#but GOD did she underestimate the amount of work that goes into it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

qitwrites · 3 years ago

Text

growing pains

Fandom: Boku no hero academia

There’s an absolutely atrocious, disgustingly gooey feeling curling around Bakugou’s chest.

He wonders if Recovery girl has any medicine for feels.

5 times the Bakusquad tells Bakugou they love him + the one time he says it back

(AO3)

Ashido is many things. Book smart isn’t one of them.

No really, she’s got so much going for her with her dancing, her strength, her versatile quirk, her perky attitude and even her distinctive appearance, but she’s not one for the books. She doesn’t like them, and they clearly don’t like her back.

Her grades thoroughly reflect this hate-hate relationship.

Ashido tries though, she really does- even if it’s just cramming a few days before the exams, she tries to study. Yao-momo had even gone out of her way to help, but it just doesn’t do the trick. She knows she needs to get her act together and figure this out because she can’t be a hero with a failing grade, and the anxiety and fear starts taking its toll, leaving her restless and upset.

So, when Bakugou sees the pink-haired, pink-skinned pain-in-the ass sulking in the common room, he’s horrified by the words that leave his mouth-

‘Want my help?’

Ashido doesn’t even glance at him at first, choosing to stare at the wall forlornly. She slowly looks up to catch his eye, looks around, realizes that they’re all alone, snaps her eyes back to his and her jaw drops.

‘Me?’ She points a finger at herself. ‘You’ll tutor me?’

‘What did I just say dumbass?’

‘I just- BAKUBRO, THANK YOU!’

‘Shut the fuck up and get your shit. We’ve got our work cut out for us. And raccoon eyes?’

Ashido turns to look at him, eyes bright and shiny.

‘Tell anyone about this and I’ll kick your ass.’

Ashido beams. ‘It’ll be our little secret!’

To her credit, he sees her try. She’s distracted and constantly jumping up and down, too jittery to be in one place, but she also pushes herself to focus, to really absorb the material. Bakugou’s rough with her, the way he is with Kirishima, but he’s generous with the praise too, or as generous as he’s capable of being. It makes him feel all kinds of gross, disgustingly soft and gooey things when Ashido’s eyes go warm with pride when he pays her the smallest compliment.

They work hard for the two weeks leading up to the exams. Kirishima joins them for every session in addition to the stuff he does with Bakugou separately, and between the three of them, they manage to cover most of the syllabus quite thoroughly.

The day before the exam, Bakugou sees the nerves rolling off Ashido.

‘Oye!’

She flinches and turns to look at him, throwing him a sheepish smile. ‘Yes, Blasty?’

He bristles at the nickname but recognizes that there’s no malice, no intention to mock, nothing really- just a nickname meant for a friend. She isn’t provoking him- she’s just nervous and falling back on old, comfortable habits.

He grunts, ‘You nervous?’

Ashido chuckles. ‘Course I am! Don’t wanna let you down, you know?’

Bakugou smacks her lightly on the head with a roll of practice sheets.

‘Who do you think tutored you? Don’t underestimate our sessions. Get in there and fucking obliterate those stupid tests.’

Ashido’s smile grows more confident, and she gives him a huge thumbs up, bumps hips with Kirishima and jogs over to her seat. The bell rings, and the exams begin.

The tests are not bad. Bakugou notes that a good majority of the papers contain material that he’s covered with the two properly, and works his way through the problems, the equations, the literature, all of it. In the very back of his mind, in a place he barely refuses to acknowledge, he hopes that they’re doing ok.

A week after their final exams, Bakugou is walking back from the training centre when he sees a ball of pink approaching him at an alarming speed.

‘BAKUBRO!’ Mina hollers, arms raised over her head as she outright sprints at him.

Bakugou furrows his brow, chest expanding as he gets ready to yell at her when she interrupts him-

‘I passed EVERYTHING!’ Her smile is humungous, wide and warm and genuine to its core. ‘AND I ACTUALLY DID WELL!’

Bakugou doesn’t even realize he’s smiling back, that feral, triumphant grin he has when he beats someone during training or takes down a villain. He’s proud of himself, and he realizes, with a surprising amount of acceptance, that he’s proud of her too. Really damn proud.

He’s a bit slow to realize that she hasn’t stopped barreling towards him though.

‘RACCOON EYES, DON’T YOU DA-‘

Ashido collides right into him, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Bakugou curses the entire way, but Ashido out-laughs him, her body shaking with joy.

‘Thank you!’ She beams down at him, pulling him into a warm hug. ‘You have no idea what this means to me.’

Bakugou wants to push her off, wants to stand up, spew out some curses and stomp away, back to his room.

But he’s also proud. He’s also happy for her. He’s also glad she did ok. That she worked hard and was determined to make him proud and that she isn’t going to get held back or expelled or something.

So, he blames it on the summer heat when he not only doesn’t push her off but rests a hand on her shoulder, gives her a quick pat, counts to 10 and THEN shoves her away.

Ashido pulls off easily enough, still laughing. She bounces back to her feet, dusts off her track pants and offers him her hand. The blonde looks at it, huffs, and takes it with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

Ashido yanks him to his feet with a strong, firm grip and her eyes go soft and warm and radiant.

‘Thanks again, Bakugou.’

‘Tch, whatever. Fuck off.’

Ashido giggles. Her phone suddenly starts ringing and she pulls it out of her pant pocket.

‘Oh, it’s my parents, I gotta take this!’ She starts walking back to the dorms. ‘Let’s go out this weekend, get some food at the mall. My treat!’

‘I don’t want to fucking do-‘

‘Bye babe. Love you!’ And with that, she’s gone, her laugh echoing around the courtyard.

There’s an absolutely atrocious, disgustingly gooey feeling curling around Bakugou’s chest.

He wonders if Recovery girl has any medicine for feels.

---

Bakugou knows for a fact that Sero is 90% memes and 10% tape.

He has no scientific evidence to back up this claim of course, but he’s definitely right.

The thing about Sero is that the longer you spend time around him, the more you can appreciate his stupid sense of humour, his great taste in mangas, and his ability to make the people around him smile.

Bakugou hates him completely, or so he tells himself. There’s no scientific evidence to prove on the contrary either, thank god.

So, with his shitty sense of humour and his easy-going nature, it’s natural to find Sero with a smile on his face. Not the kind of sunshine happiness that Kirishima has, but more of a mellow, easy joy. His body language exudes a relaxed vibe, immediately making the people around him lower their guard, and he shares a love for healthy food with Bakugou, earning him the blonde’s begrudging respect.

Bakugou finds the tape hero sitting at the kitchen island on a Tuesday night. It’s past Bakguou’s bedtime, but he’s hungry enough to warrant a midnight snack, though he’s not expecting any company. Turns out, neither is Sero.

‘Oh, hey.’

Immediately, Bakugou’s shackles are up. Because Sero isn’t smiling. He isn’t teasing him, there’s no humorous lilt in his voice, no mischievous glint in his eyes, nothing. He’s hollow almost, his skin pale and his eyes sunken in. Even his breathing seems off, too fast and too shallow all at once.

‘What are you doing up?’ Bakugou asks, quirking a brow.

‘Could ask you the same.’

Sero is barely looking at him. He has his phone in a vice-grip, and he looks like he’s going to throw up.

‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’

Sero jolts at that, eyes darting all across the room, and he can’t seem to look at Bakugou. Can’t seem to sit still or calm down. Bakugou can taste his anxiety, and it’s making the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He feels protectiveness - strong and vicious and ridiculously overpowering - all the way in his toes.

‘Nothing, ha, I’m fine.’

‘Tapeface, I’m not fucking blind. If you don’t want to fucking talk about it, fine. Just don’t lie to my face.’

Sero finally looks at him, and he looks lost and scared and helpless. Bakugou’s never seen him like this, and the protectiveness surges.

‘I- I didn’t expect anyone to be awake. I’m not sure, you know, how to talk about it. I don’t even know what to do.’

Bakugou grunts to show him he’s listening before turning around and slowly pulling things out of the fridge. He remembers Sero’s love for fruits and soy and all things healthy and decides to make some Mapo Tofu. Not because Sero will like it or anything, the blonde just really likes Mapo Tofu, ok?

Bakugou begins the task of pulling pots and pans out of the cabinets and gets to prepping the ingredients. He keeps himself busy and fills the space with the comforting sounds and smells of food because he is an expert at being unable to talk about his feelings. To articulate his thoughts sans anger and rage and panic. And he finds that it's easier, even if only a little, to talk when the focus isn’t just on you. When there’s stuff going on, when there are other focal points. It’s less scary.

‘My mom is getting surgery.’

Bakugou pauses in his movements. He stays still long enough to indicate to Sero that he’s listening but goes back to work so the focus is still on the food, so Sero will continue to speak. His voice is uncharacteristically soft and so pained, and something in Bakugou churns horribly. He works more softly, so he can hear everything.

‘She’s had medical issues all my life, so it’s nothing unexpected. She gets surgery pretty often, but it’s never any less scary.’

Bakugou can’t even imagine what that’s like, to have a parent regularly undergo medical treatment and surgical procedures.

‘It’s the first one since I got to the dorms. I’ve never been this far away, and I can’t-‘ Sero’s voice chokes. He breathes deeply and continues ‘-I can’t calm down. I begged them to let me come home but they refused, said I need to see this UA thing through, do my own thing, all that.’

Bakugou continues to cook. The kitchen smells warm and spicy, and the sound of sizzling spices saturates the space between them, and he thinks he can sense Sero calm down a little.

‘I get it. I do. They're right and logically, I can accept that. I just. Fuck, this is horrible.’

Bakugou doesn’t offer any words of comfort or advice because what does he know? He has no idea what Sero is going through, and anything he says might sound insincere or plain insensitive. So instead, he cooks. He cooks the meat, mixes in the spices, and tastes the broth. He works fast and efficient, his movements practised. When it’s done, he plates up two bowls, and sets one in front of Sero, taking the seat next to him. Sero’s at the head of the table, so Bakugou ends up on his right.

Sero stares at the bowl and then looks up at Bakugou.

‘Mom makes me Mapo Tofu when I’m upset,’ he grumbles by way of an explanation. The blonde proceeds to douse his serving in extra chilli oil and peppercorns because he made the overall dish at a much more tolerable spice level. NOT for Sero or anything, just because. You know. For the fuck of it.

Sero stares at the bowl of food silently before picking up the spoon.

‘I haven’t told the rest because I couldn’t find a way to talk about it.’

Before Bakugou can figure out a way to respond to that, Sero continues, ‘I’m glad you know, is not so bad to have someone to talk to. Or at, I guess.’

Sero digs in, and after the first bite, his eyes light up.

‘Holy fuck,’ he breathes, ‘this is so good.’

Bakugou smirks, digging into his own bowl and humming in agreement. It’s probably the best Tofu he’s made so far.

‘Shit man,’ Sero says in between big bites, ‘I freaking love this. And you. But mostly this. But also, you. Like 65-35? Maybe 60-40.’

The blonde snorts and Sero’s grin gets wider. They eat in relative silence, with the occasional comment from Sero and the sounds of them kicking each other playfully under the table. When they’re done, Bakugou rinses the bowls in the sink and joins Sero on the couch in front of the TV. It’s gotten ridiculously late, but he doesn’t want to leave him alone.

Sero rubs the back of his neck. ‘I uh, I don’t want to go to my room right now.’

Bakugou leans over the couch, grabs two throw blankets from a bin nearby and flings the yellow one at Sero.

‘Play that cool documentary on speedcubing,’ he barks out, tucking himself under his own red blanket. Sero gives him a wide-eyed look before navigating to the right piece on Netflix. He gets comfortable under the throw, and they fall asleep to the sound of people solving Rubix cubes at inhumane speeds.

Shoji finds them like that in the morning and gently shakes them awake. Sero’s phone has a message from his parents, telling him everything’s alright, and that’s the only reason Bakugou forgives him for gathering the blonde in a big, warm hug before the sun is even up.

He crawls into his own bed 5 minutes later, and his heart feels lighter than ever.

Maybe an antacid will help with all of these stupid, horrid feels.

---

Bakugou doesn’t like people.

As a general rule of thumb, he dislikes them almost instantly. People are loud. They’re invasive, annoying, clingy, and they never smell good.

People are also cruel and selfish and use you as they please.

Bakugou doesn’t like people; until he comes to UA.

Because the people in UA are loud, invasive, annoying, clingy, and never smell great either.

But they’re kind. They’re smart, driven, capable, funny. They work hard, they play hard, and they’re mostly selfless. They don’t flock to him simply because he’s got a great quirk or something. Truth be told, they’re all pretty formidable themselves. Grossly underdeveloped and years away from being at his level, but Bakugou knows that with time, all of his classmates will reach insane heights. They wouldn’t be in UA otherwise.

So Bakugou tries. Mostly because his stupid squad won’t leave him alone, but he tries.

When people hang out in the common rooms, he’s downstairs with them. If there’s a stupid Christmas party, or it's someone’s birthday, or the class wants to go out shopping or to play in the pool, Bakugou tags along with them more often than not.

There is a compromise though. With a social battery as small and easily drained as his, it isn’t uncommon for the class to find Bakugou chilling in a corner with his headphones in, simply taking in the vibe rather than actively participating. There’s no bad blood over this though- they kinda get it. Not everyone is as friendly or as vibrant as Kirishima or Kaminari. They’re honestly just glad he’s there at all, so they do their best to make sure he’s included while letting him set his own pace.

Bakugou’s in one of his recharging phases when he spots Jirou.

The earphone jack hero is wandering around, looking a little worse for wear. There are people from both 1A and 1B milling around, talking and laughing in the common areas, and the energy in the room is almost stifling. The blonde doesn’t miss the way Jirou covers her ears at one point.

From what he can tell, Jirou is an ambivert. She enjoys the company of others often, but she’s also perfectly fine being on her own, with a book and some music to keep her company. Right now, she seems exhausted, her own social battery running dangerously low.

Bakugou catches her eye. She gives him a small wave and he sticks his tongue out at her, pulling the skin under his eye down on one side. It’s petty and dumb, but he sees her huff a laugh and slowly meander towards him. Bakugou goes back to closing his eyes and tipping his head back, enjoying the familiar texture of the common room couch and the sound of the music in his ears drowning out everything else.

He feels the couch dip next to him, close but not too close. Jirou doesn’t touch him, doesn’t bother him, doesn’t shake or poke or otherwise engage him. She just sits there, stock-still.

When his eyes slip open again, Bakugou sees that she’s got her hands in her lap and she’s mimicking his posture, comfortably seated on the couch with her head tipped back. Her signature headphones are nowhere in sight though, and her eyes are open and red.

Distantly, Bakugou wonders if she’s forgotten them. That would suck ass- he’d be lost without his own pair. And Jirou’s relationship with music is on a level no one else can fathom- it’s literally part of her DNA, her quirk, her identity.

Bakugou isn’t sure what compels him to do it- maybe it’s because they both like bugging the hell out of Kaminari. Maybe it’s because Jirou is no-nonsense when it comes to hero work, which he can respect. Maybe it’s because, beneath all the teasing and smart-ass comments, Jirou has often looked out for him, advocating for the need for personal space when the idiot brigade drains him.

Whatever the reason, Bakugou finds himself pulling out his right earbud and holding it out for her, a silent invitation.

It takes maybe 4 seconds for him to feel the bud lifted gently from his fingers. Jirou is careful to not jar his own earbud when she adjusts his in her right ear, and Bakugou moves to raise the volume a little.

It is a bit annoying, yes, to have one ear open to the noise around them, but it’s not unbearable- far from it. He’s got some reggae on right now, a genre he indulges in when he needs to calm down and just relax his body.

When he turns to look at her, Jirou’s got a smile on her lips. Her feet are tapping to the beat effortlessly, and her fingers are mapping out the tune on an invisible fretboard. She opens her eyes and looks over at Bakugou, and her smile widens, crinkling the edges of her eyes.

Thank you, she mouths, flashing him another blinding smile. It makes Bakugou huff.

‘Whatever,’ he murmurs under his breath. The look in her eyes could not be mistaken for anything else- unadulterated gratitude and a heavy dose of love.

These gooey feelings are going to give him an upset stomach, Bakugou’s calling it right now.

---

Bakugou doesn’t even notice the pattern till Kirishima points it out to him.

It goes a little something like this- Bakugou feels off during training, or maybe doesn’t do as well as he’d expected on a test or project, or something just doesn’t go right. So naturally, he’s in a piss poor mood.

The squad’s antics don’t do much for him then, doesn’t really raise his spirits or anything, and he usually goes back to his room, slamming his door shut and pacing around like a caged tiger.

And that’s when his phone rings. The caller ID reads Pikachu.

‘What the fuck do you want?’

‘Bakubrooooooooo,’ Kaminari croons, and Bakugou wants to break something.

‘Fuck of-‘

‘You ever wonder if cereal is soup?’

All the fight drains out of Bakugou, leaving only confusion in its place. ‘What?’

‘Yeah, I mean, is cereal like a sub-category of soup or something? Wouldn’t that make sense?’

‘Dunce-face, what the fuck? That doesn’t even make sense? You don’t cook cereal?’

‘Yes, but you could eat it with a soup spoon. That should count for something.’

‘I hate you. So much.’

‘Aww, love you too bro. Ok, gotta go, byee~’

Bakugou stares at his phone, shocked and confused and annoyed.

But no longer angry. No longer pacing about, no longer in a foul mood.

Another time, after a particularly bad bout of training, ending with aching forearms and snarls of frustration because he needs to get better but it’s not happening fast enough, Bakugou wants nothing more than to scream into a pillow and maybe eat some hot sauce.

Again, he gets a call from Kaminari.

‘Wha-‘

‘Do you ever just think about pizza and cry?’

‘Huh?’

‘Yeah, I mean, I think humanity reached its peak when it invented pizza, you know? And that makes me cry. Such perfection.’ He can picture Kaminari making a chef’s kiss gesture, and it pisses him off.

‘This is why you called me? Are you fucking with me?’

‘It’s really an honest question Bakubro. Don’t you ever tremble at the sheer magnificence of pizza?’

‘Delete my number.’

‘No can do. Gotta go, love you, bye!’

And again, he’s gone, just as quickly as he arrived. And again, Bakugou is left feeling baffled and miffed but no longer angry, no longer itching to scream and claw and break something.

He still eats some hot sauce though.

Kirishima is with him after one of his bad days, sitting on his bed and trying to pacify him.

‘It’s ok, it-‘

‘Shut up, Shitty hair! Fuck-‘ His hands tremble with the need to just do something, vent somehow, to break the tension in his spine. He doesn’t want to snap at Kirishima, which is why he never lets him tag along when he stomps away to his room after a bad day, but the redhead can be ridiculously caring sometimes and Bakugou doesn’t want to hurt him.

He doesn’t know what else to do though.

‘Shit, I- you need to leave, get out before I-‘

His phone rings. Pikachu, it says.

‘Dunce-‘

‘I’ve decided that, in the event of an apocalypse, you and I are teaming up together.’

‘Wha-‘

‘I know you’d much rather team up with Kirishima, cause he’s so strong and handsome and he’s your best friend, but he’ll be fine. I, on the other hand, will die immediately. So, it’s just you and me Blasty.’

‘Fuck right off, why would I-‘

‘We could name ourselves the atomic blondes.’ Kaminari suddenly makes a whooping noise. ‘Damn, that’s perfect Bakugou! I gotta print tee shirts right now, we’d look amazing.’

‘I am not wearing anything that matches you, miss me with that shit.’

‘I promise it’ll be black, and like, soft, with skull patterns or something.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘I gotta go anyway, but you’re stuck with me Bakubro. Anyway, bye, love you!’

They end the call, or rather, Kaminari cuts it before Bakugou can get an insult or two in there, and when he looks back at Kirishima, he sees a big, goofy smile on his face.

‘What?’ he grumbles, tossing his phone on his bed.

‘He does that often?’

‘What, call me and say really random, really stupid shit? Yeah, all the damn time. I need to block his ass.’

‘Kinda sweet though, huh?’

Bakugou cocks his head. ‘What’re you talking about? It’s a fucking pain.’

‘Yeah, but you don’t seem as mad anymore.’

‘I-‘ And yet again, Bakugou is disgruntled and confused and irritated at himself, for getting swept up by Kaminari’s pace, but he’s not angry. All the fight has mostly bled out of his limbs, and he feels more or less normal if only a little on edge. Nothing too difficult to deal with.

‘Son of a bitch,’ Bakugou breathes. Kirishima’s smile is a tad wider, and he scoots over on the bed, making some space for Bakugou while he pulls out his laptop, ready to load up some shitty videos.

‘Tell him about this and I will never speak to you again,’ Bakugou grumbles finally, settling in next to Kirishima, leaning most of his weight into the redhead.

He feels Kirishima’s chest rumble with laughter.

‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

Bakugou wonders if anyone’s ever tried to harness the power of feels to run turbines or some shit, because this stuff’s turning out to be overwhelmingly powerful.

---

In terms of quirk compatibility, Bakugou has found his perfect match in Kirishima.

The blonde’s quirk is perfect for offence. Granted, it’s exceptionally versatile and he can handle his own just fine, but with Kirishima, he feels invincible.

Red Riot is unmoving, unabashed, and utterly unbreakable. He knows Bakugou inside out, knows his moves, his tactics, his signals. They fight like a well-oiled machine, adjusting and improvising with ease. Fighting alongside Kirishima, alongside Red Riot, is like breathing. They almost dance around each other, and between taking down villains and conducting search and rescue, they’ve made themselves a formidable hero pair even before graduation.

So, it’s not uncommon for them to be paired up even when they’re working and interning under different heroes. They’re that good.

They’re on a mission together when things take a turn for the absolute worst.

Most of the pros are down, caught in the crossfire or too busy protecting the civilians to engage in combat. There are fires blazing everywhere, smoke congesting the air around them so much that Bakugou can barely breathe.

Riot stands next to him, breathing slightly laboured but otherwise unhurt. Bakugou has a cut on his forehead, blood running down his face, but he feels ok. Good enough to rush into battle and do his part in subduing these shitty villains.

But experience has taught him better than to run in with no plan, even when he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, eager to rush into the action. Experience has taught him that without a moment to catch his breath and restructure the plan to achieve their goals, he’ll be doing a lot more harm than good. It’s frustrating as all hell, but he’s a hero in training. You learn this stuff on the job.

‘What do you think?’ He asks the redhead.

Kirishima straightens out his back, hands on his hips. ‘The elemental quirk user will probably be the biggest pain in the ass.’

Bakugou nods. ‘It seemed like a water quirk. We need to get her away from the buildings, away from the piping. There was also that shitty smoke user, he’s the reason the air is barely breathable.’

‘Yao-momo’s masks would’ve come so in handy right now,’ Kirishima muses with a smile.

Bakugou grunts in begrudging agreement but doesn’t comment further on it. ‘There should be three other villains, all with high-level quirks. I’m not sure which other pros will free up to help, but we have to isolate them, move them towards the construction site,’ Bakugou points somewhat East of their current location, ‘as per the plan.’

Kirishima nods in agreement and catches Bakugou’s eyes and the blonde’s breath hitches.

They don’t talk about it, but here’s the other thing- they’re probably going to get hurt, maybe even fatally. Not because they’re weak or they want to or anything, but the villains seem endless. They’re fucking strong too, and even with an army of heroes, the villains seem to come at them harder and faster the longer this battle goes on. Bakugou can feel his own stamina start to vain, and he knows Kirishima will hit his limit too, slower than the blonde but still. There will come a point when Kirishima’s skin won’t harden and Bakugou’s blasts will lower in intensity till all he can manage are sparks.

And even then, he knows they will fight with their fists and their bodies and their teeth. That’s what heroes do- they put everything on the line, for the people and for justice.

More often than not, they lose their lives for it.

Well, for what’s it worth, Bakugou could not have asked for a better partner by his side in such shitty, dire times. Kirishima’s soft smile seems to reflect his sentiments.

‘Hey, Katsuki?’

The hero code of conduct frowns upon the use of personal names in costume. You have a hero name for a reason, and it helps preserve your sense of anonymity and privacy, even if it’s pretty useless at its job.

For Kirishima to name him, and first name him at that, just goes to show how serious the situation is.

‘Yeah, Ei?’

‘Make me some hotpot when we get back, ok?’

Bakugou inhales deeply, coughs because of the stupid smoke, and his fists clench tight enough to leave crescent moons in his palms.

‘Only if I’m in the mood, Shitty Hair,’ Bakugou retorts, his voice far too soft for the King Explosion Murder hero. But that’s ok- here is only Eijirou, Katsuki, and the world burning around them. Soft is ok here.

Kirishima’s familiar belly-deep laughter gives him a boost of energy.

‘Let’s kick some ass.’

Bakugou feels, for one glorious moment, like he can take on the entire world.

They take their first few steps before Kirishima steps in front of him, blocking off his path. When he looks up to catch his eyes again, the blonde’s protests and insults die in his throat.

Kirishima’s gaze is trained on him as he slowly reaches forward and grabs Bakugou’s right forearm with his right hand, fingers digging into the muscle. It’s a firm, solid grip, reassuring and warm and so very familiar. His eyes are bright, bold, and wine-red. And they’re so full of love, brimming with the kind of affection, respect, and adoration that Bakugou never thought he’d be subjected to. Kirishima opens his mouth as if to say everything his body is already telling Bakugou.

‘I know,’ Bakugou interrupts, voice hoarse. Because he does know. The redhead is his best friend in the entire world, his person, his rock. ‘I know, Ei.’ His own fingers wrap around Kirishima’s wide forearm, gripping tight with calloused, too hot fingers.

Kirishima flashes him another soft smile past his headgear before letting go. He waits for Bakugou to catch up and they walk together, side by side, equals.

When they see the first villain, doing her best to uproot an entire building, Bakugou casts one last look at Kirishima, sees his positively feral smile, and charges with the force of a wild beast.

There are no feels there, just adrenaline, rage, and trust so thick, even concrete would crack under its weight.

---

When you’re training to be a hero, things can go wrong.

Accidents happen. People don’t move out of the way fast enough, or there’s a domino effect of some sort, or the aftershocks of one attack reaches a place it shouldn’t.

Bakugou’s switched up his training partner, choosing to train with Iida to fine-tune his aim and work with a fast-moving target. His blasts hit the mark sometimes, but not always. The gym is huge, so they aren’t really risking anyone with their training; at least, that’s how it is for a while.

But then, Bakugou takes aim and blasts at Iida, Iida dodges swiftly, the attack takes out a portion of the rock formations in the gym, and suddenly there’s a landslide headed right at Hagakure and Kaminari.

Bakugou doesn’t even think about it; his body moves before his brain catches up, and he’s suddenly in front of the two, arms raised to obliterate the debris when he realizes that a portion of the mountain had been laced with explosives for someone else’s training, and his quirk would make things exponentially worse. With the last few moments he has, Bakugou shoves Chargebolt and Invisible Girl away roughly and gets buried under the avalanche of debris.

The last thing he thinks he hears is a chorus of voices yelling Bakugou before his vision goes black.

---

And that’s what Bakugou remembers when he wakes up to white. White walls, white curtains, white sheets.

Unfortunately, the noise isn’t white. It’s annoyingly and stupidly loud.

‘There are too many of you here,’ Recovery girl says, sounding exasperated. ‘He will be fine, he just needs to regain his strength.’

‘Sensei, a whole section of a mountain fell on him, how can he just be fine?’ Jirou questions, sounding severely distressed.

‘Plus, this happened while he was saving me,’ Kaminari chips in. ‘I’m not leaving him.’

‘I have a secret healing quirk of my own,’ Ashido bullshits. ‘He’ll feel so much better when he hears my voice. I have to stay, it’ll be a crime for me to go.’

‘I can tape his wounds?’ Sero offers sheepishly.

He can hear Recovery Girl’s sigh from the other end of the room. ‘And you?’

‘He’s my person.’ Kirishima says it like it’s enough of an explanation.

Recovery Girl clicks her tongue. ‘Overdramatic, the lot of you. Play rock paper scissors or something, but I’m only allowing one of you to stay. The rest of you are going back to the dorms.’

The room bursts into noise again and Bakugou’s head feels like it’s splitting open.

‘HOLY FUCK, SHUT UP!’ The blonde roars from his bed. ‘I LOVE YOU GUYS, BUT IF YOU DON’T STOP YELLING, I WILL BODILY THROW YOU ALL OUT THE DAMN WINDOW.’

His own yelling does more harm than good to his throbbing head, but the noises stop completely so at least it did its job.

He’s alone for a blissful second before a crowd of five idiots surroundS his bed. Kirishima’s face peers into his, smile wide and eyes crinkled around the edges.

‘Hi, how you feeling?’

‘Like someone ran me through a garbage disposal and then put me in a microwave.’

‘Such details, much prose,’ Sero quips, earning him a chop from Ashido.

‘Blasty my love, can we do anything?’

‘Yeah, shut the fuck up and let me sleep.’

Jirou squeezes his calf from the foot of the bed. ‘You gave us a real scare there.’

‘I’m fine,’ Bakugou grumbles.

‘He will be,’ Recovery Girl reiterates, pushing them away and standing next to him. ‘I’ll do another bout of healing once you’ve recovered some of your strength. You can go back to the dorms before bed.’ She turns to his classmates. ‘Only one of you.’

They look at one another and everyone but Kirishima starts shuffling away reluctantly.

Kaminari lingers behind before quickly giving Bakugou a gentle hug. ‘Thanks,’ he whispers into his ear before pulling off and following after the others. Bakugou rolls his eyes and curls onto his side, yelping when he puts some weight on his tender side.

‘Easy,’ Kirishima mumbles, easing him onto his back. When Bakugou is finally comfortable, Kirishima drags one of the chairs lined up against the wall next to the bed and plops down, exhaling. Bakugou opens a tired eye to look at him and sees Kirishima with a stupidly smug smile on his face.

‘What?’

‘You love us, huh?’

Bakugou had hoped they hadn’t caught that, even though he’d screamed it loud enough for the entire building to have heard. Apparently, a cliff falling on you doesn’t stop you from blushing.

‘Fuck off, you were hearing things,’ he says anyway, because what is Bakugou if not in full denial about so many things?

Kirishima’s laugh is loving not mocking, and he puts his hand on Bakugou’s elbow.

‘Good to have you back Kats.’ He gives it a gentle squeeze. ‘Get some rest huh? I’ll be here when you wake up.’

Bakugou gives him a weak glare, but he can’t muster enough rage and anger because the absolute worst part is, he meant it. Because apparently being a rage-filled hero in training doesn’t make one impervious to feels.

Bakugou feels so betrayed by his own thoughts and emotions.

But right as he loses consciousness, he finds himself wondering if he minds all that much and he decides he doesn’t, almost not at all. The answer doesn’t really surprise him either.

He falls asleep to a cool breeze brushing over his skin and the sound of Kirishima humming under his breath.

37 notes · View notes

the-slasher-files · 4 years ago

Text

ANDREI KULOKOVA HEADCANONS

Clearly I cannot get this man out of my head.. like ever! Honestly I’ve been in a big big writing lull lately and I only want to write for Andrei, so I happy to share these hcs with you!.. hope you enjoy 🔪💕

MASTERLIST

Andrei’s code names in the army were ‘The Wolf’ or 'North’

He has O negative blood type, meaning he is a universal donor. Andrei always (when he is wearing his vest) has IV tubing and needles, just in case.

On that topic, Andrei is very knowledgeable with medical information, he has saved many of his brothers in the army from death. He can save you, but the issue is if he cares to.

Yes he is a very hot bloodied man, but under pressure he is calm and cool, especially with his s/o. Feral rage can turn instantly off if he sees someone he loves really hurt, calmly giving orders and helping you.

Andrei never went to school after his mother died, at age 12. He may not be super educated in math or sciences but this man is smart. Never underestimate him. He can fix a truck, be your handy man around the house, and has amazing people skills.

He is a history buff.. Yup, you heard me. Andrei loves history, specifically war history. After his uncle died he was free to explore more education and he found a deep love in history, learning it all himself through reading, documentaries and listening to people around him. (Me and @horrorslashergirl have a weird AU where he is in college and works in a museum, in a suit with glasses 👀)

Andrei is trained in many things but one I don’t talk about often is bombs and specifically land mines. This guy loves to blow stuff up for fun and has a few land mines in specific places on his land, and abandoned town.

His favorite drinks are a deep earl grey (a Russian blend of course) and Vodka on the rocks.

He loves bath time.. yup a hot bath, even with bubbles he doesn’t care, he loves it.

One of my favorite things about Andrei is when he needs to think or stop his active mind, he goes into his field (usually shirtless) and just stands out there, closes his eyes, enjoying the peace and quiet.

Andrei HATES condescending and controlling people, it brings him back to when he was a kid or in the army. Now that may seem hypocritical but honestly it is not. Degradation is for sexy time and teasing only, and Andrei is only controlling with his playthings but even then he lets them decide and have a good amount of freedom.

Man is a furnace and doesn't feel cold what so ever

He loves action movies, even though he will comment on how unrealistic they are. Also he loves documentaries.

Andrei listens to all kind of music. Mainly rock or metal but he loves Russian new wave and some rap. He also had a HUGE punk phase so that occasionally comes on.

He will do any dare or bet, not even kidding. His army buddies stopped daring him to do stuff because he would just do it. Andrei is a big thrill seeker and will do so much stupid stuff.

He used to have a wolfdog, a brother to Amaria’s wolfdog Dyn. Unfortunately it had too high of a concentration of wolf in it and he had to let it go, but he does still see him every once and a while. He even named him Alexei, meaning “great defender” in Russian. Andrei always leaves one of the outbuildings open for him just incase the weather gets too cold or dangerous. Also he may or may not use him to get rid of bodies, if he sees him wandering around.

Andrei drives a 1995 Range Rover all black with giant snow tires, or his black old Russian truck.

He can ice skate and used to play hockey with his buddies

He is secretly loaded. Yes he has money in his walls and all over the town. Andrei knows what he is worth and his rates aren’t cheap, plus it’s all in cash so there is no paper trail. He is never one to flaunt his wealth, you probably won’t even know until you see him coming home from a mission with a duffle bag of cash, throwing it in under the floor boards.

Andrei had a secret male s/o in the army, it was his first male relationship but they had to hide it from everyone. In a dangerous feral state the wolf had killed him, that was his last undercover mission.

This guy can read people like no tomorrow, every tiny subtle thing you do he notices. Could be the way you bite your cheek if you’re nervous or the way you rub your hands together when excited. He knows.

Also Andrei is very good at manipulation but doesn’t use it often.

He is a terrible sleeper. Andrei wakes at every noise in the house and only gets about 5 hours a night but only 1 hour is actually deep sleep. Sometimes he gets so exhausted that his body gives out and he will sleep for 12 hours fully clothed, in his cargo pants, vest and jacket. However he is much better with an s/o to sleep with, it’s still bad though.

I say this a lot but Andrei has an incredibly active mind, and it’s hard for him to relax or ease up. He uses drinking and smoking as a way to calm down, also just walking into the field for peace.

His favorite food is a nice hardy warm stew with rabbit meat.

Andrei adores just holding his s/o in his arms as on the couch or in bed.

He is honestly kind of paranoid, not so much by himself but if he has a s/o. You can come with him to the nearest town, but never ever draw attention to yourself or him, for your safety. He has people after him.

The wolfs signature is ripping off someone’s jaw or ripping out their spine by gutting them and reaching in.

If you mess with him but he dubs you as not a worthy hunt or not a good kill, you might see a bear trap in your home the next morning.

His tattoo on his left palm 'NO GODS’ is something he got to remind himself that he has control of his life and take his fate into his own hands, not his paranoid controlling uncle. It also holds him accountable for his actions, there are no gods to blame, he did it. The tattoo connects to Amaria as well. She is a lil crazy and does kills for 'the gods’, but Andrei sees that as foolish, he does his kills for himself, nothing else.

The 'grateful for the hunt’ thing I often write in Andrei’s stories is what his uncle would always say to him, with people or animals. It’s burned into his brain and it will never leave him. The words remind him to breathe and take in every deadly detail, that Andrei loves so so much.

Alright time to get.. a little odd lol… me and some friends have an interesting thing going where Andrei has a 'wolf pack’.. Dallas (@slashersins oc) is his husband, not legally, but Dallas wears a wolf ring for him. Xaviera (@horrorslashergirl oc) is Andrei’s soul mate and girlfriend. Xaviera’s cousin Akshay is Andrei’s best friend, they fight constantly but have so so much fun.. plus they fuck when they’re drunk lol. I am Akshay’s 'snow queen’ aka girlfriend. Andrei also has 2 'playthings’ Bianca (@horrorslashergirl) and Sights (@thesightstoshowyou)… the house is too full and Andrei may or may not regret having all these people lol.

#my writing #andrei kulokova #slasher oc #oc #slashers #slasher x reader #slashers headcanons #hcs #horror

57 notes · View notes

lilydalexf · 4 years ago

Photo

Old School X is a project interviewing X-Files fanfic authors who were posting fic during the original run of the show. New interviews are posted every Tuesday.

Interview with Syntax6

Syntax6 has 17 stories at Gossamer, but you should visit her website for the complete collection of her fics and to see the cover art that comes with many of the stories (and to find her pro writing!). She's written some of the most beloved casefiles in the fandom. I've recced literally all of them here before. Twice. Big thanks to Syntax6 for doing this interview.

Does it surprise you that people are still interested in reading your X-Files fanfics and others that were posted during the original run of the show (1993-2002)?

I’m delighted but not surprised because I’ve written and read fanfic for shows even older than XF. Also, I joined the XF fandom relatively late, at the end of 1999, so there were already hundreds of “classic” fics out there, stories that were theoretically superseded or dated by canon developments that came after them, but which nonetheless remained compelling in their own right. That is the beauty of fanfic: it is inspired by its original creators but not bound by them. It’s a world of “what if” and each story gets to run in a new direction, irrespective of the canon and all the other stories spinning off in their own universes. In this way, fanfic becomes almost timeless.

What do you think of when you think about your X-Files fandom experience? What did you take away from it? What did you take away from your experience with X-Files fic or with the fandom in general?

(I feel these are similar, at least for me, so I will combine them here.)

First and foremost, I found friends. There was a table full of XF fanfic writers at my wedding. Bugs was my maid of honor. I still talk to someone from XF fandom pretty much every day. Lysandra, Maybe Amanda, Michelle Kiefer, bugs…these are just some of the people who’ve been part of my life for half my existence now. Sometimes I get to have dinner with Audrey Roget or Anjou or MCA. Deb Wells and Sarah Ellen Parsons are part of my pro fic beta team. I have a similar list from the Hunter fandom, terrific people who have enriched my life in numerous ways and I am honored to count as friends.

Second, I learned a lot about writing during my years in XF fandom. I grew up there. Part of this growth experience was simply due to practice. I wrote about 1.2 million words of XF fanfic, which is the equivalent of 15 novels. I made mistakes and learned from them. But another essential part of learning is absorbing different kinds of well-told tales, and XF had these in spades. Some stories were funny. Others were lyrical. Some were short pieces with nary a word wasted while others were sprawling epics that took you on an adventure. The neat thing about XF is that it has space for many different kinds of stories, from hard-core sci-fi to historical romance. You can watch other authors executing these varied pieces and learn from them. You can form critique groups and ask for betas and get direct feedback on how to improve. It’s collaborative and fun, and this can’t be underestimated, generally supportive. The underlying shared love of the original product means that everyone comes into your work predisposed to enjoy it. I am grateful for all the encouragement and the critiques I received over my years in fandom.

Finally, I think a valuable lesson for writers that you can find in fandom, but not in your local author critique group, is how to handle yourself when your work goes public. Not everyone is going to like your work and they will make sure you know it. Some people will like it maybe too much, to the point where they cross boundaries. Learning to disengage yourself from public reaction to your work is a difficult but crucial aspect of being a writer. You control the story. You can’t control reaction to it. It’s frustrating at first, perhaps, but in the end, it’s freeing.

Social media didn't really exist during the show's original run. How were you most involved with the X-Files online (atxc, message board, email mailing list, etc.)?

I participated in ATXC, the Haven message boards, and the Scullyfic mailing list/news group. For a number of years, I also ran a fic discussion group with bugs called The Why Incision.

What got you involved with X-Files fanfic?

I started reading XF fanfic before I began watching the show. I had watched one season two episode (Soft Light) and then seen bits and pieces of a few others from season four. I’d seen Fight the Future. Basically, I’d seen enough to know which one was Mulder and which one was Scully, and which one believed in aliens. An acquaintance linked me to a rec site for XF fanfic (Gertie’s, maybe?) so that I could see how fic was formatted for the web. I clicked a fic, I think it was one by Lydia Bower dealing with Scully’s cancer arc, and basically did not stop reading. Soon I was printing off 300K of fic to take home with me each night. I could not believe the level of talent in the fandom, and that there were so many excellent writers just giving away their works for free. I wanted to play in this sandbox, too, so I started renting the VHS tapes to catch up on old episodes (see, I am An Old). After a few months, I began writing my own stuff.

What was it that got you hooked on the X-Files as a show?

I had to be dragged kicking and screaming to The X-Files. I’m not a sci-fi person by nature. I think my main objection is that, when done poorly, it feels lazy to me. Who did the thing? A ghost! Maybe an alien? I guess we’ll never know. You can always just shrug and play some spooky music and the “truth will always be out there…” somewhere beyond the story in front of you. You never have to commit to any kind of truth because you can invent some magical power or new kind of alien to change the story. I think, by the bitter end, the XF had devolved into this kind of storytelling. The mytharc made no kind of sense even in its own universe. But for years the XF achieved the best aspects of sci-fi storytelling—narrative flexibility and an apotheosis of our current fears dressed up as a super entertaining yarn.

What eventually sold me on the XF as a show is all of the smart storytelling and the sheer amount of ideas contained within its run. At its best, it’s a brilliant show. You have mediations on good versus evil, the role of government in a free society, is there a God, are we alone in the universe, and what are the elements that make us who we are? If Mulder and Morris Fletcher switch bodies, how do we know it’s really “them”? The tonal shifts from week to week were clever and engaging. For Vince Gilligan, truth was always found in fellow human beings. For Darin Morgan, humans were the biggest monster of all. The show was big enough to contain both these premises, and indeed, was stronger for it. The deep questions, the character quirks, the unsolved mysteries and all that went unsaid in the Mulder-Scully relationship left so much room for fanfic writers to do their own work. As such, the fandom attracted and continues to attract both dabbling writers and those who are serious craftspeople. People who like the mystery and those who like the sci-fi angle. Scientists and true believers. Like the show, it’s big enough for all.

What is your relationship like now to X-Files fandom?

I look at it like an old friend I catch up with once in a while. We’ve been close for so long that there’s no awkwardness—we just get each other! I love seeing people post screen shots and commentary, and I think it’s wonderful that so many writers are still inventing new adventures for Mulder and Scully. That is how the characters live on, and indeed how any of us lives on, through the stories that others tell about us.

Were you involved with any fandoms after the X-Files? If so, what was it like compared to X-Files?

I ran the Hunter fandom for about five years, mostly because when I poked my head back in, I found the person in change was a bully who’d shut down everything due to her own waning interest. A person would try to start a topic for discussion, and she’d say, “We’ve already covered that.” Well, yes, in a 30-year-old show, there’s not a lot of new ground…

Most other shows, Hunter included, have smaller fandoms and thus don’t attract the depth of fan talent. I don’t just mean fanfic writers. I mean those who do visual art, fan vids, critiques, etc. The XF fandom has all these in droves, which makes it a rare and special place. But all fandoms have the particular joy of geeking out over favorite scenes and reveling in the meeting of shared minds. It will always look odd to those not contained within it, which brings me to the part of modern fandom I find somewhat uncomfortable…the creators are often in fan-space.

In Hunter, the female lead joins fan groups and participates. This is more common now in the age of social media, where writers, producers, actors, etc., are on the same platforms as the rest of us. Fan and creator interaction used to be highly circumscribed: fans wrote letters and maybe received a signed headshot in return. There were cons where show runners gave panels and took questions from the audience. You could stand in line to meet your favorite star. Now, you can @ your favorite star on Twitter, message her on Facebook or follow him on Instagram. In some ways, this is so fun! In other ways, it blurs in the lines in ways that make me uncomfortable. I think it’s rude, for example, if a fan were to go on a star’s social media and post fanfic there or say, “I thought the episode you wrote was terrible.” But what if it’s fan space and the actor is sitting right there, watching you? Is it rude to post fanfic in front of her, especially if she says it makes her uncomfortable? Is it mean to tell a writer his episode sucked right to his face?

Do you ever still watch The X-Files or think about Mulder and Scully?

I own the first seven seasons on DVD and will pull them out from time to time to rewatch old faves. I’ve shown a few episodes over the spring and summer to my ten-year-old daughter, and it’s been fun to see the series through her eyes. We’ve mostly opted for the comedic episodes because there’s enough going on in the real world to give her nightmares. Her favorite so far is Je Souhaite.

Do you ever still read X-Files fic? Fic in another fandom?

I don’t have much bandwidth to read fanfic these days. My job as a mystery/thriller author means I have to keep up with the market so I do most of my reading there right now. I also beta read for some pro-fic friends and betaing a novel will keep you busy.

Do you have any favorite X-Files fanfic stories or authors?

I read so much back in the day that this answer could go on for pages. Alas, it also hasn’t changed much over the past fifteen years because I haven’t read much since then. But, as we’re talking Golden Oldies today, here are a bunch:

All the Mulders, by Alloway I find this short story both hilarious and haunting. Scully embraces her power in the upside down post-apocalyptic world.

Strangers and the Strange Dead, by Kipler Taut prose and an intriguing 3rd party POV make this story a winner, and that’s before the kicker of an ending, which presaged 1013’s.

Cellphone, by Marasmus Talk about your killer twists! Also one of the cleverest titles coming or going.

Arizona Highways, by Fialka I think this is one of the best-crafted stories to come out of the XF. It’s majestic in scope, full of complex literary structure and theme, and yet the plot moves like a runaway freight train. Both the Mulder and Scully characterizations are handled with tender care.

So, We Kissed, by Alelou What I love about this one is how it grounds Mulder and Scully in the ordinary. Mulder’s terrible secret doesn’t involve a UFO or some CSM-conspiracy. Scully goes to therapy that actually looks like therapy. I guess what I’m saying is that I utterly believe this version of M & S in addition to just enjoying reading about them.

Sore Luck at the Luxor, by Anubis Hot, funny, atmospheric. What’s not to love?

Black Hole Season, by Penumbra Nobody does wordsmithing like Penumbra. I use her in arguments with professional writers when they try to tell me that adverbs and adjectives MUST GO. Just gorgeous, sly, insightful prose.

The Dreaming Sea, by Revely This one reads like a fairytale in all the best ways. Revely creates such loving, beautiful worlds for M & S to live in, and I wish they could stay there always.

Malus Genius, by Plausible Deniability and MaybeAmanda Funny and fun, with great original characters, a sly casefile and some clear-eyed musings on the perils of getting older. This one resonates more and more the older I get. ;)

Riding the Whirlpool, by Pufferdeux I look this one up periodically to prove to people that it exists. Scully gets off on a washing machine while Mulder helps. Yet it’s in character? And kinda works? This one has to be read to be believed.

Bone of Contention (part 1, part 2), by Michelle Kiefer and Kel People used to tell me all the time that casefiles are super easy to write while the poetic vignette is hard. Well, I can’t say which is harder but there much fewer well-done casefiles in the fandom than there are poetic vignettes. This is one of the great ones.

Antidote, by Rachel Howard A fic that manages to be both hot and cold as it imagines Mulder and Scully trying to stay alive in the frosty wilderness while a deadly virus is on the loose. This is an ooooold fic that holds up impressively well given everything that followed it!

Falling Down in Four Acts, by Anubis Anubis was actually a bunch of different writers sharing a single author name. This particular one paints an angry, vivid world for Our Heroes and their compatriots. There is no happy ending here, but I read this once and it stayed with me forever.

The Opposite of Impulse, by Maria Nicole A sweet slice of life on a sunny day. When I imagine a gentler universe for Mulder and Scully, this is the kind of place I’d put them.

What is your favorite of your own fics, X-Files and/or otherwise?

Bait and Switch is probably the most sophisticated and tightly plotted. It was late in my fanfic “career” and so it shows the benefits to all that learning. My favorite varies a lot, but I’ll say Universal Invariants because that one was nothing but fun.

Do you think you'll ever write another X-Files story? Or dust off and post an oldie that for whatever reason never made it online?

I never say never! I don’t have any oldies sitting around, though. Everything I wrote, I posted.

Do you still write fic now? Or other creative work?

I write casefiles…er, I mean mysteries, under my own name now, Joanna Schaffhausen. My main series with Reed and Ellery consists of a male-female crime solving team, so I get a little bit of my XF kick that way. Their first book, The Vanishing Season, started its life as an XF fanfic back in the day. I had to rewrite it from the ground up to get it published, but if you know both stories, you can spot the similarities.

Where do you get ideas for stories?

The answer any writer will tell you is “everywhere.” Ideas are cheap and they’re all around us—on the news, on the subway, in conversations with friends, from Twitter memes, on a walk through the woods. My mysteries are often rooted in true crime, often more than one of them.

Each idea is like a strand of colored thread, and you have to braid them together into a coherent story. This is the tricky part, determining which threads belong in which story. If the ideas enhance one another or if they just create an ugly tangent.

Mostly, though, stories begin by asking “what if?” What if Scully’s boyfriend Ethan had never been cut from the pilot? What if Scully had moved to Utah after Fight the Future? What if the Lone Gunmen financed their toys by writing a successful comic book starring a thinly veiled Mulder and Scully?

Growing up, I had a sweet old lady for a neighbor. Her name was Doris and she gave me coffee ice cream while we watched Wheel of Fortune together. Every time there was a snow storm, the snow melted in her backyard in a such way that suggested she had numerous bodies buried out there. How’s that for a “what if?”

What's the story behind your pen name?

I’ve had a few of them and honestly can’t tell you where they came from, it’s been so long ago. The “6” part of syntax6 is because I joke that 6 is my lucky number. In eighth grade, my algebra teacher would go around the room in order, asking each student their answer to the previous night’s homework problems. I realized quickly that I didn’t have to do all the problems, just the fifteenth one because my desk was 15th on her list. This worked well until the day she decided to call on kids in random order. When she got to me and asked me the answer to the problem I had not done, I just invented something on the spot. “Uh…six?”

Her: “You mean 0.6, don’t you?”

Me, nodding vigorously: “YES, I DO.”

Her: “Very good. Moving on…”

Do your friends and family know about your fic and, if so, what have been their reactions?

My close friends and family have always known, and reactions have varied from mild befuddlement to enthusiastic support. My father voted in the Spookies one year, and you can believe he read the nominated stories before casting his vote. I think the most common reaction was: Why are you doing this for free? Why aren’t you trying to be a paid writer?

Well, having done both now, I can tell you that each kind of writing brings its own rewards. Fanfic is freeing because there is no pressure to make money from it. You can take risks and try new things and not have to worry if it fits into your business plan.

(Posted by Lilydale on September 15, 2020)

#new post #old school x #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #xf fanfic author interviews #syntax6

166 notes · View notes

orangeflavoryawp · 4 years ago

Text

Jonsa - “From Instep to Heel”, Part 16

Yes, hello, it’s me again. Boo Boo the Fool. Clearly, I’ve underestimated my capacity to word vomit, thus the chapter count has been updated. It’s for real this time, though, I promise, guys. I’m not fucking crying wolf again, I swear. Only one more to go after this. Crazy, huh?

“From Instep to Heel”

Chapter Sixteen: Splinter

“Perhaps he really is a Targaryen – to the bone. But he’s finished with apologizing about it. If this is what they’ve made him, then this is what he’ll be.

If treason is what they expect, then by the gods, he will give it to them.” - Jon and Sansa. Like the curve of the horizon, when the moon breaks from beneath its bow.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 fin

* * *

"Here." Jon tips the cup toward Bran's lips, wiping up the spill of water at his chin when he pulls it back, and Bran nods appreciatively, his hand still at Jon's wrist.

"I'm alright," he says, urging Jon to set the cup back down.

Jon settles into his seat at Bran's bedside, the cup forgotten along the side table.

Bran settles more comfortably into his furs. "Thank you," he says, wincing slightly at the tug on his bandaged leg when he adjusts.

Jon only nods, swallowing tightly, his eyes glancing over to Sansa's prone form along the bed beside Bran's, tucked securely beneath the furs. It's been nearly a day and a half she's been unconscious. Jon sighs, rubbing a hand down his face in exhaustion. "She should be here – helping you with this. She should be here," he gets out tightly.

Bran sighs. "And she will, when she wakes."

Jon clenches his jaw, shaking his head. His eyes bead with wetness instantly. He drops his head into his hands, elbows resting along his knees and he lets out a ragged breath, a worn exhale. "Gods, she nearly – I nearly – " He doesn't have the heart to finish such a sentence.

Nearly lost her.

He hasn't the heart to even imagine it.

He remembers rushing to Measter Gregor's before the man could even make it to their chambers, Sansa's unconscious body terrifyingly light in his arms, the bloodied seat of her dress soaking through to his sleeve, and how he sobbed, how he tore through the halls screaming for the maester, chest aching, throat raw, muscles quaking as he ran with her in his arms. How lifeless she'd been when he dropped her, as gently as he could, onto the cot in Gregor's clinic, backing away to let the old man and his acolytes do their work, watching, always watching, and gasping, crumbling – begging her to just open her eyes please gods just open your eyes open your eyes Sansa please please OPEN YOUR EYES –

Jon closes his eyes at the memory, keeps his head in his hands, tries to focus on the faint sound of her breathing, the slow intake, the shallow exhale. Over and over. In and out. Over and over. This becomes his constant, his world.

He doesn't know what he'll do if it should ever stop.

"Jon."

He takes a deep breath, lets it rattle against his palms. He pulls his head up just slightly, fingers stilled splayed over his cheeks, eyes meeting Bran reluctantly.

Bran keeps his gaze resolute. "She will be here. When she wakes," he repeats. And he sounds so sure.

Jon lets out a rueful chuckle at the tone, his hands slipping from his face, hanging limp between his knees now. "I don't..." The words crack, shutter away.

"She's stronger than you think."

"Stronger than poison?" The question sounds harsher than he intends, but it's not her brother he intends his ire at. His gaze softens at the reminder. "A person can be strong, sure, they can be willful and passionate and all these things and still – poison does not discriminate. It does not care about character. It kills. That's all it does. It just... it just kills." His words hollow out at the end, a bitter sigh, his hands returning to his face.

A heavy silence pervades the air.

(Over and over. In and out. He listens for it, always.)

"Poison," Bran says, seeming to mull the word over as he says it. "And you're certain?"

He scoffs then, rearing back, hands leaving his face once more. "This wasn't simply an accident. This wasn't simply a miscar – " He stops then, the vehemence lodged in his throat. He glares at Bran, eyes still wet. His jaw ticks, teeth aching where they clench. He tears his gaze away finally. "No, this was poison. That amount of blood? That sudden and that violent? No. Someone did this to her," he snarls, head shaking.

Bran curls his hands along the edge of blanket at his waist, looking down at it a moment. He purses his lips, takes a breath. He looks back up at Jon. "Was she with child?" he asks softly.

Jon blinks at him, breath stilling in his chest.

'Was'. Not 'is'.

Jon's face crumbles instantly, breath hitching on a cry, shoulders slumping in on him with the weight of it. His hand goes over his face, as though to hold it in, as though to slow the tide, but it washes from him instantly, without reprieve, without end. "Oh gods," he croaks out, shaking with it. "Oh gods, how am I supposed to tell her?" he cries. He buries his face in his hands, tries to bite back his sobs, his head shaking back and forth. Disbelieving. "How am I supposed to tell her we lost it?" he wails.

In a way, he'd known. Before Maester Gregor pulled him aside, with Sansa slumbering in the next room, dosed with more than a few of the maester's herbs – he'd known.

"I think she'll make it, if she can pull through these next few hours. But my Lord, I must tell you. The babe... there was no saving the babe. I'm sorry I couldn't do more."

Jon had stared at the man with unseeing eyes. Just listening. Standing there. Wavering. Taking it all in. His eyes had shifted toward the bed where she laid, her brow sweat-lined, her body limp. And he'd nodded. Just nodded. "I understand," he'd said.

He'd sat down at her side then, took a wet towel to her chin, cleaned the blood from her as though it had never been. He did his best to feed her the tonic Maester Gregor gave him, slipping it between her chapped, parted lips by the spoonful, wiping the drizzle that escaped down the side of her mouth. And then he smoothed the hair back from her face, tucked the furs around her, sat there watching her for an immeasurable amount of time, before he drew in a sharp, long breath, his lungs quaking with it, and everything seemed to come down at once. He'd reached for her hand, crying, crying for her, holding her hand to his face, nuzzling into it, pleading, and crying, crying, crying.

But there will never be enough tears for such grief.

"How do I tell her?" he manages on a shaky exhale, fingers curling over his brow.

"Jon," Bran tries to comfort, his hand rising, and falling on nothing. "I'm so sorry."

It repeats. Over and over.

I'm sorry.

In and out. Over and over.

I'm sorry.

It repeats.

(But Jon only wants it to stop – just...stop.)

Just then, something does stop.

Jon stiffens at the realization, going still. His ears strain for the familiar sound of her steady breathing. It doesn't come. He glances up when a hoarse sigh breaks along the air instead, ragged and disused. His eyes land on Sansa as she stirs.

Jon nearly vaults over Bran's bed in his haste to return to Sansa's side, stumbling into the seat at her bedside, hands grasping at her own, eyes wide and wonderous on her face as she blinks once, twice, moans lowly beneath some hidden pain. And then she opens her eyes.

Jon meets her gaze ardently, brows cinching together in a painful hope, the tears still hot on his lids. "Sansa?" he asks, hardly daring to breathe the word.

She moans again, shifting slightly, blinking back the haze. Blinking again. Eyes focusing in the late afternoon light. She stares up at him. He stares down at her. Her mouth begins to tremble.

"Sansa," he tries again, barely more than a whisper, the name caught in his throat like the edge of dusk, like water-logged wood. It splinters away – sodden and heavy. "Sansa," he cries, and something joyful slips in just then – unintended. He gasps beneath the force of it, a disbelieving laugh breaking from him.

She furrows her brows, blinking furiously. And then she smacks her dry lips, tries for words, swallows back that uneven breath, that quake in her lungs. "Jon," she manages, a fierce, brilliant smile catching at the ends of her lips, tugging further, further, until it spreads wide, before it cracks at the edges, weighted and tear-stained, her face falling with the remembrance, her arms going wide, ignoring the heavy ache of them and the exhausted lull of her body and the still vibrant rack of pain through her limbs, simply reaching, for him – for him, for him, for him.

Jon reaches back, winding his arms around her, tugging her up into his chest, letting her sigh into his throat, hands firm at her back, along her neck, bracing her to him, cradling her.

"Jon," she cries.

"I'm here," he says into her hair, swaying with the weight of her.

She starts to shake, her fingers curling into the tunic at his back. "Jon," she says again.

"I'm here," he hushes. "I'm not going anywhere."

How does he tell her? he had wondered.

But when she grips at him tighter, when she sobs into his chest, when she quakes beneath him, when her wail breaks through the air like something wounded and raging – he thinks maybe she knows.

But Jon can only hold her.

In and out. Over and over.

(His constant.)

"I'm not going anywhere," he croaks again, hand trembling in her hair.

He thinks surely she knows.

* * *

"Do you need anything?" Jon asks, his fingers tracing the length of her jaw.

Sansa burrows further into the sheets, eyes slipping shut. "I'm alright."

Jon lays beside her, hesitant at first to encroach on her space, but when she had tugged him onto the cot in a needful fervency, hands curled tight in the tunic at his chest, curling into him when he stretched out alongside her, her forehead falling to his chest, his arms winding round her, well –

He's fairly certain he couldn't deny her anything at this point.

Sansa sighs, lashes fluttering. A heavy scoff leaves her, fingers curling tighter along his tunic. "No, I'm not alright," she corrects.

Jon's hand retreats from her jaw, reaching around her back instead, cradling her to him. "I'm here."

"Yes, but here is exactly the problem."

Jon clenches his jaw, his hand smoothing down her back. She's so pale. So utterly pale. Her lips are chapped, dry. Dark rings settle beneath her eyes like half-healed bruises. He barely manages not to tremble at the sight of her.

"I'm scared, Jon," she manages through a quake. "I'm scared, and I can't stay here. Not anymore. In this keep, in this family. I can't do it." She buries her face in his chest, heaving a tear-laced sigh against his collar bone. "I'm sorry, Jon, I can't... I can't do it anymore."

"I know," he gets out roughly, holding her tighter. "I know."

"What are we going to do?"

"I'm going to get us out," he says.

She stills in her shaking, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, brows furrowed sharply. "Jon... how can you...?"

"I'll get us out. I swear to you. Aegon will have to let us go," he says, a measure of surety seeping into him that hadn't been there before.

Sansa's eyes darken, her mouth tipping into a frown. "I don't trust him. I don't trust any of them," she bites out.

"Do you trust me?" His hand slips up to her hair, cradles the back of her head. His eyes are imploring on hers.

She shifts her eyes back and forth between his, her mouth parting. "You know I do," she whispers.

Jon swallows tightly, taking courage at the reminder. "Then trust that I will get us out."

She stares up at him, red wisps of hair matted to her forehead with sweat, a permanent etch of pain along her features.

Her body is still fighting. Still weak.

It lights a fury in him that is unspeakable. And yet, the hand he holds to the back of her head is gentle beyond measure.

Sansa stares up at him for long moments, her lip pulled between her teeth. She looks down to his chest, keeps her gaze fixed there, takes a long and slow breath.

His hand slips back down to the small of her back, curling there. His voice is rough and uneven when he finally speaks. "Sansa, the babe..."

"I don't want to talk about it."

Jon swallows tightly, looking down at her. Her gaze is harsh on his chest, unblinking. Her hand stays curled in his tunic.

"Sansa..."

"I don't... want to talk about it." She releases a shallow breath. "Not now, at least."

Another bout of silence eases between them. Jon sighs into her hair. "Okay." His hand slides smoothly up and down the length of her back. "Okay."

Some of her stiffness eases out at his answer. "Thank you."

Her voice is so small. So tired and worn. Jon keeps his grief tucked securely behind clenched teeth. "You should rest."

She has very little left in her to say otherwise, and so she only nods, her hand uncurling from his tunic to bunch in the sheets beneath her.

"Rest," he says, starting to pull from her.

Her hand snaps back to his tunic, holding him there, her eyes blinking widely up at him. "Will you stay?"

He hates the tremor of fear in her voice. "Aye, I'll stay," he gets out gruffly, easing back down.

She sighs in relief, eyes slipping shut once more, shoulders easing out their tension.

Jon brushes the hair from her sweat-lined temple. "I'll stay," he promises lowly, watching her.

And he does stay – until she is asleep once more. And then he stays a while longer, just watching her, fingers trailing from her brow to her cheek, down the line of her jaw, clenched in her worried sleep, then down the length of her arm, and back up, tracing the lines of her, committing it to memory.

When he is sure she won't be disturbed, he disentangles from her, easing himself off the cot beside her. He releases her hand reluctantly, tucking it back beneath the furs. He takes a breath, lets it to air. And then he stalks toward the door.

Bran glances up from his lean along his propped-up pillows, hand stilling over the parchment he'd been writing on. "Jon?"

Jon ignores him, a singular focus coming over him. He pulls the door back, dark gaze meeting the startled guard that greets him outside the threshold.

"M'lord?"

"Has Maester Gregor sent any word of his findings?" The question is low and terse, nearly a bite.

The guard shakes his head. "No, m'lord. He's still convening with the other maesters."

Jon nods, brow furrowing. "Summon Theon Greyjoy." he says, eyes flicking to the guard opposite him. "And no one else, aside from him and Maester Gregor, gets through this door, do you understand me?" The words are even and low, a quiet ferocity to them that keeps the guards muted, only fervent nods sent Jon's way. Jon releases the door and stalks back through the clinic to the threshold on the opposite side of the room leading to Measter Gregor's adjoining solar. He passes Bran and Sansa's beds swiftly.

"Jon, what are you going to do?" Bran asks urgently.

"What I have to," he snaps, making his way into the solar and settling at the vacant desk. He finds Maester Gregor's parchment easily enough, dips his quill into ink, and sets to writing. He's nearly finished when he hears a knock on the door, peering up to find Theon lingering in the threshold, eyes falling to the missive beneath Jon's hand.

But Jon returns to his work, scribbling out the last of his message, leaning back to look at it. "Greyjoy," he greets, gaze never leaving the desk.

"I am summoned," Theon gets out testily, a sneer to his voice.

Jon lets the ink set a while longer, his silence a practiced, terse thing. He glances up finally, fingers folding around the ends of the thin parchment. "Yes. I have a task for you."

Theon laughs, a dark, rueful sound, clipped at the end. "Forgive me, my lord, but I'm not particularly inclined to serve you at the moment."

Jon settles his dark stare on him. "Your inclinations are inconsequential at the moment. And regardless," he grinds out, folding the ends of the parchment over, and taking the spoon of hot wax from its stand to pool over the closed edges, "This serves the Lady Sansa, not myself."

Theon pushes off the threshold and walks further into the room. "Oh, serving the Lady Sansa now, are we? Last I checked, you weren't doing too grand a job of that."

Jon shoots a swift glare his way, returning his attention to the letter, pressing his seal into the hot wax. "Your concern for my wife is touching, improper as it is."

"Well, at least one of us is concerned."

"You overstep your bounds, Greyjoy," he says lowly, rising from his seat.

Theon sneers at him, stalking closer. "If you recall, my lord, it wasn't you that saved her life in Stannis' attack."

Jon grinds his teeth, fingers curling into fists at his side. "I'm well aware." And it takes everything of him to say it.

"Then perhaps you can tell me how she ended up here, hmm? Perhaps you can tell me where you were when she was nearly killed? Again! Tell me how you were serving her?" he barks, arms stretching wide. "Because I've yet to see it, my lord!"

Jon storms around the edge of the desk, closing in on him. "You have no idea what I've - "

"She trusted you!" Theon yells, a finger raised toward him. "She trusted you to protect her and she nearly died for it."

"Don't you think I know that?" Jon bellows.

Theon stops, staring at him, his chest heaving.

Jon barely manages not to shake in his fury, his fists still held tight to his sides. His nostrils flare under his deep breaths, eyes narrowed on Theon. "Don't you think I fucking know that?" It comes out clipped and ragged at the end and he must tear his gaze away from Theon's before the break can overtake him.

Theon rears back slightly, brows furrowed over his sharp eyes.

Jon moves his heavy stare to the far wall, stepping off to the side, trying to rein in his labored breaths. "She's out there in that bed – alone and in pain, because of me. Because of me," he gets out on a croak, mouth clamping over the words. And oh, how they sting. To say them to a Greyjoy of all people. To admit to it before a Greyjoy.

Jon didn't think he could sink any lower. And yet here he is.

"What are you going to do?"

"What I have to."

Jon's eyes slip shut. It's a sour slice of shame that lights his tongue. But he will swallow it. He will swallow it back for her. And he will do what he must.

"Do you think me so unfeeling?" Jon asks him, a coarse whisper.

Silence greets him. A long stretch of it. Jon opens his eyes to glance at Theon at his peripheral.

The man is glaring down at the floor, hands bunched into fists at his side. "No, I do not, my lord," he gets out roughly, at length, as though the words were a pain to utter.

And perhaps they are. As much as Jon's.

He turns fully to Theon then, stepping before him. "I will never be comfortable with the feelings you clearly harbor for my wife. I will never be comfortable knowing she still cares for you in some regard."

Theon looks back up at him then, gaze narrowed.

"But I am not ungrateful." It's like gravel in his throat. Jon swallows thickly, trying to get the words to air. "When you saved her, when you..." He stops, dips his head down, eases some of the tension from his trembling fists. "I will never forget it," he vows softly. He looks back up, meets Theon's gaze. "Which is why you are the only person in this city I trust to save her now."

Theon blinks at that, mouth parting. Hesitation wars across his features, his eyes flicking between Jon's.

Jon lifts his chin. "So," he begins, lips pursed tight, "Will you help me?"

He thinks about that day in the courtyard, looking across the field of bodies to where Theon stood, bow in hand, arm still pulled back in release, his own chest heaving, eyes wide.

He thinks about the relief that flooded his chest at the sight, at the weight of Sansa in his arms, at knowing there were those in her life that would not see her fall. No matter the cost.

And he thinks he can live with Theon Greyjoy being in love with his wife, if that's what it means. Perhaps it's selfish of him. Perhaps it's just another way he's learned to manipulate, to use one's emotions against them. Perhaps he really is a Targaryen – to the bone.

But he's finished with apologizing about it. If this is what they've made him, then this is what he'll be.

If treason is what they expect, then by the gods, he will give it to them.

"Will you help me?" he asks again, more a demand than anything.

Theon continues staring at him silently, shoulders pulling back. He lets out a shallow scoff, hand wiping over his mouth, eyes lifting to the ceiling, and then drifting back down to meet Jon's. His mouth is a harsh frown. "What is it you want me to do?" he grinds out.

Jon doesn't give him a chance to rethink it, turning swiftly back toward the desk, grabbing the sealed letter. He turns back and hands it to Theon. "Ride to Winterfell. Ride now, as fast your horse can carry you."

Theon looks down at the letter, taking it with tentative fingers. His brows bunch in confusion. "And this is...?"

"My treason."

Theon's gaze snaps up to Jon's. "What?"

"Every two days, you will receive a raven from me. If ever you do not receive that raven, then you are to hand this to Lord Stark to read," he says, motioning toward the letter in Theon's hand.

Theon cocks a brow at him. "What does it mean if you do not send a raven?"

"It means I am dead."

Theon lets out a disbelieving laugh, stalking away from him, and then stalking back. "My lord, this is..." He shakes the letter in his hand. "What are you planning?"

Jon winds his hands behind his back, head tilting as he looks at Theon, an even stare to his dark eyes, unblinking. "You will receive a raven every two days while Sansa and I make our way North. So, until we are safely at Winterfell, you will guard that missive with your life."

Theon swallows thickly, eyes drifting back to the ominous letter.

Jon sighs. "Pray to the gods Lord Stark will never have need to open it."

Theon shifts his gaze back to Jon, appraising him. And then he stuffs the letter into a pocket, nodding once, swiftly and decidedly. "I will do this," he says simply.

Jon doesn't let the flutter of relief he feels between his ribs rattle him any further. Instead, he reaches out for Theon's shoulder, urging him toward the door and back through the clinic. "Good. Now, you must – "

"My lord, I've returned."

Jon glances up at Maester Gregor's announcement, finding him in the doorway as the guards shut the door behind him. Jon nods his greeting, turning swiftly back to Theon. "You must go – now. And you must go unseen. Lady Sansa's life depends on your urgency and your secrecy, do you understand?"

Theon nods once more. "I do." He glances over to Bran, who's looking between the two with a plaintive expression.

"What is going on?" the boy asks, exasperated, as he drops his quill and parchment back to his lap.

Theon clenches his jaw, looking back to Jon. "She asked me to protect him."

"If you succeed in this task, then it will save them both," he assures him.

Theon blows a shaky breath from his lips, steeling himself. "This treason of yours better be worth it," he gets out on a sly laugh, a reluctant smirk tugging at his lips.

"All successful treason is," he swears, low enough that only the two of them might hear.

Theon keeps his gaze a moment longer, seeming to search for something, and then he's turning away, back toward the door with a polite farewell for Gregor and Bran, eyes lingering only a moment longer on the boy in the cot.

Jon gives Gregor an uneasy smile then, ushering him toward the solar. "Maester, what have you discovered?"

"Am I not to be included?" Bran asks sharply from his place in his bed.

Both men glance back at him. Jon humors him with a tender smile. "Bran..."

"She's my sister, you know. As much as she is your wife. And I deserve to know who did this to her just as well as you," he says, eyes demanding on Jon's.

Jon can't help the chuckle that leaves him, even when there is no mirth behind it. Because yes, the boy is right. How simple of him to think otherwise?

Gregor looks to Jon, a reluctant expression crossing his face. "My lord, this is a delicate matter."

Jon nods, turning them toward Bran's bed instead now. "All the more reason her family should hear it." They stop just on the side of Bran's bed, and Jon helps the older man into a seat before taking his own.

The maester sighs, shaking his head. "My lord, after examining her blood, and her symptoms, I must tell you that the lady has most certainly been poisoned."

"Yes," Jon scoffs, "I figured as much when she started coughing blood." At the Maester's grave look, Jon shakes his head, grinding his teeth. "Apologies, Maester. Please, do go on."

Gregor sighs, winding his hands before him. "We've been able to ascertain the poison as Red Ausmothis. It's a plant some maesters use, in small doses mind you, to help clear the bloodstream. But in large amounts, it can cause a patient to bleed excessively, as it also thins the blood, see."

Bran peers up at him from the bed, brows sharpening down over his intent eyes. "Yes, but how was it administered to my sister?"

The maester gives a slight shrug of the shoulder. "Ingested, I assume. Through food or drink."

Jon's mouth purses into a tight line, his gaze shifting away. "And how quickly does it act?"

"Rather quickly, my lord. I would wager she'd been dosed that very morning."

Jon keeps a tight clamp on his fury, curling and uncurling his fists. "I see." He blows a shallow breath through his teeth, eyes flicking over to Sansa's sleeping form. A pain ricochets through him, his chest constricting at the sight.

"But my lord," the maester begins, his hands wringing themselves as he glances between the two of them. "There is something more troubling."

Jon's gaze whips sharply to his. "What is it?"

He sucks a breath in, face twisting into uncertainty. "I've said that some maesters use this plant, yes, and well – you see, I myself have used it."

Bran leans forward just a touch, eyes riveted to the maester. "What are you saying?"

"My stores are emptied of it, my lord."

Jon blinks at him, head rearing back. His ire flares hotter, sparks an unease in his chest. He shifts his weight in his seat, gaze hard on the man. "You think..."

Maester Gregor swallows. "I think whoever did this stole from my stores, yes. And recently. Very recently."

Jon takes a long, slow breath in, mind reeling. He stands from his seat, paces away. He braces his hands to his hips, a heavy exhale leaving him. He wipes a hand down his face, paces back toward the two of them. "What are you trying to say, Maester Gregor?" The words come out strangled.

Because no.

No, he will not think it.

The maester's eyes drift down to his hands as they wind around his chain in thought. A worried sigh leaves him. "The peculiar thing is, my lord, only two people have been under my care here, aside from the Lady Sansa, of course. Only two people, as were Prince Aegon's – apologies, His Grace's – orders."

"Yes, of course," Jon spits, a hand raked through his hair. "Only members of the royal family."

Can't be seen by outsiders, of course. Can't make their weakness known. Shut them up. Lock them away. Everything is safe behind closed doors, right?

Right?

Jon seethes where he stands, a quiet, thundering rage seeping between his ribs.

The old man looks up at him with concern. "Yes, exactly. Only Lord Bran here," he says, motioning to the nearly immobilized boy, "And..."

"Rhaenys," Jon hisses.

His fury is a silent, bone-gripping beast.

Bran is shaking his head, eyes frantic. "Wait. Wait, I think..."

"Rhaenys," Jon says again, a shaky hand wiping over his mouth.

No. No, he cannot think it.

"But my lord," Gregor begins, twisting in his seat to look up at Jon, face drawn in concern and perplexity, "What reason could the Princess Rhaenys ever have to harm Lady Sansa? Or your unborn child?"

A red haze overtakes Jon. A quiet stillness. His jaw aches where he clenches his teeth, nearly rattling in his skull. Nearly frothing at the mouth with it. This thundering rage. This rancid hate. "Yes," he seethes, already stalking toward the door, overcome – and undone. "What reason shall she give, I wonder," he snarls, a violence coursing through his veins, rioting in his blood.

It's shockingly welcomed – how his hands itch for her throat. How he yearns to smother that vengeful, resentful pulse beneath his own palm.

"Jon, wait!"

But Bran's voice is already distant in his mind, already drowned out by the rushing in his ears.

Because this is what they've made him.

So, this is what he'll be.

Fire and blood, it is, then.

* * *

When Sansa wakes, it's with eyes peeled swiftly and widely toward the ceiling. She blinks. Blinks again. Lets the breath shudder through her.

And all at once she remembers. Bloodied sheets. A crippling pain. The desolate cry falling from her lips. The inexplicable hollowness that follows.

Her mouth parts, a soundless gasp breaking from her, her hands gripping the sheets beneath her in trembling fists.

All at once she remembers.

Before she can let the cry overtake her, she narrows her gaze on the high, grey ceiling, finds a spot where the arches meet, focuses on it. Glares and glares and glares at it. Breathes in. Breathes out. Keeps her eyes fixed to that far, grey spot.

Lets the grief bleed from her bones.

She reminds herself that she isn't safe here. She will never be safe here.

Later, she tells herself, nearly biting through her lip to keep the pain at bay.

Cry later, she swears, even as the tears bead at the corners of her eyes.

(Cry when you are safe. Until then...)

Sansa sucks a sobering breath through her lips, stirring beneath the furs, her body aching from its recent fight. Her vision swims when she tries to sit up.

"Sansa!"

She flicks her gaze to the bed across from hers, meeting Bran's worried eyes instantly.

"Bran," she croaks, throat dry from disuse. A hand goes to her pounding head.

"Thank the gods. I've been calling to you," he says urgently, still bedridden.

Sansa blinks at him in confusion, drawing her hand away from her forehead when the pain dulls into a vague ache. She draws further up, braces her weight on her elbow as she looks at him. "Calling me?"

Bran nods. "Sansa, I think... I think Jon is in danger."

She narrows her eyes on him, pushes up from her elbow, body heavy, until she can swing her legs over the side of the bed, hands braced along the edge to hold her. "What do you mean?"

A worried look crosses Bran's features. "I don't want you to over-exert yourself," he mutters.

"Bran," she says, taking a smooth, even breath to steady herself, "You wouldn't have tried to wake me if it wasn't important."

He gives her a sigh, face drawn tight.

She offers an encouraging nod, straightening somewhat. "So, what do you mean?"

"You were poisoned."

"Yes," she says through chapped, pursed lips. "Yes, that wasn't exactly hard to deduce."

"But Sansa, Maester Gregor is sure it was the Red Ausmothis from his own stores, recently stolen. Very recently."

She can only nod, teeth clenching. "As in..."

Bran hesitates a moment, turning more fully toward her, as much as he can. "Jon thinks it was the Princess Rhaenys."

Sansa glances away, wipes a stray strand of hair back behind her ear, a short, shallow breath leaving her. "When she was here, after...after the attack."

"Yes."

Her eyes slip shut. She'd considered it after all. How could she not? The way Rhaenys had looked at her as she wiped the blood from her hands in this very room, the cold, detached way she'd glanced to her stomach, the dark, unblinking stare she'd sent her away with.

"To kill a living thing – it's not so hard, after all."

The words lodge in her chest, the terrifying remembrance shaking her. But then –

"She was right."

Sansa stops, breath hitching in her throat. Her eyes snap open along the far wall, slipping slowly back toward her brother. "Bran," she gets out tremulously.

"But I saw her," he says, head shaking.

Sansa stares wide-eyed at him, barely breathing. "What?"

His words are fervent, feverish, rattling off his tongue like an avalanche, like a mountain coming down on her. "I thought it was a dream. Some drug-induced dream in the night, still drunk off that milk of the poppy, but I woke after dark at some point, saw a figure across the room, for just a moment, just a moment before sleep overtook me again, but I saw her, I know it, I wasn't mistaken. That white hair – "

"Bran," she chokes out, the breath stealing from her.

He meets her gaze. "I saw Daenerys."

Sansa feels sick. Her head swims. She braces a hand to her forehead, palm settling over one eye. She bends over, eyes squeezing fiercely shut. "Bran, I..." There's bile at the back of her tongue.

"You see, Lady Sansa, I was a Targaryen before I was ever a wife, before I was ever a princess or a mother. I will always be a Targaryen, a dragon. But you will never understand this."

The bile rises high in her throat, choking her. "Oh gods," she moans out, pushing herself to her feet shakily, wavering at the sudden vertigo.

"Sansa!" Bran warns, hand out-reaching. "Sansa, sit down. You're still not well."

"I have to go to him," she mutters lowly, almost to herself, a hand reaching for the cot to steady herself.

"Dammit, Sansa, I didn't tell you this so you could hurt yourself trying to do something foolish," he admonishes, trying – and failing – to reach for her from his position in the bed.

"Don't you see, Bran?" she hisses, whirling toward him, stumbling slightly. "He thinks it's Rhaenys."

"I know," Bran grinds out. "I know but – "

"If he hurts her," she says, head shaking, hand falling from her face as she straightens, vision easing back into focus, "If he hurts his sister, Bran, he will never forgive himself for it. Never," she swears, already gathering her skirts in her hands.

"Sansa, please, wait," he pleads, face overtaken in worry.

"I have to go to him," she whispers, turning for the door, gait slow and measured, taking her strength where she can. She braces a hand to the threshold.

"They will always be the stepping stones to my glory."

Sansa snarls beneath her breath, swinging the door wide.

She will never be but a blight beneath another's shadow, this she swears.

* * *

"Tell me you did not do this," Jon urges brokenly as he lets the door to Rhaenys' solar settle closed behind him.

His sister rises from her seat at the window in an unearthly calm, watching him.

He stares at her, long and hard, chest already heaving, fury already staining his lungs. "Tell me it wasn't you," he seethes.

Rhaenys cocks her head at him, lips pursed tight. "Is Lady Sansa... unwell?"

He thunders toward her suddenly, upending the side table he passes in his fury, the crash resounding in the room, and she blinks sharply at the sudden motion, spine straightening, chin lifting when he stops just before her, half-reeling, the anger of his heaving breath painting her cheeks. "Don't you even say her name," he snarls, eyes wild on her.

Rhaenys lets out a breath, looking up into his face, and something flickers over her features, faltering. But she swallows it back quickly, squares her jaw.

"I didn't think you could sink so low," he gets out, disgusted.

She glares up at him. "Oh, 'low' am I? Low?"

"Yes," he seethes, eyeing her.

She shakes her head, glare never diminishing. "That's rich, coming from you. You have all you've wanted now, don't you?" she throws at him, arms branching out, encompassing. "A place in this family. Acknowledgement. A pretty little wife. A babe." And then she scoffs, features screwing into something ugly, arms dropping back to her sides. "Except not a babe any longer, huh?"

"Don't you fucking – "

"And yet I still have nothing!" she screeches suddenly, stepping into him, eyes wide and dark and smoke-lit. Her hot breath pants from her, her own fury taking root.

Jon's fists shake at his side, his whole body a tight, rigid line, a quaking fury, boiling just beneath his skin. "Sansa was never a threat to you – never a threat to the love I held for you," he spits at her, the words rancid on his tongue, and he watches her blink fiercely at him, her jaw quaking at the ring of his words. He curls his lip in distaste, his chest constricting. "You killed that love all on your own," he chokes out.

She swallows tightly, chin still lifted, but she cannot stop the tremor from lighting across her skin, or the way her brows dip together in pain, or the instant sheen of wetness over her eyes.

(Perhaps moons ago, such an image might have stricken him.)

An ache burrows into his chest – an ache of years and years and endless, relentless years. The ever-long ache of loneliness.

(All of them, just grasping blindly in the dark, missing each other by miles.)

He wishes now, that he remembered what it was like to hold affection for this woman. He wishes he remembered what it meant to need his sister.

"Had you any love for me at all, even in the slightest," he grinds out, throat constricting at the words, eyes already tearing, "You would not have done this."

Rhaenys rears back, face still pinched tight. "I have done nothing unwarranted."

Jon snarls in her face, chest heaving. "My child is dead because of you. My wife – "

"I have done nothing," she hisses, voice cracking at the end, a hand pressed to her head, a shuddering breath leaving her. "Nothing," she whispers.

Jon scoffs – harsh and jagged and ugly. "You're a vile woman, Rhaenys."

Her head snaps up at his words, face blanking out.

And it's just so sharp in his chest, so cutting and bitter and inescapable. It claws its way up through his throat, hooks its claws at his ribs, anchors there like a foul thing – ready to bleed him from the inside out, from heart to tongue, from lungs to mouth – so that he can barely bring the words to air. "And I regret ever having loved you." he manages through grit teeth, ignoring the instant, painful remorse that lances through him at the words.

Rhaenys stares at him, still as stone. She licks her lips, takes a breath, tries to smother the quake of it with a laugh. A dark, mirthless laugh. She squares her jaw, tears hot on her lids.

(It is the shift – the rupture. Years from now, they will look back on this moment and they will know.

They will know.)

"Yes," she says, low and even and breathless. "Yes, paint me your villain. Your tormentor. That's what I am, aren't I? The source of all your struggles. The cause of all your grief. So then strike me down, brother," she says, arms stretching wide, voice a quiet hiss of air. "Take your revenge," she urges, eyes narrowing intently on him. "I imagine it hurts, doesn't it? To have watched it bleed out of her?"

Jon blinks back the hot wetness at his eyes. "Stop," he growls out, teeth clenching.

But she only advances, closing the already narrow distance between them. "It's not easy to watch what you love being torn away from you, is it?"

"I said stop," he warns lowly, chest heaving.

She glares up at him, lip curling. "You're a damn fool, Jon. You should have always known how this would end."

The rage is smarting along his tongue. "I swear I will – "

"I hope it hurt."

"Rhaenys - "

"And I'm glad it's dead," she spits.

(The rupture.)

His hand snaps toward her throat before he even realizes it, and then he's rushing her back with a roar until she collides with the wall, gasping, eyes blowing wide, hands grasping at his wrist.

"Shut your mouth!" he snarls in her face, fingers clenching at her throat as he leans in. "Shut your fucking mouth!"

Rhaenys arches against the wall as she tries to pull back from his grasp, a choked cough breaking from her lips, nails digging at his wrist. "Get off me!"

But it's a white-hot rage that rushes through him, keeping her pinned there against the stone, unrelenting, unforgiving. He bares his teeth in an ugly snarl, hot breath splashing over her cheeks. "You nearly killed her!" he bellows, pressing her into the stone, voice rattling with the force of his fury.

"I didn't," she grits out, a hiss of air, eyes glaring hot and accusatory at him.

"I said to shut your fucking mouth," he bites out, eyes shifting wildly between hers, and his fingers flex over her throat – just barely. Just enough for him to feel the warm rush of blood beneath his grip, to feel the thrum of her strangled words beneath his hold. Enough to wonder what just a little more pressure would do – if maybe he could crush her windpipe beneath his palm.

His eyes flick down to his hand over her throat, breath still raking violently from him, snarl still tugging at his lips. And then he glances back toward her face, panting, quaking – consumed.

Her eyes flick between his, widening just a touch, a flash of fear crossing her features, a wet croak leaving her, and then she's shaking, clawing at his wrist, mouth parting in silent alarm.

(Just a little more pressure, and – )

"Jon," she whispers, eyes tearing. "Jon – "

"Jon!"

The door slams open behind him. He whips his head back to find Sansa braced against it, panting, sweat dotting her brow.

Her eyes blow wide at the scene before her, and she stills instantly, mouth parting.

Jon nearly releases Rhaenys entirely in his surprise, straightening as his eyes take in Sansa's weakened lean against the threshold. "Sansa," he chokes out.

Her eyes shift frantically between them, and then her face draws into hardness, pushing off the door to stalk toward them. "Jon, don't do this, please."

A quiver of regret ricochets through him, his hand loosening around Rhaenys' throat. He swallows back the shame on an uneasy inhale. "You should be resting," he gets out in a dark whisper, turning back to face Rhaenys. His rage isn't quieted so easily.

His sister glares back at him, fingers still locked around his wrist.

"Jon, please, you're scaring me," Sansa urges, finally making her way to him, hands wrapping around his arm, tugging him away from Rhaenys and toward her. "Jon, please."

His tears gather in earnest now, lip trembling as the breath catches along his tongue. "What she did..." He cannot even manage the words, his throat constricting, his vision blurring from the tears.

"I didn't!" Rhaenys snaps, huffing and impatient.

And all his rage, all his years-long heartache comes tunneling down into a pinprick focus. "I'm tired of your lies. Your manipulations," he bites out, voice rough.

Sansa's hands grip more forcefully around his arm, one of them gliding up his chest and then to his cheek, urging him to look at her. "She didn't," Sansa gasps, head shaking, her own tears hot at the corners of her eyes. "She didn't, Jon, please, just – just listen to me."

Jon tears his gaze back to his wife. He blinks at her, his hand slowly opening at Rhaenys' throat, releasing her completely. He staggers back from the motion, and Rhaenys slides down the wall instantly, hands going to her throat. She drops to the floor unceremoniously, coughing through her curses. "Gods, Jon," she spits through clenched teeth, indignant to the end.

But Jon is staring at Sansa now, body trembling, taking in the sight of her, struck suddenly at how small and weak and pale she looks. His hands go instinctively to her arms, cupping around her elbows as he tries to hold her up. "Sansa, what..."

"Listen to me, Jon, she – she's your sister, and... and you don't want to do this, trust me, you – "

"She is nothing to me if she hurt you," he swears vehemently, hands going for her face now, cradling her jaw in his hands, thumbs brushing at her cheeks.

She nearly crumples into him at the motion, eyes wet instantly, mouth parting.

The fierceness of his admission scares him and yet anchors him in equal measure. Because it's the truth, after all. It's the most unquestionable truth he knows.

Rhaenys goes quiet on the floor beside them.

Jon peers at Sansa with imploring eyes, the rage dulled in him suddenly, only a vague heaviness keeping him rooted there before her. Just the sight of her. Just the sureness of her, there in his arms, at the edge of his fingertips. Just the knowledge that she's here – here, with him. Alive.

Just breathing her air –

The fury that had displaced him only moments ago settles into a low hum at the back of his mind, an uneasy but needed calm wrapping itself around his bones, thawing him out.

Sansa's hands wrap around his wrists, holding him tenderly. "I'm alright," she gets out on a whisper, voice clogged with tears. "I'm right here. I'm alright."

Jon's face crumbles at the words, at the fissure of pain he still recognizes crossing her features. And he knows she's still hurting. Knows her body's still fighting. "But you're not," he croaks out, thumb grazing against a fresh tear sliding down her cheek. His eyes rove her face. "You're not," he says brokenly.

Sansa swallows thickly, jaw clenching. She nods at him, taking a single, solid breath in. "I am, Jon. I promise. I'm not going anywhere."

His own words from earlier, reflected back. He curls in on her at the thought.

Jon's eyes drift down to her stomach instantly, a drop in his gut, the breath catching along his throat. He chokes out a sob. "But the babe..."

Her hands go for his face instantly, dragging his gaze back to hers, and then she's pressing into him, peering up into his face – fierce and fervent and yet still tear-lined. "We can try again," she promises him, brushing the curls back from his face with a tender touch. She offers a trembling smile. "We can – we can try again, Jon, because I'm okay. I'm okay and I'm right here, do you understand me? I'm right here. I'm not leaving you." She nods at him again, eyes shifting between his, sniffing back the tears. "I'm not leaving you, okay?"

A ragged breath leaves him, the force of it nearly winding him, and he drops his hands from her face to wind around her back, tugging her into his chest, sighing as he buries his face in her shoulder. Her arms link intrinsically around his neck, one hand buried in his hair, holding him to her.

"Sansa," he chokes out, and then there's an instant wave of revulsion rushing through him, pulling him from her, his eyes snapping to his sister. Realization at what he'd done, at what he'd let his anger do to him, branches through him like the slow pooling of ink in water. His tongue is heavy with the sickness, eyes widening. "Rhaenys, I...," he gets out hesitantly, arms slipping from around Sansa's waist.

She's staring up at him from her place on the floor, mouth a tight line, eyes wet. It's a face he's never seen before.

"Rhaenys - "

"What is all this ruckus?" Aegon demands suddenly, throwing the doors to Rhaenys' solar wide and stalking into the room. Daenerys strides in just behind him, silk skirts in her hands, an expression of annoyance flitting across her features.

"Your Grace," Jon begins, but never gets to finish.

Sansa slips from him like a ghost. She's all the way across the room before he realizes what's happening. And then her hand goes flying, smacking Daenerys across the cheek so hard her head whips from it, the loud crack resounding in the still room.

The following silence is deafening.

Jon stares wide-eyed at his wife, at her trembling shoulders, her barred teeth, her furious gaze. Aegon stands in a similar stupor beside his own wife.

"Sansa," Jon croaks out, hands reaching emptily at air.

Daenerys' head lolls back to glare dangerously at Sansa, not even bothering to reach for her cheek, to hold the smarting, reddened flesh beneath her soft palm. She just glares at Sansa.

Jon feels his breath break into a million jagged pieces in his throat. "Sansa," he gets out hoarsely, stepping toward her.

And then Sansa's swinging again, a bone-splitting shriek escaping her as she launches herself at Daenerys, eyes red-rimmed and glinting. "You monster," she screeches.

Everything snaps back into motion at once – Jon rushing toward them, Daenerys howling her indignation, Aegon grabbing frantically for Sansa's wildly swinging fists, Rhaenys pushing herself up off the wall, blinking disbelievingly at the scene before her.

"Lady Sansa, restrain yourself," Aegon bellows, a hand closing vice-like around her wrist, dragging her off Daenerys as the other woman tries to pull from her reach, spitting her distaste.

"Your Grace, please!" Jon yells, trying to step between their fumbling forms when he finally makes it to them, one of his arms wrapping tight around Sansa's waist and dragging her back with him.

But she's raging hard now – raging and raging and wailing. "I should kill you!" she screams, grasping at Jon's back as he tries to haul her away, her eyes only for Daenerys. "I should rip that shriveled excuse of a heart from your chest, you wretched woman!"

"Sansa! Sansa!" Jon screams, fighting her fury.

"You are dangerously close to treason, do you understand me, Lady Sansa?" Aegon snaps, chest heaving. "To strike the queen..."

Sansa cries out in Jon's arms, her sudden strength waning, her body shaking uncontrollably. He tries to gather her in his arms, hushing her, reaching frantically for her face. "Sansa, Sansa, please, talk to me."

"She took my child from me!" she wails, eyes finally meeting Jon's - blown wide. Salt-tinged.

"What?" Jon asks, breath winded from him.

Aegon straightens in surprise, his jaw snapping shut.

Sansa slumps into Jon's arms, mouth quivering. She snaps heated eyes toward Daenerys once more. "The Red Ausmothis. It was her. It was her doing, my lord," she mutters darkly, fingers curling in Jon's sleeves as she fights to remain upright, sweat lining her brow again, body clearly weakened from her fit.

Rhaenys stumbles toward them, edging along Jon's periphery. "What did you say?" she whispers.

Aegon folds his hands behind his back, shoulders pulling taut. A crease of worry dips along his brow. "Lady Sansa, let me warn you that slandering the queen will not be tolerated."

Sansa heaves a steadying breath, eyes slipping to Aegon smoothly. "It cannot be slander if it's the truth. Your wife poisoned me, Your Grace."

"She's gone mad from her ordeal," Daenerys mutters at her husband's elbow, shaking her head. And then her face pinches tight, a visage of pity crossing her features. "I know such grief intimately."

"You - " Sansa starts, seething, catching herself on a heated breath, swallowing the rage back down. Her fist quakes along Jon's sleeve.

Jon brushes a loose strand of copper from Sansa's sweat-pebbled temple, his hand trembling. A new kind of rage begins to curl beneath his skin – quiet and cautious.

Daenerys breathes heavily just behind Aegon, her eyes never leaving Sansa.

Aegon swallows tightly, chin lifting. "Explain yourself, before I call the guards in to restrain you."

Sansa straightens against Jon, half-braced against him for support. "Maester Gregor said his stores of Red Ausmothis – the poison they found in my blood – went missing recently. But access to his clinic and his quarters had been strictly forbidden to all but a few, thanks to Your Grace," Sansa explains, gaze shifting to Aegon's for a brief moment.

Aegon narrows his gaze on her.

"It's why you suspected Rhaenys," Sansa continues softly, eyes flicking over Jon's face in concern.

He turns his head slightly, catching Rhaenys' form in the corner of his eye, never looking upon her fully. He curls his arm tighter around Sansa's waist in his hold of her.

Something jagged and shameful starts to coil in his gut.

Aegon glances to Jon, and then swiftly to Rhaenys, violet eyes sharp and narrowed. "Is this true?"

Jon nods mutely. Rhaenys stays stock still beside him, hands hanging limp at her sides.

Sansa lets out a rueful laugh, blinking back the tears. "But Rhaenys wasn't the only one to visit Maester Gregor's clinic at that time."

Daenerys scoffs, stepping forward finally. "Yes, I was there. You all saw me," she says, motioning toward the three of them. "I came to collect Rhaenys. It is hardly secret."

"And how convenient," Sansa says through clenched teeth. "That you put in an appearance that could clear yourself of suspicion – with Rhaenys to vouch for you."

Rhaenys steps closer, peering at Daenerys with a watchful expression. Her lips purse almost imperceptibly.

"But that wasn't the only time you were seen in the clinic," Sansa says.

"What other time could I possibly – "

"That same night, my brother saw you."

Daenerys' mouth clamps shut, her eyes narrowing so swiftly Jon almost misses it.

An eerie calm seems to overtake Sansa then, her trembling ceasing, her eyes intent and watchful. "You stole into the stores that night, took the Red Ausmothis, and poisoned me the following morning at breakfast. Perhaps you hadn't planned it to happen so soon. It was rather reckless of you, after, all. But what other opportunity would you have to so easily cast suspicion on Rhaenys? What other chance would you have to so cleanly get rid of a loose end?"

"What are you talking about?" Daenerys snaps, her chest heaving.

"It was the easiest way to silence Rhaenys. Whether the poison was just meant to induce a miscarriage, or whether you truly intended to kill me..." She trails off, her head shaking. "But you knew Jon would never forgive her if he thought she'd tried to kill me. You knew what would happen if Rhaenys was deemed the culprit," Sansa continues.

Jon tries desperately to ignore the sour shame curdling in his gut at the slow realization.

Daenerys scoffs. "This is ridiculous." Her breath comes uneasily though, her head shaking just a touch too forcefully. "Why in seven hells would I need to 'silence' Rhaenys?"

"Because you're the one who convinced her to kill Stannis," Sansa gets out on a dark exhale, swallowing thickly.

Jon glances to Rhaenys then instantly, but his sister is already staring at Daenerys, jaw tight, brows furrowed. It's a painfully hopeful expression.

"Daenerys," Rhaenys whispers.

It sounds almost like a plead. And he knows that voice. Has known it for years. It's a needful voice – lonely and desperate and grasping.

And suddenly everything slips into place – nauseatingly so.

Jon wipes a hand over his mouth, the breath raking from him.

"Whispering your putrid words of vengeance," Sansa mutters, disgusted, "Preying on her fear, manipulating it into a weapon for you, a finely honed blade. It was easy to convince her to kill him, wasn't it? When you saw how distraught she was?" Sansa glares at Daenerys, lip curling.

Rhaenys takes a hesitant step toward them, her hand reaching for Daenerys' silk sleeve, fingers curling unsurely along the smooth folds. "You... you told me I'd have no peace until he was dead."

Jon feels a wave of sickness rushing over him.

Daenerys whips her sharp-hewn gaze toward Rhaenys. "I said no such thing."

Rhaenys stiffens, her hand falling from Daenerys' sleeve, mouth tipped open.

Daenerys clears her throat, seeming to shake the trembling princess' distress off with a hard look. "You were hysterical. I highly doubt you could rightly recount anything said that day." Daenerys turns sharply back to Sansa. "And the same goes for your brother. He was half-unconscious from milk of the poppy, if I recall. How can you trust any account from him? And why would any of this benefit me, hmm? Stannis could have named his conspirator if Rhaenys hadn't taken matters into her own hands. Why would I want him killed, when we could have uncovered the plot against us with that information? You're weaving quite the tale here, Lady Sansa, but I'm afraid it makes very little sense."

Sansa takes in a heated breath at Jon's side, face setting to near stone as she determinedly wipes away a stray tear. She stares at Daenerys for only a moment, only a brief, stilted moment, and then she bares her teeth, nails curling along Jon's arm, chin jutted like a ravenous thing. "You wanted to kill him because you were his conspirator."

Aegon steps forward then, a hand on Daenerys' arm, tugging her back. "That's enough, Lady Sansa," he grinds out, eyes dark on hers. "You're throwing around accusations now with hardly a shred of proof, and I'll not stand for it."

"Oh, you'll stand for it, Your Grace," Sansa bites out, pushing from Jon fully, standing straight-backed and unwavering.

"Sansa!" Jon hisses, reaching for her, trying to tug her back, but she shakes him off, stares the newly anointed king down.

Aegon's brows nearly hit his hairline, a disbelieving scoff escaping him. "You're braver than I thought," he says. And then his eyes narrow. "Or simpler," he scoffs.

But then Sansa's eyes shift quickly back to Daenerys, closing in on her and ignoring the king. "What did you promise Viserys, hmm? What did you guarantee him when you told him to hold his ships back at Stannis' approach? Was it a chance at the crown? Once your brother and husband and bastard nephew were dead, was that it? Or maybe you promised to annul his marriage to Cersei Lannister?"

"You should stop while you can, Lady Sansa," Daenerys mutters darkly.

"Lady Sansa," Aegon warns again, voice low, though it wavers now, just the slightest.

But Sansa can't stop, it seems. Could never stop. She only pushes forward, glare intent on Daenerys, mouth a cutting line. "Perhaps you should have stopped. Before you ever betrayed your own ambitions."

"And what ambitions are those?" she asks haughtily. "What more could I want, but what I already have? I was already deigned the next queen when I was betrothed to His Grace," she says, motioning to Aegon. "Why would I ever plot treason against my own self?" she laughs, head shaking with it.

"Because Father planned to wed Aegon and Rhaenys," Jon says suddenly, the breath winded from him, a kaleidoscope of thoughts assaulting him. "Because you were about to be set aside."

Aegon turns swiftly to Daenerys, eyes wide, shoulders stiff.

Rhaenys opens her mouth, but no words follow.

Daenerys squares her jaw, a hateful gaze lighting her features, a shadow of flame haunting the edges of her expression. And then she smirks, a dark laugh falling from her lips. "Rhaegar would never shame me like that."

"But he did," Rhaenys says suddenly, voice clogged with tears. "He told me. He told me our union would bear fruit. That we would be able to continue the Targaryen line."

"I am the Targaryen line," Daenerys hisses violently, face screwing into an ugly visage, snarl breaking free, a finger jutted into her chest with her adamancy. "Me. And I will not be set aside so easily."

Aegon swallows thickly, eyes flitting between the three women in unease. His jaw quakes, his breath coming unsteady. "I've heard enough," he says on a shaky breath. He turns to his wife. "Daenerys - "

"Rhaenys told me it was easy to kill a living thing," Sansa says quietly, interrupting the king.

Everyone turns silently toward her.

Sansa keeps her gaze on Daenerys, steady and sure. "She told me 'she' said it was an easy thing."

Daenerys' nostrils flare, her fists curling at her sides.

Rhaenys shakes her head, eyes drifting to the floor. "No..." she says in disbelief, voice cracking.

Jon turns to his sister, reaching on instinct, and then letting his hand fall away. It takes all of him to stay still, to stay steady and immovable. To let Sansa speak her piece. It's an unmanageable mess of remorse and resentment and exhaustion that tangles instead him. And somewhere else, somewhere only he knows, a bit of understanding wedges itself into the light.

Daenerys scoffs again, harsh and jaded. "I don't know what you're talking about," she snaps.

But this time it's Rhaenys who speaks, voice wavering and scared. "You told me I would never be safe until he was dead," she whispers.

Daenerys snaps dangerous eyes her way.

Sansa breathes deeply beside Jon, watching the two women keenly.

Rhaenys straightens, hands curling along her silken skirts – like some measure of comfort, some anchorage. "You made me think there was no other way. That there was no other way," she says shrilly, hands shaking now. "You told me it would just happen all over again, if we were to let him live. You told me I would only ever be safe when Stannis was dead!" she shrieks, crumpling in on herself, tears springing along her eyes again.

"Shut your mouth," Daenerys hisses at Rhaenys, sneer brimming along her lips. "You're only embarrassing yourself."

"You used me," Rhaenys gasps, mouth trembling.

A part of Jon aches at the words, at the realization.

"You used me," she cries, closing in on Daenerys, tears already trailing their tracks down her cheeks.

But Daenerys stands spine-straight, chin jutted, undaunted. "You were a blubbering fool," she admonishes, sneer curling along her lips, and Rhaenys stops abruptly. "What would you have done without me all these years, hmm? What could you possibly have accomplished on your own? You think seducing your desperate bastard brother is some grand feat?" she scoffs.

And the acid bites. It bites hard and unforgiving and loud. Jon feels the burn even as he repels from the words, meeting Rhaenys' wide eyes, and then Sansa's.

But Daenerys doesn't stop there. She steps toward Rhaenys, pushing her back merely with her vehemence. "You're a means to an end, dear niece. A means to a rightful, bloody end, but a means, all the same. You've never been more than that, I can assure you," she sneers at her.

And then Jon's rage is vibrant once more, an overwhelming ache coursing through him. A remembrance. A longing. The sister he once loved. The brother he once needed.

He looks at Daenerys and sees nothing but ugliness. Nothing but vile, unkempt selfishness. Not a House, but a Name. Not a home, but a grave.

A place he never wishes to return to.

Rhaenys stumbles back at Daenerys' visceral attack, a hand going to her mouth.

"You said it was easy to kill," Sansa says, as though in reminder. A blunted whisper that edges itself into their awareness. A quiet splinter of recollection.

Daenerys shifts her gaze to Sansa – abrupt and heated.

"I wonder how you came upon such understanding," Sansa says succinctly.

Jon tastes bile at the back of his tongue, an unexplainable queasiness overtaking him then.

"Who exactly did you kill, to know such a thing so intimately?" Sansa asks, voice like a sheet of ice. A deadly calm.

The room settles into another stilted silence.

And then, "Daenerys," Aegon chokes out.

Jon looks at his brother finally, finds him with his face drawn, his gaze on the floor, a sharp furrow to his brow. The sight throws him.

"Daenerys, you didn't..." he manages through an unsteady exhale, eyes drifting up to meet hers finally.

But she has only her glares left, only her spiteful scowls and cold detachment. "Yes, Your Grace?" It is said almost like a challenge.

Aegon stumbles back a step, head shaking, eyes widening in a dreadful realization. "That morning when – that morning Father died. When I woke and you were by his bed and you said – you said he passed in the night..." he mutters disbelievingly, voice trailing off.

Jon sucks in a sharp breath at the thought.

Even Sansa takes in a shuddering inhale beside him, seeming to not have expected quite such a revelation.

Rhaenys moans low and tear-laced, her face pressed into her palms.

Aegon licks his lips, reaching for Daenerys' arm. "Tell me it's not what I'm thinking."

Daenerys lifts her chin, eyes sharp and gleaming. She glances to each of them in turn, gauging, her breath coming quick and shallow now. "Your Grace, this is... this is absurd."

"Tell me you did not kill my father," he urges darkly, fingers curling tightly along her wrist now.

She tries to yank back, but he holds her tight, peers into her face with something desperate and needful.

"Let go of me," she bites out.

"Tell me!" he demands, shaking her.

"I will not be treated thus," she swears, sneering into his face.

"How could you..." He nearly sobs with it.

"Aegon – "

"He was your brother!"

"He was weak!" she shouts, chest heaving with it.

It comes like the first gasp of drowning – the fear and realization bright and sudden.

Aegon releases Daenerys as though burned, recoiling from her, his face screwing into a wounded disbelief, his breaths coming halted and heavy. "You..."

"He was no dragon," she says in answer, voice deadly calm again. And then she glances out over the rest of them, eyes lingering over Sansa, before her gaze shifts back to Aegon. She blinks. Seems to slip into something dark and unnamable, the barely perceptible curl of her lip like the promise of a hook to a fish's maw. And then she smiles.

It takes the sun from the room.

"So yes," Daenerys begins, slow and even. "I took a pillow to his face and smothered him in his sleep. What life would be left for him, anyway, wounded as he was? I saved him."

"You killed him," Jon corrects vehemently. "Your own brother, you killed him!"

"Oh gods," Rhaenys moans, a hand going to her stomach as though sick, slumping against the desk to keep herself upright.

Sansa lets out a tremulous exhale at Jon's side, and he glances to her, sees the paleness of her cheeks, the tremble to her limbs, and he reaches for her, helps her to a chair not far from them.

Daenerys laughs. It halts Jon as he leans over Sansa in concern, the sound sending a chill lancing up is spine. He glances back at her, his vision already blurred with sudden tears. He wipes at them furiously, hardly able to fathom more at this very moment, only trying to shove it all away, to focus, to keep himself from dropping to his knees from the weight of it.

It takes all of him not to barrel into Daenerys with every ounce of rage still left in him.

"Why are you all so surprised?" she asks shrilly, a touch of delirium to her voice now, her smile stretching wide and sharp-toothed as she raises her hands to encompass the room. "Is this not what we do? Is this not what it means to be Targaryen? We take what is ours, with fire and blood. We take it," she says breathlessly.

Jon glances at her over his shoulder, his teeth clenching as he tries to rein in his anger.

She only barrels on though, heedless of their growing horror, drunk off her own righteousness. "But Rhaegar didn't understand that. He'd grown soft – same as you all. He'd rather kowtow to every lowly kingdom, offering marriage and alliances – compromising – rather than show them the strength of our rule, to put them in their rightful places – beneath us." She barks another laugh, mirthless and cutting. "In fact, the only thing my brother knew how to take was women who were never his in the first place."

Jon's shoulders bunch in his vile anger, a hand curling slowly into a fist at his side, his other stiff along Sansa's shoulder. She reaches for his hand in concern, lays her trembling fingers over his. He takes a breath, glancing down to her in reassurance.

"But I will not be so weak. I am the blood of Old Valyria. And I will take what is mine," Daenerys seethes, her delirium sharpening down into a fine focus, a rush of dark ambition – blossoming out like blood in snow. She glares at Rhaenys, who only stares back at her, tearful and exhausted. "I will not let loose tongues set my plans astray. Nor will I allow failure to go unpunished. Stannis has learned that lesson well enough." Daenerys' gaze shifts to Jon and Sansa, her lip curling in distaste. "And I will not allow for bastard blood to ever supersede my own claim. I am more than my womb. I am no less a queen simply because that bitch can whelp."

Jon nearly breaks from Sansa then, stepping toward Daenerys with a dangerous expression, but his wife's hand at his wrist stops him, tugs him back to her in her need, her body trembling from the exertion, and he breathes deep, tries to keep his vision from flooding red, standing stock still beside her chair.

Daenerys smirks in satisfaction, gaze finally drifting toward Aegon. And then her smile slips, eyes hardening, mouth a thin line. She lifts her chin. "And I will not be set aside by any man. Not even my brother." Her eyes narrow, an eerie, sure calm settling over her. "Not even my king."

Aegon stays staring at her, a quiver of pain flashing over his features. Silence reigns in the room once more, and then Rhaenys slumps back against the desk fully, head shaking as she winds her hands into her hair.

"Guards!" Jon barks.

Four men enter the room at the call, with two of Aegon's Kingsguard.

"Jon," Aegon says weakly, shaking his head, but he's still reeling, a hand bunched in the chest of his tunic, words failing him.

Jon gives him only a single, momentary glance of hesitation, a brother's last, lingering concern, and then his face is steeling into determination, his decision long since made. "Take Her Grace," he commands, the title a sneer on his lips. "For the crimes of kin and king slaying."

Daenerys huffs her indignation. "You would dare!" she shrieks.

"Oh, I would dare a lot worse," Jon promises threateningly. His eyes narrow on hers. "You've no idea what I'd dare to do to you."

"Jon," Aegon manages, clearing his throat. "I won't... I won't allow..."

"She killed King Rhaegar," he cuts in, making sure his voice is loud and even – unequivocally clear for all to hear.

The guards shift hesitantly on their feet at the exclamation, eyes shifting between them.

Jon steps toward Aegon, his hand still linked with Sansa's behind him. "She killed a royal babe," he grinds out, just barely managing to keep his voice from quaking. He registers Sansa's soft sob just behind him, and squeezes her hand in his. "She's admitted to these crimes herself. It is the highest treason one can commit."

Aegon glances to his wife, who glares hotly at him, daring a soul to touch her.

"I am a queen," she grits out, nostrils flaring. "You cannot – "

"You will try her, Your Grace, or I will kill her where she stands," Jon promises vehemently, chest heaving. "Make no mistake."

Aegon's eyes widen at the low threat, and he swallows tightly.

Jon thinks he should be surprised at the surety with which he says it, at the fierceness of his rage. But he can't find it within himself to question it.

Because he would, he knows. He would kill her without hesitation, right here. Right now. For what she's done to them. For what she's done to Sansa.

He glances to his sister, still crumpled in on herself, weeping quietly, a hand over her face.

For the inescapable self-disgust he feels when he remembers the frail pulse of Rhaenys' throat beneath his palm.

Jon tears his gaze away from his sister, settling on his brother instead, dark and unblinking. "Your guards have heard her crimes now. It won't be long before the rest of the Keep knows. Or do you plan to silence them as well? To cover up, once again? Just like our father did. You see how well that served us."

Aegon opens his mouth, closes it, squeezes his eyes shut as he shakes his head. "I..."

"I doubt Viserys would keep his silence concerning her part in this," Jon continues, motioning toward a fuming Daenerys, "Not when he could lose his head for it." His gaze sweeps smoothly toward his aunt. "I suppose it was a convenient failsafe for you, to pin the Lannisters with the crime of his turning, when you eventually killed him, too. Just another loose end, I imagine."

Daenerys steps toward them, scoffing. "You baseborn cur," she spits. And then she swings her fierce gaze on Aegon but he shrinks back, a hand going over his face as a ragged breath leaves him.

"Take her," Jon demands once more, ignoring Daenerys.

She shrieks and rushes toward him, but the guards grab her before she can land a fist. She howls as they drag her back.

Aegon croaks her name, hand falling from his face as he watches her struggle.

"You can't do this to me!" she shouts, shoving at the guards, digging her heels in. "I am the dragon, do you hear me? I am the blood of Old Valyria! The only rightful Targaryen! You can't - you can't – "

"Put the traitor in chains," Jon commands, voice booming over Daenerys' threats.

As she's dragged from the room, Jon feels a tug on his hand, and he glances down to Sansa, finds her leaning over the cushioned arm of the chair, her head in her free hand. He kneels down beside her immediately. "Sansa," he urges, a hand going to her cheek.

She smiles dimly at him. "Will you... will you take me away?" she mutters through her pain.

Jon nods, releasing her hand to slip his arms under her knees and around her back, scooping her up into his arms. She winds her arms around his neck, her head falling to his shoulder with a sigh.

Jon turns to look at his siblings, still rocking from the revelations, faces drawn, mouths tipped open. Rhaenys stares at him with a surrendering sadness he has not seen in years. He gulps back his unease, focuses on the weight of Sansa in his arms. "This isn't finished," he says, eyes flitting toward Aegon.

But his brother – his king – can only shake his head numbly, his eyes to the floor, a hand back over his mouth. And at the sight, Jon realizes how small and lowly he is – has always been.

It's not a welcomed realization, he finds. It smarts keenly, in fact. Like a splinter finally torn free.

(It still aches where it was buried, though, and Jon wonders if it always will.)

The last thing he sees before he turns for the door is Rhaenys's tired weight pushing from the desk, walking to Aegon with hands raised, reaching for him, a tear-laced sob escaping her lips, and then her hands slipping round his shoulders as she tugs her younger brother into her arms.

He does not stay to witness more.

He turns for the door, Sansa secure in his arms.

He does not look back.

* * *

"You said you would not be the king that let House Targaryen splinter to pieces. This is how you do it," Jon says lowly, standing before Aegon's desk, hands cupped together behind him. An even, single-minded calm blankets over him as he stares down at his brother.

After making sure Sansa was settled back at Maestor Gregor's, he'd stopped only to ensure Daenerys was still secured in the cells, before making his way to Aegon's solar.

He will not wait another moment. He will not keep Sansa in this dragon pit another second.

Aegon looks up at him, head lifting from where it rested in his palms, his elbows braced to the desk beneath him.

"Execute Daenerys."

Aegon stands swiftly, swaying with the motion. "You don't understand what you're asking."

"I'm not asking," Jon says evenly.

Aegon narrows his eyes on him. And then he shakes his head, rakes a hand through his fine, silver hair, stalks away from the desk. "It's not that simple."

"It is. It is that simple. She's a kinslayer. And a kingslayer. It's as simple as that."

"She's the queen," Aegon protests, voice rising shakily. "She's... She's the queen, Jon, my wife, and – "

"And a murderer." He stays with his hands secured behind him, shoulders pulled taut. He does not give an inch.

Aegon glances over his shoulder at him, a frown marring his features. "She was threatened, you know that."

"By what? An unborn babe?" he sneers, his ire rising. "Or perhaps a dying man?"

Aegon paces back toward the desk. "Do not ask me to execute her," he bites out, a wet sheen over his eyes, a fist jutted into the desk. His shoulders rack with his heavy breath.

Jon blinks at him, the revelation sweeping through him. His mouth parts, a disbelieving breath leaving him. And then the sneer is back, lips tipping down in a foul frown. "Gods, but you love her, don't you? You actually love her?"

Aegon licks his lips, braces his hands along the desk. He shifts his gaze back and forth along the length of it, as though searching. "She is... she is my wife, and I – "

"She murdered my child!" Jon bellows, his hands coming from round his back, a thunderous step taken toward his brother.

Aegon clenches his jaw, gaze still set to his desk. His shoulders are a thin, trembling line. They cannot carry more.

Jon is shaken by the frailty of him then. He swallows back his ire, reaches for that cold-cut calm, that steady severity, lets it wash over him. "You think she has any affection for you?" he asks derisively. And he would be lying if the sudden stricken look on his brother's face hadn't hurt. But he is well past sympathy. So, he continues. "You think she knows love? Understands it?" He scoffs. "She killed our father, her own brother. What do you think she will do to you, when you've ceased to be anything more than an obstacle to her?"

Aegon slumps back into his chair.

"You cannot pardon her."

Aegon looks up at him, breath heaving from him, brows drawn down.

Jon squares his jaw. "You will take her head, or I swear on all you find holy, brother, I will take it for you," he seethes out, glaring down at him. "And I shall not be clean about it," he promises darkly.

His brother closes his eyes, swallows thickly. His face blanks out, features smoothing into stillness, and then he's blinking his eyes open once more, violet gaze fixed to Jon. He brings his hands to the desk, winds them together slowly and meticulously, steepling his fingers together over the wooden table top. "You've grown bold," he says stiffly – alarmingly quiet.

Jon says nothing, continuing to watch him.

Aegon cocks his head. "Where has all this confidence come from, that you can so easily make such demands of your king?" he asks coldly.

Jon barely manages to keep his smirk at bay. "This very moment, Theon Greyjoy rides to Winterfell with my hand-written missive to Lord Stark detailing your part in Stannis' rebellion against the crown, and how his daughter was nearly killed in the process, only to be poisoned by Stannis' conspirators barely a sennight later."

Aegon's fingers press together tightly, a deep frown marring his features. "My part?" he asks incredulously.

"Your part. Or your wife's," Jon says, moving to lean over the desk, hands planted on either side of it, almost a mirror of his brother. "I suppose my little woven tale wasn't very far off the mark. It matters little though. Whether Ned Stark knows it was you or Daenerys who plotted against his own daughter, who killed the reigning king, who treated with rebels and threatened the peace of the realm – in the end, it doesn't matter which of you takes the blame. Because either way, he will raise his armies and march on the capital. Either way, he will avenge his kin. You and I both know he won't stand by again and watch another lady of the North bleed out in the South," he says meaningfully.

Aegon clenches his jaw, his anger clearly visible in the lines of his face, his flashing violet eyes, but Jon is not deterred. Instead, he relishes in the sight, an unfamiliar sort of freedom playing at the edges of his mind, a new kind of thrill, wholly independent and his. Untethered.

"You would bring war upon us?" Aegon hisses.

"Aye. I would bring war upon you. Upon this whole House. Upon every Targaryen that ever threatened me or my wife," he grits out, nails curling along the wood of the desk beneath his splayed hands. "I would bring a war like you've never seen upon all your heads."

Something flashes in Aegon's eyes, and he purses his lips, stares up at Jon. "You can't possibly think I'd let either of you live, then."

Jon keeps his gaze, his glare never relenting. "No," he says evenly. And it's the truth. But here's another truth: "Which is why you have a choice."

His brother cocks his head, lips a thin line, watching him. It's a bare motion to continue.

Jon takes it as the encouragement he'd been looking for. "Execute Daenerys for her crimes against the crown and against the realm. Illuminate her dealings with Stannis, and her manipulation of Viserys. If you're lucky, and if he was smart enough for it, our uncle would have kept evidence of their correspondence. Leverage that for his life. It will solidify the accusation against her – that she tried to eliminate those with claims to the crown, even against you. Let her take the fall for Stannis' attack, for Rhaegar's death, and then let Sansa and I go North, to Winterfell."

Aegon sucks a slow, heavy breath through his lungs, standing stiffly to face Jon. "And why would I ever let you North, hmm? Where you can plan such treason yourself with Lord Stark?"

"Theon Greyjoy has been instructed to expect a raven from me every two days. Should he ever not receive a raven at such time, he is to deliver my missive directly to Lord Stark. But," he says, licking his lips, staring his brother down, "If you should let us North, let me continue my ravens, then my missive will never land in the hands of Ned Stark. And he will never know of the babe she lost, of the poison your wife fed her. He will never have reason to raise his armies against you, to break from the crown."

Aegon's nostrils flare, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "You expect me to trust you? To trust that once I let you North, you will not do exactly that? Once you are safe and out of my reach?"

"I don't expect you to trust anything," Jon says, "Except your own fear."

Aegon's eyes narrow sharply. "What?" he gets out on a sharp breath.

"You can silence us now, kill us, detain us, whatever it is you're thinking of, and you are guaranteed war with the North. And considering our family's fragile hold on the other kingdoms, I'd wager the Riverlands and the Vale won't be far behind the North. Come to think of it, even the Reach has ties with the North now. Do you think they'd bet on your dwindling power? Or that of the House their precious Rose of Highgarden has now tied herself to?"

Aegon's frown harshens into a thin line, his ire clearly building.

But Jon forges on. "Or you can let us go. Take me for my word. I have never broken it. When I tell you we will go North quietly, I mean it. I will live out the rest of my life in Winterfell with my wife and her family. I will not pursue any courtly station or high appointment. I will not stir rebellion or thoughts of independence. I will stay your loyal vassal, and you make keep whatever precarious hold you still have over the kingdoms. Give us your leave, and I will give you peace."

Aegon curls his hands atop the desk, staring him down, a war waging within him.

"But should you threaten my wife or her family, ever – then I will raise such a rebellion as you've never seen before. I will lay our House to waste, once and for all. I will strike you down from that precious Iron Throne with my own hand, do you understand me? I will bring all the continent down on your head and watch as fire and blood takes you," he seethes out, chest heaving. "Test me, and I will demolish you and yours. Test me, and it will be the last thing you do."

Aegon pulls his hands from the desk slowly, watching Jon with keen eyes, straightening as he watches him. And then he looks off to the far wall, takes a deep, soldiering breath, winds his hands behind him in some semblance of grace – what grace he has left, at least. And then he sighs, and it seems to take all of him.

Jon barely allows himself to hope at the sound, staying stock still.

Aegon's frown eases out, a solemn, blank look overtaking his features instead. He flits a resigned gaze to Jon, turned slightly from him. "You wish to go safely North, and have Daenerys executed for her crimes," he says softly, a quiver of regret lining the words.

Jon only nods, never relinquishing his hard gaze.

Aegon's eyes drift down, another heavy sigh leaving him. "Have you any other conditions?" he asks reluctantly.

Jon doesn't let his breath of relief escape him, instead, drawing back from the desk, straightening slowly, evenly. He clears his throat, nods at Aegon. "Let Rhaenys go."

His brother glances up at that.

Jon sighs, shaking his head. "Let her choose her own path," he says.

Aegon says nothing, only shifts his gaze back to the far wall.

Jon wonders if he's remembering that day. That day seven years ago. A half-dead horse. Seventeen arrows. Rhaenys breathing slow and shallowly, slumped in Aegon's arms, Jon's hand gliding over her hair, his other hand fisted in his lap.

It had been a grey afternoon, the hills rolling past them, King's Landing just a hazy shroud over the horizon. Their men, few and trusted, had stood back an appropriate distance, their gazes turned respectfully.

Jon remembers suddenly, as though from a dream, that Aegon had been the first to cry.

The recollection jars him – sudden and unexpected. He hadn't recalled that detail until just now.

Hadn't wanted to, perhaps.

"Rhaenys..." Jon begins, his voice faltering. He clears his throat, tries again.

(A grey afternoon. Her innocence – gone.)

"Rhaenys never had a choice before. Never had the chance to heal," he says, voice clogged with tears. "When Father covered it up, when he silenced those guards to 'protect her honor'," he grits out, teeth clenching, "He'd done her more harm than good."

"She'd have lost any possible marriage prospects, if word got out," Aegon argues softly, almost as though he weren't truly trying. "You know that."

Jon scoffs. "And what marriage prospects has she now, hmm? You?"

Aegon cuts a heated glance Jon's way and it silences him abruptly – the pain in his eyes vibrant and unpracticed. It's not a look Jon's ever seen on him before.

"I would never – " Aegon cuts himself off, swallowing tightly, gaze drifting down to the desk as he shakes his head. "Whether you believe me or not, I just... I don't want to see our sister hurt anymore."

Jon's mouth parts at the quiet admission.

Aegon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But what can be done for her?" he says brokenly, and it lights a pain in Jon he'd thought long forgotten.

"Let her decide," he says.

Aegon's hand falls from his face, his gaze drifting up to meet Jon's.

Jon swallows thickly, nodding. "Whatever it is – whether that's to marry, to leave this place, to... I don't know. Whatever it is – let it be her choice. Give her back the power to chart her own course, to control her own fate. Stop caging her." Jon swallows back the quake in his voice, his eyes tearing at the words. "This is what we can do for her," he urges.

Aegon looks at him, and suddenly, they are young boys again, each looking to the other for acknowledgement, each hanging on the other's words. He's back in that stable, all those years ago, before he ever loosed his father's horse. Aegon is right on his heels, giddy and reckless as they lead the mare out. And Jon...

Jon has his eyes fixed to the sky – wide and dark and littered with stars.

"I've always wanted to ride Father's horse," Aegon says behind him, his hand trailing the mare's flank, eyes wonderous on the beast.

Jon looks back at him, catching the awe in his features, and his hands loosen around the reins instinctively, suddenly struck with a harsh realization.

For he was never meant to ride his father's horse.

And maybe there's a bit of allegory to the realization, but he's too young to know it just then, too young and earnest and free.

He watches Aegon's hand glide up the side of the horse, a sense of possession to the motion, and Jon thinks he understands then, finally, though it takes him many, many years to acknowledge it.

(A bastard craves and craves, after all. He'd been taught thus, and hadn't thought to ever question it.

Even when he found he wasn't the only one craving.)

"We all have our parts to play," his brother had said, and he had been right.

So, he will be the traitor. He will play the part.

(But the curtain closes here.)

And perhaps this is their tragedy, in two acts. In fire and blood.

(There is no Act Three.)

"Let her go," Jon says again, breathless and winded – exhausted from this struggle, this plight. "Just let her go," he pleads on a hoarse whisper.

Craving has done nothing for any of them. Only reminded them of their loneliness.

(He wants to be a brother, just one last time.)

Aegon watches him with clear eyes, nothing accusatory in them, nothing searching. And maybe he does remember – rolling hills and his sister's breathless, hollow voice –

"Ride."

Aegon clenches his jaw, his gaze swinging away from Jon's. A sigh leaves him, heavy and laden with the past. "I understand," he says, voice soft.

Jon can only nod. They stand like this for many moments, with neither of them willing to break the silence. And then Jon dips his head in a respectful farewell, backing away slowly. He makes it nearly to the door when Aegon's rough exhale stops him, his hand halted mid-reach for the handle.

"How did this happen?" his brother asks brokenly, sinking down into his chair, his head in his hand, and Jon nearly turns back fully then, halting just at the half-turn, still braced for the door and yet – inexplicably tethered to the man hunched behind the desk.

A man he used to know, as a boy. A man who used to be a boy.

(And maybe this is what softens Jon, in the end.)

Aegon brings his other hand to his face, burying his sob in his weathered palms. "How did this happen?" he asks again, voice quaking.

This, Jon thinks. Everything.

This chasm between them, this resentment inside them, this choice before them.

Everything.

How did this happen?

But Jon knows it very well. Has known it from the start, even if they didn't.

He turns fully to his brother, hand falling back to his side. It's alright that he never meets his eyes, his face still buried in his hands. It's alright because, in the end -

"We did this to ourselves," Jon says, a measure of surety to the words – a finality.

Aegon stiffens, his sob choked off on a sharp inhale.

Jon doesn't wait for a reply. He doesn't wait for his brother to tear his face from his hands, to look at him desperately – suddenly boyish and lost. He doesn't wait for anything.

He simply leaves.

That sudden-ripped splinter, that searing hole left in its wake – Jon finds it doesn't sting so much anymore. Because in the end, it is a clean ache.

It is the harrowing ache of freedom – when all the blood has let at last.

#from instep to heel #jonsa #jonsa fic #jon snow #sansa stark #my writing #jon x sansa #jon and sansa #got fanfic

39 notes · View notes

nonsensegnomes · 4 years ago

Audio

There are two people in the room and they are enacting violence upon each other, or, That Moment in PARTIZAN 28.

All credit to Friends At The Table (friendsatthetable.net). You can support their patreon (friendsatthetable.cash), which also has their Best Work™ : Bluff City.

Transcript below the cut!

(Courtesy of vesta, transcriber for Transcripts at the Table)

JACK: Yeah I think Clem just like, turns her head and screams at this person carrying the- the plastic cups and just says like,

JACK (as Clementine): Go below decks! Take your friends with you!

JACK: Like, even at 15 feet away, what is being said to Clem is so embarrassing that she’s just like, everybody get the fuck out of here.

AUSTIN: Uh huh.

AUSTIN (as Gur): Clem, that was unnecessary.

JACK (as Clementine): Fuck you it was unnecessary! Now you want to talk?

AUSTIN (as Gur): I’ve always been available to speak with you.

JACK (as Clementine): Yeah, not to listen.

AUSTIN (as Gur): You need friends if you want someone to listen to you, Clem. You have none. Not anymore.

JACK (as Clementine): I have friends.

AUSTIN (as Gur): Name- name one.

[pause]

AUSTIN (as Gur): Regardless,

JACK (as Clementine) [overlapping]: Sovereign Immunity is-

AUSTIN (as Gur): Oh. It’s not my place. Regardless, there are no amount of friends that you have that will change the outcome of this. I’ve done what I can for you, Clem. Out of… a misplaced sense of loyalty perhaps. There are those who want you killed. You have until mid-week to leave this vessel with all of your things. I don’t care where you go. I would advise not going to Cruciat.

JACK (as Clementine): [dripping with petty sarcasm] I would advise not going to Cruciat. You- is this a funny joke? You making a funny joke? As you wave me away?

AUSTIN (as Gur): They’ll string you up there.

JACK (as Clementine): Mmm. Mhm. Do you like to think about that? The- the enemies of your revolution getting- getting strung up in the streets.

AUSTIN (as Gur): No, which is why I petitioned to let you live.

JACK (as Clementine): Oh, what a gift! You know what I'm gonna do? I’m just gonna- fucking where am I gonna go? You’re sending me off to die.

AUSTIN (as Gur): I’m sending you off to d- you are one of the richest people on this world, Clementine Kesh. Every- if this is what counts as being sent off to die, maybe you’ve gained a little perspective of what it is like to be anyone else on Partizan.

JACK (as Clementine): You took my fucking throne away from me!

AUSTIN (as Gur): You never had a throne!

JACK (as Clementine) [overlapping]: You have probably warmed your hands around its fire. I bet you’ve fucking taken that thing and burned it, can’t stand to look at it.

AUSTIN (as Gur): [frustrated] You don’t listen, we build tables with- [sighs]

JACK (as Clementine): Bullshit! All of that sanctimonious bullshit that we spend, we spend hours workshopping the nitty gritty of this “build thrones, not tables”- are you gonna put it on a fucking banner?

AUSTIN (as Gur): That’s not even what it is. [sighs] Clem. This is not a thing I can change any more than I already have.

AUSTIN: And there is a moment here- so. I wanna communicate there’s a moment here where Gur looks a little bigger. Just like, stands just a little bit taller than we’ve seen them before. And- and the rain is here.

JACK: Yeah. Can it start raining? AUSTIN: Yeah, it’s the rain. The rain is here.

JACK: Just like- lens flare the red lights around-

AUSTIN: Yeah, yeah.

JACK: -the, like red warning lights flashing on the like-

AUSTIN: Uh huh.

JACK: the balustrades.

AUSTIN (as announcement) [overlapping]: All personnel please return below deck.

AUSTIN: You know, that style of-

JACK (as announcement): Heavy storm approaching.

AUSTIN: Yes, exactly.

JACK: We have a computer system that just says stuff like that, it’s great!

AUSTIN: Yeah, it’s fantastic.

JACK: Um. Hm.

JACK (as Clementine): Yeah but there are things you can change, can’t you? You were quite happy to make this fucking- make this fucking boat disappear. You waved your hands, the boat disappeared- as soon as- as soon as I stop being useful to you, I- who took this fucking vessel for you?

AUSTIN (as Gur): I never- I have never underestimated your value or what you’ve done for this cause.

JACK (as Clementine) [overlapping]: You keep saying this, and then you keep demonstrating that you are underestimating it.

AUSTIN (as Gur): Because of what you’ve proven. I once estimated great things for you. I saw the world you wished to build. One more liberal, more fair in- in margins. And I thought, perhaps that world would be better than ours. Not utopia, but a step. And now I know you can’t even achieve that. You’ve had every opportunity! You're right, you did take this vessel. And within moments you’d lost it. Because you have no idea how to build anything around yourself. You’ve no idea how to do anything other than dream of a throne.

JACK: Just like rain, sideways, like plastering- Gur Sevraq does not have hair, do they? Just-

AUSTIN: No, no.

JACK: -a bald metal top.

AUSTIN: Yeah, bald metal hai- head, yeah.

JACK: Plastering Clem’s hair to her head, just bedraggled.

AUSTIN: Ohh. Yeah.

JACK (as Clementine): You know I know exactly what you’re going to do. I know exactly how this is gonna go for you. You’re gonna send me off to god knows where, where I’m gonna get fucking pecked apart by birds in two weeks, just you see. The money will go really quickly.

[MUSIC - “MINUTEHAND. GLACIER. BITTERTASTE.” starts]

JACK (as Clementine): [continued] And then you- you and your friends, are gonna fucking- you’re gonna sit around some little table. Some- some puny little table, and you’re gonna be really cold. And they’re gonna say, “oh, Gur Sevraq! W-w-what magic trick can you do for us now?” And then you’ll say, “the time isn’t right-” and then the time will be right one day, and you’ll snap your fingers and you’ll make something fucking disappear, or something appear, or you’ll let someone see a dog that they’ll get one day. Because you fucking love that stuff! You- you love those moments where you-

AUSTIN (as Gur) [overlapping]: [brimming with anger] Do. Not. Make a joke of my faith, Clementine Kesh.

JACK (as Clementine): Of- of the magic tricks? Of the little golden ball? I’m grateful for the fact that that ball means that I can use my mech a little better. The ball doesn’t speak to me in any kind of way. I don’t think the ball speaks to you in any kind of way other than-

AUSTIN (as Gur) [overlapping]: I took the ball when I killed the Elect that came before.

JACK (as Clementine): Yeah, yeah, we’ve all killed people. You like to stand up there, and you’re going to at that table. They’re gonna say “oh no, Orion’s coming. Columnar’s coming”. Because they will come. Those ships are moving now. I will be long dead before they arrive, and I will be grateful for it. But you’ll stand up, and you’ll hold that little ball up, and you’ll do something and they’ll go ohhh-! clap clap clap clap clap [clapping sounds]. And you will be so fucking happy at what you are able to offer those people in that little moment.

JACK (as Clementine): [continued] I don’t think you worship your god. I think you just like to feel like you are one.

[music ends]

AUSTIN: I push you off the edge.

JACK: [laughs]

AUSTIN: I push you off the edge of the ship. I push you off the edge. Just like, nothing. Like it’s nothing. Like, push.

JACK: Just like- a weightless body-

AUSTIN [overlapping]: Or, Gur tries to do that, I don’t know that that’s Clem- Yeah, yeah it’s your character,

JACK [overlapping]: I think there’s-

AUSTIN [overlapping]: I cannot just do that.

JACK: No, no, it’s amazing! It’s great! [chuckles] It’s great. I think there’s just a moment of perfect shock. Of- of having been- we have seen Clem get outflanked in basically-

AUSTIN: Yeah.

JACK: -every way a human can get outflanked? But I think being pushed from the top of Fort Icebreaker-

AUSTIN [overlapping with Jack]: Fort Icebreaker Prime, yeah.

JACK: By a- by an ascetic monk? [Austin chuckles] Is so monument- like, her mouth is in an ‘O’.

AUSTIN: Right.

JACK: Just backwards, just lift- lifted partly by the wind, backwards off the top of Fort Icebreaker-

AUSTIN [overlapping, crosstalk]: The wind is blowing, the thunder is hitting,

JACK: Lightning strikes.

AUSTIN [overlapping]: Lightning hitting, yeah.

JACK: It’s like fucking lightning hitting the ocean.

AUSTIN: I think there’s a beat.

[MUSIC - “SOFTPOINT. UMBRAL. TOUCHPAPER.” starts]

AUSTIN: [continued] And then I think Gur Sevraq like, the actuators in their face just go like bwaaah, and like there’s a moment of recognition of this terrible thing that- that they’ve done? He’s like, [sighs] and then, like, rushes over to the edge to look over the edge if you’ve hit the water yet? Or if you’re still falling, or?

JACK: I don’t think it’s either of those things. I think- I think with one hand, [Austin chuckles] with the strength of somebody who has been piloting a mech. Who- who has been fighting on the front-

AUSTIN [overlapping]: Had been working out in the cells, uh huh!

JACK: [chuckles] -and has been working out in the cells! Clem just pulls herself up to the up- up to the surface. They are like- they are like- they are like a foot from the edge, right?

AUSTIN [overlapping]: Oh yeah. They’re right against this thing. Yeah.

JACK [overlapping]: They’re like, they are now standing right on the edge.

AUSTIN: Yeah.

JACK: And I think Clem just pulls like a little knife. Like a knife from a- what’s the most stylish and craven place to pull a knife from? Is it the boot.

AUSTIN [overlapping]: It’s the boot, yeah.

JACK: It’s probably the boot.

AUSTIN: Yeah. Uh huh.

JACK: Just pulls the knife from her boot and just goes- just furious, screaming, goes at Gur Sevraq.

AUSTIN: I mean, the thing about Gur Sevraq is we don’t look under the robes very often, but Gur Sevraq has eight limbs.

JACK: That’s bonus limbs! That’s more limbs.

AUSTIN [overlapping]: Bonus limbs. You know, he’s like a spider under there, and each of those limbs ends in like this sharp metal arc you know? And they just- I think that- we just have to- if you’re good with this, just like the most Coen Brothers five to seven seconds of weird violence. Upsetting-

JACK [overlapping]: Weird- upsetting like, asymmetrical violence? Like you know the Coen Brothers, the way they do fights where it’s just like oh Jesus, there are two people in the room and they are enacting violence upon each other.

AUSTIN: Yeah. Uh huh.

JACK: I think Clem- I think Clem shears a plate off Gur Sevraq.

AUSTIN: Right. The robe goes- gets cut open and gets caught in the wind. In fact the wind just catches it-

JACK [overlapping]: Snatches it off, yeah.

AUSTIN: This incredible, robotic spider humanoid body underneath.

JACK: Is this sort of- is this a sort of like, is Gur walking on more than one leg, or?

AUSTIN: They can- sometimes they can- sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t. And that’s part of like when they stand up, they like, push themselves up with four different limbs, you know what I mean? Like really tall, big, like, so much- you know. Eight times- like Thisbe height, if they want to be. But they don’t ever do that. And then- and then yeah, I think we get like, the- one of the blades of his limbs just goes like right through the shoulder blade of Clem. You know?

JACK [overlapping]: Oh Jesus. Yeah. There’s like Clementine-

AUSTIN: Like it’s nothing. Like it’s putting knife in bread, you know? JACK: Clementine goes down, Gur picks her up again.

AUSTIN: Right.

JACK: How do we- what is the- okay. We are-

AUSTIN: I think, is this-?

JACK: What do we do?

AUSTIN: I think the knife is- we’ve stabbed each other. And we’re a foot from the edge of this thing. And I think the thunder hits, and the lightning hits, and the lightning lights the entire sky and we see them silhouetted against-

JACK: Knife goes off the edge.

AUSTIN: Knife goes off the edge, Cruciat’s behind them, you know?

AUSTIN (as announcement): Please- please- all personnel, (laughing) leave the top decks and return-

JACK [overlapping]: And like a claxon going-

AUSTIN: Yeah like, waah! waah! waah! And then the lightning hits again and they’re gone.

[klaxons sounds twice in music]

JACK: Oh Jesus!

AUSTIN: And we just, we see them falling- fall-

JACK: We see them fall. Is there any impact on a piece of- on a piece of Icebreaker as they fall?

AUSTIN: Yeah, definitely right? This is not a clean fall. This is not the- this is not the Broun and Thisbe fall where it’s like loving embrace of two friends who are caring for each other-

JACK [overlapping]: No, the violence of the fight continues on the way down-

AUSTIN: It doesn’t stop- right! They land, they hit, they slam against some outcropping, and then like there’s another stabbing motion.

JACK: A limb breaks.

AUSTIN: Yeah! And then, and then a tumble, and then both of them. Both of them. I- it always had to be. It’s almost- [chuckles] I always- since the two of them met.

JACK: [chuckles]

AUSTIN: Had to be they stab each other-

JACK: And just down. Just down into the water. Blast doors close on the top deck.

AUSTIN (as announcement): All personnel please return below deck.

AUSTIN (as announcement): [continued] All personnel please return below deck.

AUSTIN (as announcement): [continued] All personnel-

#friends at the table #f@tt #fatt #PARTIZAN #PZN #partizan spoilers #like the BIGGEST spoilers. for that ep anyway #partizan 28 #audio #my post #saw no one had done this yet and i HAD to bc it just genuinely makes me so happy every time i hear a second of this audio #it's like being a kid & smashing dolls together until they break it's GREAT #friends at the table spoilers #like i absolutely want to reiterate for anyone not up to date yet it's LITERALLY the last 15 mins of the ep #+ the whole thing is just indescribably better when you hear it in context w/ those 28 eps of buildup

65 notes · View notes

cheri-translates · 4 years ago

Text

[CN] Kiro’s R&S - Youthhood (Eng Translation)

🍒This R&S (少年时代) was part of the Dream Heart Lake event which will unlikely come to EN🍒

Cancelled Kiro’s R&S:

> top experimental subject (by another user)

> stunning young idol

> youthhood ♡

> heaven’s home for children (by another user)

[ Chapter 1]

Kiro sits on the highest flight of steps of TKTS. With the scorching sun directly overhead, he’s queuing to purchase discounted tickets to “Wicked” with Pei En.

TKTS, which sells discounted tickets, is located in the bustling Times Square in New York, USA. Behind it is the NASDAQ screen, and on both sides are shops selling Disney products and all sorts of fast fashion brands. The buildings in front and in the surroundings have gigantic, neat and pretty advertisements.

Among them, a gigantic “The Avengers” poster above the subway is the most attention grabbing.

This is a representation of the era. It’s a symbol of the 20th century, and is also similar to the cyberpunk world of “Blade Runner”.

“I’ve got the tickets!”

Pei En waves the two tickets to “Wicked” in his hand. Pei En is the guitarist in his band. Kiro’s agency formed a band for him, and most of the band members are French locals. Only Pei En is of mixed blood like Kiro - a child from a Jew and an Asian.

“If the performance had gone smoothly, we would have reached earlier!”

They have a final performance in New York as part of their tour, and would have to leave after, rushing to Los Angeles, California.

“This time, I’m going to hide the donuts in an even more secret location so the person who inspects the tickets wouldn’t discover them!”

While Kiro says this, he finishes the donut in his hand.

Donuts from Dunkin’ Donuts are very sticky. Only Kiro can treat such things as delicacies.

His ringtone sounds. With a glance at the number on the screen, he hangs up immediately. Pei En is very curious to know who the caller is. He has expressed curiosity regarding everything involving Kiro, and Kiro knows why.

“Is it that fellow Lawrence again?” Pei En asks. Lawrence is the agent of their band.

“Nope, but it’s definitely a harassment call.”

“It should be.”

Pei En seems to be a carbon copy of Kiro. Aside from his hair not being golden coloured, he is extremely similar to Kiro in terms of bubbliness and openness, and how simple-minded he is.

[ Chapter 2 ]

After purchasing the tickets, both of them return to the agency. Lawrence is at the side, looking through the program booklet for their performance tonight. Lawrence is overwhelmingly ambitious. He won’t give up until he bags a Grammy Award for the band.

“Did you know? Another group of strange people came to look for you again.”

The moment Lawrence sees Kiro, he pulls the latter to a corner. Pei En curiously watches on.

“What kind of people did you provoke? They look like they shouldn’t be trifled with.”

Kiro shakes his head. “What do you mean by ‘they’? Fans?”

When Lawrence sees the innocent and harmless expression on Kiro’s face again, he knows that his questions wouldn’t get him anywhere. Kiro always manages to find ways to conceal himself.

“How’s the preparation for the concert? You’re the lead singer, and all the girls are flocking here for you!”

“I’ll definitely perform even better than usual!”

Kiro looks to be full of zest and in high spirits. He genuinely loves being on stage, and loves how he radiates brilliance. Who doesn’t like seeing fans go into a frenzy over them and be captivated by them? It enables Kiro to fully feel that he is still living on this earth. And that on this earth, there are still so many people who like him...

“I’m guessing you went to buy a souvenir again today.”

Lawrence comes to such a conclusion after glancing at Kiro’s bag. Kiro has a hobby - to buy some souvenirs wherever he goes, whenever convenient.

From Paris to Munich, Zurich to Stockholm, Vancouver to Montreal - wherever he goes on tour, he would buy local fridge magnets and postcards, and he would always buy two sets.

He wants to collect these things, so if a day comes when he can meet her again, he would show them to her, and say:

“Look! This world is so beautiful, and you no longer have to be afraid.”

But till now, he has yet to find her. He remembers her eyes. One day, he will find her in a vast sea of people.

“Did you know that the agency from China has sent someone to negotiate with us? They want you to sign on with them, and the amount they’re giving you is basically--”

Lawrence’s tone is exaggerated. “How are people in China so wealthy!”

“What if I said that I wanted to go to China?”

“Hey, buddy, the band can’t do without you.”

“Haha, Pei En is much more outstanding than I am.”

At this point, Pei En is still watching them. Kiro understands him too well. He’s much too curious. Also, he’s only curious about Kiro, which could very quickly expose Kiro’s hidden identity.

Did that group of people actually send Pei En to monitor him...

He kind of underestimates Pei En though.

“But that fellow is always so absent-minded. God knows what he’s thinking about.”

[ Chapter Three ]

Americans enjoy overstating things. At one moment, they go “only God knows...”, and at another moment, they go “for the sake of God...”. Some people can’t stand it, but Kiro finds it very interesting.

Very quickly, Kiro begins rehearsing with the band. His style of singing changes a lot. When they were in Europe, they mostly played rock music. When they reached America, they started playing country or jazz music.

Kiro likes the southern accent of the keyboardist from California. But Lawrence prohibits it. “The southern accent is the most crude and coarse form of English! Why can’t you learn the way the British speak?”

Lawrence has always favoured people who can speak eloquent British English - to him, only such people are refined and elegant. But Kiro grew up in France. When he first started learning English, he tended to pronounce “ch” as “sh”. Actually, French is genuinely elegant and pleasant to listen to. And English tinged with a slight French accent can make one absorbed in it.

The concert ended smoothly.

The fans are cheering in a frenzy outside, wanting them to perform one more song. But the agent has already told them to leave.

Pei En and Kiro take a car and rush to the theatre to watch “Wicked”. This is the final Broadway show they want to watch, and it was a shame that Kiro didn't get to watch the well-known Hamilton.

At the entrance, that group of fellows stopped him again.

The person standing at the forefront is a Caucasian woman. She walks up to Kiro elegantly and greets him, signalling for the person next to her to bring Pei En away.

“I’ve already given you a response through e-mail, and I hope you won’t disturb me again.”

The Caucasian woman proceeds as usual, showing him an FBI ID.

Kiro grumbles in his heart.

“I swear I won’t disclose the contents of ‘The Avengers’. Even though I’ve already watched it on my laptop, I’ll definitely watch it again in the cinema!”

The Caucasian woman laughs.

“Mr Kiro, you’re very humorous. Even though we know that apart from Disney, you’ve also hacked into Universal Studios and Paramount Pictures, we’re not here to talk about this.”

She continues: “KEY - that’s you, isn’t it?”

[ Chapter 4 ]

Kiro doesn’t respond, his eyes widening as he glances around.

“In order to track down your IP address, we had to destroy four computers.”

“Are you looking for me to make compensation for the computers?”

“Mr Kiro. Ten years ago, you expended no effort to hack into our computers, and left behind a string of mysterious characters.”

The Caucasian woman smiles at him amiably. Kiro’s expression grows serious. Ten years ago, that KEY who hacked into their organisation wasn’t him...

“Ten years later, you’re back again. I think you're trying to provoke us.”

“I don’t have such an intention.”

“Whether or not you do, we can’t let you continue this way. Mr Kiro, this is a serious issue. We are now sending you a sincere invitation, and we hope to work together to do more noble things.”

Kiro is silent. He had previously found a clue leading to his own master. Finding out that he had entered the American FBI website and left behind a series of symbols - he thinks this is message to him from his master. As such, he entered it as well, and found that series of symbols, but until now hasn’t been able to decipher it.

It’s a series of very strange symbols, reminiscent of a new language formed using Latin and Roman symbols. He managed to decipher it a little, and it appears that the series of symbols seem to be pointing him to a location.

And the FBI had found him quickly, sending him an e-mail. It was a solemn reminder that if he was unwilling to be enlisted by them, he would lose his rights to use a computer forever.

“You’ve stated these things clearly in the e-mail, and I’ve already replied.”

“I don't think you have considered the severity of this matter. Mr Kiro, we can detain you.”

"In that case, I’ll just sing in jail then!”

Seeing the displeased look on the Caucasian woman’s face, Kiro continues smiling simple-mindedly.

“I hope you wouldn’t regret this in the future.” The Caucasian woman leaves a final statement that is often found in a script for a classic villain. She leaves with the large group of people.

Pei En walks over frantically, and Kiro walks towards him as well.

“Tell them that I’ve met with some trouble, and will need to leave America immediately.”

Pei En pretends to be puzzled.

“You understand the meaning in my words, don’t you?”

For the first time, Kiro looks at him seriously. During serious moments, he doesn’t smile.

“Where do you plan to go? We can send you to Russia.”

Pei En is no longer smiling. His expression changes, along with his entire aura.

As expected, Pei En is much too similar to him. If Kiro were to leave the band, Pei En could take over his position as the lead singer, and that group of people had considered this fact too.

[ Chapter 5 ]

The face of the little girl surfaces in Kiro’s mind again.

The girl is lying with him, and is all smiles as she looks at him.

“Don’t be afraid. When I’m out, I’ll buy you donuts, okay?”

The girl draws the shape of a donut in the air.

Back then, Kiro didn’t speak. He just stared at the ceiling in a dazed state.

“Don’t worry that I won’t have enough money. My dad will give it to me.”

Kiro remains wordless, quietly listening to the little girl speak.

The little girl struggles to pull on his hand.

Their fingers lace together, the warmth from her palm gradually coursing into Kiro’s heart.

“Don’t be afraid. I’ll protect you.”

Kiro turns to look at her - to look at her determined brown eyes, to look at how the corners of her lips angle upwards. Kiro slowly learns how to curl the corners of his lips from her. It’s the first smile to appear on his face.

Suddenly, the door is flung open. A group of people wearing doctor’s coats enter and drag him away. The little girl watches him in a daze, and he stares back at her. They agreed to go out to have donuts - can they still eat them?

“I want to return to China.”

Pei En shakes his head, alarm in his eyes. “Why? There’s so much freedom here, and I’m the only one who monitors you. And I’m inclined to trust you more now. You won’t betray us.”

“No... I still want to go back.”

Not just for the little girl. The symbols left behind by his master seem to point to a certain location in China... Where exactly is it? And why did he leave the symbols with the FBI? Could it be the place he’s hiding at right now?

No matter what, he wants to solve this riddle.

“All right. I’ll handle it for you as soon as I can. I think you’d have to use a false identity this time.”

“As long as everything goes smoothly, it’s fine.”

“Don’t worry, there’s nothing they can’t do.”

He wants to wait till he returns to China before telling Lawrence about what happened. Lawrence will definitely be extremely frantic. After all, he’s been following Kiro ever since he debuted in France.

And Pei En will definitely be happy. He can finally take over Kiro and become the favourite member of the group, and obtain love from the fans.

Kiro is someone who doesn’t lack love. But he always subconsciously wishes that he could obtain even more love. More and more...

[ Chapter 6 ]

Before Kiro retuned, Pei En gave him materials pertaining to the agency in China.

“Your agent is called Savin. He doesn’t seem as eager for instant success and quick profits as Lawrence. Mr Savin is a very amiable person, and you should be very happy interacting with him.”

“Is he one of your people?”

“I don’t know.”

“You really don’t know?”

Pei En shakes his head. “I rank too low, so I don’t have the right to ask. I’m just an elementary spy.”

Kiro nods, taking his luggage and preparing to leave. He’ll set things straight eventually.

“Kiro, I don’t think you’re transparent. They say that what’s in your heart is easy to guess, which is why they put me by your side. But I think they have underestimated you.”

Kiro looks at Pei En’s troubled eyes, then showcases his signature sunny smile.

“How can that be? Do you want a postcard? When I get to China, I’ll mail you one. I also want to mail them to Lawrence and the members from the band. Treat it as an apology.”

Like Kiro, Pei En showcases a sunny smile. “In that case, we’ll wait for your news. You’ll definitely be at the height of popularity in China.”

“Let’s work hard together.”

“Yes!”

After parting with Pei En, who has been with together with him from morning to night for so long, Kiro lifts his luggage and embarks on an unknown journey.

As what Pei En said, he isn’t transparent. His brilliant smile conceals something underneath, just as the brilliant sun shrouds darkness underneath.

Hidden in the depths of his secrets are things even darkness doesn’t know of. If darkness had a mind of its own, it might think it doesn’t fit with this pure and simple youth.

Just as how everyone think he’s a simple, innocent Kiro, the sunlight casted on him can pierce through him completely, the rays of light refracting onto the floor.

Actually, since a very long time ago, he was no longer a youth...

But, for her sake, he's willing to become a youth again.

“Don’t be afraid, I’ll protect you.”

He once again recalls what the girl said to him.

“This time, I’ll be the one protecting you.” Kiro says excitedly. He stands outside the JFK Airport, his eyes staring directly at the sun.

“I’ll find you, and protect you. I even have a mountain of souvenirs stored in my luggage. I’ll give them all to you. And my purest heart - I’ll give it to you too!”

Other cancelled R&S: here

#mlqc #mlqc cn #mlqc kiro #cncancelled #my emotions went on a field trip while translating this

94 notes · View notes

writer-k-pop · 4 years ago

Text

The Teacher (l.d.k) - Waning Crescent Hotel

Please read this (W.C.Hotel) if this is the first post of this series that you see. Warnings: Swearing, Mentions of death Genre: Angst, Hotel Del Luna AU, Choose your own adventure, SVT x Fem! Reader Staff: Yong (Spirit General Manager) / Jiwoo (Human General Manager) / Soon Bok (Room Manager) / Mun Hee (Front Desk Receptionist) / Shin (Grim Reaper assigned to Waning Crescent) Word Count: Ending A - 4.4k / Ending B - 4.2k

W.C.Hotel | Seventeen Masterlist | Masterlists

After Mun Hee runs away from me, I'm left to search for someone who can give me the answers that I want to know. In the lobby I search everywhere for Jiwoo, Yong, or Soon Bok but they're not around. Deeply exhaling, I begin to search the halls for them seeing as I, stupidly, left my only communication device in the garden. The main floor yields no results, forcing me to search the 100 level.

As I near the 160 rooms, Soon Bok's aggressive instructor voice reaches my ears. I pick up my walking pace and near the room that she's in. 168.

"The left side of the corner goes UNDER the right side." Soon Bok demonstrates with her hands. "No, no, under. UNDER."

I lean against the door frame and, with amusement, watch her get fed up and take the sheet corner from the employee and fold it herself.

"Under." She repeats the instruction and rises to full height. Picking up her clipboard again, Soon Bok turns on her heels and nearly jumps out of her shoes when she sees me standing in the doorway. "(y/n)!" The other employees in the room shoot into an upright position at the mention of my name.

I wave a hand at them, dismissing them back to the duties at hand. "I don't need that. Don't do that again." I tell the employees, letting a tiny ounce of annoyance slip in to emphasize my distaste for the attention.

"Can I help you with something?" Soon Bok asks without malice and steps closer to me.

"Mmm," I hum, "What room did you put Dokyeom in?" I ask, tapping her clipboard.

She glances down for a second, "218."

"How long is here for?" I continue to ask for information.

"9 days." Soon Bok states simply.

I nod, "Good to know." Then I glance behind her at the trying-not-to-be-obvious obvious gazes from the employees, "And I think the manual says left over right, Soon Bok." I say loud enough for the room to hear.

Soon Bok pushes me out of the room, "(y/n), stop it."

I let out a short laugh and notice the employees in the room stop moving, shocked that their cold CEO can let out a laugh. Some of their eyes even grow large. Others don't really know how to process the new information. I, on the other hand, enjoy their confusion immensely.

"Hey!" Soon Bok looks over her shoulders at her mannequin employees, "Get this room ready. And it's UNDER." She instructs with an underlying threat that they all understand.

With another small push, I'm standing in the hall and Soon Bok closes the door behind her.

"Will you stop messing with my employees, please?" She pleads, readjusting her clipboard against her body. "At least give them a few months before you pull stunts like that."

"But where's the fun in that?" I ask, playing innocent.

"You're going to confuse them and send this hotel into a downward spiral." Soon Bok explains, walking away from me.

I quickly catch up to her and match pace. "The Gods would never allow that." I reason. "When I'm gone, they'll keep this hotel running swimmingly. And instead of hearing my annoying voice, you'll get to read instructions off of little notecards left ominously on your office desk." I say with a cold chill.

Soon Bok just blinks blankly at me before nodding her head to the side, "But I won't be able to joke with anyone."

"Mun Hee and Yong will still be here." I remind her.

"Mun Hee doesn't understand half of my jokes and Yong is really busy with the rest of the hotel." She says with a sigh.

"Oh." I'm at a loss for words.

We reach the elevators and Soon Bok presses the 'up' button.

"I'm headed to the 800's, do you want to come with me?" She inquires, watching the number in the little square above the elevator doors decrease.

I shake my head, "No. I have some champagne to finish in the garden."

"Alright, enjoy your champagne." Soon Bok smiles warmly at me as the elevator reaches us.

Now, I watch as the number above the elevator doors increases until it stops on 8. Just one less than the amount of days I have to wait for Dokyeom.

~The Ninth Day~

Thunder booms through my ears, lightening cracks across the dark sky, and rain hurtles at the windows of the conference room. I needed a change of scenery for today's form signing and decided this was a good, quiet place. My fingers drums against the table as I rest my hands on either side of a stack of boring forms with another stack a little further away. I stare at the pen laying on top of the stack in front of me.

Sighing, I pucker my lips and give into my hotel duties. I pick up the pen and start scanning the top paper.

"And if the blah blah blah creates an un-blah blah blah with the blah..." I mutter under my breath. I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

I finally reach the bottom of the page and a small 'x' next to a blank line tells me that's where I need to put my signature. Putting the pen to paper, my muscles pull my signature from memory. Two seconds later, I pull the pen away and reveal the signature that I consider retched but other seem to consider beautiful.

Thunder claps again, this time so close that the walls rumble. I sigh and place the signed paper on top on the other signed papers. Then I work on reading the next one, and it's a stapled packet.

The door opens quietly but I think nothing of it as it's probably Yong coming to check up on me. But it's not Yong's voice I hear.

I hear giggling. A child's giggling. Children giggling. And pattering footsteps.

"Hi." A young girl runs up to my right side with a smile.

"What are you doing?" A young boy asks from my left side.

"Yeah, what are you doing?" Another child asks and as I look around, more children crowd around me.

"Hey, give her some room." Dokyeom's voice says to the children from the doorway. "Be polite. Remember what we learned." The children back away a few steps but stay relatively close by.

I raise my head up and meet his eyes. He smiles brightly with his eyes squinty.

"Sorry, they wanted to come and visit." Dokyeom says sheepishly, "And I couldn't say no to that."

I hum with amusement and look down at the children who all smile up at me with bright smiles. "You can come visit me anyti-"

As I lift my head up to Dokyeom's, a crack of lightening flashes through the room and I'm left alone. Like I've always been. They were never here. My brain just created them and my eyes thought...

I sigh and rub my hands over my eyes. I should've known it wasn't real. I wasn't allowed to interact with his students but that didn't mean he couldn't tell me countless stories about them.

Refocusing, I reread the first section of the stapled packet and trudge my way through the rest of it. On the last page, there's a spot for me to put my signature.

My hand floats just above the paper when the echo of Dokyoem's hand guiding mine takes over.

'You may have better cursive than most of my students.' He chuckles, 'But you'll never have better cursive than me. Let me show you how it's done.'

I remember the smirk he had on his face when I glared at him. The ghost of his chest pressed against my back grows more prominent and I can feel his warmth as he guides my hands through the loops and straights of the cursive of my name.

'See?' Dokyeom's voice whispers, 'Doesn't that look so much better?'

I look down at the paper and notice I've signed my name in the way that Dokyeom showed me. Something I haven't done since I left him. Running my hands over the dried ink, a smile full of warm memories grows on my face.

I set the pen down on the table and hold the papers in my hands while resting my elbows on the table. Tilting my head side to side, my eyes trace over the ink and after all these years, I think I finally see the beauty in Dokyeom's version of my signature. There's a childish vibe tangling with a chic one. Much like his real personality. It's why he was such a good teacher. Playful with the students and polite with the parents.

Flipping the packet to the first page, I place it on top of the signed pile with one hand while the other picks the pen back up.

As I near the bottom of the final form, somebody actually knocks against the conference room doors.

"Come in." I say, while signing the form.

"You're still signing those?" Jiwoo asks, stepping into the room and I set the pen down.

Looking up at him, I smirk, "Actually I just finished."

Jiwoo nods, impressed, "I actually thought it would've taken you longer."

"You underestimate the magic in these hands." I raise my hand and wave my fingers at him.

He laughs out loud, "There's no denying that you have magic."

"Do you need anything?" I ask, thinking that not much time has passed since he gave me the forms at nightfall.

"Just your presence in the garden." Jiwoo says calmly.

"It is not..." I trail off, looking around for a clock but of course, I never set one up in here.

Jiwoo pulls out his phone and shows me the time, "Oh, it is." He smiles warmly and replaces his phone in his pocket.

I push back from the table and walk to the doors. "I guess the storm screwed up my timing."

"Well, you can't see the moon so it makes sense that you lost track of time." Jiwoo comments.

"The moon doesn't dictate that." I argue as I reach him at the doors.

He raises his eyebrows like the answer is obvious, "For you, the moon dictates everything. Including your mood."

I open my mouth to defend myself but Jiwoo speaks before I can even form a word.

"You know it's true so don't even argue. Crescent moons you're in your best moods. Full moons require 2 bottles of champagne and Blue moons require a minimum of 4 bottles." He lists off the reasons and I have to admit, it is true. The moon reminds me why I'm here and I retaliate by swinging my moods to the different phases.

I sigh and lower my head in defeat, "Alright, you win. Just be prepared for the next Blue moon, I will not be so kind." I threaten him.

"If you're still here." He points out and then nods his head towards the hallway, "He's waiting for you."

My head rises and I happily smile, "I'll be going then."

Jiwoo waves goodbye and I make my way through the halls. My feet continue to walk me to my garden while my heartbeat beats harder. By the time I'm a few feet away, I can hear and feel my heartbeat in my ears.

"You are a tree. T. R. E. E." Dokyeom's voice trails out from the garden. "A really pretty tree."

I walk in and find Dokeyom facing the tree with his hands clasped behind his back.

"I think that's the first compliment it's gotten in its entire life." I say while holding back a giggle.

But Dokyeom is startled by my 'sudden' presence and nearly jumps out of his skin.

"AH!" He screams, jumping to face me. With eyes wide and blinking like a deer in headlights, Dokyeom just stares at me.

I cover my mouth with my hands and try so very hard not to laugh.

"Why would you sneak up on me like that!?" He screeches when he's collected himself.

"I'm sorry." I stifle out, really trying not to laugh because I should be feeling kind of guilty but... it's Dokyeom. "I forgot how easily you scare."

"Has it really been that long?" Dokyeom pouts.

I lower my hands and smile sweetly, "I guess it has."

Dokyeom instantly wraps me up in a tight hug and my arms instinctively wraps around his waist, resting snugly against his form.

"I'm sorry for making you wait so long." He whispers into my ear, all traces of his earlier scare gone.

"I'm the one who should be sorry." I tell him, glancing over at the bare tree.

"No way." Dokyeom pulls back and holds me by the shoulders at arms length, "You don't have to be sorry. I guess neither of us have to be sorry." He realizes with scrunched eyebrows.

I hold his hands that are still at my shoulders reassuringly, "I guess I won't be sorry if you won't be sorry."

He straightens up and nods, "Fine by me." Dokyeom then walks behind me and wraps his arms around my shoulders, his chin resting on my shoulder. "Though, you did wait a long time."

"Dokyeom." I warn him and turn my head to glance at him.

"Just saying." He mumbles through a pout, then he wonders, "Where did you go?"

"Back here." I tell him and hang my hands from his arms.

"Just here?" Dokyeom wonders, looking around the garden.

"Just here." I confirm. "Someone has to run this hotel."

"Who's going to run it when you leave?" He asks, giving me a small squeeze.

I shrug, "Whoever the Gods pick."

"Ah, I see." Dokyeom says softly.

I tap his arms to release me and begin to walk forward towards the bench. Dokyeom follows but keeps his arms wrapped around me.

"You know that Yong lady?" He asks as we settle onto the bench.

I chuckle, "Yes, I know her."

"She reminds me of you." Dokyeom says.

"How so?" I question.

"Well," He clears his throat, "She's got this like cool, unbothered aura around her but when you get her talking, I can sense she's softer and more relaxed. Like you. And, and, I told her a joke once and she laughed but then a guest arrived and it was like someone flipped a switch. She changed her resolve so fast." He explains.

"This is a hotel." I remind him, "We have to be on our best behaviors for the guests."

"We? I never saw you out on the floor though." Dokyeom comments innocently.

I give him a questioning look.

He readjusts his posture so he's angled towards me, "In the nine days I was here, I never really saw you out in the hotel helping guests."

"I, I don't really do that work." I stutter. "I'm usually in my office... or here." I nod towards the tree.

"So then 'they.'" Dokyeom giggles.

"What?" I ask.

"They have to be on their best behaviors for the guests." He corrects my earlier statement. "Since you're in your office or here."

"No, I mean, yes, but I occasionally help guests too." I defend myself, stumbling over my words a bit.

"Wish I could've seen it." He puckers his lips.

I roll my eyes before saying, "You know what I wish I could've seen?"

Dokyeom looks over at me with curiosity, "What?"

"You teaching." I nod at him with a small smile.

"Why?" He asks, his eyebrows scrunching together.

I shrug, "Why not? You always talked about how much you loved it and you were always going on and on about your students. So I've always wanted to see you in your element."

"You remember all of those?" Dokyeom wonders, "Like all the stories I told you?"

"Maybe not all of them, but a good majority." I tell him, "I never forgot them."

"Even with 12 others you didn't forget them?" He asks, looking at the bare tree.

I smile and link my arm with his, "You're a little difficult to forget."

"I am, aren't I?" Dokyeom looks back with a playful smirk. I laugh at his ability to switch moods so quickly.

Pulling him closer, it's now my turn to rest my chin on his shoulder. "Will you tell me more?" I ask, batting my eyes at him.

"More stories?" He asks and I nod. "There's not really much to tell."

"I still want to know." I tell him and his shoulders relax while he inhales deeply.

"Alright, let's see." Dokyeom grabs my hand and laces his fingers through mine. "I will say that it was a bit difficult after you left."

"A bit?" I question his wording.

"Okay, extremely." He corrects himself, "But I couldn't really show it in front of my young students. I kept teaching though, for a lot of years. When I retired, I think I was the teacher highest number of years at the school. My kids were nagging at me for years to retire because they could take care of me and their mother but I guess I was kind of stubborn." He chuckles, "Eventually I left the teaching world though."

"You married?" I ask with relief, "And had kids?"

Dokyeom nods happily, "I did. My relationship with my wife took some years but then the kids came quickly."

"How many did you have?" I question, pressing his arm tighter into my chest.

"3 kiddos." He says proudly, "My first son grew up to be a chef. My daughter went on to be a doctor. And my youngest son followed my middle child, he became a doctor."

"You must've been proud. Having children who could support you once you retired." I sigh happily that his children lived comfortable lives.

"I was. I am." Dokyeom says and nods. "Though I never understood how my oldest became a chef. He was always so clumsy and then he went on to choose the career with some pretty big and sharp knives."

"He didn't every hurt himself, did he?" I ask, suddenly worried for a soul I had only ever seen from a distance.

Dokyeom shakes his head, "A few knicks here and there but no, he was never seriously injured from his job. His silliness did cost him a few bruises though."

"Oh no." I breath out but Dokyeom simply laughs.

"Like once, he was playing with my daughter's daughter and somehow got his feet tangled in her toys and face planted onto the floor." Dokyeom recalls, "My youngest son gave him shit about it for weeks. The poor kid couldn't live it down until the next time he clutzed up."

I let out a breathy chuckle and he continues with stories.

"My daughter was so aggressive towards my oldest sun but she was an absolute protective angel to my youngest son." He say with a smile. "But my youngest would always try to combat it and protect her from any and all things dangerous. Including her future husband." Dokyeom suddenly points a figure at me, "And no, I did not tell him to do it."

I raise my free hand up in the air, "I wasn't going to ask." I say with a giggle.

He narrows his eyes at me, "But you were thinking it."

My eyebrows lift slightly. "Maybe."

Dokyeom barks out a small laugh and his eyes sparkle with delight. Just like they did back then when I could pull laughter from him like a magician pulls the scarf from his sleeve. With ease.

"Were there any more stories from your teaching?" I ask, "Those were always my favorite."

"That I do remember." Dokyeom says and squeezes my hand. "Mmm, let's see." He thinks for a couple seconds before telling the story of a school picnic that somehow ended in a large water fight.

I listen in awe and wonder as he retells the tales of his classroom where everything from stuttering presentations to wild test answers were seen. He tells me about how some single parents were super, super nice to him and I have to point out that I'm sure they had some other motive. Dokyeom, of course, doesn't believe me until I point out that the super, super nice single parents were usually mothers. His face of realization is pure gold and I memorize it in a flash, not wanting to forget it.

From school stories, we move to stories of his household. The quiet years when it was just him and his wife to the chaos of raising three kids. He vividly remembers when his daughter went to her first school dance and how fast his heart was beating because his precious princess was growing up. Dokyeom swears he was not that protective but his sons were telling everyone about his 'over'-protectiveness.

Dokyeom says he did a lot after he retired and his stories certainly prove it. He has stories from his simple life, from his experience with grandchildren, and from the outings he had with his friends as they all aged together.

Throughout all the stories, Dokyeom's warm smile never fades and I hold onto that warmth, even when the sun's warmth begins to disappear below the horizon.

"I hope it's going to be warm." Dokyeom shivers and presses closer to me.

"It will be." I say softly. "It's simply perfect."

"Do you think any of my students will be there?" He wonders, staring at the chrysanthemums sitting at the base of the bare tree.

I run a hand through his hair, "Maybe. Depends on how many lives the Gods gave them."

"I hope none of them are there yet." He wishes, "They all deserved to live many, many lives."

"I'm sure they lived a great many." I tell him, "After all, they crossed paths with you."

"They did, didn't they?" Dokyeom lets the thought lift his spirits a bit. "Will you walk with me?" He asks, gripping my hand tighter.

"Of course. I will go as far as I can go but I will go with you." I reassure him.

He nods and we stand up together. With my hand wrapped securely with his, we walk out of the garden. One foot in front of the other and I feel like each step gets heavier and heavier the closer we get.

"You won't forget, will you?" Dokyeom asks but doesn't look at me. Instead he looks straight ahead with his head held high.

"Forget what?" I ask, watching his face closely.

"That I have a mole on my left cheek." He lists off the items he doesn't want me to forget, "That I'm afraid of lady bugs. That I'm a movie nerd. That you can't be trusted with the directions because that one time you got us lost for 3 hours. That I still remember the night you tried to surprise me for my birthday but you tripped over your own feet and spoiled it. That I was one of the 13. And that I love you."

We stop in front of the departures door as he finishes. I turn to him and lift the corners of my lips in a small smile.

"I won't forget." I tell him, "And that means you also can't forget that I love you."

Dokyeom gives a single curt nod, "I would never." He grabs the door handle and swings the door open, "Wow, the sun sets fast." He comments at the darkened sky.

"She's got places to be." I joke and step out, "And I like the moon better anyway."

"Everyone always told me I was like the sun," Dokyeom says, "But secretly, I always did like the moon better."

"I do remember you telling me that." I say as we get closer to Shin and the waiting car.

"February 18th." Dokyeom blurts out suddenly.

"Your birthday..." I trail off in confusion.

He nods, "That's the one thing you need to remember. You can forget the others if you can't remember them but please remember my birthday."

"I remember all 13 birthdays." I grab both of his hands in comfort, "I never forget birthdays."

Dokyeom presses his lips together, "Just, just make sure you eat an apple on my birthday."

"An appl- why?" I'm taken aback at his request.

"You know," He looks at me with wide eyes, "Apples are things you give to teachers and I was a teacher so you should eat an apple every year on my birthday. To remember your teacher."

I glance over at Shin and he also has a look of confusion, though not as obvious as mine. "I-"

Dokyeom giggles, "I was joking."

My confusion dissipates and a small smile reaches my face. I reach out and cup his cheek in my hand, "I'm going to miss you. You and your jokes."

He grabs my hand and presses a kiss into my palm, "I'm going to miss you, too." Dokyeom then pulls me into a tight hug and nuzzles his face into my neck.

I close my eyes and breath in his comforting scent. The one that could always settle whatever storm the Gods had brewed up. The one that would wrap around me on the coldest of days.

All too soon, Dokyeom pulls away and presses a kiss onto my lips. Then he pulls away completely.

"I love you, (y/n)." He says confidently, not caring who may or may not hear.

"I love you, Dokyeom." I smile and wrap my arms around my waist.

Dokyeom smiles happily and walks to the car. Shin waits until every last bit of him is inside the car before he definitively shuts the door. The car begins to drive away and in the back seat, Dokyeom turns around and waves at me. I raise an arm and wave back, hoping he can't see the tears filled with sadness that line my eyes.

Only when the car is completely swallowed by the forest fog do I lower my hand and replace it at my waist. It is then that a white chrysanthemum waves its final goodbye before withering away.

I wait at the forest's edge for a few more minutes and let the tears fall. But the hotel's glow grows bigger and I know the hotel is in full swing. Which means I have more work to do and more loves to wait for.

Return to the Navigation Page (Waning Crescent Hotel) to choose the next guest.

"What's the first thing you're going to do on the other side?" Dokyeom asks, looking towards the setting sun.

I shrug, "I honestly have no idea. What are you going to do?" I throw the question back at him.

"I'm going to try," He emphasizes 'try,' "To find you and win you over."

I giggle, "You might just succeed."

Dokyeom hops onto his feet, "Then let's go test this theory." I stand up next to him and he grabs my hand.

"Not just yet." I tap the top of his hand with my free hand, "I have to say goodbye to my people first. They're technically my family."

"Of course. I always knew they were close to you but I never realized how close." Dokyeom says thoughtfully.

"It's hard to know when you didn't have the whole story." I tell him with a knowing smile.

We walk hand in hand to the lobby where Yong, Mun Hee, Soon Bok, and Jiwoo stand solemnly.

"So this is it?" Mun Hee asks with tears in his eyes. "This is the day you leave us?"

I wrap him up in a hug, only a tiny bit annoyed that he's being so sappy. "Maybe I'll get punished again and be back here by the end of the year." I try to joke but Mun Hee abruptly pushes back from me.

"Don't you dare say that. You better not return here." He says angrily through his tears.

I chuckle, "I won't come back. I promise."

Turning to Soon Bok, I thank her for her service and her amazing work. Something I never did and should've done more.

Next onto Jiwoo. I also thank him for his and his entire family's service then I unclip the bracelet that has held him to this place.

"When you leave today, you won't be able to find this place again." I inform him, "I hope that you'll be able to go and live your life happily."

Jiwoo nods, "Thank you for letting me work with you. I won't ever forget you."

I smile sadly, "You will. But thank you."

Finally I reach Yong who is sniffling and trying so very hard not cry.

"You'd think after all these years of waiting that I'd be prepared for this day." She says through sniffles.

"Thank you, Yong." I rests my hands on her shoulders, "For everything. Thank you."

With lips pursed together, she leans forward and wraps me in an unexpected hug. But I soon wrap my arms around her and squeeze her tightly.

We pull apart after a couple seconds and I wipe the few tears that have escaped from her eyes.

"Keep this hotel running beautifully." I tell her before Dokyeom grabs my hand again.

With final waves of goodbye, Dokyeom and I walk out to the foggy forest that will take us to our resting place.

At the edge of the forest, Shin stands next to an idling car, a somber look on his face.

"(y/n)." He says when we reach him, "It has been an honor working with you. I wish you both a peaceful rest." Shin bows his head and I pat his arm.

"The honor was mine." I tell him with a smile. Now the tears start to line my eyes as the realization fully sets in.

I'm free. I served my years of punishment and now I'm free to let my soul rest.

I turn back towards the hotel and look up to the top where the rooftop patio is outlined with bright string lights. Then to the mid floors where random room lights are turned on, some guests staying in while others opting to experience the hotel's many services. Then to grand base where guests would be milling around, waiting their turns to leave this world.

"(y/n)?" Dokyeom softly asks pulling my attention to where he sits just inside the car, "Are you ready?"

I take one last quick look at the hotel before turning away from it. "Yeah, I'm ready. Let's go."

I lower myself into the car and Shin securely closes the door after I am completely inside. As the car begins to drive forward, Dokyeom securely grabs my hand and I let his warmth guide me towards our final destination.

In the garden, the final chrysanthemum withers and dies so that no more stand at the base of the bare tree.

22 notes · View notes

saberdeity · 4 years ago

Text

𝐈𝐧𝐣𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 ⇾ 𝐍𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐚 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐟𝐟

pairings ⇾ natasha romanoff x genderneutral reader

summary ⇾ nat gets hurt on the mission and the reader stays with her the entire time

warnings ⇾ mentions of injuries, battles, anxiety and worry

a/n ⇾ so ive just hit 700 followers 🥺!! thank you all so so much, I appreciate every single one of you and your support and I love you all! I've had this in my works for a while and I guess a sort of celebration I thought I'd share it with you all! I hope you like it 🥰🦋

*not my gif, full credit goes to the owner*

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

Natasha Romanoff was brave. She did everything in her power to save everyone or anyone even if it meant sacrificing herself in the process. Her relationship with you only fueled her need to protect others, more importantly you.

Your relationship with Nat was everything you could ever wish for. She was kind, beautiful, caring and above all she made you happy and you made her happy too. It made missions slightly harder, although you agreed to not let your relationship influence your job you couldn’t help but keep an eye out for her every time you went on missions together.

This particular mission was going to be difficult, there were so many components that could go wrong and even though the entire team was assigned you couldn’t help but worry more and more that something bad was going to happen.

You were stood on the jet waiting to arrive at the target base, your foot bouncing against the floor as you picked at your fingernails, a habit you had from a long time ago. You felt a pair of hands rub over your shoulder blades reassuringly. You melted into her hands, knowing exactly who it was just by the scent you could smell.

“What’s troubling you my love?” She asks curiously.

“Nothing just have a bad feeling that’s all” You reply softly, turning to give her a convincing reassuring smile.

“Everything’s going to be fine baby, we’ve got each other’s back” She smiles placing a soft kiss to your cheek as Steve announced we were at the drop off point. You kissed her cheek softly before making your way off the jet, getting into position.

The fight was long and hard. The team underestimated the amount of Hydra agents in the base and no matter how hard you tried, they just kept coming and all you wanted to do was protect Nat. Everyone was overwhelmed, You, Nat and Steve were all on the one side trying to clear your sector before progressing to help the next.

You looked over to Nat taking down the agents around her until she was hit by a blast, throwing her against the tree, knocking her unconscious. Your heart rate sped up to an ultimate high, anger flowing through your veins as you took down all the agents around you quickly. Instantly, you ran over to him, holding back the tears as you looked at her injured state. You ripped apart your shirt, wrapping it around her leg and using it as a makeshift tourniquet to stop the bleeding in her leg.

“Nat’s down, unconscious but breathing we need to get her out of here now” You shouted into your COMS, the replies not registering in your brain as you held pressure on her other wounds.

“Everythings going to be okay baby, I’ve got you” You whisper repeatedly panicking completely at this point as Thor arrives to help evacuate her to the jet.

You continued to hold pressure on her wounds the entire jet ride back to the tower, nothing was really registering in your mind, all you could think about was keeping her alive. You followed the gurney all the way to the OR floor, only leaving her when they said you couldn’t go any further. You watched as they wheeled her into surgery, complete panic and shock flooding through your system as your head fell forward.

You looked down at your hands, her ruby red blood covering them entirely, the sight alone making you want to throw up. Your hands began to shake as the worst cases ran through your mind as your usual calm and rough exterior completely shattered at the thought of losing the love of your life. You were snapped out of your trail of thought when you felt a hand on your shoulder. You turned your head, meeting Steve’s worried eyes as you let the tears fall. He wraps his arms around you tightly, reassuring you that everything was going to be okay and no matter how much you wanted to believe him until you saw Nat you just couldn’t.

The next 5 hours felt like a lifetime, you couldn't sit still and it was probably exhausting for Steve as he watched you get up and then sit down then pace for a little while. It was the waiting you couldn't stand. You’d never stood up further than when the surgeon came out and explained Nat was okay, you thanked him continuously and practically sprinted to her room when he told you the number.

You let out a sigh of relief when you heard the monitor beep after each pump of her heart. You were instantly sat at her side pulling up the chair and intertwining your hands with hers. You didn’t know when or if she was going to wake up but you prayed every minute she would.

It had only been a few hours and you were still anxiously waiting by her bedside, telling her small little funny stories in the hope that she could hear you. You didn’t realise how tired you were until your head hit the bed beside her, your hand still in hers as you fell asleep.

A hard squeeze of your hand woke you up. Your eyes adjust slowly to be met with Nat’s beautiful grassy green eyes. You smiled widely, cheering a little when you saw her awake and okay.

“Oh my god, you're okay!” You said softly, happily getting up to place a soft kiss to her lips, not letting yourself cry again.

You sat back down, kissing the back of her hand as she wiped away the tear that accidentally fell down your cheek.

“I’m okay sweet girl, I'm here” She whispers as you let the tears fall freely.

“I’m so happy you’re okay, I love you more than anything” You whisper in reply, saying I love you for the first time.

“I love you too” She replies softly as you smile widely, moving to kiss her lips once again.

Nat had to stay in for a few more days, you stayed by her side the entire time, getting anything she needed and doing everything she wanted you too. Of course she tried to rush recovery, she just wanted to help in every way possible but she couldn’t argue with you when you told her to stop pushing herself so hard.

You had each other's backs and that's all that mattered.

Taglist: @multixfandomwriter, @cherrychris, @sw33tgirl,@averyhotchner, @aayaissaa

#natasha romanoff #Natasha Romanoff x you #natasha romanov #abbeyswriting🥰#marvel imagines

10 notes · View notes

neednothavehappenedtobetrue · 3 years ago

Text

so! the Fun Thing I am currently writing:

you know Isabelle if you've been here a while, but this is Slightly Different Nearer Future Worse Political Situation Isabelle, so I will describe her as she is in the relevant thing

-Isabelle is the wife of the American president. she is a wheelchair user.

skills: being Just So Fucking Smart, deliberately hiding her intelligence enough that people think she is just regular smart and underestimate her, writing speeches and other political media, poise in public, manipulating people by talking at them.

weaknesses: remembering that she personally is a human being with needs and feelings, knowing what her her feelings are, communicating about her feelings instead of keeping everyone six feet away behind a facade.

how is she so good at Making Other People Have Feelings but so very bad at "knowing that she even has any of them?" because sometimes it's like that.

but, she is married to Robert, who is President. if they were not married, he would be like, maybe a congressman? he is not stupid at all, he is a competent man and would be a competent politician on his own merits, but also, power couple.

-he is somewhat better than Isabelle at coming off as warm and genuine because he is so incredibly warm and genuine all the time that you can't think he's anything else. she comes off as "nice, but a bit reserved."

-conveniently, he has noticed that Isabelle sometimes has feelings and needs. often, he can predict what they are, in the way of people who have been married for like twenty years. also, because they have been married for 20 years he is by now a Level Twelve confidant and gets to be told what most of them are.

-even he does not know how smart she is, though, really, in a few specific arenas. she realized when she was very young that people do not like when you are smarter than they are, and adjusts accordingly, automatically.

-one of the first things Isabelle learned from watching people is that people hate it when you watch them, so she stopped letting them know what she saw, but she didn't actually stop watching.

-she combines "being that fucking smart" with "not realizing that her husband will not cringe away from her if she tells him" because, again, sometimes it's like that. you learn shit young and it sticks with you and nobody tells you different because they don't know what they'd need to tell you.

-Robert is probably, at the start of the story, the person who has the second-closest idea of how smart Isabelle actually is, and he's still off by enough that it would startle him a little.

-Theo, their dear friend, is the closest to knowing how smart she is, because Theo watches people in something like the way she does, and sees it. Theo doesn't do feelings either, though, so Robert ends up closer to understanding her overall.

-Robert is as close to her as anyone in the world, and they love each other so much. they are casually affectionate in public. they have a daughter and a life and nothing's perfect, but it's good.

-and then Robert is shot.

-he is shot on a stage. the people who shoot him take Isabelle and put her in a basement for a while, with her daughter, until Theo, who has a specific skillset, gets them out.

-ever after, Theo puts little GPS things in all of her jewelry. the people who kidnapped her let her keep her wedding ring, and if she'd had a tracker in it, she wouldn't have spent eight days in a basement.

-liberated from the basement, she flies to Rio, because it is a place that has agreed not to turn her over to the shitty people who have taken over America

-there has been a coup. lots of people are dead.

-Isabelle throws herself into caring for her daughter and running the counter-revolution, talking to the international press, making deals, smuggling things and people in and out, etc. she is doing a lot of good work. she is doing her goddamn best.

-she outsourced all of her "knowing and caring about her own feelings" and "generally making sure she is taking good care of herself" to her husband, who was good at that.

-he's dead now, for which reason she has maybe more feelings and related needs than she's ever had in her life?

-she knows she has a whole PTSD, she knows that early on. she is very smart, her trauma is huge and obvious, but, like, you can just sort of ignore that and hope it goes away, right? probably

-it takes her longer to know she is an alcoholic, because that one is harder to know. less obvious, at least to her. but she is, very definitely. she gets bad very fast.

-most people don't notice, though, because she keeps it behind the wall between her and most people.

-so she lives in Rio, and she works, and she drinks.

Isabelle is not actually the narrator of this story, though. the narrator's name is Sasha. she was a Russian diplomat living in America.

-skills: compassion, style, a few languages, being passionate about the places and people and things she loves, falling in love easily and completely.

weaknesses: keeping her temper, keeping her composure, not calling people motherfuckers when they really, really are but also it would be disastrous to do so, knowing what her own feelings are,

-did we see one of the things on that second list on an earlier list?

-also, do some of those weaknesses seem like they might be problems for someone in her line of work (diplomacy, a field in which it is often useful to be diplomatic).

-it's fine, she's charming and pleasant and smart enough to compensate for the things she is not as good at.

-also, she doesn't generally care about most politics stuff enough to get to the "this person is a motherfucker and if I do not tell them I will explode and my entrails will land on them in the shape of the word "motherfucker," stage with work people.

-she might have a different job if her whole family wasn't prominent politicians, but.

-her brother is an asshole, but, like, also he is her twin brother and she loves him. her father is an enormous fucking asshole and also dead now, and also, fuck him.

-she likes traveling and coffee and her dog and a series of women who she tries to start casual with and then either gets bored of or falls in love with and then they are like "you are, um, maybe a little intense?"

-she likes living in America, with good friends and a job she enjoys and does reasonably well.

-and then the president is shot, and there is a coup.

-her brother calls her back to Russia immediately, arranges a flight for her before any of the rest of his staff because, twin sister, obviously. they learned to be protective of each other young, Leo and Sasha.

-she spends very little time in America post-violence, when things are different and unsafe. she was there for about twelve hours before she got on a plane.

-she thinks this means that she did not experience a trauma, will not experience any symptoms worse than "occasionally being a bit sad" and does not deserve to complain to anybody about it.

-fortunately, she has some people in her life who are immediately like "you are actually having so many problems right now. did you know that when shit like this happens, there is enough trauma happening for everyone to have seconds? even if it could be worse? also, your trauma symptoms will not go away if you ignore them or pretend not to have them, so, like, therapy?"

-it would be good if Isabelle had more friends like that, but, unfortunately, most of her close friends are dead now.

-sasha, meanwhile, goes to therapy. she discovers that, if there is a minimum threshold on how bad an experience you need to have had before you call it PTSD, she is actually well past it. huh.

-also, maybe the situation with her dad was, uh, worse than she may have thought? him dying did not magically erase his effect on her life, which is unfortunate.

-sasha knew Isabelle barely, pre-assassination. not well, but she'd met her a few times. she was pretty and loved her husband and daughter and seemed smart. a little reserved, maybe.

-Sasha cries when she finds out that this woman and her daughter are still alive, but mostly because if another two people were dead, and one of them a seven-year-old girl, that would be worse, and there is not room for much worse in her heart.

-she cries mostly because her brother is in nearly the same political position as the dead man was, and if his wife and kids were missing, she would lose her goddamn mind.

-she tries not to think about what would happen if her brother was shot. he is an asshole, but he is her brother.

-her brother, meanwhile, has to deal with these fucking assholes who are running America now. god, they're just the worst, but they do seem to be in charge now, so, like, needs must.

-he does not allow sasha to do diplomatic work with them, because he knows her. he has seen her explode before. she has never exploded at work, so he has trusted her up to this point.

-she is very much already at the "if I do not call these people out on being motherfuckers, I will literally explode and my entrails will call them motherfuckers" stage with these people.

-which is fair, honestly, it's not like she's wrong, but also, she is not in charge of negotiating with these people.

-there is a counter-revolution brewing, folks trying to get America back to normal. several governments are offering a certain amount of clandestine support, because it's not great for the global stage having America just sort of, collapse a bit. also, fuck these people entirely.

-so Leo assigns Sasha to contribute to the revolution in a short list of prescribed ways, and keep him in the loop while allowing him just the thinnest possible veneer of plausible deniability.

-boy, if he has known what was going to happen later, he would for sure have assigned somebody else!

-Isabelle is running the counter-revolution from Rio, so Sasha and Isabelle have calls about once a week for a year, mostly about work.

-Isabelle is, at the start, blandly professional, but Isabelle has very few people to really talk to, as herself, the human person, to the point where sometimes she forgets the human person exists.

-she doesn't quite warm up to like "genuine closeness" but she warms up to "social chatting" as part of the work calls.

-it is hard not to warm up to Sasha, when she likes you. she is easily friendly and kind. she likes Isabelle a lot.

-like, the normal amount. the normal amount to like your work friend, for sure, definitely. she spends the most normal amount of time thinking of ways to make Isabelle smile, because Isabelle doesn't smile much.

-Isabelle drinks much too much, and Isabelle stops drinking, and Isabelle's doctor is like "is this a situation where you could get a less stressful job?"

and Isabelle is like "if you ask me that again I will get a new doctor immediately, who is less of a fucking idiot. do you have a non-idiot suggestion?"

"okay! cool and good! maybe make some friends, or try a change of scenery?"

-Isabelle's not-dead friends are Theo, and technically it is possible that some of her old friends are still alive, in America, and just can't get in touch with her because of everything. she likes to think this. it's not making anything worse to think it, so she allows herself to.

-Isabelle's friends who she can speak to are Theo, end of list.

-so, change of scenery? it might be a good idea anyway, Brazil is getting tired of having those dipshits in America yell at them. governments are not always thrilled about the idea of her living and working within their borders. they are glad she is living and working, but not in my backyard.

-when she mentions to Sasha that she is looking for a new place to live, she is not fishing for anything, she is just chatting.

-Sasha immediately says "why don't you come to Moscow? you'll be safe here. I can bully my brother into allowing you to be here and helping you to stay safe. it's nice here!"

-she says this for friend reasons, obviously, and also strategic revolution reasons, the latter of which she uses to talk Leo around.

-Isabelle comes to Russia. she is amenable to weekly dinners with Sasha. Sasha is her phone chatting work friend. maybe Sasha could one day be her real life actual friend. that would be good maybe.

-the second week, Isabelle is sitting on Sasha's couch, with her feet up on the ottoman. they have had a nice dinner and are watching a documentary and chatting in English.

-at this point, Sasha goes "oh, fuck. I do not want to be real life friends with this woman, actually. not just friends. she is so beautiful and smart and I would so much like to kiss her."

-Sasha, you have been experiencing this feeling for like at least three months. it did not just pop into your head the minute she put her feet up on your furniture. you moved her to fucking Russia because you had so many big feelings. it just got loud enough for you to notice.

-is it u-hauling to move someone across continents to live in the same city as you? how about if neither of you knows you have feelings yet?

-Sasha will realize this several months later. right now, she thinks she has acquired a new feeling.

-she dithers about this for a bit, without telling anyone, because all of her friends would be like "well, that's a bad fucking idea."

-which, like, she is not stupid. Isabelle is a martyr's widow who is both grieving still and also doing a lot of work on the public image of being a martyr's widow. good work, important work, that helps

-it would have to be a very secret thing, maybe could never be anything else. her brother would be mad about it for politics reasons.

-if Sasha asked her out, Isabelle could very easily say "sorry there are too many politics reasons" or "sorry, I am heterosexual and/or very sad still."

-it would be a very bad idea in many ways!

-Sasha knows she is going to do it anyway. she does not always identify her feelings for a while, but once she does, she commits to them.

-but also, if Sasha causes Isabelle to experience any additional bad feelings, or to not want to chat with her anymore, Sasha will explode.

-this time her entrails will spell out "sorry."

-the solution here is to slow-play it a bit, she thinks.

-Sasha is not... super good at slow-playing it.

-she opens with what she thinks is a very casual, normal question about whether Isabelle is seeing anyone, or might like to. carefully worded to be normal and subtle and friendly.

-there are two problems with this. one is that Sasha's facial expressions tell you everything she is thinking all of the time. another is that Isabelle is uncannily good at facial expressions.

-it is hard at the best of times to ask the relationship status of a person you have feelings for in a super chill super casual very normal way that will not raise suspicion.

-when you have all of the natural deceptive skills of a Golden Retriever and also you are speaking to someone who reads everyone she meets like a book, well, you're just not going to pull it off.

-the subtext behind the question is "god, I would so like to kiss you, but only if you're cool with that?"

-Isabelle absolutely knows this right away.

-she wasn't expecting this at all. she'd like to give it some thought.

-in the meantime, she tells Sasha that she is not totally disinterested in the idea of dating again ever, but it would have to be very private for a while, if she did date again. she weaves in a little bit of information about her romantic history, in order to tell Sasha that she is bi.

-she thinks she has been about as unsubtle as it is possible to be, because she sometimes forgets that most people aren't her or Theo.

-Sasha thinks she completely nailed normal and casual. she thinks Isabelle's response was very normal and casual also, while also containing a lot of useful information.

-the orientation thing was going to be Sasha's next question, but she couldn't think of a way to be like "hey hello are you interested in women?" that did not tip her whole hand, so it's great that Isabelle happened to volunteer that information while they were both being normal and causal.

-Sasha, your whole hand is already tipped. you took out a feelings billboard. she knows.

-meanwhile, Isabelle gives it some thought.

-it's not a terrible idea, really.

-well, it is, in lots of ways, but there's no risk-free way to pursue any kind of relationship, especially when you are very famous for being widowed and people want to kill you.

-no matter who she gets involved with, some people are going to be Big Mad about it, and it will make some of her work harder.

-now, given that there is no safe choice, is Sasha the safest possible choice? absolutely not, not even close, but you don't get into relationships by triangulating the safest option.

-Isabelle is lonely. she is not great at assessing her own feelings, but the thought has occurred to her before. and when someone basically took out a feelings billboard at her, but in a respectful way, well, the thought occurred to her a bit more.

-the idea of spending the next several years or maybe forever being single and married to the Mission kind of sucks, actually.

-besides, Sasha is kind, and easy to talk to, and quite pretty. she does not seem like the type to insist on too much too fast.

-this is true, that is not the kind of intense Sasha is. she just sort of falls in love at you very quickly, which not everybody wants.

-but the only way Isabelle has ever been loved in her life is "very intensely" by a man who also saw her reservedness and was comfortable with it until it gave way around him. so that's fine.

-a few weeks later, around when Isabelle is done thinking, Sasha decides it is next move time.

-she has used up all of her very normal conversational gambits and has been debating between "just telling Isabelle about her feelings, or, like, some percentage of her feelings, the normal amount of feelings to have for a person you have not kissed." or "some kind of very casual very normal very chill physical contact."

-Sasha so wants to be a chill, casual person. unfortunately, she just isn't.

-she puts her hand on Isabelle's shoulder, and Isabelle settles into her a bit, makes herself comfortable.

-they sit like that for a minute.

-Sasha is thinking "is this like, chill, normal, platonic half-cuddling or is she trying to give me a hint?"

-Isabelle has never been less subtle in her life and would be shocked to know that this is being read as "a hint" rather than "a very overt declaration of interest."

-Isabelle, who thinks everyone's intentions are fully on the page now, says "if I ever tried to be in a relationship again, it would have to be very private, at least at first. it would have to be a secret for a while, which I know isn't something everyone would be interested in. also, "being very open with people" is not part of my skill set really. I do get there, but sometimes it takes me a minute."

-her frame of reference for "the normal amount of open to be with someone you like" was Robert, who knew he was going to marry her three months in, so she might not be calibrating this perfectly.

-she is now sitting on a couch half-cuddling with Sasha, who also falls in love very fast.

-Sasha listens to this information about Isabelle's relationship needs and thinks "that's probably a large hint, right? like, almost definitely. I am pretty sure. also, all of those things are fine and I basically knew them already, so that's good. this is going really well. what do I do now? should I be like "all of those things you want in a hypothetical relationship sound good to me" or should I save that for next week, because of the slow-playing I am doing here?"

Isabelle, meanwhile, is thinking "well, I have been as explicit as it is possible to be. if she didn't want to do something secret and careful and patient, she would remove her arm and stop half-cuddling me."

-so she sits for another minute or two, to give Sasha time to make a decision.

-Sasha does not move her arm. even if she knew what Isabelle was actually thinking, she wouldn't move her arm.

-at this point Isabelle kisses her, which she was not at all expecting.

-like, it was feeling like a more plausible future option, but today? right now? not that Sasha is in any way complaining.

-they kiss for a bit, and then Isabelle briefly removes her mouth from Sasha's mouth and looks at her and goes "wait, are you surprised by this?"

and Sasha goes "a little bit, yeah? I mean, this is great, I am very pleased with this outcome, but I wasn't sure if you were..."

later, Isabelle will be like "please tell me in what way I could have been at all clearer" and Sasha is like "by using words with your mouth to talk about your feelings?"

"I did that," says Isabelle, bewildered.

"no. "if I was going to kiss somebody I would need to take it slow and keep it secret" is a logistic. "I like you and want to kiss you" is a feeling."

"why would I talk to you about kissing logistics if I didn't want to kiss you specifically? just as a hypothetical? is that a thing people do?"

neither of them is entirely sure. but also, they will have this conversation later, because right now is kissing time.

#the ghost and the machine #is the best tag for this #but it's also definitely an AU #maybe it will get its own tag #update it has now received it's own tags #you look like a photograph of yourself #before you came into my life i missed you so bad

5 notes · View notes