leaving us, Kakashi!” Tsunade murmured aggressively as he stirred. She yelled orders to Sakura as his body rumbled over to the Leaf Hospital blocks away. Black.  

He stirred again, feeling his body being poked with IVs, fluids being pumped into his body. The sound of his heartbeat monitor rung in his ears. 

“Kakashi!” he heard. The voice belonged to Naruto. Black.

 “Kakashi-sensei!” he heard again, his eyes only half opening to a blurred vision of yellow and orange.

“Kakashi-sensei, why would you do this?” Naruto asked, his voice distraught. “You didn’t need to do this. Everyone - everyone loves you. If you needed something - I am here. Granny Tsunade is here! Sakura and - Sasuke! We’re here!” 

Black. 

“Kakashi-sensei,” another voice. Pink. “Can you hear me? If you can, I just wanted to tell you, you are the best sensei. You -” 

Black. 

* * * * * * * * 

~3 Days Later~ 

“Kakashi,” Tsuande sat opposite of him, discharge papers in hand. “I’m here to talk to you.” 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Kakashi murmured, fiddling with the bandage on his palm. 

“There is plenty,” Tsunade frowned. She paused, staring at him as he sat in his hospital bed. 

“Kakashi,” Tsunade began again. “I just wanted to tell you something. I may not be able to understand exactly how you feel, but I care about you and want to help. So many people want to help.”

“I’m sorry,” Kakashi frowned. 

“Don’t,” Tsunade shook her head. “I don’t want to hear about how you’re sorry. I see your life and how you’ve overcome so many things. The weight of it all must be unbearable. But you are not alone. When you want to give up, tell yourself you will hold off for just one more day, hour, minute—whatever you can manage.“

Kakashi looked away. Carefully, the Hokage placed the discharge papers on the edge of his bed. 

“I have an appointment scheduled for you to see a counselor-” 

“I don’t-”

“You will,” Tsunade returned sternly. She nodded and began to walk away before turning and looking back at him. 

“And Kakashi?” 

“Hm?”

“Your team loves you more than you understand. They still love you.” 

Kakashi looked away again, feeling his chin begin to quiver.

On his nightstand next to him was a card, something he always thought to be too cliche and tacky. However, this time he would cherish it. For it was signed by all of the Konoha shinobi. 

Get well soon

[kami162005]

What have you done?

~“Sweetheart what have you done to us? I turn my back and you turn to dust.”~

That dreadful night would forever be carved into the hearts and souls of the people who had to live through the tormented hell that was Zurich. The violent flames that consumed all that it touched like a hungry monster who was never sated. It had been truly a night out of Dante’s Inferno or at least it felt that way to the people who lived through it.

It had been 10 years since that hellish night but it never was too far away from the old soldier’s mind. The moonlight shown bright over the ruins of his former home bringing out the ghost that now resided there. His heavy boots slowly trudged through the layers of snow and ice. The visor he wore was bright and alert for whatever ghost that should come to reclaim his soul. It seemed like child’s play to find what he was looking for. It was simple enough he located the headstone of his former lover and friend: Gabriel Reyes.

The old soldier stood over the simplistic tombstone of a man who was anything but simple. The bright red light of his visor illuminated the words that forever etched in that god awful stone. They say time heals all wounds but he can tell you for a fact that’s a lie. Time heals no wounds if anything it made them more hellish to bare. Jack had found that no matter how much blood he took in the name of righting a wrong it would never take the pain of that night. It could never be an act that he could atone for. One cannot simply make the pain of a lost love go away.

A silent thud filled the cold night as the soldier collapsed to his knees. His shaky pale hands reached out to slowly trace over the letters of Gabriel. He knew that his lover was not there but over the years visiting the empty grave has become something of a tradition.“Hey Gabe.” He whispered to the cold stone even though he knew there was no response to come. The Gabe he was speaking to was dead but it didn’t stop his own mind from playing Gabe’s sweet voice in his ears. “Hello mi sol” God knows he would give his own life to hear those sweet words again. The tears started to form at the corner of his eyes as the ghosts of his battered mind started to come to light.

Gabe could be heard grumbling their bedroom as he seemed to be looking for something. Jack could hear the opening and closing of the drawers which meant that Gabe had not yet to find what he was looking for. Then after a few minutes he heard the tale tale sigh of defeat.

“Mi Sol…” That tone told Jack that Gabe knew exactly what happened to the item.

Jack was curled up on the couch with a worn and familiar black hoodie. His long legs were brought to his chest and his arms rested comfortably around them. His head rested against his own bicep as he watched the tv with curiosity. He didn’t bother to turn his head when he knew Gabe had entered the room.

“Carino, why did you steal my hoodie again. I was looking for that.” Gabriel asked as he took the spot next to him on the couch. His brown curious eyes seemed to shine with pure love as they took in the sight of his lover curled up in his hoodie.

“Because it smells like you” It was a simple enough excuse that seemed to make the Latino man smile. It was a smile that always made Jack’s heart jump 50 feet up in the air and do back flips. But he would never tell Gabe the extent it affected him. That was information that didn’t need to be shared. He shifted his body to rest against the side of Gabriel as strong arms wrapped around his waist. It was a picture of pure content.

The memory was one of the few that Jack could get lost in. It was one of the rare times on the base that he was truly happy. Most of the time he felt like he was trapped in a prison of his own making. It was in the end entirely his fault. All he had to do was listen to his lover and truly talk. But sometimes talking was the hardest thing in life to do. It seemed like a simple solution but often felt like it was the end of the world.

The soldier was too caught up in his own thoughts that he did not hear heavy footsteps approach him from behind. It wasn’t until a low and threatening voice broke him from his train of thought. “Chasing Ghosts again mi sol” The last part was spoke with true venom instead of the love that they once held. Jack could feel the barrel of a familiar shotgun pressed against his temple.

The soldier didn’t even bother to turn his gaze to the specter. His pale hands rested on the G in Gabe’s name. “Chasing Ghosts are all I have left to do in this life.” His voice was low and steady which caused Reaper’s head to tilt to the side. He knew that reaper gave two shits about his motivations or wants. The man that held a gun to his head was nothing more than a shell of the man he loved that was made by the very flames of hell themselves.

How can a man like that know anything about the wounds he carried deep in his heart? There was a time and point in his life that Gabe knew about every burden that he carried deep inside his heart. But that was a long time ago. A past that he couldn’t seem to leave behind. How can this man know the pain that his shattered heart held.

“Why chase after the very thing you yourself broke? What is the point in trying to fix something so broken?” Reaper’s voice seemed to darken with each question. Jack knew there was no fixing the very mistake he made. He caused them to become like this but god damn if he just didn’t want the pain to less. The suffocating pain that seemed to remind him daily that he was a major fuck up.

“Because if there is a way I can fix it than I am going to try. I have to try.” He barked up at the man who seemed to press the gun deeper into his abused temple. It seemed like an answer that the Reaper wasn’t expecting. A low deep growl permeated the air but Jack made no sign of fighting back or even moving from his spot in front of grave stone. That fact alone seemed to agitate the specter even more.

“Always the Gold Boy. You can’t fix things that are so broken!” The growl seemed to intensify in tone as the gun started to shake at his head. He knew deep down in his soul those words held some truth. How could he fix the very man who he himself broke? But before the solider could even replay the specter growled as he slammed the butt of the gun against his temple. The world quickly faded to black as the soldier’s body fell against the cold tombstone with a quiet thud. There was a time and a place for fixing the broken. Now was not the time nor was it the place.

~And oh please just come here, don’t fight with me

I think you may have broken me~