#blanks that haring had to think about leaving blank and what that would mean

[foxmulderautism]

like yeah dude it’s really cool that you used AI to complete an art piece that was purposefully left unfinished because the artist was dying of AIDS as the government ignored the mass loss of life and health. all you really did was show that technology can bring an art piece into the modern age but why? why do we need to do that? what does it say about us if we feel that a piece needs to be ‘completed’? how are we viewing completion?? can seeing an ai generated “completion” of unfinished have the same effect of seeing the parts haring left blank and the parts where the art drips into the blank? does it aid the narrative of it in any way? can AI understand the levels at which artists used their pieces about AIDS as a form of protest? of begging to be seen? how can it when an AI’s concept of ‘completing’ the piece is just guesswork of what the colours and shapes would look like to match what haring made which is nowhere near the same level of intention that came from him? you said you ‘completed’ the piece with ai because his story is so sad but does that mean we should try to rectify sadness by getting rid of the representation of it? should we not continue to sit in the sadness and discomfort that unfinished and other AIDS inspired art asks us to do because those feelings are only a fraction of what the people who died and lost felt, is that not the least we can do for them? and what good does any of this actually do when we can use technology to ‘complete’ a purposefully unfinished art piece about an artist’s untimely death from AIDS but we can never bring keith haring or any other person who died of AIDS back to life? where does haring, the person whose illness and death lives in those blanks, come into your self fulfilling ai generated completion of his work?

[ponds-of-ink]

Notre Dame AU Chapter 11: “Chattering Under The Castle”

Was going to have this be in the last chapter, but I felt like Chapter 10 had a good stopping point.

And now, onto the calm before the...

Hm. Could calling something a “firestorm” be a vague enough spoiler?

—

After a few minutes of searching for a resting place, all three were sitting on various cushions. Agonia kept watch, Cassie brightened the area with her flashlight, and Vanessa fooled with Cassie’s walkie-talkie. “So, you’ve had this for a while?” Vanessa asked Cassie as she pried the screws off the back.

Cassie nodded. “I got it the first time I came here,” she explained simply. “It was a birthday gift from Roxy Raceway.”

“Not a bad gift,” Vanessa half-smiled as she removed the batteries. “Too bad it might’ve been bugged.”

Cassie looked at Vanessa. “‘Bugged’?” she echoed, moving closer. “You mean it’s been hacked too?”

“Probably,” Vanessa responded. “Ago here’s thinking you’ve been talking to the wrong ‘Gregory’.”

Cassie’s eyes darted between the two adults. “So if he isn’t Gregory,” she said slowly, “then who is he?”

Agonia and Vanessa exchanged looks. Who was supposed to tell her?

Vanessa’s eyes aimlessly shifted. To explain her side would take time they didn’t have.. But Agonia might not be willing to talk about his situation. Not after everything that’s happened.

Agonia, meanwhile, heaved a deep sigh. “I have reason to suspect that Judge Glitch may be responsible,” he answered, piquing the interest of both listeners. “I could hear him talking to you, Cassie. Pathetic cadence and all.”

Cassie’s expression turned distraught. “You mean the rabbit that locked up Gregory?” she asked, looking at the robot with fear in her eyes.

“Among other things,” Agonia replied grimly.

All three went silent. They soon returned to their original duties, but Cassie was more thoughtful than before. Her ponderings gradually changed from the horror of almost being captured to the pressing worry right in front of her. Why were her new friends so... sad? It wasn’t the mention of the crazy rabbit— That topic made them more grouchy than sad. So what exactly was the matter?

She eyed the two of them closely. Vanessa had the gaze of someone who had seen plenty of frightening things. Things that, unfortunately, Cassie felt like she couldn’t chase away. They were too out of her reach, even with all the scary things she herself encountered.

The bellringer, meanwhile, struck a chord. It wasn’t completely apparent, given his alert posture, but she could sense it. That gloominess she felt at that birthday party. The same feeling that made her run off into a dark part of the Raceway and sob her heart out.

Agonia wasn’t that willing to do any of that, of course. But the point still stood in Cassie’s mind.

”Hey, Ago,” she spoke up at last. “Would it be okay if we left together?”

The hare’s ears raised. “Do you mean all three of us?” he asked slowly. “Or just Vanessa and you?”

In spite of her current circumstances, Cassie couldn’t help but laugh. “I meant all three of us, silly,” she giggled before putting a hand to her mouth. “Why would you think we’d leave you behind?”

Agonia’s eyes went wide. He sat quietly for a few moments. “I…” his voice trailed briefly. “I have no idea. I just assumed that would be the case, since…”

He stopped. His mind went blank.

They weren’t there during those days. The days when all of Judge Glitch’s words were applicable. The days when he had every right to be called a monster.

But now? Now after all the years of his confidence and his evil deeds fading away in tandem? …To be honest, he wasn’t sure if there could be a reason. Not with these two, anyway.

Unless he did something horrendous by mistake, of course. That was always an—

“Since… what?” Cassie inquired, breaking him out of his trance.

“I am.. not sure,” he answered with a shrug. “In fact, I think I may need a minute to think on it.. If that is fine with you, of course.”

“I guess,” Cassie shrugged in turn. “We’ll let you know if we see Eclipse.”

Agonia just gave her a motion of acknowledgment. An absolute shame that he was too deep in thought, or he would have given a proper “see you later”.

Vanessa, meanwhile, had just set the walkie-talkie down on the floor. “Just let him wander around for a while, Cas,” she suggested with a much more casual air. “He’s probably trying to shake off Glitch’s influence.”

The girl nodded, but then scowled. “Is Glitch really that strong?” she questioned. “When it comes to playing with your head, I mean.”

“Ohh, yeah,” Vanessa chuckled nervously, brushing back a loose strand of hair. “I’ve seen it first hand too.” Her attempt at a smile failed. The haunted look returned, but only for a moment. “Trust me, kid,” she added, putting on a much more expression. “You don’t want to cross him. You don’t even want to be in the same room with him. He will find a way to mess you up whether you expect it or not.”

A nearby Agonia winced. While Vanessa was correct, he most likely had no choice in that matter. If this “Eclipse” fellow didn’t return soon, then the Judge would find them instead. And, with that, Cassie’s question would have a more definitive answer.

Not wanting to dwell on this grim scenario, however, he resorted to scanning the entire room. The stony walls decorated with ratty tapestries and colorful blankets. Little toys and props set up much like how The Courtyard above looked in its glory days. There were even two Bonnie plushes standing on a towering stack of boxes— No doubt alluding to his former situation.

Somehow transfixed by this last scene, Agonia approached the “castle”. The closer he got, the more details he noticed. Stonework represented by crayon scribbles. Flickering LEDs took their place as candles in and out of the building. The bell tower itself reconstructed with cardboard tubes and paper mache roofing. To his even greater surprise, the Bonnie plushies managed to squeeze inside the strange contraption.

With an extreme amount of care, Agonia tugged out one of the poor bunnies. The other Bonnie, despite his efforts, still fell onto the cold stone floor. “Sorry,” he muttered to it, weakly waving out of some long-engrained habit.

He would have bent down to pick it up, but something about the one he was holding caught his eye. He stopped to inspect it further. It was an older-model plush with many, many stitches. Including one that went right down the middle of its face. A black button eye replaced the one that undoubtedly went missing. A little cloak covered the rest, but one could infer that the damage underneath was still the same.

Agonia patted the doll’s head. “A bit worse for wear, aren’t you?” he smiled at it gently. “Don’t worry. I’m sure someone will take care of you.” He then glanced at a chattering Cassie and Vanessa. “Maybe one of them can give you a good home,” he continued, keeping his attention on the doll. “You could get some repairs, get along with the other toys, or even go out on adventures!”

The Bonnie doll, of course, did not respond. All it did was look at him with wide and curious eyes.

Even so, a question started to reform.

Why was he assuming the same wasn’t being offered to him?

His eyes quickly bounced away from the doll. They redirected to the other rabbit on the floor. In the metallic fabric, he could see his own marred reflection— His true reflection at that. Not that robotic shell he’d been wearing all night.

His focus shifted between himself and the Bonnie in front of him. His mind spun. Was he still continuing to see himself as a monster when, in reality, most truly saw him as this pathetic little mishmash? Had Glitch really warped his perception of the here-and-now that badly?

Flummoxed beyond words, Agonia trudged towards his companions. He opened his mouth to say something about the doll, but the conversation made him halt.

“…Well, don’t thank me for figuring all this stuff out,” Vanessa remarked cheerfully, unaware of her friend’s crisis. “Thank my pal Agonia. Without him, I don’t think I would’ve found you at all!”

“Nor would I,” a new voice coldly interjected.

All three turned to face the exit Eclipse left through. Instead of Eclipse, however, a familiar shadow lurked.

Agonia dropped the Bonnie in his hands. Vanessa shielded Cassie. Cassie clung onto her protector’s arm.

The Judge had arrived.

”Come now, Vanny,” he said with a click of the tongue. “You shouldn’t stress your bad shoulder like that. You could make your wound worse.”

And as much as she hated to admit it, he was right. A stabbing pain coursed throughout her body until she lowered it. Cassie, meanwhile, instinctively hid behind the woman entirely.

“As for you, little girl,” the Judge resumed, pulling out a second walkie-talkie from his robe’s inner pocket, “I believe there is someone else who wants to say ‘Hello’.”

Static crackled from the device. A shrill whine emitted from the speakers until something broke through. “Cassie, I’m not in the Pizzaplex!” a boy’s raspy voice cried out, fluctuating in volume as if he was shaking his transmitter. “You have to get out of there now!”

“Gregory!?” all three exclaimed in turn, each having their own tone of confusion.

Cassie peered from behind Vanessa’s shoulder. “How do I know if it’s him?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. “Like, really him?”

Judge Glitch smiled. “Oh, there’s an easy way to prove that,” he said before tossing his device over to Agonia. “Agonia, would you do the honors?”

Unsure of what his master meant, the flustered robot pressed down a side button on the device. “I’m sorry, Gregory,” he said morosely, eying his approaching master closely. “I’m afraid it’s too late.”

An outcry of several voices pierced his ears. None of them had a trace of the Judge’s voice lying underneath.

Agonia winced. He looked at Vanessa and Cassie. All he could do was nod distraughtly.

Glitch snatched back the device. “In case you’re wondering, that’s not a lie,” he explained to his unseen audience, standing tall and proud. “I already have Cassie in my possession, which means that your little ‘rescue plan’ has failed. However, there will be a wonderful bonfire after her punishment tomorrow and you’re all invited.”

Instinctively, Cassie grabbed her mask and slipped it on. Instead of it sending her to her usual ‘alternate reality’, however, it just put her in a daze. Vanessa tried to drag her away, but both were now pulled towards the glowing bunny.

“I also wouldn’t worry about her.. reluctance,” Glitch added smugly, giving the pair a knowing side-eye. “She gave herself up willingly. Unlike you, Gregory, she knows that she should admit when she’s done wrong.”

A low grumble was all Gregory could muster.

”Unless you want to do the same,” Glitch snipped, gripping the radio. “You know, apologize for making such a mess of the Pizzaplex… twice.”

“‘Twice’!?” Gregory angrily repeated, spiking the speakers.

“Ohh, that’s right,” Glitch replied in a mock-innocent tone. “You don’t remember that one. Silly me. Don’t worry, it’ll come back to you later. I’ll make sure of it. See you at sunrise, ‘46’.”

As a barrage of furious complaints flooded in, Glitch shut off the walkie-talkie. “Now that I’ve made your final arrangements,” he resumed, lifting Cassie’s masked head, “let’s get you back upstairs. We’ve got a big day tomorrow, and I don’t want your last hours of peace to go to waste.” He looked up at Vanessa as if to plant the thought of “that goes for you as well” into her head.

Unfortunately for Vanny, the glare worked. The three walked away in a single file, none really caring to move the fabric that blocked their path.

Agonia, who had honestly been too stunned to move by this point, now felt the urge to act. He hurried into the exit and joined the line. “Master, please!” he yelped out, grabbing his fellow rabbit’s shoulder.

Glitch struck the bellringer’s outstretched arm. Purple and green sparks flew out as the latter rabbit reeled back. The arm quickly went dead.

The poor thing lingered there as the rest marched away. Letting the whole event sink in until it plunged his heart with it. He lowered his head and sighed darkly. Once again, his instincts had failed him. They always did.

[srbachchan]

DAY 4815

Jalsa, Mumbai                  May 4/5,  2021                  Tue/Wed  2:34 AM

... the lamentations for the loss of the text that was written and then disappeared last night , has been lost too .. they were in reference to years and thoughts of the years gone by .. of times and some remembrances in , as one of my readers of the Blog  put it, in kgb mode .. secretive , non understandable , like most secret services of all nations .. 🤣

If they come back to me in that refrain I shall reconsider .. else they go down with me .. some matters and minds should .. their relevance shall be naught .. for they hold hands with them that either have left , or were never interested in the first place .. they could have had value for the self .. but that would be a most selfish exercise .. un exercice égoïste .. eine egoistische Übung .. تمرين أناني  tamriyn 'anani .. эгоистичное упражнение .. 

... but the mind is a relentless tortoise winding its limitations of speed and destination in its sincerity .. unlike the hare .. determined to nose the tape .. and for some peculiar reason the refer to the previous strikes in the silence of the early morn now .. as the slightest of vibrations on the shutters behind , alert you to the cctv .. they be blank, but not the desire .. ehh hrhh .. not desire .. such a vacant word .. supposed to say it all but never does .. maybe it does for others , maybe not .. but there .. 

.. so in the last we were at -

“Leave it , leave it mrB .. you behave like those fact formative early years of self independence when the evening parties were spent in ‘bring your bottle, bring your girl’ and sit aside and debate .. the ‘adda’ of the times which exists in its maturity to date .. and those that resented the thought minds of mere talk for the sake of talk would sneer and snigger , as they danced to the …

GONE .. again .. an entire page of writing as I posted a picture ..

Shall  not remember to write again .. it is so damaging .. to destroy and steal my process and think  .. TUMBLr .. 😡”

yes .. those that resented the thought minds of mere talk for the sake of talk would sneer and snigger, as they danced to the .. 👆🏾 .. 👇🏿

strains of the popular at the time Pat the Boone, Cliffy baby , and often the holding the traditional waist and hands in ballroom fashion would be freed by the ‘rock of the jailhouse ‘ in the ‘lis Presl shakin all over his blue suede shoes .. Bobby the Darin the sweetheart of the school and the Humperdinck .. maturing on with great swoons and screams to the mop headed at HDN .. the ‘night so hard’ .. and the yaay ya of loves me yayaya .. till the sudden surprise of the wood in Norway .. the Norwegian .. the indian instrument , the haridwaar, the meditational spell of bearded gurus who swore to walk on water and sank at Juhu beaches .. to submarines painted ‘yellow’ .. and the livings of the evenings in the raj infested cultural left overs still predominant to make the burra sahib and the burra din existence in the prominence of the blue decorated  Park by the street of a million jams on one .. sundays at trincasjam, pam crain and the Louis Banks of the Fox that was Blue .. mocambo not the ‘gambo’, ??? moulin rouge ..  and the solo drum hours of the drummer  .. as you ended up in the high end hoteliere Grand and drove back intoxicated with the first era feel of INDEPENDent SELF .. drove walked taxied or trammed to the million residences changed due paucity and capacity of the earning - the clac of the tons with 8 the high gates of the friendly family at Tolly , the chowrings shared with the other in adjoining , and closer to the new rd the Pore of the A .. the NEW of the pore  ending up the pgied  highest towered , peering at the late night highlights of the neighbourhood .. in gasping views , through parted curtains .. 

Left .. left it ..

So .. thoughts and time devoted to the wants and needs for the others .. in distress and in saviour mode for help .. something collected , some on the way , some delivered , some in operation .. BUT ..

.. lots to be done .. 

.. this we give in the times of trouble .. the 3rd .. the 3rd wave be in preparedness already and there is the planning in the city at least of the eventuality in the coming few months ..

.. each nano second come the suggestions and research and opinions and statistics of the fraternity , and nothing remains authentic for more than a nano second for the reverse or the opposite come about immediately ridiculing the first .. belief and follow is shattered .. is the T and FB and insta follow the true follow , or manufactured .. every theory has a theory to a theory of another .. 

.. never has there been uninterested doubt of one from the other .. believe one and the disbelieve comes hammering through .. say one and unsay the other in immediacy .. 

SO .. hehe  .. (I use the SO with so much dignity and respect) .. ok away .. simplify the narration mrB .. 

RIGHT .. that sound alright ?

RIGHT .. in these conditions then I share thought with the Ef each day .. DAY .. speak to them as one .. as one that sits before me in isolation .. I see them before me .. at my writing location .. up late , up from days work , up after leaving household or office and read .. my rubbish that I pour out .. 

BUT .. if I were to ask of a job duty .. a service to be rendered .. naaah .. service and job are wrong .. if I shared and asked for it to be shared further .. would you .. ?

Haha .. I see many hands raised .. screaming all at once  “of course .. how can you ever think we would not .. I mean how can you even ask such a question ..” 

etc., etc., etc ... 

So I shall ask you .. to .. to .. 

 Forget it ..

Good  night .. 

surprisingly I felt sleepy by 8 pm and went to sleep in my tracks .. got up by 11 .. and now after the repeats of the postponed IPL , am just not wanting to get back to bed .. 

.. there shall be consternation and scoldings and high voices .. and expressed, exasperated dismay  .. which I shall of course bear with shielded smile .. but they be right as do you in the many here  .. 

.. you know the distraction is not the rarity of slumber .. its slumber itself .. it has different manifestations now .. a dimension that cannot be explained .. 

earlier it was hit the pillow and the dreams or the sleep went on the ON mode immediately .. 

NOW .. there is a process, which if not followed pesters the life out of you .. what to think of when the pillow be hit so as to induce the sleep .. that ladies and gentlemen of the jury takes about the time you normally need for the completion of the hours for rest .. so in the end you actually never sleep sleep as such .. you comprehend .. ?

no .. you did not .. OK .. 

Fine .. 

GN .. thats good night .. said in all sincerity .. but may it be known that for some its too late to express it and for some that wait it shall be a limited night .. and for me the goodness just leaped out of the window ..

O heavens the morning bird chirps now begin .. its 3:41 a of the M .. soon it shall be 4 .. then 5 .. thats like morning ..

so ..

Good Morning ALL ..

Amitabh Bachchan

[sweaterkittensahoy]

I don't really fancy established relationships but i love drawn out onesided pining, so maybe something about seeing Lestrade at work at the station or at a crime scene, being the right mix of disheveled & professional

(You and I are very different people; but I will do my very best because a good pining is a fun time)

Mycroft stands at the edge of the scene and twitches when the first few raindrops hit his collar. He opens his umbrella without thinking and lifts it to protect him as his gaze falls back to the scene.

Or, Lestrade on the scene, to be more correct.

He's standing several dozen meters away, lit up by the high-powered mobile lights from forensics. His shirt is in a state, wrinkled and creased. This is his third scene in nineteen hours, Mycroft knows, because this is the third scene he has been to as well. Someone is targeting informants to some of Mycroft's lower colleagues, and they're moving swiftly. Mycroft's people, led by Anthea, are working the angles they have. Sherlock is buried in information to find the angles they do not see. Lestrade is doing what he does the very best: being the boots on the ground.

Mycroft watches Lestrade yawn hugely, then turn and say something to a tech that makes the tired man flash him a brief, amused smile. Lestrade scrubs a hand over his hair, then looks up, squinting as the rain hits his face. It's nothing more than a light misting, truly, but Mycroft steps forward anyway, pleased at the people who nod at him in recognition. Lestrade had been insistent that his people know Mycroft on sight so he could move as easily as needed at these particular scenes, and Mycroft appreciates as always how well Lestrade understands what people need.

"Detective Inspector," Mycroft says when he's a few meters away. Out of Lestrade's personal space but close enough to be easily heard.

Lestrade holds up a finger. "Two ticks," he says, flashing Mycroft a quick look to see his agreeing nod.

Mycroft watches Lestrade walk over to Donovan and have a brief conversation. The tension in her shoulders loosens minutely, and she flicks Lestrade on the chest in a friendly fashion that makes him grin.

Oh, that grin, Mycroft thinks. Such a dangerous weapon on the wrong man. Possibly even more dangerous on the right one.

Lestrade squats down to look at what Anderson is photographing, then he's back on his feet, working his way across the scene to the constables keeping watch at the tape. He says a few words, hands three cigarettes to one of them, laughs quietly at some reply, then leaves them to their work.

Mycroft is somehow certain the constable only requested a single cigarette, but Lestrade would never hand over one when he has several. It is yet another sign of the goodness of his heart. The goodness of the man.

"Mycroft," Lestrade says when he finishes his circuit and comes to a stop in front of Mycroft, hands jammed in the pockets of his trousers, his coat pushed back off his hips due to the stance. It makes him one very lovely masculine line from the top of his head to the tips of his shoes. The mist is just starting to flatten his hair, but the water makes it glimmer, and Mycroft cannot believe how devastating the mere existence of this man is to his being.

"I was going to offer you a bit of protection," Mycroft says, tipping his umbrella slightly forward. "But I am not sure you'll feel its use now that you've gotten damp."

Lestrade takes his hands out of his pockets and shakes his coat by its lapels. Water droplets fly off to the sides. "Waterproof," he says, "so I'm pretty dry overall. But I wouldn't say no to a little head protection while we compare notes."

"Certainly," Mycroft says. He steps forward at the same time as Greg, and they meet perfectly centered under Mycroft's umbrella. For a moment, all Mycroft can catalogue is the warmth that radiates from Greg's torso, the tiny cut on his chin where he nicked himself shaving, the scent of bitter, burned coffee that clings to his collar.

"Same as the others," Lestrade says, reaching up and pushing his hair backwards through his fingers. It makes it stick up more.

Mycroft gets a brief hint of mint and lavender shampoo mixed with the smell of new rain, and oh, that's new. The addition of the water to that smell that Mycroft has known for what feels like a very long time. This is what Lestrade would smell like in the shower, Mycroft thinks, and then blinks the thought away. "Stabbed through the back of the neck with signs of torture pre-death?" Mycroft asks to keep his mind focused on the present.

Lestrade sighs deeply, and there's sadness in his eyes. He feels every death he investigates, Mycroft knows, but he also carries that weight with a grace that Mycroft has very rarely seen. It is cousin to the grace Lestrade has that has him taking a moment to cheer his team. To give three cigarettes to a random constable. A relation to the grace Lestrade showed Sherlock and then Mycroft the day they all met.

Mycroft has been unquestionably and foolishly in love for a very long time. There is no other way to be in the face of a grace so casual given by a man so effortlessly beautiful.

"Yeah," Lestrade says. "How's it going on your side of things?"

"No updates, I'm afraid. And nothing from Sherlock."

Lestrade quirks a smile, then a small, dry laugh. "So, he has nothing, or he's hared off and doing something stupid."

"I would hope Dr. Watson would inform us if that were happening, but he is...occasionally unreliable."

Lestrade smiles at Mycroft, wide and amused, the flash of happiness in his eyes making Mycroft feel like he can't breathe at all. "John's entirely reliable. He will always be by Sherlock's side when he's being a fucking berk."

Mycroft huffs a laugh. There's warm annoyance and fondness in Lestarde's tone. Signs of friendship and care. Of sincere concern and affection. "I cannot argue against your accurate description."

The rain suddenly comes down harder, switching from mist to a proper downpour. There's shouts of displeasure from the scene techs, all rushing to try and preserve what they can. Mycroft is not surprised that Lestrade does not dart away to help. He is a man with a keen sense of when he's useful versus when he's not, and he will only be in the way as the techs rush with precise teamwork to cover the scene in sheeting.

"Shit," Lestrade mutters, pulling his coat around him and tying it closed. "I know we haven't found fuck-all at the other scenes, but the possibility we just lost something is going to hit the team right in morale."

"You will overcome it," Mycroft says. "Your people knows you will not blame them."

Lestrade looks at Mycroft, gaze flittering over his face. Mycroft stays still, allowing his face to stay open and readable. There's a shift to Lestarde's gaze when their eyes meet. From curious to pleased, and then from pleased to...Mycroft isn't quite sure.

Or, he is sure but he fears that to put a name to what he's seeing will mean it will go away.

Lestrade takes a half-step forward, just enough that they're truly close together under the protection of Mycroft's umbrella. "What do you see when you stand here and watch me?" he asks.

Mycroft takes a moment to answer. His heart is thundering in his chest louder than the rain hitting the umbrella just above their heads. "Everything," he finally says because it's the truest answer.

Lestrade nods slowly. He glances over his shoulder and takes in the scene. "Scene's basically useless now," he says. "But I need to check a few more things. When I'm done," Lestrade turns to look at Mycroft again, "me and you, let's get a pint. Warm ourselves up a bit and get a breather. Been a rough couple of days."

Lestrade's face tells Mycroft everything. It's not just a pint. Not just a chance to wind down with someone who understands the strain of being in charge. It's exactly what Mycroft saw and was afraid to name. Hope. Interest. Curiosity. Warmth.

"I'll wait in my car," Mycroft says. He tips the umbrella towards Greg. "Please make use of this."

Greg takes the umbrella. He gives Mycroft one more warm look, the hint of a smile, and then a sharp nod. "Ta," he says and walks away.

The way his shoulders and back straighten as he makes his way back to Donovan makes Mycroft feel warm even as the rain drenches him. He'd relaxed with Mycroft, comfortable to show a bit more of himself.

Mycroft walks briskly to his car, ignoring Anthea's amused look when she sees how wet he is. She shifts her umbrella so it covers them both.

"Any change, Sir?" Anthea asks.

Mycroft snorts at the utter flatness of her tone. Anthea cuts him an amused look. "Not in regards to leads," he says and lets her read on his face that, yes, there has been one change.

"Shall I fetch your spare suit from the boot?"

Mycroft glances over his shoulder. Greg has left the umbrella with Donovan and is making his way around without it. Were he a Renaissance painting, Mycroft thinks, his grace would glow around him like a lantern. "I am sure the heat in the car will be adequate," he says. He will never have Greg's grace, but he is very curious to try it on in some small way. They'll both be disheveled and damp when they sit down for their pint. It warms Mycroft to think of it.

"Very good," Anthea says with a blank look that laughs at his romantic fancy as she opens the door. "I assume we are waiting for the Detective Inspector to join us."

"Yes," Mycroft says. "Thank you."

[empty-masks]

Book Two, Chapter Fourteen

CW: Strong Language, Sexual References, Graphic Violence, Fantasy Bigotry, Smoking, Alcohol Use, Light Body Horror

Judith and Azariah both take the least amount of time getting replacement clothing. The former; because the selection that accounts for his body type’s needs is few and far between, and he’s already a denim and tank top man at heart; he sees no reason to mix it up. The latter, of course, knows what she’s looking for. But, as the store’s stock would have it, she settles for a blue collar work shirt rather than something a little more formal. He’s not surprised to see that she dons a tank top underneath it, and a knee-cut, wide-waisted pair of jeans.

“Breathable?” He asks, looking her up and down. The only response he gets is a scoff, followed by a vague wave of her arm.

Leon knows their gear needs to be easy to move in, unrestrictive. He gets himself a fresh pair of black jeans, boot cut. Underneath his light security vest he wears a fresh white tee, and over it he wears a yellow shirt, buttoned up only to the top two, which he leaves open. He heaves a heavy sigh, stretching as he sits down beside Azariah inside the store.

Cherry takes the longest, and when he walks out everyone’s surprised, because the clothes he selected were damn near exactly the same ones he walked in with, save for the stains— or lack thereof, in the case of his fresh tank, work shirt, and jeans. “Judith looks like a real worker now,” he says, smiling at the group. It earns a chuckle out of Leon at least, though both Azariah and Judith don’t seem to find it all that funny.

“Everyone got their fresh clothes packed?” Azariah asks them all, standing and adjusting his pack. Once everyone pulls them on, heads nod unanimously. “We’ll go find Olive, get somethin’ to eat, and after she gets her clothes we can…” He trails off, looking out the window of the store.

Leon’s brow furrows. “Found her.” “Yeah.” “That who I think it is?” “J. and the Maneater. Yeah.”

Judith and Cherry show little response beyond recognizing the names, but not the faces on either side of Olive, who stands on the opposite side of the street. She’s flanked on either side by Jules, whose smile has yet to fade, and Lucille, whose gaze drills a hole in the pit of Leon’ stomach. Former head of region security and renowned killer Lucille, right here, right now.

“We should run,” the Orc says, turning his golden eyes toward the others. “I’ll miss Olive, but that’s not a fight we can win.”

“Well, they might not be here to fight us. I mean, it doesn’t look like they’ve got anything pointed on her. She’s ex-security, right? They might be, uh. Giving her a tour around town?” The glint in Cherry’s eyes speaks to a hint of genuine belief. After all, if the Acquisitions officer, reputed to be ruthless and terrible, had let him go, then people who no longer work for the company might possibly wish to help them.

The Hare’s head shakes as he gestures for Cherry to pull out a wrench and hesitantly steps toward the door. “I can’t see any weapons, that’s true, but unless she suddenly got a lot more friendly with her ex-bosses or got rich enough for them to ignore what is likely an outstandin’ bounty on our heads, I don’t think they’re here to help, Cherry.”

There’s no more talking before the group carefully step outside, boots sounding gently against the cool, stone ground of the terrace street. Olive’s a statue, standing silent and rigid between the mercenaries, a blank-faced gargoyle flanked by the twin faces of comedy and tragedy. They keep taking those soft steps until, finally, Jules taps his walking stick against the ground; on the command, the entire group stops moving in the middle of the street. Buildings surrounding look as though they’ve been closed up, prepped for an invasion.

“You’re that old-timer we’ve been hearing about, aren’t you?” starts Jules, enthuse plain in his voice. “Hare Anthro, ears with the chunk taken out one. And the kid with the buzzed skull must be Cherry, and… Judith. God, you’re tiny for a Shepherd foreman. Usually they hire people with more meat to look at. You don’t turn into some kind of ten-foot tall freak monster, do you?”

“Leon,” Lucille says, the name curling from beneath her scarf with a low, but energized scorn. “This didn’t work the first time. At least now I’m handling it myself.”

Olive’s wide eyes glance from Lucille to Leon, and when no response is uttered, she clears her own throat to interject. “I’d like to just say that I think it would be a great idea for all of us to team up. I mean, I don’t have anythin’ to pay either of you with, but I’d really appreciate it if we could maybe have somethin’ like a professional rapport, maybe somethin’ that we can bond over and work together about, y’know?”

“Olive, you know how this stuff works,” Jules says bluntly. “Either way, we don’t take advice from mercenary dropouts. Honestly, I’d be more inclined to listen to Leon, but his issue is more that he lacks the bite for criminality.”

Jules laughs, but soon enough there are more footfalls, and to everyone’s left a trio walks out from the shade between the clothes shop and another building. With that leather armor and cocksure smile, Jules and Lucille both groan. Olive perks up.

“Oh, are you working with him?” She asks.

“You know, it’s funny you say that,” Baker begins to reply, only to be interrupted by the sound of more footfalls to the party’s right, where a golem trudges out followed by two lackeys. He makes a displeased face at the interruption, and tries one more time. “It’s funny you say that. Sorry J, sorry Lucille. That bounty’s just too damn juicy. A group of weirdos, plus one of them murdered an official, and an Acquisitions officer is on the way? You’re lucky the whole town isn’t here with pitchforks, these bozos are practically made of gold.”

“Aye, and that’s why we’ll be takin’ ‘em ourselves,” Captain Steiner says, pulling a heavy blunderbuss off of his back. The triple-barreled crank operated monstrosity gleamed gently in the light, even as he pointed it across the road, toward not only the party but, just as well, Baker the elf, Killian the android, and Jamie, whose face was half crystalline at this point. Beside Steiner is an orc woman, tall and strong, with heavy metal gauntlets on her hands and wicked steel tips on her boots, like eagle talons. On his other side is a human, an unassuming man in a business suit and glasses— but he’s got the latest model of barrel-fed submachine gun, built to belch rounds as fast as a spring could load them. “Bonnie that, eh? Sorry, but not sorry, Baker. I cannae let them into yer hands in good conscience when the crew’d benefit from a tussle. Find it in yer nonexistent heart t’ forgive an old salt.”

Baker replies first by drawing his sword, a long blade with a silvery sheen, too thin to be a longsword and too thick to be a foil, as well as a poignard in his off-hand. “I’ll try to miss yours when I’m going for a stab. Good hunting, you prick.”

“WAIT!” Cries out Jules, raising both hands toward the whole of them. By that point, Killian’s drawn and nocked an arrow in their bow, and Jamie’s half-crystalline face is pointed his way, her hands wrapped tightly around a club nearly the size of her torso. “Wait, wait, wait! This is our quarry, don’t you assholes butt in now!”

“Diana, yer handlin’ the loudmouth vamp and the redhead, Mr. Leland and I can handle Baker and the bounties. Do me proud,” Steiner growls out, before Diana nods and looks toward Jules, Lucille, and Olive. Jules is the first to notice her mouthing ‘you’re mine,’ and he chuckles, remembering the bar brawl some nights ago— in which a tall, very, very familiar orc woman nearly put him and Lucille flat on their asses using bar stools as gauntlets.

Azariah holds a hand up, and with a gentle clearing of his throat he speaks. “Don’t we get a say in what happens? It bein’ us, and all.”

The response is an arrow whizzing just over his head, right between his ears, to ping Captain Steiner right between the eyes. The wooden shaft and stone arrowhead shatter against his brow, and he’s still standing there, glaring, when Killian shrugs his shoulders, saying one last thing— “Woops.”

Silence only just settles when Baker and Steiner both scream at the top of their lungs and launch forward, pointing on a crash course toward Azariah and the party. Diana veers off during the charge, bolting toward Jules and Lucille as Olive screeches and makes a mad dash back toward her group, hoping to close the distance with wild half-leaps and flaps of her feathery arms before the two crews can.

On the terraces above are the loud processes of business, a strange crane lifting and delivering cement from the mixing facility on high to the lower segments with a pulley system; it’s so loud that Diana’s scream as she rushes at Jules is easy to ignore, as are the frenzied battle yawps of Baker and Steiner, who clash with metal on metal as the party surges backward, Azariah pulling the still screaming Olive back out of the way as Baker’s sword narrowly slashes past the space where she had been only milliseconds before to clang off of Steiner’s blunderbuss.

“We need to go!” Olive shrieks as Leon grabs Cherry by the collar to drag the wide-eyed tech out of harm’s way. Azariah follows quickly after, cursing under his breath as they attempt to duck around the back of the shop, the half-crystal Jamie and the gun-toting Mr. Leland swinging around to attempt to  follow from either side of the building.

Diana swings a steel-clad, clawed fist toward Jules, only for it to crash against wood rather than gray flesh as he swings his walking stick to parry, and the Vampire grins wide. “Oh, I remember you! You want a rematch?” He asks, leaping above her next sweeping kick, and from the side Lucille darts in with a quick kidney punch.

All involved duck when Killian nocks and fires another arrow their way, uncaring as to which of the three he might hit. When he hits none of them, he curses and nocks another, but by the time he’s got the arrow to the string both Jules and Lucille are dashing toward him, with Diana following in after, a wild look on her face. When the twang of the bow rings out, he narrowly misses Jules, who slides in along the smooth street to strike Killian’s right knee with both of his own shins as Lucille’s arm ducks beneath her shawl, then whips out.

When he realizes he has a throwing knife deep in his mechanical shoulder, the two mercs are already behind him, and in front of him is Diana, bellowing furiously with one of his arrows stuck in her shoulder, the one that had just so narrowly missed Jules. For it, he earns a nearly skull-crushing blow to the face before he can duck or speak. And then, as she steps over the unconscious android, she’s greeted with the knobbly head of the walking stick right to her face.

She’s sent skidding back, blood rolling down her brow, along the bridge of her nose. Jules rolls his shoulders, standing up straighter, and licks a streak of the stuff off his weapon. Lucille scoffs as she watches him bulk up again, his muscle filling out slightly. Diana’s just staring, jaw opening and closing.

“You taste pretty good. Regretting your decision yet?” He asks, swinging the stick by the head, like a wooden sword. “I sure hope you do!”

==============================================================

Steiner and Baker’s clash breaks the moment Killian receives a fist to the face, but the two don’t engage with Diana and her playmates. Instead, after glancing at one another and grimacing, they both turn to swing around either side of the clothes shop, knowing their other underlings had gone that way.

“Ah HA! Knew ye’d be this ways,” shouts the Captain as he bursts into the dark alley behind the building, against the wall of the next terrace. When all he sees is Baker on the opposite side, he scowls. “What’d ye do with Leland and ‘em, elf?”

“I didn’t do shit. Your guys did the same to Jamie, you rock-brained dolt,” Baker snaps in turn, before a volley of gunshots bursting from the back window of the shop nearly catch him in the dome. “Ah.”

Turning, they both barge into the back door of the clothes shop as another volley grazes the Captain’s stony shoulder, making him hiss.

When cornered by some sort of half-rock lady with a club and a man with a machine gun, the party had opted to head back inside, if only to get some stone between them and what looked like remarkable danger. Judith, shaking slightly, pulls out her company-issued revolver and curses.

“You don’t even know how to use that thing!” Olive cries, shaking her head. “And it’s your off-hand, this ain’t good, this ain’t good!”

“Quiet! You’re ruining my concentration!” Judith shouts in reply. “It’s just point and shoot. It’s just point and shoot. I can’t fuck this up, now shove it! They want to call me a murderer? I’ll show them a fucking murderer!”

Cherry shakes his head too, and Leon pats him on the back before saying, “We just have to get out of here, Judith. I think—”

“You.”

All turn to look at the new voice in the room, a woman with half of her face eaten over by jagged, wild quartz. Her exposed eye is wild, and what part of her face she could twist becomes a grin. “You. Let’s go.”

Jamie surges forward, tossing clothing into the air as the swing of her club crashes through stands and spools and racks, and the party hits the deck hard. Cherry immediately crawls for the front exit, then around the stone counter as Azariah follows behind him, while Leon ducks into the bathroom. Judith is knocked sprawling, and Olive rolls back into a standing position, pulling out of her own backpack her handaxe, which she had been unable to keep at her hip without her uniform.

Olive swallows thickly, then bolts forward, swinging her axe in a wide but swift arc. The club raises to parry it, and Jamie laughs, but the axe twists and swings away as the Owl slams a feathery fist into the still fleshy side of her head, screaming in equal parts fear and equal parts adrenaline-fueled berserker frenzy. Jamie’s sent tumbling back, but she’s back on her feet with the momentum and the help of her club as easy leverage, and soon she’s darting back toward Olive using her whole body to swing the hunk of wood and steel.

The wide swing is easy to see coming, and Olive has the time to leap over it while Judith groans and stands up, pistol in hand. By the time Olive hits the deck in time for another swing to fly over her head the revolver goes off, and a single bullet slams Jamie in the shoulder. It flies from Judith’s hand; she hadn’t steadied herself or prepared for the recoil, and she’s surprised she managed to actually fire it.

“Get her now!” Judith shouts, before another wild scream fills the room, and Olive launches up to catch Jamie in the side with the blade of her axe. It sinks hard into the woman’s ribs. It reaches no deeper than bone before there’s a peal of rapid gunfire from behind the half-crystal, and while several of the bullets litter the nearby stone, one grazes Judith’s shoulder and she tosses herself to the floor again, crawling behind one of the few still standing shelves. Jamie screams as blood seeps from her right arm, where she’d been struck in the forearm by one of the bullets.

Leland clicks his tongue and loads another magazine with a grumble, his sub-machine gun still smoking from the barrel as Olive tosses Jamie aside and throws herself into a nearby pile of fabric, rolling into the dark corner of the room.

He steps forward, over miscellaneous piles of fabric, and looks around the room before adjusting his tie. “Come out and surrender. Nobody’s bulletproof.”

When he receives no reply, he walks deeper into the room, even to the front entrance of the building. There he turns around, and smiles as he sees a young man stand behind the counter. “You see, that wasn’t particularly hard, was it? I’m sure it’s going to be fine…” He trails off, spotting something in the other’s eyes. He swings around and fires off a few rounds, practically punching Leon in the chest with them, sending the heavy orc tumbling back behind an overturned rack. By the time he turns his eyes to the other again, he’s gone, and so’s Leon. It’s not hard to see inside the building for the most part, it’s lit from outside, but it’s harder now as time moves on. He clicks his tongue.

“My wasted ammo’s coming out of your wallets,” he growls, stepping carefully toward the back door again, his gaze running over the corners of the room, then the small stalls used for dressing. They stand there like big, golden targets, and part of him thinks nobody’d be stupid enough to actually try hiding in there, but at the same time, that makes it a prime hiding spot.

So he levels his weapon that way and pulls the trigger, waving it back and forth as though watering a garden. No flowers would go without watering, of course. And better to overwater than underwater. Corpses still get good prices.

The doors creak open after the barrage as Steiner and Baker both step inside, and while Leland replaces the barrel magazine. “Nobody in here as far as I can see. They head out your way?”

“Nae, nary a soul out back, and I didn’ see any on the way in.”

“Same. Looks like your boy let them get away, Steiner, while injuring another one of mine. Real great job you’re doing here,” Baker spits.

The Captain shrugs, then offers a single thumbs-up to Leland, who nods and looks to their right— and all at once, they realize there’s a bathroom.

“Is that window open?” Baker asks, smugness oozing from his pores. “Another point against the losing team, morons.” Suddenly he bolts and, taking a single step off of the toilet, leaps through the bathroom window and into the alley beside the building.

Out front, Diana’s got her arms crossed in a defensive position, and in her steel gauntlets— as well as her biceps, shoulders, shins, and hips— she’s got throwing knives stuck just muscle-deep. Lucille circles her, each step light and pantherish, while Jules still stands, smiling, as spry as he’d been at the start. His hat and hood had fallen back, certainly, and there are few scratches across his nose and brow, but he is still wearing that indomitable grin, now stained with blood.

“Y’know, we gotta stop meeting like this. I bet you’re a real fun person most of the time. Besides, by this point Baker and Steiner have probably tuckered themselves out and stopped being too much of a problem, so… thanks for the warm-up. I’ll try not to knock out your teeth.” And, with that, he lunges. His legs bunch and press, steely thews beneath smooth, grey skin launching him like tightly coiled springs toward the orc woman, who receives a blow stronger than any previous.

That doesn’t hurt, however, as much as the knife Lucille deftly presses to her back as Diana’s tossed backward off her feet. She’s tossed hard into the dirt, landing on the knife and plunging it deep into her muscle, just barely scratching her spine. She screams, but it’s cut off by a black, steel-toed boot striking her in the side of the head. “Always have to get stuck with the loud ones,” Lucille grumbles.

“Loud ones are fun! Also, I feel fucking fantastic. You get her in the back, right?”

“Execution was a little sloppy. Might not walk again, might get back up in twenty minutes, I don’t know and I don’t give a shit, our payday’s running for it—”

She’s interrupted by a deep, rumbling scream and a clap of thunder coming from the side of the shop. Turning their heads, Jules and Lucille look to watch as Baker is launched out of the alley, tumbles straight through the street all the way past them, to the edge of the terrace; there he goes sailing off in a long arc, toward the not-so-distant roofs of the lower smithing shops. Another scream bubbles up from the side of the building before several more thundercracks surge out, though these are different. Gunshots.

==============================================================

Captain Steiner has just punched several very large holes in the wall of the shop with his abomination of a blunderbuss, and he and Leland are greeted with quite the sight. Standing well over both he and Leland while half-hunched, a massive, shaggy shadow with slavering fangs and great, green eyes stares down at the men, and for a brief moment they’re gobsmacked. Then Leland lifts his sub-machine gun and fires off several shots, putting a few into the beast’s leg, just below where denim shorts meet a large, beastly thigh covered in black fur.

It screams loud, louder than even Olive, and lunges forward to strike the man across his suited chest with gnarled claws; he’s tossed back into the shop with a crash, and from another room walks a machine humanoid in a bed gown and cap, yawning. Upon seeing the chaos, they turn and head back into the room, shutting the door. Leland groans on the floor beside Jamie as Captain Steiner begins rapidly pumping his fist, cranking the winch on the side of his triple-barrel beast to get it revving.

“Ye think I’m ‘fraid of a lycan, girlie? I’ll have yer hide on m’headboard soon enough!” Steiner shouts as the machine between his fingers roars in turn, beginning a barrage of thundering blasts; they aren’t bullets he’s firing, but small concussive blasts. The lycan howls in pain as the pure sound batters her ribs and shoulders, and nearby— behind a trash can— Cherry sits up. He can see something he had yet to realize, anyone had yet to realize.

Steiner isn’t toting a blunderbuss around, he’s carrying a weaponized music box. Like the crank-operated alarms back in the mines, or the clocks back home that chimed songs when it struck midday. He can see it in his mind, the way its boxy frame hides the sound-making mechanics inside, the way the crank connects. The golem steps further forward, continuing to beat and slam the werewolf with sound as he laughs wildly—  until his arm jerks hard.

Wide eyed, he lifts the crank to see that the screw connecting it had come off. Just as well, standing in the center of the alley, he’s greeted with a bubbling, rumbling growl and a pair of burning green eyes.

“Aye, this is… I dinnae what I was thinkin’, mayhaps we should be tryin’ to talk—”

==============================================================

As Jules and Lucille take up spots on either side of the alleyway, there’s a brief silence, and then something akin to the roar of a typhoon as Steiner goes flying past the both of them. Their gazes follow him as he bounces like a skipping stone across the smooth road and off the terrace, screaming shrilly into the open air as he descends. It’s not a second more before the hulking shadow bursts from the alleyway and charges into the middle of the street on all fours— all threes, Lucille corrects her thoughts. The foreman’s still missing a hand.

They both stance up in preparation, but before they could even move a toe the rest of the party barrels out of the alley and into the street, over toward the wolf. Then, following them, is the bleeding Leland and the sound of a loaded magazine. He fires off a wild string of rounds before Jules can catch him in the side of the head with his walking stick and Lucille gets him in the legs with a sweeping kick.

The wolf is an easy target, panting, looking at everything around her, unable to focus on any one threat in her panic. Before the bullets strike their mark, a feathery shape leaps into the path, blocking the lycan’s head as she screams, “Run Judith, run now!”

There’s a strange, twanging sound, and the two still standing mercs blink in confusion. Olive’s still standing there, arms crossed, blocking any incoming fire, but it isn’t her.

Above them is the twist and rip of ruined rope, the snapping of metal cords, and the creaking of wood. Looking up to the terrace above, there’s another cement shipment in the process of being craned over and lowered; the warbling call of unspooling steel cable sings down to them, elicited by the repeat riddling of its mechanics with ricocheting gunfire, and a massive shipment of powdered concrete careens off the shipping harness, tumbling into the terrace below— tumbling right into the street.

==============================================================

Baker coughs and sputters, only half-conscious. Cobalt’s features pull into a scaly frown as Roxanne walks with the aid of Brie to see the fallen man and the man-shaped hole he’d put into the ceiling of Cobalt’s shop.

“So, work you said?” The Draconid asks with a tilted head.

“Yes ma’am, please help. Can’t really… Move, all that much.”

Brie’s lips pull into a frown. “What, is there some kind of fight going on? How many layers up is it from here? Is it still happ—”

CRASH. Through the hole in the ceiling plummets another, larger man, landing atop Baker with a heavy grunt before going limp.

“I should’ve expected Steiner to show up. Usually it’s to make repairs to the gun, not to him. Roxanne, Ms. Brie, can you two help these gentlemen while I file a complaint to Kiln about my roof?”

Brie looks to Roxanne, who smiles and nods. Roxanne then says, “Oh, of course. They’ll be prime targets for interrogation once we’ve made sure they’re conscious too, Ms. Brie. Perhaps we should see if anyone else has been…”

The ground shakes wildly, knocking premade weapons and their components to the floor from their places hanging on the wall, and all inside have to steady themselves by holding onto the walls or the front counter. In the distance, they hear the distinct sound of something very, very big falling very, very far.

==============================================================

All they can see is dust, dust of wild and strange colors, and it’s hard to navigate. Lucille steps forward, a hand outstretched, and grips something tightly. It struggles until she screams over the sound of rushing air and stone particulate, saying, “JULES YOU IDIOT, IT’S ME!”

Jules has to adjust his hood and hat before pulling his jacket up over his mouth and nose, as well as cover his eyes with one hand to keep dust out before he nods. Keeping a tight grip on him and picking up his walking stick, Lucille trudges out toward light, or at least what she assumes to be light, and after a half-minute of tugging the vampire along they break out of the dust cloud. The man coughs, falling to his knees.

“Holy shit, okay, okay, so… Okay, they gotta be in there still, right?” He asks, leaning back to take a deep breath of the cleaner air. When he turns to look toward the dust cloud, Lucille shakes her head; as the clouds gather above, the cloud below dissipates, and they’re left staring at a massive mound of swirling, multicolored cement and broken bits of wood and metal. There’s a mound of it in the center, and it’s splattered elsewhere.

“Nope. Don’t see any guts and I don’t see any ready-made garden statues, so I think they got away.”

Jules groans as he stands, rubbing his face. Then he stops, and sniffs the air. “Hey, hold on. One got shot, right? She was bleeding.”

“Should we head back to the car?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a lead, and if that smell’s coming from where I think it is, then we’ll need it to catch up,” he replies, turning with Lucille. “At least we’ve cleared up the competition.”

She shrugs, heading down toward the steps and lower terraces alongside the vampire. “Which way, Jules? Where are they headed?”

“Easy. They went back the way they came.”

==============================================================

Sitting outside of Davey’s place, Leon hurls into one of the compost buckets before wiping his mouth with a dirty rag. Cherry and Olive stand off to the side, deftly outside of the shroom-field’s moist ground, while the young man smokes.

“So, superpowers?” Olive asks, her tone wavering but curious. “You got superpowers?”

“I’m pretty sure of it after that! Me being able to unscrew things at a distance has happened twice in a very small span of time, and that can’t be some weird coincidence.” He exclaims, taking a drag before Olive nods.

“I believe you, honestly. We’ve already got rocks in our bones and Judith’s… Well, it just doesn’t seem like the craziest thing happenin’ at the moment. Which I think would be me not gettin’ shot.”

Cherry’s brow furrows at that, and he nods. “I saw. I don’t think anyone was really watching when that happened. A couple bullets just- just bounced. Bounced off you. I think the ricochet caused—”

Leon clears his throat from upwind, and Cherry quickly stamps out his smoke before the orc closes the distance to speak. “Hey, we need to figure out what to do about Judith. We also need to leave, as soon as we can. Let’s save the superpower shit for the road.”

“Probably a good idea,” Olive agrees as Cherry nods. Behind Leon is a whistle, and the three turn their heads to look at the Hare— and the tall, trembling mass of black fur.

“Stuff it, everyone inside. Group meetin’,” Azariah says. Turning his head toward the wolf, he points to the house. “You too, Judith. Duck your head, mind the doorframe.”

Chapter End.

============================================================== 

[[ Table of Contents ]]

Blondie & The Smokestone March is © 2020-2022 Empty Mask. All Rights Reserved.

[boop-le-snoot]

PARTY FAVOURS | CHAPTER 19

First time reader click here

Summary+TWs: We're talking serious feelings here, okay? Reader, you're literally emotionally illiterate. You also have PTSD, which is finally addressed - kinda. Bruce does his best. And he also knows how to kiss... But y'all know that if you read my ramblings about lucid dreaming/shifting/whatever... Chile-, anyways...

My phone kept buzzing and I ignored it until Bruce declared it was time to take a break and review the results. Whilst the man was typing up the data on a nearby StarkPad, I fought the sudden influx of messages that I received from haters and supporters alike after Tony decided on tweeting a reply that could be interpreted in an alarming variety of ways. It was a smart move, I'll admit, but a fucking bother for me nonetheless.

Disabling my DMs and dealing with a follower increase in the thousands wasn't hard; I didn't consider myself a problematic asshole and didn't need to be afraid of "exposure". The parties I went to - I doubted there was any blackmail material in there and the few nudes I'd sent over the years were always face-less. As a gen Z, I knew my internet safety.

The trolls didn't bother me either. It was more sad than annoying, people shitting on others for clout. Iron Man stans were witty, at least, if jealous. I must admit I've never considered the influx of popularity I would experience should I publicly out myself as a friend of Tony's. Girlfriend? Intern? Science child? Whatever cover story he was going to feed the press worked for me, as long as I still got the hugs, the kisses, the dick and the attention.

"Tony..." Bruce groaned, evidently done with the data processing, had to have opened his social media to see his own skyrocketing popularity.

"Yeah, our Tony is being a Tony again," I chuckled, having reset my social media settings so my phone wouldn't constantly beep, vibrate and bother me. School was going to be fun.

Bruce shook his head, fond, coming over to my side of the lab after removing his own hazmat suit. His eyes shiny with newfound knowledge and hair turned adorably fluffy in the confines of the head covering. He was smiling softly. "Food?"

"Sure."

We chewed our sandwiches in silence for a moment, each of us lost in our thoughts.

"I still can't believe Tony told everyone on Twitter you're his girlfriend, usually he keeps this stuff private or schedules a fancy press conference," Bruce's tone was thoughtful.

I raised an eyebrow. "Is that what it was? Seemed ambiguous to me..." I trailed off, confused.

"He worded it like that on purpose, I mean, you're still in high school," The scientist was confident in his words. "But I know Tony. I'm a hundred percent sure that he meant exactly that. Aren't you?"

Shock flooded me. Suddenly, I understood I completely misread the situation. "Um, no? I thought we were, y'know, just fucking. We never defined our relationship and we're definitely not exclusive." I said, chewing on my lip. "You make a valid argument, I'm a high school student and he's a grown ass man that does grown man stuff. Putting aside the fact that he could have anybody in the world so why would he choose me?" I was rambling, thinking out loud. Discussing my feelings has never my strong forte. "It would be stupid to impose monogamy on such a complex man like Tony. Downright idiotic to expect a genius to confine to social norms just because it suits others." I finished with a wave of my hand. Another bubble of thought that had festered within me for the longest time. I felt relieved, finally voicing it out loud. A weight had been lifted off my shoulders, a weight I wasn't previously consciously aware of.

Bruce was watching me intently, with an unreadable expression that held the tiniest bit of awe, admiration perhaps. The silence that followed was unnerving. I fidgeted with my hands, not really knowing where to put them or where to look.

"You know," He took off his glasses, fiddling them in his hands. "I'm not going to sugar coat it. For the longest time, I thought you were going to inadvertently hurt him when you get bored with whatever you've got going on. I respect you, don't misunderstand me, but you are young. Now, I've changed my mind. You've changed my mind," He punctuated his statement with his hand on mine, grasping it. "I think you managed to understand him in a way most people can't. Or don't want to. Understand and accept him in a way that some of us can't even after years of working and living side by side with him." Bruce's gentle fingers skimmed along the top of my palm.

"I don't always understand Tony but I do accept him," I agreed. "Because Tony is a great man."

"I think you're in love with him," Bruce said, absolutely having ignored my previous statement. Just like that, point blank, he pushed to the surface the very feelings I got so good at ignoring. There was no rest for me in this place.

My heart fluttered, picking up the pace. I kept my mouth shut, not trusting it whatsoever. My thoughts became akin to panicked hares, jumping and zigzagging aimlessly in my skull. I didn't see the point in defending myself because the scientist had pointed out the obvious.

Bruce looked at me, softly, warmly. "And don't think we haven't noticed the rise in team morale. The improvement not only in communication, but on the battlefield, too. It's easier to entrust your back to someone with whom you've shared a laugh and a drink the previous night. You're the glue that keeps us together."

Something warm and wet was on my cheeks. I stared at our clasped hands, his words echoing in my head over and over and over. The moment I realized I was crying, I willed myself to stop and failed spectacularly - only more salty fluid streamed down, some of it getting in my nose, on my lips. The sleepless nights were making me unstable.

It took a single sniffle for Bruce to pick me up and wrap up in his kind embrace. I didn't resist, tucking my face into the crook of his neck, holding onto the back of his lab coat, inhaling the smell of his skin and chemicals. It was familiar, calming. Minutes ticked by with me slowly leaking the tension out of my body.

"He loves you, too, maybe he just doesn't realize it yet." Bruce whispered into my hair. "I've never seen Tony so happy, even with Pepper. You are special and you are loved."

There was something unsaid, I felt it. It hung in the ear, it burned the tips of my ears, stood sharp on the tip of my tongue. "I love you too, Bwucie-bear," I whispered into the space between his ear and his jaw. His arms tightened around me.

The man placed several chaste kisses in my hair, running a palm over my back. In moments like these, the crush for him, the very crush that got out of control, blossomed fully into a deep sense of respect and admiration. He made me feel safe. He said all the right words at the right time.

Drowsiness overtook me. As usual, any worries and anxieties I had evaporated, once Banner had his arms around me, shielding me from the world. I didn't forbid myself this time: delicately, my hand slipped through the man's soft messy curls, eliciting a contented sigh.

"You haven't been sleeping well," He more stated than asked.

I had no choice but to nod. "Clint keeps dying in my dreams. Or even worse, he doesn't, he just suffers, endlessly, painfully." I admitted.

Bruce flinched under me, tensing. My face was in between his hands in a second, the scientist sternly looking into my eyes. "Why didn't you say anything? All of us assumed you were okay after what happened." He looked - angry. Not Hulk-out pissed but Bruce-pissed, which equalled a kicked-puppy look seasoned with a great pinch of disappointment.

"I am okay." I lied, shamelessly. "It's getting better. That's why I want to have a party - relax a little, dance, socialize. I don't think Tony would let me go on my own so I figured I can convince him to throw one here." I looked away. It was better for everyone if I dealt with my own problems - they were superheroes, not babysitters.

Bruce frowned. "Why wouldn't Tony let you go?"

"Because of that one time I snorted coke," I rolled my eyes at Bruce's naiveté, leaving the less obvious parts unsaid. Tony knew exactly what I was going to do once I got free reign, he considered it destructive and told me so himself. Admittedly, he had a point but still... I wished I'd been given a choice.

"I'll talk to him," Bruce nodded firmly. "That's not acceptable. He can't forbid you from making mistakes and learning from them."

He was met with my shrug. No excitement came from me regarding this particular turn of conversation. I was drained, limbs like jello, thoughts sluggish. My face was drooping.

"Let's get you to bed," Banner stood up with me wrapped around him. "You need a nap."

"No," I protested. If I went to sleep now, only Satan knew at what ungodly hour I would wake up.

"Yes, Princess," Bruce smirked. I wiggled uncomfortably - when he went all caretaker like, my ovaries wreaked havoc on my body and brain. My thoughts weren't appropriate if Bruce wanted me to see him as a father figure. The signals he was sending were mixed. People around me did that a lot and I wasn't sure how to act so I usually just went with the flow. I decided to do the very same thing in that particular moment.

Curiosity sparked within me, tightly interwoven with the deep longing that settled below my collarbones whenever Tony or one of the others wasn't sitting next to me or talking my ear off. I've almost forgotten how it was to be alone with my thoughts. The maze of my very own self was becoming unfamiliar territory. Alarming.

I allowed Bruce to help me shed my shoes and outer layer of clothing, shivering in the coolness of my room. Despite being a frequent visitor, I still had a 'guest' room in the tower - I mostly stayed at Tony's or Wanda's anyways. During our sleepovers neither me nor the witch minded sharing her enormous bed, to be fair, we could have fit at least two more people in it besides us. Tony took care of his own - all the tower's residents had their apartments furnished with the best stuff.

"Sleep now, Princess," Bruce chastised, tucking a blanket around me, having noticed an earbud in my ear and my smartphone in my hand. I had hoped to kill some time online, damn well knowing sleep wouldn't come easy.

"I don't think I can fall asleep, Bruce," I admitted, looking away. There was just so much going on. My brain wouldn't shut up and if I couldn't drown out the cacophony by being productive, I'd troll the internet, as usual.

Banner sighed, coming to sit next to me, leaning against the headboard. Gently running his fingers through my hair, brushing the outside of his palm against my cheek. "How do you usually deal with this?"

Involuntarily, my eyelashes fluttered. "Tony does most of the work," I admitted coyly. The engineer had a whole arsenal of tricks up his sleeve - sexy and exhausting tricks.

"I see," Bruce muttered, thoughtfully.

I opened my eyes to see him looking down at me with a look I haven't seen before. The usual mildly absent, slightly anxious face he wore was replaced by something I could only describe as hurt envy, like a kid looking at their schoolmate who had all the newest, coolest toys. I used to be on the receiving end of that look far too often and I hated it.

I hid my face against his leg, rubbing my cheek on the raspy corduroy fabric of his pants. "Got any good ideas of your own?" I wondered lowly, thinking about what in the world possessed Bruce to wear corduroy trousers on a semi-casual day, in the twenty-first century.

"Only bad ideas," He replied in a matching low tone. His soft fingertips relocated to my nape, goosebumps rising down my back.

"Humour me," I grinned against his leg.

Bruce was quiet for a moment, the sound of his thinking screaming louder than any words could have done. Knowing the scientist so closely, I found out he was full of surprises - bolder than he appeared outwardly and competitive to a boot. He thought he had a lot to prove to himself and by extension, to others. The unknown, the mystery dangling in front of my nose was exhilarating, trepidation addictive. It took me away from the chaos in my mind.

A gentle grasp on my chin had me turning to look upwards, Bruce's face flushed and focused on my own, open and trusting. He needed to see the obvious, that I trusted him to take care of me. He pulled and I followed, sitting up on my elbows, coming up to his shoulder level, our faces inches apart, enveloped in the unique, intense scent of his herbal tea. It was a tart, strong smell and it suited his quiet but passionate character.

Once, twice, I caught my eyes sliding to his plump lips. They looked far too appealing in this position. I usually strategically stayed away from positions so compromising, fearing the very thing that I'd already let happen, however this time the atmosphere was different. We stood on ambiguous grounds, waiting for Bruce to make a decision.

The man wasn't stupid, he saw the way I looked at him. The nightmares and inability to take a break from life put a significant dent in my resolve to keep a distance between us, romantically - I could have settled even for a pity kiss, a pity fuck. Anything to put my brain on pause.

His lips were softer than I had imagined. Skilled, too, he easily steered the kiss into the shallow waters of our combined longing.

With Tony, it was like an avalanche. Tony ran hot like Peterbilt engines, hard and fast, almost angry in his race for satisfaction. Tony was a man that was used to getting whatever he wanted and it became plainly obvious when we fucked.

Bruce was the opposite. He savoured the kiss, losing himself in a way that could almost be described as delicate. Bruce was humming, softly, as we tasted each other, holding the left side of my face with careful fingertips. Almost as if he was afraid to break me. The feel of his skin on mine was soothing in a way that made me sigh and relax even further.

"Wanna make you feel good." His voice had dropped, gone husky, but his breathing held even. He must know all about self-control.

"Yeah," I was ready to agree with whatever the fuck he was offering. My eyelids remained shut.

THE TAG LIST IS NOW OPEN! @another-stark-sub ​ @mostly-marvel-musings  @vozit ​ @littlegasps ​ @pilloclock ​ @shereadsinquiet @downeyreads ​ @hermione-grangers-wife ​ @individualistfem ​ @sleep-i-ness @capbrie @lillsxd @agustdowney @dee-vn @justanotherblonde23 @fanngirl19 @persephonehemingway @softie-socks @schemefrenzy @letsby @cutenessloading @romeo-the-cactus @jelly-fishy-babie

PS. Letsby, please don't combust. The underwear is coming off in the next chapter. 😶

[serararku]

Baritone: The Cost of Cowardice

<Theme>

“I never had the chance to bury him. They wouldn't even let me say goodbye. For all I know they left him face down in the grass for the animals… and he was still warm when they sent us away.”

K’thalen watched in horror as his father fell to the ground, stripped of his breeding rights, the respect of his tribe, and his life. His blood stained the northernmost side of the nearest tree red, with the new Nunh raising his soiled blade to revel and bask in his victory. His limbs were still twitching when K’thalen’s mother stepped before her son and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s time for you to venture out on your own.” Her voice was impassive and distant, as it had always been. “You and the other boys are now a threat to his breedin’ rights. You must be long gone by the time the sun rises tomorrow.”

“B-but…” K’thalen looked up at his mother with swelling eyes. “But I’m too young, momma…! I’ll die out there…!”

“No you won’t.” His brother’s voice called out from behind. “We both have to leave, aye? Why not travel together?”

“Tia must travel alone.” His mother coldly spoke. “You would do a great disservice to the tribe by breakin’ one of our most sacred laws.”

K’thalen reached out to take her hand, but she stepped away and left before he could touch her. Sniffling, he watched his mother leave with the other women to both tend to their new Nunh’s wounds, and to exercise his breeding rights. Traumatized. Terrified. He wanted to scream out to his mother now that he needed her the most, but he was already a stranger in her eyes. When he turned, his brother was gone as well; likely ushered away by the warrior women on the tribe. Orphaned by his father, forsaken by his mother, abandoned by his brother. Now K’thalen was truly alone.

And he was only eight years old. Too young to know how to hunt, how to fight, how to survive. What hope did he have out in the wilderness of the Black Shroud? Where birds of prey soared silently through the trees to catch meals twice his size? Where carnivorous plants could easily overpower him, swallow him whole, or pump him with toxins? Where the Ixal raid the border of the forest and kill anything they can’t enslave? What hope did he have now?

It was all he could think about, walking through the pitch black wilderness. Not five minutes out on his own and his stomach was already growling. The only thing he was able to bring with him were the clothes on his back and his straw Miqo’te doll that valiantly fought away his nightmares while he slept.

He had to think. There were berries he loved to eat as a snack out here in the Black Shroud, but he had to be careful; the pink berries were edible, but the red ones would leave him paralyzed for hours. Or were those the pink ones? Thinking about it too hard made K’thalen teary eyed again; he just wanted to go back home and sleep. He just wanted to hold his mother again. He just wanted to be safe.

He just wanted to live.

The faint snapping of a twig almost caused him to drop his doll and panic. “W-who’s there?!” He shouted, snatching a rock by his feet to arm himself. "Don't come any c-closer! I mean it…!" 

He saw the familiar yellow glint of his eyes before he recognized his voice. "Keep your voice down Thalley. Or do you want them to catch us?"

"Nolas…?!" K'thalen couldn't believe his eyes. "W-what are you doing here…?"

K'nolas gave his little brother a quizzical look. "We're leaving the Black Shroud to begin our Tia trainin’, yeah? Come on- we still have a ways before we're off the tribe's territory." K'thalen dropped the rock in his grasp, broke off into a stumbling sprint, and crashed into his brother's side. Quietly he began to weep, his arms wrapped tightly around his leg, his fears put to rest.

"Aye, aye, calm down there." Nolas looked around before setting a hand on his brother's head. "Nothing's gonna happen to you, alright? Let's get out of here."

Thrice they barely avoided the patrols through the woods; they would both be executed if they were found working together. The Koo Tribe didn't take kindly to Tia violating their strict laws, after all, but deep into the night they managed to reach the edge of the territory and catch their breaths. 

Tonight they would rest, with an exhausted K'thalen falling asleep long before their camp was even set up. K'nolas let him snooze under the stars- he would need his strength when the time came to hunt for their breakfast. 

"He didn't have to raise me like his own son, but he did. Aside from Father, he was the only one in the whole world who cared whether I lived or died."

Seven long months of traveling, hunting, training, and trading. They endured the brutal summer heat, evaded the chaotic skirmishes of rival tribes vying to expand their territories, survived the coeurl mating season, the marlboro spore clouds, and even the unforgiving winter flash freeze. When they emerged from their squalid cave once the ice had thawed, their training began anew.

"Keep your legs bent… a wobbly footing like that will get you knocked on your back with the slightest push." K'nolas walked around his brother with a stick in his grasp. A light tap on his leg, waist, or arm usually did the trick to correct K'thalen's stance, but the boy grew restless.

"When are you going to show me some cool moves? Like the ones in the stories?"

"Swordplay ain't a game, Thalley. That fancy dance the Storyteller did may look cool, but it would be useless in a real fight- worse than useless, as a matter a fact." K'nolas wished he could have a childhood filled with adventures and fun, powered by his vivid imagination; but the time for pretend was long over. "Do the drills like I told you. No spinnin'! And keep your feet planted, yeah?"

"Okay…" Those stories are what K'thalen loved and missed the most of his old life in his tribe. The Storyteller brought his imagination to life every month, filling his head with acts of bravery and giddy wonder; the kitten wanted so desperately to be like one of the legends he learned about.

Like Y'balgor the Brave, the Nunh who defended his tribe from wholesale slaughter against a gigantic marbol horde. Or L'naro the First, a Miqo'te who single-handedly defeated a vicious band of pirates by boarding their own ships and challenging their captains to duels. He brought his brother’s shortsword up over his head before bringing it down in a single chop, stopping just before his waist. Then he did it again, and again, and again.

K'nolas stroked his chin while he watched his little brother practice his rudimentary exercises, nodding approvingly on occasion. "Better. Much better. I'm glad these lessons are stickin' clean. Maybe you'll be able to hunt larger game on your own so I can get a good night's rest every now and-"

Snap…

They both turned their ears to the sound of a twig breaking in the dark. Immediately K’nolas snatched the short sword away from K’thalen and stood his ground, allowing the younger brother to scurry somewhere close to hide. Neither of them made a sound, focusing their hearing for the slightest noise; out here in the outskirts of the Black Shroud, it could be anyone- or anything. Another twig snapped, and the vivid imagination of the younger brother caused him to squeak out in sheer terror.

“Someone there?” A voice called out from beyond their sight. A half-dozen twinkling eyes appeared from the darkness, before the light of K’nolas’ torch illuminated the faces of six fellow Tia around the same age as the older brother; judging by their clothing, it appeared they were traveling as a group. “Oh- hey there, stranger. Azeyma’s blessings upon you.” One by one they stepped into the light, their weapons sheathed or lowered. “Are you training alone? You could join us if you like.”

“Tia trainin’ together breaks more than a few sacred laws.” K’nolas reluctantly lowered his sword. Four of them were too frail or goofy looking to be a threat, and the other two seemed trustworthy enough to share words... for now.

“Bah- what the tribes don’t know won’t hurt them. Name’s Nex…” He gestured to his friends before continuing. “This is Vihr, Khazu, Rim, Napa, and Sey. We figured working together increases our chances of survival.” He gave K’nolas another warm smile. “Plus, think of all the sparring matches we can do. What better way to prepare us for a Nunh, am I right?”

“Hmph. Can’t argue with that…” K’nolas lowered his blade but he never took his eyes off the group. “I’m Nolas.” He wisely decided to omit his tribal affiliation, considering Nex omitted all of theirs. “Thalley, come on out.” Reluctantly he obeyed, crawling out from beneath the underbrush to hide behind his brother's leg. "Don't be afraid. They're Tia like us. Everyone… this is Thalen. He’s my little brother." K’thalen didn’t like how they were looking at him. He’s heard the stories… of Tia killing anything they can catch to keep their skills nice and sharp.

“Gods he looks barely old enough to lift a sword. Poor little guy…” Rim- easily the fattest of the group- lifted an arm to reveal four plump hares dangling lifelessly in his grasp. "Care to eat with us? Plenty of meat to make a fine soup." K’nolas opened his mouth to politely decline the offer, but he was stopped short when he heard the familiar stomach rumble of his little brother. 

“... aye, let’s eat.”

The eastern horizon was brightening by the time the soup was finally ready. The group huddled in the dark, far away from prying eyes and potential danger, laughing and talking for hours on end. With a full belly and an eased mind, K’thalen had fallen fast asleep, curling up beside his older brother for his protection. One by one they turned in for the morning, until only Nex and K’nolas remained awake.

“You know…” Nex spoke up first after their long silence, his eyes fixed on the dying campfire. “We’ve heard a rather enticing rumor. Have you heard of S’rarku Nunh?”

K’nolas gave the man a blank look. “Every Tia knows the Black Butcher. What of him?”

“He killed A’tebo Nunh a few days ago. Slaughtered him and his sons, and took his wives for himself.” Nex leaned forward to speak in a softer voice. “He’s got close to thirty wives now.”

“Thirty wives…” K’nolas could hardly believe it; he wouldn’t believe it if it was anyone else- S’rarku is known far and wide for his penchant for bloodshed, it’s little wonder how he amassed such a harem. “Sounds like a lucky man.”

“Not so lucky these days. Apparently A’tebo wounded him badly during their struggle, and S’rarku has fallen ill from his infected cuts. Yet he’s still accepting challenges… are you following me? A sick and wounded Nunh sitting on the largest harem the tribes have ever witnessed in over a hundred years! This could be our ticket to becoming Nunh!” Nex could hardly contain his excitement. “Thirty wives… can you imagine? That’s more women than any one man could handle!”

“That’s certainly temptin’, but…” K’nolas shifted uncomfortably in the grass, but he was careful not to wake his brother. “... but we’re talkin’ about S’rarku the Black Butcher here. He’s one of the strongest Nunhs in Eorzea- and certainly the most bloodthirsty. He’s shameless in his desire to slaughter Tia like us. This could be a trap to lure in more for his sadistic sacrifice.”

“Maybe…” He replied, running his fingers through his hair. “But what if the rumor is true? What if his harem is ripe for the taking? And there’s so many… surely the winner could give up a few wives for his comrades? And… let’s say the rumor isn’t true… by law he cannot attack us if we don’t challenge him first. We go to his tribe, see him for ourselves… worst thing that can happen is we waste our time.”

K’nolas didn’t like the idea one bit. Too many variables to account for, too many things could go horribly wrong; he would be in the Sagolii Desert, far away from his element, potentially trapped in a foreign and unfamiliar land with his little brother dragged along for the ride. However… if he managed to kill S’rarku, K’thalen would have a home again. He could grow up with a family, and live the rest of his childhood in peaceful harmony. The allure of so many beautiful women at his beck and call didn’t reel in his bias either- the idea of rolling around in a tangled mess with so many wives excited him. "This could be my best chance to fulfill my destiny and give Thalen a better life… certainly better than scrapin' by out here in the wilderness…" Slowly his gaze met Nex, before he extended his hand toward his new companion. "Count us in."

“I barely remember those days. I spent most of them hanging off my brother’s shoulder when I was too tired to continue walking. But being surrounded by so many like-minded people… the comradery… the laughter… the love… it made me realize what I truly wanted, but never truly had. A place to belong, and a family that cared for me as much as I cared for them.”

Although it was technically Spring, the Sagolii Desert only had two seasons; a scorching Summer blaze during the day, and a freezing Winter bite come nightfall. Today was no exception.

K’thalen stood behind his older brother while they approached the dueling grounds of the powerful Zu Tribe. Despite being nomadic in nature, these conquerors under the careful gaze of S’rarku Nunh always returned to their ancestral homelands to make it easier for Tia to challenge his rule. The sands were discolored and flattened by countless footfalls, and the lack of any true wind meant the bones of the fallen were still exposed after being picked clean by scavengers. Up high circled S’nossk and S’wantha, two gigantic Zu birds large enough to carry an adolescent goobbue off to devour; they seemed to always circle the sun as a testament to the tribe’s unyielding- almost zealous faith to Azeyma the Warden.

“Check them out…” Nex’s ears perked up as he pointed. One by one the wives of S’rarku Nunh came out from the largest tent to watch this spectacle; all of them in peak physical shape, all of them absolutely gorgeous. It was impossible for the Tia not to stare- most of them haven’t even seen a woman in months, let alone the prize that was S’rarku’s harem. One wife in particular had raven-black hair tied in a braid, and it was so long she had to loop it over her shoulders to keep it from dragging. “Check out the eyes on that one…” Nex whispered to K’nolas, licking his lips. “How much do you wanna bet that’s his favored wi-”

“Look! Here he comes!” 

K’thalen could barely see anything under the glimmer of the desert heat, but sure enough the largest Miqo’te he had ever seen came limping out of his tent. There was a gash along his side that looked like it still hadn’t finished healing.

“TIA!” S’rarku Nunh bellowed at the top of his voice. “You have come here to take the bounty I have worked tirelessly to earn! Word of my sickness has stretched far and wide, and now you cowards seek to finish me off at my weakest?! Then come, one and all! I will defeat you all at the same time and offer your blood to the Warden herself!” He raised his glaive in one hand and pointed the tip at the sun. “Come, cowards! What are you waiting for?! A night of unending ecstasy can be yours for the taking!”

“All of us at the same time?!” K’nolas asked, looking around at the group of Tia amassed for this event; there had to be almost as many Tia as S’rarku had wives. “With wounds like that? Is he mad? Surely he can’t take us all at the same time?!”

“This is it!” Nex could barely contain his excitement. “The one to land the final blow will become a Nunh! By nightfall we’ll be warmed by dozens of women…! Paradise!”

K’thalen’s grip on his shortsword was shaky at best; he’s killed game twice his size before, but he’s never used the blade on another Miqo’te. K’nolas must have noticed his little brother’s trembling, and he placed his hand on his shoulder to help calm him down. “Just stay right behind me. I have your back, you have mine, aye?”

“A-aye…!” The boy squeaked, with his heart pounding in his throat. Nex took the first step, and like a virulent contagion or a crashing wave, the courage in the rest of the Tia ignited to a fever-pitch. They charged forth as a group while nearly tripping over themselves to reach him as quickly as they could; hearing of his injuries was enough to get them here, but seeing his wives let them forget who S’rarku is and what he does best. As the quickest Tia around, Nex was able to outpace his friends in a bid to strike the killing blow before anyone else.

A cruel grin flashed across S’rarku’s face the moment Nex was within reach, and not a moment later the glaive came swinging around to lop his head clean off. Blood splattered across their startled faces but their shocked stupor did not last for long. S’rarku charged forward, driving his glaive into the belly of the next closest, before ripping it out to hack off the legs of the next. None of the Tia processed what was happening before it was too late- as the realization that the wound wasn’t nearly as deep as they thought dawned on them, the flash of steel and the gargled screams of their comrades blinded and deafened them to their own deaths. K’nolas was able to snap out of it faster than the others, raising his shield in a desperate gamble to parry the glaive away for a clean thrust of his sword, but he underestimated the Nunh’s oppressive strength.

Beneath the splintered shield his arm and shoulder shattered. He raised his sword to defend himself, but the bite of S’rarku’s glaive took him by the wrist. In one fluid motion the other end of the glaive smashed into his face with a wet crack, and he fell limp into the sand.

Those that were lucky enough to witness the initial onslaught instead of experiencing it first-hand turned and fled toward the shimmering dunes, gripped by their maddening fear and guided by their primal instinct for survival. Yet the two great Zu birds circling overhead tucked their gigantic wings in and suddenly dove toward the sand, sweeping criss-cross to crush, impale, and skewer the fleeing Tia with their razor-sharp talons. Everyone was dead, dying, or running to prevent their deaths in vain. All but K’thalen.

“No…!” He watched in horror as his brother forced himself to roll over onto his chest, before pushing his knees into the sand beneath him to sit up. One arm was dangling from his shattered collar and bent in several unnatural ways, the other ended at a stump that was still squirting blood from the wrist. Half his face was unrecognizable; caved in and sunken in from the mortal blow from the club-end of S’rarku’s glaive. 

“Ruugh...r-r-ruuhuuhuughh…!” K’nolas moaned from the hole in his broken jaw, staring at his little brother with his remaining bloodshot eye. “Ruugh… rough-gh… RUUUUGHNN-!” 

THORK!

A blow to the back of the head sent K’nolas face first into the sand. S’rarku lifted his glaive up and turned the blade downward, before ensuring K’nolas would never get up again. The sword slipped from his trembling hands when a shadow crept up his feet and legs; the Nunh towered over K’thalen with his brother’s blood greasing his fingers. “Here…” The voice thundered. “You dropped this…”

He plucked the sword out of the sand and pushed it back into K’thalen’s grasp. “Finish what you started, boy. Go on… here’s your chance.” His massive hand eclipsed the boy’s grip, and he forced the tip of the blade against his own heart. “All you have to do is thrust. Do it. Become the youngest Nunh in history!” Staring into the cold blue eyes of the man who butchered his brother was too much for the child to handle; his knees jittered against each other before urine ran down his legs.

“No! NO! WAIT!” Rim collapsed in the dunes just a few yalms away, flailing wildly with his bow at the two zu descending upon him.

“Soon you’ll be the last coward alive from your little herd.” S’rarku whispered into K’thalen’s ear. “By right I should kill you, but… tsk tsk tsk… there’s just no sport in slaughtering children. You won’t even defend yourself.” When he released his grip on the boy’s hands, the sword dropped right back into the sand again. “Well? What are you waiting for? Go- run like the rest of these cowards. Perhaps after they eat the fat one, they’ll be too full for you.” He placed a hand on his shoulder and forced him to turn around. With his other hand S’rarku reached over K’thalen’s shoulder and pointed north. “There’s nothing left for you here. Go. Wander into the heat and perish. Or stay… they are greedy birds, and will make room for you soon enough.”

Slowly he forced his feet forward, one ahead of the other. K’thalen was blinded by his tears while he staggered off, S’rarku’s laughter ringing in his ears. The angry squawks of the giant feathered devils feasting on his friends were enough to hasten his steps, until the boy was sprinting off aimlessly into the wilderness; with every moment he braced himself for the darkness of those wings blocking out the sun, and the sharp agony of those talons burrowing into his back. But it never happened.

“Hey- whatcha drawing? Aaaa-yoink!” S’era plucked the journal out of K’thalen’s hands to get a better peek; he didn’t even notice her creeping up on him during his daydream. “Ooooh? You’re really good at this!”

“Eh? Give it back, lass.” He wasn’t in the mood to deal with her right now, but thanks to her training with that Hyur sadist, she was quick- far quicker than him, at least. S’era ducked out of his grasping hands and slid through the gap in his legs to escape, and with the whiskey burning in his veins, there was no hope of catching her.

“He’s quite handsome… a self portrait perhaps?” She gave him a playful wink before plopping down on the corner of his bed. At least she extended the journal out to hand back to him before he got really angry.

“My brother.” He grumbled, snatching it back; there were a lot of things he’s written down in this journal of his that he didn’t want her privy to, especially now that she was learning how to read. “His name was K’nolas Tia.”

The taunting smile of hers suddenly vanished. “Was…? Oh… I’m sorry, Thal. If you don’t mind me asking… um… how did… how did he…?”

“Killed by a Nuhn.” He didn’t have the heart to tell her who. K’thalen looked deep into S’era’s pale blue eyes, and for an instant he felt like the helpless little boy being stared down by that monster she adored so much. “It’s gettin’ late, lass. I need to go to sleep.”

“Alright…” She gave him a weak smile while she gently patted the bed beside him. “Sweet dreams, Thal. I’ll make us some breakfast in the morning oka- hey…? Where are you going?”

K’thalen was halfway through the door before he turned to her and answered with, “I’ll be back shortly, lass.” 

“I gotta go take a piss all of a sudden.”

[dothwrites]

15.03 coda--weights on my ankles

You will find that it necessary to let things go; simply for the reason that they are heavy. So let them go, let go of them. I tie no weights to my ankles.--C Joybell C

Castiel drives for eight hours before the truck runs out of gas. He leaves its carcass abandoned on the side of a dusty highway and starts walking towards the dim horizon. At his back, the sun struggles to break free of the clinging fog of night, but Castiel keeps his eyes on the darkness ahead of him. 

After two hours of walking, his body starts to feel the beginnings of fatigue. His feet throb, his head spins, and his muscles scream in protest with every step he takes. Still, he keeps walking. He can’t stop. If he stops, then he’ll think, then he’ll feel the loss of the past days crash down like the weight of centuries on his shoulders--

Castiel keeps walking. 

The sun beats down on the back of his neck. A trickle of sweat slides down the back of his neck and underneath his shirt collar. His coat is stifling. Castiel tugs at the collar, trying to readjust it before he stops. 

Why does it seem like that thing’s always you? 

Dean’s words are a still seeping wound, one that he won’t recover from. 

With thoughtless motions, Castiel shrugs out of his coat. He leaves it on the side of the road, a crumpled mess. Let someone else find it. Let the small animals, the hares and possums, the deer and foxes, use it for shelter, for warmth. 

Castiel keeps walking. 

He comes to a small town on the Montana state line. He finds a motel which says Vacancy on the outside and walks into the office. His white shirt has turned a light brown from the dust and sweat. His shoes are covered in a fine patina of dirt. He still has a split lip. 

The cashier barely glances up at him. He asks her for one room. When asked how long his stay will be, he thinks. “One week,” he finally decides. After a moment’s thought, she rattles off a number. Castiel fishes into his wallet and hands her a wad of bills without counting. He takes the proffered key and walks away. 

Underneath the shower spray, Castiel finally allows himself to stop. 

He’d thought that Dean would stop him. 

He plays it out in his mind, there in the shower--Dean running after him, a hand on his shoulder, tugging him around. Dean’s eyes, snapping fierce on his. Dean, demanding an explanation, Dean demanding that he stay. 

Castiel doesn’t know if he would have, but it would have been nice to have been offered the choice. 

Instead, Dean had watched him go, wordless, soundless, careless. Beautiful. Cruel. Human. Castiel had dashed himself to pieces on the jagged edges of Dean Winchester until finally, there were no more pieces to pick up. 

Heat prickles behind his eyes. Water, not from the shower, falls down his face. 

Angels don’t cry. 

---

He sleeps that night. 

He hadn’t been lying when he said his powers were failing. He can still feel his grace, but it’s weak and erratic. He doesn’t have enough to heal the split in his lip and so he keeps tonguing it as he drifts off, just so he can feel the bright pulse of pain. 

He dreams, when he sleeps. He dreams of happier times, of meals spent in the bunker, of Jack’s laughter echoing from the walls. He dreams of the times after hunts when Dean would turn to him, the hope in his eyes hidden almost but not quite and say You wanna come and have a beer real quick? And Castiel, to keep up appearances, would pretend to think and consider, and say I suppose that I can, and then Dean would smile, bright and sunny. 

He dreams of his hand against Jack’s forehead, of pouring his grace into that body until it shriveled into nothingness before his eyes. Of his boy’s voice, tiny and afraid, saying Cas please, of Jack in the graveyard, I want to love you but I can’t, of Dean biting out You’re dead to me, of the charred skeleton he left in Hell. 

Castiel wakes, shivering, shaking. He doesn’t recognize the feeling in his stomach until bile pours out of his mouth, hot and sour. It dribbles down his chin and onto the blankets. The stench surrounds him and the taste fills his mouth. He swallows to try and chase it away, but it remains, vile and so very, very mortal. 

He brings a shaking hand to his forehead to try and wipe away the clammy sweat gathered there, then he remembers how his hand looked splayed out over Jack’s head and he retches again. 

---

It takes Sam three days to call. 

In that time Castiel found a small shopping center where he used the last of his cash to purchase new clothes. Gone is the last vestiges of Jimmy’s suit. In its place he has several pairs of jeans, sensible boots, and a few sensible shirts. In the store, he’d seen several plaid shirts and he’d gravitated towards them, out of a need for the familiar. His fingers had brushed the sleeve of one--soft, warm. The feel of Dean’s arm against the back of his neck. 

Castiel jerked away like he’d been burned. 

His phone rings, shrill in his pocket. Castiel pulls it out and answers, already knowing who is on the other end. 

“Cas.” There’s relief in Sam’s voice, but it’s only a shred. The rest is carefully blank. Any nuance is lost over miles of phone lines. “For a second I thought you weren’t going to answer.” 

Castiel doesn’t reply. He listens for a few moments to the quiet sounds of Sam breathing. There’s a hollowness on the other end of the line which tells him that Sam is in the bunker. He wonders where Dean is--in his room? At the shooting range? At a bar? A surge of hot something curls through Castiel’s stomach, and he dismisses it. 

Finally realizing that Castiel has no intention of speaking, Sam sighs. “Look, I guess you know why I’m calling.” Again, he pauses, inviting Castiel into the conversation. Again, Castiel remains silent. He’d meant it when he’d said that there wasn’t anything else to say. 

“Cas,” Sam says again, this time quieter. Honest. “Look, I know that you said that you were leaving but...” 

“Are you asking me to come back?” Castiel finally asks. He doesn’t know whether or not he’s angry at Sam. While Sam exhibited none of Dean’s petty cruelties, he certainly didn’t restrain his brother. 

“I don’t...Are you ok?” There’s something bleak and hopeless in Sam’s voice. He lost Rowena. Castiel understands. 

“I’m fine.” Castiel looks out over the small park. Children play in the grass while adults jog around the path. Several geese root through the grass. It’s all so beautiful. 

“I just...I’m sorry, all right? I know that Dean and you...I know what he said, he told me--” 

“That all your problems have been my fault?” 

Castiel can’t help the snap in his voice, mostly because in some part, it’s true. If he hadn’t opened Purgatory, if he hadn’t released the Leviathan...how many tragedies could have been averted? If he’d managed to see through Metatron’s lies, how many of his brothers and sisters would still be alive? If he hadn’t said yes to Lucifer, how many lives might have been spared? 

“Cas, you know...” Sam sighs. The sound is defeated. “You know he didn’t mean that, right?”

Yes he did. Castiel might not have the full force of his grace, but he has enough, enough to see the surface of Dean’s soul. He meant every word. 

“What’s done is done,” Castiel says instead. Whatever faith Sam has left in his brother, Castiel doesn’t want to destroy it. “The apocalypse is over. You and Dean have no more need of me.” 

A small, frustrated noise winds its way through the phone. “Cas, you know that we...It’s not about what we need.” 

Isn’t it though, Cas wants to ask. Isn’t it about what he can do for the Winchesters, how he can help them. The few times that he’s asked for their help, they came begrudgingly or not at all. Always happy to bleed for the Winchesters. 

Castiel has bled. Castiel has died. And even that wasn’t enough. 

“Sam. You know that I value our time together.” Castiel doesn’t say friendship. There’s too much hurt on his side and too little emotion on Sam’s side for that word to come through. Though Sam never said anything, Castiel senses--Sam blames him as well. He might be better at hiding it than Dean, but deep down, deep enough that maybe Sam doesn’t even know it’s there...he blames Castiel. 

“But it’s time for me to...” Castiel trails off. He doesn’t know what it is exactly, that he wants to do. All he knows is that whatever it is, it can’t happen with Sam and Dean. 

“You know that if you ever need anything, you just have to call right?” 

“Of course,” Castiel murmurs. 

“Right.” Sam’s voice sounds dissatisfied, but he doesn’t try to stop Castiel, doesn’t beg him to come back. “Ok. Um...Good luck. I guess.” 

“Goodbye Sam,” Castiel says. 

After hanging up the phone, he stares at the small piece of plastic and metal in his hands. He thumbs through his contact list. The list of names is pitifully small. Worse when he considers how few of those he can actually call. 

Rowena is dead. Ketch is dead. Jack is...Jack is...Sam is better off without him. And Dean. 

With one movement, Castiel breaks the phone in half. Tiny glass shards embed themselves in the pad of his thumb, but he ignores the pain as he tosses the two halves in the trash can, before walking away from the park. 

---

Read the rest on ao3! 

[beerecordings]

Do you mind explaining a little more of seven seven Henrik’s backstory? I checked the tag, but tumblr only gave me two posts for it -River

yeah, i’d love to! i haven’t talked about him much, this au comes mostly off the top of my head and then occasionally yanks me down into more complex scenarios, which i enjoy a lot.

okay this is long and honestly it’s a horror story so i’m going to put it under a read more. careful it is creepy and there’s a lot of talk of blood and stalking. seriously it’s a little messed up i used to be scared as hell of the Pooka when i was a kid lol. the short story, if you don’t want to read, is that a creature called a Pooka chased him out of Germany and nearly made him a prisoner, but Jackie and Marvin saved him!

but anyway yeah so Henrik is the seventh son of a seventh son, like I’ve mentioned, which pretty much means he A) is bizarrely lucky, impossibly lucky, B) can sense some magical activity and tell when things are supernatural even if they’re disguised to other humans, either seeing their real nature or just being able to tell that the thing in front of him is, on some level, not quite human, and C) a lot of people or creatures who are clued in to the mythological world might want to hurt him :( there are a lot of myths (Henrik doesn’t know how true they are) about how his hair or skin or blood could be used for really powerful spells or luck talismans or how even just keeping him around could increase luck or magical energy. to be fair, this does seem to be true in the households he’s lived in, as his family was really lucky with a lot of stuff when he was with his wife and kids, and recently his friends have been really lucky. he doesn’t consider this real luck at all, though - he’s constantly paranoid that something will come to kill him for a ritual or hurt him to get something out of him or just lock him away as a lucky charm for the rest of his life.

and he has good reason to be paranoid after what happened! A couple years ago, he caught the eye of a Pooka, a nightmare shape-shifter hardly more intelligent than an animal and generally not classified at the level of a human the way a Selkie or higher spirit or satyr or something like that would be. (okay there are some legends that make Pooka clever tricksters who come after bad people and others that say they’re even friendly but in the stories i was always told, Pooka were monsters and you did NOT want to be targeted by one, because they never let their victims go and enjoyed tormenting innocent humans for reasons never explained to me). Henrik still doesn’t know exactly what it wanted with him, because it never spoke. It’s just one night he woke up at the witching hour and sat up in bed beside his wife and outside his window there was a donkey.

but it was horrible, it wasn’t… it wasn’t normal. The Pooka takes a lot of different forms. usually a huge black dog, or a huge black bull, or a huge black hare, or a huge black-haired man, or the donkey. And the donkey, to Henrik, was the worst of them. It would be the body and head of a donkey, but it would stay on its hind legs like a man and wear a coat, and there would be something in his eyes far too clever for a donkey - an ability to watch, an ability to be interested in him, an ability to want to hurt him. That first night he thought it was a sleep paralysis demon. He held stock-still and stared at the blank yellow eyes with the rectangle pupils on either side of its head and wondered why it seemed to stare directly at him, as though hungry. It reached up a hand - grey and covered in fur, but the hands of a man - and pushed open his bedroom window.

His wife woke up and asked him why he was shaking so hard and when he whirled around to look at her, the Pooka disappeared again. He had to stay home from work the next day he was so afraid, and even though he and his wife had been having a lot of problems lately, she pulled him right into her arms and stroked his hair and let him cry because he was just so terrified. she’d never seen him that scared. his vision was telling him that thing was real even though he’d never heard of anything like it and wanted it to be a nightmare.

and the thing was, he was the only one who seemed to be able to see it.

He kept trying to go to work as usual, providing for his kids and looking after his family, but the Pooka began to get closer and closer. he would get on the subway and look up and the Pooka would be a dog sitting across from him, staring at him with donkey’s eyes, bigger than he was, big enough that its head touched the top of the subway and pressed its ears down. or he would be in the middle of an intensive surgery, and suddenly the window would open, and this hare the size of the operating table, with the yellow eyes of the donkey and all its horrible ribs jutting out, would crawl into the room and stare at him while he worked, sweating and trembling so hard he could barely perform, though he sometimes didn’t have a choice depending on how serious the surgery was and how far he was into it, the hare staring at him the whole time and just breathing. or the huge black-haired man, donkey-eyed and twice his size, stepping into his home while his wife and kids were all asleep, stepping over to him, its boots thudding across his dining floor, leaving blood in their wake, its yellow eyes fixed on him as he shook, shattering a coffee mug, trying to make his voice work, to say something like “what are you? what do you want with me?” but it never answered, it never spoke, just stepped closer and closer, fixed on him, staring at him, and then, for the first time, it reached out with its sausage-sized fingers, and it touched his fucking throat, and he felt blood come spilling out of his mouth for reasons he still doesn’t understand, and it swiped up the blood with its thumb and began to drink.

it turned to go after a drop of it, but it wasn’t satisfied.

Henrik, understandably, just about lost his mind with fear after that. he had seen the bull standing over his wife and kids enough times by then that he knew none of them were safe, and besides, no one believed him. his wife thought he was having a nervous breakdown or developing a psychotic illness or something because even though she knew about what he was, the story was just too ridiculous, too insane, and whoever heard of a donkey like that anyway? so he ran away. didn’t even think about it or mean for it, really, didn’t have time to leave them notes, to tell them that he loved them, just… ran and hoped the Pooka would leave them all alone. but it just kept following him. and now he was all along, and it started to get bolder.

it sat beside him on trains destined for countries he picked at random. it swam across the channel with him when he ran to Ireland. in his hotel room, it stood over him, and when he ran to sleep on the streets instead, terrified and exhausted, still it followed him, the donkey towering over him, the yellow eyes fixed on him, and it started to eat his blood whenever it wanted to, touching his throat and making it come welling up and drizzling from his mouth again while he was paralyzed by the strange power come over him, frozen still by the Pooka except for tears running down his face. he tried to run away again, but now, he found, it was no longer just watching, it would grab him and force him to stay in the hotel room, or snatch him off the streets while he searched for any help and drag him to the forest to drain him, and then it began pulling him deeper and deeper into the forest every time and letting him wander for less and less time, and then one day it brought him a big cup of milk in its horrible donkey hands, and he realized, in a moment that nearly killed him, that it was going to make him a prisoner for the rest of his life. but he didn’t know what to do. he’d been hunted for months. he was exhausted and terrified and exhausted of being terrified. there was no way to get free of it. in his dreams every night the Pooka made him see himself sat on the back of the great black bull, clinging on for dear life, blood running from his mouth, unable to throw himself off. it felt like a dream. in retrospect, it’s like it didn’t even happen to him, just like he watched it happen to someone else. it was extremely traumatic for him and he knew he was going to die and gave up on finding help.

until, of course, a little star spirit who loves to explore happened upon him. Marvin had never met a Pooka before and he was very curious when he noticed its spirit!! he went zipping off into the woods all excited and fascinated, but then he came upon the little man curled up beneath an outcropping in a worn doctor’s coat, shaking and passed out, anemic and freezing and very ill with the toll all this took on him. Marvin has rarely been so distressed in all his life. Henrik woke up to a very sweet white cat kissing at him and keeping him warm. he let Henrik hug him and pet him and mumble to him about dying and wanting to go and Germany and his family and blood from his mouth for a long time before he heard the Pooka come and decided this was too much for him to deal with alone. he zipped off to go get Jackie, but not before he saw exactly what the Pooka had been doing to the stranger. Jackie was horrified, of course, and finally here was someone who actually had an idea of what this creature Henrik had been ranting about to everyone he could think of actually was. In the end, it’s his luck that brought Henrik to Ireland, the homeland of the Pooka, where someone might know where it was and where a friendly star might wander onto him. they found Henrik silver spurs like in the stories Jackie had always been told as a kid and the next time he dreamed, Henrik could dig the silver spurs into the side of the Pooka and make it scream, a horrible shrieking noise like a half-dozen animals being slaughtered that has never left Henrik’s head since. The Pooka tried to come back and punish him a couple times, but Jackie and Marvin protected him and eventually it was killed with silver because, while Jackie rarely kills anything at all, it was clear that it wouldn’t stop coming for Henrik, perhaps having developed some kind of an addiction to him.

It took months for Henrik to believe it was really over. Jackie kept him in his home the whole time - apart from a brief sojourn to the hospital once or twice, since Henrik was seriously ill - and nursed him back to health with Marvin’s help. for the first couple weeks, Henrik was just silent, wrapped up in Jackie’s bedsheets staring at the wall, blue with blood loss and illness and a certain sort of grief that will never go away, letting Jackie and Marvin feed him and comfort him. eventually he started to get better, but he never left Jackie’s house. only place he really feels safe now. he has, however, set up a secret little clinic just a few blocks away, where mythological creatures in need of help can come to a doctor who has some understanding of what they are and real expertise, too. Between him, Jackie, and Marvin, they started picking up some pretty expansive knowledge about mythological creatures and he’s learned how to treat so many different things!! It keeps his life really interesting, especially now that he’s developing a national reputation among the other folk. and it’s how Chase and Jamie both came to be a part of their family!

What happened really haunts him, but luckily he has happened upon the best group of friends he could ever ask for and he has a great support system :) so that’s where he’s at!! that was very long but yeh!!!! i am filled with love of him!!

[pikapeppa]

Character Interview: Athera Lavellan

Tagged by @faerieavalon​​ @serial-chillr​​ @elveny​​ recently! I did this before for Rynne Hawke, so maybe I’ll try it with one of my lesser-known OCs?

Meet Athera Lavellan, Inquisitor and unfortunate romancer of Abelas. Art by @froschkuss​​!

[The interviewer is ushered into the rotunda at Skyhold, where the Inquisitor can be found sitting cross-legged on the couch and eating roasted peanuts while listening to two tall male elves discussing magic. One of the elves is bald and kind-looking; the other wears a hood and looks quite forbidding. As the interviewer approaches, the Inquisitor pops up from the couch and hastily puts the peanuts aside before holding out a hand to the interviewer.]

Thanks for coming! Well, actually, you asked me to talk to you, so maybe you should be thanking me.

[The bald elf coughs quietly, and the angry hooded one smirks. The Inquisitor grimaces at the interviewer.] 

Sorry. Sometimes I put my foot in it. They’re here to make sure I don’t make a complete idiot of myself.

name ➔ Athera Lavellan! It’s nice to meet you. Er, who are you?

are you single ➔ [her face turns bright red] Oh. Ha. Hahaha. Right into it, huh? 

[She glances at the hooded elf, who is watching her very intently. A moment later, she looks at the interviewer again, and her voice is confident.] 

No. I’m not single.  

are you happy ➔ Um, yes! I’m going to go with yes. 

are you angry ➔ No, of course not! This is just what I look like when I’m hungry.

[The hooded elf speaks: “Should I bring you some cake?”]

Would you? That would be amazing. Oh, you’re being sarcastic. [laughs] Can you bring me some cake anyway? Please? 

[He sighs, then bows his head and turns away. The Inquisitor reaches out and grabs his hand.]

Wait, I was kidding! I’m not some Orlesian noble, you don’t have to fetch me cake.

[The bald elf speaks: “I will go find some cake.” The Inquisitor laughs.]

Oh please, Solas, we all know that’s just an excuse for you to eat all the cake by yourself. 

are your parents still married ➔ yes, actually! And happily so. I... fenedhis, I should probably write to them. It’s been a whole week since the last letter.

NINE FACTS

birthplace ➔ I was born in a forest a small ways outside of Markham.

hair color ➔ It’s brown and full of spirits. 

[The hooded elf silently runs his hand over her hair, and she leans into his shoulder.]

eye color ➔ Grey!

birthday ➔ Haring 10. I’m a winter child. 

mood ➔ Hungry. 

[She smiles mischievously at Solas, who lifts his eyes to the ceiling before leaving the rotunda. The hooded elf snorts softly before speaking: “I am surprised he is taking your request seriously.”]

Well, I am the Inquisitor. He has to listen to me. [laughs] Gods, what a terrible thing to say. Don’t publish that. Oh, I guess I still have some peanuts here. Maybe he didn’t have to leave to get the cake... 

[She slowly sidles over to the couch and picks up the peanuts, then slowly and guiltily starts munching them. The hooded elf clears his throat.]

gender ➔ Female.

summer or winter ➔ Winter. I just love a layer of crisp cold snow like a blanket on everything. It’s like the whole world becomes new again. 

morning or afternoon ➔ Mornings! They’re a fresh new start.

EIGHT THINGS ABOUT YOUR LOVE LIFE

are you in love ➔ [Her face turns bright red again. She starts to laugh. The hooded elf watches her with a very serious look on his face.]

Gods, what is taking Solas so long with that cake?

do you believe in love at first sight ➔ Oh thank Mythal, an easy question. No. That’s always just your trousers talking. 

who ended your last relationship ➔ [sigh] He did. But it was for the best. I was too young to know what I was doing. [Looks at the hooded elf.] I know what I’m doing now. 

[He studies her in silence. His face remains very serious. He tucks a strand of hair over her ear.]

have you ever broken someone’s heart ➔ Me? Ha! No. I’ve been dumped on my ear every time. Varric should write a farce about me. 

are you afraid of commitments ➔ No. Commitments are what give our lives their meaning.

[The hooded elf bows his head slightly.]

have you hugged someone within the last week? ➔ Of course! Here’s some proof. [She hugs the hooded elf around the waist, and after a moment’s hesitation, he hugs her in turn.]

have you ever had a secret admirer ➔ Not that I know of. That’s why it’s called a secret, isn’t it?

have you ever broken your own heart? ➔ [She freezes for a split second, then laughs lightly.] Not yet. 

SIX CHOICES

love or lust ➔ I’ve never had one without the other, so... love?

lemonade or iced tea ➔ Iced tea! No one ever makes the lemonade sweet enough for my liking.

cats or dogs ➔ Dogs. They’re very loyal and steadfast. And they make me think of the old stories of the Emerald Knights and their guardian wolves. 

a few best friends or many regular friends ➔ [tilts head thoughtfully] A few good friends. A few who know you well are better than a bunch who know you only a little.

wild night out or romantic night in ➔ [smiles at the hooded elf] A night in, for sure.

day or night ➔ day! I’m a sunshine sort of girl. 

FIVE HAVE YOU EVERS

been caught sneaking out ➔ Mmm, I don’t think.... well, not unless you count -- um... [She looks at the hooded elf with a sheepish smile.] The kitchen? When, er, Solas, um...

[The hooded elf looks briefly discomfited. The Inquisitor turns to the interviewer with a sickly smile and reddened cheeks.]

Let’s move on, maybe?

fallen down/up the stairs ➔ Oh gods, yes. Especially in this tower. I’d probably be better off flinging myself from the rookery into the Solas’s office rather than taking the stairs.

wanted something/someone so badly it hurt? ➔ [The Inquisitor freezes. The hooded elf’s expression becomes intimidatingly blank. The Inquisitor looks up, and her smile is gone.]

Yes. 

wanted to disappear ➔ [She's quiet for a moment. The hooded elf frowns slightly.] 

It... I can’t disappear. I’m needed here.

FOUR PREFERENCES

smile or eyes ➔ [She looks up at the hooded elf and studies his face for a minute] Eyes. You smile with your eyes more than your mouth.

[The hooded elf smirks very faintly. The Inquisitor chuckles.]

If that’s your attempt to prove that you can smile with your mouth, you didn’t prove it very well. 

shorter or taller ➔ Taller!

intelligence or attraction ➔ Intelligence, for sure.

hook-up or relationship ➔ Relationship. I’ve always been a relationship sort of girl. Even when... well, never mind. [She shifts closer to the hooded elf and leans against his side.]

FAMILY

do you and your family get along ➔ Yes! I really miss them, actually. 

would you say you have a “messed up life” ➔ Um... [She shoves a handful of peanuts into her mouth and mumbles something incomprehensible while shrugging.]

have you ever run away from home ➔ No. I wouldn’t have left my clan at all if they hadn’t wanted someone to come here and keep an eye on the Conclave. But honestly, now that I’ve been away, I think... I’m... I’m not glad, exactly, but I’m... it’s been an important experience. 

have you ever gotten kicked out ➔ No.

FRIENDS

do you secretly hate one of your friends ➔ No, not at all! 

[The hooded elf speaks: “What about that shem who-”]

Abelas! [clears her throat] Friends and colleagues aren’t the same thing. You don’t have to like everyone you work with. [pokes Abelas with her elbow] You didn’t like me at first. 

[Abelas speaks again: “At first, no.” His tone has softened, and he runs a hand over her hair. She smiles and wraps an arm around his waist.]

Not the smoothest answer, but I’ll forgive it.

do you consider all of your friends to be good friends ➔ Yes!

who is your best friend ➔ Varric, for sure. Oh but wait, there’s Solas... 

[Solas calls out from the doorway: “Did you call for me?” He’s carrying a small platter of Orlesian petit fours, and the Inquisitor brightens up as she spots him.]

You actually brought cake! And you didn’t eat them all! Oh, you’re definitely my best friend, then.

who knows everything about you ➔ Does anyone really know everything about anyone? I don’t think it’s possible. So the answer to this one would have to be... no one. 

[Solas offers the platter of petit fours to her. She picks one and pops it in her mouth whole. Solas and Abelas each select a cake and take a small bite, and the Inquisitor grimaces.]

You two know that they make those cakes small on purpose so you can eat them all in one bite, right?

[Solas replies: “Unfortunately, that’s not the case. The diminutive size of these cakes is purely aesthetic.” Abelas chimes in: “They also taste better if you take the time to savour them.” The Inquisitor laughs and loops her hands companionably through their elbows.]

Oh, please. Nobody has time for that.

**************************

Athera and Abelas’s smutty and romantic but ultimately tragic adventures can be read here on AO3. 

[minnarr]

leia meets the prequels gang, pt. 3

Last time, Leia stuck to Padmé and Anakin like a burr; met Obi-Wan and confided in him; and managed to get on Anakin’s bad side. In this section, Leia tries to rest at Obi-Wan’s as the Senate declares war and they both get a surprise.

See all parts at this link

----

The Temple had been like a kicked hive when Leia arrived. By the time Obi-Wan found her again, it seemed to have quieted into sleep at last. “My apologies,” he said, looking somehow even more tired than before. “I have not had an opportunity to make proper arrangements, but I can offer you a bed for the night. I’m afraid the Temple visitors’ quarters are rather overrun at the moment.”

It was strange to enter a Jedi’s quarters. They weren’t quite as ascetic as Leia had imagined; certainly more comfortable than a room on a Rebel base. “You can take Anakin’s room for now, if you don’t mind the mess,” Obi-Wan said. “There’s clean sheets, at least.” He pointed out the fresher, and a set of clean clothes he had found for her.

He hesitated in the middle of his kitchen, looking at her with perplexity.

“Go sleep,” Leia told him. “You look like you need it.”

He nodded, then ducked into his own room, the door closing a moment later.

Leia moved through the strange space, cleaning up as best she could around the bacta patches and aches. It was the first shower she’d had in... Well, it was long overdue. Anakin’s room was a mess; not filthy, just cluttered. There were racing posters, model ships, a worktable filled with mechanical odds and ends. It had the air of a bedroom where he’d grown up, and Leia wondered at that, and felt like an interloper.

When she finally sank into the bed, she expected to sleep immediately. Instead, her head flooded with images and sensations. Finally, she closed her eyes and began to count, following a familiar meditation exercise.

She had let the practice lapse over the last year or so, but it used to be one of her best tools to cope with her childhood panics. She resolved to start doing it regularly again. If nothing else, she could manage that.

Slowly, she managed to quiet the noise in her head and return to blankness.

The next morning, she woke earlier than she wanted to, her body screaming at her but her mind alert. It’s the sun, she realized, and groaned. To her surprise, when she stepped into the kitchen, she found Obi-Wan already there, a mug of caf in hand but his eyes closed. He startled when she took the pot from beside him to pour her own cup.

“Morning,” he said.

She looked him over. “Not enough sleep?”

“I don’t think a week would be enough,” he admitted.

“Agreed,” Leia said, and sat down across from him.

“I have a meeting with the Council this morning,” he said. “The Jedi High Council, I should say. I’m not sure how long it will take, but I will get you better settled in the next day or so. You don’t mind staying around here and resting for a few days, I hope?” His pleading eyes suggested she didn’t have many other choices.

“Has the Senate declared war yet?” Leia asked.

Obi-Wan winced. “No, not yet,” he said. “But the debates are well underway. I’ll leave you a datapad if you want to follow along.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “Have you had a medical exam with the Temple healers yet?”

“I think they were busy,” Leia said.

“I’ll make you an appointment. It’s the first step, anyway, if you want to stay in the Temple for a little while.” There was a gap somewhere in there, as if there were another reason to arrange the exam. His mind was probably just wandering, though; anyone’s would be.

“You don’t have to look after me, you know,” Leia said dryly. “I can make whatever appointments I need.”

“Mm.” Obi-Wan rubbed a hand over his beard, blinking at her. “You’re not a Jedi, so you need a sponsor to stay here. That would be me, and it’s my duty to liaise with Temple staff on your behalf. You just may be a bit bored for a few days. I...it might be better if you were to stay here, rather than wandering about the Temple.”

“Your people are gearing up for war, and I’m an unknown,” Leia said. “I understand.” She didn’t like it, but she understood. “I need the rest,” she assured Obi-Wan, and it wasn’t a lie. “I needed it even before we went haring off to Geonosis. I’ll take it while I can get it.”

The next days were an excruciating combination of idleness and expectation. Even hidden away in Obi-Wan's quarters, Leia felt the suffocating tension of these days as the Senate debated, and the Jedi High Council deliberated, and war slowly turned into a reality. She did visit a healer on the second day, who gave her a simple physical exam and took a blood draw to run routine tests. She didn’t stop to see Anakin. After their strange conversation, she wasn’t sure that he would want to.

One evening, Obi-Wan returned to his quarters and went straight to the sofa, settling into it with careful dignity. It looked like if he was any less careful, he would simply fall into it. “The Senate just declared war with the Confederation of Independent Systems,” he said heavily.

Leia set a mug next to Obi-Wan's seat: not caf, but a more soothing tea. “I know,” she said.

He picked up the tea and sipped it, his eyes closed. “We’ve accepted a clone army.”

“I know.”

“I’m a General.”

Leia sat down beside Obi-Wan and turned to him. They didn’t know each other well, but she had known war for far longer than he had, for all his experience getting into and out of fights. She reached out, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, you are General Obi-Wan Kenobi. A man whose strength, compassion, and cunning were such that my— That those who served with you trusted you and remembered you for those qualities.”

“You speak in the past tense about something that hasn’t happened yet,” Obi-Wan said.

“And you’re correcting my grammar on the verge of a war,” Leia said, amused. “You’ll be all right, Obi-Wan. You can do the job in front of you with honor and wisdom.”

“But not success,” he said, looking at her. “Don’t we lose?”

Leia shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe not anymore. Hope is all I have, and there’s a lot more of it go around now.”

With the debates over and a course decided for the Republic, Leia expected Obi-Wan to have a little more time. What she did not expect was for him to come back to his quarters halfway through the next day and pin her with a stare. “You have never been to this Temple?” he asked. “Or any Jedi Temple?”

“No,” Leia said cautiously.

Obi-Wan ran a hand through his hair. “Just where did you live in this other time? Why did no one find you?”

Leia stood, unsure what had set Obi-Wan off like this. “It depends on who you think should have found me,” she said.

“The Jedi, of course,” Obi-Wan said, and he looked at her again with naked disbelief. “Leia, do you not know that you are incredibly strong in the Force?”

“What?” Leia laughed. “Of course I’m not.”

“You’ve never known things you shouldn’t, or gotten headaches in large crowds? No instances of impossible luck or improbable reflexes? Nothing’s ever come to you inexplicably simply because you needed it desperately?”

Leia frowned and looked away, her scalp tingling. Carefully, she pushed away the nervousness and raised a calm face to Obi-Wan. “Nothing that can’t be explained,” she said. “I used to get intense migraines after parties, or after going down into the city. The doctors said that it was probably linked with my anxiety. Once we got that under control, the headaches became very infrequent.”

“Forgive me for prying,” Obi-Wan said, finally finding a semblance of calm again, “but how did you get that anxiety under control?”

“Counseling sessions,” Leia said, not sure where he was going with this. “Meditation. Making sure I kept up healthy habits.”

“Leia, these are things that a strongly empathetic Force user can experience, if they are left untrained,” Obi-Wan said. “People’s minds—the energy of them, their emotions and surface thoughts—press in on you if you are unshielded and can quickly become overwhelming. It is possible, I suppose, that the meditation you did helped you to build up mental shields. But your shields are too strong to be merely accidental.”

“You mean,” Leia said, “the walls around my thoughts?” She had maintained them for half her lifetime. It had been described to her as an emotional control technique by her meditation teacher. Of course, they had helped her hide her true feelings in the Imperial Senate, and she had fallen back on them when she had nothing else at Darth Vader’s hands.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said. “They are a simple but very subtle shielding technique. I did not know that you had shields in place until I specifically went looking for them.”

Leia pulled back, glaring at him. “You went poking in my mind?”

“No,” Obi-Wan said. “Merely brushed against its boundaries. I believe you felt it, just now, because I also felt you shut me out.”

Leia shuddered, and for a moment the memory of Vader came back to her, terrifyingly real. Had he probed her mind along with everything else he had done? Everything had been so mixed up in bone-deep terror and pain that it was hard to separate out what was physical and what was something else. For a moment, she heard the amplified hiss of his breath, felt his physical presence looming over her. And then she breathed, and she was just looking up at Obi-Wan.

“If not by my shields, how did you find out that I am like you?” she asked.

“The blood test the healers took,” Obi-Wan said. “If I had known it would come back positive—if I had known that it would be so high—I would not have...”

“What did you do?” Leia said, hearing the growl in her voice.

“It is a simple test,” Obi-Wan started.

“That you do without patients’ consent?”

“That is part of a typical intake exam for those entering the Temple,” Obi-Wan said. “It is not part of the standard physical for adult visitors or staff, no, but I suggested a full work-up, and generally that includes the midichlorian count.”

Leia closed her eyes. He had violated medical ethics in a way that troubled her. She claimed to be a time traveler who had arrived just at the cusp of an intergalactic war. That he had awarded her the trust and consideration he did was a gift, she told herself, though it didn’t soothe her anger. “You haven’t been jumping at shadows around me,” she said. “So why order the test?”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan said.

“He was suspicious of me,” Leia said.

“He was, and he did more than test your shields. He tried to reach into your mind to see if you were trustworthy, and he failed.” Obi-Wan held up a hand when Leia opened her mouth, outraged. “After I was done telling him how wrong that was, I suggested that it might be the effect of pain medication, but he was very insistent. And I...I wondered.”

“So I’m strong in the Force,” Leia said. “What are you planning to do with that?”

“That’s a very good question. It’s not often that we find people who are strong but untrained so late in life,” he said. “I have encountered one or two in my time who never saw the Jedi temple or joined one of the other Force traditions we recognize, but they were not happy meetings. When we brought Anakin to the Temple, he was considered shockingly old.”

“How old was he?”

“Nine.”

Leia blinked at Obi-Wan. “I am nineteen,” she said flatly. “And I’ve done just fine on my own. Perhaps nobody needs to know.”

Obi-Wan considered, his eyes troubled. “Perhaps it would have been better that way. Perhaps we still could keep it secret, but if you are to stay here…”

“What other option is there?”

“You could tell the Council how you came here,” Obi-Wan suggested.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t know them,” Leia said.

“And you know me so well?”

“I can honestly say I never met you before Padmé introduced us, but my father trusted you, and that’s worth a lot.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes sparked with interest. “Your father?”

Leia had no template for a safe way to operate in this situation. If she took no risks, then she might cut off opportunities. Her heart ached to hear her father’s voice again, to see his face, even if it was much younger than she had ever known it. He might be on Coruscant now; he already held the Senate seat for Alderaan. Impulsively, she said, “Bail Organa.”

“Bail’s daughter,” Obi-Wan said, his eyebrows rising, and looked her over as if seeing her for the first time. “You are not what I would expect from a princess of Alderaan,” he said, nonplussed.

“I was raised in interesting times,” Leia said. Taking pity on him, she added, “I was adopted. I have no idea who my birth parents were. Wherever this,” she waved her hand, “Force, whatever, comes from, it’s not from Bail and Breha Organa.”

“Well. Wherever it comes from, there's something else to take into consideration before you decide not to confide in the Council. Those unhappy meetings I mentioned,” he said. “The more that you hide, the more likely they are to suspect you of being a dark side Force-user, perhaps an acolyte to someone powerful and dangerous.”

Leia frowned. Obi-Wan was young, but...they were at the beginning of the Clone Wars; her father had spoken of him as a man entrusted with much responsibility even then. “They won’t trust your judgement?”

“Some Council members believe my judgement to be...clouded, in such cases.” Obi-Wan's tone spoke of mild amusement, but there was something shuttered behind his eyes. “Anakin, you see. He is powerful like you, and many still believe it was dangerous for us to train him. It was I who finally made them agree to take him, and who oversaw his training.”

“Why dangerous? Surely it’s more dangerous to let something like this go untrained, if what you told me about my headaches is correct.” Her parents must have known what she was. Leia knew from her work with the Rebellion how dangerous the galaxy was for children strong in the Force. They must have known, and taken quiet steps to protect her.

“It’s not as simple as a skill to be learned. Those who do not train from a young age in the ways of the Jedi are at risk of being corrupted by the dark side of the Force. There are powers in the galaxy right now—”

Leia cut him off. “But it’s not inevitable.”

“No. With all my heart, I believe it is not inevitable. But not all of the Council does, and even those who do...Leia.” Obi-Wan stopped, trying to marshal his words. “Let’s just say that they have very good reason to be wary of unknown Force-users right now. Please, be open with them.”

“Not yet.” Leia shook her head. “They have no reason to believe me—honestly, Obi-Wan, I don’t know why you believe me.”

“I don’t know, either,” Obi-Wan muttered. He sat in one of the chairs at last. “All right, we won’t tell the Council yet, though it goes against all of my training. But you should decide what you’re going to do about Anakin’s suspicions. I know him, and he never drops anything.”

“You vouching for me won’t be enough?”

Obi-Wan laughed shortly. “Not without an explanation, and definitely not without telling him I investigated.”

“I’ll…talk to him,” Leia said. “If you think he’ll see me again.”

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Two Hundred Thirty-One: An Accessory ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata, Uzumaki Naruto, Haruno Sakura ] [ SasuHina, NaruSaku ] [ Verse: A Light Amongst Shadows ] [ AO3 Link ]

When it comes to her appearance, Hinata has always stuck to the basics. Never has she been the sort of girl to dress up or look flashy. If anything, she’s more comfortable and content to blend into the background. Whether it’s her no-effort hair (unless she gets a wild hare to put it up in a ponytail), baggy clothes (she’s not keen on being too straightforward given her body shape), or her lack of accessories, she simply keeps herself low-maintenance.

In a way, she envies the other girls her age. Ino has always been so fashion conscious. With hardly any effort, she can put together an ensemble that sweeps people off their feet. Glamor without going overboard. Even her hair is more lustrous than Hinata’s own: the long golden tail is far more eye-catching than Hinata’s plain dark locks. Sakura’s choppy, rosy strands get more attention despite their lack of upkeep, too.

Sometimes, she wishes she could be pretty. Be out there. But between her self-conscious nature, and shyness at being noticed, she’s not sure she could ever actually handle putting any more effort into her appearance. The dual feelings of wanting attention and yet being leery of it can be rather...depressing.

But, in the end, she keeps to her typical habits. She’s been this way all her life, after all. Why change? It’s not like there’s anyone she wants to attract, anyway. Naruto, after all, has always set his gaze elsewhere...and her actions never swayed that. Not enough, at least. Already it’s evident he and his female teammate are romantically involved...even if neither has the heart to tell her.

She remembers the rosette offering the possibility of seeking companionship with her own teammates: Kiba, or maybe Shino. And yet, that idea wrinkled the Hyūga’s nose. For quite some time, the pair have been far more like family...like older brothers that both tease and bolster her, snapping at anyone who gives her trouble. She’s not sure she could ever set that aside and attempt to have something...more with either of them. It just wouldn’t feel right.

Beyond that...she really has no clue.

But Fate has different ideas...and starts placing someone specific in front of her.

It started with the whole of team seven. Sasuke, newly returned for his brother’s reappearance, begrudgingly spent time with them...even if that meant mostly being a third wheel as Naruto and Sakura get a bit involved with one another’s company.

And given her friendship with the pair, that often left Hinata as wheel number four. At first, she thought little of it. Having been made privy to Sasuke’s circumstances due to mutual acquaintances, she already knew much of what had transpired in his past...and how it still affected his present. In the same vein, she was one of the few able to understand...and willing to move on. True, the pair had been relative strangers before he left, but if anything that served in her favor. Sasuke held no ill will against her. They had a fresh slate from which to start.

And then came the alliance with the Hyūga. As Itachi’s future hung in the balance with his prior convictions held over his head, it was the other dōjutsu clan that was called for help. But her bloodline have always been shrewd...and then arranged for an alliance. Sasuke had rebelled against the idea, but eventually acquiesced at Itachi’s urging.

Thus, Hinata and Sasuke seemed almost unable to get away from each other. She served as the liaison between the two clans...mostly because it was she the Uchiha knew (and tolerated) best.

With that, Hinata conceded, and accepted that she and Sasuke were simply apt to bump into each other more often than not.

Like today, for example.

Yet again, Naruto and Sakura have invited them both out for a day of catching up. Naruto has been busy learning under both Tsunade and Kakashi. Sakura has been gearing up to take a leading position in the hospital. Hinata’s work with her clan and the Uchiha has kept her busy, as it has Sasuke. So the four have had little time left over to simply spend together.

So, they’ve taken to wandering an outdoor market. The weather is fine, not too hot yet, and they peruse the goods alongside a small crowd of people. The more boisterous pair are at the front, Sakura openly ogling as Naruto looks sadly to his frog wallet. Behind them, the others aren’t really as interested, mostly just taking in the sights. Sasuke isn’t one much for stuff, and Hinata’s frugal habits mean avoiding most anything not terribly necessary.

“Ooh, Hinata! Look at this!”

Attention caught as Sakura waves her over, Hinata steps up and takes a peek.

“Isn’t it beautiful? It looks just your style!”

An ornate hair clip - silver adorned with white doves - rests atop a small stand, gleaming in the light. Hinata’s eyes go a little wide. It is extremely pretty...and also very expensive. “Oh, well...I-I’ve never really worn hair a clip before…”

“Don’t you have that dove print kimono? You could wear it to the matsuri next month! It would be so perfect, Hinata! Don’t you think?”

“W-well, I…”

“You should get it.”

At once, all three of the others turn to look at Sasuke. Blank-faced, he looks back. “...what?”

“Didn’t think you’d have an opinion about hair clips, Sasuke,” Naruto muses, a brow perking.

“Am I not allowed to?”

“Well, no, but…”

“I-I’m not sure if I should spend the money,” Hinata quickly cuts in, not wanting to spark one of the boys’ many arguments. “It is very pretty, but...I don’t really need it.”

“Aww, boo,” Sakura replies, lips pursing in a pout. “It would go so well with that outfit!”

“Yeah, well...m-maybe next time.”

With that, Sakura shrugs and moves to the next booth, Naruto right on her tail. Hinata can’t help a small sigh of relief.

“...do you like it?”

“Eh?” Turning as Sasuke speaks, Hinata blinks at him. “W...what?”

“The hair clip. Do you like it?”

“Well, I...I guess I do, but -”

“I could get it for you.”

Flustered color quickly blooms in Hinata’s face. “Oh, n-no! Sasuke-kun, please don’t. It’s so expensive, and -”

“But you want it.”

“I...I said I like it, not that...I want it.”

The Uchiha perks a brow. “...what’s the difference?”

“Well...I can like something but not want to get it. I don’t, um...I don’t really wear hair clips, anyway. I wouldn’t use it enough to justify the cost.”

That doesn’t seem to clarify much for him, but Sasuke doesn’t push the issue. “...all right then.” With that said, he keeps walking, Hinata following suit...with just one last little backward glance to the clip.

No, Hinata...you don’t need it. Leave it alone.

By the end of the day, it completely slips her mind. There’s far more important things to worry about, after all. Embroiled back into her work, she forgets about the little exchange entirely, and life goes on.

And then, the matsuri arrives.

As per usual, the four of them agree to go together. By then, it’s long since been accepted (and explained) that Naruto and Sakura are, indeed, an official couple. Though a bit somber about it at first, Hinata quickly finds herself glad for them. Happy that Naruto’s affections are finally returned, and that her friends have someone to rely on.

Though it does make for the typical arrangement of Hinata and Sasuke feeling more like tagalongs than part of a group…

Sighing lightly to herself, Hinata brushes back hair behind her ear as they wait in line at a food stall. Naruto is having difficulty choosing, which is holding up the queue.

“...Hyūga.”

“Hm?” Turning, she startles a bit as Sasuke holds out a piece of folded cloth. “...um -?”

“Here.”

Blinking, she accepts, feeling something within the fabric. A few tugs later, she brightens. “...Sasuke-kun, you…?”

“I knew you wanted it, so I got it. Figured I’d just make it a matsuri present.”

Going a bit pink, Hinata carefully retrieves the dove clip. “...you didn’t have to do that…”

“I wanted to.”

Moving to use it, Hinata fumbles for a moment before stilling as he urges it from her hand, able to see what he’s doing. Carefully, he pins back her hair. “...there. It really does match your kimono.”

Still pink, her head bows shyly. “...thank you…”

“...you’re welcome.”

When the other two are finally finished in line, Sakura quickly notices the change. “Oh, you got it?”

“Um, well…actually, I -”

“Looks good,” Sasuke offers, cutting off her explanation.

After a pause, she realizes his intention. “...thanks.”

“You should wear your hair like that more often, Hinata,” Naruto offers, mouth full of food.

A small smile pulls at her lips. “...maybe I will.”

                                                        .oOo.

     I won’t lie...this one took some thinking, lol - neither Hinata nor Sasuke really seem the sort to indulge in accessories, but...well, maybe they would if the other gets something for them x3      Sneaky Sasuke, picking up that clip...! Pretty smooth there, guy...even if maybe he doesn’t quite fully realize what he just did, haha!      Buuut yeah, that’ll do it from me tonight! Thanks for reading n_n

[lassielowrider]

One’s a Skeleton, One’s Infamous

When a string of murders occur in a tiny village in the Irish countryside, Skulduggery and Valkyrie have no other choice than to go undercover as a newlywed couple.

There's no way this can go wrong.

Valkyrie Cain/Skulduggery Pleasant

“You must be kidding.” Valkyrie came to a complete halt, something Skulduggery didn’t notice at first. He was a couple of steps ahead of her when he stopped. His head dipped in what she knew was a deep sigh. Well, that, or he saw something interesting on the ground – it was equal chances, when it came to him.

“I’m really not,” Skulduggery said while turning around.

“There’s no way – no way – that this is the only solution.” She crossed her arms over her chest, hoping to properly emphasize her glare.

“Of course it isn’t, but it’s the only way.”

“You just said it’s not!” Sometimes, Valkyrie really wanted to hit something. In this case, she really wanted to hit someone, and that someone was her partner in crime solving. He must’ve recognised the impulse, because he took a careful step backwards.

“The other way includes razing the town.” How Skulduggery could manage to make his skull give a deadpan expression without ever activating the façade, she still had no idea. Of course, it might just be that she’d known him long enough to be able to read him, but his entire face just screamed deadpan at her.

“…that seems like overkill, but it still makes far more sense than your idea.”

“Just admit that, as per always, I’m right.”

“Yeah, you’re really not, but you’re slightly less wrong than I hoped.”

It wasn’t until they got back to the car – a 1954 Bentley R-type Continental in absolute mint condition, kept that way mostly through sheer stubbornness and a miracle or five – that Valkyrie brought it up again.

“How, exactly, do you plan to make this work, o wise one?” Valkyrie said, words dripping sarcasm. She’d crossed her arms over her chest again, well aware it looked like she was thirteen and sulking, but this situation really merited a good sulk and glare.

“Why, like always; with my dashing charm and rapier wit, and your,” Skulduggery paused, weighing his words. “Tendency to hit things that annoy you.”

“I’d be offended if this wasn’t what you always say. However, that’s not what I meant and you know it,” Valkyrie returned, shaking her head at him. “How do you expect us to go undercover in a village, where some are mortal and some aren’t, and not be recognised? You’re a skeleton and I’m infamous!”

“Ah, you see, I have a plan, and like all my other plans, it is a genius plan,” he said, turning off the main road onto the driveway leading to Gordon’s house. Valkyrie was a bit surprised they were there already, having been too occupied with Skulduggery’s hare-brained schemes to notice much of the trip. “It’s a genius plan because I came up with it, and I am a genius.”

Valkyrie hummed doubtfully at him, but chose not to say anything.

“What’s this plan of yours, then? Because so far you’ve only given me the premise which still is ridiculous.” She uncoiled from her tense, scrunched up position, turning in her seat to look at him in anticipation. Skulduggery, however, just kept looking straight forward, but there was a distinctly smug tilt to his skull.

“Oh, big word! You’ll see when we get to the house, and the idea is not ridiculous. Just because you have no imagination or joie de vivre doesn’t mean everyone has to be like that.”

Valkyrie slumped in her seat, muttering about annoying partners and their secret keeping ways. She didn’t look at Skulduggery, but she didn’t need to. She could’ve felt his smirk from a mile away, so it was no trouble when sitting right next to him.

When he stopped the Bentley outside Gordon’s house, Valkyrie got out of the car, stretching and sighing in relief. She watched curiously as Skulduggery stopped mid-step, seemingly looking at her but in reality just lost in thought. He shook himself, like a dog fresh out of the bath, before finishing his small trek to the boot of the car. He grabbed a plastic bag before closing and locking the car.

She led the way up the porch stairs, unlocking the door and flinging it open. It was a motion that still felt unfamiliar despite the house having been hers for decades. Having hung her coat – a Bespoke original, like all her outerwear – on the hanger, she turned to Skulduggery in antsy expectation. He tsked but handed her the bag. She still hadn’t figure out how he could tsk without tongue or lips, but that was a pondering for another time.

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. You must be joking,” she said, deadpan, while looking into the bag. Hanging his coat next to hers, he didn’t bother removing the fedora before turning to face her.

“Why is that your gut reaction? Can’t you just admit I’m a dashing, suave genius who has solved every single issue with this?” She fished the bottle of hair dye out of the bag, inspecting it. When she saw what colour it was, she had to clench her fist around the bottle to not throw it at her partner. He hadn’t quite done anything to deserve that. Yet.

“Skulduggery. I’m not going bottle blond, no matter what the cause.”

“You said yourself that we’re too recognisable, this way you won’t be.” That did it. She threw the bottle of hair dye at his head. She’d like to fool herself into thinking it was due to her superior throwing skills that it connected, but she had a feeling it was mostly due to him letting it hit. “Ouch! What was that for?”

“You’ve only got yourself to blame.” That’d be her story and she’d stick to it, no matter what happened.

“Honestly I thought you wouldn’t be exalted about the hair dye, so I asked our esteemed Grand Mage to whip up a façade amulet. When she heard it was for you she was more than happy to oblige,” Skulduggery said, fishing the amulet out of his pocket. He was all too happy to give it to her when she made grabby hands at it.

“Oooh, pretty!” Valkyrie’s inner magpie was pleased, at least. While she’d like to credit China alone for it, Skulduggery did have impeccable taste in all things not replacement cars. The amulet was no bigger than a coin, and felt like it was made from solid silver. On one side, the façade runes were etched, and on the other a tree of life, set with sapphires. If the hue of the sapphires matched Skulduggery’s favourite suit, Valkyrie was certain it happened to be a coincidence and not a hint of any kind from China. “Put it on me?”

“Of course.” Laying the amulet on its corded leather band in Skulduggery’s outstretched hand, she turned her back to him, sweeping her hair out of the way.

“Why the sapphires?” He brushed her cheek when putting the band around her neck, and she definitely did not swallow nervously. That her cheek tingled where he’d touched it was simply due to his gloves being cold, and nothing else.

“Gemstones work as a receptacle for certain kinds of magic, enabling the amulet and façade to function regardless of how your magic works – or doesn’t work, as the case may be.” Valkyrie felt him tie the leather band into a secure knot, the amulet resting just below the hollow of her throat. She probably imagined the way it felt like his fingers lingered ever so slightly on her neck after he was done. “Why sapphires in particular, well, China said you’d appreciate them, so that was a purely aesthetic choice.”

“So – they’re magic batteries, got it.” She didn’t deign to say anything about the sapphires. Deftly activating the façade with a mere touch of her fingers to the runes, she grimaced at the phantom feel of her facial features adjusting.

When it was done rearranging her nose she hurried over to the mirror. She’d seen it enough on Skulduggery to not want to see it happen to her own face. Looking in the mirror, she met the gaze of a stranger, only tangentially familiar. Her hair and eyes had lightened from their usual ebony to a dark brown, her eyes were set slightly wider and her eyebrow slightly higher, giving her a perpetually surprised look.

Valkyrie frowned, the familiar expression turned strange on new features. Her cheekbones had lowered slightly, too, leaving her face roundish in shape. Turning her head this way and that, she realised what was so familiar – she looked more like Crystal and Carol than she’d ever be comfortable with. Feeling her nose, rounder than usual, she turned to Skulduggery.

“Well, how do I look?” She spread her arms to the side and gave a coquettish spin, well aware it looked ridiculous in her usual leather getup. Skulduggery didn’t say anything at first, looking at her with the blank expression he usually wore while deep in thought.

“It’ll do,” was all he said, in the end. She couldn’t help but feel disappointed, for some reason. “Now, pack your bags, we’re going to Tracester! We’ve got a murderer to catch.” Valkyrie felt that maybe he could try sounding a little less like a gameshow host, because this wasn’t amusing in any way.

And that’s how it began, the mission where Skulduggery Pleasant and Valkyrie Cain, best magical detectives in at the very least all of Europe, went undercover as a married couple. This could only end well.

***

This would never end well, was the only thought running through Valkyrie – no, Valerie’s mind as she looked at the house that would be her home for the foreseeable future. She had better get used to the name. To calm her jittery nerves she mentally went through the cover story again. She hadn’t been this nervous about a case since the very beginning, and she felt ridiculous about it.

There was nothing to be worried about, except literally everything going wrong.

She was Valerie Nice, in-the-know mortal wife of Rascal Nice, a handyman who made up for his lacking magic powers with excellent skills in, well, everything else. They were both in their early twenties, Valerie in between jobs at the moment, and had decided to settle down in the small village of Tracester due to its rich, mixed population.

The village was nigh on idyllic, one small stone cottage with thatch roof next to another. All the streets were cobbled, there was a single pub and a post office doubling as convenience store, and despite there being a steady influx and outflow of people everyone seemed to know everyone.

The one thing ruining the postcard-picturesque feel of the place was the occult and brutal murders taking place there.

All of the victims had been in-the-know mortals married to a mage of some kind, which was why Skulduggery had hatched the absolutely ridiculous plan of going undercover as a married couple.

Due to him being an ancient skeleton kept together with some magic and a miracle, he couldn’t pretend to be the mortal – Valkyrie, with her weird white lightning magic, could easily pretend to be one.

Of course, they had to get to Tracester first, which may be easier said than done, especially considering they were going in yet another of his ridiculously coloured Ford Fiestas. She’d decided to call this one the Limerick Lambaster, due to the particularly eye searing shade of green it was painted.

Then again, she wasn’t the only one complaining.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Skulduggery said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“It’s my charming ways and beautiful smile, you can’t help falling for it every time.” Valkyrie smiled, but couldn’t help but feel that the usual beauty of her smile wasn’t quite what she achieved. She still hadn’t gotten used to the façade, it still felt so weird looking in the mirror and seeing, well, her cousin looking back.

“Yes, but. A dog. Do you know what dogs do? They bury bones,” he grumbled, his activated façade letting her see him throw a sideways glance at the subject of conversation.

“Oh don’t worry, she’s a darling and will behave!” Valkyrie scoffed at him, hugging the puppy in her lap a bit tighter.

“Valkyrie, if you haven’t noticed it yet, I’m literally nothing but bones, no matter what else my suave and dashing persona exudes.”

“Then I’ll come home and find you buried in the garden one day, think of it as a trust-building exercise.” Valkyrie shrugged, stroking the puppy from head to tail, delighting in the softness of her fuzzy fur.

“Look at her, she’s slobbering at the thought of eating me.” The puppy was, in fact, sleeping, not much slobbering going on at the moment.

“She’s an eight weeks old English Mastiff, she slobbers at everything.” She did, she really did, and Valkyrie loved her with all her heart. Of course, she’d probably only be able to keep the dog in her lap for a month or two more, due to her already being big, but she’d enjoy it while it lasted.

Before the argument could continue, Skulduggery pulled the car to a halt by the curb in front of a tiny little cottage. It was a stone cottage with a thatch roof, had a good sized garden and, she was glad to see, was situated on its own a bit away from the other houses on the street (one of three in the entire village).

“Oh! Is this it? It’s adorable!” Valkyrie didn’t even have to pretend to be excited about the house. It had charmed her the moment she saw it.

“Yes, here we are.” Skulduggery switched the car off, content to sit and watch her trying to juggle the dog and the seatbelt at the same time. At her glare, however, he sighed and got out to help her.

They’d both seen the neighbours watching curiously, so they sank back into their alter-egos. It rankled a bit, Valkyrie had to admit, accepting help to get out of the car, but newly-weds were touchy-feely constantly, weren’t they?

“Oh, it’s absolutely lovely…” She held the puppy to her chest with one hand, the other still clutching the hand Skulduggery had held out to help her, watching the house with veritable stars in her eyes.

“Well, you said you wanted a thatch roof, dear, and you know I do my best to make you happy,” Skulduggery replied, going all in with the soppy voice and loving looks. It took all she had to not flinch when he called her dear in that tone of voice, instead holding his hand tighter. Oh, this was going to hurt, wasn’t it?

“Do you have the key?” Skulduggery didn’t reply, choosing instead to dig through his trouser pocket. He held the key aloft in triumph when he found, releasing her hand in order to open the wrought iron gate and unlocking the door.

The door led into a small hallway, cosy rather than confining, with open view into the kitchen. Valkyrie sighed happily upon seeing the country-style kitchen, but opted to go in search of the dog bed they’d ordered to have set up in the living room. Of course, the living room wasn’t so much a room as a cosy little den, the big dog bed taking up much of the available floor space.

She’d found a company that made personalised dog beds, and hadn’t been able to resist having one with the name embroidered on it. When she put the puppy down, she was happy to see she’d managed to pick a colour for the embroidery that perfectly matched her fur. The Artemis nearly gleamed in the light, as Artemis slept on next to it.

Artemis already weighed nearly 15 kilos, and while it was no problem for Valkyrie to carry her, she quickly became cumbersome. She watched for a moment, to see if she woke up again, but the mastiff just snuffled and kept sleeping.

Walking back over to Skulduggery, they commenced the tour of the cottage. Valkyrie couldn’t help but fall more and more in love with it for every bit of it she saw. Her thoughts came to a screeching halt when they reached the bedroom, however, as she reluctantly came to an important insight.

“The moving company finished yesterday, so all that’s need to do is unpacking the last few boxes, and making the bed. The clothing we can leave to tomorrow, what there is of it,” Skulduggery said, gesturing to the bags of clothing piled by the wardrobe. He seemingly hadn’t noticed the great big elephant in the room, so Valkyrie took it upon herself to inform him.

“You realise we’re going to have to share a bed, right?” The face Skulduggery made when she said it would’ve been amusing if she didn’t feel the same way.

“What? Don’t be ridiculous, of course we won’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, we really will. If the households are being watched, which is likely, they’ll notice if you don’t go to bed.”

“…if I snore, wouldn’t you tell me to sleep in another room? Or on the couch?” he tried, gesturing out into the hallway. She shook her head.

“We’re newlyweds, Skul. There’s no way I’d consign you to the couch, at least not yet.” They’d elected to go with names that could be shortened – Rascal for Skulduggery, so if she slipped and started with Skul, they could claim it was just a nickname. The same for her, even if Skulduggery of course had claimed he’d never slip up. Valerie was similar enough to Valkyrie, too, that she felt she’d have no problem getting used to it. “I can share a bed if you can. I promise I won’t molest you in your sleep.” She rolled her eyes at him, trying to disguise her own nervousness.

He mumbled something in answer.

“What did you say?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

“I said that with my virtue guaranteed there’ll be no problem.” He turned away from her, missing her raised eyebrow. Considering the façade’s eyebrows, it didn’t elicit quite the same effect as when she did it with her own face, so it might be just as well he didn’t see it. However, while she hadn’t heard exactly what he’d mumbled, it hadn’t been that.

***

When Valkyrie woke up the next morning, she was alone, not surprisingly. What was surprising, however, was that she was more or less hugging the pillow that had been designated Skulduggery’s. She couldn’t help but blush, and hoped she hadn’t been cuddling him during the night, instead of his pillow. She had a tendency to cling in her sleep, she knew.

It was pretty early, but she knew Skulduggery had already had a job lined up that would bring him into some of the villagers’ homes, so he’d had an even earlier start.

She rummaged through the wardrobe, looking in distaste at the clothing. None of it was Bespoke, and none of it was in her style – it was, however, Valerie Nice’s style. Floral tank tops shared space with likewise dresses, right next to jeans that she knew would be skin tight. She didn’t mind the trousers being tight, of course, but she really missed her leathers (and, well, all her other clothes).

When she’d found clothing that weren’t quite as jarring as the sun dresses, she made her way downstairs, being greeted by the snuffling snores of a sleeping Artemis.

A note on the kitchen table informed her that Skulduggery had taken ‘the menace’ outside before leaving that morning, and Valkyrie could just picture his disgruntled visage.

Putting the kettle on and bread in the toaster, she turned and leaned on the kitchen counter. Surveying the chaos of boxes – most if not all filled with cheap, brand new things neither of them would mind leaving behind – she sighed. This would take an eternity. The kettle shrieked and she gratefully turned her back on the chaos that was her temporary living room, busying herself with breakfast. The kettle also woke Artemis, who made a beeline for Valkyrie’s knees. Legs buckling, she couldn’t help but laugh. Who knew her biggest weakness was a giant puppy?

When Skulduggery came back from work, it was to a house in disarray, but quite a few boxes less than there were that morning. In the midst of it all was Valkyrie, spread eagle on the living room carpet, Artemis curled up on her legs.

“Honey, I’m home!” He just couldn’t resist the cliché greeting, knowing it’d rankle her something fierce.

“I hate moving. Hate it. There’s too much stuff.” Valkyrie didn’t bother opening her eyes, just launched straight into a diatribe.

“You don’t have to do it all on your own.”

“No, I’ll just ask any one of all my none local friends.”

“Well, you’ve got the menace, it’s about time she starts pulling her weight.”

“Ah yes, when you’re at work I’ll just ask Artemis to help out, of course. Why didn’t I think of that? Speaking of work, how did it go?” She sat up, easily folding her legs into a relaxed lotus position, Artemis only moving to more properly put her head in her lap.

“Clearly you’re just not as intelligent as I am, which of course is in no way a surprise. Well, we’re officially the neighbourhood curiosity, and also invited to the village fete weekend after next. I’ve heard some snatches about the others, but nothing tangible.” Skulduggery had forgone his usual fedora, the headwear not in something Rascal Nice would wear, and he had to admit he missed it. He hung up the denim jacket he’d been wearing during the day, glad to be rid of it for a while. China had improved the façade enough that it for him covered his entire body – he hadn’t quite counted on how stifling it would feel.

“Village fete?”

“It’s a party, this year held at Wisteria Lane. Everyone’s invited, apparently, and Marlon Chimes – mortal, looks like a middle-aged Charlie Sheen, needed help with the electricity – said it’d be a superb moment to introduce ourselves.” Skulduggery sat down on the couch, a huge oxblood monstrosity that was easily the comfiest piece of furniture he’d ever had the pleasure of sitting on. It was with some suspicion he watched as Artemis turned her head to look at him, tongue lolling out. “She’s slobbering at me again.”

“I know what a fete is!” Valkyrie replied indignantly. “And she’s really not, she’s just happy to see you for some unfathomable reason.”

So it continued, the two of them bantering as they tried to put their temporary home to rights, the enormous puppy following at their heels – too close for Skulduggery’s comfort, if anyone asked, which Valkyrie categorically did not.

***

“Oh, you must be Valerie – from over at Willow Lane, right?” Valkyrie didn’t react at first, still not quite comfortable with the name, but then she realised the middle-aged woman was in fact addressing her.

“Yes, yeah, that’s me! Sorry, I’m so caught up in moving I think I accidentally packed my brain into one of the empty boxes,” Valkyrie dragged her hand through her hair, trying to laugh it off all while mentally reprimanding herself for such a rookie mistake.

“I know the feeling dear, don’t you worry. How’re you settling in?” The other woman looked to be approaching middle-aged, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything in their community.

“It’s lovely here, really – I’m so used to the suburbs, you know, living in a block of flats and all the noise. Here it’s… idyllic, really, that’s the only word I can find.”

“Dearie me, I can see that being very different to here. Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t introduce myself – Juniper Chimes, I’m over at Wisteria Lane.” She held out her hand, Valkyrie quickly juggling her bag of shopping so she could shake it.

“Oh, Marlon’s wife, right? Skul – Rascal, my husband? He said he’d been over, and Marlon had invited us to the village fete, I think…?”

“Of course you’re invited! Yes, Marlon and I talked about it just before, and said it was obvious we’d invite you. Since it’s being held at our place this time, it’s entirely up to us.”

“Should I bring anything, or so? I don’t want to show up emptyhanded and make everyone’s first impression a bad one…” Valkyrie played at the kind of shyness she’d never felt, rubbing the back of her head and looking at Juniper through her lashes.

“Yourself and a good mood, that’s all we ask!” Juniper said jovially. Valkyrie’d always associated joviality with Santa and no one else, but there were no two ways about it. Juniper was jolly. It scared her a little, to be honest.

“Oh, it sounds lovely – is it okay if I bring my dog? She’s still a little puppy and I don’t want to leave her alone too long.” Valkyrie carefully omitted just how large this ‘little’ puppy was.

“Of course! Have you had her long?”

“We got her just as we moved here, actually – Skul promised me a dog as soon as we were out of the flat, and with me between jobs at the moment we thought the timing wouldn’t get any better.” She didn’t even fib, she’d always wanted a dog but with their arbiter work it hadn’t looked to be a good time for it. Now, with nothing to do but sit in her – their - temporary home and twiddle her thumbs, well, it really was ideal.

***

The weekend of the fete arrived quicker than Valkyrie thought possible, especially as every day and night dragged on spectacularly. The days were spent walking around the village when she wasn’t trying to get the cottage into the shape she wanted, and she’d probably met most if not all villagers already. An adorable ten week puppy is an amazing icebreaker, if nothing else. She’d done some careful digging, but so far nothing new had been unearthed.

Skulduggery had been able to do some proper detecting, as he so proudly called it, while performing his job as a handyman. He hadn’t found anything either, to his growing consternation. If it hadn’t been about murders, Valkyrie would’ve ribbed him endlessly for his fruitless search.

The nights, however, the nights were the worst. Valkyrie knew she was a cuddler when she shared a bed with someone she lo- liked, and Skulduggery sadly wasn’t the exception. She could only thank god he wasn’t very easily woken when meditating, because so far he hadn’t seemed to notice her attaching herself to him during pretty much every night. She couldn’t even blame it on heat seeking tendencies – he was dead, so he didn’t exude much warmth.

She shook herself out of her thoughts when they neared the larger cottage on Wisteria Lane, where the fete was in full swing. She and Skulduggery were walking arm in arm, and she couldn’t help but be extremely aware of every single square millimetre where they were touching. To not arrive emptyhanded, no matter what Juniper said, she’d whipped up a quadruple batch of muffins, stuffed into a basket she’d forced Skulduggery to carry. Well, when he heard it was either the basket or Artemis’s leash, he’d voluntarily grabbed the basket.

After calling out generic greetings in a few different directions they split up, Valkyrie heading for the shade with Artemis in tow, Skulduggery towards some of the men he’d worked with so far during their stay. What children there were flocked to Valkyrie’s side, and she felt a small pang thinking of when Alice was that little. The biggest draw was Artemis, of course, who couldn’t look happier with all the attention she was receiving. Seeing that nothing would befall her beloved dog for a while at least she felt safe enough to walk around a little, introducing herself to the few villagers she hadn’t already met.

She was deep in a conversation about English Mastiffs with one of the little old ladies from Weigela Lane when she saw Skulduggery make his way inside. That was her signal that the plan was to commence.

They did actually have a plan, a good, well-thought out plan for once. They’d split up at the party, mingle, and then separately make their way inside, where they’d be able to snoop to their hearts’ content.

After carefully ending the talk about mastiffs, Valkyrie made her way over to Juniper, shyly asking about a bathroom. She received directions, and making sure to look like she was repeating them silently all the way indoors.

As soon as she was inside the doors, she immediately stopped slouching. Valerie Nice slouched, the epitome of a wallflower lacking much social adjustment. It also served to make her look shorter than she actually was, which could only be a good thing when being undercover.

She found Skulduggery outside the study, the door of which he carefully closed behind him.

“Nothing yet, not a single paper out of place,” he whispered to her, frustration making Skulduggery Pleasant’s voice shine through instead of Rascal Nice’s.

“I saw bookcases in the living room, have you checked those? The wardrobes in the hallway?” Valkyrie whispered back. Skulduggery only shook his head in answer, and they made their way downstairs again.

The bookcases in the living room turned out to be mysterious, however not in any way relating to their case. No, they were only disguised magic books, many of which Valkyrie had seen, if not actually read.

“Someone’s coming!” Skulduggery hissed in her ear just as Valkyrie was about to open one of the wardrobes in the hallway. In return, she did a rookie mistake. She panicked.

She’d hold fast to that claim forever, saying that’s the only reason she did what she did.

Valkyrie looked around quickly before grabbing Skulduggery by the shoulders and pushing him up against the wall. He didn’t have time to do more than open his mouth – to complain or ask what the hell she was doing, she didn’t know – before she kissed him.

Luckily, he got with the program rather quickly, wrapping an arm around her waist, tangling the other hand in her hair. She moved her hands a little, turned her grip from a death grip to more clutching at him. She had to give it to him, for someone who’d been dead for several hundred years, he sure could kiss. It felt like he was trying to devour her, and if he kept kissing her like that she’d be happily devoured. She didn’t even have to fake going weak in the knees, leaning more of her weight against him, trusting him to hold her up.

Valkyrie put a hand on his neck, thumb stroking the hinge of his jaw, tilting her head a little to get a better angle. She moaned when he tightened his grip on her hair, her knees feeling like rubber when he growled and nipped at her lips in return.

The gasp behind her back quickly brought Valkyrie back to the present, however.

“I’m so sorry, I was just going to the kitchen,” Juniper Chimes said, averting her eyes and blushing the colour of a tomato.

“Oh, it’s us that should apologise, Juniper, I’m so sorry – I can only blame being newlywed,” Valkyrie said, willing herself to blush even redder still. Skulduggery was still leaning against the wall, gobsmacked look not shifting in the slightest.

After another round of apologies from both Juniper and Valkyrie, their hostess left and Valkyrie sighed in relief. Turning to look at Skulduggery, she could only stare in surprise at the empty spot where he’d just been.

When she came back into the garden, Marlon was the first to approach her.

“What on Earth flew into Rascal? He left as if the devil himself on his heels!” She’d never talked to him before, but she recognised him based on Skulduggery’s description – a middle-aged Charlie Sheen was surprisingly accurate.

“Oh, he… he gets awful migraines, sometimes, you know how it is. He felt it coming on now, a bit too much right now is all. I’ll make my rounds and say goodbye to everyone, see if I can find my dog…” She’d never been good at fibbing on the fly, and after that kiss she probably didn’t have quite all the mental faculties she usually did.

The conversation repeated for most every couple she talked to, all of them sad to see them go but fully understanding them both.

When she came home, Artemis in tow and her muffins basket now stuffed full of leftovers, Skulduggery had shut himself in the study and locked the door. She felt like crying when he didn’t even say anything when she knocked.

If she fell asleep on a wet pillow that night, well, Artemis wouldn’t tell.

***

When Valkyrie woke the next morning, the other side of the bed wasn’t slept in. Biting back tears she performed her morning ablutions, releasing Artemis into the fenced-in backyard before sitting down by the kitchen table. She buried her head in her arms before changing her mind, rubbing at her eyes and then leaning her head back in what felt like a futile attempt to not cry.

She’d probably ruined her longest lasting friendship with that stupid stunt she’d pulled yesterday. Yes, the kiss had been amazing, everything she’d ever dreamt of (she could admit to dreaming of it) and more still. She could even admit, quietly and only to herself, that she didn’t just like Skulduggery, she loved him. Was in love, even. And now she’d ruined it all.

Barking in the yard pulled her out of her downward spiral, and she got up from the kitchen table to look at what Artemis had gotten up to. The large puppy was standing in the corner of the yard, looking and barking at something on the ground. Making her way over to inspect whatever it was, Valkyrie didn’t get more than halfway across the yard before something heavy hit the back of her head and everything went black.

***

When she came to again, she was kneeling on a rough stone floor, arms raised and shackled above her head. She kept her breathing even, not moving or opening her eyes, just like Skulduggery had taught her. She supressed the pang she felt when thinking about him. She’d been kidnapped, she could cry about other things later.

It seemed like she was alone, wherever she was, so she dared to open her eyes a fraction. Still seeing no one, she opened them fully, craning her head this way and that to try and get a full picture of just how deep she’d gotten this time.

Deep, was the answer. She was shackled in such a way that if she moved her arms even a tiny bit, she’d dislocate her shoulders, and while she could do that she preferred to use it as a last resort. Her kidnapper had been sloppy however, they hadn’t taken her amulet from her nor used binding chains. Then again, if her kidnapper was the murderer, they probably didn’t feel they needed binding chains. They only took mortals, after all.

“Awake, are you? Got to be thick, that skull of yours. A hit like that should’ve kept you out of it for far longer.” Valkyrie raised her head at the familiar voice. Descending the stairs at the far end of what she now recognised as a basement was Marlon.

“Marlon? Marlon, what are you doing?” She tried to sound frightened, twisting her arms in miniscule movements to make the chains jingle without dislocating her shoulders. The man laughed, a high, cold laugh. Valkyrie had gone toe to toe with Lord Vile, and this man, a mere mortal man, genuinely made her more nervous than the armoured menace had. Marlon, she didn’t know what he wanted, what he was going to do. Lord Vile was nothing if not predictable.

“Oh, don’t you fret my dear. As soon as my wife gets here, it’ll all be over for you.” What Valkyrie had taken for kindness when she first met him was in fact calculation, she now saw.

“What’s going on? What are you doing to me?” Keep him talking, just get him to keep talking, give herself time to figure out a plan (or time enough for the cavalry to come, at this moment in time she wasn’t much bothered which solution presented itself first).

“Ah, I can answer that, Valerie dear,” Juniper cut in, descending the stairs. She was wearing a velvety pink cocktail dress with matching heels, and Valkyrie didn’t think she’d ever seen anyone more out of place. “You see, much like you, my dear Marlon here is mortal. Not an ounce of magic in him, sadly. Well, maybe a thimble, but that’s as much magic as any mortal has, really.”

“Exactly! I’m mortal! What do you want with me?!” Valkyrie felt that her scared shriek was very believable. Maybe she’d go into theatre, now that her partnership with Skulduggery was most definitely over. Another, even smaller, very detached part of her mind realised that what was happening to Valkyrie at the moment was shock, brought on by the cold in the basement and a probable concussion from the blow to her head. Well, that, and also panic. She had no idea how she’d get out of this.

“Well, my dear girl, enough thimbles and you’ll have a cup. If we steal the miniscule amount of magic in a mortal – a mortal aware of magic, mind you, otherwise it won’t work – over and over again, why, we’ll soon have quite a bit of magic,” Juniper explained, like it was an everyday topic of conversation and not a discussion of how to murder and steal the magic from in-the-know mortals.

“I don’t need enough magic to be able to perform any tricks, of course. I just need enough to stop aging. I refuse to leave the light of my life behind.” Marlon shrugged, not bothered by how crassly they were discussing literal murder, just so he could live a little longer. “It works, too. For everyone we’ve killed, I’ve gotten a little younger, and every time it lasts a little longer.”

“Everyone?” Valkyrie gasped, as if she’d had no idea. “How many have you killed?”

Marlon opened his mouth to answer, but before he could say anything, his wife was enveloped in flames. Valkyrie sagged in relief, the movement hurting her shoulders but she really couldn’t find it in herself to care right then and there. Marlon spun on his heel, ready to throw himself headfirst into a fight, but never got that far. Instead, he received a gloved fist to the face, and soon thereafter an unforgiving stone floor to the head.

With an irritable wave of his hand, Skulduggery put out the fire licking at Juniper’s dress, the action doing nothing to silence her shrieks. She quieted, however, when two Sanctuary Cleavers stepped forward, cuffing both her and Marlon.

Skulduggery, however, busied himself getting Valkyrie out of her shackles, not even once meeting her eyes. He couldn’t hate her too much, she reasoned, because at least he caught her when she fell forward, the shackles no longer on her and therefor no longer providing support.

For the second time that day, everything went black.

***

They had to stay in Tracester for another three days, to tie up loose ends and ensure Valkyrie’s concussion had more or less passed. It was three days of Valkyrie having the entire house to herself – well, almost the entire house. Skulduggery had shut himself in the study the moment she woke up from her bout of unconsciousness, and didn’t come out until it was time to leave.

“I’m calling Tanith, she’ll pick me up. You go on ahead,” Valkyrie said, waving a hand vaguely in Skulduggery’s direction. She didn’t dare look at him, she didn’t know what she’d do if she did.

“What? I thought you’d come to like the, what did you call it, Limerick Lambaster?” he jested, trying for his usual mannerisms.

“Oh, don’t play dumb with me, Skulduggery. There’s an elephant in the room that we’re both ignoring so hard it’s turning orange.” She snorted, turning to a pile of kitchen towels that needed to be refolded.

“I’ve never seen an orange elephant before, it might be interesting.” Even with her back turned, she could see the inquisitive tilt of his head. It was the same tilt he did whenever a new, unexpected clue showed up.

“Please, just. Leave, Tanith’ll come to pick me up. Me and Artemis. It’ll work out.” The towels weren’t turning out evenly folded, one bigger than the other but smaller than the third. From the corner of her eye she could see him reaching a hand out to touch her shoulder.

“Don’t! Touch me,” she more or less shouted. Skulduggery flinched, taking a step back.

“Oh. I’m – sorry. I should’ve realised I’d made you uncomfortable.” She couldn’t understand why he sounded so distressed. It was her at fault here. She couldn’t even fold the flipping towels right, damn it. She started over again with the pile.

“It’s not that. I’m just.” She decided to treat it like a band aid, just rip it off. “We won’t be working together anymore, when we get back home.”

“Are you – quitting?” The distress in his voice heightened further.

“After this? Of bloody course I am. And you call yourself a genius…” She was aware her words were dripping derision, but she’d always been the type to channel her sadness into anger, and this time was no different.

“Is there nothing - ? I’ll ignore it, if you do, it’ll be just like before.” He sounded like he was making a noble sacrifice. She felt like playing golf with his head. Ignore it, bah.

“Can you? Can you ignore it, though, pretend like nothing happened?” she asked, trying to keep the tone neutral and the rage out of her voice. She wanted to activate the façade again, make it so Valerie would be hearing this instead, but it didn’t work like that. She imagined she could still feel the burning of where he’d brushed against her neck when putting it on.

“I have for quite a few years now, I’m sure it won’t be a problem.” Valkyrie heard how he started to pace, could picture him. She’d caught a glimpse before, he was wearing the sapphire blue suit she loved so much. Part of her wanted to turn to look at him, but she knew that if she did, she’d fall to her knees and beg just as likely as she’d zap him with as much white lightning as she could.

“Oh, great, bloody thanks for that. I knew it was unwelcome, but you don’t have to sound that happy about it.” She felt like she was boiling. She swept out with her arm – curse those bloody towels, anyway – and straightened up from where she’d been bent over the kitchen table.

“Unwelc - ? Valkyrie.” Skulduggery came to a halt in the middle of the floor, and he could only watch as she began to pace instead. Whereas he was somewhat of a stationary pacer, in that he only moved his feet, she was a very active pacer – windmilling of her arms included.

“What?! What do you want to hear? I’m sorry I fell in love with you? I’m sorry that nothing I do can make me stop loving you? What do you want to hear?!” The last few words she shouted in his face, but he refused to back down this time.

“Valkyrie. I’ve been ignoring my feelings for you for the better part of a decade.” He looked her in the eyes, as much as he could without the façade activated at least, trying to make her understand.

“…oh.” She blinked a few times, mouth moving like she was going to say something but then thought better of it.

“Yes, oh,” he said, fondness and, dare she think it, love colouring his words. “For two geniuses, we sure are dumb.”

Valkyrie could only nod dumbly in answer. She’d just had most of her world view turned upside down, she felt she could be excused this once for being a bit slow on the uptake.

He cupped her cheek with one gloved hand, the other sneaking inside an already open shirt to activate his façade. It didn’t quite register what he was doing until she met his gaze properly instead of staring into his skull.

Almost blushing at her daring, her hand followed the path his had just taken, thumbing the façade off again. She had time to register his surprise before she kissed him, properly this time.

It was a new, but not bad, feeling, kissing Skulduggery Pleasant. It was mouth to teeth, no tongue or lips to meet hers, but it was still Skulduggery she was kissing – his wordless rumble of pleasure she heard when stroking her thumb over the joint of his jaw, that same growl she’d heard last time when she pressed against him. He could definitely make her knees weak, whether he had lips or not.

He was Skulduggery, she was Valkyrie, and that was really all that was needed.

[theimaginesyouneveraskedfor]

Wandering Eyes

This is my Secret Santa gift for @officialtolkiensecretsanta’s Tolkien Secret Santa. The giftee is the fabulous @joyfullynervouscreator. Let me know if what you think; I hope I gave you something you like because I wasn’t quite sure what to write.

It had been a long day of hunting and you had been so unfortunate as to hget caught ib the rain on your return. The three Durins and Dwalin trod through the mud alongside you on the steep path back to the dark Mountain; the grey sky growling above you as thunder rolled in the distance. You knew you should have stayed in and sipped your tea instead of surrendering to the royal princes who had insisted your skill would be needed in the day’s sport.

You clutched your bow as it threatened to slip from your soaked hands and barely kept yourself on your feet as the slick ground shifted below you. Kili and Fili caught your elbows as you dug in your heels and you felt a hand on your backside and you nearly squeaked as it quickly rescinded.

“My apologies,” You looked back to find Thorin cringing as he spoke, “I was only trying to help.”

“Not at all,” You chuckled at the king; as of late, his usual regal demeanour had disassembled and he seemed nearly afraid to be near you, “Thank you for trying.”

You turned your attention ahead of you. Fili led you through the dark archway as Kili walked closely behind. You could not wait to be dry again as your damp clothes hung heavily from your frame, the fur of your cloak rough against your chin. You had warned them that it was no day for hunting and yet they had dragged you along into their foolishness; all but Thorin who had merely furrowed his brow at your presence.

As you reached the throne room and stopped among the wide bridges to plan your next move, Fili and Kili began to chatter and Dwalin yawned while the king glared at his throne. You pushed away the wet hair from your forehead as you tried to think of how to excuse yourself so that you could retire to your bed and avoid your duties in favour of a cup of tea.

“Fili, Kili,” Thorin’s deep voice rung through the cavernous chamber, “You best take the rabbits down to the kitchen...though Bombur would surely have preferred a buck or boar.”

“Hmm, yes, Uncle,” Fili grimaced as he took the bunch of hares bound by thick rope, “But you know, we aren’t servants, we’re princes.”

“Not for much longer if you keep up that lip,” Thorin warned as he turned to Dwalin, dismissing his nephews without another word their way, “Dwalin, I suppose you would like to go find your brother, wherever he may be.”

“Better,” Dwalin frowned as he wiped the moisture from his bald head, “I don’t think I even told him we were leaving. He’s sure to have my head on a spike.”

“Go on, then,” Thorin grumbled as he nodded tiredly at his old friend, “Besides, I’ve got some business to tend to with [Y/N].”

“Business?” You echoed and frowned, knowing exactly what he was referring to, “Which would be?”

“You know,” He turned his narrowed eyes upon you and you sensed Dwalin as he began to back away, “You cannot keep avoiding it.”

“I swear, I haven’t been,” You said as you leaned your bow on your shoulder, “If anything, you have been. Every time I try to--”

“Enough,” He ordered and you looked to his intense blue eyes again only to find them darting back to your face, “You best get me that ledger. Now.”

“Now, but…” You raised a brow with incredulity, “It is late and I am soaked to the bone.”

“There is a fire in my solar and I am no better off than yourself,” He returned and his gaze seemed to waver on your face as if he were fighting to keep himself focused, “I would rather it done this night than to hunt you down tomorrow.”

“Ugh, this is not fair,” You grumbled but bit your tongue as he gave another look of warning, “Of course, my king. I shall meet you in your solar shortly with the ledger.”

You supressed your anger as you turned on your heel and made to walk away from him, grimacing to the empty air as you thought of the blank columns left in the book. You paused after your first few steps and turned back to the king as an idea came to mind.

“Should I also fetch the inventory?” You asked as you looked to him and his eyes widened as they met your eyes frantically and he seemed surprised to have you facing him.

“Uh...yes,” He cleared his throat, “Bring that as well...I will meet you there.”

He looked down to his hands before slowly turning away and you could see him shaking his head as he walked down the wide stone bridgeway. You paused before you kicked yourself back into action as you considered what had just happened. You could not be entirely sure but it seemed as if he had been rather intent on your backside as you were leaving. Perhaps, he merely felt guilty about his earlier misstep and yet, that did not excuse him. On the other hand, it could be entirely in your head and he may not have been staring at all.

You tucked the heavy books under your arm as you rushed down the dim corridors, the fabric of your clothing growing colder by the minute. It did not seem that they had dried at all and you had been so concerned with time that you had not even removed your cloak. You knew how Thorin hated waiting and he had already seemed frustrated as it was. You stopped before the thick stone door of his solar and knocked, your knuckles still raw from the chill of the rain.

“Come in,” Thorin’s deep voice was almost entirely muffled by the stone.

You pushed inside with your free arm only to find the books slipping to the floor as you entered. You cursed as you knelt down to pick them up, only to find the second lifted before you could reach it. You straightened as Thorin held out the inventory and you took it from him with a nod of thanks before following him to his desk. He saw behind it, his tunic still soaked and heavy over his shoulders as his dark hair shone with moisture.

You set the books carefully on your side of the desk as you untied the collar of your tunic and pulled it away from your body as it clung to your wool tunic. You turned and slung it across the back of the chair before looking back to Thorin and sitting in the stone chair. As you did, you found Thorin’s eyes focused on the fabric of your tunic and you looked down to find that the wet wool limned your curves quite closely. You pulled it away from your skin and returned your gaze to Thorin who was already watching you, another guilty glimmer in his eyes.

“So, I, um, haven’t finished the ledgers entirely,” You began, trying to tear your mind away from his straying eyes, “I was going to do them today, I swear, but you know...hunting.”

“Mmm,” His voice showed his disappointment as he leaned forward, “Were they not suppose to be completed a week past?”

“Well…” You looked out the corner of your eyes evasively, “I tried, I told you, but…”

“But nothing,” He stood and rounded the desk as you opened the ledger to a page of empty columns, “Now, since you have wasted your time, you will make up for it now. I will sit with you until you get it done.”

“Hmmp,” You grumbled as you brought your hair over your shoulder and twisted out the remainder of the excess water, “Fine...though you cannot expect me to balance this all on my own.”

“And has Balin not offered his help?” His hand rested above your shoulder on the back of the chair.

“Balin cannot see clearly enough to add the sums,” You argued as you looked up at him and he examined you a moment before turning and crossing back to his chair, “It will be done.”

You pulled the chair closer to his desk as you took up the quill he pushed towards you and you opened the inventory above the ledger. You wondered if Thorin would even have the patience to sit there for so many hours. Many times you had tried to finish the damned balances and several times you had found yourself fast asleep across the pages.

You bent your head over the paper though you could barely see the figures for the heat of Thorin’s eyes upon you. You may have been a little lax in your work but it was no reason for him to watch you so intently. With him in the same room, you had no choice but to concentrate and do the much-loathed numbers. You began scribbling, your finger trailing from the pages of one book to the other. It was not so bad once you were in the midst of it though there was a king bearing down on you.

Finally, you felt his eyes leave you and you glanced up quickly as he rose and he pointed to the ledger with another sharp look. You did not need words to know to return your attention to the columns and you half-listened as he rounded the desk once more, this time passing your chair. You continued to write down figures as you heard him adding kindling to the hearth and you were thankful as the recollection of your wet clothes sent another chill through you.

“Well,” You said, as you sat back and set your pencil in the open spine of the ledger, “I think I have finished.”

“At last,” He neared you, though you were still too anxious to look back, “I haven’t an eye for numbers but I will give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“Thank Mahal,” You stood as he remained beside the chair and you closed the books, stacking one atop the other before turning back to him, “Does that mean I can go dry off now?”

“Mmm, if you wish,” His eyes drifted away from your face once more and this time he did nothing to correct himself, “Or you could stay and do so here?”

“Here?” You echoed as you tried to ignore how his tunic still clung damply to his chest, “I...Perhaps, if you could look me in the eyes, I would consider.”

“I can see you shivering,” He commented as he briefly met your gaze before letting his stare wander once more, “And much more.”

“Thorin,” You reproached as you looked down to your tunic, once more taut to your chest, “Did you have me do the numbers just so you could gawk at me so?”

“No, I had you come hunting so I could,” He grinned for the first time that day and the glimmer in his eyes was devilish, “Though having you do the numbers was an extension of that.”

“You’re--you’re not serious?” You were almost incredulous at his words and yet you could not say they did not excite you. The Mountain was frigid as of late and entirely dull.

“Very,” He breathed as he stepped nearer, “Tell me you haven’t felt it before...this tension between us.”

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me so?” You asked without moving, though he was getting ever closer.

“Well, I thought it highly inappropriate to be picturing one of my counselors naked in the presence of my others,” He intoned as he stopped before you, “I am not one to have thoughts without acting upon them, you see?”

“Oh…” You could not help but tilt your head as your eyes drifted to the ceiling in thought and your cheeks coloured.

“I am afraid that earlier was such a case,” He mused as his voice brought your eyes back to his, “When I...touched you. It was not entirely in your interest,” You stared back speechlessly as he reached down and touched the hem of your tunic, “But, in your best interest, I think it would be wise for you to strip yourself of these wet clothes.”

“I suppose...you’re right,” You chewed your lip as you set your hand on his, stilling it before he could pull your tunic any higher up your stomach. He released the wool and his fingers traced the bared flesh of your stomach, tickling you. “But I don’t know that this fire is stoked enough to warm me up.”

His cheeks twitched and a smirk curled his lips. He purred as he took your meaning, his arm snaking around you as he pulled you closer. You were flush against him and you were certain he could feel every inch of your through the layers of damp fabric between you. “Don’t you worry about the fire,” He leaned down as he spoke in your ear, his lips brushing your cheek, eliciting a telling tremble within you, “I can warm you up just fine.”

[fluffyhawks]

turnfeather

“Miruko!  Does this mean you’re reconsidering your policy on team-”

“No,” Miruko said.  “And I don’t have time to chat, so make tracks.”

Hawks’ adrenaline-fried brain couldn’t quite keep up with the conversation, but the reporters seemed to catch the serious note underneath her usual bluster.  They made their excuses and disappeared.

Once they were gone, Hawks’ shoulders slumped.  He retreated back into the alcove, leaning against the wall and listening the blood rush through his ears.

After a moment, Miruko peered around the corner.  “They’re gone, you can come out.” She favored him with a sharp-toothed smile. Even under the harsh glow of the hospital’s floodlights, wearing a uniform scuffed with soot and what was probably blood, she was a sight for sore eyes.  He told her that, or tried to. What really came out was an unintelligible string of syllables and something that sounded suspiciously like a sob.

“Hawks?” Miruko’s eyes widened, and she stepped forward as he crumpled inwards, leaning forward and wrapping his arms around his chest to try and calm the painful thud of his heart.  “Hawks.”

Hawks needs a few minutes to fall apart between the meeting with Dabi and seeing Endeavor. Miruko helps.

(Gen, G, fic under the cut)

Four years in the public eye, and Hawks had gotten pretty good at keeping his cool.  He knew from the beginning he couldn’t pull off the sort of loud and boisterous presence that worked for All Might, or present himself as an unassailable fortress of strength like Endeavor, but a laid-back attitude and a cocky smile served him well with civilians, villains, and the press alike.   Flying under the radar with a deferential manner with his fellow heroes and a lackadaisical attitude towards praise, shielding well-honed skills with laziness, and it was a strategy that worked for itself. The important thing was keeping the attitude, no matter how dire things got.

The familiar schtick carried him to the darkened warehouse, and through his conversation with Dabi.  It had been almost too easy, at first; he’d burned up the last of his fear with his feathers, in the moments of free-fall before he could catch himself on diminished wings.  Between then and leaving the warehouse, he’d only felt a vague rush of relief at Miruko’s appearance. Compared to that, the meeting with Dabi had been child’s play. It was just talking, after all, and Hawks was good at mouthing off.

He in view of the hospital by the time the numbness began to fade, and his mask started to crack.

The weight of the day crashed down on him all at once: the Noumu, monstrous and terrifying far beyond what he had planned for; Endeavor, as brilliant, as strong as his reputation, but still losing; and his own near-helplessness in the fight despite being the one prepared for it.

His heart fluttered, bird-like, beating a rapid tempo that echoed too loud in his ears.

He had Endeavor’s trust, and he had led him into a trap.

Sure, he had plenty of justifications, a whole list.   You’re to gain the favor of the League of Villains.

But he had been the one to bring Endeavor into the fight; he had set him up and watched him fall.  

He didn’t regret his decision.  It had been the right one; the only right one, he could see now.  Picking Endeavor had been a side scheme, a ploy to push his idol into giving the public the sort of show they wanted, the reassurance they needed, instead of just continuing on with business as usual.  Already, the country was buzzing with news of the fight; the streets of the city were quiet, but the people he did pass stared at him with open admiration he had no doubt would have been downright awe had Endeavor been with him.

Without Endeavor, it would have been a disaster.  Hawks would have definitely died; and taken whatever poor schmuck he roped into the test with him, along with most of the district, until the League brought their pet monstrosity to heel.

With full knowledge of the outcome, he would have done the same thing again; things really went unbelievably well, considering the trick the League had pulled.  His handlers would be pleased.

None of these rational thoughts slowed the frantic beat of his heart, or sudden burning in his eyes.  He kept his head up, eyes fixed on the hospital doorway, but out of focus, so it was nothing more than a blob of white light and shadow.  

Just before his feet hit the threshold, he realized he couldn’t do this.  If he walked in there now, he was going to lose his shit. And he really, really could not do that in front of Endeavor.  Not now, not ever.

He wheeled away from the door, ducking into one of the shallow alcoves beside it instead.  He leaned back against the wall, pressing his hands to his face as his tears finally spilled over.  

Time passed.  Footsteps and people came and went through the front door of the hospital, the buzz of conversation echoing around Hawks’ head, but nobody walked by, or noticed him tucked away in the shadows, shaking.

Unti he heard a set of footsteps coming from the other side, further along the hospital wall, and a low conversation.

“- by the morning,” someone was saying.

Hawks had just enough presence of mind to wipe his eyes and tug at the corners of his coat- try to make it look like he hadn’t just been sobbing- before two figures materialized in front of him.  

It took a moment for him to refocus his vision, but he placed who they were in a moment.  Both of them jumped, startled by the strange figure lurking in the shadows, but the recognized who he was equally quickly.

Reporters.  Hanging around the hospital to score some key quotes for the next morning’s headlines.  

From the excitement dawning in their eyes, it was clear they hadn’t expected to snare a catch like him.

“Hawks,” the woman said, her notebook already out.  At least nobody was shoving a video camera in his face.  

No sooner had the thought occurred to him than bright white light flashed into his overexposed eyes, sending a blinding bolt of pain through his head that drowned out the rest of the world for a moment.

By the time the aftereffects of the flash faded, the reporter had clearly finished asking him something.  Hawks felt like he had stepped outside his body; he could feel himself staring at the reporter, knew the blank expression on his face wasn’t enough, knew he needed to smile, to crack a tetchy joke and brush them off to find somewhere else to fall apart, but he couldn’t.  

The moment he moved, his composure would collapse.

“Hey, birdboy!” A familiar voice broke the moment, giving Hawks the momentum he needed to turn away.  Miruko was stepping from the hospital doors. “There you are!” He saw a split-second of calculation flash across her face as her eyes flickered from him to the reporters, before she jumped.

She landed nimbly between Hawks and the reporters, and drew herself up to her full height, blocking their view of him entirely.  Hawks could see just the corner of the grin she was leveling at them. “I’ve got business with Hawks,” she said.

“Miruko!  Does this mean you’re reconsidering your policy on team-”

“No,” Miruko said.  “And I don’t have time to chat, so make tracks.”

Hawks’ adrenaline-fried brain couldn’t quite keep up with the conversation, but the reporters seemed to catch the serious note underneath her usual bluster.  They made their excuses and disappeared.

Once they were gone, Hawks’ shoulders slumped in relief.  He retreated back into the alcove again, leaning against the wall and listening the blood rush through his ears.

After a moment, Miruko peered around the corner.  “They’re gone, you can come out.” She favored him with a sharp-toothed smile. Even under the harsh glow of the hospital’s floodlights, wearing a uniform scuffed with soot and what was probably blood- Endeavor’s, maybe- she was a sight for sore eyes.  He told her that, or tried to. What really came out was an unintelligible string of syllables and something that sounded suspiciously like a sob.

“Hawks?” Miruko’s eyes widened, and she stepped forward as he crumpled inwards, leaning forward and wrapping his arms around his chest to try and calm the painful thud of his heart.  “Hawks.”

Miruko’s hands were on his shoulders, and she pried his arms away from his chest with surprisingly gentle strength, running her hands down his arms and over his chest in quick, practiced movements.  Checking for injury, he realized.

“I’m… fine,” he managed, pushing at her shoulder.  In his current state, it was about as effective as a pigeon pushing a hare, but she let herself be pushed, letting go of his shoulders and taking a small step backwards.

“Are you… crying?”  There was a note of incredulity in her voice.   When he glanced up, a half-grin had crept back onto her face.  

Something loosened in Hawk’s chest.  He stared down at his shoes. “... no.”

“You are!” Miruko said, still peering at him.  “Damn, not like you to get shaken up like that, Mr. I’ve-got-important-hero-business-so-don’t-even-consider-hospitalizing-me.” She thumped his shoulder lightly, and leaned against the wall beside him.  “Guess who got stuck with guarding the old man in your absence.”

“How is he?” Hawks said, closing his eyes.  He didn’t want to think about Endeavor, but he was why he was here, after all.

“Stable.  Grumpy as always.  Didn’t even thank me.  Not that I was expecting it.”  He could fee Miruko’s eyes on him, even with his eyes closed.  “... You alright? Fuck up whatever you had to do?”

“No.  It went… fine.  I just…” Hawks sighed.  The impulse to pour everything out to Miruko took him by surprise, so much he almost opened his mouth.  He had never been the confiding sort of person. But… the weight of what he had done- what he was doing- was still crushing the air from his chest, and the more he struggled to get a handle on it, the harder it was to breathe.  He finally just shook his head. “Everything… this morning, just… fuck.” He pressed his hands to his face.

How was he going to face Endeavor?  It had been easy before, needling Todoroki into taking his bait; he might be Hawks’ hero, but he was still ridiculously self-serious and easy to fluster.  But all that easy humor vanished in the face of the fact all Endeavor’s injuries were his fault.

He would walk into that room, and Endeavor would glare and grumble, but still trust him.

It wasn’t like he sought Endeavor’s approval.  Sure, he looked up to him, but since he started hero work himself, he knew his way of doing things was unlikely to ever catch the older hero’s attention.  But it was a cruel irony that somehow he had gained Endeavor’s trust, maybe even his respect, by betraying him.

Miruko’s hand touched his shoulder again.  

When he opened his eyes, Miruko was still looking at him.  “You know,” she said, voice bright. “I don’t want you dropping out of the ranking.”  She leaned closer. “When I advance, I want to do it fair and square, not just because someone else couldn’t handle the heat.”  Her fingers tightened around his shoulder. The point of contact was reassuring, and familiar, grounding him to the hospital and the mess he had landed himself in.

It was a roundabout way of vocalizing what he saw in her eyes, but he got the point anyway.  “You don’t have to worry about that,” he said. “You know it takes more than a bad day to knock me off my game.”

“Of course.”  Miruko scoffed, turning away, but not before he saw her smile.

They were quiet for a moment, Hawks still trying to get his breathing under control, Miruko lost in thought.  She had positioned herself leaning against the wall in such a way passerby wouldn’t be able to see him, he realized.

The rush of gratitude was enough to bring tears to his eyes again.  He wiped at his face, before she could see.

“... Thank you, Miruko.”  

“Yeah.  Glad I could save your asses. Wish I could have gotten there earlier.”  

Not just for that.  But he didn’t voice the thought, instead straightening with a sigh.

“Are you going up to see the old man?”

“Yeah.  Still gotta figure out what our next move is going to be,” Hawks said.  The words came easier; somewhere in the conversation, he had regained his ability to breath, and his heart wasn’t thumping so loudly in his ears anymore.  He still felt shaky and burned out, but nothing other than a week of sleep was going to fix that, and he had the feeling that was a luxury he wasn’t going to be able to afford any time soon.

Miruko scoffed again, and leaned forward to muss his hair with his fingers.  “You’re mess.” She rearranged his hair for a moment, and then straightened his coat.  “There. Now maybe Endeavor won’t throw you out as soon you walk in the door.” She grimaced at him.  “Get some fucking sleep, though, birdbrain.”

“You, too, bunny,” he said, giving her a wink.  Her answering grin was more of a snarl.

“Don’t push it.”

Hawks stepped towards the hospital doors, but hesitated again, throwing a look over his shoulder.  “Miruko…”

“What?”  She glanced up, and for the first time, he could see his own weariness reflected back on her face.  He wasn’t the only one under pressure.

“... Thank you.  Really.”

“You said that already, birdbrain.”

[centaurianthropology]

Team Archive’s Roles

I’ve been thinking about the roles that Sims and Team Archives play, and why each of them is critical.  Why each of them is irreplaceable in the eyes of the Archives.  The below is going to contain both canon evidence and some massive speculation on my part, so yeah.  Combo canon-analysis and fanon ponderings, anyone?

Jonathan Sims – THE ARCHIVIST

I think, in light of the increasing evidence that Sims was selected for this role by the Archive itself, and that he would be very hard to replace, that Sims is slowly becoming the embodiment of the archives.  All others roles in the archives are ancillary to this goal, and to supporting him. Of course, how those roles get filled may well determine how much humanity and how much sanity Sims gets to keep, so they certainly aren’t any less important to us.  They’re just less important to the Archive itself.

It’s interesting that the first urge Sims had upon assumption of his new job in early season 1 was to record.  Not just to organize the archives which, while a daunting task, could go relatively quickly with his assistants helping carry and shelve.  But instead of that direct and very archival job, he started trying to record his own voice reading out all the old statements.  And when he couldn’t just put some of them onto his laptop, he dug out an old tape deck (almost like he knew without knowing that one would be there to find) and started recording himself that way.  His own voice, amalgamating the words and experiences of others into a gestalt of information and fear and feeling.  Into the Archivist.

Sims is becoming a repository of information himself, without even noticing he’s doing it. Even in the midst of his paranoia, he kept recording the statements.  You could say that he was using that as the cover of his job, but I think it’s deeper than that.  I think it’s a compulsion.  His voice and his words MUST unify the information in order to turn it from separate stories into a single story.  It’s a bizarrely meta approach to storytelling, if true (and good on Jonny Sims for it), that we are listening to a slowly evolving story, where it took us a while to realize there even was a large, evolving story, and as we’re doing that, as we’re realizing that there is a larger SOMETHING at play in the narrative, Sims himself (character, not writer), is creating a larger SOMETHING through the very reading of those statements.

Tim Stoker – THE OUTSIDER AND RATIONALIST

If we’re haring off the deep end into the uncharted waters of horror and madness, there has to be one person who tries to anchor everyone in sanity and rationality, no matter how futile that ultimately proves.  Tim has slowly evolved to fill that role nicely.  He always was the outsider looking at all these odd people, and finding the humor in the terrible events surrounding them.  He was the one to keep it light, at first, to disbelieve and to work with people outside the Archives more than anyone else there.  After the attack on the archives and Sims’ subsequent falling apart, Tim has become more and more blunt about being the voice of reason and about being the one who will tell Sims the unvarnished truth about how everyone is faring, whether or not Sims wants to or can hear it.  He’s the first to express true doubt, and the one it’s hardest to convince that certain things are beyond their control.

Think about how shaken he was to realize that he couldn’t leave, and Sims couldn’t fire him.  Tim is a person who is fundamentally about independence.  He is someone who genuinely enjoys standing apart, and that was just ripped away from him. I really want to see Tim slowly figure out how to operate as an outsider while stuck inside, and I want to see him force the others repeatedly to remember how not-right things are.  Part of staying sane in the archives, I think, is to remember that what happens there isn’t normal, to not get so immersed in the stories and the vast web that is the interconnected supernatural world that it becomes mundane.  That way lies totally subsuming oneself in the Archivist’s role, so Tim is perhaps the most critical person in maintaining Sims’ humanity in the face of the archives.  Tim’s greatest power in this situation is that he is stubbornly ordinary.

I also think that this shows us a bit about how much latitude a role can give its holder.  Tim went from a relatively light and playful interpretation of his role of rationalist and outsider to a confrontational, angry one, but with the same basic drive and result: to force everyone around him to recognize how wrong the situation is, and to approach it rationally.

Sasha James – SEEKER OF TRUTH

Sasha’s original role throughout season 1 was to be the person who dug up information.  She’s the one who continually provided context and elaborating details beyond the statements themselves.  As powerful as those original stories were, it was Sasha more than either of the other assistants who had the technical ability, tenacity, and legal fluidity to dig up the threads that connected the stories, and the backgrounds that really sketched out the larger picture.

And I think this is critical to understanding why Not-Sasha is so fundamentally wrong.  Because she’s obfuscating, rather than bringing new truths to light.  She’s intrinsically more Closed Eye than Open Eye, and the Archives is far more Open Eye.  While she lacks the technical acumen Sasha had, she also isn’t trying to make up for it in other ways.  She isn’t hounding down old records in public works offices or talking to witnesses.  In fact, whenever any of her colleagues attempt to say what it is she’s doing now, they draw a blank.  It’s only her ability to make certain they don’t notice what’s wrong with her that’s letting her clear lack of work go unnoticed.  If I’m right, that’s why the Archive is making Sims so paranoid, because the three-legged support he was meant to have is now missing a leg, and everything is in danger of tipping over.

I’ll be interested to see what happens to Not-Sasha should the real Sasha return and resume her role (or, if she doesn’t return, if someone like Melanie were to step in and take over that role).  What happens to something the Archive rejects?  We know Gertrude met a nasty end, but how much of that was the Archive's doing, or at least the Archive allowing it to happen within its own walls?  How much control does the archive have over those under its sway?  I feel like, with Not-Sasha, we might well get a far better elucidation of the nasty, dangerous side of the archive.

Martin Blackwood – THE PROTECTOR

Hear me out on this one. Martin has always seemed to be the carer of the group.  He’s the one who makes sure everyone is fed, and tries to keep spirits up.  He’s put himself in charge of Sims’ physical well-being earlier this season, and has attempted (with less success than he’d probably want) to help take care of Sims’ mental well-being as well.  Not all of his efforts are actually good for people, but he does try.

But I’m not altogether certain that the Archive cares about the sanity or health of its Archivist.  It cares about function, so he has to stay sane enough to remain rational (Tim’s job) and to link all the pieces together to form the gestalt (Sasha’s job).  But as for personal well-being?  I’m not sure that’s something that matters to the Archive at all.

Which leads me to conclude that what Martin is actually meant to be, and the reason he freaked out so much over accidentally leaving Jon and Tim to be eaten by worms, is that Martin is actually filling the role of a protector.  He’s meant to keep Sims alive and sane enough to do his job. Everything beyond that is Martin’s own initiative and mother-hen instincts.  But I have this funny feeling Martin is meant to be some sort of mystical bodyguard.  Which is hysterical to me.

This also plays into the idea I’ve had for a long time (and I know a few of you share) that Martin’s mother is a runaway Lukas, and her difficulties have largely stemmed from her ties to that family.  I think that Martin has old power in his blood, though his ability to tap that power is all but nonexistent.  He’s got a little knowledge and a little aptitude, but far more than that, he has the will to protect Sims.  We especially see it in his increasingly frustration this season, as Sims tears himself apart, and nothing Martin does seems to help.  Martin is meant to protect Sims, but Martin himself has reinterpreted what it means to be the protector.

Gertrude Robinson – THE WOMAN ALONE

So what about Gertrude, who lacked assistants that we know of?  First, I think she may well have had assistants in the past.  I think Mary Kaey may well have been meant to fulfill either Sasha’s role or Martin’s, and maybe even did for a time.  But Mary had the unique ability to remain unbound, and so she was one of the few people associated with the archive who managed to walk away from it.

Maybe it was Mary’s departure, or maybe it was the possible deaths of her other assistants that tipped Gertrude over to solitude, but whatever it was, Gertrude took on all four roles.  She tried to keep herself somewhat grounded in rationality, wrapping herself in coldness and distance.  She tried to tie all the threads together herself, flying all over the world and even purchasing Leitner’s books.  She tried to protect herself.

And in the end, she failed in that last part. I don’t know if that was because she was never meant to do all those things alone, or if she broke with what being the Archivist was all about, or if her death had nothing whatsoever to do with the will of the Archive. But in the end, she died alone, without any support.  

I don’t know what that means for our current intrepid team.  I don’t know if it means that between the four of them, they could keep each other sane and safe, or if it just means that they’ll die with company.  But I hope for their sakes they find a way to take the roles they apparently can’t leave, and make themselves as happy and sane as possible, for as long as possible.