#but does not worry about the assassination being botched . and i also thought

[mohntilyet]

Wait is the middle picture from those three sketches that one scene from the wigmaker job?

yes! it's this specific passage where lucanis is just seething with rage and trying to keep a lid on it, and illario's a stablising, comforting presence. BROTHERS!!!!! <3 though i chose to draw his hand on his shoulder rather than his arm i guess. artistic liberty!

[anywaymurder]

Except for all the Murders

Chapter 49 (aka the First Ever Offline Session spread out over two glorious days!)

Ara goes to ask Seyrilipsys, Findire’s bodyguard, if she’ll join him for the watch, silently supervised by Kevin and Annori just to make sure he doesn’t botch yet another social interaction. She is very on edge (understandably so, them being stuck on a ship with a killer on the loose) and keeps a dagger pointed at Ara through a tiny crack in the door for the duration of their conversation. Eventually she is persuaded to help out, provided she gets to stand right in front of Fin’s door the entire time. Returning to the dining room, Annori jokes that maybe she’s jealous of Fin and Ara. A: ‘No, I don’t think so. … Also there’s nothing between me and Fin!!’

Meanwhile, Remington makes everyone some sandwiches for their all-nighter. They then decide to get some sleep ahead of time, so they won’t be exhausted in the morning. 

Annori and Kevin decide to huddle up in one room and build a blanket fort. While grabbing some blankets from her room, Annori runs into Remington and invites him to join them. He’s touched, but doesn’t want to intrude on their nice moment together and retires to his own room. 

To make sure they don’t miss anything, Ara stays up and patrols the hallways, since he needs less sleep. He finds Tristan doing the same. The paladin knocks on Kevin’s door, and is surprised to find them asleep so early. They suddenly realize they should probably have told Tristan about their exhaustion-avoidance plan, but he notes that he doesn’t have time to sleep anyway, since he has work to do. In the hallway, Tristan asks Ara why he’s not sleeping. A: ‘Do I look tired to you?’ T: ‘...not particularly?’ A: ‘So why are you bothering me?’

After six uneventful hours, the party wakes and heads to the dining hall for dinner, while Ara goes into his room to meditate. During their meal, they watch Lady Featherbottom approach Tristan and the two have a conversation that seems to turn heated. Trying to overhear, Annori goes to stand a little closer to them with her plate of food. She isn’t quite as inconspicuous as she intended, but all Lady Featherbottom does is raise an eyebrow before turning back to the paladin. Once again, she insists on weighing anchor and continuing their journey to Anamdael, because she has important business to attend to. She even offers him money to persuade him, complaining that she and Findire would surely miss their gala at this rate. Findire steps in and objects to being used as leverage for Lady Featherbottom to get her way.

Night falls, and the group divides into pairs to watch the two passenger hallways and the crew’s quarters. Remington chats a bit with Kevin, asking him what he plans to do once they arrive in the city. Kevin explains that it’s been difficult to plan for it. So much of his old life relied on his mother, and now that she’s revealed to be this spy-assassin-legend it feels wrong to pretend like things will just go back to normal when he finds her. He hasn’t had much room for thought about the future in between all his current worries, but he mentions he has a newly discovered knack for fighting and he’s excited to explore that more, perhaps even make it part of his performance. K: ‘I’m not very good at investigating, but it’s fun! …Except for all the murders.’

Meanwhile, downstairs, Annori and Tristan keep watch on the crew’s quarters. Unbeknownst to anyone, Annori fails a wisdom save here… She ends up charmed by who she thinks is Tristan and sees him going into the Cleves’ room. Together with Mrs. Cleves, she sees Tristan carry out various body parts and throw them overboard. However, a voice in her head tells her that she can’t tell anyone what she has seen and that her watch with Tristan was completely normal…

With none of them having witnessed anything more than crew shift changes, daybreak arrives. When they gather in the dining hall and keep a keen eye out, it soon becomes clear that mr Fredrick Cleves is missing. Mrs Cleves explains that he was simply feeling under the weather and is resting. 

Tristan steps up and announces that there appears to be no reason to delay their journey any further. He does ask Mrs Cleves if it’s alright for him to quickly check on Fredrick, just to be sure. She says it’s fine. However, when he and Remington knock on his door, nobody answers. They conclude he must be fast asleep and head back upstairs. 

Once again, the group has a bit of a hard time coming up with a new plan, without any new leads to go on. Remington offers that even if they can’t apprehend the killer, they could at least keep preventing new murders by continuing their nightly patrols. But the feeling of never catching the person responsible doesn’t sit well with any of them. 

The voice in Annori’s head tells her to go check on Frederick, with Tristan, so she suggests doing so. Ara voices his suspicions about Tristan, but Nori argues with him and says she completely trusts the paladin. She follows him to the Cleves’ room, where she witnesses Tristan shapeshifting into Mr. Cleves. But once again she can’t say anything and is told to inform the others that Tristan has gone ahead to talk to the captain.

She returns with who the others assume to be Fredrick, who confirms he’s actually just unwell but came along to briefly show his face, since he understood their suspicion and wanted to prove he wasn’t murdered. 

As the party considers their next move she suddenly also hears the voice say ‘when you can, as soon as possible, find a way to knock out Kevin’.

Trying to at least do something before taking their 6 hours of rest again, Remington remembers Tristan had asked him to keep an eye on Lady Featherbottom, so he follows her around for a little bit. She seemed elated at the news that the ship would be moving along, and heads to her cabin with her son. Remington stands outside their door and tries to overhear their conversation, but it seems to be not so much evil chuckling as it is a boring lecture on trade, economics and business. 

Kevin and Annori go to see the captain. On their way there, Annori sneaks up behind Kevin and hits him in the head with her staff! He turns around, confused, and when she tries to hit him again he quickly draws his rapier and disarms her. Annori then casts Charm Person on him, and convinces him that the murderer on the ship is actually after him, and he should go hide in the storage room. She closes the door and quickly goes to find Tristan.

Tristan, in the meantime, has found Remington at Lady Featherbottom’s door and asks him for a private conversation. Once they’re alone in Tristan’s room, he tries to hit Remington on the head! Remington is confused and asks him what’s happening. Tristan sighs, and then begins to change, as two curly horns grow out of his head, his skin turning more and more red, until the person in Tristan’s armor is clearly no longer Tristan. The creature, an incubus, reaches for Tristan’s ax and throws it at Remi, but Remi manages to knock him away with his shield and runs out the door, screaming for Ara, who was keeping an eye on them in the hallway. (Long live the buddy system!) As he leaves, he gets a pretty nasty slash across his arm from its claw. Ara firmly grabs his spear and summons a toad that’s roughly the size of a dog. Remington runs towards him and briefly fills him in on what happened, while casting Protection from Good and Evil on Ara. Ara runs to the open door but finds the room empty - the incubus seems to have vanished into thin air. Suddenly they see a big alligator hurtling up the stairs, which they recognize as gator!Nori. Unaware that Annori was charmed by the incubus, Remington casts Bless on all three of them. Gator!Nori then promptly bites Ara in the ass, restraining and confusing him, and causing him to lose his conjured toad.

As if they weren’t in enough trouble already, another demonic creature with wings appears above them, injuring Remington with a slash of her claws, and making him drop concentration on his spell. 

With all the yelling and fighting upstairs, poor charmed Kevin in the storage room concludes his friends must be in trouble, and he rushes towards the action. The winged succubus smiles creepily at Remington and says: ‘Looks like we have one more paladin to take out.’ The incubus bursts out of the next room over and attacks Ara. As Kevin arrives, he sees gator!Nori still biting down on Ara, and he realizes something is not right here. With his charm broken, he figures out that Annori must be under a charm as well! In order to snap her out of it, he hits her on the head with the hilt of his rapier, and then casts Bardic Inspiration on Remington, who seems pretty shaken by the news that the real Tristan was killed by these fiends. Emboldened by Kevin’s support, he sets his longsword alight with a radiant flame and furiously lands some hits. The succubus quickly regains her composure and now puts her demonic charm on Remi…!

Remington, suddenly feeling like he’s been fighting the wrong people, turns around and attacks Annori (who is still in alligator-form) twice. Annori, finally broken free from her charm and recognizing what’s going on, bites Remington in an attempt to break the charm, but he isn’t able to shake the succubus’ influence just yet and is starting to look very unwell. Kevin viciously mocks the succubus (K: ‘You suck!!’) and she slashes at him with her claws. Joining the efforts to break the charm on Remington, Ara pricks him with his dagger. The paladin sways on his feet and almost loses consciousness, but then he suddenly gets a hold of himself and shakes off the charm. Ara then attacks the succubus for good measure while Annori magically cures some of Remi’s injuries. Remi, still a little dazed, looks around and realizes the party’s non-magical weapons have been barely hurting these fiends. He touches Kevin’s rapier and imbues it with Pelor’s radiance. The succubus wastes no time and sweetly asks Kevin to ‘help a lady out’...

Ara lands a couple more hits on the succubus, but newly charmed Kevin cures her wounds. The incubus tries to dig its claws into Annori, but Remington slams him out of the way with his shield. Annori wildshapes into bear-form after quickly helping Kevin break free of the charm again, as Remington casts a shimmering Shield of Faith around her to protect her from more harm. Ara finally manages to impale the succubus on his spear. The now enraged incubus sees how injured Remington still is and claws him across the neck. The paladin falls to the floor. Kevin immediately rushes over and heals him, helping him to his feet. With that rush of adrenalin, Remington looks at the demon who stands in front of him wearing the armor of his murdered friend, and he strikes. And strikes. And strikes again, until the incubus is no longer moving. 

When all is still, bear!Nori gives Remington a big bear-hug before changing back into herself again. Ara exclaims: ‘Can we talk about how you just bit me?!’, and Annori immediately bursts into tears and starts apologizing to them all profusely. Kevin quickly steps in to hug her tightly, then pulls Ara into it, too. Lady Featherbottom emerges from her cabin to ask if all the commotion has passed, and Ara snaps at her: ‘Shut up, we’re having a moment.’ Annori asks Remington if he’s alright. He replies that he isn’t, but that’s something he’s going to have to go through for a while.

Ara then takes a look at the body still impaled on his spear. The succubus is wearing Mrs Cleves’ clothes, he realizes. The pair of fiends must have been charming, murdering, then impersonating passengers on the ship. He searches the bodies, mostly for a set of keys so he can prove his point to the captain that there were too many given out, but instead he finds an ornate brooch that he pockets. 

Once they’ve taken some time to catch their breath, they go to see the captain to inform him of everything. Saddened by this news but relieved that it is over, he admits that ships like his are grossly unprepared to deal with happenings like this. Remington tells the group what he knows of these types of fiends from his training at the temple. They thrive on causing pain, discord and death and enjoy playing out mortals against each other for sport. That explains why they weren’t able to catch them before: all this time, the group was investigating a motive, while these creatures have none. It’s likely a rift to the hells had opened at the outpost due to the concentration of magic in the sluices, after which the fiends snuck aboard the Pathfinder, replacing some of its passengers. Ara notes that if their larger investigation is correct and the leylines are being tampered with, there’s a chance that outbreaks like this might happen more often, and in other locations too. The captain agrees that this is troubling, and he and Remi make plans to take it up with the authorities in Anamdael, as well as the temple and the Academy. The captain then gathers up every remaining passenger in the dining room so that Remington can confirm there is no more hidden fiendish energy aboard. 

Over the last days of their journey, Ara goes to find Remington, who is sorting out Tristan’s belongings. Ara thanks him for his contribution to the investigation, and hands him the brooch he found. Remi is touched to have won some approval of this hard-to-please swamp elf. 

Annori tearfully asks Kevin if she’s still allowed in the blanket fort, which of course she is. 

Eventually the city of Anamdael appears on the horizon. As they approach the docks, Remington gathers them all on deck and hands them each a letter, thanking them for having him in their group and inviting them all over for dinner if they’re ever in Osta Asari. He also gives each of them a small gift. For Annori, a small bell that can open doors. For Kevin, a ring that allows him to give his spells a little extra push when he needs to. And for Ara, a rainbow-colored stone that can dispel magic. Remington urges them not to tell anyone where they got these items, as they’re technically property of the Temple of Pelor. Annori hands him a candid sketch she drew of him during their trip, as well as one more bear hug with the whole group. When the ship docks, Remington sets off into the city. As the group watches him leave, their gaze is caught by another figure standing there. A familiar figure, who turns around, lowers his hood, and meets their stare with an all-too familiar face…

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[shurisneakers]

shut in [4]

Summary: When your high profile mission goes terribly wrong, you’re forced to hide in a safehouse with a man you’ve never met before. With seemingly nowhere else to go, you’re forced to work together to figure out who is trying to have you assassinated before it’s too late. (Sam Wilson x Reader, Hitman AU)

Warnings: cursing, threats

Word count: 3.7k

A/N: greetings everyone!! how are we all doing? i have nothing to say here tbh so anyway stan sam wilson being a lil shit whenever possible. 

i also appreciate feedback so if you would like to, please consider dropping me an ask or comment ly guys!! also if you want to be on the taglist, it’s mentioned at the bottom of the chapter.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Previous Part || Shut In Masterlist

“I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Alright, thank you.”

You hung up the call, trudging back to the house, discarding the battery along the way.

The air had a chill to it and there was an occasional breeze that went past, rustling leaves providing an eerily comforting background score. The temperature tended to rise as the day went on but nights were especially cold due to the abundance of trees. 

Even though the stress of the situation you were in constantly consumed all your waking thoughts, you still found the time to appreciate how beautiful your surroundings were. 

The last few days were barely memorable. Sam and you tended to stay out of each other's way unless your meal time coincided or you watched the local news together. The schedule had worked out favourably.

He wasn’t very hard to live with.

Most of the time.

His commentary and small jokes were never-ending but were not as unwelcome as you initially thought. It brought some much needed light into your otherwise dreary day. When it came to figuring out how to do laundry due to your now extended stay or whose turn it was to do it, things got a bit messy but were resolved quickly.

He used to disappear often for hours on end. You never concerned yourself with going after him to find out where he went, figuring that unless he was hatching a plot that led to your demise, he was entitled to his own privacy. He’d return a while later, calmer than when he left.

It was fine. Nothing to write home about. Neither of you were dead yet.

“What are you doing on the bed?” You were reconsidering your last thought when you walked into the bedroom to resume your self-interrupted sleep, only to find him face down on the sheets. “It’s my day today.”

“Just give me some time. I’ll be out of here soon enough.” His voice was muffled as he spoke into the sheets.

“You can take all the time you need tomorrow when it’s your turn.” You swatted at his legs, earning a grunt of chagrin from him.

“Go eat some soup and maybe you’ll calm down,” he fired back, unmoving.

“Today’s not soup day. Which you would know if you paid attention to our schedule. That we made. Together. The same schedule which says it’s my turn today.”

He groaned, shoving his face deeper into the pillow. “My back’s killing me. Just give me a few.”

“Why, what’d you do?” you asked curiously, letting go of his leg.

“Combat training. Took a few beatings, fucked up my spine.”

“Does it hurt a lot?”

“It comes and goes.” Sam finally rolled onto his back, giving you a view of his face. His bone structure was amazing, even from quite possibly the ugliest angle you could have over him. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”

You just stared at him as he linked his arms behind his neck, elevating his head to look at you. He had a small stubble that was starting to grow longer. You wondered if he would shave it. He looked good regardless.

“How’s your beloved?”

“Huh?”

“The person you keep sneaking around to talk to on the phone. I’m not your dad, y’know. You can talk to them inside the house, ‘m not gonna ground you,” he quipped, a small, teasing smile on his face.

“He’s not my lover. Just... an acquaintance.” You felt the awkwardness starting to set in after you trailed off. “Anyway since you’re awake, we need to talk.”

“‘Bout what?”

“What happened that day. We’ve been avoiding it but we need to figure out what went wrong. Or at least a clue.”

“Okay,” Sam agreed, wincing as he sat up straight. “How do you want to do it?”

“Just talk me through how you got put on this mission and what exactly happened that day, I guess.” You took a place on the bed, leaning backward on your hand for support.

He nodded, delaying for a second to collect his thoughts before beginning.

“So basically-”

The sun was particularly relentless that day.  

The ringing bell above the door of his favourite coffee shop was a welcoming sound. The barista smiled at him in greeting, asking if he wanted his usual to go.

His park bench was empty as it always was. Sam liked to think of it as a small gift from the universe; the fact that it was perpetually unoccupied.

He liked to sit there and watch people’s day go by. His iced coffee-

“I don’t really require that much detail.”

“Patience. I’m getting there.”

It was arguably one of the most peaceful days he had had in awhile, and he was hoping to keep the streak going. Nothing seemed like it would phase him, not even the phone ringing, drawing his attention away from the scene in front of him. Caller ID didn’t trace who it was.

“Hello?”

“Wilson.”

Sam gripped the cup so hard he thought it might spill over onto his jeans.

“I told you not to call me, Ransone.”

“But honey we had such a good time last night,” he faux cooed, “You know I have needs-”

“I’m not getting involved in your stupid organisation, Vincent. I told you I’m done,” Sam broke in, not wanting to waste time listening to his stupid dramatics.

“Listen here, Wilson.” The swift change in his tone was looming, threatening. “You’re done when I say you’re done-”

“Wanna bet?” Sam took a sip of his coffee. “I thought we made it clear in Detroit that we’re done. Honey.”

He added the last part out of pure spite just to get a rise out of him. Much to his glee it seemed to work as Ransone let out a deep exhale before continuing.

“That was before we found out there’s a mole in my gang. I want you to kill him.”

“This is way below my pay grade. Have one of your interns do it. Your shitty murder warehouse hasn’t seen much action in a while.”

“This is Pierce we’re talking about. If he’s working for another organisation, his ass is going to be so guarded, these kids couldn’t wouldn’t even get past the gate. Besides, you know my murder warehouse is for special guests only-”

“Man, it must suck real hard to be you right now,” Sam didn’t wait for him to complete his sentence. He finished the last bit of the drink he had left, gathering his things before standing up. “Find someone else. I’m out.”

“You might want to reconsider that. We found him.”

He stopped in his tracks.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam said steadily, grip on the phone tightening.

“I think you do, though. Had us fooled for a while there, thinking he’s dead. A little more research, some cash into the right pockets and boom! There he is, clear as day.”

Sam felt a chill go up his spine.

“He doesn’t know we know. We’re just keeping an eye on him for now.”

“If you even fucking think of touching him-” his fists were balled up, struggling to keep his anger from rising.

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t.” Ransone laughed. “I’ll just have one of my interns do it.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Ransone. It’s not somethi-”

“Do this hit and I’ll leave him alone,” Ransone interjected. “You’ve worked so hard to pull him from our radar, Sammy. It would be a shame if it all went to waste.”

Sam’s jaw clenched. Suddenly the day didn’t seem as bright as it was a few minutes ago.

“I’ll text you the details. You tend to leave me on read so I thought I’d make it more fun. Do you want the confetti with the message or the lasers-”

Sam just hung up the call, feet firmly rooted in his spot. He had no idea what he was going to do.

The notification of a new text alerted him. Pierce’s address along with the exact timeline of when he’d be home.

It was across the country. If he botched the mission on purpose, Ransone wouldn't be able to find him for a few days at least, much less reach him. He could go on the run-

‘Do it or he dies.’

His train of thought was interrupted by a picture that made his blood boil.

Especially when it exploded with the stupid confetti effect.

“Okay, basically he threatened you with something to go do the hit.” You didn’t ask him what exactly he was threatening him with and Sam didn’t really elaborate.

“Yeah. Didn’t leave me with much of a choice. He’s batshit fuckin’ crazy anyway, I knew he’d do whatever he felt like.”

“So you ended up going.”

Pierce didn’t seem to get many visitors. Not that anyone could be blamed, this guy was one of the biggest pieces of shit Sam had had the misfortune of meeting.

Over the two days he had staked out in front of the mansion to find out if this guy had as much security as Ransone had boasted of, Sam had come to the conclusive truth that no, he very much did not. He had a standard home security system which was lacklustre compared to the rest of the house.

Maybe he just assumed that being a senior member of the mob would garner some fear to his name. Dumbass.

He found the tall shrubbery surrounding the property to be out of the line of sight of the camera, and climbing it wasn't very hard. He landed softly on the manicured lawn, adjusting his gloves and checking his surroundings before pulling his gun that was secured in the waistband of his pants.

He removed the safety, keeping it close to him as he stalked through the front yard.

The red car parked at the side earned an eye roll from him. If he had one, there was no doubt there’d be more. He just had to find a basement or garage.

Walking around the house, he kept close to the wall, searching for any opening to the basement.

It didn’t take long before he found a set of stairs to the exterior entrance of the basement. He checked to see if anyone was around before making his way down them. The lock was unsurprisingly easy to pick.

The basement was mostly dark save for a few strategic lights placed to highlight the magnificence of his several race cars. The man was moved slower than the second coming of Jesus. The cars just seemed like an overcompensation.

The switchboard was not difficult to find. He pulled open the cover, glancing at the switches before turning all of them off, plunging the whole basement into darkness. If his security system was as outdated as Pierce was, it would have turned off along with the rest of the house.

“Oh, that’s why the cameras weren't working when I showed up.” Bits that seemed amiss were beginning to place itself together the more his story progressed. “I assume you entered the house through the window on the side?”

“Sure did.”

Your guess was right. He’s the reason why it was ajar by the time you arrived.

As soon as he entered he had his gun raised. Scanning the room as he went past, his senses were dialed up to eleven. If he was really under the protection of Serpentine, they were doing a terrible job. He had gotten in completely unscathed.

As he made his way deeper into the house, the sound of some movie playing became louder. But he had cut off the power supply to the house.

His eyebrows pulled together tightly into a frown, he made his way down the hall towards the sound. No one was in the dining or living room he canvassed.

Finally, Pierce’s silhouette became clearer. He appeared to just be sitting there idly while a smaller screen played in front of him. It wasn’t a TV, just an iPad.

If Pierce was asleep it would just make the job easier. Gun raised, Sam made his way into the room silently.

Pierce was still. Sam raised the gun, taking a step closer.

A floorboard creaked.

He immediately cringed, shoulders tensed as he came to an immediate stop. It seemed like forever as he waited for Pierce to wake up, to brandish a gun and try and defend himself.

He didn’t.

Taking a step to the side, Sam moved diagonally. Each one was slow. Ready for any sudden movements from his end.

He finally stopped in front of Pierce.

A bullet hole in his forehead. Eyes open. Chest still.

He was dead.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Sam breathed out, lowering his gun. Pierce’s glassy eyes stared blankly ahead. He didn’t look like had been dead for too long.

A soft thud in another room made his head snap up. It was in the same direction from where he came.

He silently moved backwards to the corner of the room, hoping that the darkness was enough of a disguise as he saw someone stalking down the hallway.

“And that’s when you come in. Thought you were comin’ back to make sure he was dead.”

“I had just got there. Saw that everything was off, and just assumed it was a power outage.”

“What about you? How’d you end up there?” Sam had his legs crossed, leaning forward to listen to you.

“Ransone told me that there was a spy who was sending information out for nearly two years. Needed him gone and he wasn’t sure if his other agent would show up-” you mentioned to him- “I guess that’s you. Told me I had an opening at 8pm. When I got there, the CCTV was off. Found the window open so I just used that.”

You were replaying your memory, step by step to remember what exactly you had seen. 

“Heard the movie playing, found no one when I went down the hall. I saw the car keys on the island, which came in handy later. Entered the room, pushed his head with the gun and he just slumped over like a damn rag doll. That’s when you made your grand entrance.”

“Got one chance to make an impression. Had to make sure I looked cool, emergin’ from the shadows and whatnot.”

“It doesn’t make sense though.”

“Ouch. Thought it was pretty legit, actu-”

“No, no-” you waved him off. “Not your entrance. The henchmen thing.”

He paused, mulling over what you said. “If he was working for Serpentine, he would have been more careful. Why did they show up after he’s dead?”

“I don’t think they work for Serpentine. If Pierce was giving them information, they wouldn’t kill him.” You had good reason to be confident about that. You thought you did, from previous assessments.

“Unless they were scared that he’d switch again,” Sam suggested. You looked up from your fidgeting fingers to him. “Didn’t want any of their secrets going back to Ransone. They got to him before we did.”

“Why’d they shoot at us then? If they killed him and left, why’d they wait for us to show up? Why did they try to kill us?”

“I think we’re ignoring the important thing here,” he paused. You looked at him expectantly, prodding him on. “How did they know we were coming? They should have killed him and disappeared but they expected us.”

You tilted your head. “Are you saying-”

“There might be more.”

“Pierce might not have been the only one,” you finished. “There are more spies.”

“Tipped ‘em off. Told them we were going to be there.”

“And killing us was just to poke Ransone with a stick,” you murmured, eyes downcast, fidgeting with your fingers again. “But that just seems random. It doesn’t make sense.”

“None of this makes sense, sweetheart.” Sam scoffed, leaning back again.

“We’re missing something. There’s something wrong.” You looked at him. “If it’s just a random attack, why did they release our face to the whole fuckin’ country? Why are they specifically targeting us?”

“Finishing what they started. Covering all their tracks from that day. If we’re not dead, we’re a liability.”

“What if it’s not Serpentine at all? What if it’s another gang?”

“Serpentine has the most motive.”

“We don’t know that.”

He looked at you incredulously. “I think there’s substantial evidence to suggest they fuckin’ hate us. Besides, they’d want me dead specifically.”

“Why?” you inquired, eyes narrowing.

He opened his mouth like he was going to explain but closed it a second later, leaving you guessing.

“Fine, but it doesn’t mean they’re the only ones who do.” You made a point to ask him later or at least conduct your own research into it. 

“Okay,” he said, shifting to lean on his elbows, “who else could it be? If Pierce was working for Serpentine and Ransone found out, sends someone to kill him, it’s essentially an attack on one of their own members. I’d say that's a pretty good motive.”

“I don’t know. Hydra doesn’t like us either. There’s Ten Rings too. But Serpentine just doesn’t work out.”

“How are you sure?” he asked. “You a spy for them too?”

You rolled your eyes at him as he raised his eyebrow. “It doesn’t make sense. What if we’re missing something? Did we go through everything?”

“I just went through my entire story down to the most irrelevant details. Twice. Nothing’s missing on my end.” He pushed himself off the bed, taking a long stretch before looking back at you.

“I think we should do it again. Just to make sure.” You rotated your torso to look at him. “We can figure it out-”

“You’re going to lose your mind if you keep at this any longer for today. Take a break.”

“I can’t take this lightly. Everyone’s out there looking for us and there is no one we can trust-”

“And going through our stories for the third time today is going to solve that how?” He had his hands crossed over his chest like a stern parent.

“I’m sorry but our faces are probably plastered in every damn police precinct in the country,” you snapped, “And I think that us remembering something some stupid detail might actually help rather than, I don’t know, taking naps and eating sandwiches. So no, I’m not going to drop it. Because I actually want to get out of here.”

You didn’t mean to sound so angry with him. He had told you everything twice already and patiently answered questions that you had. You didn’t think he was lying. You had no way of knowing but you hoped that some sort of allegiance was being formed between you both.

There was silence for a minute, leaving enough time for the guilt to creep in when he didn’t fire back. It’s what you expected.

“I’m not asking you to drop it. I’m saying take a break,” he said calmly. “You’re thinkin’ enough for the both of us anyway.”

You let out a small exhale, forcing the edge to retreat from your voice.

“I’ll be back in a while.” With that he turned around and left the room. A few minutes later you heard the backdoor open and shut.

Great.

You massaged your throbbing temples, eyes closed. He was right. Your mind wasn’t clear and you had been at this for hours. You wouldn’t be able to think critically.

Or at all.

You dropped back on the bed, grabbing a pillow and pressing it to your face. The coolness of the fabric felt nice.

You just let out a sigh, turning to your side to hopefully get some sleep.

_____

You woke up what seemed like hours later to a dark room.

It took your eyes a while to adjust stepping out into the hallway illuminated by the light in the kitchen.

“Hey,” Sam’s voice rang out. “Made you a sandwich.”

You rubbed your eyes groggily, looking where he was pointing. Sure enough, there was a sandwich on the table. He sat at the seat adjacent to it.

“Thank you.” You contemplated sitting next to him for dinner. It would be a first.

In the end you just grabbed your plate, giving him a half smile before making your way to the couch. You settled on sitting on the floor instead, leaning your back against the foot of the sofa.

The TV was already halfway through playing Megamind so you just let it continue, mindlessly chewing on the bread. As far as peanut butter sandwiches go, it wasn’t all that bad.

“Wilson,” you called out sheepishly, eyes not leaving the movie. “I’m sorry for snapping at you. It wasn’t right.”

“It’s okay.”

How he let go of it so easily was beyond you. The sandwich was surprising too, but you took it, not wanting to change his mind. He couldn’t have poisoned it. You had checked his stuff.

You sat in silence for the rest of the movie. Your mind kept slipping in and out of thought but it was a comfortable atmosphere you found yourself in.

After the credits started rolling, you went to leave your plate in the sink. Sam brushed past you, grabbing the blanket at the foot of the couch, launching himself onto the cushions.

“What are you doing?” you asked, puzzled as he snuggled in.

“Going to sleep?” He tilted his head to look at you.

“Use the bed.”

“It’s your turn today.”

“Your back’s fucked up. I’ll take the couch.”

He didn’t budge.

“Go on.” You mentioned to the room with a shrug of your shoulder.

“You’re not going to let me argue, are you?”

You pressed your lips into a straight line to hide a smile, shaking your head lightly.

“Well, okay.” He let out a small noise as he got up. “Guess I’m sleeping business class tonight.”

Sam walked past you, careful not to bump into you. You swapped places with him, making your way to the couch, readjusting the blanket that was haphazardly left there.  

“Y/N.” You peered at him from the corner of your eye, only to fully turn when you caught his gaze. “I appreciate it.”

You just nodded, tossing the blanket over yourself as he switched off the light.

Next part

[hermitcraftheadcanons]

Apartment AU Masterpost:

-Everyone lives in an apartment complex.

-Xisuma as landlord? Or just a really well looked up to person in the complex. Whichever works for you!

-Pranks all the time. Everyone's constantly pranking each other.

-Everyone has 'normal people jobs.' Perhaps Joe is an English teacher? (Cleo's also a teacher. (Irl.) Omg, what if they teach at the same school?) Maybe Bdubs is a professional interior designer? Maybe Cub builds computers? Go nuts, get creative.

-Actually, screw it. Bdubs works at IKEA.

-Everyone meets up every Friday night to go to the pub or go bowling or just do something together.

-They have a discord server because of course they do.

-European Hermits are early-birds, American hermits are night-owls. (This is the only way I can think to portray timezones and waking hours when everyone's living in the same building.)

-They all still love minecraft, don't worry.

-Keralis has so many books his flat is basically a library. He lets people come in and borrow books for a small fee.

-Tinfoilchef is a bit of a shut in but everyone makes an effort to include him.

-Etho would also be a cryptid like Xisuma. Like, we've seen Xisuma's whole body other than his face but the best we know about Etho is that: 1. He exists and 2. From the, like, one single real life photo he's shared, he broke a headset. Also, 3. Allegedly, he's buff. Otherwise; Beef and Etho invite Pause (who lives elsewhere,) over at random intervals to [play ctm maps] and do god knows what. Bdoubs works at IKEA but is the person to make the room displays, y'know.

-Scar sells dice and other tabletop rpg supplies that he designs. His shop is magiccrystals. com

-Cub and Scar made business with the guy who runs the fight club. They get half of the profits and everyone’s always wondering how those two can always afford the most expensive Christmas gifts for everyone.

-Mumbo could be an engineer or work on a STEM field, and he works on some really important and impressive projects and that would explain his polish person, Exept, when it comes to helping another hermit to change a lightbulb or fix a microwave he is an absolute disaster.

-Grian owns a parrot that knows everyones' names and faces and greets them when they come in.

-Scar's apartment has a balcony filled with plants and he has to bring them inside for the winter. (I'm assuming that all 4 seasons happen) Even without the balcony plants, his place is still full of indoor plants including his favorite venus flytrap. There is always a plant knocked over from Jellie's shenanigans. Jellie is supposed to stay in his apartment, however she keeps on getting out somehow, even getting to Xisuma's apartment occasionally.

-There's a grassy patch out back that acts as a backyard, but Stress has effectively taken it over. Perfect for flowers of all colors in the spring and summer, and during the winter you KNOW she’s building an ice castle from which to throw snowball at all her friends.

-Beef and, when he’s visiting, Pause get a lot of questions about Etho (since unlike X who gets one tightlipped visitor in shape of his brother Etho gets two that are willing to be vague) however they charge a fee for people to guess. They’d never actually sell him out but the guesses are always something technical related so there’s not much of a risk, he actually works as a botanist/gardener.

-Iskall is extremely good at ice hockey and, as resident Canadians, Etho and Beef have played with him. However Iskall only knows that he’s played with Beef because both beef and etho refuse to tell him who in the rink was Etho when they played.

-The only person who’s seen Xisuma's face is Keralis.

-Nobody knows what Grian does for a job. Like, when they think they've figured it out what he does, they're thrown through a loop again because he does a lot of odd jobs. Need help with a pet? Grian can help! Rip on your clothes? Don't worry, Grian knows how to fix it! Ect.

-Grian's an assassin. Iskall will make assassin jokes and Grian, without looking up from his coffee will go: "that's not how that works!" And then go back to being quiet. Everyone's like ????

-I love the idea of Grian knowing all these cool facts and when anyone acts he says 'it's because of his job,' and they still can't figure out what he does. He keeps correcting Iskall on assassin facts but they're all just like 'oh Grian sure must love those types of movies, huh.'

-Cleo teaches Joe's kid. (That means she teaches either year 2 or year 3? // 1st grade or 2nd grade?)

-Grian's family is in the mafia but he mostly just vibes. Sure, he works with the mafia, but he keeps his regular life away from work and none of the hermits (besides False because she saved the Mafia boss) know. Imagine boss looking at False and going, 'oh hey, you're already protected.' False is confused and says 'what?' But the Mafia Boss has already left.

-Etho is always in full kakashi cosplay.

-Honorary hermits apartment au: zloy and pixl have a radio show but also act as private investigators. Falsie hires them to investigate how she got the protection of the mafia. On their investigation they start asking Elybeat (that lives on a building right next to the hermits) about weird behaviors that he might have seen. Ely just goes ‘all of what they do is weird. I’ve recorded weird stuff they say and remixed it. They though it was funny and put the remixes as their elevator music.'

-Everyone thinks Etho is an assassin, but really, he's a horticulturist/botanist. He doesn't bother to correct them cause it means he doesn't get pranked, (or, as often.) Maybe someone finds out eventually? I don't know who. Maybe Doc and they keep it hush hush cause they think it's funny or something. || Maybe Bdubs finds out, (because I think he's seen Naruto?? Swear I saw a Twitter post where he recognized a Naruto joke) and he's the only one that recognizes that Etho's dressed like Kakashi and NOT an assassin. (That's lowkey a joke though.)

-Someone warns Grian against parking euro because they think Etho's an assassin and Grian just kinda goes: "alright then." Knowing that there's no way Etho is an assassin, but also realising how the hermits view that profession, he most likely starts feeling kinda bad.

-Beef used to be a car photographer and Mumbo takes photographs as a sideline when he was in college. They would occasionally chat about their past experience in the photography field and sometimes gush about cars.

-Hermit Challenges was actually a truth or dare game among the hermits. Mumbo was basically delirious from lack of sleep to explain his absolute gremlin energy. Mumbo dares Grian to steal front doors before passing out and everyone decided that was the end of that game. No one thought Grian would do the dare. A week later, everyone but Etho and Xisuma were missing their front doors (including Grian.) He stuck them in his bathroom so no one immediately saw the doors.

-As already established, Joe constantly hangs at Keralis's library. Let's say he also has a hobby for writing, and one time he was asking to himself how *insert really specific murder scene* would work in real life. Grian or Doc then overheard him and answers him in a also very specific way, he thanks them with 0 concerns and continues with his writing.

-Etho has been an assassin but it was many years ago, and retired to care for plants. (As you do.) He got hired by The Goatfather but intentionally botched the killings because, 'hey now those two are friends >:(' He and Bdubs still have the endrod game but it involves the whole apartment building and several discord messages going "located" or "flashlight on the move.'

-Stress paints all the hermit's door and puts their names on them. (-🌿)

-The organisization Grian works for is called "The Watchers!" They text him in riddles of what his missions are. This is so that if anyone peaks at his phone, they don't understand immediately!

-What if in YHS happen because of grian family and Sam is from an other family who does not support the grain family. So grian will not bring up high school and school and when joe and Cleo talk about there student grian sometimes cringes remember what happened in high school. (-🌿)

-Grian and Mumbo's hobbits holes were two cupboards they found on their respective apartments and decided to make a room out of them and named them their hobbit holes after they found out they both had them (-🐿️)

-What if it's a really old apartment and the 'hobbit holes' actually connect to each others apartment. (-🐺)

-Mumbo has these periods when he overworks like crazy and when they're over - he sleeps for like 24-36 hours straight. Everybody knows about this and help him if he falls asleep in random plaxes around the apartment. Mumbo once fell asleep right before his door and Grian tried to help him get inside while mumbling. Guess which remix were aded to the elevator music next week.

-Whenever anyone is annoyed or upset, grian sometimes pops his head up from his book and goes "who do I need to kill?" No one takes him seriously though he *would* kill for any of his friends.

-People who have left the server work nearby but have moved to new apartments. (For example, Welsknight works at a nearby food truck) (-☘️)

-With the Grian being a spy you get several oints where he thinks he's been found out but no one puts the and two together. They're all like: "Grian just likes action movies I guess."

-Scar's "wizard robe" is a bathrobe he owns. One day he forgets to change and just walks out in a bathrobe and no pants.

-Since Cleo teaches Joe's kid, maybe that extends to all the hermits' kids? Like the ones that have them, like not at the same time but at some point you know?

-I don't think I saw any regarding headgames, but I could've missed it. Anyways, what if Cleo wanted to make a big Scrapbook in her free time of all her friends, so she asks everybody to try and get pictures. So the PVP heads are candid photos, and the tradeable one are like selfies or group pictures. The other heads could just be a requirement for the picture like have a sheep in the picture. And maybe she gives the winners dinner payed by her or something.

-On the head cannon that hermits that aren’t on the server work nearby, Biffa is the actual mayor.

-Are mobs (and half mobs by extension) still a thing in apartment au? Cause if not I propose that Jevin just has cloob blue dyed hair and a bunch of blue tattoos.

-XB bakes a lot and always shares the food he makes with the others. They adore his cookies. Scar really wants to make some cookies in the shapes of disney characters with him, but he's too shy to ask. (-nameless anon)

-Perhaps Mumbo and Iskall are also protected by the mafia because of grian (perhaps scar is too) They and False have a 'we are protected and have no idea why' group (-Frost Anon)

-Imagine the hermits want to throw a nice party but X and Etho were kinda like “yeah no i’ll pass” so they make it a masquerade so that they can come- and then the whole night no one knows who anyone really is, but still has a really good time.

-Grian wanted a pet parrot, but felt like he would be terrible at taking care of one so he has toy parrots instead, those that have pre made phrases and such, and he is proud of his toy parrot pets. (-🐿️)

-Xisuma hosts a podcast! That's where all of his Xisuma speaks content ends up coming from. (-🇵🇭)

-Etho has a secret food blog called "Cooking With Etho" (based on the actual cooking with Etho segment in usually his modded stuff.) He also knows that there's hermits that either: have no idea how to cook properly or can't cook real meals due to their work. To help with this, sometimes he leaves finished meals or recipes with them (outside their doors or somehow in their fridge) and no one knows who does it prompting the theory of a self care ghost haunting the building.

(All of those in red were from Anons!)

-Joe works as a LAMP Developer.

-False has an assortment of swords, knives, etc. She even had a bow! She also has a dummy to practice fighting on.

(-@unpredictable-pancake.)

-Stress is a wedding designer. (-@the-angry-numel.)

-Iskall also works at IKEA with Bdubs. (-@mandatedempathy.)

-There's a local club that's basically fight club a few people are in. False, Iskall and a couple others are in.

-Hypno is kind of a bit of a loner. Everyone on the floor considers him a friend but he doesn't really have a best friend. He just does his own thing and people usually let him do that. He's fine with it.

-XB and Joe spend a lot of time at Keralis' library house just reading the books. Keralis usually charges every except those two because 1. They're there so often and 2. They're basically his room mates at this point. (-@tomcatacaphe.)

-Ren works at a bar as a bartender or musician. (-@friendlyneighbourhoodpieceoftrash.)

-Building on the last thing with Ren as a musician or working at a bar, he works at a bar as a server but does live music on weekends. It's the bar/pub/restaurant that the hermits sometimes hang out at together.

-I can see Grian working at a pet shop but also on the side of the mafia because of YHS. Or at least he used to be involved with the mafia.

-Beef once had to cart Etho off to the hospital for a chemical burn and explain to the other tenants that the explosion heard suspiciously close by wasn’t mafia activity. Etho is just an idiot with a hobby of making homemade fireworks.

-(-@limelocked.)

-False is the chief of police for the town they live in. Iskall is a hired assassin who normally gets employed by the mysterious figure GOATfather. Doc is the GOATfather, head of the mafia. Falsie is trying to hunt down these two as well as any others associated with them. The nHo is part of the mafia. Falsie has no idea any of them are in the mafia and they refuse to kill her because she has become such a close friend to them.

-Maybe Grian is a spy instead of an assassin? The group the Watchers is a government policing organization bent on trying to crack down on mob activity in the area.

(-@creator0fchaos.)

-The elevator music is hermitgang and remixes. -(@lookitsspacekween.)

-Zedaph is a game show host. Tango makes cartoons. (-@aphion-and-on.)

-Come on, let Iskall play ice hockey! Maybe not professionally if it doesn't work for the AU but he's v good at least. (-@automnalsaffron.)

-Grian maybe works at an animal shelter or an animal rehabilitation center. So everyone who has a pet usually comes to him for help if their pet is sick or injured. (-@vahco.)

-Grian has a safe full of guns, all the Hermits know about it but think they're fake. (-@xxpzmistxx)

-X never comes out of his room so no one’s seen his face. The only way he communicates is via text, Discord, and an intercom right by his door. He almost always gets groceries whenever the hermits are busy and therefore have no time to go out- but the hermits know he’s a real person because sometimes they hear guitar solos coming from his room.

-Hypno is a voice actor!

-Joe and Cleo often go home at the same time, and all the way it's almost always Cleo complaining about her students being bratty and the likes (Bonus points if Joe carpools with Cleo, who owns a car.)

-False unknowingly helps the boss of the mafia after seeing him wounded on a street one day, earning her their protection.

-As a callback to Season 6, Stress became a cat lady for a bit while False became a dog lady. As an added bonus: Cleo became nuts when Cub decided to gift her with spiders for her birthday or some other event.

-Mumbo still sidelines as a cameraman/film director for short documentaries and comedy sketches where he often invites Zed and his buddy Jack to act maybe?

-The first time X was proven to be an actual person was when the girls temporarily kicked the boys out to have the apartment all to themselves for a girls’ night which prompted the boys to have their own boys’ night. X was wearing his grey helmet that night so his face was still obscured tho, and from that day forward they always had a weekly girls’ night and boys’ night alternating on which group gets to have the apartment to themselves.

-False may seem like she can take a shot or two, but in reality she’s very lightweight and easily drunk, and is always the first one wasted. She becomes a flirty drunk who flirts with everyone and everything when she’s tipsy, an angry drunk the more she drinks and eventually a sad drunk before passing out. Cleo and Stress, her drinking buddies, always find amusement in this.

-As a callback to Xb living a thousand blocks away from society in s7, maybe he lives at the highest floor where not many (if not no one) occupies?

(-@heyitsroby.)

-Civil War started because they used to get groceries delivered to their doors and Grian started stealing them when they were left in the doorstep. Everyone stole each others groceries until one day they went into teamss of one side vs the other side of the corridor to the other until Grian stole so many groceries Dic was like 'Dammit!' He started going to the store to get groceries instead of getting them delivered to his door after that. (-@sayeshaa1108.)

-Regarding apartment au: Zedaph is similar to miu iruma from danganronpa: making the weirdest inventions and coaxing the other hermits into doing weird things for science. (-@oh-hecc-im-stupid.)

-Idk if Doc has a profession yet in the apartment au, but it just struck me- what if he owned a private casino?? Cause of s7? Just a thought! (-@853dragons.)

-Cleo really enjoys doing miniature diorama scenes. Like the tiny dudes from "Night at The Museum". She's like crazy good at it, and Joe will sometimes base his poems and stories off of her dioramas. Also maybe Joe has published a book of poems and short stories? (-@lynxes15.)

-Doc works as a social engineer and part time mafia boss. He rarely shows up for game nights. However, when he does, nobody else stands a chance.

-Tango, Impulse and Zedaph go over to each other's rooms so often they practically live together in an apartment room 3X bigger than everyone else.

(-@trashedeggnog.)

LINK TO NEXT POST: https://hermitcraftheadcanons.tumblr.com/post/617640752709861376/apartmentau-masterpost-2-link-to-previous-the

Posts with TW:

Guns, Gangs, Getting Shot. Don't read if you can't handle this topics.

-Everyone finds out Grian is an assassin/mafia boss because someone from a different gang (*cough cough* sam gladiator *cough cough*) found out where he lives and tried to murder him. Queue epic gun fight scene. If you want some angst, Grian gets shot a couple of times in the fight but didn’t realize it because of the adrenaline and passes out. (-Anon.)

-Imagine someone like, finding Grian's guns and weapons and just being :0 and Grian is a little nervous. But then the other hermit just think the guns are cool (it's probably either etho or doc) and they're just gushing over how cool the guns are. Grian is relieved. (-Anon.)

-iJevin owns at least one gun. He's not in the mafia or a cop or anything, it's just cool and legal so he as one. He's the constant counter for the other gun owning hermits who have them for more mafia related purposes (context: jevin owns at least one gun irl) (-Anon.)

[youngster-monster]

fools rush in

Quel’thalas may sit on the coast of Lordaeron, but it has never been a naval nation. Kael’thas has never been quite so acutely aware of his people’s lack of seafaring abilities as he is now, bent over the side of a ship and fighting a losing battle against seasickness.

“Hold on. We’re nearly there.”

He sends a venomous glare Rommath’s way. His friend seems perfectly at ease on deck, only moving to shift his weight so he doesn’t stumble with the sway of the ship. Looking at him, Kael’thas could almost believe his motion sickness is a personal weakness rather than a quel’dorei trait.

Fortunately he’s seen Lor’themar looking a little green for the whole journey. Rommath is the real outlier here. Probably out of spite. He wouldn’t be caught dead displaying any kind of vulnerability, let alone something as small as seasickness.

“You’ve been saying that for hours,” he grits out in response.

Rommath shrugs, unconcerned by Kael’thas’ plight. “Nearly is an imprecise unit of measurement, I’ll admit it.”

“Although this time he’s right,” another voice intervenes. “We will be in view of Theramore’s harbor in under two hours.”

Kael’thas blissfully closes his eyes as Jaina lays a hand between his shoulder blades. Her magic sinks under his skin and the chill of it soothes his nausea to a point he no longer feels like he might throw up at any moment.

“Remind me why I’m subjecting myself to this again?”

Jaina chuckles warmly. “Because you are my dear friend and you wish to support me during an important change in my life?”

“I should have taken a portal with my father…”

“And miss watching me dissolve into a ball of nerves in the next few days?”

It’s true that the diplomatic delegation from Quel’thalas wouldn’t be privy to Jaina’s slow descent into panic during the preparations for her coronation. That’s a privilege reserved for Kael’thas only — and the two friends he was made to bring along as bodyguards, technically.

Of the world leaders who are coming to witness the event, few will be lucky enough to enjoy Theramore outside of official functions. Kael’thas is willing to suffer countless journeys by sea for the joy of watching Jaina get drunk in a sailor’s pub for the last time before she has to act like a proper monarch.

Affecting a greater misery than what he already feels, he says, “Still. For all that trouble, I better be here for your dress fitting.”

Jaina shudders at the thought. She may be a princess, but she clearly hasn’t gotten used to all the annoying little details of royalty. Or she forgot after too many years in Dalaran. Kael’thas grins. It’ll be years, if not decades, before he has to be in her place. He intends to enjoy the spectacle while he can.

Schooling his features into something more serious, he turns gingerly to face her. The deck rolls beneath his feet and he has to hold on to the banister or fall flat on his face.

“How are you holding up?”

She quirks up a small smile that struggles to reach her eyes. “I’m alright. A little scared, but…”

It stands to reason she would be, even though this coronation has been in preparation for years. She’s been spending more and more time away from her magical studies, learning how to rule a country, ever since she turned twenty-three. Still one can never be entirely ready to lead.

The fact that the date had to be moved forward because of an attempt on her father’s life must not be helping her anxiety any.

“Have you received news from your father?” He asks, knowing the subject a little easier to deal with. Daelin Proudmoore has recovered quickly from the botched assassination, and has been more preoccupied with rooting out the conspirators than with healing from his wounds.

She nods, gazing at the horizon. Kael’thas can just start to make out Theramore from the grey sky, though it’s more creative interpretation of a vaguely rocky shape in the distance; to her, it must look like home. “Yes. He’s fine. Healing nicely, for all that he refuses to rest. But they still haven’t found his attacker. He’s afraid they’ll go for me, too.”

Kael’thas waves that concern aside. “Of course they will; the day of the coronation is the perfect occasion to get rid of both you and your father, if that’s what they seek.” He winks at her, smiling slightly at her dismay. “That’s what you have me for. Oh, and that great hunk of a fiancé you have as well, I suppose. We’ll keep you safe.”

His exaggerated scorn when he mentions Arthas gets a giggle out of her. He doesn’t despise the man like he used to, back when Kael’thas was infatuated with Jaina and saw him as a threat. But that doesn’t mean he has to like him. Rival or not, he’s still an annoying, bruttish paladin, although he looks exceedingly pretty doing it.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Rommath sighs from the side. He sounds like he has little hope about the matter. He’s used to Kael’thas and Jaina’s antics: if there’s trouble to be found, they’ll find it alright. “Go get your bags, Kael.”

“Why? We’ve hardly arrived yet.”

“By the time you stumble your way below deck and up again, we’ll be there.”

Kael’thas flips him off. But he does go get his bags; not that Rommath has a point, he just likes to take his time. And if he holds onto the railing the whole way down, well. That’s between him and the ship.

-

It wasn't an empty threat, when Kael’thas mentioned that any assassin would probably turn up during the coronation. Every major political player of Azeroth came to pay respect to the new Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras. If someone wanted to commit some kind of political murder, now would be the time.

It also leaves the cathedral the coronation takes place in a somewhat crowded place.

Kael’thas shifts on the uncomfortable pew while the priest drones on and twists around to look at the back of the room. He may have joked about it back on the ship with Jaina, but after three days shadowing her everywhere the reality of assassins has become much more worrying. His friend is about to leave herself open to all kinds of attacks while an old man shoves some metal on her head; it leaves a little on edge.

A cursory glance reveals no shady character hiding in the wings. If someone intends to hurt Jaina, they’re doing a decent job at hiding it.

“Stop fidgeting,” his father hisses.

Kael’thas rolls his eyes but lets himself be prodded into sitting straight again. He spares a brief glance for Arthas. The Lordaeronian king is entirely ignoring the people trying to engage him in conversation, and watches over the room like a hound during a thunderstorm, jumping at every odd sound.

It helps settle Kael’thas’ nerves somewhat that Lordaeron’s most sword-happy paladin is on the look-out. He won’t let anything happen to Jaina, Kael’thas reasons, even if he must burn the cathedral down to keep her safe. Though it hopes he’ll let them get out first.

Fingers ghost over the back of his hand and he all but jumps out of his skin before it registers that it is only his father trying to capture his attention.

“Be at ease,” Anasterian whispers, a touch of humor softening his sern voice. “You’ll do lady Proudmoore no favor by feeding into her anxiety.”

Smoothing the nascent scowl off his face, Kael’thas calls on the years of teaching in the art of decorum to affect an air of nonchalance. He can’t quite help the stubborn frown born from his worry though. “She has reasons a-plenty to be stressed: someone wants her dead.”

“This event is as safe as it can be. There is little more you can do but pretend everything will be fine, for her sake.”

Kael’thas adjusts the folds of his dress robes in his lap and says nothing. It’s easy for his father to say: it’s not his friend who’s out there risking her life.

Human lives are so fragile. Of course he worries. And what good are the guards, if Daelin was hurt on their watch?

He only lasts about five minutes before risking a glance behind again. Nothing has changed; but he feels a prickle over the back of his neck, as if he’s being watched, and it compulses him to look.

“Kael’thas,” his father sighs.

Kael’thas cuts him off before he can work himself into a proper lecture. “Are those the kaldorei delegates?”

Anasterian pokes him mercifully in the ribs until he sits properly, and only then does he offer a response.

“Yes. With the efforts made by the kaldorei to open to other kingdoms, Lord Proudmoore thought it polite to invite them. Something you’d know if you had bothered to pay attention while I talked about this event,” his father adds, long-suffering.

“I do listen,” Kael’thas says absently. He wants to get a proper look at the elusive night elves, but he thinks his father might actually hold his head in place if he tries it. Their whole whispered conversation is already stretching the bounds of propriety and trying Anasterian’s patience enough as it is.

“Do pay attention, Kael. The priest is nearly done; Jaina will be here soon.”

A coronation is a tremendously boring affair, Kael’thas finds, even once Jaina has stepped up to the altar. The priest drones on and on about her duties as Lord Admiral, the honor, the weight of name and duty, blah blah blah—

Boring. At this point even an attempt on her life would be a welcome distraction.

Jaina kneels and her father stands before her, taking the crown off his head and holding it high above hers. He looks good, Kael’thas notes, for a man who so nearly died mere weeks before.

“Do you swear to live by your people, for your people, and to serve and protect them as your duty demands?” He intones.

“Yes, I do.”

The oath goes on for some time. Jaina answers each demand with unflinching certitude. Looking at her, one might never guess her nerves.

But just as Daelin lowers the circlet, abou to set it on her head, Kael’thas feels a prickle of unease not unlike what he felt earlier. He turns on his seat, heedless of his father’s disapproving hiss. There, in the shadows of the cathedral’s upper level; a flash of—

Spellwork.

The warning gets stuck in his throat, a half-choked yell swallowed by the roar of a ray of fire shooting across the nave. He reaches out without a thought, draws up a barrier that manages to catch the spell at the last possible moment before impact. It shatters across the translucent surface of his shield and scatters in a burst of embers and arcane. The guests underneath cry out as sparks rain down on them.

What his spell doesn’t stop is the crossbow bolt that flies in the wake of the spell. It misses Jaina’s by a hair’s breadth and ricochets off the tiled floor before embing itself in the wooden altar. If she had not moved at the sound of the spell being deflected, it would have gotten her in the throat.

The room explodes in motions as guests and their guards scramble out of the pews. Kael’thas is already on his feet. He catches a glimpse of Arthas’ fair head in the commotion as the paladin ushers Jaina and her father away from the scene. He backs out of the room with his sword raised high, eyes wild as he looks around. Satisfied that his friend is safe, Kael’thas turns on his heels and run for the doors.

Rommath, who watched the ceremony from the back, calls his name as they nearly run into each other on the way out. Kael’thas stops with a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Get my father to safety!”

“Where are you going?” Rommath yells above the din, but Kael’thas is already running again.

“After them!”

Rommath’s answering invective is lost in the noise. His hand grabs Kael’thas’ robes to try and pull him back; Kael’thas unclasps them from his shoulders and leaves the heavy fabric in Rommath’s grasp as he books it.

Bursting through the doors, Kael’thas draws a gulp of fresh air before he sees, out of the corner of his eye, two figures scaling down the cathedral’s wall. He takes off after them without a second thought.

Without his cumbersome robes weighing him down he manages to keep up with the fleeing attackers — but only just. His feet pounding the pavement, he nonetheless fails to gain on the faster runners. They make a sharp turn left; by the time he reaches the corner they’re nowhere to be found.

Snapping a hand forward, Kael’thas gathers magic in his palm. This isn’t a spell he’s casting, though; it’s a summon.

And, bursting forth in a shower of fire and ashes, Al’ar answers.

He’s already climbing up his beloved familiar’s back before the phoenix has fully materialized into this plane. Kael’thas smoothes a hand over the soft feathers of his neck, smiling slightly at the pleased sound Al’ar makes, before he urges the phoenix into flight again.

They need no words to communicate. It’s for the best, as Kael’thas doesn’t think he could muster speech with his heart beating wildly in his throat. He’s not much of a runner and there was no course at the Kirin Tor for chasing after assassins. This is all very new to him; the excitement has him nearly shaking.

It’s easier to follow the assassins from the sky — and to gain on them as well.

Al’ar dives as soon as he is above them. Kael’thas holds on to a handful of feathers as the wind howls past his ears, confident that al’ar won’t let him come to any harm. The fugitives aren’t that lucky. Al’ar’s piercing cry is the only warning they get before he swoops down on them. His wings unfold to catch his fall with a sound like a forest fire; his talons glint in the light of his own burning as he extends them towards his unfortunate preys.

One is quick enough to dodge his grasp. The other gets bowled over by the force of the blow, and can only weakly struggle as Al’ar lifts them off the ground. Kael’thas jumps off the phoenix’s back before he can gain altitude again, stumbling slightly on the landing.

He’s unarmed, but mages need no weapons beside their magic, though he’s decent with a sword. He can deal with one measly little assassin without a blade.

At a glance, the assassin seems to be a human woman; and from the arcane energy crackling in her palm, the mage of the two as well. Kael’thas grins. He’s one of the best duelists of the Kirin Tor. This will be a walk in the park.

The mage casts a blue-tinted spell, too quick for him to tell what it does. He catches it in front of his face, turns, throws it back, and she has to jump aside to avoid it. Good. His smile grows, all bared teeth, as his own magic bubbles up to the surface. A tongue of fire whips towards her and hits her in the chest, sending her flying back into a wall.

Dazed and more than a little singed, she cannot get up quickly enough to block his next attack, and the concussive blast knocks her out. She slides down the wall and falls to the ground, unconscious. Shame they must be interrogated still. He’d gladly have burned her to a crisp.

But at least that’s one good thing down. He tilts his head up, trying to catch sight of Al’ar. He can feel their bond stretching as the phoenix flies away — he must be bringing the other assassin back to the cathedral, to be dealt with. Good.

Behind him, he hears hurried footsteps, and a voice shouting,

“Watch out!”

Kael’thas turns just in time to see the mage he thought he had downed take a knife out of her sleeve and throw it with unexpected accuracy. It whistles past him, close enough to leave a line of fire along the side of his neck. Kael’thas snaps his hand out and flames roar around his opponent before she can try another attack. They burn brighter and hotter than any natural fire, and her cry is cut short as she collapses into a pile of ashes and charred bones.

Here’s hoping the one Al’ar carried away survived the initial mauling.

“Are you alright?”

Turning to the new voice, Kael’thas blinks owlishly at the chest that greets him before it occurs to him to lift his eyes. It’s a kaldorei, he notes somewhat distantly; his thoughts feel sluggish all of a sudden. He’ll readily blame it on the fact that this is one of the most attractive men he’s ever seen — and he’s seen his fair share of beautiful men. His

He shakes himself, blinking some more to clear the haze that has settled over him. “I— yes, I am fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

Kael’thas lifts a hand to his neck, still pulsing with painful heat, and his fingers come away slick with blood. “Oh. So I am.” The blood has an oily sheen to it, and it takes a moment of rubbing it between his fingers to realize it might actually be some kind of poison, unless his blood has all of a sudden gained some mysterious new material property.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” The kaldorei asks again, bemused. “You seem... shaken.”

Waving his hand impatiently, Kael’thas steps away from the man. “A bit of poison, nothing more.” The ground sways under his feet nearly as much as the ship he took to Theramore; it takes all of his concentration to keep himself upright.

Real alarm crosses the kaldorei’s face. “I’m going to get a healer.”

“Ah, no need. My magic will burn it away before it can deal any real damage.” He breathes in and out slowly, trying to manage the nausea. “I just have to… wait it out.”

The kaldorei seems unconvinced, though something about Kael’thas assurance must be enough to convince him to settle back for now.

He leans against the nearest wall. It still bears a black, slightly-greasy mark where the other mage once stood before he took care of her. His head spins, and black spots have started to appear in his field of view. It’s a good thing he’s been poisoned before, else he might not know this particular quirk of his biology and panic a lot more about the situation. As it is he’s quite used to the feverish feeling of his inner fire flaring to fight off the infection — it’s why he’s so rarely sick, as well.

The kaldorei looks at him and then, lower, at the remains of what once was an assassin. His mouth twists in a sardonic smile.

“I followed expecting a fight,” he says with a kind of rueful disappointment, “But it seems there’s little for me to do here.”

Closing his eyes, Kael’thas exhales softly. It’s a shame he always meets attractive people when he himself is at his worst possible state. The first time he saw Jaina, he was going on three days without sleep, and looked more undead than like a dashing elven prince. “Do not worry. I might pass out yet, which would leave you free to heroically carry me back to my father.”

He means it as a joke but in truth, he’s not sure he’ll manage to get back otherwise. Even if the dash after the assassins hadn’t exhausted him, the poison is quickly sapping his strength.

Tugging on his connection with Al’ar in the hope that his familiar will simply fly him home, he scowls when his summoning meets unexpected resistance. The phoenix must still be in this plane, then. Perhaps he found trouble with the other assassin. Wouldn’t be the first time they struggle to pry a prey out of his talons. This bird has a grip like a bear trap.

He can already feel himself sliding down the brick wall as his legs slowly but inexorably bow under his own weight. He’s ready to cut his losses and sit down in the pile of ashes when they suddenly give out from under him for good. Thankfully, before his ego and backside can be anymore bruised by the fall, strong arms catch him around the middle and heave him back to his feet.

“You weren’t joking about passing out,” the kaldorei chuckles.

Dazed, Kael’thas tries to look up at him to decipher if he’s being laughed at, but all he manages is to weakly tilt back his head until it hits the man’s chest. “Fighting off poison is no joking matter,” he tries to say, but his lips don’t quite manage the movement required for proper pronunciation, he thinks.

The chest he’s pressed against vibrates slightly as the man hums low in his throat. After some kind of deliberation Kael’thas is not privy to, the kaldorei ducks down and, passing an arm under Kael’thas’ knees, scoop him up as if he weighs nothing.

“Wha—”

“I’ll take you on that offer of a heroic entrance,” he says lightly. He shifts so that Kael’thas’ head rests against his shoulder and, with no effort apparent, starts walking in the direction of the cathedral.

“That was a joke,” he protests weakly.

“Didn’t you say poison is no joking matter? Don’t worry. I won’t drop you.”

“That’s very pretty of you,” he mumbles. It doesn’t sound quite right, and he frowns in confusion before making another attempt. His thoughts are starting to feel more jumbled as his magic responds to the poison with a purifying fever. “That’s…nicely pretty of you.”

There. Perfect.

The last conscious thought that crosses his mind before darkness swallows him is that the kaldorei has a very nice laugh, and then that Rommath is going to have a stroke, if he sees Kael’thas in this state; but he is too comfortable to care about that now.

-

Rommath is indeed apoplectic at seeing his friend and crown prince brought back unconscious and bleeding. Kael’thas, of course, only hears of it second-hand. By the time he comes to, he’s lying on a fainting couch in the wing of Theramore’s castle offered to house the sin’dorei delegation, and Rommath has calmed down somewhat.

Still, when he notices his charge has come awake, he doesn’t wait a second before railing on him.

“You’re an idiot.”

Still dazed and developing a headache suspiciously reminiscent of a hangover, Kael’thas squints up at his best friend. “I’m a genius,” he says for the sake of argument, though as brilliant as he is it is hardly applicable now. It’s a known fact that between the two of them Rommath is the one in charge of being street smart.

“Running on foot after two assassins, and not even dispatching them correctly — that’s what you call genius?” Rommath shakes his head and his shoulders drop slightly as he heaves a sigh. “What little of the city hasn’t seen your idiocy first-hand will know of it by tomorrow morning. That’ll do wonders to your reputation.”

Kael’thas pushes himself to a sitting position and rubs his head with a scowl. “I’m sure the attempt of the new queen’s life will be more interesting news than my dashing attempt at revenge.”

“Perhaps. But the nine foot tall moon guard carrying your bloody body through the streets is certainly an image that’ll stick.”

“It wasn’t that dramatic,” he says, though it might very well have been, for all that he remembers of the trip back.

“They’ll make it that dramatic. Also, you bled a lot, for such a small wound. You’ll have to properly thank the high priestess, by the way: I’m told it’s a great honor to be healed by the envoy of Elune herself.”

Rommath’s dry tone nearly distracts Kael’thas from his actual words, and it takes a second for his mind to connect the dots.

“Tyrande Whisperwind healed me?” He asks, taken aback.

“Well, her brother-in-laws did ask her directly, yes.”

“Her brother-in-law—” Like lightning, he realizes: few kaldorei leave their land, despite the latest efforts of the leading triumvirate to open to other kingdoms. Only the most powerful would have come all the way to Jaina’s coronation. Most likely the triumvirate in person. One of which healed him, at the demand of the other one, who must be the one who carried him after he passed out from a flesh wound. He hides his face in his hands and lets out a sound halfway between a sob and a scream. “I can’t believe I fainted on Illidan Stormrage.”

“You made an impression, apparently,” Rommath notes wryly. “He told your father your aid was invaluable in apprehending the assassin. Singular. I could have sworn there were two,” he adds airily.

“I set the other one on fire,” Kael’thas mumbles in his hands.

“Yes, I expected that much.”

Kael’thas rubs his face with a low groan and drops back on the fainting couch. Maybe he could just… fall unconscious again. Stay that way until they’re back in Silvermoon. He’s sure he could put himself into a magical coma, if it came down to it.

“I met Illidan Stormrage.”

“Yes.”

“The most brilliant sorcerer of his time. And ours, probably.”

“Huh-huh.”

“And I passed out on him. Did I drool? Light, tell me I didn’t drool.”

“You did,” Rommath says, merciless.

“I told him he was pretty.” With feelings, mostly of mortification, he adds, “I want to die.”

“You had your chance already. Now you’ll have to learn to flirt through the awkwardness like the rest of us mortals.”

Kael’thas is always flirting through the awkwardness. He’s never flirted in a way that’s not awkward. Doesn’t matter how attractive and smart Illidan is; he’ll never be able to look the man in the eyes again. His beautiful, golden eyes. Who saw Kael’thas drool probably all over his fancy moon guard armor.

A magical coma sounds more appealing by the minute.

[fireflyquill]

AUgust Day 3: Single Parent

I have to stop finishing these at 1:00am.

Day 1 | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4 | Day 11 | Day 13 | Day 15 | Day 20 | Prompt Post

Jesse is worried about the little girl sitting with a hipster man who doesn’t look like he could be her father. He investigates.

---

“Somethin’ ain’t right,’ Jesse muttered to himself while sipping on the last of his soda.

He had been observing this man at a distance for half an hour now. He had started because the man was incredibly good looking: he was dressed in a casual green jacket with a loose collar, his hair tied back neatly to reveal a clean undercut, piercings catching the light whenever he tilted his head. More interesting though was the young girl sitting at his table in this deserted mall in middle-of-nowhere New Mexico. The two of them were in quiet conversation, and Jesse was having trouble reading their expressions.

There was a large plastic case that sat on the floor to the other side of the man, which Jesse recognized as a weapon case. There were also sizable bags on the floor, indicating that he was carrying all of his belongings with him.

There was definitely something shady going on, and that kid likely needed his help.

Jesse stood to refill his soda and walked by their table casually on his way back, intentionally tipping his drink all over the hipster.

The man sputtered and stood immediately, turning his head up to shoot Jesse the most beautiful scowl he’d ever seen. Why did he always fall for the mean ones?

“Real sorry about that,” Jesse grabbed some napkins and made a show of dabbing at the man’s jacket. His throat ran dry when he realized that there was nothing but pure muscle under those clothes, and Jesse had to pull back before he embarrassed himself.

“You should be more careful,” the man hissed.

“Look, why don’t you go get that cleaned off? I’ll watch the lil’ one for you. It’s the least I could do.”

The man squinted speculatively, looking Jesse up and down. Jesse wondered for a moment whether his instinct had been wrong. He was about to find out.

“Very well,” the man conceded. “Wait here, Ayumi.”

The ease with which the man had just left the girl in his care set off even more alarm bells. Something was definitely off.

As soon as the man was out of view, Jesse leaned in and lowered his voice. “Listen, you in any sort of trouble, darlin’?”

She blinked up at him.

“Is that a bad man?” Jesse tried again. “You can trust me. I’m with Overwatch.”

The girl remained silent.

“You keepin’ quiet because he’s dangerous? ‘Cause I can take care of myself if—HOLY FUCKING HELL!”

The girl had moved swiftly forward and slammed her head upwards on his nose. By the time Jesse’s eyes had stopped watering enough so that he could see again, she had lifted a small switch blade and was holding it like she knew how to use it against his neck.

“Who send you?” she demanded.

“What the hell are you—OW!”

She kicked him in the knee.

“Who. Sent you?” She repeated.

“Ayumi.”

They both turned to find the man had returned. His jacket was folded neatly on his arm, which revealed the tight-fitting t-shirt that hugged his sculpted form. Jesse swallowed hard. Ayumi noticed.

“Ayumi,” the man repeated with mild amusement. “What did I say about strangers?”

Ayumi pouted and her posture deflated. “No drawing blood unless we’ve confirmed that they are bad.”

“And is he bad?” The man asked in exactly the same didactic tone as a father might use to teach his daughter about taking too many cookies, or drawing on the walls.

Her pout depended. “I don’t know yet.”

The man hummed and he walked closer, leaning in so that his face was far too close for Jesse’s heart to take right now.

“Are you bad, Mr…?” he asked quietly, lowering his eyelids. Jesse could have sworn that he was being toyed with.

“McCree. But call me Jesse. And no. Well yes, but not in the way you mean,” Jesse fumbled.

The man snorted and drew back. He spoke to Ayumi in Japanese. The girl reluctantly withdrew her blade.

“I apologize,” The man bowed slightly. “Our lives are complicated, and my daughter and I are always on guard.”

“I’m the one who should be apologizin’,” Jesse admitted. “I didn’t think she was your daughter. She botched my ‘rescue mission’.”

The man laughed, and the sound made something in Jesse’s chest jump.

“If any petty kidnapper had attempted to take her, Ayumi would be have been able to take care of them easily.”

Jesse smiled at the underlying pride and affection to those words.

“So how can you be so sure that I’m not bad?”

The other man hummed. “Something in your eyes, I think.”

Ayumi turned her head up to regard her father closely.

“An assassin would not have observed us for so long before striking,” he continued. “He would have known his mark.”

“You’re expectin’ assassins?” Jesse frowned.

“It is nothing we cannot handle. Nothing we’ve not faced before.”

 Ayumi reached up to grasp at her father’s hand, and the man looked down to give her a small smile. Jesse realized his tone must have indicated distress, and that she must have been trying to comfort him.

“Listen, I’m feelin’ mighty embarrassed about all this Mr….?”

“Hanzo.” Ayumi’s mouth fell agape, and Jesse knew that the man had just given his real name, and that this must have been uncommon. All of a sudden, he couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing them again.

“Hanzo,” Jesse repeated, liking the sound of it already. “There’s a bakery close by, and if you got the time, maybe—”

Hanzo’s expression closed quickly, as though it were practiced.

“Thank you for the offer, but Ayumi does not like cake.”

“Oh. Alright then.” Jesse knew better than to push, but couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

Ayumi looked between the two of them, looking somewhat annoyed.

“My father does though.”

“Oh?” Hope surged to Jesse’s throat.

“Ayumi,” Hanzo chastised.

“Strawberry and chocolate.”

“I bet they have somethin’ like that,” Jesse smiled widely.

Hanzo switched back to Japanese, his words quick and stern. Ayumi refused to yield.

“I like him. He’s nice even though I beat him in combat.”

Jesse was about to point out that she had surprised him, but decided it was better to stay silent. She was his only chance of Hanzo staying, after all.

Hanzo sighed. “Very well. Please lead the way.”

“Mighty fine,” Jesse beamed. He stood, and gestured for them to follow.

“Shimada Ayumi, what are you trying to pull?” Hanzo asked in Japanese once they had all started walking.

Ayumi shrugged. “I already told you, father. I like him.”

She was walking as quick as her legs could carry her, and Hanzo should have seen it coming. She turned to face him with a devious grin. “And I think that you do too.”

She squealed and sprinted away as he took off after her with fake anger.

“Hey now, y’all don’t know where you’re going!” Jesse laughed as he chased after them.

[qqueenofhades]

the dragons on the map: vii

Rating: M Summary:  After the Lifeboat is nearly destroyed, the Time Team ends up stranded in their strangest and most unfamiliar destination yet: 1195 France. With Rittenhouse to stop, medieval adventures to be had, and a pair of rival kings at war, it’ll truly be a miracle if they ever get home. (Garcy/Lyatt/pre-Garcyatt, Flogan, Rufus Is Judging, general Time Team relationships and bonding. Guest appearances from the Plantagenets, for reasons.) Available: AO3

This has already been one of the longest days of Lucy Preston’s life – it started before dawn this morning, has seen them arrive at Poitiers, wash up, meet Richard and Eleanor, have a few sparring rounds in the ring, learn about Emma’s presence, culminate with Wyatt getting shot at dinner, and now seems liable to extend well into the night on a wild Rittenhunt – and some small part of her does just want to lie down, go to sleep, and hope it is over when she wakes up. Obviously, she didn’t plan to go on a hair-raising midnight raid (well, it’s not midnight, it’s not even Compline yet) with the intention of taking out Emma before she can put her nefarious plots into action, but then, that is basically Lucy’s life now. There’s even the massively over-optimistic thought that if they could get Emma in time, this would be the last one ever, and they could go back to… whatever’s going to pass as an ordinary existence after this. Lucy honestly has no idea, and sometimes, she’s grateful for the excuse to put it off. At least she’s gotten used to this, though she knows it’s a mark of humans being able to cope and adjust to almost anything. To live in a permanent state of deprivation and trauma, and have your brain convince you that it’s fine, it’s fine, no looking at the little man behind the curtain. You don’t actually want a settled, normal, happy life, do you? That would be boring.

Lucy speeds up, causing Flynn to take longer strides (he, of course, doesn’t actually need to run in order to keep up with her). Someone said they saw a red-haired woman leaving the castle earlier, in the chaos engendered by the botched assassination (Lucy wonders if that was another of Emma’s motives in staging it that way – nobody available to notice or stop her), and that she was on horseback. Oh joy, this means a return to it themselves. Flynn probably doesn’t mind, but Lucy decidedly does. Why couldn’t Emma have just been out for an evil moonlight stroll? Why more riding? Why?

And yet, they don’t have the luxury of doing otherwise. They reach the stables and order their horses saddled, and Flynn makes a step of his hands for Lucy to scramble up, having to give her an extra boost because her legs are so stiff. She groans. “How far do you think she could have gotten? We can’t be that far behind her.”

“No,” Flynn agrees, mounting up with an agility that makes Lucy momentarily hate him. “But we don’t know which direction she was going, or how hard she was riding. We might have to keep it up through the night. If I can get a clear shot at her, I’ll take it, but that’s also going to make it very tricky to find the Mothership.”

“Rufus can work it out.” Lucy has faith in him. “Let’s just worry about catching Emma first.”

Flynn looks at her sidelong, then nods. He puts his heels into his courser, as Lucy does the same with the palfrey, and they gallop out into the late evening.

The castle gates are just about to be closed and locked with the double guard Eleanor has posted, but Flynn calls out and manages, after an interlude of haggling, for him and Lucy to be allowed through. The streets of Poitiers are under curfew as well, people hanging up their shingles and closing their shutters; the latest taverns can operate is until nine PM. That’s late-night anyway, given that you’ll be awake at dawn, and any trouble that intoxicated patrons get into would fall on the tavern keeper’s head. In other words, there are not a lot of people they can ask if a red-haired woman just rode through here in a hurry, and besides, the townsfolk mostly speak Occitan, not French. However, there are a limited number of gates that Emma can go through – the one they arrived by, the one at the far side by the aqueduct, and a postern on the western wall. The latter is the smallest and most discreet, and it’s in the part of the city away from the steep river banks, opening onto the countryside beyond. In other words, if Emma wants to avoid notice in leaving Poitiers, and ride for a while without interruption, that’s probably where she’s headed.

Lucy and Flynn direct themselves accordingly, though when they reach the postern, it is also shut and locked. However, the night watchman is clearly not happy to see them, given the way he scrambles into his wooden tollbooth and pretends he is not there when they ride up. This is a fairly clear indication that a) Emma has been there, and b) threatened him with dire consequences if he let anyone follow her out. He is deaf to all their attempted reasoning (understandable, but still annoying) and finally Flynn, out of patience, draws his gun and fires it directly overhead, scaring the crap out of the poor bastard. He gives in, comes out and opens the postern for them, then presumably goes off to make his last will and testament.

Lucy normally would feel a lot worse for him, but this time she doesn’t look back once, urging her palfrey out into the dark blue hills beyond. It’s dark enough that she can’t really see more than a few yards, and the moon hasn’t risen yet. The only light, aside from the torches on the walls, is the scattered stars above, and she yawns hard and deliberately, trying to get more blood flowing to her brain. This, of course, only really makes her want to yawn again, and she turns to glance back at Flynn. God, he seems indestructible. Do his veins run with energy drinks? And he already got beaten up by Richard, and had to perform makeshift emergency surgery on Wyatt. He should be flagging too.

If he is, however, it’s impossible to tell. He considers a moment, then clucks to the horse, spurring it into a quick trot. The plan appears to be to ride as long as they can and hope they run into Emma somewhere out here. There aren’t exactly highways or service stations or mile markers to lead the way. Lucy hopes they can find their way back.

They canter along for a while in silence, as Lucy does her utmost to ignore her throbbing thighs and gritty eyes and sore back and ass and head, the small, niggling worry in her heart for Wyatt and Rufus, and everything else. Instead she glances sidelong at Flynn, hoping he doesn’t notice her doing it. This is the first time they have really been alone since they left Paris, and to say the least, a lot has happened in that week. He has been almost the sole historian (she feels guilt at not being more helpful, a voice that sounds like her mother’s whispering that she should know more of this, should have studied more), he has dealt in multiple confusing archaic languages and spur-of-the-moment cover stories, demonstrated some seriously hot swordfighting skills, and navigated them through the courts of two rival kings with Rittenhouse up in everyone’s business to boot. Lucy is really trying to ignore it, but the fact is indisputable. She’s had some kind of feelings and attraction to Flynn for a while now, but he’s leveled up about a thousand in that department since they got here. She can’t look at him without feeling something deep and raw and hungry in her stomach, something that wants, and this is literally the worst time for it.

There are a lot of things she could say. She could also say nothing at all, which is always a safe option, but one that rasps her raw in a different way. Then she says, “I thought you didn’t give a damn about Wyatt?”

Flynn twitches, looking startled. “What?”

“That was what you said,” Lucy reminds him pointedly. “Back in Chinatown. But you’ve now saved his life twice in two weeks. Once when the Lifeboat crashed and we couldn’t wake him up and you gave him CPR, and now with the emergency surgery on a supper table while also keeping us from having our covers completely blown. Rufus and I probably wouldn’t be doing so well by ourselves, but Wyatt would definitely be dead. And it’s thanks to you that he’s not, and you and he and I all know that.”

Flynn looks as if it is in fact news to him that they’ve noticed, and also as if he is not sure what to do with that information. He starts to say something, coughs, and stops. Then he says, “I don’t like him. That doesn’t mean I’m going to let him die.”

“But why?” Lucy pushes. “You could. You spent plenty of time trying to kill him, before – ”

“Yes, before.” Flynn takes the reins to steer the courser through a broken, boggy bit of trampled ground, then canters up on the far side and pauses to make sure she navigates it safely. It astounds Lucy how innately and endlessly protective he is – of her, of all of them – when, as she’s just been reminding him, that was his exact opposite instinct for a while. “And most of that was his own fault. He can’t take me straight in a fight, as we’ve just demonstrated again. And if you’d believed me about Rittenhouse and stopped trying to interfere, I wouldn’t have had to do it at all.”

Lucy raises both eyebrows. “Your methods weren’t exactly designed to convince.”

Flynn shrugs, as if to say that’s for everyone else to quibble about, not him. There are another few moments as the horses’ hooves splash in the mire. Then Lucy says, “So what is it? Just about fighting Rittenhouse with help now? Is that what we offer you?”

“What do you want me to say, Lucy?” He sounds wary, not sure if this is a trick or she wants a platitude or a safe answer or something else altogether. To be fair, she doesn’t quite know herself. “You have a problem with how it is now?”

“No. That’s not what I – no. I’m – if I haven’t said it, I’m saying it now. You’ve carried all of us on this, and – I said it back in the tavern in Paris, but it’s true. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” For once, when his words are generally laden with sarcasm and biting wit and sassy turns of phrase and the rest of his drama, it’s soft and simple. It’s hard to make out the expression on his face, since it’s dark and he’s looking straight ahead, but it has a hint of that softness that he tends to show only to her. “You and I, we’ve… we’ve managed.”

Lucy supposes that she has helped, a bit, even if it doesn’t feel up to her usual standards (and God, that’s such an unhealthy reflex, like she’s filling out a scorecard of every mission and if she doesn’t provide a certain, quantifiable amount of useful information, her credential as a historian and a person will be yanked. Her mother, again). She looks at him again, thinking it’s a good thing that they’re on horses, moving at a brisk clip, and several feet apart, or otherwise she might be tempted to reach out, to touch. Wants to ask him what exactly he was going to confess in that moment before Wyatt interrupted, but he’s been so understated and elusive about what he actually says to her (though his actions have said plenty). Does he not want to put undue pressure on her, or is it really just not how he feels?

Lucy doesn’t know why that makes her stomach writhe uncomfortably, or at least she would rather not think why. Yes, Flynn is very attractive – she’s a woman, she has eyes, she noticed that even while they were enemies – but she’s a grownup and she likes to think of herself as a sensible one. She’s not going to be swayed just by a pretty face. Plus, there is the obvious fact that she has no desire whatsoever to sleep with another of her teammates and have that once more go to pot in a spectacular and heart-crushing fashion. It hurt badly enough to lose Wyatt, and though he’s physically back at her side, the emotional part is a long way off. If she had to go through that with Flynn, her rock and her solace and her safe place (how has he taken that job? How is it?) in the darkest hours of her life… well. She might flatter herself that she’s still strong enough to do it, but it is absolutely nothing she wants to go through or even try to contemplate. Flynn has always been hers. Shared with no one. He protects and defends and looks after Wyatt and Rufus, even if he’d never say it out loud or let them get comfortable, but her… no. She’s something altogether different.

They ride for a short while longer, until Flynn hears something, reins up sharp, and holds up a hand. Lucy is not quite as successful at stopping the palfrey on a dime, and it skids, sending her giddily off balance for a moment until it regains its footing. Flynn puts a finger to his lips and points ahead, and then stealthily dismounts, moving over to offer his arms for Lucy to slide down into. She knows it’s just to avoid making any noise, but she catches her hands against his chest as he, yet again, does not seem to expend any effort in any of this. It feels like an electric charge burns up her palms, and she has to resist the urge to jerk away too fast. Her cheeks are still hot, a small flutter rising under her breastbone, as she reminds herself that they very definitely need to focus right now. Hanky-panky, or at least extremely awkward sudden thoughts thereof, later.

Flynn doesn’t seem to have noticed, at any rate. He reaches into his tunic and draws his gun, and shakes his head when Lucy gives him a look asking if she should draw Wyatt’s as well. Leaving the horses behind, they climb up the next hill on foot, and edge up carefully over the top, peering down into the low green vale beyond. There’s a thin stand of alders and larch, dappled by the just-rising moon, but that’s not what is casting the most light. That is the eerie blue glow of the Mothership, which has just ginned up to launch speed and in the next instant, blows out of existence. Emma’s horse, tied nearby, rears and screams, pulling frantically at its tether, but doesn’t quite get loose.

Flynn and Lucy swivel to stare at each other in bafflement and terror. If Emma has somehow already put all her plans in place and is peacing out, leaving the surviving sleeper agents to handle the rest, they’re screwed. They were counting on stealing the Mothership to get out of here, after all, since the Lifeboat is toast. Was Emma asking Wyatt for twenty-four uninterrupted hours just as a misdirect? Bombing back to the future to see if things have changed yet, get a progress report on Rittenhouse’s activities – she’s the CEO now, maybe they can’t spare her too long in the field, terrifying (and terrifyingly competent) as she is. For a long moment, Lucy contemplates the possibility of living the rest of their lives here (that is, if they don’t get killed by any number of people). Tries to tell herself it won’t be so bad and they’ll adjust, just like they have to anything else. But she wants very much to be sick.

She reaches out blindly, grabbing for Flynn’s hand, and he holds it ferociously, steadying her from the brink of total panic. Lucy hauls in a few painful breaths, trying to tell herself there is another way back, even if she doesn’t see one. But just as she’s really about to lose it, the night starts to bend and ripple again, there’s a whine and whir on the edge of hearing, and the Mothership blasts back into the third dimension, landing with a slight skid in the silt. The door cycles open, casting eerie fluorescent light on this twelfth-century rustic countryside, and seven people troop out. Six men and a woman, all dressed in medieval chic.

One of the men turns to say something to Emma, who is just visible in the doorway. At once Flynn raises his gun, but it’s a long shot, they can assume that the Rittenhouse backups are all armed, and as the moon whispers out from behind a cloud, they both can see who the woman is, blonde hair braided in an elegant crown and green cloak artfully draped and clasped with a cloisonné brooch. It’s Jessica.

Both of their hearts skip a beat, though likely for different reasons. Flynn has a better shot at her than he has at Emma, but taking her out at this point is of debatable strategic value, and even he is not so cruel as to shoot Wyatt’s estranged, pregnant wife without him there at all or able to offer any opinion on it, to find out in some terrible way later. Jessica is an enemy, she is technically subject to the same rules of combat as any of the Rittenhouse goons she’s surrounded by, but while Flynn trying to shoot her now might be justifiable on some grounds, it would destroy a lot more on others. And he couldn’t bring himself to shoot John Rittenhouse, the terrified child of his mortal enemy. Is he really going to take out Wyatt’s unborn son or daughter, and call it square for Iris?

Lucy doesn’t know the answer, but she grabs at his arm just in case, shaking her head desperately. She has no reason to protect Jessica either, and perhaps if she was another kind of woman, she wouldn’t mind or just turn a blind eye, but that’s not it, that’s not her. No, she mouths. No, no, you can’t.

For once, Flynn doesn’t demur, if only since it’s clear it would get them into all kinds of trouble to be caught out here by themselves, no backup or shelter. Lucy has gotten better with the gun, but she’s not a sharpshooter or a soldier, and has never been involved in a sustained firefight with trained killers before. They have to observe, gather information, and not act, not yet. If nothing else, this makes it clear that Emma’s threat to Jessica’s life is no bluff, and she thought it would be easier to carry it out with her conveniently at hand. Oh God, is she planning to bring her back to Poitiers and – and what?

Lucy’s spinning head is distracted as Emma once more goes into the Mothership and shuts the door, and after a few seconds, it jumps out of existence again. The six guys and Jessica seem to think she’s coming back, since they start setting up a camp, laughing and talking and looking like they are on a corporate outdoor retreat (which technically they are, if you can forget… all the rest of it). Lucy stares harder at Jessica, trying to tamp down the morass of emotions that have risen in her chest at seeing her again. There’s anger and distrust and grief and an aching feeling like longing. They were friends, weren’t they? Jessica supported her, was kind to her? That can’t have all been a long-con act. There were other chances for Jess to hurt her, to actually walk away. And now this – is she just here for Emma to kill her more conveniently? Or –

At that, Lucy thinks of something, and it feels like another lightning bolt, but for a different reason. Jessica is dressed more nicely than the others; that is a fancy brooch, and there is fur edging her cloak, flashes of pearl bobs at her ears. The moonlight briefly catches on the embroidery on her skirt, which has the gleam of silk. She’s not looking so nice just to be thrown in a dungeon and held as a hostage. Which means, or at least strongly suggests, that that’s not why she’s really here. She’s here to marry Richard.

If you think about it, Lucy considers numbly, it makes sense. Emma probably doesn’t altogether trust Jessica, and wants her away from ongoing Rittenhouse operations in the present. Jessica already has plenty of experience at playing a loving wife, remaining embedded to gather intelligence or whatever they want from her, and she’s pregnant. Since the entire point of this mission is to make sure Richard has a son to succeed him instead of his brother John, Rittenhouse isn’t going to take chances or wait and cross their fingers and hope he eventually feels guilty enough to engage in dutiful heterosexual babymakin’. Make this as painless as possible for him. Provide him with a new wife already pre-installed with a son (is Jessica far enough along, do they know for sure it’s a boy? They must) and exempt him from even having to sleep with her if he doesn’t want to. Jessica can live here for a couple years, then come home when Richard dies in 1199 (if she doesn’t kill him first). Just like Emma, ranching it in the 1880s alone for a decade, she will have proved her loyalty, and can return in triumph. As long as she’s happy leaving her child behind, to grow up as a thirteenth-century king and totally change all of known English and American history.

Lucy turns frantically to Flynn, trying to think how to communicate this without words, but he’s staring at Jessica with an expression that makes her think it might have occurred to him too. At that moment, there’s another whine and flash as the Mothership lands for a second time, and a further seven agents troop out. What the hell. Emma could theoretically be spending as much time in the present as she wants on each trip, and then jumping back to a few minutes later on the same night in April 1195.  Could have been gone for a couple weeks, having a spa date and going to evil board meetings and whatever else, then returning here. Time travel, it’s absolutely the worst, especially when they can only sit here and watch.

However, as far as Lucy can tell (or maybe just wants this to be the case) Emma has been running a straightforward shuttle service tonight, there and back in real time. There are now fourteen Rittenhouse operatives plus Emma, and given that they’re all dressed for the job, they must have just been waiting around headquarters tonight for the boss to bomb in and pick them up. The team was thinking hopefully that the two agents down with cyanide capsules might mean that Rittenhouse has to conserve their resources, but they’re bringing in the most agents that Lucy and Flynn have ever seen in one place and time. It was bad enough when they had to track one sleeper agent per jump. Now there are fourteen? Plus Jessica?

Likewise, Emma doesn’t seem to be done. She vanishes into the Mothership again, which then jumps for a third time, and returns with a further seven, upping the total to twenty-one. There is a good mix of men and women, dressed for all levels of society, and after the fourth trip, bringing what clearly look to be Jessica’s fake servants and ladies-in-waiting, there are almost thirty people in the glen. Lucy feels paralyzed. Thirty?

She and Flynn can clearly see that there’s no battle to be had here, and they slowly inch down the far side of the hill, though there is a hair-raising moment when one of the men looks up sharply and almost spots them. They take hold of the horses and try to sneak off as far as they can, but they also can’t just run away and leave the Rittenhouse camping party completely unsupervised. Once they have found a hidden spot that is well out of sight and earshot, but still close enough that they’ll be tipped off if the gang starts to move, Lucy almost collapses. “Oh my God,” she says at last, instinctively keeping her voice low. “That’s – that’s – ”

“I know.” Flynn’s mouth is grim. “That has to be a significant proportion of all their available operatives. After all, there are plenty of members who are in it for the benefits and the power and whatever else, but aren’t trained and expected to take on the time-traveling part. And bringing in fucking Jessica – ”

There’s a pause as they look at each other and silently concur about why they think she’s there. Lucy blows out a breath. “We need to tell Wyatt, don’t we?”

“So what?” Flynn snorts. “He can run off to her and screw us over again? Like Rufus said earlier. Jessica’s clearly picked her allegiances.”

“But has she?” Lucy stares up at the star-flecked sky. God, she wishes she could just not think about this, could switch off her compassion and stop caring, when it seems like it would be so much easier. “I don’t trust her either and I’m not saying we need to make any special effort to rescue her, but I’m not entirely sure she’s here because she wants to be.”

To judge from Flynn’s expression, he could not give a single well-formed shit if Jessica is here to redeem herself in Emma’s eyes, or simply because Emma saw the opportunity and seized it, or any other explanation whatsoever. He won’t kill her, at least not before knowing for sure, and because of it being Wyatt’s child, inconvenient and unwelcome as that may be for the larger cause. But, that look says, he is far, far from happy about it.

Lucy sighs, half-wanting to apologize to him and half-stubbornly convinced she has nothing to apologize for. They lie awkwardly side by side in the hollow of the hill, as the horses whicker and stamp at tether, and Lucy can feel the exhaustion rushing over her like the waves of a soft dark sea. Even if they had to get up and gallop off right now, she isn’t sure she wouldn’t just pass out and fall out of the saddle. She needs to sleep, she craves sleep with an almost physical, hallucinogenic intensity, but it seems irresponsible for both of them to knock off and potentially miss whatever Rittenhouse might do next. She should – she should stay awake, she shouldn’t make Flynn do it and keep watch alone, she should –

Lucy closes her eyes, just for a second, telling herself it is only that. Then she opens them, and it is cool grey predawn, the air calm and dew-damp and still, with the sun not yet in sight over the eastern horizon and Flynn snoring softly next to her. He has his hand on his gun, looks as if he stayed awake as long as he could possibly hack it, and will probably be very annoyed with himself when he rouses. A line is drawn between his brows, his mouth is set and grim, and since it’s been several days since he’s properly shaved, there’s a dark turf of stubble on his jaw, more than Lucy has ever seen him with. She lies there looking at him, reminding herself that a good chunk of Rittenhouse is camped about a quarter-mile off and she should possibly go run a scouting mission to see if they’re still there. But she can’t help but think that if Flynn woke up and she wasn’t here, he’d panic.

Without the sun, and still relatively early in spring, the air is chilly, and Lucy hesitates, then edges a little closer. Flynn is large and warm and comforting, she’s gotten used to sleeping with him nearby or next to her, and it’s a chance to look without the ever-present fear of being noticed or having to pretend she wasn’t or wanting to push him for more answers that he may or may not give. Her fingers are prickling again, the same way they were when he caught her last night, with that impossible, overwhelming urge to touch. There are a few shoots of silver in his stubble, more than there is in his hair. Her pulse keeps tripping in her throat, which is dry even after several swallows.

Lucy rolls onto her back and starts to mentally recite the U.S. presidents in order, which is a tactic of hers to calm herself down or take her mind off things or otherwise shake her out of whatever unprofitable train of thought she’s currently barreling down. But she can’t get further than about Polk before she finds herself glancing over again. She should try to concentrate on the fact that there was actually a man appointed to the highest office in the land named Millard Fillmore. What else does she know about ol’ Millard? Became president thanks to the death of Zachary Taylor, as he was his VP. Last president to be a member of the Whig Party while in office, endorsed by the Know Nothing Party in 1852, and lost his re-election bid (honestly, truth in advertising, you have to wonder if the Know Nothings would win today, which is a sad commentary on the state of America even without Rittenhouse – if Lucy recalls, they also started out as a secret society). Consistently ranked as one of the worst presidents, which seems cruel, given that he was already named Millard Fillmore. Rittenhouse doesn’t seem likely to be sponsoring any trips to his administration. Or –

Lucy turns her head and looks at Flynn again. Their faces are fairly close, and she should probably back up a little – if nothing else, because it would probably scare the dickens out of anyone to wake up and find someone two inches from your nose. She edges herself away carefully, digging her fingernails into her palms until they leave white crescent moons. Even if Flynn was interested in pursuing something else with her (and she doesn’t know for sure that he is – he too has a wife and child he wants to save, he could still change his mind about leaving them), this is an even more horrible time to find out. For God’s sake, Lucy. Focus.

Instead, she just lies there with a dry mouth and a hammering heart and a slickness she can feel between her thighs when she moves them, until Flynn jerks, starts, and wakes up with a snort, rolling onto his side and grabbing for his gun by reflex. When it becomes clear that their hideout has not been found, he grimaces, rubs a hand over his scruffy face (he should not do that, it’s distracting) and pushes himself up on an elbow. With another look telling her to stay where she is (it’s amazing how good they have gotten at totally non-verbal communication, in small glances and gestures), he spiders off on all fours, careful not to stand up and present a broad target before he can be sure where Rittenhouse is, or if they have moved during the night. Climbs up the hill, then disappears down the other side.

Lucy lies very tensely, a knot in her belly for more than one reason, listening with all her might for shouting or gunshots, but the morning remains quiet. She is feeling like breakfast would be nice, but there’s not going to be a Starbucks to stop by on the way back (and this is France, they’d probably scoff at Starbucks on principle). Hopefully Wyatt and Rufus have not concluded the worst about their failure to return last night, and Wyatt is feeling a little better. Though honestly, finding out that Emma has shipped his (ex?)-wife in to marry Richard and leave their son here as Rittenhouse Joffrey (as Rufus so memorably put it) is bound to put a damper on anyone’s spirits. Jeez. Poor Wyatt. Between the two near-death experiences and now further emotional turmoil, it seems like the universe has pasted a kick me sign on his back. Lucy is hardly so cold as to enjoy it, or want any more pain for him. She doesn’t know what else is going to be there for them, but she still cares for him deeply.

It’s another few nerve-wracking minutes until Flynn finally reappears. He sits down and rests his arms on his knees, scowling. “Well,” he says. “They have horses. I don’t know where they got them, though we can assume their previous owners are likely dead. They were talking, I couldn’t hear all of it, but I did catch something about the plan changing. Then Jessica and her escort headed off in the opposite direction than the one we came in. Emma isn’t going to risk taking her back to Poitiers and having us see her, now that she knows we’re there, so she’ll send her to another one of Richard’s cities and have him meet her there. And no, I don’t know which one that is.”

“What about the other agents?” It’s bad news that Jessica is about to slip through their fingers, but they need to get back to Poitiers and find out where Richard might be going next, then accompany him if they can. “Where did they go?”

“About ten of them went with Jessica on horseback. The others looked like they’d be walking. Probably get them planted in several nearby villages, have as many backups and second options as possible. I don’t know if they’ve all been equipped with their own cyanide pill, but not even Emma can afford to burn thirty trained operatives. They can’t all be under suicide orders. So if we could catch one – ”

“Would they talk, though? If they’ve been picked for this mission, they must be the best of the best, the uber-loyalists. Even if they don’t commit hara-kiri, they could still – ”

Flynn cracks his knuckles. “I’m willing to find out.”

Lucy raises an eyebrow, as if to remind him that grievous bodily harm is off the table until she says so (it’s not that she objects, she just wants to make sure they’ve run through their options), and he gazes back at her with a butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth expression that is… not the best thing for her currently rather tenuous self-control. God, he really needs to stop being so distracting. Especially when he follows it up with that patented tongue thing of his, which makes her entire face feel like a brushfire. This can’t just be her imagination, can it? This spicy, gut-twisting, breath-catching chemistry, especially recently. Flynn can be soft and tender with her, almost unbearably so, and she has taken refuge in that on repeated occasions, has relied on it being there to catch her if she wants to fall. But she also wants him to, well, not be soft. He can pick her up and lift her and toss her around like a feather, and he would never, ever hurt her. It’s like the fuse of a long-burning stick of dynamite is on the brink of explosion inside her, and the thing about dynamite is that it does not care in the least if you ignore it or not. Eventually, and spectacularly, it is going to go boom.

Once more, Lucy drags herself away from her base impulses and focuses on the mission. “What about Emma?” she says. “Where did she go?”

“She waited until everyone was gone and then set off. She’ll be on her way back to Poitiers by now, so we need to be after her.” Flynn looks disgruntled. “And I can’t even shoot or blow up or lay a finger on the damn Mothership, because it’s our only ticket home too. At least we know where it is now, but with thirty Rittenhouse agents running around, we can hardly just jump in and bail out. Tempting as it sounds.”

“Yeah.” Lucy sighs and tries to work up any enthusiasm at all for yet another ride back. As for now, Emma doesn’t know that they saw her midnight taxi service, much less Jessica, so they have the element of surprise on their side – at least to a point. But that doesn’t make what they have to do any less daunting, or with any more likelihood of success. If anything, much less. They were still relying on the comfortable assumption that this would be like previous missions, even after having been presented with concrete evidence to the contrary. That was stupid and they are lucky it hasn’t gotten them killed, though it’s been a close-run thing. At any rate, they need to stay just far enough behind Emma not to tip her off that they’re on her tail, but not far enough to let her have free rein. It’s a delicate balance.

Flynn makes a step of his hands for Lucy to mount her horse as before, but she decides it might be better not to risk touching him too much, and clambers up on her own. Something flickers over his face – she can’t tell what. Is he insulted, or hurt, or surprised that she’s rejected his help, when it’s become such second nature these days to take it? Or does he figure that she can definitely get on her own horse like a big girl and no need to do it anymore? Or is Lucy horribly reading into all of this, because a state of advanced and deeply unwelcome thirst is not the greatest for perceiving the world (and the man responsible) in a clear and unbiased way? God. This is terrible.

They don’t talk much on the ride back, as the sun steadily rises and casts golden glow over the green French hills. Finally Lucy says, as a neutral and pertinent history question, “Where would Emma be sending Jessica, if she doesn’t want to risk us interfering in Poitiers?”

“Could be any of Richard’s other major cities.” Flynn squints against the morning light. “Rouen is too far, they won’t want Jessica riding too much if she’s pregnant. They probably also don’t want to risk taking her north and running into any of Philip’s men. They could be taking her to Angoulême, that’s only about seventy miles south of here and it’s technically one of Richard’s possessions. But the counts have a fractious relationship with the Plantagenets, so it’s not a sure bet. Bordeaux would be safer, though that’s further away. Or perhaps – ” He stops. “No. Chinon. It has to be Chinon.”

“Chinon?”

“It’s north of here, but not too far. Only about sixty miles. It’s in Anjou, that’s Richard’s other home territory through his father, and it’s near Fontevraud Abbey. That’s the Plantagenets’ favorite religious house, it’s wealthy and influential, and it’s where Richard and Eleanor themselves will be buried in another several years, along with Henry. If Richard is going to remarry, it would make sense to have it happen in Fontevraud, and they can get Jessica there relatively quickly and safely to wait for him. We’ll have to be sure when we get back, but I’d be shocked if it wasn’t.”

“Where’s Richard’s real wife?” Lucy can’t help but feeling bad for this poor woman, who has apparently been put aside for years and isn’t even going to get the reconciliation that she was supposed to, kept at arm’s length and forgotten by almost everyone, her role as queen taken by her formidable mother-in-law and her role as wife all but an afterthought. “Her name’s Berengaria, right? Berengaria of Navarre?”

“Yes, that’s her. I think she might be in Anjou right now as well, or Maine. They have a few different residences, but those are her most common ones. If it’s Anjou, that’s another point in favor of Chinon. Rittenhouse would want to make sure Berengaria dies discreetly and can’t interfere, or lodge a complaint with the Pope, or her brother, the king of Navarre. Scorned royal wives do have a few options for justice, though that hasn’t helped Ingeborg.”

“Ingeborg?”

“Philip’s second wife,” Flynn explains. “Ingeborg of Denmark. He married her a few years ago, in 1193, then immediately and bizarrely rejected her the next morning. He’s currently keeping her locked up in a tower, and he fights the Pope for years refusing to take her back. Even gets all of France put under interdict. She’s finally restored, but not for twenty years.”

“What?” Lucy is outraged. She can’t say she liked Philip, exactly – he was too cold and calculating for that, too manipulative and obsessive – but this is certainly not doing much for her opinion of the guy. “That’s – where is Ingeborg? We should rescue her.”

Flynn gives her a wry little smile, as if he loves the fact that her first instinct is to charge in like a white knight and save an unjustly mistreated historical lady, even if there is no conceivable connection to their current mission. “I don’t know where she is right now,” he says. “She was at a convent in Soissons, but I don’t think she’s still there. Besides, we might have enough on our hands with saving Berengaria.”

“What happens to her?” Lucy asks. “After Richard dies. Does she remarry too?”

“No.” Flynn glances ahead a little too carefully, as if this question of whether a widowed spouse deciding, or not deciding, to move on is strictly academic, or at least he’ll pretend it is. “She outlives him by about thirty years, she never marries again. John isn’t very good at paying for her maintenance, and the Pope badgers him about it on various occasions. In 1204, Philip gives the city of Le Mans on her after she relinquishes her Norman dower properties to him, so she settles there. It’s a lonely existence for a discarded queen with no son to become king or look after her. Not much money, either. But it’s what she does.”

“But surely she could have married again,” Lucy persists. “She’s still the sister of the king of Navarre, isn’t that what you said? That makes her an eligible match, and she can’t be that old. A new husband would at least take care of her, and plenty of widowed noblewomen married more than once.”

“She could have,” Flynn says, after a slight pause. “For whatever reason, she didn’t. Perhaps she really loved Richard, despite all his flaws, and didn’t want to think that any mortal man could take the Lionheart’s place. Maybe her independence as a widow was worth more to her than money. Unless you want to ask her if we meet her, we won’t know.”

“But – ” Lucy doesn’t know how to put this without making it uncomfortably clear that they might not be talking about Berengaria anymore. God, and this was supposed to be a safe avenue of conversation. Finally she says, “From what we’ve seen, Richard has a lot of admirable qualities, but being a great husband isn’t one of them. Did she – could she really love him that much that there just wouldn’t be anyone else, for thirty years afterward?”

“Love doesn’t really enter into medieval marriages,” Flynn points out. “A bit more among the commoners, yes, but for the king and the aristocracy, it’s a business arrangement, for an alliance or for money or for consolidating or claiming territories. That’s part of the reason most kings have mistresses. They’re not really expected to owe emotional or sexual fidelity to their wives, though of course their wives don’t get the same freedom. Berengaria might have had to marry again if her brother forced her, but he doesn’t.  So I suppose no. She never found anyone she loved or wanted enough to do it for its own sake.”

Lucy doesn’t answer. There’s a strange kind of grief in her chest that is for Berengaria, and isn’t, and it’s mixed up and sharp-edged and painful. Even if they save Berengaria from getting unceremoniously murdered by Rittenhouse, there’s still no guarantee that Richard will take her back again, or that she won’t end up even more alone than she does. There are so many women in history who get forgotten or overlooked or mistreated or simply ignored, who are much less fortunate than Berengaria – at least history knows her name and who she was. It just isn’t fair. It isn’t fair.

(There are other things that don’t seem entirely fair either, but that’s beside the point.)

They fall silent for the rest of the ride to Poitiers. The sun’s up, it’s morning and the gates are open, so they don’t need to bribe or bash their way through, but they need to get back to the castle. Emma might have figured out that they’re gone, and they also need to ensure what’s going on with Wyatt and Rufus. They canter quickly through the streets, almost aristocratic in their disregard for public rights of way; if it’s there, they take it. Finally, they reach the castle and hurry inside, unable to shake the fear that Emma might be watching from the gatehouse. She has no reason to suspect them, right? Assumed they stayed in the tower room with Wyatt and Rufus? It would be nice to think so, but she’s a formidable and terrifying adversary, and any underestimation whatsoever could easily be lethal. Maybe they can pretend they were just out for a nice breakfast jaunt.

Lucy and Flynn ride into the castle and dismount in the courtyard, at which point Lucy spots a guard across the way who seems to be staring at them a little too intently. It is entirely possible that he’s just surprised to see them back for any number of reasons, or he missed the memo about Prince Ali and his weird friends arriving yesterday, but if he is in fact Rittenhouse and is waiting to report to Emma, they need to throw him off the scent. Lucy turns around and giggles at Flynn, as if he’s just said something funny, and while he is looking confused, tilts her head halfway at the guard, indicating that they’re being watched. Then, before Flynn can look around and make it obvious, Lucy stands on her tiptoes, grabs him by the tunic (it’s necessary to get his head to her level), and kisses him.

She has no idea what the protocol is about PDA in the medieval world, but she’s pretty sure they’re not Puritans (and the Puritans themselves banged like crazy, just where they hoped no one could see them). Lucy remembers her colleague Eleanor, back at Stanford, telling her about a genre of Old French poems known as fabliaux, which feature an extremely healthy amount of sex; indeed, they’re so bawdy that their titles can’t really be said aloud to an undergraduate class. There are also poems called pastourelles, which likewise involve what the people want, literally (albeit with a lot of misogyny, because that, as noted, is history for you). Plus the literature of “courtly love,” often sponsored by and written for powerful noblewomen, tends to horrify the clerical moralists who think it promotes adultery. The point is – medieval people have a robust appreciation of the beast with two backs, draw lewd figures with huge genitalia in the margins of their manuscripts and tapestries, and otherwise are not about to faint at the sight of two presumably married people macking on each other. Not that it’s not macking. It is a dry, swift, timid kiss that almost misses Flynn’s mouth, and Lucy is pulling away before it can let itself be anything else. “Come on,” she says, too breathless. “Let’s find Wyatt and Rufus.”

Flynn looks like he’s been hit by a two-by-four. It’s not clear if he heard a word she just said, because every single bit of his available brainpower is engaged in vainly struggling to pretend that this is an entirely normal, everyday occurrence in his life and that he knows exactly how to deal with it. Lucy can almost smell the burnt wiring, and she’s pretty sure he abjectly fails. Then finally he says, hoarsely and much too belatedly, “Yes. Let’s.”

[feisty-mary]

A King and a Duchess: Thoughts on TRR Book 3, Chapter 2

I don’t usually write detailed reviews of TRR chapters aside from screenshots of my playthrough with some comments. But I’ve had tons of feelings since the lackluster pilot and now even chapter two is a disappointment, so I decided I might as well summarize what I think and get it off my chest once and for all.

Note that this post will be peppered with links to my other posts, since I usually write down my thoughts immediately after finishing a chapter so I don’t forget them. It won’t be necessary to open the links to follow what I say here (unless otherwise noted), but please feel free to visit them for screenshots and additional insights.

1.    We finally have the names of the likely enemies of the Crown!

It’s always frustrated me how Liam dances around the issue and says absolutely nothing to his future bride and Queen about the enemies of the monarchy. I understand he can’t (especially if you’re not romancing him), but that doesn’t make it less annoying. It’s a relief to finally get some clues about who they might actually be in this chapter.

According to Bastien, there are three suspects:

    a. Liberation Core. Anti-monarchists, have grown more outspoken in their criticisms against the Crown.

    b. Sons of Earth. Newer faction. Pro-trade, in favor of bigger concessions.

    c. Nevrakis Family. Olivia’s parents were part of an attempted coup.

I reckon Francesco (the Italian ambassador) is part of the Sons of Earth, since he’s been pushing for Cordonia to grant Italian artists more access to Cordonian market. I don’t think they necessarily want to overthrow the government; I imagine they’re mostly businessmen who want a big share of the market for their own benefit. If this is the case, I think we can conclude that they will be the last people who will want instability in Cordonia, since an uncertain environment is bad for business.

Liberation Core sounds the most obvious culprit at the moment, since the videos from the assassin explicitly say that they want to shift the power from the monarchs to the citizens. I wonder if this is a call to change the form of government from monarchy to democracy?

I’ve already said that I have some faith in Olivia’s friendship with Liam. However, it’s her Aunt Lucretia that I’m very wary of (the one who left her to fend for herself after her parents passed away). In this chapter Olivia seems fiercely determined to support Liam, but that’s not necessarily true for the rest of her family, is it? Where has Aunt Lucretia been all these years?

Coup d’état is defined as “a sudden and decisive action in politics, especially one resulting in a change of government illegally or by force” (Dictionary.com, 2018). It’s interesting that this was what Olivia’s parents were involved in, and this is also in part what the assassin in the video threatens to do if Liam doesn’t abdicate the throne (“the palace halls will flow with the blood of tyrants”).

I’m not drawing conclusions from the points above yet, though I admit I’m frustrated that Constantine never dealt with the potential threat in Olivia. If I remember right, Olivia’s parents died when she was around 6 or 7, so this coup d’état must have happened some twenty years ago by this time in canon. The fact that this problem still haunts Liam now that he’s already king is… well, very disappointing.

2.   The enemies of the Crown publicly threaten Liam’s life again in this chapter, but everyone pretends everything is okay. 

Everyone includes but is not limited to Ana and Donnie (the media), Bertrand (who calls the entire thing “a PR miracle” if you don’t botch it up), and even Liam himself, who doesn’t discuss the assassin’s video with MC, but invites her to soak in goddamn bathtub instead (if you’re romancing him). I personally bought Liam’s diamond scene, and except for the two lines where Liam asks MC how she feels after what happened, they don’t dwell much on the video message from the enemies and then continue acting as if it’s really not that important.

Excuse my French but, uhm, what the fuck?

3.   To Ana’s and Donnie’s credit, they don’t pull their punches when they ask Liam what he plans on doing following the demands of the enemies of the Crown. (You might want to open this link in another tab for context.)

“And what about their demands, King Liam? Given everything that’s happened over the past few days, are you thinking of stepping down?”

They go right for the jugular with this question. And Liam, oh my dear Liam disappoints spectacularly in this one. Here he “pauses to gather his thoughts”, and then it’s basically MC who takes over and sends a message on Liam’s behalf.

My question is: Why? Why does it have to be MC who has to do all the talking, when the question is very clearly addressed to Liam, the actual King of Cordonia? Granted, in my playthrough my MC is romancing Liam and is thus his future wife and future Queen of Cordonia. ‘Future’ being the operative term. Why does she get to speak on his behalf, and why are we given the impression that her words instead of the King’s are enough to assuage the fears of the media and the public? Who the hell even is she? If I were a citizen of Cordonia, why would I believe this person in the first place?

I’m incredibly upset by this sequence, because we’ve been told since Book 2 that Liam has to earn his reign in order to regain his kingdom. In this scene, though, after he supposedly pauses to gather his thoughts, his only words are:

“She’s right. I have no intention of giving in to their demands.”

It gets even worse when you remember how much they’ve been emphasizing that there needs to be a display of strength following the assassination attempt during the Homecoming Ball. And like we’ve been told since Book 1, appearances are everything. In this scene, Liam is supposed to show that he isn’t unruffled by the assassination attempt. He’s supposed to show his constituents that he’s a leader they can look to for guidance, a pillar they can lean on in times of chaos and confusion. It’s supposed to be an opportunity for him to start proving himself to the public.

But no. Instead the writers give the spotlight to MC, and it’s her who gives a strong message that appears enough to alleviate the worries of the public (based at least on the reaction of the media).

This just didn’t work for me. I understand that the writers must have wanted for players to have some input in the direction the dialogues are supposed to take, but to me this greatly undermined Liam as the King. This guy was brought up to be a prince, and then eventually the ruler of his own kingdom. His reign has just been threatened publicly, twice, in the span of barely a week. Is this really all he has to say about the matter? “She’s right. I have no intention of giving in to their demands”?

Wouldn’t it have worked better if Liam, as King of Cordonia, had taken the lead and sent a message to bring his people together, assure them that all is well? That’s literally his job. Ana’s and Donnie’s question isn’t something that should have caught him by surprise – not after that botched up assassination attempt. Couldn’t MC have just rallied behind him, said something in support of his statement, as a Duchess and/or future queen? 

This entire scene was just ridiculous. I know the entire premise of TRR banks on a lot of suspension of disbelief, but they really did Liam’s character dirty with this one. 

4.   Madeleine will be our new press secretary! 

I’m surprised but at the same time I’m not? Back in Book 2, even Justin himself remarked that Madeleine was really good at handling the press. Which was when I started lowkey shipping them. I still do; you can fight me. 

I know a lot of people dislike Madeleine, but I’ve grown to really like her. Like I’ve said here, I think she will be perfect for this role, considering her upbringing and her knowledge about Cordonia. I’m not sure how we will convince her to help us, though. I know she does want power, so maybe we’ll make some concessions? A higher position? I for one am not entirely opposed to the idea. You can hate her guts all you want, but even Liam and her mother Adelaide have both acknowledged that Madeleine will make a good queen.

I’m also thankful and happy that they decided to take this route with respect to her character development. I wholeheartedly acknowledge that Madeleine hasn’t been the most pleasant person since we first met her in Book 1. But in making her MC’s press secretary and thus an ally, the writers will have more room to explore who she is: what her motivations are, how she has dealt with Leo’s abdication and her being cast aside, her relationship with her mother and Regina, what she feels about Liam and his decision to choose MC in her place, etc. The writers will add more depth to her character instead of simply writing her off as another evil, power- hungry woman. I for one am keenly looking forward to what she’ll bring to the table once she becomes our ally.

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

I’ve never done this ‘thoughts on a TRR chapter’ thing before so my ideas are divided between several posts. I’m adding links to those related to this one. I have already mentioned some of them in the text above.

Enemies of the Crown | Truth behind the Death of Olivia’s Parents | Questions We Need to Ask Ourselves Post-TRR Book 3, Chapter 2 | King Liam, MC, and Answering the Press | Madeleine as MC’s Press Secretary

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Never say never - Chapter 11

Yeah, by now, you know the drill :D

WIP of my heart and so on :D

°11° ~Victoria~

Victoria had not even noticed that the time had flown; she had been so entranced by this strange tale that was so unlike the ones she had been allowed to read at home. There was an immature, sick longing in her gut whenever that strange, stern man came on screen; he reminded her much of the men she had grown up around and it repelled and attracted her in equal measures. Then again, Thornton was much more handsome than anyone she’d ever seen before.

Hiddleston sat, motionless, on his chair, watching her as much as he watched the movie.

His heart broke for her when she gasped and hid her face in her hands during the botched demand for Margaret’s hand, and he smiled along with her every time Thornton’s mother spoke.

“My mother would have loved a son like that, I think. Unfortunately, none were granted to her.” Victoria confessed to the screen, wiping her eyes angrily as new tears welled up against her will.

They had finished their cakes and their tea and now sat with their hands in their laps, watching an old movie.

The doorbell rang and she paused the movie to go down and see who it could be. The darkness outside took her by surprise; had that much time passed? Was it evening already?

“Are you crying? What has he done to you?” Liza pushed past her, but Victoria’s hand shot out and grabbed her arm.

“He’s been nothing but kind and helpful. It is the movie…it…startles me.” Victoria confessed, looking up when Hiddleston came down the stairs, a broad smile on his face.

“I’m sorry, I know I was not invited, I…” Jenna murmured in a hushed voice. Victoria understood though, she knew how desperately one could long to see a pretty face again. The huge box Angie was holding in her arms that had been left on her doorstep was a testament to that.

“So…how do you find Thornton?” Angie asked, putting the box in a much more reasonable corner of the hallway than Victoria had previously chosen for her books that were still lying partly under the treacherous hallstand.

“He’s…a sourpuss.” Victoria replied, walking to her kitchen to get the number of the pizza delivery.

“Richard was roughly your age then.” Liza prompted her. “Armitage? He looks better now.” Victoria replied with a shrug.

“He doesn’t. Get out!” Liza cried out, stumbling over the books as well as she followed Victoria into the kitchen.

“What would you know?” Victoria laughed, earning a wink and a nod from Hiddleston which made her prouder than it should have. His support buoyed her spirits, she found, and she gave him a warm smile.

“I have known the man for years.” Liza snapped, laughing at Victoria’s dumbfounded face.

They ordered pizza and no-one had the heart to tell Hiddleston to leave, so he retrieved his chair from upstairs and they got comfortable in the small parlour looking out on a neat, little garden while waiting.

“Let me see what you’ve got here.” Liza, brazen as always, started piling up the books and, opening the box, spreading the ordered movies on the table as well. Her jaw went slack upon discovering the scope of Victoria’s “research”.

“Hmmm, this reminds me,” she said, looking up from the piles, “Armitage lets you know that he’s starred in a few horror movies. He thinks you might take pleasure in that.”

“Naaaaa, he’d certainly die. The pretty ones always die.” Victoria replied, trying to snatch away her books and movies from the prying eyes of her friends…without much success. “Hence why he thought you’d like them.” Liza quipped.

“I’m not a monster, Liza! I have been deplorably rude to the man, but that does not mean that I’d enjoy seeing him die.” Victoria shook her head, still grabbing at her possessions only to have them whisked away by Jenna and Angie.

“You might want to stop with the movie you’re presently watching then, dear.” Hiddleston commented, an uncomfortable expression on his face. He and Liza exchanged a worried look over the table, glancing down on the DVDs spread out under their noses and then back at each other again.

“You’re right. The pretty ones always die…so do the evil ones.” Angie offered carefully, but Vic rolled her eyes.

They were putting words in her mouth, she thought, she had never called the man “evil”, had she? She had thought and called him “dangerous”, but she could not pass judgment over his soul, if he had one that was.

Victoria bit her lip, these thoughts: stupid, rash, inconsiderate words that might easily have spilled out of her mouth, were the very reason why everyone suspected that she secretly hatched some dark plot to assassinate Armitage.

“I’ve known evil men. He doesn’t directly strike me as being evil.” Victoria skirted the unspoken question. “But indirectly, he does?” Liza dug deeper within a moment.

If Victoria hadn’t known better, she would have believed that she was on the verge of being married to Armitage; only nobody had told her about it beforehand. Why did everyone care so much about what she thought about him?

“I…meant that he oftentimes…inhabits…erm…performs…you know.” Angie drew helpless shapes into the air. “He’s the bad guy, he plays the bad guy.” Liza interrupted harshly, observing Vic’s face.

“Makes sense. What a scowl.” Vic laughed, turning to retrieve the pizza when the doorbell rang, humming to herself.

Only, it was not the pizza. It was Martin Freeman, holding a stack of papers and asking for Liza.

“Liza? It’s Martin. Why is he at my door? How does he know where I live?” Vic called into the house, stepping out of the doorframe, and letting Martin enter. “Welcome to my humble abode.” She laughed, shaking her head.

“Ah, you come when the work is done!” Hiddleston cried out in mockery, but went to retrieve a chair for the newcomer, nonetheless. “Here’s the…what do you mean?” Martin gave up on the business-conversation he was about to have with Liza and turned to Hiddleston instead, who was more than happy to recount his whole afternoon with Vic in detail.

Victoria knew she should be mortified, but her mood had mellowed considerably after her shopping-spree, and it had been pleasant to sit in the failing light with Hiddleston and watch that mysterious movie everyone seemed to know.

“I also have a gift for you, so your withering anger will not fall on me.” Martin said with a humorous gleam in his eye. Making her promise not to attempt any kind of voodoo or other witchcraft on them, he presented her with two dolls. She took them with a confused look on her face, waving her hand at Jenna to turn on the little lamp in the corner of the room.

“Oh. My. GOD.” She exclaimed as she recognised the characters. These were not the kind of hard-plastic dolls she had thought of; in her mind, she had seen actual action-figures, but these were funny and adorable, like cartoonish bobble-heads.

“Look at them, Liza, Angie, Jenna, come look at them.” Victoria exclaimed, holding the dolls up with such obvious, child-like delight that the men couldn’t help but stare. There were obviously shards of a broken childhood embedded in her soul and she had grown around them, making her 70% scar tissue and wounds.

“I…I am glad you like them.” Martin said, carefully; he had expected mockery and outright rejection, he had been prepared to have his dolls thrown at his head in disdain, never would he have been able to predict the joy with which she cradled the effigy of men she seemingly despised.

“Are they collectibles? Am I to keep them in that box?” Victoria asked, insecurity making her voice tremble. “Not really, you can if you want to, someone might pay a pretty penny for them one day, but…they’re not like the Ming-vase or the Persian rug…You can take them out and play with them.” Liza answered, holding her hand up discreetly so none of the others would say anything careless that might hurt Vic deeply in her vulnerable, open state of mind.

The doorbell rang again, and Liza nodded to signal that she’d go accept the pizzas. “You go ahead.” She said to Vic who was ever so carefully taking her dolls out of the boxes, placing them on the table and providing a napkin for them to sit on comfortably.

“Thank you so much, I want to say that my anger is not withering…but you have my deepest affection right now.” Vic mumbled humbly and hugged Martin awkwardly. “You are an astonishing woman. If we had known that a Bilbo- and a Thorin-doll would make you so happy, we’d have started by that.” Martin chuckled, gazing at the two inanimate objects he had seen be showered with a tenderness, so earnest and deep, he had never seen her grant to any living creature.

“Stay and have pizza with us.” She invited Martin when Liza came back, carrying the steaming boxes.

~Richard~

He didn’t even want to pick up the phone when Martin’s name appeared. The last time he had done that, things had taken a terrible turn for him, and he was not eager to repeat the experience.

He should have known better than to think that his friend would give up that easily though, and, after a few solid minutes of unnerving vibration, Richard gave in and accepted the call.

“Hey. I found the way into Vic’s heart.” Martin declared without preamble, describing her reaction when he had handed her the dolls that were now resting on a chair reserved for them while Hiddleston was sitting on the carpet.

“Wait…you’re at her place? You’re having a party and I’m not invited? Wow, thanks.” Richard knew that he was petty and that his tone might betray that he was not entirely joking either. “I just swung by to deliver some documents, Liza gave me the address and because I made an appropriate gift, I was asked to stay.” Martin sounded weirdly proud of himself.

“What are you doing? Who are you talking to?” Vic’s voice resounded in the background, followed by a mumbled complaint about how she was not running a boarding house. “I just told Richard about how much you liked the dolls. Shouldn’t I have?” Martin’s voice was contrite, but also a bit challenging.

“Armitage? Oh, hello.” Victoria’s voice grew very quiet instantly and Richard hated the fact that the mere mention of his name made her joy flicker out like a candle in a draught.

“He feels left out.” Martin snitched. “I had no intention of having any of you here, it has just happened.” Victoria squeaked helplessly, but she could see how this must look.

“I didn’t know anything about this meeting until this afternoon. Jenna was not invited, Tom helped and stayed, you came here with a gift…” Victoria tried to justify herself. “I cannot ask Armitage to come here and watch his own movies with me, can I? Or have him play with my dolls?”

“Richard, how do you feel about shameless narcissism?” Martin asked him suddenly and Richard had to do a double take to even find the words to reply to such a ludicrous question: “Erm, I don’t know.”

“What is going on?” Another voice called from far away and he heard Vic yell back that Martin had ratted her out to him and that now, he was disgruntled at not having been invited to a completely unplanned and chaotic get-together.

“Well, your house, your rules.” The other voice replied, and Victoria uttered a low grunt of frustration.

“Please, tell Mister Armitage that he is as free to come startle me at my home as any of the people here now.” Victoria spoke haughtily to Martin before withdrawing again. “Really?” Martin called after her. “Really.” She replied from further away with a small peal of laughter.

Martin then proceeded to swear that this had not been planned and that he genuinely did not believe that Victoria had taken any precautions to consciously exclude Richard. “She really liked the doll by the way and there’s a whole stack of books and movies on the living room table. Many of them…with you in them.”

Richard had no idea why Martin was telling him all that, but he was feeling lonely, and it was somehow nice to be told anecdotes and funny stories about people they both knew. It turned out that Hiddleston had indeed stayed and helped get the mysterious drawing room into shape for the furniture Vic had ordered and received the same day.

Must have cost a pretty penny, Martin joked. He also described the slight chaos and the many colourful clothes lying around. “I haven’t seen the drawing room yet. Want me to go check?” He said in a mischievous tone.

Informing the others with a careless call into the direction of the living room, he made his way upstairs, and towards the room from which a blueish light was emanating.

“Mother of Christ.” He cursed and Richard was invested enough by now to almost beg his friend to describe what he saw.

Martin was more than happy to oblige, telling him that it was a lovely room with big windows that let in a lot of light during the day. Now, the room was plunged into darkness though and against the faded tapestry stood an antique bookshelf, ready to welcome all the books he had seen lying around downstairs.

He also described the dainty and distinctly feminine ottoman in the middle of the room and the treadmill in the corner that seemed so anachronous compared to the other pieces of furniture.

“Don’t.” Martin whipped around to find Vic standing in the door, nodding at the still on her screen. “Don’t what?” Richard asked, curiouser than ever now, as he heard that Victoria had followed Martin upstairs.

Maybe, she was afraid that he was secretly taking pictures of her underwear for Richard?

“She…She’s watching porn on her new telly.” Martin blurted out and Richard heard the shocked gasp from Victoria.

He was not exactly sure that this was the truth, Liza had said something about North & South, but would Martin call that “porn”? Yeah, he would, without batting an eye.

“Ah, Richard, Vic wants to talk to you.” Martin said while he was still deep in thought, damn it, would she always take him by surprise? “Hello Mister Armitage.” Her voice was heard now, shy and demure, maybe even a tad embarrassed.

He thought that this might well be the first time that she greeted him unprompted and his name in her mouth gave him a tiny jolt of pleasure. There was still that distance in her tone, but right now, it sounded a lot more like reverence than like rejection. “Hello? Sir?” Her tone faltered and he kicked himself into action. “Hello Miss Victoria.”

A tiny sigh was heard, followed by Martin’s cackle and the sound of something heavy thudding to the floor.

“I just wanted to say that we did not purposefully exclude you. I don’t want you to think that.” She sounded apologetic, he thought, and by the shifting of the background noise, he could tell that she was pacing around the room.

“It was a joke. I am not that self-absorbed that I really believe that everyone has to invite me everywhere.” He said quickly, embarrassed about being taken literally when he was just acting like a mopey brat.

She didn’t immediately reply to that, and his spirits sank, of course she wouldn’t really want to have him in her home, would she? She had never hidden the fact that she hadn’t taken to him particularly and it was his own problem if he let that hurt him.

[fuckishimoto]

I agreed with your post regarding Itachi and Sasuke's failed brotherly bond message, Kishimoto botched both of their characters with that horrendous kind admiration of Itachi from Sasuke and then Sasuke's dismissal entirely of what Itachi did because he learned the truth never really made sense to me. That being said, how do you feel about Illumi and Killua's relationship in comparison to Sasuke and Itachi's? Do you think Togashi will incorporate a redemption arc for Illumi?

what kinda redemption? does he need one? He does love Killua, his actions have no ulterior motive. The needle he put in Killua’s head is for Killua’s safety, it most likely saved him dozen of times. It slowed Killua’s progress, it made him run away from fights he would not otherwise have, but I don’t see these as very serious negative effect. It’s not like Killua was dying to use his full potential during these assassination missions his family assigned to him.

Yes, telling killua he shouldn’t have friend is a dick move, but I think that’s just generally how the zoldycks teach their kids, none of the zoldyck siblings seem to have friends. They’re a assassins family, they mostly keep to themselves.

I think the reveal during the election arc that Illumi’s needle was the reason why killua didn’t do anything for alluka until now, that was a retcon. We didn’t see Killua suddenly remembered Alluka after he got rid of the needle during chimera ant arc. How convenient for Togashi to blame it on Illumi during election arc just when he realised killua hadn’t given a single thought about his siblings since he ran away from home, and he only remembered when he realised he needed alluka’s power to save Gon. If the needle had such complex power, Killua wouldn’t have had enough free will to run away from home, and do and go as he pleases for the last two years.

I don’t think illumi will ever realise he’s over possessive, over controlling and over worried. If he’s given any form of redemption, it’d be probably dying for his family.

I like illumi. The narrative is very up front with his character’s flaws, biscuit said his love for killua is twisted. Illumi’s nen ability also clearly shows his nature, he’s a manipulator, he enjoys control. He loves his family (except alluka, but it’s understandable from his and his father’s POV), he has huge soft spot for killua to the extent that he’d gladly die for him if it means killua would remember him beyond death. I feel bad for him his love is unrequited lol. 

[celsidebottom]

ZevWarden Week

@zevranology

Day 1 - Massage

This got super long but I think I started writing and just remembered how much I love these two?  So here is what actually happened between Zevran and Warden Nelka Brosca when he offered to give her a massage.

“You just want to get in my pants,” Nelka said with a glare as Zevran made his proposition.  

“My dear, I do believe that I’ve made it quite clear that winding up in your pants would please me greatly,” he teased with a smirk.  He then cleared his throat and continued, somewhat more serious, “Despite that, I would never ask anything of you that you are not willing to give.  You are our fearless leader, and you appear so exhausted.  I have few skills beside murder, but massage is among them and I, as a friend, would like to help you relax, if only for the night.  Our pants can remain on.”

Both of them laughed, and Nelka fidgeted with her sleeve.  Damn, that was smooth.  

She sighed, then smiled.  “Alright.  A massage does sound nice, I’ll admit that.  And we’ll see where the night goes from there.”

To make sure he didn’t see the blush rising in her cheeks, Nelka stepped past Zevran and into his tent.  He followed shortly behind.   

The only massages Nelka had ever gotten were from her sister, Rica, after a long and stressful day, generally when Nelka was bruised and bloody from some Carta job.  Rica was gentle with her little sister, but the way Zevran’s hands moved across Nelka’s body… she shivered.  A good shiver.  

Nelka would’ve been lying if she said she wasn’t attracted to Zevran.  But she’d never had a real relationship, sexual or romantic, and he had been in so many of the former and didn’t seem particularly interested in the latter.  

She let out a heavy sigh.  

“Feeling relaxed?”  Zevran asked.

In truth, the massage had eliminated much of her worry regarding the Blight and Loghain and all of the other issues plaguing Ferelden.  Replacing that fear, though, came consternation regarding her feelings for Zevran.  

“Better,” she admitted.  

Her trepidation must have been obvious in her voice, as Zevran paused the massage.  “What is it?  You still sound worried.”

Though he’d stopped kneading her muscles, his hands still rested gently on her back, and Nelka was far too distracted by the warmth of his palms for a conversation like this.  

“I’m always worried.”

“Please, Nellie.  Try your best to relax.  When is the last time you slept?”

“Last night, obviously.”

He started massaging her back again.  She didn’t realize how sore her muscles were until the tension slowly faded away.  

“You know what I meant.  When is the last time you slept well?”

“I grew up in Dust Town.  I think the last time I slept well was when I was a baby and didn’t know better.”

Zevran chuckled.  “Alright, I can appreciate that.  The Crows hardly provide a relaxing lifestyle.  But I’ve learned to find moments of peace.  Often at the side of a lover, I’ll admit, but…”

Nelka was grateful for the darkness of the tent as she burrowed her face into a pillow.  Ugh, why did you have to fall for the hot assassin?  Why are you letting him give you a massage?  All alone in his tent?  C’mon, Nelka, what are you thinking?

Despite the thoughts that kept racing through her head, she didn’t move or make any attempt to leave.  The massage was doing her good and the fact that it was Zevran giving it absolutely contributed to that.  Realizing that the relaxation came from his presence more so than the movement of his fingers was more worrying than any fear she’d faced previously.

After clearing her head as best she could to focus only on the massage, Nelka was acutely aware when Zevran’s fingers accidentally slipped under the edge of her shirt and onto her bare skin.  

“Oh, I am sorry.  That was not my intent, you must know that.”

Nelka believed him.  But she also didn’t mind.

“I think… I think it’s okay, actually.”

“Are you sure?  I don’t want to push you toward anything.”

“You’re not.”  She leaned up and glanced back at him, giving him a sincere smile.

He returned the smile and obliged, letting his hands wander just underneath the seam of her shirt, careful, waiting for Nelka to say something and ask him to back off.

But she didn’t.  And Zevran responded by letting his fingers traverse more of her skin and kneading the muscles all the way up her bare back.

Oh no.  Oh no, that felt really good.  

A quiet moan escaped Nelka’s lips and she immediately cursed herself while Zevran chuckled.  

“Now that’s what I like to hear.”

“You’re really good at this,” she said truthfully, biting her lip.  

“I get that a lot too.”

Even though he couldn’t see her face, Zevran still knew that she was rolling her eyes at his comment.  

“I trust this is helping take your mind off of things?”

“It’s certainly putting my mind onto other things, that’s for sure.”  

Shut your damn mouth, Nelka.  What kind of comment is that?  What are you doing?

“Would you like me to continue?”  His hands waited carefully on her skin.  “Or… perhaps massage some other areas?”  Zevran moved his hands around her sides and his fingertips just barely brushed over the sides of her breasts.  It was clear he didn’t want to assume or take advantage of Nelka, simply testing the waters and showing her the options.

“I…” she mumbled, instinctively tensing back up.  

Zevran immediately moved his hands away and removed them from Nelka’s person entirely.  “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Nelka replied, rolling over and sitting up to face him.  “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He inclined his head.  “I understand.  But, as I said, I will not push.  If you want me to continue with an innocent massage, you need only ask.  If you wish to leave now, I will neither blame you nor pursue you.”

“It’s not that.  I just…”  Nelka sighed.  It’s not as if he wasn’t just practically feeling her up in their campsite or if they hadn’t been flirting from the very moment they met, even with Zevran bleeding out on the ground after a botched assassination attempt.  “I don’t necessarily want you to stop.”

Zevran raised his eyes, genuinely surprised.  

“I’m really attracted to you,” she said, barely speaking louder than a whisper.  “I know better than to trust people.  We both do.  But I trust you, Zevran, for better or worse.  And I… I… I want…”  

This was super attractive, Nelka.  Stuttering and hugging your knees up to your chest, yeah, that’ll turn him on.  All of her confidence had melted away and she could barely meet his eyes.

Staring at her legs, Nelka was completely surprised when Zevran brushed her hair away from her face and cupped her cheek, gently brushing her skin and looking into her eyes.

“May I kiss you?”

Her eyes opened even wider.  “I… see!?  This is what I’m worried about!”  She cried.

“Worried about what?”  Zevran questioned.  

He was so close to her.  She could feel his breath.  Damn it, Nelka.  Look at the mess you’ve gotten into now.

“I’ve never kissed anyone before.  Or… or anything beyond that.  Flirting, sure, but nothing else.  And you, well, you’re experienced with just about everything in this area.  I tease and flirt and play with it all, but now that there’s a chance of it actually happening?  With someone who is incredibly attractive and can tell how freaked out I am just from a couple words?  I want to kiss you, sure, but I’m scared.”

“Scared of what?”  Zevran hadn’t moved away.  His eyes wandered over Nelka’s expression and he looked both invested and concerned as she spoke.

“That it’s going to be disappointing.  Not so much for me, but for you.”

“You needn’t worry about that.  Simply being in your presence is an honor and a pleasure.  Every moment beyond that simply exceeds expectation.  And besides, there is nothing to be ashamed of for never having kissed another person.  Everyone has to start somewhere, if they so wish.  In truth, I would be flattered if you wanted me to be your first kiss, since it means so much to you.  And be that tonight, or some other night down the road, that does not matter to me.”

For the way he spoke and behaved as the suave and flirty lover, Nelka didn’t expect this side of him, the compassionate and caring persona that sat before her.  

She didn’t consciously lean toward him, but soon enough her lips were mere millimeters from Zevran’s.  At that point, though, she realized what she was doing and hesitated.  

But thankfully, Zevran picked up the slack and pressed his lips to hers.  He was soft and tender as his fingers wound through her hair.  

“That was hardly disappointing,” he remarked as he broke away for a moment.  

Nelka smirked, her cheeks burning.  “Can we do that again?”

“It would be a pleasure.”  Zevran laughed as he kissed her again, this time pulling her closer with a hand around her waist.  

With a few kisses, all of Nelka’s stress and fear faded away with more efficacy than with the massage.  She leaned in closer and wrapped her hands around his neck, thinking of nothing other than the taste of his lips and the feeling of his body against hers.

“Now you’re getting the hang of it,” he teased.  

When they both needed to pause for air, they drew back from each other and it was all Nelka could do to stop from letting out an embarrassed giggle.  

“Thank you,” she said.  “Is that weird to say?”

Zevran laughed, but shook his head.  “As I said before, it was indeed a pleasure.  And should you ever wish for more, you know who to ask.”

As she blushed again, Nelka looked away, but Zevran used his hand to move her face back toward him.  

“You need not hide your face or be ashamed.  There is nothing wrong with it, with anything.”

“Do… do you think that I could sleep here tonight?  Just sleep, for now?”

“Of course.  These Ferelden nights do get exceedingly cold.”

Zevran rested backwards on his bedroll and gestured for Nelka to curl up beside him, and she eagerly obliged.  

“Thank you, Zevran.”

“Mm?  What for?”  He pressed his lips to her forehead.

“For showing me that it’s alright to trust someone.”

[what-is-sibling-test]

from 'RittenhouseTL' for all things Timeless https://ift.tt/2J5Nfml via Istudy world

the dragons on the map: vii

Rating: M Summary:  After the Lifeboat is nearly destroyed, the Time Team ends up stranded in their strangest and most unfamiliar destination yet: 1195 France. With Rittenhouse to stop, medieval adventures to be had, and a pair of rival kings at war, it’ll truly be a miracle if they ever get home. (Garcy/Lyatt/pre-Garcyatt, Flogan, Rufus Is Judging, general Time Team relationships and bonding. Guest appearances from the Plantagenets, for reasons.) Available: AO3

This has already been one of the longest days of Lucy Preston’s life – it started before dawn this morning, has seen them arrive at Poitiers, wash up, meet Richard and Eleanor, have a few sparring rounds in the ring, learn about Emma’s presence, culminate with Wyatt getting shot at dinner, and now seems liable to extend well into the night on a wild Rittenhunt – and some small part of her does just want to lie down, go to sleep, and hope it is over when she wakes up. Obviously, she didn’t plan to go on a hair-raising midnight raid (well, it’s not midnight, it’s not even Compline yet) with the intention of taking out Emma before she can put her nefarious plots into action, but then, that is basically Lucy’s life now. There’s even the massively over-optimistic thought that if they could get Emma in time, this would be the last one ever, and they could go back to… whatever’s going to pass as an ordinary existence after this. Lucy honestly has no idea, and sometimes, she’s grateful for the excuse to put it off. At least she’s gotten used to this, though she knows it’s a mark of humans being able to cope and adjust to almost anything. To live in a permanent state of deprivation and trauma, and have your brain convince you that it’s fine, it’s fine, no looking at the little man behind the curtain. You don’t actually want a settled, normal, happy life, do you? That would be boring.

Lucy speeds up, causing Flynn to take longer strides (he, of course, doesn’t actually need to run in order to keep up with her). Someone said they saw a red-haired woman leaving the castle earlier, in the chaos engendered by the botched assassination (Lucy wonders if that was another of Emma’s motives in staging it that way – nobody available to notice or stop her), and that she was on horseback. Oh joy, this means a return to it themselves. Flynn probably doesn’t mind, but Lucy decidedly does. Why couldn’t Emma have just been out for an evil moonlight stroll? Why more riding? Why?

And yet, they don’t have the luxury of doing otherwise. They reach the stables and order their horses saddled, and Flynn makes a step of his hands for Lucy to scramble up, having to give her an extra boost because her legs are so stiff. She groans. “How far do you think she could have gotten? We can’t be that far behind her.”

“No,” Flynn agrees, mounting up with an agility that makes Lucy momentarily hate him. “But we don’t know which direction she was going, or how hard she was riding. We might have to keep it up through the night. If I can get a clear shot at her, I’ll take it, but that’s also going to make it very tricky to find the Mothership.”

“Rufus can work it out.” Lucy has faith in him. “Let’s just worry about catching Emma first.”

Flynn looks at her sidelong, then nods. He puts his heels into his courser, as Lucy does the same with the palfrey, and they gallop out into the late evening.

The castle gates are just about to be closed and locked with the double guard Eleanor has posted, but Flynn calls out and manages, after an interlude of haggling, for him and Lucy to be allowed through. The streets of Poitiers are under curfew as well, people hanging up their shingles and closing their shutters; the latest taverns can operate is until nine PM. That’s late-night anyway, given that you’ll be awake at dawn, and any trouble that intoxicated patrons get into would fall on the tavern keeper’s head. In other words, there are not a lot of people they can ask if a red-haired woman just rode through here in a hurry, and besides, the townsfolk mostly speak Occitan, not French. However, there are a limited number of gates that Emma can go through – the one they arrived by, the one at the far side by the aqueduct, and a postern on the western wall. The latter is the smallest and most discreet, and it’s in the part of the city away from the steep river banks, opening onto the countryside beyond. In other words, if Emma wants to avoid notice in leaving Poitiers, and ride for a while without interruption, that’s probably where she’s headed.

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