#but he has so little support now and no practical solutions to dig himself out of this hole so it's unlikely to result in anything

[magistralucis]

THEY VOTED TO IMPEACH 🎊🥳✨

[wyn-n-tonic]

We Can Stay Like This Forever

Word Count: 2,385 Warnings: Uh... yearning. A crumb of smut. Dialogue heavy bullshit tbh. Author's Note: God okay, I've been sitting on this for like a month now? I wrote this when I couldn't focus on my own characters anymore and my brain needed to visualize parts of the scene I was trying to write using the body language of a character I already know and love so well. This is written in second person but the reader has a name. It was an experiment dashed out in a drunken fervor that made my editor weep. Anyway, if you see any of these lines in a book one day... no you don't.

MASTERLIST

“Javi, I haven’t loved you since I was twent—“

“That's bullshit and you know it,” he interrupts, voice coming out hard but arms crossed tighter than they have been all night, replacing the pressure of kevlar he’s so used to. Protective, defensive, stopping the bullets from reaching him where it matters the most.

Your lips are raw from dragging your teeth across them but biting down is the only thing that stops the tears from springing to the surface. You never thought you’d see him again, you never thought he’d be standing in your kitchen only strides away; two for him, four for you. You saw the news coming out of Colombia, heard it in the supermarket passed from ear to ear straight from his dad’s mouth. Javier Peña was the walking dead.

Javi left Lorraine for you. You gave him a choice and he made it and you, being certain he’d lean the other way, couldn’t live with that guilt. When you wrote that first letter, you didn’t expect a response. You just wanted to apologize, you wanted him to know that you were sorry. You didn’t expect to hear his voice on the other end weeks later when you picked up the phone. Hell, you had pushed the letter so far out of your mind that you’d forgotten you’d included your number.

And now he’s standing in front of you, tangible as ever. No longer just the boy you loved but a man aged so roughly by sun and stress that you are breaking within wishing that you had been there to smooth it all over.

“Goddamn it, Clara,” that hard tone reaches towards you again but he loosens his stance, the toned arms still holding close to his body but the tension bottoming out to his exhaustion, “are you going to say anything or are you going to just keep looking at me like I’m a fucking ghost?”

“Is that not what you are?” Your voice is broken when you find it again, the tears really do come now. “A ghost from my past come back to haunt my bad decisions? Tell me I fucked up?”

“Is that what you think I’m here for? Is that why you think I came to you first thing instead of my family?” He exhales a breath you didn’t realize he was holding and drags a hand through his hair, pinning you in place with his eyes. “Can I smoke in here?”

“I thought you quit.”

“Yeah well,” another exhale, the slightest hint of laughter on his lips, “I thought a lot of things I’ve been wrong about too.”

And god, those eyes. Simultaneously the warmest, softest brown but so black they look like blown out pupils. Like he’s the one who’s been snorting the cocaine, not busting those that do. You don’t even register the insult before nodding your head. What’s a little cigarette smoke when you run the risk of him walking out that door and not coming back?

But isn’t that what you want? Isn’t that the purpose of this conversation? Are you not being the same bitch you were all those years ago praying that he’ll be the one to walk out on you this time? Bringing it back full circle to that decision you forced on him half a lifetime ago?

“Yeah?” He doesn’t sound sure and even though your eyes are anywhere but on his now, you haven’t felt his leave you this whole time.

“Yeah,” you whisper to your feet like they’re the most interesting goddamn thing in the world.

After years of practice, he’s quick about it, you don’t even realize he’s lit up until he lets go of that first puff and, with it, the entire room changes. It’s not angry, it’s not hard, it’s… twenty years of heartache and longing compounding, neither party believing they’re good enough for the other.

You look back at the tired man standing in front of you, “Javier, I—“

“No. No, let me talk,” he rubs his eyes with his free hand, drags it down his golden cheek and smirks. Another inhale and, “I didn’t come here to tell you that you fucked up, you’ve said it plenty. We’ve been talking for months, we fell back in stride like nothing ever happened, like I hadn’t spent years pretending every woman I fucked was you because it was like you’d never left my side. Almost twenty-five hundred miles, Clara, I was a world away from you and when I came home at the end of the day the last six months…” he’s the one biting his lip now, “I could call you no matter the time and the sound of your voice made me feel like a normal person. Like I still had a shot at this world beyond the bounty on my head.”

His exhaustion, his softness, is palpable now as he stops to suck in a breath like he hasn’t taken one this whole time and then…

“If you didn’t love me, you wouldn’t have written. If you didn’t love me, you would’ve hung up. If you didn’t love me, you wouldn’t answer the phone at one o’clock in the fucking morning to tell me to breathe through the anger and the sadness and the horror I witnessed. But if that’s the story you want to stick with, I’ll go. I don’t expect anything I just…” his voice hitches, the cigarette long forgotten between his fingers, “I just wanted to see if your face still lights up when you laugh or if that had changed after two decades. It hasn’t and it’s still both my favorite sight and sound in the world. I’m sorry I didn’t fight harder to watch it grow through the years.”

He looks to the right of him and throws the cigarette in the sink. Pushing off the counter with his other hand, he takes one step forward and fixes his eyes on yours again. “Tell me I’m wrong, Clara. Tell me you don’t love me and I won’t ever darken your home aga—“

“I love you.”

And he’s on you. Just like that. Just one more step to close the distance and his body presses to yours. His large hands come up to cradle your jaw and his nose slots perfectly into place against yours and his lips touch down like a plane with faulty landing gear, crashing against yours all hot breath and stale tobacco and, oh god, the smell of him. Soap and sweat, the chemical make up of his scent flooding your senses to make you feel whole again when you didn’t even know how much you missed it.

His hands are sliding down gently, wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer. With his strong arms lifting you away from the counter, you no longer need to support yourself against it and you’re grabbing for him, trying harder to wring the space from between you like a worn rag but nothing is left.

The feel of him is something new, however. He’s not that scrawny kid who awkwardly held you to him, unsure of how his touches were affecting your body and pleasure. No, this Javier is different. Older, experienced, more tender than you remember him ever being, so sure of himself and just… thicker. Two shirt sizes up from the man you walked away from, his formerly wiry muscles are almost bubble wrapped in a way. What used to knot against you in hard planes of flesh and bone now give quietly against your touch as you’re pulling at the only thing that separates you now.

But suddenly, he’s breaking away. All heavy breaths and wildly flushed cheeks, his lips have left yours and the ache you numbed in his absence returns like a migraine after sleep. You need him and he’s gone again and you’re chasing his kiss with a whine as he replaces his lips with a thumb, cradling your face once more and shushing you, “Cálmate, mi amor. Está bien. Are we moving too fast right now?”

And you are breathless as you answer, “We are not moving fast enough, Javier.”

“I just don’t want you to think that this is all that I want. That you will wake to find an empty bed tomorrow.”

“If I woke to find an empty bed tomorrow, that’s exactly what I’d deserve.”

Those eyebrows knit up in confusion, the lines that have made their home on his forehead making you simultaneously weak in their beauty as evidence of his life and sad in the tragedy that you weren’t there to watch him earn them.

“Clarita,” his tone is so soft, the endearment coming to him as naturally now as it did in the before, “If it’s punishment you think you deserve then I’m here to tell you that you’re wrong. I chose you, you didn’t beg for it. I did that of my own accord. And when you chose to walk away because you felt guilty, I did beg you. I’ll own it, I begged and pined but you couldn’t get out of your own head long enough to see that you were never the issue, you were the solution. You still are. I have searched for you in everybody I’ve ever met. So tell me,” his hands are wrapping around your arms now, “Are you ready to forgive yourself and find me in your bed tomorrow morning?”

“Yes,” comes barely audible through parted lips as his find yours once more, knocking the breath from your chest as his hands slide down to your hips. He digs his fingers into the denim there and slowly starts to guide you through the home that’s not his thinking, correctly, that the only door at the end of the hallway is the destination he really booked from Bogotá.

And he is burning a hole through you, his entire being set on fire against you in the already blazing Texas heat. He is gentle as he pushes you down, climbing on top with one arm out to break both your falls. His shirt was abandoned somewhere in the kitchen, shoes kicked off in the hallway with your shorts not far behind. His belt buckle is riding against you as he rocks his hips down, forgetting the metal between you in his hunger for you to feel him.

He feels you wince, the whine swallowed between his lips but he’s pulling back like he’s electrocuted you. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” your hands are shaking as you take advantage of the space between, “just take your pants off.”  

He hits you with that crooked smile and meets your hands where they’re still trembling at his hips and, god, he’s swift. He wastes no time kicking off his jeans and falling back into you, pressing back into you. You can feel him straining against his briefs but his patience is unmatched as he savors every taste of your mouth, every nip at the warm skin of your neck and chest. His hands are exploring the years that have marked your body as you mentally catalogue the scars that have taken over his.

He’s pushed your shirt up as far as it will go without leaving you but when he finally does to lift it away, the separation is so quick that it feels like nothing. He’s everywhere and you’re delirious, half thinking you’re imagining him moaning into you as he takes your hand in his to put it where he wants it.

You almost think…but, no, that’s not how that works. Your brain is fucking with you, unable to reconcile the man on top of you with the memory of the boy you loved once upon a time. But you swear, he’s bigger. He holds his breath as your hand slides between him and his waistband and he’s looking down at you like he’s never been touched at all. The sadness showcased across the softness of his face is made worse by the sheen of sweat and blush across his nose. You’d almost believe it if you couldn’t feel the heartbeat in his hardness, waiting for you to make the next move.

After two beats of aching silence, looking up into the galaxies he has the audacity to call eyes, your other hand moves to push at his waistband. If you thought he was urgent before, the graceful rush to join your efforts is gold medal worthy. Your senses are delayed, you’re not sure if the sound of fabric hitting the ground comes before or after he’s ripping at the only bit of fabric that separates you now.

“Fuck,” he rests his forehead to yours, “I'll buy you another pair.” The confusion bubbles into laughter as you realize that, yes, he actually tore them from your body.

But the bubbling laughter in your throat squeezes into a tight gasp, the air punched from your lungs as he steadies himself against you. His long fingers are brushing your hair to the side as he leans down and whispers against your lips, “Can I?”

“Please,” but your begging is lost in his response before the word has fully left your lips. He is grabbing in a way you haven’t felt in years. Hungry, like he can’t get enough, like it’s all he needs.

It is devastating, the build up. He’s ripping through the deepest parts of you and you’re convinced, wholeheartedly, that the only truth you’ve ever known rides on the waves of his name. His grip tightens, his teeth dragging down your jawline and warmth takes over as an earthquake shatters what little composure you’ve kept.

He moans low in his throat once.

Twice.

Three times it dies out against your ear like it’s only meant for you. Like it was all only meant for you.

He’s smiling as he softens, you can hear it in his voice as he slowly asks, “Can we just stay like this for a minute?”

You press your lips to that dimple, singular and lonely on the right side of his face; so far gone from a five o’clock shadow, you’d almost think he’s been forty all his life.

“Javier,” your fingers wind tighter through the sweat slick curls at the crown of his head, “we can stay like this forever.”

TAGLIST: @justanotherblonde23​ | @greeneyedblondie44​ | @icanbeyourjedi​ | @princess76179​ | @bbuckysbeardd​ | @notcookiebelle​ | @knivesareout​ | @empress-palpat1ne​ | @phoenixpascal​ | @lexi-b-writes​ 

[dottiechan]

Tempest (Pt. 5)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Read on AO3

Pairing: Ava Du Mortain x f!Detective

Wordcount: 4048

Warnings: mourning, mentions of death and torture, smoking

Summary: The private detective must work through the sudden and unexpected disappearance of Ava - quite literally, as she embarks on solving her greatest mystery yet. But she is not the only one who's been busy...

A/N: This chapter is a rather long one as there's much to unpack at this point of the story, and there is much to explain. Sorry for the long wait, and thanks for being so patient and supportive of me!

The Private Detective’s Office, London, 1898

5 months after Ava’s disappearance

The key turns in the lock with ease. The door creaks as it gives way to the dark office. The lights flicker in the corridor outside, and the entrance gapes like a mouth ready to swallow her whole.

She steps inside, unaware of her fingers skittering across the glass pane that has the name of her detective agency painted on it. Some have great bloodlines to look back on, and nobles and kings to proudly call their ancestors. Her legacy is this stuffy little office, her sigil is a hand painted business logo. But her ancestor - her father - was a warrior too, noble of heart, even if not of blood.

She hangs her coat and hat, and proceeds to smooth down her hair before locking the door and switching on the lights. The old pieces of furniture that would have been regarded fashionable 20 years ago are dimly illuminated, and the sight of them makes her heart ache. They belonged to her late father, and in a way he lives on through them. The dent in the cushion of his chair where he always used to sit, the scuff marks on his desk he carelessly carved into the polished surface with books and folders, the medical and law tomes he hoarded lining the bookshelves that hug the dark green walls... As a child, she was afraid of coming here in the evenings - something they often did after her mother passed away and her father tried his best to raise her alone. The heavy nailhead leather armchairs looked like hunched monsters in the dark, the looming mahogany desk with its long curving legs resembled a giant spider, and the serious wallpaper enveloped this macabre scene like some sinister forest. “The real monsters are in here, my darling,” her father would ruffle her hair affectionately, pointing at the files he came to pick up.

It is late, but the office no longer feels scary. Her rational mind knows she should have gone home to her empty bed and her unread books and the cold supper awaiting her. And yet she’s here because hardly anything matters anymore. Because no place ever really feels like home ever since her father left. Well, her small house felt like home for a while when she was still here. But she left as well, and with her she took the last tattered shreds of joy the detective had somehow managed to cling to. She is submerged in saturnine reticence now, and ironically it helps her stay focused, even though it makes her more and more like the person she tried to thaw out. More and more like Ava.

One should only embrace the iciness of a statue if they’re willing to risk turning into marble themselves.

The Commissioner would be lucky to have a detective such as myself, she thinks bitterly as she glances down at the neatly kept files piled on her desk. Most are petty cases, even she has to admit - cheating husbands, unanswered invitations and letters, and the likes. But she takes all the work she can, and she prides herself on her ability to solve them with the proficiency of a man. Ava used to praise her for that. Now she whispers praises to herself even if the words turn sour in her mouth, because she will not let anyone ruin her. She will not. (Even though Ava has, because the world feels different without her in it.)

Her sudden disappearance left her on the precipice of panic at first. Ava, along with her partner Nate, simply vanished into thin air as if they never even existed at all, as if they were a pleasant reverie she used to lull herself to sleep at night. No trace, no item that belonged to them was left behind. If not for the spare key to her house being gone - the one she gave to Ava - she wouldn’t even be able to tell the difference between reality and her mad suspicions. But oh, she was here. She was. Missing her is a malady burrowed in her heart, but it is also the testament of her existence.

She opens the file on top, and hums in bitter satisfaction. Right. The aching of her heart isn’t the only testament anymore. It took her months, but she’s finally one step closer to the solution, planting her foot firmly and holding her crumbling sanity together with a determination she didn’t know she had. Ava was probably never meant to be in the background of a photograph taken during the opening night of the National Gallery of British Art.

But she was. And it really only takes one mistake.

The private detective picks up the photograph gingerly, giving herself one second to lose herself in the whirlwind of emotions Ava’s angular silhouette awakens in her.

One step closer.

She leans back in her chair, her gaze gliding over the photograph and landing on her personal little project. The blackboard is filled with dates, locations and places with a map pinned to the middle of it - by now, it is practically a blueprint of Ava’s and Nate’s every activity over the past two years. The deeper she digs, the more unknowns she unearths about the people she once thought she knew.

But there’s still time to get to know them - first impressions are overrated anyway.

Train station, Wayhaven, 1899

7 months after Ava’s disappearance

January quickly set to work and changed the countryside. It swooped down from the heavens and gently buried the forests and the hills under a heavy blanket of snow, concealing the detective’s childhood home from her as she exits the train, the handle of her heavy bag already digging into her gloved fingers. The shapes are still visible though underneath all the snow and ice - she sees the old station with the crumbling roof, the road leading into town, the bell tower of the small church peeking out just above the treeline. She recognises them all, though she sorely wishes she didn’t.

Because with the recognition comes the inevitable sting of her memories. Faces emerge in her conscious she hasn’t seen in years. The kindness of her mother’s eyes and the curve of his father’s lips, both lost forever now, never to be seen again, cutting deeper than a knife ever could.

An old woman is prating about her insufferable nephew, a business man is constantly checking his pocket watch with a disdainful look from across the station, three young women gossip, a man is rubbing his hands together in an effort to stimulate his circulation in the cold weather. The detective tunes out the comfortable commotion of the small town station, imagining she is still in London and not here. Anywhere but here. People brush past her, the train whistles and whirs to motion, and before she knows it, she is alone, paralysed in one spot, snowflakes catching softly on her fetching ensemble of a royal blue travelling dress and matching hat.

She takes a shaky breath, almost already on the verge of tears.

“Are you alright, Miss?”

No.

“Of course,” she turns with a slight smile. “Just admiring the view. I used to live here.”

“Ah, then the gossip about you was true,” the man nods, his eyes glinting intelligently under his bushy brows. There’s an apologetic smile sitting on his lips, and a twinge of regret spoiling the beauty of his otherwise handsome square jaw and bold features. “I apologise, I couldn’t help but overhear some women on the train talking about your father. About you.”

“I didn’t know our name carried such weight,” the detective admits cautiously, one hand reaching up to fix her hat self-consciously. The man seems to notice the way her fingers linger over the hat pin, and he almost cracks a grin. It would be a highly inappropriate moment to joke, and besides, he’d rather befriend this interesting person than anger her to a point where he’d end up being skewered by the hat pin in question. After all, her friendship and assistance is why he’s here.

“Your father served in India with Sir Edward Bardford, the current Police Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police,” he adds gently. “You were betrothed to Montagu Edward Bradford.”

“How do you know about that?” the woman asks, her eyes widened by shock as she takes a step closer to him.

“Who didn’t Montagu tell?”

The strained grin the stranger allows himself seems to put her momentarily at ease. Montagu did tell everyone, God rest his soul. In a way, she could never really begrudge him for the betrothal - it was their fathers’ scheming, even if Montagu really didn’t seem to mind. She always wanted a way out, but she never wished for his death. He was in India when it had happened, and she was in London. In a way, even 9 years after, it feels surreal. She never saw the body. For years afterwards, she sincerely thought he would turn up one day unexpectedly as if nothing had happened.

He never did.

“How awfully rude of me to not even introduce myself!” he exclaims suddenly, sheepishly sticking out his hand. “Dr Van Helsing. Abraham Van Helsing.”

“I believe Mont had spoken about you,” she nods as she shakes his hand, deliberately squeezing his fingers with more force than a mere handshake would warrant. Yet another trick she learned from Ava.

“I hope so. We were... we were quite close. I know it’s been a while since he...” Van Helsing pauses as he withdraws his hand and waves it in the air before drawing it up to his ginger curls. “Please accept deepest my condolences.”

“Thank you, Dr Van Helsing.”

Her tone signals the end of the conversation, and she nods her head stiffly before turning. She knew coming back here would unearth the loss of her parents, but she is not ready to speak of Montagu yet. She bared her soul once regarding the matter, and only to one person, but she will not repeat the experience again. As liberating as it had been to tell Ava everything, she wishes to leave this heartache and guilt where it belongs - in the past.

“Please wait. We got off on the wrong foot! I didn’t come here to ask you personal questions - in fact, it is a disappearance that I was hoping to discuss with you.”

“You are a physician, not an inspector, correct?” she asks over her shoulder, not bothering to slow down her steps as she strides towards an unclaimed hansom.

“Yes, but-”

“Are you here to hire me?”

“No-”

“Then we have nothing to talk about, Dr Van Helsing. Good day.”

The driver, smelling a wealthy client who’s just arrived from London, clambers down from his seat quickly to open the door for her to get in. Just before she could disappear inside, the physician speaks again.

“I’m trying to find Miss Ava Du Mortain and Mr Nathaniel Sewell. I was hoping we could help each other out, but more importantly, I was hoping to warn you.”

“Warn me?” the detective pauses, looking back at Van Helsing with genuine shock on her prepossessing features.

“They’re not who you think they are - what you think they are.”

There’s a stretch of silence between them as her eyes assess the tall, lanky man as he stands just before the hansom, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, his breath fogging in the chill air as he looks back at her expectantly. The nerve on this man alone is making the private detective want to leave him high and dry in the snow, but her insides twist and her pulse quickens at the mention of Ava’s name. She’s all but given up hope - for months now, she could find nothing regarding the woman and her partner, or the Agency they claimed to work for. She knows virtually nothing about this man, but her need to find Ava outweighs her better judgement.

“Are you hungry, Dr Van Helsing?” she asks, scooting further down the seat to make room for the man.

“Is eating and working on disappearance cases simultaneously a habit of yours, Miss?” the physician asks as he climbs in next to her.

“And here I was trying to be nice. I suppose I will not offer to pay for your lunch then.”

“I take it all back! I am positively famished.”

Meanwhile, across the train station

Lucille Licht twirls her cane, lips pressed into a disdainful frown. Cities at least have crowds upon crowds of people to distract her, but small towns such as Wayhaven hold no entertainment value whatsoever. She isn’t here on pleasant business anyway, she thinks to herself as she sighs, pulling her fur coat tighter around the expensive suit she’s wearing. No, she is here on ghastly business indeed, even by demon standards. But the prophecy was clear - though irritatingly vague too, no doubt to account for the rather large margin of error witches have these days in their prophecies. They’re more lawyers than soothsayers by now, their profession diluted by those who hunger for nothing but profit and security, and who are willing to sacrifice quality for those two aforementioned gains. Lucille finds sordid business such as this distasteful, even in her line of work. Falling from grace is one thing, but living in the Agency’s ever growing shadow is no excuse not to have honour among thieves. Or rogues. Or both, when it comes to the social circles she frequents.

A small voice in the back of her head whispers sadly, poisoning the faux assuredness she’s lulled herself into on the train. She’s just like I was, in a strange way. Before it all happened. And now I’m about to do the same horrible things to her that were done to me.

But the private detective is the one she’s been waiting for. She has to be. It all fits - the dead father, the career, the place where she was born. Lucille can’t smell anything strange about her blood yet, but she is sure she can bring about the power that was promised to reside in her veins. She has her ways, and her old magic, and her knife. And most importantly, her determination.

It was centuries ago, when she was stripped and bound and the curse was carved into her flesh. Strange, how vividly one can remember a single terrible moment, even centuries later. Even though the ancient magic rendered her undead, she can still feel the searing pain all over her body, red lines raging like fire in the form of symbols and Echolian text. It made her immortal, but it also bound her to her creator. He is the reason why she’s on the hunt. Why she is desperate to gain power beyond what she could achieve alone. Even as a human, as a meagre farmer’s child, she was roaming the fields of her father as she pleased. She was free. It was so long ago that she can’t even remember the name her parents gave her, but her freedom she remembers.

And nobody enslaves Lucille Licht and gets away with it.

Her slow burn vendetta must be coming to an end soon. There’s only so much of the supernatural underworld she can bring under her control - what she has will have to suffice. She already runs a widespread rogue organisation, with its key leadership positions held by her loyal Daughters, as she eloquently calls the women she’s bound to her service over the centuries the same way she was bound once. A necessary evil. Pawns in the game she plays with the Ancient One. There is nothing she wouldn’t do to ensure her victory in the coming battle. I will not be outwitted again by that Echolian bastard, she thinks, whacking away at a nearby bush with her cane. Specks of snow and ice glitter where her hits land. And yet she always finds herself hesitating before turning another human.

The abhorred feeling of helplessness always comes creeping back. As well as the pain, and the panic of thinking your life is about to end. She has to push it all down. Grit her teeth and get it over with. Months of preparation leading up to the final act that barely lasts ten minutes. And then you wait, and 3 days later their pain and mortality will be but a distant memory.

But she’s slipping. She no longer only hesitates before, now the intrusive self-doubt catches up to her after the rituals too. The Ancient One is still the centre of her nightmares, but the dream has changed. She is no longer the helpless little lamb brought to the slaughter. She is one with the Ancient One, his hand is hers too as it raises the knife, their voices merging together as they chant the same curse together.

She knew this victory would cost her everything. But she never imagined the real price to pay would be stepping up to fill the void the Ancient One’s death will create.

Lucille never wanted to be like him. She only ever wanted to kill him. But it seems those two things are one and the same.

She awakens from her thoughts when the man joins the private detective in the hansom. An annoying little man, that Dr Van Helsing is, though harmless in the grand scheme of things. It doesn’t matter that he’s taken care of a Transylvanian rogue vampire with his entourage, it would take far more to stop her plans now. Lucille focuses on the woman instead, letting her will force itself into her mind. All too easy, she raises her eyebrows in an unimpressed fashion as she flicks through her thoughts as if she were reading the latest issue of The Times. She thought she would be more difficult to read. To control. But alas, she is just like everyone else, aside from the love that seems to seep out of her every thought for none other than Agent Du Mortain.

She grins, remembering her failed attempt at getting to the private detective earlier. She’s learned several invaluable lessons in those two years. One, you can’t trust dark elf mercenaries, no matter how much you pay them. Two, it’s better to divert the attention of the Agency first before you try to kidnap someone who has important connections in the London Metropolitan Police. Three, love makes people do really, really stupid things.

Thankfully, Lucille Licht is a smart woman, and an even better strategist - not to mention a quite powerful demon with telepathic abilities and her boot firmly planted on the supernatural underground’s neck - and this time, she has learned from all three of her mistakes. This time, there will be no Agent Du Mortain rushing to the rescue. (But that doesn’t mean she can’t use her name as bait, yes?)

Cemetery, Wayhaven, 1900

1 year and 8 months after Ava’s disappearance

He doesn’t appreciate being jerked around the way he has been lately, but he isn’t a man to grumble too much either. He was closest to the backwater little town, he gets to check out the possible supernatural case. Everyone draws the short straw sometimes, and he’s learned to cope with it. He has certainly lived long enough to do so.

The wind shifts, and suddenly Agent Fuller’s nostrils are invaded by the stench of magic. Things finally start looking up for him, and that thought alone is enough to make him pick up his pace, excitement coursing through his body. He lights a cigarette to conceal the smirk threatening to overtake his lips when he sees the pallid looks of the constables as they pass him by. One stops him to ask what his business is out here, but the Agency has already notified the meagre Wayhaven police force, and he is soon on his way again to the centre of the commotion. Cemetery of the commotion would be a more accurate description though - the little town was as dead in the mid-February frost as a place could get, and aside from the bored stationmaster who gave him directions, these men are the first living beings he’s encountered since his arrival.

“Name’s Agent Fuller. What can you tell me about the crime scene, constable?” Fuller asks as he exhales a lungful of smoke, turning to the least disturbed looking man surveying the scene.

“Welcome to the middle of nowhere, sir. Why don’t you come see for yourself?”

A handshake and a suppressed grin later Fuller follows the young man down a row of tombs. They take a sharp turn to the left, and immediately it is clear why he was called here. The sight is confirmation enough, but the smell of potent and ancient magic is the real giveaway.

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a walker,” Fuller snorts as he crouches down, picking up a piece of the crumbled marble.

“The poor woman was buried only 3 days ago,” the constable mutters, rubbing his hands together before bringing them to his lips and blowing hot air onto them, desperately attempting to revitalise his frozen fingers. “Who could do such a monstrous thing?”

“Indeed, who could...” the agent mutters, too focused to really pay attention to the human on his right. The tomb was torn open, the coffin deserted, the body missing. It coincides with many reports made over the centuries - it’s unfortunately not rare for the dead to be taken and repurposed again for magic, but this particular pattern is characteristic of demonic rogues having too much time on their necromantic little hands. He will need to consult a few colleagues to confirm it, but the 3 days and the apparent magic hanging in the air is all the evidence he needs right now.

He stands, the lapels of his dark coat flapping in the chilly wind ominously. There’s a page typed up about the busy life of his missing body in his pocket, crumpled around the edges from being handled carelessly, but he takes it out to skim over it again. That’s when he spots the little detail about the private detective’s history with the Agency that he seemed to have missed the first time around.

‘1896-1898: under Agency protection

Threat: classified

Agents on the case: A. Du Mortain, N. Sewell’

The Agency gossips like there’s no tomorrow, and ever since Lady Ashbury’s return to the main facility, the gossip about the ‘Ice Queen’ and her pet detective have been the most fashionable thing to blabber on about. And since Fuller has been to the scene, it will be him who will have to provide all the answers when Du Mortain comes with her demanding questions, no doubt breaking down doors in the process as it is in her nature. Fuller is by no means a man who shies away from conflict or hard work, but he’s never been particularly good with emotions. Explaining to a lovesick elder vampire that her alleged lover is now very dead, and also quite probably the plaything of a very bored and elusive demon who likes to play with necromancy is not a task he would gladly carry out.

“Well, shit.”

Fuller shoves the page back into his pocket and sighs. He should retire and buy a house in the wilderness. Get a cat. Maybe try some cocaine - he once saw Heinrich Quincke use it for spinal anaesthesia before one of his surgeries, and have been meaning to try it out ever since. But he does none of those things - he never does.

He walks back the way he came, trying to prepare himself for the most awkward conversation of the century.

Needless to say, he couldn’t prepare himself for what was to come. But for once, he couldn’t feel mad about a messy situations. He just felt a little more hollow afterwards. And then he got another case as this one was closed and the woman was declared dead once more. And he moved on.

But, like with all his cases ending in death, he never forgot.

[precuredaily]

Precure Day 195

Episode: Yes! Precure 5 46 - “Kawarino’s Heartless Scheme!” Date watched: 14 June 2020 Original air date: 6 January 2008 Screenshots: https://imgur.com/a/gXuIssO Transformation Gallery: https://imgur.com/a/6k6SzS0 Project info and master list of posts: http://tinyurl.com/PCDabout

It’s glowing so it must be important!

Christmas has come and gone, all latent feelings have been addressed, so it’s time to hunker down and find that last Pinky so the girls can help Coco, Nuts, and MIlk restore their home! But surely it can’t be that easy.... can it? Let’s dig in!

The Plot

The girls and their fairy friends all go to make their New Year’s shrine visit, where they wish for luck finding the last Pinky and restoring the Palmier Kingdom, although there’s some light squabbling between Nozomi and Milk about what they really wished for. Rin starts to discuss her own goals with Karen, but Nozomi and Milk’s fight interrupts them, while Komachi, Urara, and Nuts just look on in bemusement.

Notice how Milk immediately turns to Karen for help

Over in Nightmare, Bunbee is lamenting the defeat of all of his former colleagues to the board, and he contemplates turning in his letter of resignation. However, Kawarino appears and tears the letter up, before chasing Bunbee to the roof. With his back to the wall, Bunbee finally opens up about his concerns about Nightmare’s treatment of its employees, and Kawarino’s callousness and disregard for anyone. Kawarino retorts that he is only acting in Despariah’s wishes and then he blasts Bunbee off the roof, where he plummets to his (presumed) demise.

Die Hard (1988)

Later, at the park, Nozomi and the gang have gathered to try to find the final Pinky! They know it won’t be easy, but they put their hands together and promise to try their best! So naturally, the Pinky is sitting on Nozomi’s head.

it’s that easy

They quickly capture it, but their victory is short-lived as Bloody reveals he’s been watching on, and he turns the park into a mass of Kowaina arms, so the girls quickly transform. Dream is particularly intent on protecting the Pinky in her Pinky Catch, and the other girls surround her in order to defend her, but ultimately Bloody manages to capture her and attempts to barricade her off from the rest of the team. Undeterred, Rouge, Lemonade, Mint, and Aqua all manage to overcome his obstacles and free their leader. Bloody finally transforms into his monster form, not willing to give up yet, and he renews his assault on the team, especially Dream, and he tries to subdue her with his sonic attacks. He’s caught off guard by a black Kowaina mask in his possession, but he refuses to use it, instead choosing to combine all the Kowaina arms into one colossal arm.

“Talk to the hand” indeed

Bloody demands they hand over the Dream Collet and the final Pinky, but Dream stands up and declares they won’t give him either, because this is the culmination of all their hard work and desires. They’re going to make their dream come true, and they won’t let him get in the way of that. Milk agrees with this, and jumps onto Dream’s arm so the team can perform Five Explosion. It destroys the Kowaina but Bloody manages to escape before it can get him, and the park returns to normal.

Back at Nightmare HQ, Bloody stumbles in, grumbling about how he’ll get the girls next time. Unfortunately, he won’t get a next time. He gets into an argument with Kawarino about his methods and the direction that Nightmare has been taken in, and lets slip that the girls now have the final Pinky. Hearing this, Kawarino tells Bloody that his services are no longer required, paralyzing him and placing a black mask on him as he sinks slowly into a literal pit of despair. Bloody uses his final breath to curse Kawarino.

Meanwhile, in Natts House, everyone is gathered around to watch the final Pinky transfer. Milk waxes poetic and Coco and Nuts are very eager. Rin, Urara, Komachi, and Karen watch intently when suddenly the door to the store opens. Coco goes to check it out and gets ambushed by Kawarino. “Coco” walks back inside, acting a bit strange, and demanding to see the last Pinky. Nozomi goes ahead and transfers it into the Dream Collet (gotta plug that toy one last time, even though the Rose Pact is only weeks away). It glows to signify its completion, and “Coco” asks to see the completed Dream Collet. Despite some hesitancy from everyone else, Milk snatches it and hands it to him. He begins to smirk and Nuts demands to know who he really is. “Coco” reveals himself to be Kawarino, and thanks them all for being gullible enough to be tricked so many times before disappearing with the completed Dream Collet. Coco is shown outside in his fairy form, beaten up, and the girls stare on in shock while they try to process what’s just happened. The final shot is Milk, looking very anguished over the consequence of her actions.

The Analysis

This is a nearly perfect episode. It expertly pivots from the somber mood of the previous episode into a false sense of security, and then turns it right back into upheaval for the final run. It shows at last, in no uncertain terms, how far Nightmare has fallen from their supposed former greatness, how little they value their employees, how sadistic Kawarino is, and even how truly powerful Bloody is, even if ultimately it’s not enough to save him. There’s a bit of levity during the New Year’s wishes and the scene at the park, but it’s short-lived to make way for the pressing drama of the episode.

The character moments really sell this one for me. At the start, you have Rin and Karen starting to discuss their newly formed plans, and Nozomi and Milk’s squabble in the background. Milk immediately turns to Karen for support while Nozomi turns to Rin, which is reflective on all of their relationships with each other. We knew Rin and Nozomi were besties going in but it’s been enjoyable to watch Karen and Milk grow closer over the course of the show. Then there’s the scene in the park when they’re looking for the final Pinky. They have this moment where they’re hyping themselves up, and as they get ready to go, there’s the pinky just sitting on Nozomi’s head. The other girls can’t even believe it, they deny it for a minute, walk away, and do a double take. It’s not the absolute peak of comedy but it is just a really funny moment, and I’m here for it. It’s an important final bit of levity before things get serious and don’t stop being serious for the rest of the show.

just look at these goofs

The fight with Bloody is absolutely fantastic and it just keeps ramping up. He uses his usual tactic of trying to demotivate his opponent with his words, but he’s also bombarding them with the Kowaina arms. I have always loved how he creatively uses these, and I wish other generals were half as innovative with their monsters, but as far as I can recall, he’s the only character in the entire franchise that uses monsters like this, instead of conjuring up a single object. It’s just really creative: he captures Dream in a ball, builds a wall, has the arms attack from every direction. Eventually, when he’s overpowered, he transforms and starts flying around himself and using his sonic attack and continues to try to talk Dream into handing over the Pinky. He wards off attacks from three of the girls simultaneously and makes it look effortless, before Dream swoops in and kicks him in the back. It’s a really intense and impressive fight and I love seeing him give it his all.

There’s also a fun moment in the middle when Lemonade knocks his hat off accidentally, and decides to try it on. It turns out, Bloody is bald! It’s not exactly a normal vampire look but somehow, he reminds me of Nosferatu.

Call her Zatanna Zatara

The only thing I wish had been done better was Bloody’s defeat. When the kowaina arms convalesced into a giant hand, it never actually did anything before the girls defeated it. I wanted a display of the power Bloody was boasting about, and we didn’t get that. This was essentially his last stand, his substitute for turning into a giant himself, but we were denied the full depth of his plan. Was it just going to squash the girls? Was it supposed to be his shield while he launched more sonic attacks? It really just serves as a convenient large opponent for the team to perform Five Explosion on in lieu of a colossal, monstrous Bloody, and I wish they had come up with a more elegant solution for this. Maybe they could have performed Five Explosion directly on Bloody, and at the last minute he summons all the arms to protect himself or something. It’s an anticlimactic way to finish off an otherwise great threat in a fight that, to this point, had been steadily escalating.

Possibly the most satisfying thing about this episode is seeing Bunbee finally speak out against Kawarino’s practices. At this point, he really doesn’t have anything left to lose, and it’s not like he’s changing anybody’s minds, but just seeing him stand up for himself is refreshing. He’s always shown a bit more concern for his employees than anyone else at the company, trying hard to give Girinma multiple chances, and always uncomfortable when Kawarino steps in with the black masks (except the first one, it seems he didn’t know what they actually did at that point). I’m not saying he’s boss of the year, but he at least had some compassion, which is more than can be said for his superior, and he lets Kawarino know exactly how he feels. So good on him for finally standing up for himself and his now deceased employees.

Bloody also does not hold his tongue. He’s been more openly disdainful of Kawarino’s methods for a while, and now he really unloads by expressing how far Nightmare has fallen. He chews out the boss and says he doesn’t think Despariah would approve of his sacrificial methods, and absolutely refuses to sully his honor by wearing the black mask.

Of course, it doesn’t amount to anything, since neither Bunbee nor Bloody were able to change Kawarino’s mind, but it does cement this picture of Kawarino as someone who is willing to sacrifice anything and everything for Despariah, and that’s something to keep in mind as we enter the final arc.

The conclusion to the episode is absolutely chilling. Kawarino sucks Bloody into despair, and quickly takes the girls’ highest moment and turns it against them by disguising himself as Coco and convincing Milk to give him the Dream Collet. No, he doesn’t even just run in and steal it, he lets them hand it over to him, because he knows that will make them despair even more. It’s haunting and sadistic and shows the depths of Kawarino’s callousness and evil. What a fantastic, terrible cliffhanger to end on!

Next time, the girls travel to the world of Nightmare once again to try to reclaim the Dream Collet from Kawarino and Despariah before they use it for their own selfish gain, in the first part of the three-part finale. Look forward to it!

Pink Precure Catchphrase Count: 1 kettei!

[gabriel-agreste-has-no-rights]

Rating: T

Chapter Summary:  Carapace helps Ladybug and Chat Noir build a bathroom.

Word Count:  2491 | Chapter 3/?

XXX

Carapace leaned over the back of the couch.  That made his hood-like mask slipped down over his eyes; she’d need to take his measurements and make adjustments.  Just one more thing to put on her list.  

“So. Bathrooms, huh?”

“Bathrooms.”  Marinette sighed, slumping back on the couch.  She had a notebook in her lap, but all of her ideas so far had been scratched out.  

She couldn’t Lucky Charm a toilet.  (She’d tried.)  She refused to dig a hole and just let Chat Noir Cataclysm the waste periodically.  (Ew.)  She’d even spitballed ideas with some of the kwamis, but like Plagg, none of them really understood the need for a bathroom.  Instead they just floated in front of the TV, playing Mario Kart on Chat’s Switch.

Carapace settled down on the couch next to her, sipping his Carpi Sun and watching the race. Kaalki was winning as Princess Peach, with Wayzz driving Bowser close behind.  Orikko seemed content to let Yoshi trail near the bottom of the rankings.  Xuppu as Donkey Kong was in last place, on account of him refusing to hold the remote right-side up.

“Do you have any ideas?”  She handed her notebook to Carapace.

“You don’t have to build a bathroom, y’know.  I thought it would be cool, especially if we all have a sleepover sometime, but you’ve already done a ton for us. We can deal.”  

She knew they could, but it would make her feel better to have a bathroom, too.  

(Plus, she’d aced her Physics exam last week.  It would be nice to repay Chat Noir somehow.)

“We’ve come this far.  I’m not going to give up now,” she said.

Carapace squinted down at the paper.  Flipped to the next blank page.  Flipped it back.

“Uhhhh… so what do you have ‘this far’?”

“...Pretty much nothing.  But I’m sure there’s a solution!  If I can figure out how to use a Lucky Charm every fight, I’m pretty sure I can come up with something as simple as indoor plumbing.”

“Maybe you’re thinking about it wrong.”  Carapace shut the notebook.  “You don’t write things down when you’re figuring out a Lucky Charm, right?  You just… I don’t know, it always looks like magic to me.”  He smiled sheepishly.

It wasn’t part of the miraculous magic.  It was just the way her brain worked.  But he had a point—it might help to look at this from a different angle.

“You’re right.”  

She stood, smiling at Wayzz’s laughter as the kwami crossed the finish line.  It was good for him to spend time with his friends again, which was why she’d met Carapace here this evening.  She hadn’t yet passed on the code for anyone else to open the Miracle Box.

“I’m going to need to borrow Kaalki,” she told the kwamis.

“Me?”  Kaalki frowned, pointing a hoof to her chest.  “What for?”

“I’m… not exactly sure yet,” she admitted.  Kaalki’s Voyage was definitely part of her plan, but she was still missing a few pieces.  

She scanned the room, gathering objects that caught her eye: a colander from the kitchen, the dragon choker in the open Miracle Box, the sewer map tucked behind that.  Then her yo-yo and the turtle bracelet on Nino’s wrist.  So close, but it still didn’t quite add up.

At least she had an idea of what she might need the yo-yo for.  She flipped it open and clicked on one of her few contacts.

“Bugaboo?”  Chat picked up on the first ring.  “Miss me already?”

“It sounds like you missed me, if you’re out and transformed.”  She smirked.  “Meet me at the base.  We’re putting in the bathroom.”

XXX

“I know your plans are usually pretty complicated, but are they always so…”

“Clever?  Amazing?  Inconceivable?”  Chat Noir asked while brushing off his hands.

“I don’t think that word means what you think it means,” Nino  said automatically, then shook his head.  “I was gonna say messy.”

“Not always.  It’s about fifty-fifty.”  Ladybug—well, Dragonbug, technically—used a broom to sweep out the black dust left over from Chat Noir’s Cataclysm.  It wasn’t enough dust to account for the huge chunk of rock that had been there.  His power must do more than just break things; it actually destroyed them.

Miraculous of destruction.  Duh.  Still, it was super cool to watch the magic up close and personal.

He could hardly believe Ladybug and Chat Noir had picked him out to hold his miraculous full-time.  Alya would’ve killed for a chance like this, and he couldn’t even tell her about it.  He kept worrying he’d accidentally let something slip, and then she’d use her nosy reporter skills to get the whole truth out of him.  

So far he’d been lucky.  Even if he almost cackled when she called “Carapace” a ninja-turtle wannabe.

“Carapace?  Are you ready?”  Dragonbug faced him.

“Huh?  Oh, yeah, of course!”

He stepped into the small room Dragonbug and Chat Noir had finished carving out.  The only thing that stood out was the cylindrical hole in the wall, just a little bit above his head.

His job was to use Shellter in the back of the indention, leaving just a fist-sized gap in the front of the spherical shield.  Luckily he’d practiced different barrier formations since Chat Noir had broken the news about his Miracle Box shield.  He still hadn’t found a useful way to protect the box, but he could make a shield with a hole in it now.

“Shellter!”  He called while plunging his fist into the hole.  Green light exploded inside, pushing the dirt and stone outwards.  The wall trembled slightly, but held.

“How’s that?”  He asked with a grin.  Dragonbug’s plan didn’t make sense to him yet, but he was sure it would be awesome.

“Perfect.”  She clapped him on the shoulder before they swapped places, her own hands inside the hole.  “Now—water dragon!”

He and Chat Noir peeked over her shoulders, trying to see what was happening.  

“You’re making a water tank,” Chat Noir realized with a grin.  “See?  What did I tell you, Cara?  Inconceivable.”

Nino just laughed.  At times like this, he felt like he wasn’t an outsider on the team.  As crazy cool as Chat Noir and Ladybug were, they weren’t larger-than-life.  They were just… dudes, like him.  There was no need to get starstruck like Rena.

Dragonbug capped the hole with the end of a plunger, her latest Lucky Charm.  Nino was just glad that hadn’t been for a toilet. 

“If I get you some measurements, Chat, can you do some math for me?  I want to know how much water this actually holds, and how many showers it should supply before we need to refill it.”

“Depends on how long your showers take, but sure.  I’ve had some physics problems like that before.”

Dragonbug used her sword to puncture a few smaller holes in the wall, then secured the colander over the top of the plunger.

“So it’s like a shower head.”  Nino nodded.  “Smart.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you, Carapace.”  She smiled at him.  “You were right.  I was thinking too hard, when we had everything we needed all along.”

His face warmed a bit under her praise.  “I didn’t do much.”

“It’s not always about what you do, turtle dude.”  Chat Noir slung an arm around his shoulders.  “We’re a team now.  And even though LB’s usually the brains, we all support each other.”

“Chat’s right.  Wayzz picked you for a reason, and so did we.”

It was cool that they the heroes wanted to include him, but it was hard to take them seriously when they’d all just jerry-rigged a shower together.

“Because I’d help you build a bathroom?”  He joked.  

“Come on, we were having a moment!”  Chat pulled back and playfully punched him in the arm.  “You’re supposed to be thinking wow, the amazing Chat Noir picked me!”

He cracked a grin.  “Ladybug’s right.  You’re a real drama queen, bro.”

Chat Noir gaped at his partner.  “When did you say that?”

“Most recently?  About an hour ago.  But if you meant how many times I’ve said it, I’ve already lost count.”

“You wound me, my Lady.”  He clutched his hands to his heart.  

“See?  My point exactly.”  She waved her sword at him with a smirk.

He sighed.  “Walked right into that one, didn’t I.”

“Yeah.”  Nino patted his shoulder consolingly.

“Maybe one day she’ll be the king to my drama queen,” Chat sighed again, but this time in a more lovesick sort of way.  The same way Marinette always sighed over his bro Adrien.  If Alya hadn’t expressly forbidden him from interfering in any way—and if Chat and Marinette weren’t both so hopelessly in love with their own crushes—he might’ve tried to set the two of them up on a blind date.  At least then they could both be dramatic together.

“Good luck with that, dude.”  

“Are you going to stand there sighing, or actually help me?”  Ladybug had her hands on her hips.  She’d already dismissed Longg, who flew to hover by Kaalki.

“You know I’m always at your command, my Lady.”  Chat swept his arm in a dramatic bow.  

“Show Carapace how to combine miraculouses.  He’s never done it before.”

“Me?”  Nino pointed to himself and blinked.  “I can do that too?”

“I said this base was for training purposes, didn’t I?”  Ladybug handed him the dark glasses.  “Well, consider this training.”

“What? I thought I was to transform the glorious and famous Chat Noir.”  Kaalki crossed her arms.

Chat’s eyes widened for a second before he grinned.  “You heard her.  Ready to admit how glorious I am yet?”

“In your dreams, kitty.”  Ladybug laughed before turning and crouching before the kwami.  “Please, Kaalki?  I may not know Carapace that well yet, but I know he has a good heart, and he’s always willing to protect others first.  I think that’s the most glorious thing of all, don’t you?”

Did she really think that?  He found his face warming again, and he rubbed the back of his neck.

“She’s right, you know.”  Chat Noir nudged Nino with his elbow.  “You’re always running in to take hits.  You’re almost as bad as me.”

“I’ve actually got a shield, though.”  He patted the shield on his back, and Chat laughed.

“Good point.  I’ll let Ladybug throw you at the akumas next time.”

By then, Ladybug had finally convinced Kaalki to transform him.

“It’s really not hard,” the kwami said.  “All you need to do is speak my name and Wayzz’s, then say unify.  Just like Ladybug did to become Dragonbug.”

Nino had watched her combine the miraculouses before they started constructing the room. It had looked that simple, but he’d still assumed there was a trick to it.

“That’s it?  I don’t have to, I dunno, feel something in my heart?”

Chat laughed before thumping him on the back.  “You’re a funny dude, Cara.  Oh, but there is one thing she forgot to tell you—you’ve got to neigh like a horse while you transform for this one.”

“Chat!”  Ladybug smacked his arm, but he just laughed again.  “No, you don’t.  You will need to bring your hands together, though.  It allows the magic to flow through you better, so the powers mix evenly.  That’s what the Master always said, anyway.”

He nodded.  “Alright.  Wayzz, Kaalki, unify!”

He punched his fists together, and teal light crackled over him.  It tingled in a different way from the first transformation.  His turtle suit always felt warm, like putting on a comfortable blanket.  This was more like walking outside during a heat wave.  A moment of dizziness passed before he could breathe again.

“Does it always feel like that?”

“Oh.  Right.”  Ladybug smiled apologetically.  “I should’ve warned you about the heat.  It should pass in a moment.”

Sure enough, the heat faded like the dizziness had.  He took a deep breath and rubbed his hands together.  The gloves of his suit were brown now instead of green; he wished he had a mirror to check out the rest of his costume.  They’d have get one for the bathroom eventually.

“Cool, cool.  Anything else I should know?”  He asked.

She went over how to use Voyage, then directed him to the spot she’d drawn out in chalk.  

Sweat beaded under his mask.  Getting the exact coordinates of a magic portal sounded a lot more complicated than throwing up a shield.  Whoever Pegasus was, he must be a real genius.

But right now they didn’t have Pegasus, and Ladybug seemed to think he could do this.  He didn’t want to disappoint her and Chat Noir.

He fixed the portal’s destination in his mind.

“You sure I can’t make this go to, I don’t know, Gabriel Agreste’s office?”  He asked with a grin.  “Y’know, as a random, nonspecific example.”

Chat Noir’s eyes widened for half a second before he doubled over laughing.  Ladybug looked mortified.

“What do you have against Gabriel Agreste?”  She asked.

“Other than that his designs are bland and unoriginal?”

“Or that he looks like he’s swallowed an onion in every photo?”  Nino added.

“Or his sour cream dollop toupée?”

“Heh, you mean tou-pee.”  

Chat Noir cackled at that, and they hi-fived.

“I’m sorry, bugaboo.  I think I’m going to have to replace you with the turtle.”

Ladybug rubbed her temples.  “I need Rena here.  This is too much idiot boy energy for me to handle.”

“You know you love us.”  Chat grinned.

Nino still couldn’t help wondering what beef Chat actually had with Adrien’s dad, but of course he couldn’t ask.  Just like he couldn’t admit that his own grudge against the candy-cane man came from how he treated Nino’s best bro.

“Alright, stand back.”  He finally shoed them away.  “I gotta get in the zone for this.”

He pictured the sewer—a real sewage plant, not the storm drain their base was connected to.  Then he punched his fist towards the floor.

“Voyage!”

A glowing portal opened up in the stone.  And it reeked.

“Smells like it worked.”  Ladybug pinched her nose.  “I’ll get the hardware set up later.  In the meantime…”

She dragged over a manhole cover that Chat had fetched for them on his way over.  It was wide enough to cover the small portal and stop the fumes from leaking out.

“I think that’s all we can do for now,” she said before holding out her fist.  “Pound it?”

Nino had shared Ladybug and Chat Noir’s post-battle tradition plenty of times before, but for some reason, this one felt as special as his first.  Maybe because it was over something so crazy.  Maybe he was getting sappy, but it felt like the heroes trusted him for more than just watching their backs in battle.

They were more than heroes, and they were more than just dudes.  They were his friends. 

He smiled at them.

“Pound it!”

[ohblessit]

So I could not, for the life of me, get this idea out of my head. There’s no explicit smut (sorry), I guess it’s more cute than anything. I think I was intrigued by the idea that changing sexes wouldn’t really change Jaskier’s personality or his general dynamic with Geralt at all, but I also couldn’t help but use it as an excuse to get them together. Summary: A mage accidentally turns Jaskier into a woman. Geralt finds that it offers him a new perspective on his longtime companion.

“Are you fondling yourself?” Geralt asked incredulously.

Jaskier flushed and guiltily brought her face out of the cloak she was covered in. It settled back over her newly feminine body, draping more normally over the breasts she’d clearly just been examining with her hands.

“Well you can hardly blame me,” she proclaimed. “I’ve never been a woman before! It’s a very… novel experience. And they’re very nice breasts!”

She seemed quite pleased by that, and Geralt could hardly disagree. He’d seen them. After the drunken mage had accidentally hit Jaskier with a rogue spell, Jaskier had ripped his shirt to pieces in agony during the transformation.

Geralt’s heart had been in his throat, watching Jaskier scream and writhe on the ground, clawing at himself as his body morphed and shifted. There had been nothing he could do. He’d threatened the mage at swordpoint, demanding he fix whatever he’d just done, willing to commit any atrocity to make Jaskier’s pain stop. But the mage had stammered horrified apologies, stutteringly explaining that Jaskier would come to no harm, that the transformation was painful but reversible. 

His words had proven true enough as Jaskier’s cries began to fade into breathless sobs, body wracked by residual spasms, but the bard had been whole and conscious.

He’d also become perfectly female.

Geralt had quickly gone to his-- her side, helping her sit up as she got ahold of herself and began to take stock of what had happened.

She was smaller, her hair long and her shirt in tatters, revealing breasts that were indeed pert and shapely. Her trousers were gaping at the waist but uncomfortably tight around her hips, and her boots nearly dragged right off her feet as she shifted her legs beneath her.

Geralt hadn’t hesitated to throw his cloak around her to protect her modesty, whether or not Jaskier would ever actually consider developing some.

The mage had offered to reverse the spell then and there, but Jaskier had shuddered, her fingers digging into Geralt’s arm, obviously unwilling to go through such an ordeal again so quickly. Geralt had snarled at the drunkard and shielded Jaskier bodily. Even if Jaskier had been willing to endure it, Geralt wasn’t willing to trust a mage so clearly off his senses with Jaskier’s wellbeing.

But the mage’s bumbling but sincere apologies won a strained smile from Jaskier, and the bard had forgiven the idiot for his mishap, reassuring him that being female for a while wasn’t such a terrible burden, and that the mage really ought to go home and sleep it off. Geralt had still rather wanted to geld the man, but had gritted his teeth and silently conceded to Jaskier’s good graces.

After that, he hadn’t wasted any time lifting Jaskier onto Roach and getting them out of there. She’d sputtered a little about the manhandling, but settled quickly. She was still shaking and couldn’t walk in her oversized boots, which Geralt had slipped off her feet and stowed in a saddle bag.

Now they were camped out in a clearing, watered and fed, and Jaskier was looking much better. She was feeling better too, if her curiosity about her new body had finally taken precedence.

“What do I look like, by the way?” she asked suddenly, fingers prodding at her cheeks. “I wish we had a mirror.”

Geralt took a moment to consider the question.

“You still look like yourself. I’d be able to recognize you even if I hadn’t seen you transform. Your features are the same, only… softer. Your jaw is smaller and rounder. Your lips are bigger, not as thin as they were. Your eyes are the same.”

It wasn’t poetry, but it was descriptive enough. Jaskier seemed to think so too, for she seemed encouraged and nodded.

“That’s good. I don’t think I’d like looking completely different. I’m shorter, aren’t I? I feel shorter. Felt a little off-balance getting off of Roach and I keep misjudging distances with my arms. That’ll take some getting used to.”

Jaskier was starting to chatter again, a good sign that left Geralt feeling relieved.

“Yes. Your center of gravity is in your hips now, not your shoulders.” Hopefully it wouldn’t take too long for Jaskier to fully adjust, but it would take them some time to reach Temeria in any case. Geralt trusted that Triss would be able to reverse the spell, hopefully with the aid of some herbs that would leave Jaskier unconscious for the whole experience. Jaskier had seemed buoyed by that idea.

She was wiggling now, testing the hips Geralt had just mentioned. Though she was covered by the shapeless cloak, the movement stirred a familiar heat in Geralt, much to his surprise.

Geralt had never thought of Jaskier as a potential bed partner, and yet now the thought blindsided him without so much as a by-your-leave. He wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him before. It was true that he went in for women more often than men, but Jaskier had been attractive as a man too, even well-suited to Geralt’s personal tastes. Then again, Jaskier had been young when they met, far too young for Geralt to have considered bedding in good conscience, and once Jaskier was of a more suitable age they’d already fallen into the settled rhythms of their friendship, unspoken terms and boundaries long since established. Certain things had changed over the years, but Geralt had never revisited the implications of Jaskier’s clumsy flirting during their early days. Perhaps seeing Jaskier as a woman was simply offering him a fresh perspective on the matter.

It was something to think about.

“Sing something,” he said.

Jaskier looked surprised at the request, but began to sing the chorus to Toss a Coin. She only got through a few words before she cut off with a startled, “Oh..!” her hand going to her throat.

Geralt nodded. “Your voice is higher, if still somewhat low for a woman. You’ll need to adjust for that too.”

Frowning, Jaskier cleared her throat and tried again, an octave higher. It worked better that time, and Jaskier continued, making adjustments here and there and repeating until it sounded clear and melodious as usual.

“Well,” she said eventually, “At least I can still sing for our supper. Although I’m going to need new clothes first.”

Geralt had considered that already.

“We’ve enough coin for new shoes and a dress in the next town if we share a bed.”

It was frankly an improper suggestion under the circumstances, but he didn’t give much of a damn and neither did Jaskier, if the way she brightened and agreed to his proposed solution was any indication. They’d known each other for too long to suddenly be self-conscious of such things, no matter if one of them had just changed sexes.

Jaskier brought out her lute and practiced for a time, adjusting to her smaller hands and fingers, while Geralt tended the fire and allowed the music to lull him into a relaxed state.

At length, Jaskier stopped and shifted uncomfortably, then cleared her throat.

“I, uh. I have to relieve myself,” she announced, frowning down at her cloak-covered body.

“Oh,” Geralt replied, somewhat awkward. “Do you need help?”

Jaskier looked embarrassed about it but nodded, getting unsteadily to her feet. Geralt quickly rose to assist her.

The lack of shoes was a problem, and it wasn’t helped by the fact that Jaskier was still uncoordinated in her movements. She walked well enough in the grassy clearing without much support, but once they got to the trees she had to step gingerly on leaves and over branches so as not to cut her bare feet, wobbling a little before Geralt reached out to support her. But they made it without incident, and Geralt turned his back to give Jaskier some privacy once she was squatted beside a tree, one hand on its trunk.

For a minute, everything proceeded as normal. But then the time began to stretch on and Jaskier was suspiciously quiet. Geralt couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder when Jaskier made a soft little noise, then had to double-take when he realized what she was doing, even with her back turned.

“Jaskier,” he said severely. Jaskier jumped guiltily. “Are you fingering yourself?!”

“Sorry!” Jaskier squeaked. “Only it’s right there and this is my first good look at it, and then I got curious how things are from the other side, so to speak…”

Curious, she said. With Geralt standing three feet from her. If there was ever a thought in Geralt’s mind that Jaskier might not be interested in having Geralt in her bed, it was expelled then and there. Not if she was both bold enough and comfortable enough to do these things in his presence.

Decided, he approached Jaskier as she began to rise, abashed, and threw her over his shoulder. She shrieked in surprise, wriggling in his grasp as he stalked back to camp. He ignored her shouted protests and smacked her firmly on the bottom, making her gasp and still. He could smell her sudden arousal. Though she couldn’t see it, he smirked in anticipation.

“If you’re so curious,” he purred, “allow me to help you out.”

“Oh,” she breathed, and made no further protest.

Some time later they lay together on Geralt’s bedroll, sweaty and sated in the warm night air.

“Gods above, Geralt,” Jaskier uttered huskily, catching her breath. Geralt’s lips twitched up contentedly, quite proud of himself. He’d made Jaskier come twice, after all.

“I should write an ode to your cock.”

“Don’t you dare,” Geralt growled.

Jaskier beamed at him mischievously and retorted, “I’ll only sing it to you. How about…

“Oh Geralt, he has such a cock, Built like a prize bully ox, He set me to howling, Gave me such a plowing, He launched away both of my socks!”

For all that he tried, Geralt couldn’t hold his disapproving glare and snorted with mirth. Jaskier giggled victoriously and the next thing Geralt knew, they were dissolved into helpless laughter.

“So help me, if you ever sing that in public…” But Geralt had a feeling his threat was not as effective as he would have liked, considering he was still smiling.

“No?” Jaskier giggled with false innocence. “Maybe something a bit more subtle?

“A quiet man, one might surmise, Possesses a tongue with few gifts, But that’s a conclusion so very unwise, For his talents can send me to fits--”

In a desperate attempt to save his dignity, Geralt dug his fingers into Jaskier’s sides and began to tickle her without mercy.

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

It’s The Avengers (02x12)

Loki x Reader Avengers The Office AU (Slowwwwww Burn)

Season 2 Episode 11: Far From Home

Season Finale

Warnings: dirty thoughts, a little fluff, good parenting, monsters and men. I am sorry but I am not sorry.

Word Count: I really wanna just leave everything and go live with the monks in the mountains if they allow me to take my laptop with me so I can keep writing.

A/N: Nearly forgot to mention the wonderful @marvel-lous-things for her original creativity that inspired the sam-bucky dialogue. I’ll link the original post here. I also did add some Brooklyn Nine Nine scene in there because I WANT TO AND I CAN!! I MISS B99!

MASTERLIST in bio, darlings. Tags are open (check bio)

"Why do you have to be so hard?"

Peter, Javier('s camera), Wanda, Vision and you turned your heads towards a very heated Sam trying to walk out of the elevator with Bucky, their bulked up biceps fighting each other to get out of the elevator together, telling the other to go first, but going at it together, eventually looking at the other with a murderous stare. Finally, Sam rushed out before Bucky.

"It's not my fault if you cannot handle my weight," Bucky gruntled lowly, forcing you to exchange some very confused looks with Peter, Wanda and Vision. Vision was more curious than confused like the good young baby AI that he was.

"Handle your weight? Dude, do you know how hard it is to handle your ass when you keep shifting like that? Throwin' me off my rhythm."

What started as confusion now turned into the horror of knowing the unknown, forcing your eyes wide.

"Wha-" Peter tried to ask you in a whisper, but you were already covering his ears, making him look at you questioningly. "You know I'm eighteen, right?"

"I throw you off your rhythm?" Bucky jolted back slightly. "It's you who's always wiggling under me and throwing me off balance!"

"Of course I gotta wiggle, man!" Sam burst out, "you dig your fingers in me so hard! I can't just freeze there when you get rough!"

Now you were covering your ears while all Peter could whisper was, "no, you know what, cover my ears. I liked it better that way. Please. I beg you."

"I only do that because you push us too high, okay!" Bucky argued, compelling you to hide your head inside the couch. Peter just sat there frozen in shock, his eyeballs on the verge of coming out. "You clearly still have no idea how to ride because you're too used to doing it solo."

You whimpered. Peter managed to blink. Hard.

Vision was simply staring at the two of them.

Wanda went by normally shuffling the Uno cards.

"Fine, then I'll go back to solo," Sam raised his hands.

"What, no!" Bucky begged, "I like it! Please, next time I'll won't dig my fingers so hard."

"And no biting."

"It was one time! The first time! I was scared of the freaking high!"

"You bit my shoulder! I said no biting."

"Okay. Okay!"

"All right."

A shake of the hand wrapped around the other's arm sealed the deal before the party looked at the crowd sitting on the lounge floor.

"'Sup," Sam casually greeted the four of you. Bucky just simply waved.

Red . You and Peter were red from your ears to your neck.

You got up, your hands trying to find some sort of support to hold you through everything you were going inside you right now, before ultimately folding them together.

"I'm glad you guys reached a common ground," you pointed out with a forced smile that nearly made your eyes disappear, "but there's um...a bedroom for a reason. Please, think about it before...you know, you guys argue again."

Saying that, you left the lounge, whispering, "Now how the heck do I bleach my memory?"

"Wait, I'm coming with you," Peter announced, getting up and taking your hand to walk out.

"Where are you guys going?" Bucky asked.

"Dr Banner's lab," Peter stated rubbing his arms, "to find out how we can destroy brain cells?"

"But doesn't that affect other functions too?"

"It would be worth it."

Sam and Bucky exchanged a confused look before turning to the two lovers left behind.

Vision shifted his gaze between your figures disappearing behind the wall while Sam and Bucky, contemplated something before turning to Wanda. "I think they were terrified for some reason."

Wanda : Sam and Bucky were talking about their plans to fly. Well, Sam doing the flying while Bucky hangs on his back. Stark showed me the whole carrier thing he made for them. *nods* *sighs* Yeah, Y/N and Peter can't read thoughts now can they. *eyes go wide in some latent thought* That girl has such a graphic memory! She could already imagine everything within seconds. *scrunches nose* in 4K! *shudders*

The Lab

"Pass me that blue vial," Banner murmured near the glass, the camera taking his face shot from the other side of the glass- zooming out to focus on a thin glass-like structure being held by a pair of tongs right in the middle of that vacuumed glass cube.

Long white slender fingers pressed a glass vial filled with the blue liquid right to Bruce's nose, making the scientist jolt a little before looking at the bearer of the hands, sighing, and taking it in his gloved hands.

The lab goggles were adjusted again before the vial was placed in another set of tongs and introduced inside the controlled environment.

This time, behind the glass besides Bruce, Loki showed his face, looking at that thin glass strand with utmost curiosity.

"What forces are you conjuring this time, doctor?"

Bruce shushed him, concentrating on the solution.

"Alright," he got away from the cube to clear his throat, "Friday, take the exact amount right to the very last millimetre and pour the N.A.T. on the compound."

Loki was on the edge of his toes now.

Loki : It is only once in a fortnight that these excuses of humans do something partly entertaining. I wouldn't want to miss it when Banner has another mishap and morphs himself into a rabbit this time. *gazing in the distance fondly* Maybe a purple one. *smiles*

"In three, two..."

Loki was quickly shifting his gaze between the experiment and Bruce. "Oh for the sake of Valhalla! Just do it already!"

"One!"

Flashes and sparks flew the moment the liquid touched the compound, making the two cover their eyes till they were sure the blazes died.

"Experiment ninety-nine point nine-nine percent successful, Doctor Banner."

"What's that, a new floor-cleaner?" you commented, walking inside the lab with Peter.

Loki leaned in to watch the outcome of the experiment while Bruce removed his goggles and gloves, too struck by the final product to contemplate your poor jokes.

"That's..." Loki lost his words, following Bruce's hands as they carefully took out an almost translucent and seemingly delicate piece of a flower made of glass- its petals decorated with capillaries running through them, reflecting softly on their own wavelengths, dancing gracefully, twirling and shifting with the lights falling on them.

"A flower," Loki grumbled.

You and Peter, on the other hand, were gasping out loud- clearly mesmerised by the outcome.

"How did you do that Doctor Banner?!" you exclaimed, not able to contain your excitement.

"Just used the geometric structures of certain compounds to make a piece of art for me," Bruce cajoled, clearly both impressed and shocked with himself.

Loki snorted, catching your attention. "And here I was thinking you were finally making some use of that brain of yours Banner."

"Come on, Loki," you stressed, "this is practically art out of science. Appreciate it. And," you turned around to look at Bruce, wiggling your shoulders as you spoke, "I'm guessing it's for someone special."

Bruce blushed straightaway!

"Uhh..." he tried to hide behind his hands while adjusting his glasses, "It's her birthday. I-I-I asked her when's her birthday once and she told me she didn't remember her real one. Just that today is the date she thinks is her birthday. So, I thought I'd do something special for her."

"Ugh, kill me," Loki complained, stomping- very graciously, his shoulders moving with an angry swing under that dark green t-shirt he was wearing- to the other end of the lab.

You, on the other hand, squealed with utter delight, jumping where you stood. "This is fantastic, Bruce!"

"Thanks!" Bruce glowed, smiling ear to ear. "And do you know it's pretty sturdy. Almost indestructible. And at the same time really delicate."

Bruce : *twirling the flower in his hand with the most tender smile* Just like her. *smiles again* *pauses* *camera pans in his anxious face* Shit, don't tell her I said that.

The camera caught Loki still rolling his eyes at the entire conversation at the other end, bonking the little bobblehead of Hulk kept on Bruce's desk.

"Oh! Oh! Oh! I should bake her some of my molten chocolate cupcakes!"

This caught the God's attention.

"Yes," he declared out of nowhere, composing himself, "that would be a great gesture."

"Oh, but we're out of ingredients. I finished the last batch when Cassie came over," you pointed.

"Well, take one of the cars to the nearest grocery store," Bruce stated matter-of-factly.

Your lips turned into an 'o' before shaking your head. "I can't do that."

"Why not?" Bruce questioned, "I'm sure Tony won't mind."

"Won't mind what?"

The camera swerved to the lab's entrance to watch Tony saunter in.

"Taking one of your cars so she can get the ingredients to make cupcakes for Nat's birthday," Peter answered.

"For everyone," Loki added from his corner.

Tony looked at you and shrugged, "Sure. I don't mind. But I don't want even a single scratch on my cars. Otherwise, Friday can order some for you."

You stood there quiet while everyone looked for an answer.

"Yeah, I think Friday should handle that."

"Oh, come on, Tony!" Bruce huffed, "let her go if she wants to go. I'm sure nothing's gonna happen on the most desolate road in this part of the state."

"No, that's-" you tried to speak, only to be cut short by Tony.

"Okay. Not what I was going for but since you started it, the weirdest shit happens on desolate roads, Bruce!"

"Guys, listen-"

"She'll be in her car," Bruce stressed, "stopping at the grocery store, getting the stuff and coming back. Not to mention Friday'll be there looking out for her."

"Okay, doc-"

"I was talking about responsible driving and you just had to take it to another level!"

"I DON'T KNOW HOW TO DRIVE!"

Silence.

Neither of the science buddies tried to say something, shifting where they stood.

"Well, that solves everything," Loki's words echoed through the air of embarrassment.

The Driveway

"You really don't have to do this."

The camera captured your very concerned face before panning out to show Tony and Loki standing on your either side while Peter sat by the side with his sunglasses on, sipping on some orange soda through a crazy straw.

Peter : *glasses on as he finishes sipping through his crazy straw* *a good wind playing with his hair* Oh, I know how it's gonna go down. *turns his head to the sound of the engine getting louder* Better than a Formula One.

Thank you, Friday," Tony announced as a black SUV comes and stands in the driveway right next to you. He stepped towards it, clicking open the door and gesturing you to move, "In you go."

But you didn't budge. "Yeah, I don't think so." Shaking your head vigorously.

"Why not?" Tony asked point-blank.

"Uh..." you hesitated, taking the corners of your jacket in your fingers and wringing them, "I...I don't think I'm made for driving."

"Everyone is made for everything. What everyone lacks is practice."

Sounds of clapping broke just as Tony concluded, making everyone turn to watch Loki and Peter applauding his words.

"Not bad, Stark," Loki applauded over the soft wind flapping your hair everywhere.

"But-"

"We're just trying something new here, kid," Tony pointed out, shifting the door wider.

You looked at him and then at the car, your fingers nearly ripping the fabric of your jacket apart before a breath of 'ah, screw it’ left your lips and you climbed in."

Tony put on his glasses and moved to the other side, all the while looking at Peter, "there better not be any crumbs and sticky soda on my driveway."

Peter gave him a thumbs-up as continued munching happily on the chips.

The camera now shifted to the dashboard, catching a good angle of the car's inside from the front.

Tony sat in the passenger seat and shut his door the same time Loki sat in the back and shut his.

"Alright then, let's begi-" he began, before stopping short on catching Loki in the back- leaning forward to hear what all Tony had to say, "What are you doing here?"

"I don't know how to drive your modest transport, either," he simply stated.

Tony opened his mouth to say something snarky but you beat him to it.

"Oh, thank God! It sucks being the only adult in the room who does not know how to drive."

Tony looked at you for a moment before settling in his seat. "You can stay but I don't want to hear a peep out of you. Okay, you" he pointed at you with his eyes, "seatbelt."

You quickly let your hands go to your side to bring down the seatbelt and secure it down at the other end. "Now," Tony continued, "look down at the pedals. From your right- gas, brake, clutch. The Gas pedals move the car, the brake will slow it down and bring it to a stop and the clutch will help you shift gears when the speed changes. When the speed goes high on this meter, the gear goes high, When it goes low, we go low. Okay? Try moving the gear and see if it's comfortable. Yes, just like that. Good. See that button with the start/stop sign? Push it when you want to start the car. Yes, you can start it in neutral as well. Once you start the engine you put the gear in drive while pressing down on the clutch. Okay? Wanna try it?"

Your breaths were a little shallow by now. "You sure?" you nearly whimpered.

"Yes, I am. It's okay. I am sitting right here," Tony comforted you.

You looked down at the pedals while your hands gripped hard on the wheels. Taking in one deep breath, you pressed the button and felt the car vibrate a little but never heard the roar of the engine. "Is it broken? I don't think it started-"

"It has a quiet engine," Tony blurted out to stop you from hitting the button again and again.

Making an apologetic face, you wiggled in your seat, straightened your back, checked the mirrors for no reason at all and took another deep breath. "Okay, now I press the clutch and change the gear?"

Tony nodded.

All this time Loki rested his hand in his palm, slowly getting tired of the instructions.

Pressing the clutch, you shifted the gear in drive.

"Perfect," Tony praised you, "now let go of the clutch slowly as you lightly put your foot on the gas."

With excitement in your eyes, you nodded and let go of the pedal. And just as you did, the car jerked, throwing Loki ahead.

"I'm so sorry!" you shouted, in Tony and Loki's direction.

"And this is why you wear a seatbelt," Tony followed with a chuckle, looking at the grunting figure of Loki trying to sit back up.

.

The Driveway

"Yo," Sam greeted Peter as he came out with Bucky, "got kicked out of the house?"

Peter shook his head, slurping his soda, never shifting in his seat that he was clearly well-adjusted in. "Watching Mr Stark teach Y/N how to drive."

Both Sam and Bucky looked at the SUV in the distance jerking and moving before coming to a stop, starting, jerking and moving ahead, suddenly picking up speed, suddenly screeching to a halt before the whole cycle started again.

"Huh."

Peter pointed to his left without looking. "There are chairs in there."

.

Half an Hour Later

"What're you guys doing in the driveway?"

Peter, Sam and Bucky- all three of them flinched hard at Natasha's voice coming from right next to them.

Bucky : She is sneaky. I don't like sneaky.

*camera pans out to show Sam standing behind Bucky with a plushie, throwing it suddenly from Bucky's left*

Bucky : *immediately tilts to the other side while taking out a knife from nowhere to stab the plushie*

Sam : We talked about this! Assess the f****ng target before going 'stab'! *continues in his angry voice* Congratulations! You just killed a plushie!

"Watching Tony teach Y/N how to drive."

Behind Natasha came the huffing figure of Scott carrying bags on bags in both his hands. They looked at the amount he was carrying compared to the bulk in Natasha's hand.

"No wonder you always keep beating me in training!" Scott huffed and tried to breathe through his words. He dropped the bags and let his body go floomf over them. "You're sooo strong," he heaved, "make me like you, senpai ."

"Get off the bags," she stressed, "you'll break the nachos," before turning to the trio with a stern stare, "you fellas really don't have anything to do?"

"We're supporting Y/N," Peter answered, pointing at the car nearly missing the pavement and skidding while making a turn.

But Nat didn't buy it. "What's the bet for?" She finally asked, forcing the trio to look at each other.

"How much time it takes for Tony to lose his cool," Sam admitted, "I'm going for twenty more minutes. Bucky says Tony's already lost his cool. He's just sitting in there crying. Peter thinks he'll last another hour."

The car turned and came towards where all of them sat. Nat took one step back as the vehicle skidded to a halt right next to Peter, the bumper giving him a little bonk on his knees.

The camera shifted to inside the car with three horrified faces trying to find their breaths.

"I told you," you tried but no voice came out of your throat, "I...told...you."

"Okay," Tony breathed, gulping down the horror but still having his hand wrapped around the grab-handle as tightly as humanly possible, "okay. Um...Loki," he announced, "your...turn?"

.

"You bitch," you hissed, "you said you didn't know how to drive!"

The car swerved by the audience effortlessly as they hooted, whistled and cheered.

Loki veered the steering wheel with such professionalism that you cursed him again.

"I swear I didn't!" Loki chuckled with excitement, "this is just so easy and fun!"

"Eyes on the road, Greeny," Tony ordered, but his eyes too were lit and he clearly wasn't holding the handles now, "now show me how you go through those two bars and then back it up."

Loki did what Tony asked, swerving smoothly through the bars, breaking without throwing anyone in the window and, reversing just as smoothly through them.

"Woah!" Tony heard himself saying, "okay now show me that thing Lighting McQueen does in 'Cars'."

Loki scrunched his nose. "The movie we saw last night?"

"Yup!"

"Brace yourselves!"

And saying that, he hit the gas and showed the crowd how to turn right to go left, making Peter and Tony lose their minds in their rush, while Sam landed a 'hot damn!', Bucky and Scott had their jaws dropped. Natasha was the only one not really phased by it.

Natasha : *nonchalantly* He can drive. *does a little head tilt* Good for him.

The vehicle came to a halt near the entrance and you were the first one to get out.

"Hey, Y/N, you did good!" Sam and Nat tried to cheer you up.

"Yeah," was all you said before turning to walk back in.

"Y/N, kid," Tony called out for you, "come on let's give it another shot."

"No, Mr Stark. I think I'm done for the day."

"But we didn't even go about for even an hour. Let's work on your gear shifting without looking at them."

"I don't think that'll hel-"

"We won't know until we try. Come on let's take anoth-"

"I can't!" You nearly shouted, taking everyone by surprise. "I can't Mr Stark! Driving requires me to focus on everything at once and I made not for that! I get distracted so easily. I can't even drive safely on an empty road inside my own home what makes you think I could possibly handle an entire vehicle on a busy road?! And believe me when I say I've been told time and again to change this 'habit' of mine. Well, I can't." You shrugged forcefully. "I really can't. That's how I freakin' am. So, sorry you have to deal with a f****d up kid like me."

Ending that, you walked inside, leaving everyone mum- discreetly looking at Tony before walking back in. Everyone except Loki.

Tony looked at the God, giving him a once-over. "The hell you looking at me like that?"

Loki just crossed his arms across his chest, shaking his head, "She can't drive. She clearly doesn't have the confidence and would have to take a lot to create the natural focus required. Just wondering what you're going to do now."

Tony furrowed his brows at Loki. "What d'ya mean what I'll do? I'll find a way to help with whatever's required. It's not her fault she can't focus or is easily distracted. I'll find something to help her with that too."

Loki : *looking at an invisible void in the distance* huh. I cannot believe I'm saying this but Stark one hell of a father figure. *Pouring his lips* *scrunching his nose* Is that why all these wayward nuisance of beings choose to live with him? *Looks behind the camera* What? I don't see him as a father figure. All I see him is as a bother figure. Always bothering me any chance he gets.

*camera pans out to show Tony standing beside him leaning on the car*

Tony : Would you like me to take you horse-riding?

Loki :

Tony : *arches his brow and places his head on his fist, watching Loki tenderly*

Loki : *not making eye-contact* *softly* that would be great. Thank you

Tony : *pats him the back and leaves* Good job today.

Loki : *closes eyes* *shakes his head* *moans* Yeah, I already feel weird.

.

The Dorms

Tony lightly knocked your door before clicking open a bit and asking if he could come in.

The camera tried to follow him but Tony closed the door behind it, forcing it to go out to the balcony.

He sat down on the edge of your bed looking at the half-finished sketch of a woman.

"You made this?" He turned to ask your figure lying on your stomach with your head towards the footboard.

You nodded.

"Wow!" He whispered with enthusiasm before his eyes caught something in the corner by the window. "Is that a canvas? You've been painting. On a canvas!"

You shrugged. "It's not that hard. Anyways I'm not that good."

"Why do you think that?" He asked as softly as possible. "Have you seen what you create? This is beautiful!"

"This is half-finished."

"Well, it's better than not being created at all!"

You blinked, and a lone tear left your eye to directly vanish in the sheets under you.

"I'm scared," your broken voice declared in a whisper.

"Of what?"

"Of not being able to drive safely. I can hardly focus on what gear to shift while having to quickly judge what pedal to hit. How am I ever supposed to drive when all my senses aren't in the car with me?"

"Hey," he stressed softly, brushing your hair away, "we'll figure it out. And it was just the first day. You already learned which gears are what. And you were really nailing those brakes."

You both giggled.

"There's nothing you cannot do," Tony assured you, his eyes giving you a soft yet stern look, "now stop beating yourself up, get out of these stinky bedsheets and go make sure Peter and Bucky don't burn up my kitchen to figure out your cupcake recipe."

You chortled and Tony looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the world right now.

"Wow," Loki's voice came from the opposite corner of the room where he stood with arms crossed ever so casually, "you two really are boring. And cringy."

Tony and you gasped and threw a pillow each at him.

"Get out!" You both said in unison.

.

The Lounge

"You are such a sore loser."

You tilted your head and arched your brows at Loki.

"It wasn't a competition, Loki."

He simply shrugged and popped a grape in his mouth. "Something a loser would say."

"Whatever, man," you muttered, shooing him away as you went towards a very confused Peter hanging down from the ceiling to find out what Bucky was trying to cook.

"Wait." You heard Loki say after you felt a soothing coolness grab your hand lightly, making you turn back to him.

"Hmm?"

"There's-" he looked around to see if anyone was listening- clearly ignoring the camera- before coming back to you, "a thing. I need to learn how to paint. I've heard you're a really good artist. And clearly, I'm not. So, would you help me?"

You : This guy *a smirk lies at the corner of your lips* has the weirdest ways of saying 'I'm sorry, Y/N. I wish I could make your day better'. *nods* *raises shoulders* *bites lips* usually he does.

"Hmm," you pretended to think, "I don't know. Let me just show off my artist skills around a little bit and then I'll start teaching you."

"Oh, you think I'm-I'm trying to make you feel better? Don't make false assumptions, woman!"

"Din meek fils issimtion wimin," you teased him with your scrunched nose, right before Tony walked through the two of you.

"Five-second rule," he announced as your hands parted for Tony to go ahead and he slipped something over Loki's wrist.

"What's this?" Loki looked at the green bracelet that clicked shut over his wrist and did not come undone no matter what he tried.

"Just something to stop you from jumping in rooms unannounced," Tony responded, waving at him as he went away with a happy gait.

"Y/N," Natasha called out from the kitchenette, "you better take over before these boys make something everyone's gonna regret. And no one eats it before midnight!"

“Stark, get me out of this!”

.

Outside The Library

You walked with the camera following you out of the library, running right into Loki.

"Hey, have you seen Mr Stark?"

"No," Loki shook his head, "I rarely look at things I find unappealing."

"I made something for Nat, but I want his opinion on it. Come on," you pressed, taking his hand and pushing him away from the library and towards the lab.

"Stark's opinion? I'm sure Gordon Ramsay would be a better choice than him."

"I'm surprised you know who that is."

"Of course, I know who that is. Everyone fears him. I respect that. And he seems to have a cult!"

You sighed and turned the corner. "He has followers, not a cult. Like fans."

"What's the difference?"

"W-" and you found yourself short of an explanation, glad you were already by the lab's doors.

"Let's just concentrate on you making friends first, okay," you said in your best sarcastic tone, swinging open the door to watch Tony in the middle of the lab, going for the very familiar Pandora's box. The thing similar to the one that had teleported you to another planet.

Everything happened at once in front of the camera.

"DAD, NO!"

The small bag you'd been carrying in your hand fell down on the ground as you ran towards Tony. A shriek left your lungs as you forced him away from the familiar light that came out of the box. Loki was already trying to shield Javier behind the camera while trying to get you away from the path. Tony was not aware of what was happening until he was touching the floor.

And the next second everything disappeared.

The cameras in the lab caught Tony on the ground trying to get up, looking for you.

"Y/N?" He shouted out for you.

"Loki!" He commanded, getting up- not so gracefully- on his feet.

"Javier!" He begged, only to see Bruce, Natasha and Peter rush in from the doors.

"They're gone, Mr Stark," Friday's voice echoed through the silence of the lab, as the man tried to count his breaths while the others rushed to help him.

.

Unknown Place

The camera was blurry. A few sounds came from a distance before the lens shook and was wiped off where it lay- in the desert. It focused on two figures lying just a few feet away.

Javier's figure came in front as he tried to shake up one of them. And just as he did, Loki stirred, grunted and got up with a little difficulty.

Javier tapped his shoulder to get his attention away from his strange surroundings to your unconscious figure lying next to him.

"Y/N," he called out for you tenderly, his eyes scanning for any wounds on your arms or face. "Y/N, wake up," he gently tapped your cheeks and arms. "Y/N," he mildly shook you in vain.

"Y/N STARK!!" he shouted, giving you a good shake, making you get up with a scream.

"What the hell, Loki?!!"

"Come on," he commanded more than requested, taking your arms and helping you stand up.

"W-where are we?"

Javier went out of the frame and the camera was lifted up from the ground to show the barren land you and Loki were looking out to. Shades of yellow went till the horizon with curled up black tree-like structures at various intervals.

"I don't know," Loki sighed, his eyes taking in everything.

You turned around, the camera catching you walk over the rough ground outside the frame. "It's certainly not Earth. I haven't been to this...place before. We must stay close. Javier, do not leave my sight."

"Uhh...Loki?"

"Of course, you too, Y/N."

"No, Loki," you continued, the camera catching your concerned gaze as your hand pointed at something, "look."

The camera turned to face down the little hill that you three stood on to capture a battalion of aliens standing in prime formation at attention. Scales of iridescent gold and brown marked the skin on their shoulders and limbs, claws for hands and feet and a wolf-like face covered in warrior helmets.

"Yeah, suddenly I've started appreciating that old planet-thing I was trapped on," you mentioned, your voice breaking with fear. "You can teleport us back, right?"

"Ye-"

Both you and the camera turned to look at Loki, who was looking down at the amulet on his wrist.

"Stark," he sighed.

"Shit," you cursed, "sorry."

A blowhorn sounded down the hills throughout the valley, making you jump close to Loki, catching the fabric of his Henley from the elbow with your fingers.

"Okay, I've seen The Lord of The Rings enough times to know this is not good!" You nearly shouted with fear.

And just as you uttered those words, the clanking of armour sounded close to you, coming up the hill.

Three of those alien warriors came up, their march quite in unison as the taller, bulkier one walked ahead of the two who seemed to be accompanying him.

The camera stepped farther away as the creatures stepped closer while you tried to be brave yet took a step back so as to let Loki shadow you partially.

The stomps of threatening footsteps stopped nearly seven feet away from you. The stench of something eerie filled the air.

The two aliens at the back stabbed the ground with their metallic staffs, creating a gust of wind along with an incoherent vibrating echo.

The leader stepped forward towards you three, his gait slow and measured, his eyes shining a concentrated mix of purple. You shifted on your feet. Loki didn't.

He stopped right in front of Loki, standing at least two feet taller than him.

"Loki," came a low-pitched growl from the jaw that opened to reveal more fangs inside, "ward of Odin. Son of Laufey. Saviour of Asgard-"

"You could save the titles. It'll take you an entire day to get over half of them," Loki declared without skipping a beat.

The creature paused before taking out his sword from its sheath, making you step back.

"Loki, master of the Nubrath!" The leader spoke again, this time while holding his sword in both his...claws and raising it to the God. "Your army is ready."

The blowhorn sounded again.

"We're all prepared to take over the earth under your rule."

~End of Season 2~

You’ll get season 3 if you curse me with the balance of work and home to get me as many hours to write as possible. Bonus if you get me my dream job. No, I won’t tell you, you have to figure it out on your own.

[mittensmorgul]

They are filming ep15 right now (Cas and Jack are working alone on a case) and the fact that Misha will miss one more ep due to his contract makes me think they dropped the empty deal arc. I just cant see them playing it out when they have to set up Jack to be the God killer, Cas to fix heaven, Amara plotline in 4 eps. Plus Dabb implied that Michael!Adam would also come back to defeat God in some form. Thoughts?

hmmm...

*does math in my head* *admits this is dangerous*

So we know that Misha is scheduled to be in 15 episodes this season, leaving five he will not appear in. So far, he has not been in 15.04, 05, and 10. Of the remaining unaired episodes (including the ones he’s already filmed, but haven’t aired yet), that leaves two more that he won’t be in.

And yeah, I really don’t think there’s time to explore the full weight of that deal, especially given that the entire cosmic situation has shifted since he made it. I mean, even the fundamental REASON Cas made it was so Jack would not end up in the Empty. And then Jack... ended up... in the Empty...  Kind of a dick move for the Shadow to still try and cash in on that deal, right?

I just think it’s more a factor of them having committed to end the series at the end of s15 that led to the reframing of the deal, you know? If they had intended to go on for a s16, I think it would’ve been heavily dealt with in s15, or even in the back half of s14, but instead things needed to happen to accelerate dusting AU!Michael off the table to make room from Chuck to get all uppity with the story. :’D

They could bring it up as a potential way for Dean and Cas to deal with the rest of their communication issues. Like Cas could tell Dean about the deal, and Dean react to it with a Normal Amount of upset, because it IS reasonable to be upset to learn your best friend literally sold his own happiness in exchange for what he thought would make you happy, you know? Worst Gift of the Magi AU ever. All Dean wants is for Cas to be happy, but he’s willing to trade “enjoying that in a peaceful, not world ending life” and stand by Cas’s side through all their battles to make that happen. All Cas wants is for Dean to be happy, and he’s literally willing to sacrifice his own happiness and life to make that happen.

I think this was at least partly delved into in 15.09, with the very real threat of Cas having taken on a Mark like the MoC, which would eventually drive Dean to a point where he would’ve had to lock Cas in a ma’lak box forever, effectively losing Cas forever. It wasn’t the Empty deal, but the Empty would’ve never been able to collect, because Cas would’ve never been happy after that, you know? But again, I personally think that deal went out the window the moment Jack burned up his own soul to kill AU!Michael. Because I don’t think the Empty ever really wanted Cas... I think the entity was biding its time until everything was ready to bring ALL of Jack to the Empty, as we saw in 14.20... There was a bigger game afoot, and we don’t entirely know what that is yet.

Is Billie’s plan really to kill Chuck? Or is she, like Death always has, pushing at the Winchesters (yes, including Jack and Cas) to do something specific with no intention of them actually DOING the thing, but knowing that Cosmic Level Nudge will set into motion an entirely different sequence of events? Because Death... can’t act directly. Billie has come closest to just saying it outright, in 12.06, and this was before she ascended to that Bigger Picture View of Creation:

Mary: How would it work?Sam: Mom?Mary: You just kill me again?Billie: Reapers don't kill people. Rules.

So many rules... and Billie is so, so good at working around those rules. Even better than OG Death was. 6.11 is still a prime example of how Death functions.

DEATH So, if you could go back, would you simply kill the little girl? No fuss, no stomping your feet?DEAN Knowing what I know now, yeah.DEATH I'm surprised to hear that. Surprised and glad.DEAN Yeah, well, don't get excited. I would have saved the nurse, okay? That's it.DEATH I think it's a little more than that. Today, you got a hard look behind the curtain. Wrecking the natural order's not quite such fun when you have to mop up the mess, is it? This is hard for you, Dean. You throw away your life because you've come to assume that it'll bounce right back into your lap. But the human soul is not a rubber ball. It's vulnerable, impermanent, but stronger than you know. And more valuable than you can imagine. So... I think you've learned something today.DEAN Want to know what I think? I think you knew that I wouldn't last a day.DEATH I have no idea what you're talking about.DEAN I lost. Fine. But at least have the balls to admit that it was rigged from the jump.DEATH Most people speak to me with more respect.DEAN I didn't mean --DEATH We're done here. It's been lovely. But now I'm going to go to hell to get your brother's soul.DEAN Why would you do that for me?DEATH I wouldn't do it for you. You and your brother keep coming back. You're an affront to the balance of the universe, and you cause disruption on a global scale.DEAN I apologize for that.DEATH But you have use. Right now, you're digging at something. The intrepid Detective. I want you to keep digging, Dean.DEAN So you're just gonna be cryptic, or...DEATH It's about the souls. You'll understand when you need to.

Just like Billie’s command to Dean about the Ma’Lak box in 14.10:

Billie: And just look at you now. Do you remember visiting my reading room? The shelves and shelves of notebooks describing the ways you might die?Dean: Yeah. Upbeat classics.Billie: Well, it's the funniest thing, but they've all been rewritten. They all end the same way now -- with the archangel Michael escaping your mind and using you as his vessel to burn down this world.Dean: All of them?Billie: All of them. Except one.

Except... ALL of those books... were wrong... even that one that said the ma’lak box solution was the thing... And I think Billie was HOPING to get that EXACT reaction from Dean We’ll Find Another Way Winchester. But if she hadn’t TOLD him about that one anomalous book of fate, Dean wouldn’t have known to even TRY. And in doing so, in attempting to build that box, his loved ones realized something was super fishy (lol I didn’t intend to make an undersea pun, but there you go) with Dean, and stepped up to support him until out of nowhere, a wildly unexpected solution presented itself. BECAUSE Dean drew strength to keep Michael contained beyond the original prophesied ends... Because Billie “interfered.”

I don’t think Death actually KNOWS what will happen after she shakes up reality, you know? She just knows where to apply pressure in order to force a rewrite of destiny. This was also the entire point of 13.19-- the things you CAN change, versus the things you can’t. And how to give just the right nudge to set those changes in motion.

Well, that went off on a tangent... >.>

Point is, I don’t know for sure that Jack will end up as a God Killer (I mean even in a practical sense, the ONE THING the CW has ever said was that they were not allowed to kill God... I assume that hasn’t changed and am basing my own personal expectations accordingly...). So I’m thinking that whatever the final plan will look like... we haven’t seen it yet. Okay, now back to the point... Cas’s Deal with the Empty.

So regardless of the why (because I try to avoid using a doylist rationale like Misha’s contract or the remaining number of episodes in order to justify narrative choices, because no matter how you slice it, that’s Bad Science right there...), I don’t really see the Empty deal as a threat to Cas anymore. Unless Cas is destined for a tragic end and will be sucked into the empty in the series finale-- which, again, would mean that DEAN would also never be able to be happy, because it’s been explicitly established in text that Dean can’t be happy without Cas, and again, I don’t think the series CAN have a tragic ending, so it’s so unlikely I’m not even bothering to consider it. Except... Cas might not know that because of everything else, his own happiness won’t spell his doom, you know? Which leaves some interesting possibilities on the table for really cool CHARACTER stuff instead. Cas’s fear of finishing that conversation with Dean that Dean’s Purgatory prayer began, for example... because heck that’s treading really dangerously close to words that could make Cas happy... And could be holding him back from continuing that dialogue now, at least for a few more episodes of tension between them.

They may just bring it up again as a WTF Cas? How could you not tell me? moment, just to demonstrate that Cas and Dean truly HAVE resolved their interpersonal conflicts, by having Jack confirm that the deal is null and void because of his arrangement working with Billie and the Shadow now. Or even Cas himself already knowing the deal has been nullified when it’s mentioned in conversation, allowing them to finally have a conversation about what would make them happy, using Cas’s continued existence as a prime factor in Dean’s happiness, and Dean wanting him to stay to be a prime factor in Castiel’s happiness... I think this could be a really interesting way to use the fact that the deal had existed at all could spark that revelation, you know?

But again, all of this is just theory at this point. I could be 100% wrong about all of this. But as you said, with only 9 episodes left (and two of them theoretically not even including Cas... and heck they could do a speed run through the Empty for one of those episodes too... I have no idea what they have planned), I don’t think it’s going to be a long, drawn-out ordeal, you know? They’ve refocused all of the character arcs back into the main story now, and they’re all converging on what will eventually be the series finale, not flinging them all out in opposite directions to generate drama and angst, you know? Different point in the story, different options available to wrap up open threads.

[sickfic-with-kiko]

Whumptober Day 5: Poisoning

“You got something on your face there, Lev.”

Kuroo’s offhanded comment caused the entire team to stare at the first year, who had a noticeable blob of cream on his chin and the side of his mouth. “Ah, this?” Lev giggled sheepishly, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “I was given cupcakes today! They were very good.”

“Ooh, by who? Someone from your class?” Kuroo queried curiously, grinning devilishly. “Does our string bean have a secret admirer?”

“You lucky bastard, Lev!” Taketora gave Lev a dig in the ribs, screaming in comical anguish. “How come my kouhai has an admirer and I don’t?” He wailed, slumping down to the floor in utter defeat.

“I don’t actually know who gave it to me,” Lev shrugged. “It was in my locker, and it was in a decorated box, so I figured it was for me.”

A strangled cry erupted from Taketora, while Inuoka and Shibayama let out a gasp of surprise. “Haiba-kun, that’s amazing! Someone made you cupcakes and left them in your locker!” Inuoka parroted, jumping up and down excitedly. “I wanna find out more about this.”

“I don’t know.” Kenma lifted his head, opening his mouth for the first time during the practice. “It seems a little strange to me.”

Lev puffed his cheeks out in a pout. “Strange? Is it so strange that Nekoma’s ace finally gets the recognition he deserves?” He grumbled, sticking out his lower lip.

“Oi!” Yaku gave Lev a swift chop to the head. “If you call yourself an ace, then do something about those sloppy receives of yours!” He grunted, visibly irked at Lev’s cockiness.

“Yaku’s jealous because someone tried to court his boyfriend!” Kuroo singsonged, and Yaku aimed a kick at his shin quick as a flash. “Ow, you shit! That hurt! Yakkun, be nice to your poor captain!” Kuroo made his voice squeaky like a rusty door, earning a disgusted face from Yaku.

“Alright, come on. I’m sure we can discuss Lev’s fortunate discovery after practice too.” Kai clapped his hands twice, signalling that the chattiness had to end for now. A chorus of ‘okay’ rang out, and everybody split up into groups to practice each of what they needed to brush up on.

Yaku beckoned to Lev as he bounced a volleyball on the floor, glancing at him with a look to make sure he wouldn’t think about planning escape from his overdue receives. “Get ready. You’re doing fifty before you even attempt to ask for a spike.” He gestured for him to go on the other side of the court.

“But I wanna spike, Yaku-san! Pleeease!” Lev whimpered, staring at Yaku like a kicked puppy. Yaku remained neutral, biting back a sarcastic comment about how he acted way too childish for someone so big.

“Too bad. If you want to spike, do something that’ll make me change my mind.” Yaku pulled Shibayama over to train the two first years simultaneously, which was not a difficult feat due to the cooperative nature of the shorter first year.

Lev blew a raspberry, earning a disapproving look from Yaku. “Well, I will! I’ll definitely show you something that’ll blow you away!” Yaku was tempted to tell Lev that he’d blown him away more times doing something other than volleyball than not, but held his remark.

“Alright. Enough chitchat, I want to see your receives. Shibayama and Lev, get into proper position!” Yaku started barking out orders as soon as Lev started showing off to Shibayama, throwing a volleyball at him to catch him out. “I thought you were going to blow me away, Lev.” He raised his brows teasingly.

Lev grunted as his arms hit the volleyball in the shape of a sloppy receive. “I wasn’t ready, Yaku-san! Not fair!” He huffed, as Yaku ignored his complaints and tossed the ball over to Shibayama.

“Official matches aren’t fair.” Yaku shut Lev down quickly, throwing another volleyball at him to keep him busy. “Come on. You can do some spikes if you finish these, you dumb bean.” He rolled his eyes with his hands on his hips, flipping off Kuroo after he made a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows.

Lev nodded, and Yaku was relieved to watch him get his head into practice. Despite how whiny the first year could be sometimes, he had a lot of potential as a blocker and spiker, and Yaku wanted to watch him grow into Nekoma’s ace worthy of his title.

As Yaku threw a ball at Lev for him to receive, he noticed the boy’s face become paler and paler. He stumbled when he tried to receive, and started to breathe in rapid, shaking breaths. “Hey, Lev, maybe you should slow down.” Yaku hurried over to the other side of the court, observing his boyfriend grip his stomach tightly.

“My stomach started hurting a few minutes ago,” Lev whispered, his voice barely audible. “I think- I think I need to sit out.” He admitted, doubling over in pain. Yaku’s gaze instantly turned worried. Lev never admitted his pain. There had to be something really wrong if he was being so open about it.

“Alright. Is it at a particular area, say, on your lower right side?”

Lev shook his head, as Yaku lifted him up gently and supported his weight as he helped him over to the sidelines. “What’s the pain like? Is it like a cramping sort of pain, or something sharper?”

“I don’t know,” Lev sobbed, and there were tears in his eyes already. “It just throbs all around here,” he rubbed his lower stomach with a wince, “and I feel sick.”

Yaku held Lev’s hand and attempted to take him to the bathroom, after he realised how sick he looked. “We’re going out to the bathrooms. He’s not feeling good, all of a sudden.” Yaku whispered to Kuroo, who eyed Lev with concern.

“Is it your stomach? Do you think you ate something- oh, god, Lev. Don’t tell me-“Kuroo cut himself off with an exasperated sigh, realising the various things the situation implied. “Was it whatever you ate that was in your locker?”

Kenma looked up from his setting practice and stepped over to the three slowly. “I’m hoping it’s not deliberate, if it really was the food. We don’t know how much of what was in it.” He sighed, running through the possible solutions in his head. “If we don’t know what’s poisoning him, there’s not much we can do.”

Lev opened his mouth to ask a bunch of questions, but he couldn’t say anything. He instead darted out of the gymnasium after he realised he was going to be sick, and only just made it to the bathrooms before he was heaving the entire contents of his stomach up into a toilet. “Shit!” Yaku chased him, and it didn’t take much time for him to stay by his side, trying to make him comfortable.

“You’re okay, Lev. Just get it out of your system.” Yaku rubbed Lev’s back slowly, as the first year vomited again. He grabbed some tissues and held them under his chin, wiping off the refuse that dripped from his mouth. He cringed in sympathy, but kept his composure as he comforted Lev as calmly as he could.

It took a while before Lev stopped throwing up violently and started to sob into Yaku. “My stomach hurts bad, Yaku-san.” He shivered, appearing a lot smaller than he actually was. “What’s happening to me? Why does it hurt so much?” He queried, and Yaku felt a stab in his chest.

“I don’t know, Lev. Do you know anyone who might wanted to see you like this?” Yaku asked, and Lev tearfully shook his head.

“I- I don’t know! I just want my stomach to stop hurting!” Lev wailed indignantly, tears of confusion and hurt dripping off his face. “I just wanna lie down somewhere.”

Yaku let out a sympathetic noise, patting Lev’s head soothingly. “Let’s get you home. I can’t take away the pain, but I’ll be with you until you feel better. Is that okay?”

Lev nodded, grabbing onto Yaku’s arm to stand up. “Will you… will you walk me home?” He averted his eyes guiltily, keeping one arm wrapped around his middle.

“Of course I will.”

They made their way back to the gymnasium to inform Kuroo that Lev was going to head home, and the two other first years immediately headed towards Lev. “Is he okay?” Shibayama asked worriedly, having been practicing alongside Lev until he bolted out of the gymnasium.

“I’m taking him home. He’s in a lot of pain.” Yaku announced, and Kuroo eyed Lev for a few moments before concluding that Yaku’s plan was the best they could do. He gave the okay to take him home, turning to go to the coach before stopping briefly to say something.

“You should probably take Kai with you. If Lev can’t walk or collapses, I don’t think you’ll be able to carry him.”

Yaku threw his hands up in exasperation, muttering a “Fuck you” to Kuroo before agreeing to take Kai with him. It annoyed him that Kuroo was certainly right, and he cursed his stature and how tall Lev was in comparison to him. “Come on. We’re getting this guy home,” Yaku muttered under his breath, “and finishing the guy who did this to him.”

[hollenka99]

No Man Can Escape Time

Summary: With his wife gone, Jameson cares for his children. He says goodbye to an old friend and then a few others.

Warnings: Character Death, Reference to child mortality

April 9, 1928 Dearest Siobhan,

Without you there to usher them away with promises I'd rejoin you all later, I had no choice but to explain the situation regarding Olive and Ada to the children. The mood was suitably solemn as they learned of their other two aunts, one being only a month younger than you and how I'd slept through the second's entire life. Understandably, no-one knew how to proceed. I made no mention of how I see what Olive and I could have had in Sophia and Henry. They don't deserve to be burdened by the weight of that confession.

The day after we arrived, I saw a woman who used to live around the corner from us as children. She was travelling behind a white hearse, her son's. Her husband's wealthy too. Which only goes to show none are immune. Growing up, I saw white hearses around the city just frequently enough to not realise exactly how terrible they were. I recall, around the time I was in elementary school, the family four doors down were entirely eliminated by disease, bar the father and one of the children. Only the mother was marked, the rest left to be paupers. I count myself lucky that I do not have to choose which of my loved ones gets the privilege of being identified.

You would not believe how paranoid I was as a child of ending up the same way. I was so used to skipping meals to avoid it, I never gave a second thought to how nonsensical it was that we even had to do so. Once Harvey turned 14, I suppose it wasn't so terrible. However, he left and Father died so we had to rely on the salaries of two seamstresses. Of course, in hindsight, I understand my mother's parents would never allow any of their grandchildren to suffer a pauper's fate. Let's pretend they weren't doing it for the sake of their reputation.

I look at our six and struggle to believe how much of a difference a generation and some good fortune can make. Harvey wasn't better off than our parents. Mabel's children have been raised with more, thanks to their father. The remaining three of us don't have to think of whether ends will meet. It honestly is a blessing.

Nevertheless, I hope you've been able to enjoy your Easter. Give Nora and your family my love.

Yours, Jameson

September 1, 1928 Dearest Siobhan

After my morbid confession over Easter, some of the older children conceived of the idea to plant an olive tree. I've done some reading on the subject. The weather in California is good for growing olives. We got to work in the backyard yesterday morning. Sophia, Henry and Theodore were especially enthusiastic. They were joking they should report this to their Scout Leaders for the chance to acquire Tree-Planting badges. Speaking of Scouting, Sophia will become an Intermediate next month now that she is 10. I doubt there will be much difference from Brownies except a new variety of badges and the girls will be a little older.

The biggest problem I will have to resolve is dissuading the dogs from digging. They sense the broken soil and assume it is an excuse to contribute. I am still in the process of finding a good solution. My best idea at present is to only allow them out in the yard for their business, keeping them on a leash.

You can see the young tree in several years. If Theodore has his way, it may have a swing attached to one of the branches. I am unsure if that would be appropriate, given the reason for having the tree in our back yard. I can leave that decision for a later date.

Yours, Jameson

October 24, 1928 Dearest Siobhan,

It seems our Anthony is becoming a man. I've had to teach him how to shave recently. The boy is hopeless. He tries, I will give him that. Despite his efforts, he never seems to hold the blade right or apply the correct amount of pressure. He's managed to nick various parts of his neck. I don't mind them all that much. Tiny cuts are all part of the process. Lord knows I made numerous errors when Harvey first taught me. No, I'm more concerned about the nasty gash he accidentally inflicted upon his neck the other day. Anthony applied too much pressure and sliced himself. Honestly, from the way Sophia and Henry rushed to grab paper towels, you would think their brother was at risk of exsanguination. In my opinion, it looks worse than it actually is.

For Christmas, I might buy him one of those Gillette safety razors I keep hearing about. If he practices enough, he may become confident enough to return to a single blade. Men having been maintaining their beards like this for centuries. I don't see why he can't do the same once he's more skilled. The only disadvantage is keeping the blade sharp. Alternatively, he could neglect it all and let the hair grow, as he once announced he would do when frustrated. Whichever option he chooses, I will have to let him get on with it. It is his face, after all.

I've also noticed I'm beginning to develop a widow's peak. If I bothered to look closer, I would probably find a grey hair or two. Before you know it, I'll be using that cane of mine off-camera. I didn't think too much of it at the time but the significance of my last birthday is striking me. The end of this month will mark my 41st year. You yourself turned 40 this summer. We are not exactly the 19 year olds affectionately strolling through Central Park anymore, are we?

Furthermore, talkies are starting to become more common. Those damn Warner brothers with their Jazz Singer, changing the norm. We all knew it was coming but watching the silent pictures become obsolete is heartbreaking. I suppose I will take the shift the hardest out of all those who made a name for themselves during this era of film. Still, I have penned a few books. There's no reason why I couldn't carry on with that. Directing was always a struggle, especially when Cliff and Pearl are absent.

Our children are growing up, I am growing old and my career is growing outdated. Times are certainly changing. In fact, we will find ourselves in a completely new decade in little over a year. Do you ever wonder where the time's gone?

Ever yours, Jameson

November 10, 1928 Dear Jameson,

Stop pushing him to do things the way you do them. If your father had encouraged you to be like him, you would have spent your working life building ships. Allow Anthony to carry on using the safety razors. Surely, you'd want the process to be as risk-free as possible.

Yours, Siobhan

December 27, 1928 Dear all,

I hope you had a pleasant Christmas over in Los Angeles.

I think Nora enjoyed her birthday. I baked her a small cake. She loved making a mess everywhere. On Nora's behalf, I'd like to thank you for the toys. She is not exactly fond of her birthday bear. She's refuses to take a nap with it near. I hope that will change eventually. However, she definitely finds the Christmas decorations mesmerising. I've lost count of the times I have discouraged Nora from using the tree for support when trying to stand.

I plan on playing Auld Lang Syne on Monday night. I don't see why I can't bring in another year the same way we have been doing so for years. My only worry is that, on the day, I will feel as if I am betraying you. It will certainly be lonelier around the piano. We won't have as many participants.

Wishing you a happy new year, Siobhan

May 24, 1929 Dearest Siobhan,

Anthony is doing a fine job with his directorial debut. You would be proud of him. He is considerate towards the actors, taking their views into mind. Obviously, his vision is the one that contributes to the final product. He is protective of the source material, seeing as it is one of his favourite books.

Clifford claims he is responsible for the boy's performance thus far. 'Learned from the best' or so he says. Anthony's only really seen one director at work. He's had no choice but to learn from watching his uncle direct. I don't believe he's been on set for the productions Pearl has occasionally directed.

I, for one, am taking a step back. I wrote the script with heavy input from him. Likewise, Cliff is only assistant director for this feature. This is Anthony's film, fair and square. If he needs help from us, we will gladly provide him with it. I had been skeptical that he'd been too ambitious with this project. Fortunately, he's proved me incredibly wrong.

Harriet is upset she is too young to be Wendy. If any girl in the family was play her, it would have to be Sophia. Being 11, she's roughly the same age as Wendy Darling. Harriet has been desperately hoping to be in the picture too. There have been numerous attempts to persuade Anthony to make the Lost Boys become Lost Children. In response, Harriet has been given the offer to either be a young mermaid or a fairy. When her brother told her of the moment in the play where the audience would clap to save Tinker Bell, Harriet's decision was only solidified. I promise to send you photographs of them in costume.

Yours, Jameson

July 22, 1929 Dearest Siobhan,

How are you? I hope you are coping with the daily stresses of caring for Michael. I wish I could provide some relief to you. Then again, that is exactly why you are in Ireland. Not only that, I may not be the best person to help you currently.

You know how Cliff's habit aggravates me. I remember when he only smoked casually, to appear more like others in the business when we mingled with them. It's hardly as if he picks up a new cigarette as soon as he is finished with the latest one, I am aware of that. Still, I have asked him time and time again not to smoke in my presence. That is not a difficult request, is it?

Needless to say, I am sick. I haven't got evidence that his habit is the cause but there is certainly a correlational with me falling ill with respiratory issues and spending time with my brother.

Yours, Jameson

October 27, 1929 Dearest Siobhan,

We're not bankrupt. We have lost some of our savings but we can still afford to live the same as we have been. I have taken out as much money as I could to save it from being lost. There is no reason to panic. At least not yet.

I am concerned that the markets are still in decline. I've heard that, like in 1907, Richard Whitney has made attempts to stop the decline. He was generally successful in his efforts. For a day. The numbers suffered again today. It seems old tactics only get you so far.

Oliver and I have been joking about how much of a difference a week makes. I spent his birthday wary of what could happen to the markets, especially after what happened in London last month. Now I'll spend my own birthday solely focusing on what our next steps are after all this economic turmoil. That is if the markets have stopped deteriorating by then.

One thing is for sure in all this uncertainty, the 30s are going to be far removed from the 20s in terms of the economy. I suppose we will have to look towards Germany and other European countries who have been getting back on their feet this entire decade following the Great War.

Yours, Jameson  

December 10, 1929 Dear Mother,

I am afraid we can't make it for Christmas. Sophia was taken ill last week with the 'flu. It has begun to spread to the rest of us, including myself. I think it is unwise to travel so far when we are unwell. I'm terribly sorry. I was looking forward to seeing you again. At least we were able to visit in the summer.

Nevertheless, I hope you and Mabel enjoy Christmas together despite our absence.

Yours, Jameson

February 1, 1930 Dear all,

I am sorry to have to tell you our mother has passed on. I doubt it will serve as much comfort currently to know it she didn't suffer long.

She had been sick for a while. The two of us originally thought it was only influenza. It is that time of year and, with enough care, anyone can shake it off in a matter of weeks. Not her, it seems. It developed into bronchitis. Her condition declined from there. She went quietly.

Hoping to see you soon, Mabel

February 16, 1930 Dearest Siobhan,

Don't expect to hear from us for a short while. We will be in Saint John for my mother's funeral. It was influenza turned bronchitis. It's always influenza, isn't it? I'm glad Pearl was able to visit Canada over the holidays. Cliff abstained, having already been with his family for Thanksgiving. Unfortunately, that makes me the one who has gone the longest without seeing her or Mabel. I really do have the worst luck, don't I?

When Clifford came to the house, telling me the news, I had no words. How could I? I don't look forward to our time away from California. Which is rational, what man would want to attend the funeral of one of the most important women in his life. Even as I write, I am doubtful whether it has truly sunk in that she is gone.

I hope the four of you in Ireland are doing well and keeping warm. I will write to you once we return. In the meantime, give everyone my love.

Yours, Jameson

March 31, 1930 Dearest Siobhan,

Happy Anniversary! I know it is a little early, at time of writing, for me to be saying that but I hope this letter will arrive on time for the 21st.

I have included your present with this letter. I have another for you, one more suitable for a 20th wedding anniversary. However, I don't feel it is suitable practically. Once we see each other again, whenever that may be, I will hand it to you. I have never been the best with choosing good gifts but I've convinced myself you will appreciate both the present you will receive now and the one I am safekeeping.

I only wish days like this didn't make the distance between us all the harder.

Missing you as ever, Jameson

April 23, 1930 Dear Jameson,

Even 20 years later, you never change. Just because I am currently living in a city called Limerick does not mean you have to send me any limericks. My advice to you is that you stick to prose. You are certainly better at that than poetry. You didn't get that Best Writing nomination for nothing, even if you didn't win the actual award.

I will say, Nora has been loving your limericks. It may be partially due to my delivery. I am sure she will take to you fairly quickly when we come back to America. You don't need to worry about her remaining distant, she loves you already.

Missing you even more so, Siobhan

May 13, 1930 Dearest Siobhan,

Clifford and I had a small disagreement concerning conflicting creative visions for Jackson Trinity. I say 'small'. It may have come to blows. I'm not proud of that. Now he is blaming me for delaying filming. It's his own damn fault if I'm the one with the busted eye.

He is pushing the mime character once again. Why would I waste my time on a role as demeaning as that? When he was 11 and his good intentions were unwittingly ignorant, I allowed bygones to be bygones. I was busy figuring out how to adapt my ambitions to fit around my condition. However, I refuse to accept his ignorance now. He's had over three decades to educate and accustom himself with the correct conduct. He has no excuse not to be respecting of my views.

Additionally, he doesn't listen when I remind him my departure as an actor from Jackson Trinity won't ruin us. If the public refuse to see our pictures because I'm not in them, they are the ones losing out. I won't deny my hand in unexpectedly elevating our status with the Gentleman. He became popular so demand for films featuring him grew. However, it is hardly the case that the Gentleman was our only export. Nor will I be leaving the studios entirely.

He blamed me for behaving as if I am the better actor. Of course I am better at silent acting than him. I have had that advantage over him since I was nine years old. Expression is key in the industry. He and everyone else have been walking around using tone off screen. Meanwhile, I barely recall a time when I didn't rely on my face and body to replicate tone. I'm not sorry to stand by that view. It's not even an opinion, it is the honest truth.

I can already picture your deep disapproval of all this. Before you begin making comparisons to other disagreements I may have had with a brother, this thing with Clifford will pass soon enough. He is only a number of streets away. Even if this involved Pearl instead, Santa Monica isn't too far either. Trust me, by the time you are reading this letter, we are likely to have resolved most, if not all, of this.

Yours, Jameson

August 17, 1930 Dearest Siobhan,

We finished filming for Gallops Past. Anthony did a fine job as the younger Gentleman. I'm glad his story is ending this way. Our son is slightly younger than I was the first time I played the Gentleman. He began attempting to impress a lady and he will bow out telling his own son of his misadventures.

I can't believe the time has come to lay my Jolly Gentleman to rest. Just like myself, he was never made for the talkies. I will say, Harriet very much loved her cameo. In the actual movie, she will be on screen for all of ten seconds as she steals the hat from me.

I don't know how much longer I can flog this deceased horse. The people want a talkie. They don't generally care to see a silent picture anymore, even if there's a name as renowned as mine starring in it. It's high time for me to face the music and words to that effect. I decided I may as well appear in one last feature before hanging my bowler.

It is truly the end of an era. I am saying farewell to an old friend and my eldest is in the other room, packing his bags so he may leave me. This year seems to be full of goodbyes.

Yours, Jameson

August 21, 1930 Dearest Siobhan,

It is done. Anthony left for Berkeley yesterday. Already the house feels like part of its life is gone. It's bad enough your seat at the table has been empty for the past two years. Now his will be vacant too except for the holidays.

He will be fine, I have no doubts about that. He has the chance to make acquaintances with potential life long friends. Who knows, he may even have a sweetheart to tell me about during Christmas or Easter. We were lucky enough to find each other when we were his age. I hope he is just as fortunate.

The most important thing for him there, of course, will be his studies. I continue to struggle to see how beneficial a qualification in the field of Psychology could be to him. He's explained to me some of the research done. Honestly, if these psychologists aren't scaring babies or making their pets hungry, they're attempting to prove young children are consumed by inappropriate desires. Why in God's name does he want to study a subject where research like that is being conducted?

I only wish I didn't already miss him so.

Yours, Jameson

March 6, 1931 Dearest Siobhan,

I am planning on building a center for those less fortunate. Think of it, a place where people can be given a chance to get back on their feet. There will be plenty of beds and they can have warm food. It can help reduce the amount of people who have been driven to the streets. All it might take for some is a little work experience and a good word from us to future employers. We have the money to provide them with that. You can't argue that we shouldn't use some of it to be generous.

I'm not sure on how to name it. I know I want to name it after St Jude, seeing as he is the patron of lost causes and desperate situations. However, I can't call the establishment St. Jude's because every man and his grandmother would think to associate him with their charity. Judas by itself is useless. Nobody has ever heard that name without their mind immediately going to Iscariot instead of Thaddaeus. Judas Thaddaeus House is a bit of a mouthful. I will find a solution one of these days.

My father was 53 and my mother 78. Even Harvey only got to live to be 37, although that was partially his own doing. Anything could happen with little to no warning. What contributions to the world have I made? So I've made a bunch of movies with my brother and sister. No-one will care about that in the future. I'm just one actor amongst many. Let's not forget, my type of picture is already outdated. Barely anyone will watch a silent picture soon. My books may last a little longer than my pictures or they could be forgotten in 10 years. But if I was to be remembered for something, don't you think something to help others is better than dressing up for some cameras?

I already have my eye on land that's available for purchase. It's roughly 5000 sqft at the price of $8500. Then the construction for 4500 sqft will be less than $80,000. I know $89,000 is a lot but I promise the investment will be entirely worth it.

What do you think of my plans?

Yours, Jameson

March 28, 1931 Dear Jameson,

I like the idea. However, I am worried this may be too large of a task for you. Are you aware just how much this will cost? $89,000 is a phenomenal amount. Some of your earlier works made you half of that. Don't forget the markets crashing, the reason a lot of your intended audience are in need, only happened a year and a half ago.

I appreciate you want to create jobs but where will the salaries come from? Our pocket or donations? You have to ask yourself how you wish to conduct business. Why don't you talk to Clifford about it? You always call him the mind behind the business side of Jackson Trinity. Alternatively, you could let Pearl finally demonstrate her own good ideas. Neither of you give her as much credit as she deserves. After all, she is the one who made it into a trinity.

I can tell how passionate about this project you are at the moment. My advice would be to take this slowly and think every detail through before you execute your plans. Should you work out all the details, I wish you good luck. Your intentions are wonderful and I'm sure they could help a good number of people.

Yours, Siobhan

April 25, 1931 Dearest Siobhan.

I have followed your advice and spoken to both Clifford and Pearl. Oliver has also contributed to the conversation. Details are, slowly but surely, coming together. It will be a while yet before we can break ground. There is much planning to do so we may reach that point. I understand your issue with the expenses. As I said previously, it will be worth it once Thaddaeus House (for that is the name we have settled on) is functional.

Furthermore, if it performs as I've envisioned, I want there to be a chance for them to learn ASL. Plenty of people use and rely on it as their primary method of communication. Who knows how many of them were unable to find employment because there aren't enough who speak their language. I've been fortunate to have a career were I could bypass my condition so I'd earn enough to live comfortably. A few years ago, I was paranoid I wouldn't be able to do so any longer. If we could reduce the amount turned away because they can't communicate verbally, that would be amazing. Hell, I'd be happy to be one of the teachers. Certainly beats resentfully glaring at my typewriter because my mind's gone blank.

Either way, I will keep you posted on any major developments.

Yours, Jameson

August 18, 1931 Dearest Siobhan,

I've been thinking about Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy. Those two make a fantastic team. I would not be all that surprised if they make a career out of their partnership.

Last year, I sent them a letter about 'Brats'. I complimented their performance and asked if they knew how the shrinking effect was created when they played Oliver Jr and Stanley Jr. As I suspected, the set and furniture were enlarged. My mistake was taking the children to see it with me. 'You can lead a horse to water but a pencil must be lead' is Harriet's favourite phrase at the moment. Another nice mess I've got myself into, isn't it? I don't mind it all that much. I only wish she'd stop planning to trick Theodore into falling into our bathtub.

A few days ago, I saw 'Pardon Us'. I think this may be their first feature together. In the very least, it is the first feature I have watched with them as a pair. James Finlayson is in it. You remember me saying he was the master of the double take, don't you? I really wish I could work with him. Unfortunately, like Laurel and Hardy themselves, he is with Hal Roach. A contract is a contract. If I'm not mistaken, he made a cameo in Hollywood, the same as I did. Too bad we weren't shooting the same day.

Our youngest two would like another dog, this time with the name 'Laughing Gravy'. As much as I love the dogs we have now, I'm sure you understand why I could never permit it. Give it a few years, they will understand too.

Yours, Jameson

November 11, 1931 Dearest Siobhan,

Well, I'll be damned. I've done it. Best Original Story, if you'll believe it. Although, I wouldn't call 'Gallops Past' original. I based the entire story off of a song from 25 years ago. Still, I can't complain. Lord knows what would happen. My award would probably be taken from me and in the unlikely event they had to reconsider the two categories, I couldn't challenge Estabrook's claim. That said, 'Cirramon' had a rather successful night. What was it, 7 nominations, 3 of which resulted in a win? Surely, they could spare a win for someone who has none.

Unfortunately, Anthony wasn't quite as successful as best actor. His time will come eventually. He's nineteen, he has countless stories to bring to life before then. He hides his disappointment well, to a degree. I've assured him I will be there to watch him collect his first award for Best Actor the next year he is nominated. Perhaps you can be there in person as well.

Yours, Jameson

November 26, 1931 Dear Mr Jackson,

I have a favour I would like to ask of you. We have never met but I understand my nephew is friends with your son, Theodore. On top of this, I am a fan of your movies.

I have a daughter who loves your stories. Her name is Maggie and she is seven years old. Unfortunately, she contracted consumption earlier this year. My wife and I were hoping you would be willing to meet her, however briefly. It would mean a lot to her if you came. We have had to be tight with our expenses ever since the markets crashed a couple years ago. Despite this, we have always tried to buy her your latest book.

Please consider meeting her. You don't know how grateful my family would be if you did.

Yours sincerely, Arthur Powell

January 17, 1932 Dear Siobhan,

How is your brother? I hope caring for him isn't too tiresome. Thank you for the photograph of you and Nora. She is growing fast, isn't she? It won't be long before she'll have to start attending kindergarten. The children and I are doing well. Theodore is having some trouble comforting his friend after the death of their cousin.

I met her last month. It's been a number of years since I last saw the effects of tuberculosis in person. It was awful. One thing is true, they don't call it consumption for nothing. I gave her parents $50 so they could buy her something enjoyable or to help with other expenses that are now necessary.

The experience was a good one, despite her health. I showed her some of my draft for the third Shadow book. I'd planned to send her an early copy before it was officially published. Some of her siblings like my books too. I'll send it anyway but it won't be the audience I'd originally intended. She mentioned she thought there should be more skeletons in the series, given that spirits were an established form of being. I've promised I will write a book featuring skeletons for her.

Yours, Jameson

February 3, 1932 Dear Siobhan,

I thought you should know I've found myself suffering from an illness. I promise you it is nothing significant. I simply have a damn persistent cough which has lingered for several weeks and a bit of a fever. I've been to see a doctor, don't you worry. He says I should just get some rest. So here I am, resting.

Oliver can take care of the others for a short while as I recover. Before you get mad at me, he was the one to suggest it.

Yours, Jameson

February 29, 1932 Pops,

I know you don't want to infect us. We all appreciate that. But you can't act like its incurable. There is still hope for you. If you were to admit yourself into a sanatorium, things can go back to normal. I've looked into it and there's one here in Los Angeles. It's called the Barlow Respiratory Hospital. You'll find it in the Elysian Park neighbourhood. You know where that is, right?

I can't guarantee the tuberculosis won't damage you in the long term regardless. That said, being cured is a far better option than doing nothing. You can't sit around and let the disease develop further. I refuse to allow you to. Anthony and Ma would feel the same. I've seen the tissues so I am not negotiating any of this with you. I will physically drag you to Elysian Park if need be.

I know I'm only sixteen but my age is irrelevant to my capability to care for my siblings. I will be fine. If I ever become desperate for help, I can always lean on Sophia and Uncle Cliff. Not only that, Santa Monica isn't too far so there's Aunt Pearl at my disposal as well. Come May, Anthony will return from Berkeley. I have many people who will support me and aid me in this task. You have nothing to worry about, I promise you, except for regaining your health.

Please Pops, I shouldn't have to be wasting paper to say any of this. The only reason I've resorted to this method is because you ignore me if I say of this to you in person.

Oliver

June 9, 1932 Dear Oliver,

I am sorry to have to disappoint you. However, after a lot of negotiating, I will be coming home.

We've tried. I've done everything the staff here have ordered me too. Which usually means lying on my back in open air. You were right, it does work for some. That said, for others it is not as successful as they may have wished. What I wish currently is to be somewhere familiar as opposed to a formal institution. Don't worry, I've managed to secure myself enough masks to last me a while.

As a precaution, I'd ask that all of you try avoid my room unless you absolutely need me. I couldn't bare the thought of any of you getting sick. Please, respect my decision. I can assure you it was not taken lightly.

Yours, Pops

June 14, 1932 Ma,

Pops has been downplaying his symptoms. It's not just a bad cough and some weigh loss. He has tuberculosis. He has spent the last three months getting treatment at a local sanatorium. Needless to say, it hasn't been as beneficial as we had hoped. He is feverish, constantly locking himself in his room and dangerously thin. I feel you would cry at the sight of him.

He was diagnosed at the beginning of this year. He never wished to deceive you. His intentions were simply to ensure you didn't worry about his health. He understands you have enough troubling you with Uncle Michael and Nora without his deterioration burdening your mind as well. I myself was unaware of his poor health until early last month.

Sorry for bearing such bad news, Anthony

July 6, 1932 Jameson,

I received a letter from our son today. Please tell me it's not true.

Why on earth did you not tell me? To save my feelings? Tell me this, Jameson: how do you think I'd feel if I arrived in California, eager to see you all again for the first time in years, only to find you were gone and I had no idea. For nearly 15 years, you have been angry at the fact you couldn't resolve your issues with Harvey before he died. I know how disappointed you were when you realised you'd missed your chance to see your mother one last time as well.

I can't come right now. I'm sorry but I simply can't. Leaving my father to care for Michael without me is not a possibility. I don't know how long you'll have to wait for me to be back in Los Angeles. So, for the love of God, will you hold on? Promise me you will. Don't you dare think of breaking that promise either, you hear me. I'll march straight down to the deepest depths of Hell to give you a piece of my mind if you do.

I love you, Siobhan

July 23, 1932 Ma,

You need to come here now. Pops will see me turn 20 but I sincerely doubt he will last long enough to celebrate Henry's 13th birthday. Even if he is able to, it is likely he will leave us within a week of it. It is certain he will not be here for Oliver's birthday, let alone his own.

His time is severely limited. I know I am asking you to choose between your husband and your brother. You don't know how much it pains me to ask you to leave people who need you in favour others who require your presence. Pops misses you dearly and talks about you frequently. I believe he will be very upset if he wasn't able to see you one last time.

While I am sure Uncle Cliff and Aunt Pearl will help us organize the funeral, I have no knowledge of how to arrange such an event. I struggle to contemplate on doing so. Oliver and I are doing our best to care for him and the others.

There is a slight silver lining in all this misery. You will finally be with us again, even if it is only briefly, and see for yourself how much Theo and Harriet have grown. I am sure we will not recognise Nora either. It is hard to imagine as anything other than the baby I knew when you left.

Again, I apologize for forcing you into this position. I know how long letters from Los Angeles take to cross the Atlantic to reach you. I truly believe this is your last chance to be at Pops' side. I hope I will be greeting you soon but know that I understand if you are unable to leave Uncle Michael.

Goodbye for now, Anthony.

August 17, 1932 Dear Anthony,

I am afraid to tell you that Michael passed on a few days ago. The doctors believe he suffered a heart attack in his sleep. I have found some peace from the knowledge he isn't suffering any longer. The funeral was earlier today. I am upset that none of you could attend. In normal circumstances it would have taken weeks for you to receive the news then subsequently arrive. You know far better than I do that we do not have the privilege of 'normal circumstances'.

How is your father faring? I hope his condition has not worsened since your last letter. I must discuss legal matters with my father following Michael's death. This should take a day or two. I promise I will board a ship to America with Nora as soon as I am done. The last thing I want is to be too late. I couldn't bare the thought of not being at his side when he is suffering from such a terrible illness. God willing, we'll be back with you all within a fortnight.

With love, Ma

September 2, 1932 Dear Jameson,

You're right, Nora looks a lot like you. I only wish you'd stop watching her and Harriet play out in the yard. Your children are enjoying the sunshine and you're sat by a window like some unsavoury person. Don't worry, I understand you reasons. Respect them, even.

The novel is good. As always, you've done well with the story. Once it's available to the public, everyone will enjoy it as much as I have. Nora is a lucky girl to have a book dedicated to her. You've never dedicated anything to me and I'm one of your favourite sisters. On top of all that, she has a written message from the author himself. Honestly, Jem, your little girl is going to be the envy of all her classmates.

Siobhan told me of her photography plans. By the time this reaches you, the day will have passed. I hope you didn't protest too much. I hate it but we're both smart enough to know those photographs are really for. Wear one of those masks you have if it scares you that much. However you proceed, make sure you stay comfortable. Just because you're sick doesn't mean you have to suffer minor nuisances. Also, tell Henry his Aunt Mabel wishes him a happy birthday.

Yours, Mabel

September 13, 1932 Dearest Siobhan,

I'll admit it's a struggle to compel my body to co-operate with my mind. I still refuse to leave until at least the 16th. All I can do is hope external forces won't betray me. This bit of flesh has never been the most respectful object I've come across. I dreamed of entertaining the masses so, almost as if to spite me, it malfunctions and causes the destruction of my voice.

Could you please see Thaddaeus House to completion? Things were falling into place last year but progress seems to have halted since I became ill. Please, take all the time you need before carrying anything out. I am more than aware how terrible the timing is. Even if that means the project is delayed by years, so long as you give yourself time beforehand, I won't mind. Our eldest boys will help you with it too, I've asked them if they could lend a hand.

Take advantage of any chance you get to spend time with the children. They've all grown so much since 1928. Don't get too upset if Sophia hobbies make a mess, rehearse lines with Harriet when school plays draw near, ask Henry about Biology and be prepared to listen for a while, remind Oliver all is not lost but getting accepted into a place like Julliard will require continual hard work. As for Anthony, he'll need your advice as well. He showed me the photograph. We were a little lost when we were in his position. His mother's help will mean the world to him.

Confining myself to our room has given me too much time to think. As flawless as He is, God didn't think the whole 'looking down from above' deal through, did He? A bird's eye view is a poor vantage point if I wanted to keep seeing your beautiful face. Don't worry about taking your time, I can wait until you're 100 or more. Just remember:

I love you, angel.

Forever yours, Jameson

September 14, 1932 Dear Mabel,

Jameson unfortunately left us this evening. You will already know this of course. I'm sorry about the telegram I will send in the morning. They are so unempathetic but there wasn't a quicker way to tell you before the papers did. He didn't go without one last stubborn act of defiance. I wouldn't have expected any less from your brother.

Your letter arrived in the mail this morning. I'm afraid to say he never got the chance to read it. He has been so against falling asleep these last few days. As such, it caught up to him today. He spent the majority of today 'resting his eyes' before waking hours later to be thoroughly disappointed with himself. In truth, today played out like most recently until he took a sudden turn for the worst. I held his hand during it all. I'm not sure what else I could do.

It took me several minutes to process the events. I've been so invested in keeping him company these last two weeks that it is jarring to have that role be made redundant. It occurred to me to find a blanket to cover him until we were ready to contact the hospital. I had hoped to break the news to the seven of them in one go. However, Henry accidentally caught me in the hallway. He's a smart boy. I think he quickly realised why I had a large blanket.

The seven of them took the news as I expected them to. Only Nora isn't completely heartbroken. I'm hardly surprised. She spent so little time with him there wasn't a chance for her to care about him as much as her siblings. She understands enough to know the same thing that happened to her uncle has also happened to her father. She is trying to respect that this isn't a happy time.

Don't worry about me, I will be fine eventually. I only need time to become accustomed to his absence. Expect to hear from me again once I have the arrangements dealt with.

Thinking of you, Siobhan

[zetalial]

BH rewatch episode 20

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Episode 20 - Father before the Grave

Here we’ve got an actual Ed-centric episode. An introspective, reflective and emotional episode. Yeah, it’s actually really gripping.

Now let me preface this by saying that I’m thinking this part was created partly in order to explain some of the key differences between the world-building in this story and the first anime. Just like last episode clarified some of the rules about Homunculi through Lust. (I’m pretty sure the manga got really popular thanks to the great anime adaptation so it’s pretty important to show that they are two different stories.)

Now, onto the episode proper. We get to meet Hohenheim and I immediately hate him, naturally. This first bit is almost hard to watch. Edward wants to know where he’s been and what he’s doing and Hohenheim ignores him to start lecturing him about Human transmutation which he already knows all about because Pinako just told him everything. 

Wow. He’s been gone for like 12 years and he immediately starts lecturing Edward about one of his most painful memories? He invades Ed’s personal space, stands over him and calls him a child hiding from his mistakes. He acts like he knows Edward incredibly well, never mind that this is practically the first time they’ve met! And, of course, he’s somehow completely correct about everything he says. 

Edward is very visibly pained by this entire conversation and never calls Hohenheim out on the fact that he’s been gone for years. To himself, he mutters about how Edward reminds him of his own running away from his mistakes and that he’s just like him. No, I’m not going to sympathise with Hohenheim in this scene! It’s too little too late. 

Now, it is good for someone to confront Edward about the human transmutation as it is something he has been avoiding for years. I just really wish it was anyone else. Or Hohenheim did not go straight to attacking him. Honestly, my favourite approach would be if Edward decided to tackle the human transmutation issue of his own accord rather being told by someone else.

Pinako is really non-judgemental towards Hohenheim, she seems aware of his agelessness and understands he’s something else. I do wish she had been just a little critical though. Someone ought to have been. Instead, Hohenheim shares one more thought about their Human transmutation - whether they really transmuted their mother or not - and leaves again. Yeah, he really doesn’t stick around long at all. 

There’s also no reason why he couldn’t have visited Risembool or stay in contact for the last 12 years. He’s spreading souls around but surely he could’ve made a few visits? It’s not like he doesn’t care. Yeah Pinako mentions to Ed that he cares - I hope she’s not implying that Ed should be ready to forgive him for everything when Hohenheim hasn’t even offered a hint of explanation. His actions aren’t really suggesting he cares all that much.

So, we get the absolutely brutal scene of Edward digging up the remains. He’s had nightmares the previous night, haunted by guilt and horror at what he’s created. He’s pretty sick actually, his automail bothering him more than ever, not helped with the rain. He digs it all up by hand though. (I’d presume that alchemy is what he’s wanting to avoid because it would surely make this task much easier.)

Anyway, they confirm it’s not anything like Trisha. Ed’s remaining conclusions in this episode baffle me though I have to admit. So, he failed at making a body and concludes that human transmutation was never possible. Maybe you just did it wrongly? I feel like he’s discounting that possibility. Oh well.

But he concludes that this gives him hope because it means he can get Alphonse’s body back? I don’t know how he came to that conclusion. Really, I don’t. If it’s impossible to bring back your mother’s body then why would it be possible to bring back your Brother’s? I’m not suggesting its not still feasible but I’d say such a failed attempt would be discouraging towards further human transmutation attempts. Not evidence that it’ll be possible.

Oh well, he travels back to Central and tells Al all about his conclusions. Oh, Ling is around and Alphonse told him all about how his body is rejecting his soul. Ling, unbelievably is still thinking it might be a workable solution to immortality if you swap bodies occasionally and Winry blows up at him. Yeah, he’s still just insistently hanging around even when Edward throws him out. 

Oh well, so Alphonse relates more on his struggles with being in the armour, such as the loneliness and how he hates people potentially dying for him. Edward is insistent that they’ll get his body back anyway. And they think back on some actual evidence supporting that it’s possible.

Oh, there’s this weird thing where but are happy to hear it was never their mother because they both had felt guilty for killing her a second time until now. This is cool but it really ought to have been mentioned before this episode that they’d be feeling these things. Otherwise it’s kind of strange to resolve this. Generally, I’m concerned by how positive their conclusions are in all. They never ponder on what they actually created might have been, or where it would have come from. They never feel angry that they lost so much for something that was never even slightly possible. I just feel they should be a little more conflicted about everything even if on the whole they are not too discouraged. This shouldn’t absolve them of all guilt, except is kind of has. 

Oh well. This is on the whole a really good episode. It’s serious and thoughtful and explores some interesting themes and shows Edward really confronting his past mistakes, which is great. My irritations were long to write out but I want to clarify that they do not destroy the episode by any means. 

Edward and Alphonse end with the commitment to move forward and that they’ll get his body back from Truth for sure now that they know its possible. Still no actual plan on what they’ll do next, you know? The issue they were facing is that they want to move forward but don’t know what to do now. I never got the impression they were anywhere near close to actually giving up. Still, it feels way more earned to say this now as opposed to in episode 18. 

[pedrocamposhtc-blog]

How To Ask Great Closing Questions That Get People To Buy Without Resistance

There are all sorts of questions you can ask on closing calls to move the needle forward. From discovery questions, implication, close and open-ended to commitment questions, we can both agree that in sales, questions are the answers.

It is my goal, with this article to break down the most common questions to ask on a closing call, that will actually get your prospect to say yes without resistance.

We`ve been accustomed to traditional closing techniques, over the years and even though they might have worked for most sales encounters, today`s buyers are very familiar with them. They know when you`re trying to close them.

The problem with closing high ticket sales is that the minute you throw in an old school closing technique, you come across too pushy and the prospect shuts down.

  When it`s not their decision to do business with you, they don`t feel good about the purchase. Click To Tweet

  In order to close without resistance from the prospect, first of all, he has to be familiar with your company and product and secondly, you need to make them feel like it was his or her decision to move forward.

Let`s take a look at some of the questions you can ask that you`ll lead them to a smoother close.

(RELATED: 3 Mental Blocks Preventing You From Closing Sales)

  Discovery Questions

This is where you`ll spend most of your time on the closing call. Discovery questions start at the beginning of the call to get the prospect to open up and tell you a little bit more about their situation and needs.

They are the most important to ask. If you don`t have a clear understanding of what the prospect wants and desires, it will be hard for you at the end to close the sale. Clarity is power. You must get clear on why they`re talking to you.

Let`s take a lot at some examples:

“So Mr. Prospect, can you tell me a little bit more about your situation?”

“I`m curious, what motivated you to jump on the call today?”

“Why is it so important to solve this issue, right now?”

“How many team members do you have?”

“What were you doing before starting your own business?”

“What type of ads are you currently running?”

    The more questions you ask here, the better you`ll understand how to position your solution and determine early in the call if the prospect is the right fit or not. If he`s not, you disqualify him and get off the phone.

Don`t try to do a good deal with a bad prospect, it never works.

Asking for refunds, backing off from the sale or not going through the program are issues that arise more frequently when you close an unqualified prospect.

  Why do you have to memorize a dictionary of closes? Click To Tweet

  Implication Questions

The most powerful types of questions to ask, also the most underutilized by salespeople. Implication questions allow you to dig deeper into the prospect`s pains and find out what are the consequences of them not solving a specific problem.

They also help you understand how urgent it is for them to fix the issue.

These questions get the prospect into an emotional state because at this point they start weighing the cost of staying stuck and the cost of solving the problem.

Here are some examples:

“You told me you were losing $5 000 a month in your business. If you don`t mind me asking, what exactly is gonna happen if you don`t fix this?”

“What do you think your wife is gonna say when you tell her that you have no cash reserves in the bank to advertise your business next month?”

“I`m sure you have back up plans but what if this program doesn`t work, like the others you`ve invested in, you`re gonna spend another $20 000. I don`t know, man… what do you think?”

    The answers you get from these types of questions are a good indicator of how serious the prospects are about making a favorable decision. The worst type of answers you can get are those“wishy-washy”.

Using words like “exactly” will give you more accurate answers.

Don`t play the guessing game, find the truth and get to the core of what`s really going on with them and their worst nightmare scenario.

(NOTE: How To Ask Great Questions And Make Millions From Your Phone Without Cold Calling, Prospecting, Working For Someone Else Or Even Having A Business)

  Redirection Questions

Want to get back in control on the sales conversation?

Use these ones. When a prospect throws a “grenade” at you and you get stunned, a good redirection question is all you need to prevent the sale from going down the toilet.

It`s a powerful way to lead them down the path that you want, instead of you getting hammered with questions. Redirecting can be a call saver when you find yourself in situations where they`re giving you a lot of objections or just being rude.

Let`s see a practical example:

Scenario 1

Prospect: “How much does it cost?” (5 minutes into the call)

You: “It depends… tell me, what exactly are you looking for?”

In this situation, your best bet is to put them back in their place. At this point, use this redirection to find out why they`re on the call in the first place.

  Scenario 2

Prospect: “You still didn`t answer my question!”  (in an irritated tone)

You: “Sir, before I get off the phone, let me ask you… are you always this rude?”

Pretty much the same thing here. The prospect is impatient and trying to test you a bit. Your goal is to find out the reason why he called you. Sometimes, getting off the phone is really your best option.

    Scenario 3

Prospect: “Tell me what this program includes.”

You: “Great question, sir… what would you like it to include?”

The key here is to keep your cool. Most salespeople lose sales because they lack emotional intelligence, they`re too reactive and temperamental. Even worse, they get into justifying mode.

Every time you get a “blow”, breath, relax, wait a few seconds and redirect their question. If you fall into the trap of being reactive or defensive, you´ll miss the mark.

Your tonality will give it away and most certainly your question will be a dumb one.

(RELATED: How To Handle Sales Objections Like A Kung Fu Master)

  Closing Questions

The ones that everybody likes. Most gurus out there try to complicate the closing phase. You`re bombarded by sales training materials that give you 101 ways to close the sale or the 68 most effective closes to use.

My question to you is… if they`re so effective, why do you have to memorize a dictionary of closes?

Here`s one of the three closes I like to use:

Prospect: “Yes, that makes sense. The $32 000 investment is not a problem, my business partner trusts me and has always been supportive of my decisions”

You: “So, Mr. Prospect, where should we go from here?”

    That`s it! This is the only closing question you`ll ever need to use in any sales situation.

You don`t need to memorize 68 closes!

Notice that by asking this question, you`re not pushing them to make a decision, instead, you`re leading him to his own conclusions. Remember, people hate to be sold but they love to buy!

  How Many Closes To Use

Neil Rackham, an international sales expert did a study where he compared a certain number of sales calls and determined that when selling high ticket items, the more closes salespeople attempted, the lower the success rate of the calls, meaning, fewer calls would turn into sales.

Don`t try to use more than one close when you’re on the phone or in person closing a deal. The less you use, the better you are.

  Don`t try to do a good deal with a bad prospect, it never works. Click To Tweet

  Length Of The Closing Call

Generally, closing calls last between 20 and 60 minutes. It all depends on how familiar your prospect is with your offer and how you set up the call. As you get better, the amount of time you spend closing the sale will decrease, thus making you a more effective closer.

Don`t worry so much about the length.

As long as you properly qualified the prospect and you get a commitment, that`s all that matters, even if it took you 2 hours.

    Number Of Questions To Ask

Again, this depends on how “ready” the prospect is. Sometimes, they might even call you, you ask 2 or 3 questions and their credit card is out. I wanted to demystify these subjects because I see too many salespeople and entrepreneurs getting caught up in the little things.

More than the numbers of questions, you want to pay attention to the quality of the questions. Ask as many as you need to get a commitment. Is that simple!

(NOTE: How To Ask Great Questions And Make Millions From Your Phone Without Cold Calling, Prospecting, Working For Someone Else Or Even Having A Business)

  Lead The Way To The Close

We`ve all been sold something at some point and felt buyer`s remorse the next day. These questions will help you not only make a sale that sticks but making the prospect feel like it was his or her decision to move forward.

When it`s not their decision to do business with you, they don`t feel good about the purchase.

As you know, prospects these days have access to all the information they need to make a decision. Salespeople have become more consultants than actual salespeople, over the years.

Prospects these days need a fresh perspective of their problems, a new set of eyes and this is where you as sales professional, come into play.

  Don`t try to rescue prospects that act like victims just because you want the commission. Click To Tweet

  It`s your duty to be a leader, not a savior. Don`t try to rescue prospects that act like victims just because you want the commission (it will backfire) or help someone that doesn`t help himself.

Be a leader and guide a qualified prospect to the ultimate decision.

You`ll have more committed clients, long lasting relationships and the joy of working with people that are willing to go all the way.

  The post How To Ask Great Closing Questions That Get People To Buy Without Resistance appeared first on Pedro Campos.

source https://pedro-campos.com/closing-questions/

[jimlingss]

A Piece of the Moonlight

➜ Words: 22.1k

➜ Genre: Angst, tad of Fluff, Historical, Mulan!Au

➜ Summary: For your loved ones, the people who are waiting at home, the people who have died - you will fight. And sometimes to fight means to sacrifice: who you really are and the person you really love.

➜ Warnings for underlying misogynistic themes, blood, war and death.

In one simple command, the comrades scream at the top of their lungs as they rush forward.

A blizzard of arrows swoop across the horizon and the enemies sprint. Swords clash in the middle as the two seas of men meet like the seams of two fabrics sewn together. It’s barbaric and vicious, a brutality that no one can ever be immune to.

The horses roar out, galloping ahead and leaping over the corpses, hooves marking into the dirt. Friend or foe, there is no fear. It is the destruction of humankind; a horrific massacre of chaos. There is mangling of flesh, pummeling down swords and battering skin. The sound of choking and strangled screams play like broken recordings, driving people to insanity. The battle ensues.

Every stitch and seam is mended by silk threads, each movement vital in order to keep the embroidery accurate; it is an art. An art that you are unfortunately unskilled at. One tug with too much strength and the strand would...snap.

“You did it again!” She sighs, ripping the cloth away from your hands to do it herself. You look down at your fingers, cursing in your head why your own are never nimble enough to mimic the seamstress’ motions. “You’re using too much force. Gently and smoothly, softly and quietly...like the way a woman should be.”

“I just can’t do it.” You throw your head back, groaning to the brick roof. “I’ve always been terrible.”

“You can do it.” She hands it back to you, making you hold the needle between your fingers. “Don’t give up so easily. The Y/N that I know is tenacious. With more practice, anything can be done.”

You give her a long stare before giving in, taking back the cloth to begin the pattern again. As you’re about to make a stitch, a few ladies storm into the room in boisterous laughter, holding rolls of fabric in baskets. “How’s it going, you two? Are you making any progress?”

Ara looks at you and then smiles, turning to the eldest woman. She stands up and takes the weight off the other’s arms. “Y/N’s doing fine. Her pattern’s just a little rough around the edges.”

“Oh dear…” The old woman falls into the creaky chair. “Well, at least you’re making some improvements...no longer that girl who storms out in anger.”

A noisy lady plops down the fabrics, stealing a good look at you. “Now when are you planning to get married, Y/N? And don’t you dare change the subject like you did last time.”

Your fingers freeze. Marriage?

When your eyes slowly travel up to the ladies settling themselves in, they all laugh to each other. “Yes, it’s time you’ve gotten married. I do miss the wedding festivities around here.”

“Do you need someone to set you up? I believe the butcher's son is at the right age.”

“Ah, but that boy is too much of a rascal. You know, I have a cousin who has a son who has a friend that might be really suitable for you, Y/N.”

Your mouth opens, then it closes and then it opens again. “I-I….uh…”

“The clock is ticking. If you wait too long, people might think that you’re unpopular for a reason or that there’s something wrong.” Someone shoots you a playful smile, trying not to sound rude but failing.

As the others begin to talk amongst themselves and Ara gives you a pitiful glimpse, you interrupt them- “I don’t want to get married.”

It goes completely silent. A woman drops her embroidery hoop. Everyone twists to stare at you with wide eyes as if you declared that you’ve murdered someone. Your teeth sink into your lower lip but you stand your ground.

“I don’t want to get married.”

“Y/N….” She calls your name in disappointment and with a sigh. It takes a moment for her to collect herself, and she takes a seat next to you, putting her hands on top of yours.  “When I was your age, I didn’t want to either. But there’s not really much an option. What else are you going to do in this small village?”

“It’s not like you’re going to be a seamstress for the rest of your life.” Someone else pipes up. “Do you really want to be in this shack, sewing all day?”

“And what about your father?” The eldest lady croaks, still focusing on stitching the pattern. “Don’t you want to make him happy?”

At the mention of your only family member left, something uncomfortable lodges inside your throat.

“That’s right.” The woman beside you coaxes, “Your father is a very brave man who fought in the previous war. I know that your mother and younger brother have longed passed. He’s the only one you have left now. Who will support you when age takes him away? You’ll be the only one left, Y/N. I know it worries him.”

“I can take care of myself.” You rip your eyes away, putting down the needle and threads, pulling away your hands from the lady to stand. She calls your name again. “I’m….I’m going to take a walk for fresh air. I’ll be back soon.”

Ara nods, continuing where you left off and all the women’s eyes are glued onto you as you leave. They sigh as they turn back to their works, shaking their heads and not exactly sure how to mentor you onto the right path. The door opens and slams shut.

Your feet move quickly, shoes digging into the dirt and surely ruining them for good. It’s not ladylike at all, the way you hitch up your long skirt and stomp on the ground, rushing past wooden shacks and makeshift homes of your poor village. Your temper and muttering scarcely cools down as a group of young children pass by you, giggling and throwing several sticks around. You wonder when it was the last time you got to be a child, free of obligation and worry of filial duty.

“Woah.” There’s a wince and a jolt when you accidentally ram your shoulder into a stranger passing by. You duck your head immediately, focusing on the rags they’re wearing. An apology is about to spew from your mouth but you’re intercepted by familiar bright laughter. “What’s gotten the princess so mad?”

“Taehyung.” You look up to the blazing smile and a grin grows on your own lips, “Don’t call me that, punk.” Any animosity you feel subsidies and comfort washes over you. He laughs, lips drawing up into a wide shape, eyes glowing of mirth.

Kim Taehyung, your old friend who you’ve known since you were a child. The memories you have of the past all include him, whether he was in the corner eating away or threatened to beat you up, only to have you beat him instead; he was and has always been there.

“Ah...Is that why you’re so mad?” He tips his head to the side, gazing at your profile. “It’s so easy to get you riled up, Y/N. You never change.”

“Isn’t it just ridiculous, though? Maybe you don’t understand.” You grunt in frustration, not knowing how to explain the turmoil raging inside your chest. “I just…..”

You’re angered as to why people, everyone you ever talk to, insists that marriage is the solution. That you must be married because that’s the sole future that you have. On the other hand, you’re perfectly aware of the obligations that you are bounded to. In order to make your father happy, in order for him to live a good life, you’ll do anything within your power. But must you sacrifice your own happiness and well-being to fulfill your duties as a daughter?

Taehyung rests his chin in his hand, softening eyes that you don’t notice- “I’ll marry you.”

“What?”

“If it comes down to it…” He mischievously beams at you, looking away with arms behind his back. “I really wouldn’t mind either way. It’s not like you’d be the greatest wife but thinking about who has to marry you, I feel bad for that person...so I’ll make the sacrifice.”

You scoff, nudging him harshly. Taehyung laughs, grinning until his cheeks hurt. If you closed your eyes in that moment, basking in the cool breeze skimming along your blooming cheeks, you could almost travel back in time when your world felt…...simple.

//

The cane thumps against the floor with each step. The minute you place down the plate, you run over to assist, but he waves you off. “I haven’t gotten that old.” With his quivering hands, he barely manages to pull the chair out, and he heaves while taking a seat. “Maybe just a little bit.”

He laughs it off and you smile, filling his bowl first. “How was work?” Your father asks, “You didn’t run off, did you?”

“I didn’t.”

“Don’t let that temper get the better of you, Y/N. I don’t want to remind you so many times.”

“I know.” You sit down, the entire home in silence aside from the two of you at the dinner table. Taking a meager bite, your eyes flicker to your father whose age is displayed amongst the wrinkles marring his face, the hollows of his cheeks and the constant tremble of his limbs. “Have you taken your medicine yet?”

“After dinner I will…” There’s no more questions asked, conversations exchanged. After a few minutes, your father sets down his utensils with a sigh. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“T-there’s nothing wrong…”

“Y/N. I may be getting old but you know you can’t fool me, right? There’s still a long way before I lose my mind. Now tell me-”

“What do you think if I got married?”

A pause draws out. “Married?” He looks at you in amusement and curiosity as if you’re a completely different child from whom he raised. “Why so sudden?”

“I-I...it’s just...you know, it’s time….” You don’t know how to explain yourself. Taking one good look at the old man in front of you, you drop your hands into your lap. “Would you be happy if I got married?”

“If your mother had gotten married because everyone was telling her to, and she rushed into one, I would’ve never gotten the chance.” He smiles to himself. “I don’t need a son-in-law or grandchildren. It would be nice but if you’re married, who will spend time with me?” Your father raises an eyebrow and laughs in a joking manner. “Y/N. If you want to get married then I won’t stop you but don’t do it for my sake. Do it for your own.”

“With or without marriage, I am already happy that you’re my daughter.”

Your vision clouds and you swallow back the lump in your throat, tearing away your watering eyes. Your heart swells and you can only be thankful that you have such an understanding father, someone who full heartedly respects your decisions and supports you no matter what happens. “I’ll make sure you live a good life.” You mumble underneath your breath, “It’s the least I can do.”

“Please.” He places a comforting hand on your shoulder. “I don’t need anything. Just stay safe for me, will you?”

You nod, ready to open your mouth and retort but there’s a loud drumming in the distance.

It shatters through the serenity, making you and your father steal a glance at each other before standing. You support his weight as you exit. The other families pour out of their homes and into the street. The dusk orange light soaks into your skin, rays hardly reaching past the rooftops. Three men on horses marked with the imperial seal ride to the center. The officiate in front holds a scroll and opens it as the villagers gather.

“The war is progressing! The enemies have reached the border and the front lines are being pushed to the brink.” There are numerous murmurs and you look at your father who’s staring straight ahead. “A final decision has been made. One man from each family will be drafted into the imperial army. Tomorrow, those who will be fighting will gather at the closest camp. There are no exceptions. Always remember that it is an honour to fight for one’s nation.”

“Father….” This is all too much at once. You grab onto his arm, shaking your head slowly. “You can’t.”

It’s a death sentence.

“The Kang Family.” The soldier shouts out, handing the scroll to the young man who scrambles from the hoard of people. “The Choi Family.”

Your father is ill. He’s weak. He isn’t even able to walk without his cane.

“The Yoo Family.”

You won’t see him again.

“The Kim Family.” Taehyung emerges, searching for you in the crowd and when he finds you, his eyes full of worry never leave. He bows down, receiving the scroll with both his hands and as another name is called, he shuffles towards you. “The Yi Family!”

Your father will die.

“Y-you can’t.” You whisper harshly, tugging him. He glares at you from the side of his eye and pulls your arm off. “Father!”

The soldier inhales a huge breath, “The L/N Family.”

The cane clacks as it hits the ground, your only family member left marching forward and striding towards his death. You scream outstretching your arm to grasp at him, afraid that he’ll perish in front of your eyes. But affectionate arms reach around your waist, holding you back. Taehyung spins you to meet him, cradling your cheeks between his hands as the pad of his thumbs wipe away the tears pouring down your face. “Your father will be okay. I’ll protect him, I promise you.”

“No….no.” You hiccup, trying to drown out the chaos around you. Your hands tremble as you touch his, head shaking. “He...he won’t be okay. M-my father will die, Taehyung.”

The boy exhales, not sure what words to say to console you. Instead, his arms shift, and he embraces your smaller body. He shuts his eyes, preserving the moment like it’s his last.

Taehyung seems to hesitate, then he settles with- “Stay safe, Y/N.”

//

The thunder rumbles the Earth, bright flashes flickering light into the room. The rain barrages and roars against the roof and walls, weeping for the world of warfare. Water rushing down in sheets, it washes down to the valley, drowning the land. With another vicious boom, you rise from your seated position.

Your father had not voiced a word, solely holding your hands within his own, warm eyes searching your face; cherishing each feature that reminds him of his deceased wife before he let you go. “It is an honour to serve my nation another time. Even if it will cost me my life.”

“Dad-”

The flame of the oil lamp flickers. Your shadow casts against the wall.

“Get some rest, Y/N. I want to see you before I leave tomorrow at dawn. Goodnight, child.”

You don’t know what it’s like to be what they call a ‘woman’. To be proper, filial and obedient, silent until spoken to, gentle and pretty. You don’t know what marriage means or what it feels like to bear children, feel their embraces as they giggle in your arms. But what you do know is who you are.

And you won’t pray to fate when you can mold destiny yourself.

“I’m sorry. I can never be the daughter you want.”

The wind howls. The downpour drums. The thunder and lightning rip through the blackened sky.

With haste, the ink smothers onto the parchment, your written words and apologies spewed out for your father. It’s placed at his bedside and you take one longing look, capturing a picture beneath your lids before turning away, stealing the scroll. In the other room, the sheath is pulled to reveal a smooth surface, a mirror reflection of your eyes. You press the blade against your hair, tearing the long strands away. Your locks pool against your ankles, threads that you tended to so carefully in the past, the same shade as your mother’s.

You don’t dwell as you slip into the armour, grabbing the only horse from the stable. It resists your touch, familiar with your father who has been caring for it in the past few years. You don’t give up. It backs down at your orbs shining in determination, face drenched from the rain. A saddle is placed on the horse and you give a whipping motion of the reins. It calls out, hooves digging into the wet dirt and your home disappears behind you in the fog.

Your father wakes up hours later, startled at how daybreak has begun. He scrambles, only to be faced with your letter. As realization hits him, he cries out your name. “Y/N!” He struggles out of bed, hitting the ground hard when he fails to get onto his feet. “Y/N!”

The old man clutches the parchment close to his chest, wailing to the silence. “Y/N!”

By then, you’re already long gone.

The tents are pitched high, flags fluttering in the slight breeze where the smoke of the fires swirl. There’s a horn sounding in the nearby distance. You bring your hand to stroke dotingly against the horse’s muzzle, brushing it once as you hand the animal over to a soldier who leads it to the stables. With your makeshift cloth sack in your hand and the scroll within the other, you line up.

“Name?”

“I am Junho, from the L/N household.”

The officiant frowns, looking through the stack of his parchment. “I thought the L/N household didn’t have a son. It says within the records that there is only a daughter.”

You give a humourless laugh, “There must be a mistake. My older sister died many years ago with my mother.”

“Oh.” He nods, feeling sympathetic to your family’s tragedies and not wanting to linger on the sensitive subject. “I apologize. We will get that fix right away…” The man crosses out your name and mumbles, “L/N Y/N is deceased.”

There’s a silence. A pause and a slight wind that blows against your cheeks when you tip your head up to the blue sky; a mute commemoration for your death.

“Alright. You can go line up now.”

The military camp is void of any colour, an ashen world with soil grounds. There’s synchronized and stern shouts in the distance, a group of soldiers practicing their positions while wielding swords. You can hear the ‘clanks’ of metal, the speed of the air rushing by as arrows smack on bullseye, the horses cry as they leap forward. Your hand wraps around the small wooden plaque that’s engraved with your name; the small item hanging off your clothing to serve as a reminder that it is the object your father will receive when you die.

“Are these the new recruiters?” A man in front whispers to another, smiling at the young faces that are innocently looking in the vicinity, not yet ruined from the adversities of the war. “This will be fun.”

“Listen!” He shouts, stepping ahead and the murmuring in the orderly crowd quiets down. “You have all registered using your family name, whether you are fighting for the nation or in place of someone in your family.  War is nothing like you know it. Erase every heroic and pretty image you have. Take a good look around you…”

Everyone turns to each other and you lower your head, afraid of a stranger seeing through your deception. “The people you are standing next to you will most likely die. I cannot guarantee to any of you that you will make it back alive to your loved ones but remember that without your sacrifices, our country will be torn apart.”

“From now on there is no going back.” He sighs, arms behind his back. “I am General Kim Seokjin and the person to your left, to your right, in front or behind you is your comrade. This means if you desert your comrade, you will be executed. Your punishment is automatically execution.”

You swallow hard, shutting your eyes for a split-second. There are a few murmurs but it quickly becomes hushed when General Seokjin paces in front. “You will obey your superiors no matter the circumstances - going against order is execution. If you withdraw without being told to, it will be seen as betrayal and you will be executed. If you leave camp, you will be executed. If you communicate with the enemy, you will be executed.”

“If you let a woman into the camp, you will be executed.” At his booming voice, you hide your shaking hands. “If you know a crime and you do not report it, you will be executed.”

“Do not tarnish your family name. Do not disgrace your ancestors. And remember, it is always a privilege to fight for your nation.”

The general shifts swiftly on his feet, his reddened cape drifting as he walks away. You focus your eyes on his backside, his widened shoulders that have carried numerous bodies and have allowed thousands to rely on. Despite his kind face and upturned lips, General Seokjin bears an aura of earnestness; hushing the entire crowd with a single glance.

“How is he so handsome?” A boy murmurs to another, nuding him. “Isn’t he?”

“What are you, a girl?” Someone else turns, taunting him and another laughs.

You shift uncomfortably on your feet, hoping and repeating mantras to every deity that no one will notice you.

“You can fawn over his face as much as you want but it’s his strength that matters. And from the looks of it, it’s no wonder so many of his men have died.”

“Excuse me?” A stranger cocks up their eyebrow, barging into the conversation. “Do you even know who Kim Seokjin is? He is a genius strategist in warfare. Do you even know how he’s led an army of five hundred into an army of a thousand and still won? Not everything is about muscle mass and strength, you unintellectual fool.”

“Did you just insult me?” The brute steps onwards and the other man scoffs, rolling his eyes despite being physically smaller. “I could kill you in one punch.”

There are looks exchanged in the group, mutterings of disapproval and the remainder looking on in, anticipating for some kind of fight to break out. The brute has his hand curled around the other man’s clothing, arm ready to jut out. Unfortunately, before anyone can land a blow, there’s loud coughing at the front.

“Shut up! Get back in line.” A man with sleepy eyes, donning some sort of official uniform, scratches his head. He’s much shorter than General Seokjin but with a less kind face. He seems to have much less tolerance as well, even menacing in the way he sweeps his cold orbs over.

“Did you not hear what General Kim said? Or do you guys want to be executed?”

The threat is so lazily and calmly said that no one knows how to react. “It’s great that you kids have so much energy. Save it for the battlefield. It would be a shame if your heads have to be cut off.” The two drop their holds on each other, everyone shuffling back into their lines. The man in front mumbles a curse and something about not wanting to do this.

“I am second in command, Lieutenant Min Yoongi. You will address me as Lieutenant Min and nothing else. I will be training you all into suitable soldiers. If I tell you to jump, you will not ask me ‘how high’. You will simply do it. I don’t need any back talk or misbehaving. If you want to do so, you can do it in the stables where you’ll be sleeping or at the guillotine where you’ll be executed.”

You swallow hard, trying to pull back to blend with the others. He takes a good look at the faces and inhales, “Do I make myself clear?”

Everyone shouts in synchronization, “Yes!”

“You have all been assigned into units based on your numbers. You get three meals a day. You’ll wake up at four thirty and lights are out at nine at night. There’s an hour to write letters, do laundry, organize, shower or relax if you want but the rest of the time is dedicated to training. With that said, before you all go off, we will conduct a fitness test to determine your physical aptitude.”

“What?” You look around but no one even seems fazed.

“Each of you will carry the bag of sand, run twenty meters to that course.” He points and everyone turns. “If you can carry it up the wall and walk across the rope without falling or ripping the bag open……...I’ll make you a general.”

Several eyes double in size, your own breath hitches. Lieutenant Min tips his head back and laughs, shifting over and making himself comfortable by leaning against a wooden pole.

“Who wants to go first?”

“Me.” The brute pushes himself in front. “My name is Han Chul.” Lieutenant Min smirks and signals for him to begin. “This should be easy.” He snickers to himself as he hauls the bag over his shoulder.

“Let me remind you that it’s twenty-five kilograms.” The Lieutenant looks off into the distance as if bored. You go on your tiptoes to watch, palms clammy and nervous at what you’ll do when it’s your turn. What happens if they find out you’re a woman? What will happen to your father?

Your reverie is quickly interrupted.

“Ahhh!” Chul gives a loud scream, racing the twenty meters without breaking a sweat. When he approaches the wall twice his height, he uses his strength to throw the bag upwards. You steal a look from the Lieutenant who seems quite impressed, humming to himself but with a slight smirk that tells you he’s nothing more than marginally amused.

Chul leaps, trying to grab the top of the wall to maybe haul himself up. Unfortunately he misses several times, the edge slipping from his fingers. He curses and swears, the other new recruiters laugh under their breaths at his failure though anxious about their own turn.

He ends up being able to hang off to the side, not before falling to the ground completely. The bag of sand tumbles onto his body, breaking apart as he gasps for breath.

“Who wants to go next?”

“I will.” The man who was picking a fight with the brute from before steps up. “I am from the Jung Household, Jung Hoseok. As long as I can get the bag across the course, then it’s fine, right? I can use any means to?”

The Lieutenant stares at him for a long moment before smiling. “Yes. Go ahead.”

Hoseok gives a smirk to Chul who walks back in defeat, the latter man too tired to pick another fight. With a new bag of sand placed, Hoseok takes a good look at the premise. You tip your head to the side in curiosity, observing his every move and how analytical his eyes are.

He steals a rope, tying it around the bag and using it to drag the heavy weight. There’s a unanimous ‘ohh’ in the crowd, impressed at his idea.

Jung Hoseok ends up making the twenty meters before taking the rope and creating some sort of pulley system with the crack in the wall, heaving it upwards. You can already recognize for what he lacks in strength, he makes up with his smarts. Regrettably, a trickle of sand pours out when the bag manages to the top, the entire side ends up ripping.

A bunch of people end up trying, most not able to get the bag up the wall, others struggling to carry or pull it the twenty meters. Jimin, a kind looking man, ends up tipping backwards the moment he tries to hold the bag; he laughs with an eye-smile out of embarrassment. No one accomplishes the task and at this point, the Lieutenant looks bored out of his mind.

“Anyone else need to go?” He flips through the parchment of paper, finger going through the lines to read someone’s name. “Kim Taehyung.”

Your breath hitches and you immediately divert, lowering your head and pushing yourself towards the back. A few give you strange glances but focuses again as a hesitant male slowly walks forward. “I am from the Kim Household, Kim Taehyung.”

“Great. Now go.”

You watch through the thin spaces of people’s shoulders as your childhood friend pulls the sand to his chest; making you blink hard in surprise at his strength. He hoists the bag for twenty meters but doesn’t manage to get it up the wall, falling back and breaking the fragile cover. Some people beside you laugh and you give them a hard shove. When they turn with raised eyebrows, you’ve already disappeared off to the side.

“Next.” Lieutenant Min reads off his list and you pray you won’t be called- “L/N Junho.”

Taehyung walks back to the crowd. No one budges. The Lieutenant looks upwards. “L/N Junho? Is someone deaf here or did the fellow run off to the toilet in fear? Hello?”

“What?” Your childhood friend halts on his feet, frowning as he hears the name. “L/N….Junho?”

You push your way up. “H-here, sir. I-I am….I am from the L/N household.” Lieutenant Min gives a good look at you, shaking his head mildly at your scrawny form. You force your eyes downwards, ignoring the way Taehyung’s are glued into your skin, and he’s gaping at your presence.

“Y/N…”

It’s a tiny murmur from his lips that is all too painful as you brush past his shoulder.

The sand of bag is thrown in front of you, twenty-five kilograms that you know you cannot bear. When you grab onto the edge, ready to pull it as hard as you can, it doesn’t budge. Your feet are stuck. The other new recruiters burst out into laughter at how you can’t even shift it one inch.

You twist around, grabbing on the edge with both your hands, tugging with your entire weight. Still, — it does not move. Your strength cannot even rip the bag. The Lieutenant is staring at you in puzzlement, Taehyung with a huge frown and the others are either gazing at your tiny frame in sympathy or chortling at how weak you are.

“I can do this…” You mutter as you let go, looking around. A rope won’t be enough….

When you spot something and go running, the entire group cranes their neck over in interest. “Oh my god..he-he…” The soldiers burst out into laughter at how frantically you run with the wheelbarrow. The Lieutenant does not utter a word when you steal a peek and roll the bag onto the tray.

Rolling the bag of sand twenty meters, you find wooden boxes and stack them to make a staircase. “The weakling is a dimwit too.” Someone yells and you can feel your entire face flush, the sweat dripping from your forehead. You struggle to carry the bag, falling into the dirt. With a strangled cry, you stand up again, pushing on relentlessly.

The sunlight brutally beams down. Your hands are smeared and stained with mud. The boisterous mocking ends up subduing. It’s a pitiful sight. Ten or twenty minutes pass. Perhaps even half an hour. You curse yourself in your head, blinking back the tears of humiliation and frustration. You fall again. And again. Again.

As you’re struggling, the bag crushing your stomach, the Lieutenant gets up and approaches you.

His steps echo, getting closer and closer until his shadow looms over your exhausted face. Lieutenant Min moves back his leg and you’re afraid he’s going to hit you but instead, his foot makes contact with the bag. In one kick, the sand is off your body.

“Enough.”

“But-”

“Enough.”

He glares down at you, travelling away from your patheticness. “Last one for today.” Lieutenant Min reads the name next to yours on the list. “Jeon Jungkook.”

A boy no more than your age steps up. He speaks no words, simply lifting the bag over his shoulder. It takes no effort for the male to walk the twenty meters. When you turn to him, frozen in your spot, he ignores your existence. Jeon Jungkook places the sand at the top of the stack of boxes you made. He jumps up the wall, fingers curled at the edges to lift himself up.

The gasps of others are faint to your ears.

The male who stands on the ledge, looks down at you. The rays of the beaming sun piercing your eyes. You can barely make out what you see. His irises are a dark hue of cinnamon, coal locks that sweep his forehead. Sweat drips down the side of his sculpted face. His lips are parted, soft inhales and exhales releasing between them as his chest heaves. The man with doe eyes gazes at you for less than half a second before he turns and carries the bag across the rope.

Then...he falls.

Almost too easily. As if on purpose.

No one seems to notice this as the new recruiters gives a sound of disappointment at his failure, others a sigh of relief that he didn’t manage. Jungkook groans on the ground and Lieutenant Min nods his head. “Alright. Off to your bunks. Tomorrow, we’re beginning hard training. Some of you especially need it.”

The Lieutenant disappears and Jungkook brushes past you. “Wai-” He ignores you completely.

//

The trek to your assigned tent is grueling, your legs dragging your exhausted body away.

“Y/N! What are you doing here?” Taehyung grabs onto your arm and you click your tongue, looking to see if anyone’s staring. You drag him to the back in a desolate area. Your childhood friend is quivering, hand tightening around your wrist so much that it hurts. “Y/N!”

“Let go of me!” You pry off his grip before sending a glare into his soul. “I can do whatever I want, okay?”

“Are you crazy? You will die!” He grits his teeth, then looks away, choking back as tears begin to overwhelm him. Taehyung wipes at his eyes harshly and you begin to feel guilty for your sharp tone. “You’re going to die.”

No, I won’t.

You don’t have any strength to lie. “Better me than my father.”

“What are you even doing? Do you know what you’ve gotten yourself into?  This is insane. You’re crazy! Didn’t you hear what he said? You’ll be executed! Aren’t you afraid?”

“It doesn’t matter if I am.” There’s a long sigh that leaves your mouth before you secure your hands on his shoulders. Taehyung looks at you and you feign strong eyes. “Listen to me. I chose to do this in place of my father. We both know he would’ve died here and I….what would I have done then?”

“But at least I have some sort of fighting chance. Believe in me, okay? Everything will be fine.”

You tilt your head to one side, lowering yourself down to meet his downcast eyes. You exaggerate a pout and a tiny smile sneaks itself on his lips despite him trying to suppress it.

“Will you stop it? This is serious…I’m serious.” His voice is not at all stern, yet his orbs are still full of worry and concern. “Y/N. This is war.”

“I know.” You stand back up. “I know it is and I’ll train hard. I’ve already promised that I’ll come home someday to see my father again…...at least we’re in this together, right? Together until the end.”

“Y/N…”

“Let’s go before someone goes looking for us.” You tighten your hands on his before letting go. And as you walk off, you spin around once more. “And also...Y/N has died. I am Junho.”

The tent is supported by wooden beams, tables on all sides with mats on each of them. Two people sleep on each mat, belongings stowed underneath, on the shelves or next to the wall of the tables. As you walk in, feet digging into the dirt, you find your designated spot. And your partner is the familiar man with cinnamon doe eyes and coal coloured hair: Jeon Jungkook.

“Let me switch with you.” Taehyung brings his things over, looking at your bunk mate.

Jungkook doesn’t respond. There’s a loud - “HEY!” - and all three of you turn around. It’s Chul whose fists are balled up and his brow is cocked. “Why are you looking to switch, Kim? You got a problem with me?”

“N-no.” Your friend shakes his head. “It’s just that I’ve known...him..uh Junho...for a while now. We lived in the same village together.”

“That sounds like an excuse to me.”

“Will you leave him alone?” Hoseok interrupts, “Why are you always looking to pick a fight?”

“Do you have a problem with me?” Chul rolls up his sleeves. “Last I checked we never got to settle what happened earlier…”

A boy you recognize as Jimin tries to walk in between them. “Guys, we shouldn’t fight. Didn’t you hear the rules? We’re all comrades now. We need to support-”

“Comrades, my ass. The minute we run into battle, I’m going to kill this asshole.”

“You better watch what you say, bastard.”

“What is going on?” The cloth of the doorway is pulled back, armour clicking together as Lieutenant Min steps in. Instantly, the entire interior of the tent is silenced. All twelve people deflect their eyes, sealing their lips. Taehyung even moves out his arm as if to protect you.

“Someone speak or I’ll punish every single one of you.”

“I...I-” After a minute of torture, Taehyung steps forward slowly. “It’s nothing. I just wanted to switch since I knew Junho from-”

“There will be no changes made. You’ve all been designated spots based on your number.” Lieutenant Min takes a good look at everyone’s faces, stopping on yours for a long second. For a moment, you’re fearful that he’ll point at you and call you on your lies. Instead, he sighs. “If you all have that much energy to want to fight each other, then you’re on kitchen duty tonight.”

Chul looks up, “But-”

“You will not go against my command.” He steps out. “Save it all for the battlefield, boys. You’ll need it.”

There are glares exchanged but no one dares to say a word. Taehyung withdraws as he looks at you in doubt. You nod to him, confirming that you’re okay. Jeon Jungkook does not spare much of a glance in your direction, much less than words.

When you sleep that night, he’s facing away from you and you curl up to the edge of the mat with as much distance in between. He is quiet, having a cold demeanor and seldom interacts with anyone. Though you can’t find yourself to be bothered to find out more about the mysterious man; not when all you can think about is your own life on the line and your father.

//

On the first official day, you’re awakened before the sun is on the horizon.

Someone clatters two metal pans together, entering each tent and shouting that it’s time to get up. There are a few groans and grumbles. When you stand on your feet, for a long moment you’re confused at where you are.

“Dad?”

“You’re not going to sleep until noon, right? Don’t you have a job to go to? Don’t leave them waiting.” Your father laughed at your disgruntled expression. “Hurry up. I’ll make breakfast.”

Except, you aren’t at home. And one look around, gazing into Taehyung’s eyes, slaps that message across your face. There’s no time to dwell when you have to race through your morning tasks, preparing for the first physical training session.

“If you want breakfast, run fifty laps. Then fifty push ups and fifty situps.” Lieutenant Min declares with hands behind his back. “You have one hour. Begin.”

It’s five in the morning when you start to run, shoes digging into the dirt and Taehyung is by your side, trying to match your slow pace. “Just-” You’re wheezing by the twentieth round, some are already finished and beginning their calisthenics. “Just go ahead.”

He peers at you with furrowed brows, “Are you sure?”

“Go Taehyung.” The last thing you would want is to hold him back.

Taehyung peeks at you one more time as he begins to speed up, pushing himself to the limit.

Your arms move back and forth in a repetitive motion, legs numb and lungs burning. It feels as if you’re floating, moving onwards but you have no control over your body. With your knees threatening to buckle, you simply keep going without letting them.  And when you look over after what feels like an eternity, Taehyung is already finished and initiating his next exercises.

“J-Jungkook?”

He’s one of the several people left that’s still running. For some reason, he doesn’t look at all tired despite his slow momentum. There’s no sweat, he’s not heaving for breaths and his eyes are trained forward. He ignores you and runs past. “W-wait.”

It takes you twenty more minutes and by then not only are you the last one but your legs are unstable and you’re wheezing miserably. Lieutenant Min glares, the recruiters sneers under their breaths and you quickly move onto the other exercises. “If you’re not finished, you’re not eating.” He announces as he strolls back and forth, eyes sweeping onto you a second longer.

You push yourself onto the ground, struggling at an excruciating pace while others are finished.

Taehyung lingers but when you wave him off, he reluctantly leaves to go have breakfast. When you’re finished and a sweaty mess, the Lieutenant huffs and stands over you. He swivels on his heel and leaves. As you limp to the area, there’s one measly bun placed into your palms, stone-cold and no longer warm.

“H-hey…” You sit down and everyone at the table leaves aside from your childhood friend. “Don’t worry about them. Are you okay?”

“I-I’m fine.”

Everyone’s gobbling their food as if their life depends on it. In two seconds they’re done, and they glare at you when they realize you’re staring at them. “I can handle this.” You take one bite, chewing quickly but then-

“Your half an hour of breakfast is up! Get down to the grounds in ten seconds or you’re on kitchen duty! Hurry! Hurry up!”

Taehyung looks at you and you motion to him, “Go.” He gets up and you hastily stuff your face, biting as much as you can before running with a mouthful.

Lieutenant Min is already standing at the front of the crowd when you join. He looks and sighs, the soldier beside him beginning to hand out long sticks. “Before any of you get swords and accidentally kill each other, I’ll teach you the basic practice stances, defense moves and so on.”

The wooden bamboo is placed into your hands and you follow instructions on how to hold it, curling one hand over the other towards the bottom. With one foot placed to the side and the other taking a step, you jut out the supposed weapon exactly as he demonstrates. Except your footing is wrong and you accidentally slip, hitting the person next to you.

“Ow.”

“I’m so sorry.” You tense up but then familiar doe eyes turn around to scorn you. “J-Jungkook?”

There’s a loud ‘ahem’ at the front. Everyone’s turned to stare at you two. Lieutenant Min moves up his eyebrow. “Is there an issue? Are we interrupting your tea party?”

“N-no. I’m sorry.” You bow from your waist, others chuckling and smirking at you. The Lieutenant leaves another experienced soldier to continue showing the stances as he paces. Jungkook glowers at you for drawing unnecessary attention and you focus staring at the ground.

“Practice the stances and the defense moves with the person to your left.”

“Are you not going to do it?” It’s the first full sentence or rather question that the man asks you. His voice is smooth and unlike what you expected it to be. You find yourself blinking with a dazed expression. Jungkook sighs as he pokes you with the stick. “Can you hear me?”

You clear your throat, “Yes. I can.”

His stick moves against yours and you frantically defend when he strikes an attack. From his strength, you sway backwards, bumping into someone else. “Hey!” Chul faces you, “You have a problem?”

“No.” You bow your head but clench your jaw in anger. “I’m sorry.”

Jungkook scowls at you, a permanent scrunch between his brows like you’re nothing more than a nuisance. Instead of switching back and forth between the offense and defense, he decides to strike hard three times in rapid succession. Your stick ends up flying to the ground with a strangled cry, his hits nearly making impact on your hand. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Can you not even handle this much?”

It’s a quiet mutter that you hear all too clear. You open your mouth to go off on him, tired of keeping your temper subdued but then Lieutenant Min walks by wearing an unimpressed expression. Your spiteful partner looks away, swiping your bamboo off the ground and throwing it to you. “Again.”

As if your bunk mate hating your guts, glaring at you every time he hits you wasn’t enough then when you’re holding the bow between your fingers and every arrow hits the grass. Your supposed comrades laugh behind your back, the Lieutenant frowns at your every blunder and Taehyung can’t do much to help. It’s frustrating and you’re angry with your own abilities or lack thereof. No matter how much you wail inside your head, your body won’t listen.

There seems to be only humiliation in the cards.

“Hand to hand combat is without weapons. It requires strength, agility and alertness.”

“Taehyung.” You frown as you dodge his easy punch in the air. “Hit me.”

“No!” He whispers harshly through his teeth, “I’m not going to hit you!”

He is obviously trying not to hurt you, punching in the air and missing your face by a ton. Each of his kicks, jabs and blows are weak and strengthless. Part of you and your aching muscles are thankful for the consideration. But Lieutenant Min is staring right at you two, as if able to decipher exactly what’s going on.

“Stop.”

All the soldiers freeze in their movements. “You there.” The Lieutenant points beside you, “What is your name?”

“K-Kim Taehyung...sir….”

“You can be my demonstrator. Get over here.”

He exchanges a look with you, teeth sinking into his lower lip nervously. Taehyung walks forward-

And you block him. “I can be your demonstrator.”

Lieutenant Min chuckles breathlessly, amused at your courage. He motions for you and you take a deep breath, walking out of the crowd and ignoring the countless faces who gawk, wondering if you’re just plain stupid.

“I expect everyone…” The man moves towards you, smashing his fist right where your cheek is. Luckily you dodge in time, eyes widening and ears tingling as the wind from his fluid movement whistles. “...to take my training seriously.”

You defend yourself, blocking with your arms in an x shape, but he still thrusts his clenched hand out, making you stumble back in a cry. A few people wince away. No one dares to laugh.

It is the quietest you’ve ever heard in the camp. His voice booms, exploding in your ears in the close proximity.

“This is war.”

The lieutenant strikes a kick at your knees, making them buckle. “This isn’t some sympathy game.”

When you stand back up, wobbling on your feet and coughing for air, he kicks you straight in the stomach. “I can’t have my soldiers incapable of fighting. Get up!”

You obey his will, gritting your teeth and forcing your screaming body to stand. As Lieutenant Min moves to kick you again, you deflect successfully. Only, he bashes your stomach again and you cry out in pain, landing on your back in the dirt. “You don’t want to die, do you? Stand!”

Taehyung looks at you in horror, on the verge of crying. Your vision swirls, each wound throbbing with a newfound pain. Your face is smeared with dirt, bruises and bleeding slashes. “I said stand up!”

Some soldiers look at you in pitifulness as if telling you to give up, not to be stubborn.

Part of you wants to lay and sink into the Earth, close your eyes and embrace the wind that caresses your cheeks. But you find your father’s aged face behind your lids, his gentle smile and hand that brushed your hair when you were merely a young child who had lost a brother and a mother.

“Is this how you do it?” He asked, sharply inhaling while he secured bands around your messy braids. “How was your mom so talented at this?”

“I can do it.”

Your father gently slapped your hands away, “No. I can do it for you. You mustn't give up before you try...remember that.”

You find the strength to stand again, slowly kneeling and heaving your body upwards.

“I don’t want to die.”

Min Yoongi smirks at your resolve. “Good.” He walks forward, “But your determination-” The Lieutenant bends and lands a kick to the side of your abdomen. You do not waver. “-isn’t enough.”

You try your best to defend yourself. He lands a punch to your shoulder, another swing towards your legs. Your body staggers against your wishes, feet planted deep into the dirt, mind screaming to fight. “You’re still…” His fist collides against your ribs and you cry out, falling back.

“...a weakling.”

The world is spinning. Time passes and you stay where you are. Your legs are bruised, stomach convulsing with each pathetic cough. Scarlet liquid leaks from your mouth and stains against your lips. The sound of feet on gravel lets you know that everyone is walking away. When you look upwards, you find a man with coal locks and cinnamon hued irises staring back at you. The sunlight pierces past him, his shadow looming.

His eyes are void of any emotion.

//

The lights are off, the darkness of the night has settled to occupy each empty space.

There are soft snores interrupting the void. You’re lying on your back, staring up at the ceiling and unable to catch a wink of sleep that you know you desperately need. It was only the first day, yet, your limbs are numb. Your body feels like it’s being ripped apart, aching and sore on each muscle and bone; a skull that throbs, skin raw and tender, every injury swollen and stinging. It hurts to even shift on the hard mat.

“No...please…” There’s a quiet voice next to your ear, whimpers and mumbles of agony causing goosebumps to rise. When you turn your head and wince from the movement, you find Jungkook thrashing in his sleep. There’s a frown marring his face, locked down by some sort of nightmare. His black hair hides his soaked forehead. He cries softly between parted lips.

The man might’ve been ruthless to you. But in the moment of drowning in the lonely twilight, you find sympathy in your heart.

You shift closer to him and you lift a hand, bringing it to wrap around his. Jungkook’s whimpers become silenced.

//

It’s a bit difficult to ignore the stares and the name-calling. Somehow you’ve been known as ‘weakling’ around camp, amongst new recruiters and experienced soldiers. They watch you, bumping in purposely and snickering when you stagger. But it’s even harder to keep your temper in balance, jaw clenched and teeth gritted, your hand clasped together into a fist as you quickly walk away. The only thing that keeps you calm is the fact that you’re more concentrated on-

“Jungkook!” You’re rushing past the clusters of people, trying to grab his arm. “Jeon Jungkook!”

“What do you want from me?” He harshly spits out, turning on his heel abruptly and nearly making you bump into his chest. His face is mere millimeters away from yours and you step back, afraid that your cover will be blown.

“I...uh-...” You clear your throat, shifting your tone into a lower pitch like you’ve been doing since you arrived at the camp. “I wanted to ask how you were doing. Since..um….I noticed you had a nightmare last night.”

He scoffs, turning around.

“Wait! Can you listen to me just once?” When you reach around to grab his wrist, angered that he consistently brushes you off — “Jungkook!” — he shoves your grip off.

“Let go of me!”

You stumble on your feet. His excessive strength causes you to fall back. Jungkook’s hand reaches out but it’s too late. He snatches the air in front of you. And then there’s a loud ‘crash’.

A cry sounds from your lips as you withdraw your hand, a fresh wound imprinting red into your skin from pressing onto the hot, metal container. The breakfast that was supposed to be served is spilt onto the dirt ground. “You really did it this time, weakling.” A soldier shakes his head and sighs at you. There’s a crowd forming, all looking down at you in pity or disgust.

“Will he get executed?”

“At this point...I wouldn’t doubt it.”

“What’s going on here?” The Lieutenant pushes himself through before his gaze lands on you and the food that has gone to waste. You sharply inhale, shifting your glare at Jungkook; the man avoiding your eyes completely. Taehyung joins the hoard of people surrounding you. He opens his mouth to ask you what’s going on but closes it. His brows are furrowed and concern marks across his features.

Lieutenant Min’s voice is icy- “Explain yourself, soldier.”

“It’s...I-...”

The high rank officer follows where your vision is pinned. “Did you do this?”

Jungkook opens his mouth- “I..”

And you interrupt. “I did.” Your comrades sigh and the Lieutenant chuckles out of disbelief. “I tripped. It was an accident.”

You challenge Min Yoongi, orbs boring into his own, unwavering and flames igniting underneath your pupils. He lowers himself to meet your height. “Then you must understand that what you’ve done has cost all these soldiers their meal? You’ve wasted food on your idiotic mistake.” You swallow hard, mustering your courage to face the man who is murderous. “Not only will you pick up each piece and clean it up but you will lower your head and apologize to your fellow comrades for spilling their food. After you’re done, I do not want to see your face again.”

“And since you’re so keen on using wheelbarrows…” He stands up again. “....run two hundred laps around the area with it. Maybe you’ll be less idiotic when you’re less weak. Don’t rest until you’re done. ”

“Yes, sir.” You falter trying to get onto your feet. Taehyung reaches out to steady you but retracts when you manage. “I’m sorry. It was my fault. I made a huge mistake.” You’re bowing from your waist downwards, facing the others who can only exhale in annoyance. “I’m sorry.”

No one watches when you start picking up every single piece, brushing off the grains of dirt and ignoring the sting of your burn. Even your childhood friend is dragged away for training.

“This is your last chance.” Min Yoongi’s shadow hovers over you. “Are you sure there is no one else to blame?”

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip.

Even if you blurted the truth, what would be the point if Jungkook was punished with you? Part of you wants the man to feel guilt, let it eat him alive, allow him to brood over his mistakes and be thankful that you took the fall. But a larger part can’t help but feel…..empathy for him.

There’s just something about Jeon Jungkook that you can’t quite pinpoint.

You shake your head, “There is no one else.”

//

The grip of the wheelbarrow is around your waist, five sandbags packed onto the tray as you drag it with you. You can’t see straight. Your feet continue to move. Sweat drips from your skin like you’ve dunked your body into a lake. The sun is now on the skyline, evening tide trickling light into the sky. You’ve lost count of how many laps you’ve done, the pain around your waist too hard to bear, much less concentrate on counting.

“How long has he been running for?” Chul watches from the side, rather feeling sorry for you and the poor state that you’re in.

Hoseok hums for a long time, “Twelve hours?”

“Has he even drank any water since?”

“No.” Taehyung swallows hard, biting back tears that brim his eyes. This isn’t the girl that he remembers - the one who has a joyful and bright smile, whose face wasn’t dirtied by mud, a spirit that was always filled with energy. If he closes his eyes, he can see the twirl of your dress, your smile and your name being called upon his lips - “Taehyung!”. But perhaps you haven’t changed at all. The recklessness, stubborn traits still linger in your tired eyes. “He hasn’t stopped.”

“He should just beg for forgiveness.” Namjoon, an experienced soldier, appears to observe. “At this rate, he might die.”  

“It’s...worse than an execution.” Jimin shudders, turning to his fellow comrades. “Maybe we can coax the General or something. Lieutenant Min might forgive him now.”

All the men exchange looks with each other, considering the idea.

Jungkook pushes past them, striding into the field without uttering a word. Their eyes double and their necks crane, following his form. At the same time, Lieutenant Min exits his tent and looks on.

A breath wheezes out of your lungs. Your lips are parched. You can’t see what’s in front of you, the weight dragging you down and when your mind manages to catch up that you’re about to faint-

“Jungkook?” A strong hand wraps around your wrist, forcing you to stop. The grip of the wheelbarrow falls from your grasps. “Wha-”  

“Stop.”

He doesn’t ask why your wrist is so small, fitting perfectly into his palm. He doesn’t ask why you took the blame for him, why you’re such an idiot. Jungkook drags you away and when you limp from weakened legs, stomach compressing in emptiness, he wraps his arm around your shoulder to support your weight.

“You are not to go against my orders.” The Lieutenant calls out in a stern voice behind the two of you. “It is your duty to obey your superiors.”

Jungkook turns around and narrows his eyes. “But it’s also my duty not to betray my comrades and leave them to die.” Lieutenant Min smirks at his response.

You don’t know what your bunk mate is doing but you’re too feeble to fight back. The man simply whisks you away. And in doing so, you don’t notice the frown that washes across his features...wondering why your hand is so soft.

“Here.”

You’re sitting on the table where the mat is, tent empty except for you and him. “What?” You stare down at the bandages placed in your fists.

“For your burn.” He raises his brow like it’s obvious. “From this morning. Do you not remember?”

“I...I do.” You unconsciously pout, slightly upset that he insinuated you were stupid enough to forget what happened earlier that day. You were just surprised he remembered.

Jungkook shifts with his belongings and then plops a warm steam bun into your hands after you’re done bandaging. “Isn’t this yours?”

“It’s yours.” At every meal time, one person is only allowed a single portion - no more and no less. You’ve already missed your dinner…

He smiles when you blink at him in confusion, cheeks slightly swelling and giving him a more boyish look. “Just eat it.”

You stuff your mouth without restraint, awestruck at how strangely….kind Jungkook’s being.

//

“Hey...weakling…” There’s a nudge at your side and a quiet groan leaves your mouth. Your muscles are still on fire and it’s pitch dark when you flutter your eyes open for a millisecond. There’s no way you’re getting up. It’s not physically possible. “Get up.”

You turn your head the other way, mumbling under a breath, “No.”

“Weakling, there’s no time to sleep with your case.” He rips the blanket away from your body, grabbing your arm to haul you up in a sitting position. Your head droops down and you cry out.

“Why? Jeon Jungkook…...what is your problem with me?”

He smiles at your whining and then covers your mouth with his rough hand, shushing you. “Be quiet, will you? Everyone’s asleep unless you want to anger them by waking them up. Just hurry up.”

With lids barely open, you get dressed in shabby clothing, shoes slipped on as you exit. “What’s going on?” Jungkook resists the itch in his fingers to ruffle your messy hair that’s hastily tied up into a bun. Instead, he walks down to the empty field, taking a bamboo stick and throwing it to you.

It almost slips past your clutches- “What?”

“You’re a weakling. There’s no point in denying it.” He takes his own pole, grasping the ends gingerly. You close your mouth, deciding not to retort or storm away in anger, wondering why in Heaven’s name he’s dragged you out here. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t fight and defend yourself.”

“What are you doing?”

“Bend your knees.” He commands, poking your legs and with a sigh, you listen to him. Jungkook smiles, instructing you to hold the stick correctly and when you curl your hands around the base, he hits it gently. “Now….you have to be able to balance yourself well…”

Jungkook strikes a light hit and you don’t stumble. “You’re weak - that’s one thing for sure but you’re agile.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve been watching.” Before you can react, he hits you again and you scarcely block it. “Use it to your advantage and hone that skill. You’re also smaller than most of the men here so you can use that to your advantage. What you lack is your strength.”

“But it isn’t about strength and it isn’t completely about the mind either.” He explains as you circle each other, a strike on his behalf that you dodge. “Use your intuition.”

“You have to be able to predict your opponent's moves but still be able to defend well, blocking or avoiding. Trust your gut feelings.” Jungkook makes another swing and this time, you’re able to protect yourself without slipping. He smiles and blocks as you hit him back. A few minutes pass of the two of you hitting each other back and forth with your mind concentrated on his potential moves. Though, he does catch you off guard and you barely manage to jump away in time.

“Relax. Don’t panic. If you panic, you can’t act with control or speed.” You take a deep breath in response to his guidance, nodding when you’ve calmed down. Following everything he’s been saying and feeling a surge of confidence, you step forward and slam the bamboo against his five times in rapid succession. Unfortunately, he blocks each turn and when you’re exhausted and uncovered, he uses the opportunity to jab your side. “Don’t be reckless.”

You frown at him. “Easy for you to say.”

Jungkook grins at your pout, and he pokes you several times to keep going. “What you can do is use your surroundings to your advantage…...are you listening?”

“I am, okay?!”

He has the audacity to laugh at your indignant outburst and you hit him once, only for him to block. It goes back and forth with offense and defense, the stances that you remember coursing through your muscles without needing to think and your senses focused to predict his following movements. “Ah-ha!” You attack openly again, right at his head which he deflects. Jungkook’s legs are exposed and you land a kick. He stumbles back, about to catch balance until his feet trip on the basket holding the other numerous bamboo rods.

“How’s that for using my surroundings?”

Jungkook throws his head back in laughter, a bright and melodic sound that you never expected to stream from his lips. “I’ll admit, you got me there.” You throw your stick to the ground, plopping down beside him. You’re still exhausted, though no longer dazed despite being pulled out of bed abruptly.

“It’s different on the battlefield.” He begins again, “fighting in an army means you’re part of a team, more than acting as an individual. You will depend on other people for your survival and them on you. If you act recklessly alone then you will die alone and your comrades will too.”

“It sounds like you’re a general.”

“Do you think I’d be a good one?”

“You would be.” From your admitted words, the side of his lips discreetly tug upwards in satisfaction. “How do you know all this?”

“Hmm…..what can I say? I’ve been practicing.”

You scoff, pushing yourself up. And then, you spin around with your hand held out.

“It’s time to get up, my fellow comrade.”

Jeon Jungkook grins at you. His arm outstretches, his palm clasps around yours. The two of you stand together as the sun begins to rise over the horizon to a new day.

//

There’s a scoop of porridge, the ladle tipping over and plopping into the disposable bowl. For once, it’s different from the steamed buns and you’re immensely thankful.

“Junho!” Taehyung waves you over and you nod in appreciation, scanning the premise before you flop on top of the crate across from Jungkook. You don’t notice the way your old friend retracts his hand and glances at your backside in confusion.

Jungkook’s eyes travel up to your face in surprise, the side of his cheek full. “Wha- r yu doin?”

“What does it look like to you? I’m eating.”

You don’t face him, focusing on eating quickly, and he mimics your tiny smile.

The man, oddly enough, often has his meals alone and goes off alone, separate from the other soldiers no matter the case. It’s not like you feel pity for him…..you’re not exactly sure why you’re doing what you’re doing or even what you’re doing.

“Your hand has to be steady.” He shifts your fingers, his breath ghosting along your neck. “The problem you have isn’t necessarily your aim. It’s your strength. Don’t grip it too tightly and when you let go, don’t snap the string back.”

“Inhale as you draw it, exhale as you release.” You listen to his instructions and your eyes narrow on bullseye. When you let go, the arrow hits the target perfectly. “See? You did it.”

Out of his own spare time, before dawn and after dusk, Jungkook helps you train. Your muscles are always aching, bones exhausted to the very core but you slowly begin to enjoy it with the adrenaline rushing through your veins. And every time you accomplish a little more than yesterday — Jungkook smiles.

Somehow, it makes it all worth it.

“Why are you helping me?”

He hums for a long second, “because it’s sad to see you as a weakling.” His eyes watch you closely, crinkled in mirth as you scoff at him. “And I owe you.”

You don't catch the last part. “Huh?” With a tip of your head, he grins and strikes a light blow on top of your head. “Ow!”

“Do we really need to get back to the basics? Don't be distracted!” Though as the words materializes from his own mouth, his smile falls, and he grows solemn. “....never be distracted. Especially in times of war-”

“Hey!”

You hit him a few times, breaking his trance and shattering it before you can even analyze the meaning behind it. “I'm just following your words of wisdom! Don't be distracted!”

The pair of you continue together relentlessly; hand-to-hand combat, swordsmanship, archery to endurance exercises. Slowly but surely, you are becoming a soldier worth standing on the battlefield. Your father would be proud.

“What are they doing?” Kim Seokjin looks on, having just left the main tent after a discussion of the next battle strategies.

“Practicing…”

Min Yoongi looks on with arms behind his back. You and Jungkook are making laps around the dirt field, sandbags strapped to your body. The two of you move as one unit, occasionally Jungkook shouting something and you bursting out into laughter.

“Wow...the sun hasn't even risen yet.” General Jin nods to himself as he turns to his companion. “You're a brutal teacher, aren't you?”

“No.” He shakes his head, “I never made them do this.”

“Then your soldiers are really diligent.” Jin pats his friend on the back as he walks away. Yoongi’s eyes watch you two earnestly.

He’ll admit that the hard work you're putting in isn't going to waste. The sheer speed of your improvement doesn't go unnoticed, not even amongst your comrades.

“Give it your best shot.” Jungkook taunts you and you roll your eyes. With a large inhale and keeping a streaky centre of gravity, you throw a punch for him to block. “You can do better than that.”

“Keep talking…” You shoot out your arm, controlling your strength and not letting it go to waste while keeping your elbows tucked in. “I’ll-” You punch again, “beat you.”

It's his turn to switch to offence and you tighten your muscles as you take the blow, defending your arms in the correct stance. “Don't let your temper get the better of you.” He has a huge grin, aware of exactly what it takes to make you agitated. As you open your mouth to defend yourself, he steps on your shoes.

“Hey!”

“What did I say? Ah-ha!” He shoves you right in the middle of your chest and your eyes grow in alarm, afraid that he’s found your secret. Jungkook seems to frown for a split-second but the tension is quickly dissipated when you're falling backwards unprepared.

He immediately grabs your arm, pulling your smaller frame against his. A squeak emits from your lips and when you peel your lids back, you’re startled at how close he is to you. If he wanted to, Jungkook could count each eyelash, he could memorize the pattern of your irises but instead he is caught in the moment, marveling at your beauty and muddled at how much smaller your hand is within his.

That’s when his suspicions are confirmed, and he realizes-

“Ha!” You grab his leg, about to flip him over but his reflexes are too quick. Jungkook pushes you down as you fail to fight him. He pins you to the dirt and sits on top of you, immobilizing all your limbs. “Get off of me!”

He laughs in your face. “You still have a long way to go. Did you really think you could beat your master any time soon?”

“Psh.” You turn your head. “Who says you’re my master, comrade?”

When Jungkook eventually gets off of you, you don’t miss the look on his face; an expression that you can’t decode, making you stare in a daze. Why can’t you ever understand him?

//

All eyes are pinned on you. They hitch their breaths, not knowing what to expect and preparing for the absolute worst.

“Just because you’re improving, doesn’t mean you can become arrogant.” Lieutenant Min touches your shoulder, smiling at you despite his harsh words. You nod, and he takes a step back, looking at Chul who’s across from you and preparing. “Begin!”

Your comrade is twice your size, both in length and in width. He screams from the pit of his stomach as he charges towards you. Your feet scrape along the sand, bending your knees and centering your balance. And with everything you’ve learnt, you hastily evade and dodge as his clenched fist hits the open air.

“Oooh!” The soldiers around smile at your swiftness and you sneak a quick peek at Jungkook who doesn’t make a change in his expression. ‘Never be distracted’.

Chul turns around to grab you but you duck, sweeping out your leg to make him trip. He ends up stumbling and you use the opportunity to tackle him down. The man, however, does manage to push you off of him and when he begins to stomp at you, you roll away and shift onto your knees. “Get back here, brat!”

“I’m not much of a weakling anymore, am I?” You taunt him with a smirk, more for Lieutenant Min to hear than your own comrade. Though, the former doesn’t respond and Chul goes in for a swing. Your arms are brought up faster than you can process, defending yourself and when you don’t stagger back, you take the opportunity to grab his fist.

“What?” He can’t tug out of your grip and you use the restraint you have on him to push him into you. It’s a risky move but you bring up your leg at the same time, striking him in the middle of his abdomen. Chul coughs out and falls to the ground in defeat - making you the ultimate victor.

Everyone seems to stare in shock and silence.

A full minute ticks by as you’re catching your breath. And then….cheers break out.

“You did it!”, “The weakling really isn’t that weak anymore!”, “And here we thought, this kid was our weakest link!” There are claps and you’re enveloped by numerous embraces, somehow trying to fling you into the air. Even Chul seems pleasantly surprised as he gets up and laughs. Amidst the crowd, you catch Jungkook at the back who turns and walks away. But you don’t miss the smile that spreads across his lips.

“I’m so proud of you!” Taehyung hugs you and you giggle.

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself now.” Lieutenant Min clears his throat. “There’s still a lot of training to do!”

“Yes sir!” The two of you salute towards him, and he shakes his head lightly with the corners of his mouth upturned. One look towards the bright faces grinning at you and the sudden morale boost is all it takes. One look around is enough for you to realize that you’ll fight alongside these men any day.

//

The moonlight downpours, soaking the water into a milky shade. It’s a reflection on the surface, a still painting of beauty until the waves ripple and shatters the tranquility. You look down to find yourself, a person that you do not recognize; smudges and scars that mar your face, hands that have become rough and calloused, eyes that carry a fire that has not been smothered like in the past but roused. You barely recognize this girl...this person.

“Who’s there?”

A crack of a branch has caused you to turn around, sinking deep into the waters and taking refuge behind a bolder. “Relax. It’s me.”

“J..Jungkook?”

It was impossible to go without bathing. You had realized that very soon after three days when you first arrived; receiving dirty looks from the stench you emitted. At first Taehyung had standed guard for you but after a few times, you didn’t want to bother him anymore and decided to do it in the dead of the night where no one would be around. And certainly, there wouldn’t be any risk of someone one finding you. Except for now-

You cough, lowering your voice in a deeper pitch as usual, “What are you doing here?”

“I was just taking a walk….”

Your arms are brought up to try to cover your body and murmurs of curses leave through clenched teeth as you think of a way to escape the situation that you’re in. If Jungkook catches you, everything will be ruined and you’ll die-

“It’s fine. I’m going to leave…” He says but then you both hear rambunctious noise approaching. “What are you guys doing here?”

“Jungkook?” It’s Hoseok’s voice and you hear several others with him. “We were just going to take a quick bath. Do you want to join?”

Your breath hitches and you can’t imagine the disaster you’ll be placed in. That is until your bunk mate speaks up. “Ah, actually I heard there was something weird in these waters.”

Jimin’s mouth draws open, “Wait. What?”

“Yeah. It’s unsanitary and there’s something weird at the bottom.” His voice is convincing...almost authoritative. “It’s best to bathe in the other lake across camp.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks for telling us, Kook.”

“But-” The feet halt and you hold still completely, not allowing any movements to wrinkle a wave on the surface. “What are you doing here?”

Jungkook answers without missing a beat- “Taking a piss.”

“Alright. Well...uh...sorry for asking. Now I feel intrusive.” Hoseok laughs stiffly and then Jimin and a few others pat his back, walking away and speaking their farewells to the younger man.

There’s a full second of silence and all the noise is drowned out.

“You can come out now.” He whispers gently, “I’m not looking. And I promise I won’t.”

It’s risky but for some reason or another, you have enough trust to listen. Stepping into plain view and facing him, you’re met with his backside. He’s seated on the ground with his legs crossed, guarding you without you needing to ask. “You’re self-conscious, right?” He breaks your reverie, “That’s why you won’t bathe with everyone else?”

“Y-yeah. Something like that.”

He laughs and you continue to quickly wash yourself, scrubbing your skin with the cool waters. Jungkook hums, swaying from side to side and savouring the quietness. “You did well today.”

A smile tugs on your lips. “It was all thanks to you.”

“No it’s not.” He replies, “It was your own abilities and hard work that brought you here.”

Staring at his broad backside for a long moment and wondering what it feels like to lean against his shoulder - something clicks into your mind. You can understand why Jeon Jungkook is so strange to you…..

He reminds you of yourself.

Taehyung is someone who can get along with anyone anywhere, draw in crowds with his natural likeability and energy. He trains hard but you can see his bright smile and chirpy laughter magnetizes people before they can become aware. Even Jung Hoseok and Park Jimin have all become well acquainted with each other through a line of close comrades and friends. But unlike them and the rest of the soldiers who fight for the passion of the nation, Jungkook looks lost. He is out of place.

It’s as if he doesn’t quite belong here.  

Jungkook is the mirror reflection of you in ways you have yet to figure out.

“No...please…” He whimpers once more in his sleep, brows that furrow deep and creates a knot that creases his skin. It’s another nightmare. Another cry that leaves his lips. In such a way that insinuates his hands have been coated in scarlet. His orbs have consumed the images of bloodshed. His tainted sword has sliced through bones, and he cannot stop if he wanted to.

In the moonlight brewing darkness, you shift closer to Jungkook and embrace his trembling body to provide comfort. He nuzzles into your warmth and you hum a sweet lullaby your father had taught you long ago.

There are murmurs and rumours. No one knew why the tension was so heavy in the air, why no one spoke or smiled. But as the soldiers gathered together and Lieutenant Min was off to the side with a grim expression, you knew it couldn’t be good.

“Men! We have received news early this morning.” Kim Seokjin is at the front, screaming out in a booming voice to all of your comrades below. He hesitates with a breath, “The Cehon Army has been defeated.”

“What?!”

People are panicking, whispering underneath their breaths. You turn around to find Jungkook’s eyes staring back into yours. Taehyung beside you shakes his head. “They’re the most elite….how?”

“The enemies are pushing!” General Seokjin’s voice cuts through the noise and it’s silenced. “And we have been called to the front lines.” Taehyung grabs your hand and you tighten your fingers around his, trying to conquer the fear that swells inside your chest.

“Remember that it is an absolute honour to fight for our country. Never forget about the ones who you love and those that you are protecting. Your sacrifice will never be forgotten.”

He looks once more at the faces of the crowd, aware that each have their families and children awaiting for their arrival back. All the soldiers rely on him for their life. Jin keeps his head high and shoulders strong when he shifts and walks away.

Lieutenant Min steps forward. “We move out in two hours!”

//

Everyone walks in lines, some carrying more equipment than others. The General and Lieutenant are ahead on horses, discussing plans and you’re walking with the others.

Three or four hours have passed without rest, your feet sore and your back aching.

“I’m excited.” Hoseok chirps up with a small smile.

Jimin tilts his head to one side, “You are?”

“We can finally fight like real men!” He spins around with a laugh. “Everything that we’ve been training for can finally come into use!”

“I suppose that’s a nice perspective to put things into.” Namjoon agrees, “We can defend the ones we love most.”

“And when we get back, we’ll be heroes!” Taehyung cheers and his arms are thrown up into the sky.

“If.” Jungkook corrects in slight bitterness. “That’s if we get back.”

“Which we will.” You speak up to keep the morale high. “We’ve trained hard, and we have each other. We are comrades.” The soldiers look at you in appreciation and you turn to Chul who has been oddly quiet. “What do you want to do when you get back home?”

The brute thinks for a second and smiles to himself. “There’s a girl I want to marry.”

“There is?!”

Your eyes double, not expecting that particular answer and the others seem pleasantly surprised as you are. “She’s one of the most beautiful girls I know.” He reminisces with a long sigh, “And she’s waiting for me back at home.”

“I never knew you were such a romantic.” Hoseok means it with the utmost sincerity. “For me, I just miss my village and the people. It wasn’t much but I used to be a baker...and before I left, I had to close shop. I’d like to open it again.”

“You bake? I’m definitely going to have to visit now.” Jimin nudges him and when you ask him the same question, he answers almost immediately. “I have my four younger siblings and my mother waiting for me. I was the oldest of the bunch….I miss them a lot. I think about what they’re doing all the time and if they’re managing to get by.”

You sympathize for the Jimin’s feelings but what Namjoon utters next makes everyone freeze in their steps causing others to grumble behind you all-

“My wife’s giving birth in a few more months...so I’d like to be there in time for the baby’s birth.”

If you thought Chul’s love confession was shocking, this was on a whole new level. “Wait..what?!”, “You’re married?!”, “And you have a baby on the way?”, “How come you never mentioned anything?”. Everyone’s tripping their own words, sputtering over each other in near shouts.

“No one really asked, so I never said anything.” He shrugs and shifts the attention over to someone else. “What about you Taehyung? What do you want to do when you get back?”

“Hmmm….” The mischievous man’s eyes flicker to yours for a split-second before a boxy grin takes place on his mouth, and he faces the ground. “There’s this amazing girl...strong...and beautiful that I’ve always loved. If I can make it back into one piece with her by my side, I’ll definitely tell her.”

“We have another romantic!”

“Wait...there is?!” You’re suddenly shocked by this new revelation, racking your brain on- “Who is it?”

He smiles at you. “Not telling.”

“Oh c’mon, Taehyung!”

“Still not telling! Don’t look at me like that! There’s nothing you can do that will make me tell!”

“Oh right.” Hoseok snaps his fingers before you can beat up your childhood friend and sit on the damn bastard. “You two are from the same village, right? Then what do you want to do, Junho?”

The answer appears quicker to you than ever, “Be with my father.”

“He’s my only family member left and I miss him.” You don’t know where to begin or how to vocalize the emotion that overtakes you, an ache that screams and makes you stand strong at the same time. “I took his place in the army since he was sick and getting old…It would be nice to fulfill my filial duties and make sure he lives the rest of his life well.”

The others nod at you, completely understanding the abiding love of a child to their parent. Jungkook especially gazes at you and you clear your throat to rid of the lump. “What about you, Jungkook?”

“I...don’t know.”

“What do you mean? Isn’t there something you want to do?”

Your bunk mate smiles meekly and leans his chin up to face the azure sky. “I don’t know if I want to go home.” His cinnamon hued irises travels to you and lingers. You frown in confusion, not being able to help the heat that presses onto your cheeks. The intensity of his stare becomes too muddling.

Taehyung interrupts- “Aw is that because you love us so much you don’t want to leave? You’re so sweet, Kook!”

The soldiers burst into laughter, even a few others around who was eavesdropping into the conversation.

Jungkook pushes him away and can’t help the smile that raises on his lips. “No!”

Nevertheless, the colour of his eyes are imprinted within your memories, a mark left that is untouchable to yourself; materializing when your lids flutter shut, as vivid as the moonlight soaked waters of that night.

//

The entire trip to the border isn’t all lighthearted and full of spirit.

If anything, it quickly becomes grim when the surroundings are muted shades of monochrome. Bones are barely buried in the soil, decaying bodies lying on the open ground. Debris and broken homes are the few things you witness. What’s even more horrifying is the villages that have been burnt to the ground. Standing in the middle of the broken land, you could practically hear the shrill screams, visualize the flickering blaze and the children running, ripped away from their parents. It’s a vision that makes you sick to your stomach, reminding you of how you lost your own mother and younger brother.

“What are you doing?”

Temporary camp has been set up before sunset was over. You were wandering around, looking for the missing person that is part of your unit. And instead, you found him in front of General Seokjin’s tent, appearing nervous and apprehensive.

“No.” Jungkook jumps when you speak up, perhaps even relieved as he smiles at you. “I wanted to ask exactly what the plans were. I don’t think we’re ready….and to run in like this is reckless.”

“It’s not like we have much of a choice but you’re right.” You motion over to the main grounds. “Lieutenant Min is calling for us. We should gather together.”

There’s a division with the soldiers, everyone placed in different positions, and he goes over the general plan with everyone in specifics. Beyond the border is a field and after a little way, the enemy camp is there. Being so close to the people who killed your family, the same people who you were fighting against and potentially to die at the hands of was not as frightening as you thought it would be. Maybe because you were standing with your most trustworthy comrades...friends.

Family.

“We will be leading an attack in the morning.”

When you turn to your side, Jeon Jungkook has disappeared. He is nowhere in the crowd, no matter how much you push through and call out his name. The man has vanished into thin air.

“Y/N.” Taehyung is sitting on the small hill, studying you in amusement. The name that streams from his lips is unfamiliar in your ears. You barely stop in your tracks, forgetting that he’s saying your name. “Who are you looking for?”

“Ah, it’s...no one.” You plop down next to him, heaving onto the ground and crossing your legs. “What are you doing here?”

“Just thought I’d watch the sunset.” The way the orange light casts upon him makes him glow in an eternal, sun kissed shade. You’re mesmerized for a long second, counting his lashes and letting your eyes dip with the slope of his nose. Maybe you’re trying to memorize each crinkle in his eyes, the crevices of his features and everything you might’ve overlooked before. But you find yourself wondering since when your old friend, once a grimy child beside you, grew to become so reliable and...beautiful.

Honest and loyal, Kim Taehyung never once failed you. If your father is your reason then your Taehyung is your backbone. He is the pillar that has held you up in your weakest times. He is everything that anyone could have even wished for.

“Are you scared?”

“Yes.” The corners of his lips turn gently. “But if I have you by my side then I’m not so scared.”

Your head falls onto his shoulder. The both of you stare out at the corals and tangerines painted against the fractus clouds. “You’re such a fool.”

“Maybe…” He laughs and the sound is melodic, ringing like church bells. “Though, only for you.”

“Promise me you’ll be safe.” “If you promise me too.” “I’ll only go home only if you’re with me.” “Likewise.”

You’re searching for things to say, afraid that you’ll regret wasting time when tomorrow comes.

“Y/N…”

“Hmm?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to call your name again.”

It has arrived.

The soldiers are marching in even rows, horses hooves imprinting on the dirt and the air is still. “A few more miles forward!” Lieutenant Min announces and you swallow hard, keeping a stoic expression when you turn to your equally nervous comrades. There are those carrying shields in front, archers behind them and the handle of your sword is gripped tightly, the sheath is covering the blade.

It is quiet....oddly so when war is ravaging the plains and peace is far from grasps.

It’s off.

Something’s not right.

An instinct tears you from within and you stop in your tracks, whipping your head up to where the mountains are. And your eyes grow wide, your mouth rips open as an arrow darts past the air. You scream at the top of your lungs, “IT’S AN AMBUSH!”

Chaos unleashes, enemy soldiers pouring from the sides and into the valley. The horses roar out, shouts from the officiants and generals that you can’t hear above the screams. More arrows shoot down, killing those standing behind you with one shot in the chest. You’re frozen, not knowing what to do or how to move when you watch someone impale another with their weapon.

Jungkook pulls you down and you keep your eyes focused upwards where the enemy flag is flickering in the wind. The shades burn into your orbs.

“Listen to me.” He shakes you and you find him. “We need to fight!”

You nod your head and the both of you stand up. Though as he moves on, swiping his sword and the metal whirling out, you’re still stuck. Time slows down and you face the horrific sight, the sounds drowning out in your ears. Those who you have spoken to in the past days, ate meals with, are falling to the ground. Their wives, children...families are still under the blue sky somewhere, unaware that their loved one has left the world, leaving nothing but an echoing wail.

It’s a slaughterhouse. A massacre of death, the ghosts of the battlefield crying to you and the Reaper grinning over your shoulder. The Earth is coated in scarlet. You feel sick to your stomach, watching the tragedies unravel in front of you. Necks are being twisted, limbs sliced off of bodies and blades severing into skin with ease. Someone pierces another through their stomach, the tip of the silver protruding out their backs. They pull out the tainted weapon and the other collapses — dead.

“Y/N!”

You clasp the handle, finally revealing your sword to the light; it reflects your eyes, yet to be painted in red. Who ever said there was glory in war? You take a step forward, pointing the weapon to an enemy. Are we really heroes? You lift the metal in your hands, ready to strike down and cause the destruction you have been trained to do. Why do we fight?

You can’t find it in yourself to move, to kill. Not when you remember your father and his whispers “I don’t need anything” - “I am already happy that you’re my daughter.” You cannot hurt another human, allow your hand to puncture another’s flesh, saw down into their bones. You can’t do it.

“Y/N!” There’s a scream that tears through his throat and you spin around, searching past the crowds of people and you come face to face with your one and only true friend...Kim Taehyung.

He articulates your name carefully, allowing each syllable to lay upon his tongue for the last time. “Y/N.”

Tears fill his eyes. He soaks in your features and finds it in himself to muster up a smile. The man grins at you, the same smile that followed you through your childhood. Taehyung ignores the searing pain in his abdomen. He realizes that in any day, any hour - in any life, this one and the next - he would do it again.

“...Tae...hyung…” The enemy soldier pulls out his sword and Taehyung’s warm blood splatters onto your cheek, painting your skin in red. “Taehyung!” He crumbles onto his knees, gaze never leaving your face. “Taehyung!”

Before the enemy can slash his back, you rush onwards without a thought, your blade impaling the soldier. He gasps and when you withdraw your weapon, you bring it down upon him again and again; God’s gavel on judgment day. You whip upon him your wrath and tears, allowing the ugly beast from within your soul to unleash. A full minute must pass with you slashing the dead body until it’s unidentifiable, mangling the corpse with your ruthless beatings.

“That’s enough!” A familiar voice pulls you away and you push him off.

You search and throw yourself through the fighting figures. “Taehyung...” Jungkook follows you closely, harming anyone who tries to harm you. Your friend’s body is undisturbed and you collapse, allowing your metal to clank beside you as it hits the dirt. “Tae...Taehyung. Are you listening to me? We’re going to get you help okay? You’re going to be okay. I promise you. Please, just stay with me.”

His eyes are half-lidded, focused onto you and his smile remains on his lips. With all the energy he can gather, he shakes his head once. You press your hand against his wound but the blood continues to pour out past the spaces of your fingers. “Taehyung….” Your teeth sink into your lower lip, a horrendous sob breaking you.

His lips move. You can’t hear. He mouths something.

You bring your ear down closer, and he barely manages to wheeze out your name and a gentle -

I love you.

When you look at him again, Taehyung’s last breath leaves between his parted lips. His eyes are still slightly open and you run your fingers over them. He looks at peace. There is no worried frown marring his face, no downturn of his mouth. Your one and only companion is gone.

‘I’ll marry you.’ ‘If I have you by my side then I’m not so scared.’ ‘I’ll only go home if you’re with me.’

Y/N. I love you.

You stand up on your weak knees. Jungkook’s stare is pinned onto you. Your hands wrap around the grip, holding it to the point of where your knuckles turn white. A scream rips through your throat and you recklessly run into the cluster of people, not differentiating between friend or foe, blindly swinging around your blade.  

“There’s this amazing girl...strong...and beautiful that I’ve always loved.” You sever someone’s head off. Their blood coats your lashes, spraying against your armour and your face. People jump back from you in alarm and you slash through more of the enemy colour, kicking them down to your feet. Skin and flesh are sliced and cut by your hands. “If I can make it back into one piece with her by my side, I’ll definitely tell her.” You’re still crying. The tears won’t leave.

“Retreat!” There’s a horn ringing behind you. “Retreat!”

Your comrades withdraw back. You’ve already made a decision to never leave, to die here.

“That’s enough!” Jungkook yells at you. “Stop it!”

You continue to kill. Tens and tens of people are succumbed to your madness. You won’t stop until all of them are dead. “Stop!” And you ignore the pleas of the man behind you. The calls of ‘retreat’ are continuing and you turn deaf to them. “It’s enough!”

Jungkook tries to pull you away and you turn around abruptly, accidentally slashing his arm. He grunts, wincing at the stinging pain. The fury subdues with your mistake. “I-I’m sorry.” His wound is open, blood trickling down but he ignores it, grabbing your hand and dragging you with him.

“Let’s go.”

You’re weak. In his hands, your decisions have broken into pieces.

The two of you barely manage to get by unscraped, arrows cutting through the wind and past your ears. You lean against Jungkook’s back, defending each other from the enemies that hurl forward. When it’s clear, you run again.

The battlefield disappears behind you.

//

There is nothing but silence. No one can speak. The soldiers are sitting on the ground, most bandaged up and lifeless within their eyes. Your unit is scattered around, Jimin being seen with severe injuries and on the brink of death at the infirmary. Jungkook is beside you, resting against the wall and you’re brewing, lost in thought as you focus on the bandages wrapped around your hands. That is until the two men leave their tent and you stagger upwards.

“Did you even have a plan?”

Everyone around is startled and General Jin stops in his tracks. “You knew none of us were ready, didn’t you? And we still went out there to die! Why did we retreat?”

Min Yoongi commands you with his cold glare. “Stand down soldier!”

“Hundreds have died and they died for nothing!”

“We retreated before more of our soldiers would die.” The man you're confronting responds in firmness, “It was an ambush that no one was expecting. A setback from our original plans.”

“Do you know our names?” You question him, walking onwards before Yoongi lifts out his arm to defend the other man in case you dare to do anything. “Kim Taehyung. A soldier of yours has died today….he has family at home, someone who he loves, and he died. Many, many others have too.”

You ask him again with desperation, “Do you know who. we. are?.”

“People die all the time. This is war.” Lieutenant Min interrupts. “How dare you question us-”

Jin raises his hands to quiet him down. “You’re right. I may not know all of you by your name…” He looks around at the weary faces of the numerous soldiers watching, depleted and darkened orbs that stare back at him. “But I know that you are all my soldiers who are fighting for our nation. We cannot let the people who have passed today go to waste. We cannot waste away the sacrifices that have been made. We need to move forward and forward.”

“I never forget the people who have died.”

The man begins to walk away and you take another step. “Kim Seokjin!” Your voice is clear as the air, piercing through the coldness. Everyone looks at you in shock at how you blatantly shouted his name without any titles, disrespectful beyond warrant. “Kim Seokjin!”

He turns around and smiles at you. His irises are forgiving and compassionate, understanding your pain all too well.

“Never forget what we are fighting for. For our loved ones back home, the people who are waiting for us and the people who have died for us. If we do not fight, everyone will die.”

The breeze caresses your cheeks, blowing through the stray strands of hair that fall in front of your face. Your heart keeps aching. The tears though have long dried, prick at your pupils like needles. “How dare you disrespect the general? Have you forgotten your place?” Lieutenant Min punishes you, “Run. A hundred laps so you remember who you are.”

You stand and do as you’re told, packing bags and bags of sand onto the wheelbarrow.

The other soldiers beg him for mercy. Hoseok especially pleads for your case, “He’s hurt over the death of his friend, forgive him. Please. He’s injured.” Jungkook rises to his feet and watches you without a word.

“Have all of you forgotten that you must obey your superiors no matter the circumstances. Going against order is execution.”

“Don’t worry.” You interject, grasping around the handles with your bleeding fists. “I will run all of them. And mark my words I will not rest until I become stronger.” Lieutenant Min acknowledges your determination and not once does your gaze falter or does your voice shake. “I vow to fight harder and harder so his sacrifice will not go to waste.”

Your comrades watch as you fulfill your punishment, wobbling but never hesitating. You don’t stop, letting your sorrows and grief wash over your form, crying out your hatred for the unfair world. I love you. His voice still echoes in your mind.

If you had been stronger. If you had never wavered. But the reality of the fact is that you are still too weak-minded.

Y/N.

Taehyung was killed trying to save you.

The soldier raises his sword and you rush before he can slash you. Rage controls your bones. You cannot think of anything; releasing an inhumanity that is monstrous. And your silver blade impales his stomach as you scream out. The first man you’ve ever killed.

His face is finally uncovered when the sunlight passes through the clouds, cascading a yellow beam downwards, bringing a bright luminescence to the murky plaines.

“T-Taehyung?”

A single tear from your childhood friend drips down his cheek. He grips the sword you’ve stabbed him with tightly, fingers bleeding and his lips part- “Y/N….I’m sorry. It’s okay. I promise you.” He trembles and droplets of scarlet drip from the wound. “I love you so much, okay? I always have...and I always will.”

You sob in your sleep, thrashing for a quiet second. Water seeps past your lashes and mark your face. Jungkook gazes at you in the moonlight wash, the way you’re grasping onto a small wooden plaque that is engraved with the deceased man’s name. You’re reliving another nightmare, experiencing the horrors again and again. He knows it all too well.

In the night, it’s this time that Jungkook is the one who pulls you closer to his chest and tries to envelop you in his warmth. His calloused hand is raised to brush your hair and you curl up against him in soft whimpers. Jungkook wonders if there’s anything in this world that could bring the two of you peace.

You’re gathering courage to write your father a letter, apologizing for the countless sins you’ve committed and the daughter you could never be - but as you grab for the parchment in your bag, you accidentally knock over Jungkook’s belongings.

Your heart stops. It lodges inside your throat. And your hands quiver uncontrollably, fingers barely able to reach down to grasp the tube that’s rolling on the floor.

A million things race in your mind. You don’t understand. You can’t understand any of it.

You crumble lifelessly onto the ground and you find your hand wrapped around the top, ripping off the cap. A scroll falls into your lap.

It’s the same shades that have burned into your orbs. You can remember the flag flickering in the wind. You can smell the burning ashes and fire emblems of the village burning down. “Mother!” “Someone help me!” “Junho!”

You’re running. “Move! Get out of my way!” Soldiers shoot bewildered looks at your frantic state, dirt smeared across your forehead and sweat running down your jaw. Loose strands of hair fall over your eyes, yet you pay no mind when you rip open the covering of the tent.

“What are you doing?!” Min Yoongi immediately stands up at how you’ve intruded into the classified meeting. High ranking officers and commanders all stare at you but you focus on the man in front, Kim Seokjin. “Stand down immediately!”

“This...” Two people begin to drag you out but you fight against them. “It’s an assassination order-! Let go of me!” You thrash and scream, holding up the scroll. It’s a struggle as the officers order you to go.

“Don’t speak nonsense!” Yoongi frowns and he looks away in disappointment. “Leave.”

“And there are plans!...f-for an- get off of me! - ambush from the enemies! Please listen to me! General Kim Seokjin! General!” You’re thrown outside and into the dirt. “General Kim Seokjin! Please.”

The officers give you a glare of disdain, and they enter again. No one reaches out to you. No one listens. The scroll still lays in your clenched hand.

//

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing...” Your pupils narrow into his and you discreetly clutch the handle of your knife that’s tucked in your waistband. “Jungkook.”

He smiles, the hues of cinnamon lighting up his irises. His gaze softens into adoration and fondness. His lips upturn and his eyes crinkle. “Is there something wrong?” Jungkook smiles and it’s all for you.

“Stop.”

“What?”

“Don’t look at me like that.” He takes two strides to meet you and he engulfs your body within his arms, holding you tight in fear that you’ll vanish. “Stop it.”

You grab onto his arm, digging your face into the crook of his neck to imprint this memory. You allow his scent to linger. He already knows what you’re talking about before you’ve even spoken. “Why is it you? Why does it have to be you?”

“Are you going to stab me?” He knew the entire time about the weapon you held in your hand, intentions of bringing him harm. Still, he chose to step closer and closer, wiggling his way next to your fragile heart until you were surrounded in nothing but him.

“I want to...so badly.” Your voice trembles and the salt water of your eyes leave trails on your cheek. “Your people killed my family...t-they killed Taehyung. I can never forgive them…” You wonder why you’re so weak as a whisper leaves your lips, “...or you.”

“I’m sorry things had to be like this.” His own voice is filled with pain and hurt. “I never wanted this either. And I never wanted it to be you.”

“Who are you, Jungkook?” You pause, “Or is that even your name?”

“It is my name.” He shuts his eyes, savouring the moment before it’s gone. He lingers in your touch, in your warmth and presence. He focuses his mind to remember your voice and each breath you take before you call his name. “General...commander and chief...spy.”

“I have to kill you.”

“I know. And when you do it, make sure you don’t hesitate.” Jungkook cries, tightening his hold even more. “...just next time. Next time, okay? The next time you see me.”

“Jungkook…”

He holds you in place, fingers digging into a pressure point at your collarbone and the seams of consciousness are stolen away. You slip past Jungkook’s fingertips, collapsing right through his arms and falling to the ground. He is hugging the empty space in front of him.

“Y/N.”

The man looks at you and swallows hard, leaving an echo before disappearing.

//

Kim Seokjin is dead.

The powerful general is found with his throat sliced and in a pool of his own blood. His body on the floor of his tent, a cruel death that is not fitting for the honorable man who has sacrificed his life to fight; a person who had lost his family, his wife and child, dedicating what strength he had left to not lose his country.

The entire camp is quiet. Nobody utters a word but bowing their heads to pay their respects. The soldiers lay down their weapons. The remains are carried out and buried in the midst of the battlefield.

“Many of you might’ve not known but Kim Seokjin was sincere and honest. He had led thousands and won hundreds and hundreds of battles. It is a loss that we must remember and a loss we can never forgive.” Min Yoongi isn’t a man of many decorative words, and he finds himself not knowing what more to say when he stares at his friend’s name marked on wood as a headstone.

He kneels down to whisper to the ghost of his comrade. “Go and be at peace. You are finally with your wife and child.” Yoongi chokes back his tears. “Thank you for your years of service.”

What he finds the most distressing, his own self-hatred slapping him across the face, is that you were right. Yoongi could’ve saved his friend. He could’ve listened to you but he turned a blind eye and deaf ear. You were right. And he threw you out without looking back. You were right. And he chose to ignore you.

No amount of apologies could bring the dead back to life. No apologies could ever compensate for what he’s done. No apologies could erase his shame.

“How is he?”

Someone had found you knocked unconscious, and they delivered you straight to the infirmary. A full day has passed since then and Yoongi didn’t know how to face you.

“There’s something…” The medic shuts his eyes tight and downcasts his head, “There’s something we discovered.”

//

When you’re staring out the cloudy plastic to the outside, the tent cloth is pulled back. Min Yoongi enters, and he throws your bag onto the wooden table you’re sitting on. You stare at your belongings for a long second until your eyes travel to the man’s face. His expression is blank.

“Go.” He says, “Go back home.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“You are a woman.” Yoongi states in a cold tongue. “You must leave immediately. Do you know the consequences?”

You laugh mirthlessly, cocking your head to one side as you glare at him. “Execution.”

“And yet you still…” risked your life, came here to fight. What courage did you have? Where did you arrive from? And why does Yoongi feel like a coward in front of you? “...you still came here knowing these things.”

“It doesn’t matter if I am a man or a woman. I am a human who wants to fight for their country.” The strength you’ve lacked is flourishing underneath your skin. There’s nothing holding you back from sacrifice. You have nothing left to fear. “Like General Kim told all of us: ‘for our loved ones back home, the people who are waiting for us and the people who have died for us’. We are fighting for them.”

You aren’t the weakling from back then.

Yoongi wonders who he is looking at. How did you become so strong?

“What we need to worry about is the ambush that is coming.” You stand up, never staggering despite the lightheadedness. “We’re in a compromised position right now. The soldiers aren’t ready to fight and the morale is low with General Kim Seokjin’s death. We know the direction that the enemies came from and with the terrain we’re on….we need to move east as fast as we can. Quietly and carefully, no fires and nothing that can give us away. At most, we have a few hours.”

It’s a delayed response on his part, “Okay.”

Just before he leaves, your voice stops him. “Jungkook.” You’re looking out again, arms behind your back and eyes deep in thought. You speak with hesitance, “Where is he?”

“The traitor left.”

His belongings were left behind. A horse from the stables vanished.

A faint smile befalls on your lips before you kill it in sight.

“Are you going to move or stand there, General?”

Min Yoongi smiles meekly at the title, aware that he is the leader now. Though he carries a feeling that you’re the one who will bring victory.

Months and months elapse. A compilation of training and fighting, past any limits until your body no longer feels like it’s your own. It’s a weapon. An arm for the country to use to its expense.

Your tears become your force. Your sweat is the result. The various wounds and scars that litter across your back and wrap around your skin serves as a reminder for the bloodshed and the battles. You become capable and powerful, someone worth intimidation, a beacon of hope for those who are weak to grow strong. And in retribution for your backbreaking labour, you’ve become second in command, aid of General Min.

Thousands have died, forgoed as the sacrificial lamb but the army has pushed beyond the border, moving forward and forward, faster and faster.

There are few left of your comrades. Park Jimin was injured after the first battle, now walking with a permanent limp in his leg, yet he still persists and fights by your side. Jung Hoseok was heavily wounded in combat and sent home against his will. You can still remember his pleas to stay and how he fell to his knees with the bandages wrapped around his head and torso. Han Chul and Kim Namjoon are two soldiers who are managing, though they are far from having light within their eyes. The rest...

General Kim Seokjin — dead Kim Taehyung — dead.  Jeon Jungkook — traitor.

“Lost in thought?” He sits beside you and you hum.

You’ve grown close to Yoongi, and he’s learnt to trust you, always asking for your assessment about strategies and sometimes wondering out loud if you’re okay or sleeping well. His eyes are always glossed over in concerns, some part of him feeling guilty with the way he misjudged you all that time ago. You always tell him you’re fine, that you sleep peacefully...even if they’re lies.

You can’t help but pull back your lids in the middle of the night, desperately searching for the warmth that you long for. When your dreams aren’t plagued with nightmares then it’s him. His smile and embrace….the colour of his irises-

“Yoongi.”

“Yes?”

“What’s your reason for fighting?”

“I don’t really have one. Well...I didn’t.” He tells you and the pair of you stare out at the campgrounds together. “I grew up in poverty. I didn’t have anything, no one to protect. There was nothing for me and no reason. I joined the army because it was a warm place I could stay at.”

“Then I met Jin.” He chuckles to himself and you peer at his profile, the subtle upturn of his lips as he thinks about his dear friend. “You wouldn’t believe that he was so clumsy….a lot like you actually….we trained together, and he just became someone that I stuck by through the years.”

“You know...for every soldier that he led into battle and died, he wrote their name in a book. He really didn’t take for granted the sacrifices, and he never forgot.” If you closed your eyes, you could remember the time you called the man’s name and questioned his intentions. You asked him if he knew you, knew where you were from or what he was doing. But back then you never understood his hardships.

“Our soldiers trust us. And sometimes we wonder if we’re making a right decision or not. It’s a burden we must carry. Their lives are within our hands.”

“You’re a fine general.” You nullify his doubts with a simple nod, turning away. “We can’t help the sacrifices that must be made. As long as we don’t waste those sacrifices then we must move forward.”

Yoongi smiles, looking down into his lap. “I buried the book with him.”

After a long pause, he turns to you. “What about you? What do you fight for?”

“My father.” You don’t have any other reason. “He’s the only one I have left. I took his place when the enlistment came. He’s old and ill. I thought it was the least I could do since he raised me for so many years. I didn’t want him to die at war.”

“I miss him.” You don’t notice how Yoongi’s gazing at you with a softened look in his eyes, the same way Jungkook looks at you. “I wrote a letter awhile back but I never sent it.”

“Why not?”

“I’m scared.” It’s a whisper, a raw admittance that you’ve been too scared to say. “I’m scared of his response. I know he’s not mad at me but I’m scared to see him worried. I’m scared that he’ll tell me I’ve made a mistake and cause him more harm.”

“I’m scared that I’ll miss home.”

“You shouldn’t worry. You’ve fulfilled your filial duties. He should be proud of who you are and that you’re his daughter. You’re courageous and strong...anything he could ever wish for.”

“Thank you, Yoongi.” You smile, and he snaps a shot of you within his memories. “If something...anything happens to me - deliver my letter to my father. Can you do that for me?”

“Nothing will happen to you.” He inhales a breath, “But I promise you.”

You’ve already made a vow. You won’t be returning. You will fight for your country until death.

Jeon Jungkook reminds you of yourself. He is your mirror. Someone who doesn’t belong.

A piece of the moonlight has fallen. It casts an angelic glow around him, radiating off his skin and broad backside. The waters ripple as you stand, stepping away from the reflection you no longer recognize; a weakling held by the cords of destiny to become strong.

“Jungkook.”

He turns around when you’re dressed, and he walks with you until the end.

“Don’t you find it ironic?” The leaves rustle against the trees, a serenity of quiet that cannot be captured in the midst of battle. “To fight for peace.”

He smiles to himself, stealing a glance of you. “It is.”

“We fight for peace but not once have I ever felt at peace….even if it’s what I’ve wanted most.”

There’s a long moment of hesitance, one where Jungkook gazes at the way the white luminescence bathes into your skin. One where he longs to thread his fingers between yours. One where he wants nothing more than to hold you close in his arms.

It’s a time frame that blinks by, a second that he stops and you turn to him. Jungkook’s eyes flicker to your softened lips and you flutter your eyes, staring back at him. His calloused hand lifts to gently caress your cheek and you yield to his touch. For an instant, the two of you yearn to lean closer. But instead, his arm drops and you pull away.

This isn’t a fairy tale.

When you can die tomorrow, there is no reason why you should make it more painful than it needs to be. You are here to fight. You are the lamb of sacrifice of the country. There isn’t a point in tying yourself up with strings of emotion. You are here to die.

“How far are you willing to fight for your nation?”

“Until the very end. It isn’t a choice. It is my duty.”

In the moonlight brewing darkness, Jungkook is plagued with nightmares and you embrace his trembling body. “No...please…” You hum a sweet lullaby from your father, perfectly unaware that his whimpers and cries are because of you.

Jungkook dreams that his hands are coated in your blood. His tainted sword has sliced through your bones and a single tear drips from your eyes before you drop dead in front of him. He holds your body and screams at the sky. The battlefield never once stops.

“Are you ready?”

“Of course I am.” You feign a smile. “This will be the deciding factor. If we can win, then we keep going all the way to their capital. There’s no way they’ll be able to do anything. They’ll be at our mercy.”

Yoongi grins with you. “And then we can go home.”

You nod and repeat his words in a whisper.

“We can go home.”

The troops are lined on the hill, soldiers bearing arms and ready to uncover their sheaths. The shades of your country display on the fluttering flags behind you. Han Chul stands by your side, Namjoon at Yoongi’s. The both of them look up at you two, perched on top of horses with the sunlight gleaming downwards. You’re strong, determined and resolute but the others don’t know how your soul has long withered away.

“Fellow comrades!” Your voice booms over the valley. They are all listening. “Never for one second forget why you are fighting.”

A soldier closes his eyes and the image of his daughter laughing is almost tangible in front of him. He resists the urge to run over and embrace her when she calls out ‘Dad! Look at me!’ and twirls in her white dress.

“Never forget those who you love. Never forget those you are protecting. Never forget those who have died.”

Another man can hear the ringing laughter of his best friend. A friend that stood next to him, that laughed and shared tears with. A friend that listened when he revealed his deepest worries and defended him, taking the shots of firing arrows, using his body as a human shield.

“If we die today, know that we die as protectors of our land. For those who can make it...thank you for fighting alongside me. I will never forget you.”

Jimin turns around, watching the shadows of his Lieutenant and General. Instead of feeling intimidation like he once did - he feels protected. There are no better leaders under the sun who he would be happy to die for.

“And always remember that is an honour to fight for one’s nation.”

The other army rises from the mountain top, revealed hundreds of meters across the land. It’s the last inevitable confrontation. There is no escape, nowhere to run to. Your eyes are focused on their flag, the same shades that have burned into your orbs. But then, they travel to the silhouette uptop the horse. You already know who he is. And he’s staring right back at you.

Your gaze never wavers or leaves. General Min Yoongi inhales a huge breath. The soldiers brace themselves.

Your fingers that have once held silk threads and needles, now holds a blade. You are embroidering a history that will mark books in black ink.

“Attack!”

In one simple command, your comrades scream at the top of their lungs as they rush forward. A blizzard of arrows swoop across the horizon and the enemies sprint. Swords clash in the middle as the two seas of men meet like the seams of two fabrics sewn together. It’s barbaric and vicious, a brutality that you will never be immune to.

The horses roar out, galloping ahead and leaping over the corpses, hooves marking into the dirt. Friend or foe, there is no fear. It is the destruction of humankind; a horrific massacre of chaos. The feeling of anguish is ignored when you bring down your blade, causing gashes and ruptures.

Somewhere in the disorder, Chul’s arm is sliced off and with his remaining strength, he runs into a crowd. He closes his lids and thinks about the girl who is waiting for him at home. The girl who promised that would wait for him. The person that he vowed to marry. Chul screams as he knocks down enemies with his body, and he dies upon impact. There aren’t any regrets.

There is mangling of flesh, pummeling down swords and battering skin. Your troops push forward but a stranger beats the leg of your horse with his knife. The creature that your father tended to, cared for and brought you to this place falls with a cry. You fall onto the ground, agility and adrenaline causing you to shift out of the way before your skull is fractured.

“Go!” Jimin kills your attacker, ripping out his sword from the dead body and causing their blood to spray upon his face. You nod your head once, getting to your feet in a blink of an eye and fighting until your last drop of sweat. Jimin watches your back, using his figure as a shield and enduring the pain that carves in him. A tear rolls down his cheek. He thinks about his siblings and his mother, their smiling faces as he crashes onto his knees, the afterlife carrying his soul away.

The sound of choking and strangled screams play like broken recordings, driving you to insanity as you snap bones of terrified people. The last image of their scared eyes printing into yours will never be erased. Your cheeks are splattered in red. The battle ensues.

The scent of death lingers in the air. The ground has become slick in scarlet, the splashing of wounds and deceased. You look up to the mountain top, the flag of your enemy still waving in the wind. But the horses are gone. You come face to face with the man who’s deceived you. The man who embraced you with every dying wish. The man who you lent your heart to.

He is a boy no more than your age. He speaks no words. The rays of the beaming sun pierce your eyes. You can barely make out what you see. His irises are a dark hue of cinnamon, coal locks that sweep his forehead. Sweat drips down the sides of his sculpted face. His lips are parted, soft inhales and exhales releasing between them as his chest heaves. He is the same as when you first laid your eyes upon him, yet, he has aged.

You wonder why he is gazing at you in such a way. It’s softened into adoration and fondness, a reminiscence of an undying yearning. He smiles. His lips upturn and his doe eyes crinkle. Jungkook smiles. And it’s all for you.

“I have to kill you.” “I know. And when you do it, make sure you don’t hesitate.”

You run forward and he rushes towards you. In one movement, your sharp blade pierces into his abdomen. It is effortless, digging into his flesh like it calls for it, and he chokes out blood past the seams of his lips. The two of you topple down onto your knees together. Your own stab wound pulses pain. His hands are seeped in your blood. His sword has sliced through your bones.

The battlefield pauses. The land is silenced.

Jungkook holds you in place, fingers digging deep to hug you tight. This time, he isn’t scared that you’ll slip past his fingertips. Your own hands tremble as you raise them, wrapping around his back. He even has the audacity to chuckle in your ears and you smile, nuzzling into his fleeting warmth.

“Y-you could’ve dodged that.”

“Sa….me wit...h yo..u.”

There are a million things that are left unspoken, but they don’t need to be heard or laid upon tongue to understand. In your entire life, you had never been more content than this very moment.

With your dying last breath - you hum a sweet lullaby your father had taught you long ago.

He walks slowly. He soaks in the image of wooden shacks and makeshifts home of the poor village; the place of your childhood. A group of young children pass by, giggling and throwing several sticks around. They giggle freely to each other without concern, completely free.

“Excuse…” He leans to the side, opening the gate and calling out in a weakened voice. “Excuse me?”

The cane thumps against the ground with each step. Your father whose age is displayed amongst the wrinkles marring his face, the hollows of his cheeks and the constant tremble of his limbs. He appears at the porch, standing out and watching the General. “Who-”

“Min Yoongi. General of the Front Line Troops.” He immediately drops down onto his knees, and he bends his back, bowing to the dirt. His hands shake uncontrollably as he holds back his tears and lifts your helmet high to the sky. “Your daughter, my lieutenant, has brought honour to the country. She has single handedly brought the nation victory with her sacrifices.”

Yoongi’s voice quivers in hurt. Water drips from his eyes to his chin. Your last letter and wooden plaque that’s engraved with your name is put by his side. “I promise that her tale will never die.”

Your father collapses and chokes out sobs. His wrinkled hands grasp around your helmet. Your father has never for a moment, stopped being proud that you were his daughter.

“I can assure you…” Yoongi never ceases to honour your name. “...she has fulfilled her filial duty.”

[Epilogue]

Decades have slipped away. When he opened his eyes and looked into the mirror, his face had so many wrinkles that he couldn’t distinguish who it was anymore. He has creases in his hands and was slow in his movements; a striking difference to the time of his youth, when he was young and strong, agile and nimble. Back then he could carry ten sandbags on his shoulders but now couldn’t even manage a basket.

He was stubborn about his sore back until Hoseok chuckled at him and forced him to use a cane. Now he had to wobble wherever he went. He could barely even keep up with Namjoon’s children. Wasn’t it yesterday that he was meeting the new recruiters and watching their failed attempts? When did he become so old? Yoongi isn't sure.

“Hello! Sir?” A young boy with a boxy grin stands on his tiptoes and looks over the food stand. The retired general stops in his tracks, watching the child. “Have you seen my younger sister and the neighborhood boy?”

“No. I can’t say that I have.” The man shakes his head, “Why?”

“We’re going to see the play! It’s called A Piece of the Moonlight!” The boy’s eyes are glowing of mirth, and he wears a blazing smile, magnetizing people from his energy and chirpy laughter. “But I haven’t seen them at all! We’re going to be late!”

It’s then that two other kids come running, giggling and unrestrained from worries. The boy with cinnamon hued irises and coal coloured locks is being led by a girl, joyful from her bright smile. Their hands are interlaced, palm clasped and small fingers knitted together.

“We’re here!”

“C’mon, hurry up you two before we miss it!” The older child nags and takes off running.

“Hey!” The girl shouts out loud before she laughs, turning around to her companion. “Let’s go.”

Yoongi watches as the three children bearing strong resemblances to the people he once knew disappears. He can’t help but smile to himself, feeling some sort of relief within his being.

The tale is told in front of thousands, a tragedy of love and war that trickles tears from those who lend their ears and eyes. The boy’s hand tightens around the girl’s as they listen.

And the two hearts finally feel peace.

[drinkupthesunrise]

Hi! Wedge has a notebook with rather good pen sketches of everything (he makes them seldom in minutes between battles and duties). Luke occasionally finds it (sorry for mistakes and grammar, it's not my native language). And thank you for your so beautiful fics!

Hello!! This is a delightful prompt and should have been a lovely happy fic to write; it instead delved into drawing-as-a-coping-mechanism for mental health issues. and Luke being supportive. So, I hope you like that? (Also, not kidding about the mental health issues, please tread carefully) (also on ao3)

Wedgeisn’tsure quite where he picked up the habit. He was always known forscribbling in things, over things, doing anything he could to keephis hands busy. When he’d decided that he wanted to be anarchitect, it had turned into a useful study, observing people fromlife, places, things.

Sohe keeps a notebook of flimsi and a real ink-pen in the pocket of hisflightsuit at all times, and he doodles in it when he can. It keepshis hands busy in meetings, at least, when he finds it difficult tostay concentrating and listen no matter how hard he tries. Beforelong, he’sbuilt up a book of sketches of the upper brass, everyone who comes tobrief them. He knows the way their ships are built from observingthem, putting pen to paper and marking out lines and shadows wherethe seams of metal fit, finding a way to represent them cleanly.

.

“How’dyou get away with it?” Hobbie Klivian whispers sharply, when Wedgepulls the notebook out during a briefing and balances it on his kneeto try and capture Jan Dodonna’s serious face.

They’dtold him to stop once, and Wedge had spent a week in briefings beinga constant figit, leg bouncing up and down restlessly, the sound ofhis boot hitting the floor echoing through the briefing room. He’dnot taken in a single word they’d said. A near-miss with twofighters later, and everyone had agreed to rescind the restriction.

LetWedge keep his coping mechanisms, because when they work, they makehim one of the finest pilots the Rebellion has seen yet.

“I’mjust that good,” Wedge replies, like if he says it it will be afact.

.

There’sa boy in this briefing with the most radiant golden hair and stunningvibrant blue eyes, and Wedge’s fingers are itching to draw him. Butthe black ink in his pen would never do this boy justice, and themood in the briefing room is electric enough that Wedge is pulled toattention.

Everyoneknows this is the big one. This is where the Rebellion with stand orfall, and the weight is born on the shoulders of starfighter pilots,on single-man craft. They are the underdogs, and apparently thesolution to beating the Empire’sgreatest weapon is to put a proton torpedo down an exhaust port.

Wedgemanages to get the gist of the briefing, but the boy besides him isdistracting. Wedge finds himself using his eyes to trace the boy’sfeatures, wondering if he can commit them to memory well enough toget the boy down later. It’s never the same as drawing from life,but Wedge isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to capture this boyanyway.

Hesparkles with something more.

.

Inhis grief, Wedge tries to draw everyone who flew that day. He pullsthe pictures from his mind, desperately trying to get it down beforehe forgets how Biggs’mouth used to curve as he smiled, how Piggy’s cheeks wobbled, howDreis’s eyes were strong and worn after years of service. He tearsholes in the paper of his notebook where he tries to get the ink downtoo quick, drawing too fast to try and get these things out of hishead, the faces of the twenty-one pilots who went to their deathsthat fateful day.

Hedoesn’tdraw in meetings any more. The distraction doesn’t work like itused to; now, when he draws, he gets lost in it, lost in his grief.Instead, he dedicates himself to using every ounce of his brain powerto keep his concentration on what’s in front of him, to keep theghosts from bleeding in at the edges of his memory. Luke takes tositting as close to Wedge as he can manage, his entire body lined upby Wedge’s side, giving Wedge something to focus on. He’ll stilltap his hands over anything he can get – he starts making sure hebrings caf to the meetings just so he can play with the mug, drum hisfingers over the sides of it.

Narradrags him aside one day, having noticed Wedge’snervous habits. He asks Wedge if he’s fit to fly. Wedge says he is,without hesitation. Narra gives him a look of complete disbelief,hauls him into the sims for three hours until Wedge vapes him fourtimes in a row.

Heunderstands Narra’sconcern, but flying is the only thing he’s ever done where thereisn’t something eating at the back of his brain. It’sinstinctive. His ship feels like an extension of himself, and hismind is clear, and he can see what he needs to do with a clarity heisn’t blessed with anywhere else in his life.

Hefeels free, up there amongst the stars.

Hisbrain is definitely wired a little differently, he knows that now. Hehas to have a full medical work-up every three months, and see acounsellor every one to retain his flight clearance. He’sconstantly on the edge of having it revoked, of being told that hecan’t fly anymore. If there wasn’t a war on, Wedge doubts he’dbe allowed to fly. He doesn’t tell anyone about it. It’s just whohe is.

Whenthey give Skywalker a squadron, he asks Wedge to be his second.Immediately, the panic starts eating away at Wedge’sbones, but he chokes out a yes. Because he can do this. He standsalongside Luke and Narra in that first briefing that they give, handsbehind his back, a thumb stroking the palm of the other, and suddenlyknows that he can.

.

It’sa lot easier to give a briefing than to listen to one.

Lukeis a brilliant CO who hasn’tthe first clue how to do all the behind the scenes work a squadronrequires; Wedge can do it all but only when he’s reminded andpresented with a list of exactly what needs doing. They findthemselves without the requisite parts, supplies and weapons a coupleof times in those first few months, before they work it out betweenthem.

Wedgepicks up drawing again, though now it’soften as he files datawork, allowing himself five minutes every timehe completes a new task to put a few more lines down. Luke becomeshis favourite subject, often because he’s the only person in theroom when Wedge gets out his pen these days. If he notices Wedgescribbling away, he doesn’t say anything. Luke’s good at that, atknowing when to intervene and when to keep his head out of otherpeople’s business. He’s inexhaustible sunshine, but he knows thatnot everyone wants that all the time.

Wedgelearns Luke, in that time, learns the curl of his hair, the curve ofhis nose, the dimple on his chin. The hollows of his cheeks as theycome into sharp lines as he grows a little older. He’sa pleasure to draw, in every way.

Wedgecatches himself staring. No one else does; Wedge has a reputation fora focused gaze, for holding his eyes on something too long, andeveryone lets it pass on him where they wouldn’tnecessary let it on anyone else. But he’s drawn to Luke, the softsmile he always has on his face, specially for Wedge at the end of along day.

Wedgeprobably shouldn’tbe surprised that one day he can’t quite clamp his impulsivenessdown quickly enough. Kissing Luke is like clear skies after rain,cleansing and beautiful and oh so right.

Lukekisses back.

.

Everythingis fine until it isn’t.

.

Eventually,something always breaks. That’sthe reality of life. Wedge can count the fractures in his life,retrospectively, awareness of them only coming after the fact.

Thisone creeps up on him. He stops sleeping properly, waking up in fitsand starts during the night and then wide awake before his alarm goesoff. That goes unnoticed because everyone else is doing it too. Hedevelops a fit of short temper, but again, half the Rebellion isrunning on a hair trigger, and Wedge is fineas long as he only talks to his squadron and certain members of HighCommand. He’sback to fidgeting, and his pen strokes never land quite the way hewants them too, and the shots he fires don’t either, and his X-Wingfeels clunky in his hands, directionless and aimless.

Thewar isn’tgoing well. It’s turned everything upside down, every person thisway and that. Any semblance of a routine has been thrown out oforder.

Andwith it goes the rest of Wedge’ssanity.

Notthat anyone realises that until they find him, tearing apart hisX-Wing, shredding wires with his bare hands as he tries to dig deeperinto it to fix a single switch that won’tlight up properly. In his frustration, he’s torn away half thecabling that makes his dashboard work in the process, smashed a pieceof glass, and bent several tools out of shape.

He’scursing up a storm and he’s practically vibrating with excessenergy as he tears things apart, pulling out to look for a tool,finding one, smashing it repeatedly into the box before deciding it’ssatisfactory, and returning with it. Luke, Hobbie and Tycho watch,wondering who spirited their friend away in the night and replacedhim with the half-version of himself. “Wedge, are you alright?”Luke asks.

“I’mfine,” Wedge forces out, in perfectly level tones, almost soundinglike himself only he clearly isn’t.

“Wedge,do you want to come out of there? Whatever’s going on one of themechanics can fix it,” Hobbie says. Concern spreads all over hisface; he knows that there’s history with Wedge, something thatmeans commanding officers have a tendency to watch him like a hawk,but he’s never been sure what. But Wedge is clearly not alright. Hedoesn’t respond to Hobbie at all. Hobbie draws back, letting Lukeapproach Wedge, and tells Tycho to go for medical help. This isbeyond them.

“Wedge.”Luke crouches besides him. “Come on. Lets go get breakfast – haveyou had breakfast?”

“Idon’t want breakfast, I want this to work—”Abroken sob enters Wedge’svoice, and Luke puts an arm around Wedge, wanting to help soothe hisfriend, a man he cares for more than that. Wedge throws Luke off,violently, not caring about what hurt he does. Luke furrows his brow.“It doesn’t, and I need it to, cause I can’t fly without it—”Luke doesn’t mention the fact that Wedge’s X-Wing was fit forservice the last time he saw it, and very much is not now. “Whywon’t it work?”

Wedgecollapses into violent, heaving sobs. Luke, wary of how his touch hadbeen taken earlier, is cautious in how he moves, but this time whenhe wraps an arm around Wedge, Wedge falls into the embrace. Luke justholds him, and then slowly removes the tools from his hand, fingersgrazing over all the little cuts Wedge has given himself in his pathto destruction.

Hemanages to help Wedge up. A tall women in her forties with a medicalinsignia on her uniform is standing beside Tycho, her arms crossed.When Wedge looks up at her, he sighs. “Iknow,” he says, before she can say anything. He’s two days offhis standing appointment with her, when all this would have come outeventually.

Sheshakes her head. “Myoffice, now. Skywalker, which of you is Skywalker?” Luke raises hishand, and she nods, like she’s not at all surprised. “You too.”

.

Wedge’scounsellor, who’s name is Dr Elan Monri, has a two-one-bee droidwaiting in her office to clean up all the damage that he’s managedto do to himself. It cleans the cuts on his hands, and bandages theworst ones. Luke sits close to him, still not really understandingwhat’s going on, whilst Dr Monri hauls a reasonably thick flimsifile out of a locked cabinet.

“Wedge,are you back with us?” Dr Monri asks, her voice perfectly calm andlevel. Her chair is pulled out in front of her desk. Luke and Wedgeshare a sofa that runs along one wall of her office. Wedge nods.“First things first; I’m revoking your flight clearance.”

“Ifigured.” Wedge is surprisingly accepting of that fact; given whatLuke saw, he thought for sure his friend would rail against it. “AmI off active duty as well?”

“Notyet. A repeat of an incident like this morning’s, and it will beconsidered.”

“Excuseme—” Luke butts in. He thinks he probably shouldn’t, but he’sconfused about this entire situation. “Look, Wedge, sorry, this isawkward, but as your CO I have to know – when can he have hisflight clearance back?”

“Whenhe’s gone four weeks incident-free, and not a moment before,” DrMonri replies. “And I’ve signed off on it. I suspect we arelooking at six-to-eight weeks. Wedge?”

“Thatsounds about right.” He sighs. “Sorry Luke. It’s for everyone’ssafety.” Wedge is fidgeting with his hands again, picking at hisnails, and Elan picks a piece of flimsi and a stylus off her desk andhands it to him, and then gives him a book to lean on. He glances atLuke and then starts putting marks to paper.

It’sabundantly clear that he’s drawing Luke, and Luke just looks onmystified. “Actually, Luke – I do need to speak to you, but wouldit be possible for you to swing by later? I think Wedge and I need totalk first.”

“Yeah,sure.” Luke stands up. He clasps a hand on Wedge’s shoulder.“Stay safe, okay. I’ll see you later.”

Wedgedraws on, barely cognisant of Luke’spresence. As Luke leaves, door falling closed behind him, he hears DrMonri say, “Are you sure you don’t want to take that medicaldischarge?”

.

Wedgemight not be able to fly, but that doesn’tstop him from being an active participant in every other part ofsquadron life. Dr Monri had explained to Luke that the most importantthing he can do is to keep a routine for Wedge, make sure he sleepsand eats properly, so Luke attempts to keep the squadron on schedulefor the first time in its life.

It’ssurprisingly hard, but easier after the first week, when everyone’sgetting on board and used to it; drills at oh-eight-hundred hours,patrol from twelve-hundred to eighteen-hundred. It won’t lastforever; the life of a fighter pilot is unpredictable at best. ButLuke watches Wedge closely these days, and he seems better for it.

Wedgeis still not the best at taking care of himself, so Luke findshimself dragging his friend out of their shared office when he findsWedge still in there working, long past the time they’dagreed everyone should stop.

“Haveyou eaten?” Luke asks, well aware he’s sounding like a mother henbut not trusting for a second that Wedge has. A shake of the headconfirms Luke’s suspicions. “To the mess hall with you, then.”

“No,”Wedge says, and Luke stops. “Urgh. Sorry. No, food is okay, but Ican’t face the place.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Fuck.I’m sorry Luke.”

“Hey.”Luke leans over to take Wedge’s hand, pull it away from where he’sdangerously close to tearing his own hair out. “I’ll go getsomething for you. And you can eat in our quarters. How about that?Sound manageable?”

Wedgeconsiders it for a moment. “Yeah.I can do that. If you would do that for me.”

Lukereally doesn’tmind; he hates seeing Wedge like this, and will happily do anythinghe can to help Wedge out. Dr Monri had made it quite clear that therewas no miracle cure, no amount of therapy or medication that wouldever make Wedge ‘normal’, that he’d always be managing thisthing, but there was a lot they could all do to help mitigate hissymptoms.

Sohe fetches some food, and returns to find Wedge sitting on his bed,cross-legged, a notebook on his knee and a pen in hand. Wedge flickshis eyes up when the door opens, and drops the pen and moves thenotebook to take the tray off Luke. Luke settles down beside hisfriend. He picks up the discarded notebook. “Mindif I have a look?” he asks.

“Goahead.”

Lukeopens the book. He’sseen Wedge drawing a lot, it’s something he does – a copingmechanism, Luke now understands. But he had no idea that Wedge wasactually any good. Luke’s own likeness stares back at him,bright-eyed and intense; on another page, Hobbie, Wes and Tycho jumpout at him. There’s technical drawings of X-Wings and Y-Wings andA-Wings, helmet designs that Luke recognises. A page of just hands inmotion. And Luke. More of Luke. From every angle, in about everyoutfit Luke owns. “You’re good,” Luke gasps. “Really good. DoI really look like that?” He finds himself resting on a portrait ofhim, with a soft smile, that Wedge seems to have taken a little moretime over than some of the other sketches in this book.

“Tome, you do.” Wedge uses his fork to gesture at his footlocker.“There’s more in there, if you want to look. This is just themost recent.”

Lukefinds half a dozen notebooks stashed there. He lifts them out andcarefully flicks through them. It’spossible to date them just from the faces that appear in them, peoplewho are long dead. He has to stifle a sob when Biggs turns up; ittakes Wedge a few tries, but he manages to capture Biggs’s wrysmile with a deftness that makes Luke ache for the loss of Biggs. Andthen Luke shows up again, again and again and again, Wedge clearlydetermined to work out his face, how to try and capture his spirit.

“Youdraw me a lot,” Luke comments.

WhenWedge doesn’treply, Luke lifts his eyes and finds Wedge blushing.

“Ilike it,” Luke says. “Though I still think you might have takenliberties with how pretty I am.”

“Notat all.”

Lukeleans across and kisses Wedge. It’shardly the first time he’s done that. But this time it’s backedup with quiet desire, and a want for more,because this beautiful man is battling so much and still, stilldoesn’tknow how wonderful he is.

.

Wedgegets his flight clearance back seven weeks and two days after hisincident in the hangar.

Luketakes him out, just the pair of them in their X-Wings, to check thatWedge’sflying skills are up to scratch; it’s pretty clear that they are,but Luke has them stay out for the full length of their allottedtime, playing around and having fun under the guise of testing everypart of Wedge’s flying skill.

He’smindful of how Wedge said that flying helps, that it clears his brainand for those moments, it feels like he’s normal.

Whenthey return, Wedge is exuberant with joy and twirls Luke around in anembrace, whilst the rest of the squadron converge and envelop themboth in a group hug, glad to have Wedge back.

.

They’reall better about managing Wedge, these days. It’s a collectiveeffort, one that Luke spearheads but is backed up by the rest ofRogue Flight. Wedge’s bad days are spotted and dealt with beforethey blow up to become issues. He’s still antsy sometimes, butTycho will tug him off to the gym to run laps, or Wes will take himfor target practice. When his brain won’t stop replaying hismistakes, Hobbie will sit with him and talk about the good old times,when they were just kids trying to do what they could for theRebellion.

AndLuke? Luke is besides Wedge in all things, these days.

Thatmeans giving him space sometimes, and picking him up and refusing tolet him wallow at others. Luke learns Wedge’shiding places, and how to tuck in there with him and just hold himwhilst Wedge watches the world go by. He’ll drag Wedge away fromhis work and back to bed, redirect Wedge’s intensity onto pleasingLuke and then echoing it back up at him.

Itturns out that sex is a good way to break Wedge out of his worstmoments, and that works for both of them.

Lukeholds Wedge as they fall asleep, comforted by each other. Wedgeusually wakes first, and Luke becomes accustomed to waking to thescratching of Wedge’spen, Wedge finding a new angle to draw Luke from, another piece ofhim that he hasn’t studied in detail.

(There’san entire separate notebook that isn’t fit for public consumptionthese days.)

Hestill has bad days; he’llalways have bad days. But he works through them. He’s got people toturn too, knows how to fight, and when he needs to just step awayfrom it all.

Whenthe war is over, maybe he’llhave a chance to live a normal life. The cost of freedom for thegalaxy, though, is a price Wedge thinks is worth paying. He’llsoldier on through the bad times. One day, it’ll be worth it.

[thecauldroncake]

Only Hope (A Bucky Barnes One Shot)

Fandom: Marvel’s The Avengers

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warning/s: Mentions of death; kinda angsty?

Word Count: 2,566

A/N: Hi! So this is my first ever posted Bucky Barnes one shot! Hope ya’ll like it!

  Against the one-way looking glass holding you from the outside world are your frequent visitors.

 Spearheaded by the in-charge on your recovery are obviously Tony, Banner and Vision, with them are the whole gang, who came to see you for the first time in three years, including your boyfriend Bucky.

 The moment the team dispatched in Siberia received the news about Tony finally having the solution to your problem, they immediately halted the operations. With Bucky on the team, they know he needs to be back ASAP and for the rest to see you again & give whatever support Bucky needs for this whole ordeal.

 “Buck,” Steve croaked from the back. “just go to her.” He barely managed to whisper.

 “What if she-- I can’t, Steve.” Bucky look back from Steve to you, watching you singing your favorite song.

 “Her brain activity is getting better.” Bruce commented as he fiddles on the hologram diagnosis he has in front of him before looking directly to Bucky. “A push might be needed, Barnes. If we want her to remember us and recover faster.”

 “I know what you’re thinking, Sergeant. But what about her?” Vision reasoned as he floated towards the glass wall and looks at you. “She’s dying to know who she really is.”

 Bucky looked at the rest of the group before landing his eyes on Tony’s. Tony, of all people, is the one helping the two of you, despite their differences and past. “May I?” Bucky pleaded.

 “She needs you more than ever, Frosty.” Tony nodded his head towards the door that’ll give him access to your holding room.

Upon the sound of the creaking door, the man whom beholds it is a new sight; or is he? There’s a sense of familiarity that you can’t deny but the specifics are something you can’t decipher just yet.

“Hi.” You started. His eyes are bright blue that digs deep into your soul. You can see him getting anxious and doubtful about his actions. “If you’re a friend of the three musketeers, I’m sorry to say that I’m gonna blindly trust you.” You smiled at him.

 Bucky can feel the butterflies in his stomach awaken, something that haven’t happened for the past three years. He opted for a gentle tight-lipped smile, not wanting to scare you, especially not when you don’t have any idea who he actually is. “Three musketeers?” He gently snickered at your remarks.

 “The soft speaking doctor, the guy with facial hair and just can’t stop talking for some reasons--”

 “What the?” Bucky heard Tony whine while the other laugh from the other side.

 “and the red... guy.” Your brows furrowed in frustration thinking about whatever the hell do you actually call Vision. “But they’re all nice and they’re practically all I know for now.” You stood up from your bed and walk towards him. It was until you’re mere inches from him, when his scent started to cloud your consciousness and his body heat began radiating towards you that you stop. It’s all too familiar and your body starts to crave for more meanwhile your mind is still blank.

 “I’m Y/N. I know you know it. And you are?” You hold out your hand.

 “James Buchanan Barnes.” He lightly shook your hand, the interaction jolted electricity in the entirety of Bucky and he can’t help but flash a beam of smile. “You can call me Bucky.” Your real first meeting is a total opposite of this.

  You see Tony as an older brother figure and have stood alongside him despite knowing about his crazy antics and the fact that most of the time it gets onto you. When Cap and his team gets to settle their differences with Tony’s, mini-chaos ensues as some still has reservations regarding the reassembly of the team, including you and Bucky. Nonetheless, the team can’t care to deny that this mini-fights you and Bucky had has something more than hate. If anything, it was the exact opposite of hate and they all saw right through it.

 Fast forward to the time when hate turns to love. You and Bucky had your ups and downs. Him being overprotective with you, with all due reasons; and you being reckless and stubborn, all in the name of doing your job perfectly as an Avenger. Due to these reasons, things get more heated and the team knows they can’t meddle into it. Nonetheless, you both made it together. But as they say, the worst is yet to come.

 You were held hostage by Hydra when the mission went terribly wrong, thanks to the Hydra-planted intel that reached the team. With you in their hands, yo know you won’t last a day idle as Hydra is infamous into making use of all the opportunity they have to turn the tables over, and having a mutant Avenger is an absolute prize.

 They hurry on concocting the supersoldier serum you knew they used on Bucky, wanting you to enhance your performance more than you can imagine and deliver Hydra more successes as soon as possible. They were as excited as those teenagers’ during their first prom night, thinking very highly of themselves, they injected the serum into you in no time.

 All for it to be wasted.

 To put it into simple English, it failed terribly. You’re dying and Hydra can’t afford to waste their resources on you again. They dumped you like a pig for slaughter in the cold Siberian forest to die and made sure to abandon the said laboratory knowing that the Avengers are going to comb the whole area for you. Thank God Hydra was right.

 You can still remember the horror in their faces, especially Bucky's, when they saw you just few kilometers from the Hydra base. You’re as pale as ice and your skin is getting frost bites. The team immediately called for the headquarter to prepare for medical emergency situation and let Banner lead it from the quinjet down to the operating room back in New York.

 Banner, Stark and the rest of the medical team of the Avengers did all they can do to nurse you to health as the others waited outside chanting prayers of mercy for your life to be saved, only to be devastatingly blasted by the laboratory results when it was delivered.

 “The serum Hydra gave her is eating up her entirety and therefore is killing her rapidly, instead of making her stronger. It makes her weaker until she’s just an empty shell.”

 Everyone looked at Bucky.

 Bucky never cared for anyone this intense other than Steve. He thought he would never love and care for anyone as much as he did for his family and Steve, his best friend for ninety years and yet here you are, breaking his strong facade.

 He put his face in his both palm as his elbows rest on the table in front of him. At first all they can hear are deep breathes, then they became faint sobs, until it become an all-out cry for mercy. Everyone was crying by that moment; Vision swore he also did.

 Was he being punished? Are your sufferings his supposed punishments for all the innocent blood he shed under the guise and mind of the infamous Winter Soldier? If it is, he can’t forgive himself, Bucky thought.

 “Buck--” Steve ran for Bucky as the latter sped out of the room and follows him until he reaches your bedroom door.

 You and Bucky preferred to stay at his bedroom together, but you insisted on keeping your room as it is. You love having a space for yourself as you grew up living on the streets after your relatives cursed your mere existence to death and insists you’re a freak. Bucky respected this decision of yours but once in a while he’ll innocently insists you to just settle on his place, like married couple does, as he always says.

 But now at least he sees its purpose. The room shouts the entirety of you. Not you as his girlfriend or as an Avenger, but you being you. Your favorite books, CDs and board games are neatly placed in the rack. Some memorabilia of your parents in heaven, every little detail there is to see screams of you. All Bucky can think of doing is to sit on the edge of your bed, letting his flesh arm feel the softness of your bed.

 “Buck, there must be a way.” Steve walked silently towards his broken friend. He had always regarded him as broken after he knew about his past with Hydra, but this is a new and worse blow than that. It’s like losing everything all over again just right after you’ve settled down and expected it to last longer.

 “Is there?” Bucky asked, his voice voids all hope.

 “There must be.” The two supersoldiers looked up, it was Tony. “We’ll try our best, Barnes. She’s like a lil sis to me.” Tony looked down, trying to hide the fact that he’s actually thinking about how to say the things in his mind, as he usually don’t do that. “But you’ll need to give us more time.” He quietly added.

 Bucky mockingly chuckled.

 “Time?! Time!” Bucky stood up from the bed and pace in the space between Tony and the bed. “She’s dying! I don’t know how much science-y time do we have but if she’s dying--” He paused, feeling the gravity of the situation rise from his throat as he continues what he was about to say. “rapidly, what kind of time do we have?!” He frustratingly hissed against the billionaire.

 “The cryo will do.” Tony’s eyes stares with conviction against Bucky’s orbs. “I’m not asking your permission, she’s important to me as she is to you and I want to save her.” Tony turned his back and was about to leave when Bucky called him out.

 “I trust you, Tony.” He sighed. “You, Banner, the others... I’m sorry about how I reacted.” Tony looked back at Bucky, waiting for him to finish his mini-speech. “Please save her.”

 “You know we’ll do our best.” With that, Tony left.

 The rigorous journey to finding a cure for you turns days into weeks into months and years. Now, they can all hear your lively voice. Your eyes are full of life. Your hands started to display your powers back: controlling water. This is you, but not the entirety of it.

  Day after day Bucky visits you and the ambiance becomes better every single time. You get to know things about him and you as well. He supplies you with things you used to love and adore. He even gets permission from whoever is in-charge of you to go out, and by go out that is going to parks and malls. You also get to learn how great of a cuddler the man is. Days with Bucky were never dull.

 But it was never peaceful either.

 Once in a while you'll get flashbacks. At first you were excited, but whenever you see Bucky's reaction to you zoning out, his brows were furrowed and you can't help but think of him being disappointed, or worse, mad. You kept all the flashbacks to yourself. It was tolerable to begin with, but now you're getting ordeals with it.

 You woke up with beads of sweat forming from your forehead and drenching your tshirt. You held your left chest trying to calm your furiously beating heart before asking FRIDAY to open the dim lights and reach for the water by the nightstand.

 Luckily to you, everyone decided to leave open your holding room. The team thought that by giving you that much trust you will also trust them as much, which they weren't wrong.

 You quietly walked towards the elevator and pressed the up button. Upon entering, you pushed the button with a gleaming number 5 on it and let it deliver you to your destination.

 Your body moved by itself and find yourself in front of a door beside Bucky's room. You rest your hand on it, trying to familiarize it, before pushing it open.

 The first thing you saw is the piano. Tony gave it to you as a gift for your first mission. Like Peter, he spoils you like a sister-that-he-never-had.

 You pressed the piano keys softly with the pads of your fingers and your mind directs it to orchestrate the melody of your favorite song: Only Hope.

  There's a song that's inside of my soul

It's the one that I've tried to write over and over again

I'm awake in the infinite cold

But you sing to me over and over and over again

 You were so engrossed you haven't noticed the figure standing by your doorstep. He never imagined seeing you there but nonetheless a ghost of his smile rests on his lips unfaltering.

 So I lay my head back down

And I lift my hands

and pray to be only yours

I pray to be only yours

I know now you're my only hope

 Things are running into circle but you focused on the melody you want to play the piano with.

 Sing to me the song of the stars

Of your galaxy dancing and laughing

and laughing again

When it feels like my dreams are so far

Sing to me of the plans that you have for me over again

 He badly wants to hold you but the sight in front of him is too much to behold. It was nothing but precious.

 So I lay my head back down

And I lift my hands and pray

To be only yours

I pray to be only yours

I know now you're my only hope

 Flashback mists your vision but you fought yourself by focusing on playing the keyboard. You continued but your voice is starting to break with sobs.

 I give you my destiny

I'm giving you all of me

I want your symphony

Singing in all that I am

At the top of my lungs I'm giving it back

 You can't continue singing but you didn't let go of the melody, but someone carries over.

 So I lay my head back down

And I lift my hands and pray

 It was Bucky.

You had a sad smile against the tears rushing to your cheeks.

 To be only yours, I pray

 "Am I still your doll, Sergeant?" You asked him as if it was the worst thing ever. Your head hangs low and your blurry eyes can only make the color of the keyboard in front of you.

 To be only yours, I pray

 He looked at you while he sings, sending you the message of the song.

 To be only yours I know now you're my only hope.

 You finished the song and you shifted looking towards him. You can see him fidgeting as his flesh hand pulls something from the pocket of his sweatpants.

 "To be only yours, I pray, doll." He bended his one knee and opened the red velvet ring box harboring a diamond ring.

 "You're my only love, Buck."

 "And you'll always be my doll, my love." He kissed the crown of your head, the tip of your nose, before putting the ring on your left ring finger and pulling you into a kiss. A kiss which was his only hope to feel alive again.

[terresdebrumestories]

With what we have

✗ TECHNICAL DETAILS

FANDOM: Voltron: Legendary defenders RATING: Teen & Up WORDCOUNT: 14 823 words PAIRING(S): - CHARACTER(S): Takashi Shirogane, Keith Kogane, Lance McClain, Hunk Garett, Pidge Gunderson/Katie Holt, Allura, Coran, Ulaz. GENRE: Character exploration. TRIGGER WARNING(S): Canon level discussions of genocide, war and violence. Shiro comes close to a panic attack at one point, but the rest is more hinted at than outright described. SUMMARY: In which Ulaz doesn’t die, and some conversations happen sooner than they would have as a result. NOTE: I This fic takes place right after the end of Shiro’s escape. Everything up to that point happened the same as in canon, except for the bit where the Blade of Marmora uses code names because really, it’s basic spy stuff.

“He’s...gone.”

The words ring hollow in Shiro’s chest, purple void tugging at his ribs a little harder with every heartbeat, and it takes effort to stay upright even as the reality of the loss strikes him at the knees. Doc wasn’t much: he didn’t have all the answers or a ready-made solution for the team’s troubles, but he was something. If nothing else, he was a spark of hope, and that alone is hard to lose.

Behind him, Shiro hears Keith’s jacket creak as he shuffles from one foot to the other, and the wish to turn around and reassure the kid burns like fire against his spine. Shiro wants to smile and say he’ll be fine, to go back to his team and be the leader they need. He wants to tell them all he trusts Coran and Allura’s judgment and mean it.

Then again, he also wants his right arm back and his hair black and his face scar free.

“I’m sorry we doubted him,” Keith manages at last, the catch in his voice almost unbearable in its vulnerability, “he saved all our lives.”

The hole in the xanthorium cluster is still here. It floats by at a lazy pace, tearing into Shiro’s hopes like a knife in paper and bringing the red and purple light of Galra ships into the edge of his vision. Even the Galra hand hangs at his side, limp, heavy and useless. There are shards of glass in his throat when he swallows.

“I still have so many questions….”

Galra machinery is too precise to click as the fingers curl into a fist. He pretends he can hear it anyway, the sound easier to deal with than a pained yelp, a gasp, and the hiss of terror in his own voice as he tries to get one last word in, fingers digging into his shoulders—

“Do you think Zarkon is really tracking us?”

Shiro blinks the world back into focus just as the translator on his left ear beeps to announce one of the Alteans is about to speak.

“We cannot know for sure,” Allura says as she walks up to her spot at the helm of the ship, “only ‘Doc’ knew our whereabouts.”

Shiro turns too fast to remember moving. His left palm hurts.

“You don’t really think he gave us up? After he sacrificed himself?”

“Yeah,” Keith adds, “Maybe Zarkon found this place on his own. He’s probably been searching for the Blade of Marmora.”

Shiro glances at the set of Keith’s shoulders, the rigidity of his stance where he planted himself between him and Allura, and he wishes he could feel grateful for it. Instead of that, he’s almost swept off his feet by the urge to leave, lock himself in his room and forget everyone exists for a moment...just the one. Just a minute where there are no Lions of Voltron, no Paladins, no friends of his going through who knows what kind of horrors in the darkest recesses of the universe.

That would help, maybe, and he’s on the verge of giving up on this argument and call it quits when Allura steps into her pod, face set, and says:

“It’s clear the loss of this ‘Doc’ has caused you great concern but—”

“He’s still alive!” Pidge’s voice bursts through the emergency speakers.

Somewhere, very far in the back of his mind, Shiro thinks he hears Coran protest against tinkering with the emergency communication lines. There’s an air of shocked surprise around him, too, but he’s in the corridors before he can process it in full, helmet slipping in place with the ease of practice.

“I’m on my way to the Black Lion,” he announces, echoes of his voice bouncing back at him through the empty halls, “send me what you’ve got.”

“You got it,” Pidge says with a familiar shiver in her tone, “he must have found a way to delay the space pocket and evacuated his ship—his readings are really weak, Shiro.”

“Just make sure there’s a recovery tank and a stretcher ready when I come back, I’ll take care of the rest.”

Getting Doc back in the castle takes a thousand years and no time at all. One second Shiro’s in the elevator to get Black, the next he’s watching the recovery tank close over Doc’s prone form and trying not to remember the sound of a body folding metal.

After that, there’s nothing left to do but wait.

***

For three days, Shiro moves from one place to the other with no memory of walking. He must keep up with his chores, somehow, because no one complains about late laundry and there’s no trace of settling dust over the Black Lion, but there’s no memory to it, no real sensation of having done any of it. Chores vanish into thin air with a faint smell of detergent and meals pass by in the blink of an eye, leaving a vague aftertaste of goo and not much else.

The rest of it leaves his memory without a trace, the same way his year in the Galra empire left him with nothing but phantom pains in his right arm and a purple haze to light the shapeless terrors of his nights. There are flashes, sometimes. Pidge, sitting next to him, talking...about her family, maybe. Coran fretting over the tank, Hunk with a plate of food. Keith, quiet and worried somewhere nearby. Lance, as far as Shiro can retain the memory, stays silent.

Allura remains in Command and the associated level.

Shiro, he’s fairly sure, doesn’t look for her.

***

Shiro’s translator beeps off and back on again with grating regularity, struggling to keep up with Pidge and Coran’s rapid-fire debate over the recovery tank, like the two of them are so in sync they don’t even need to rely on actual language anymore. It’s probably a good thing, in itself, because the translators may have done a wonderful job of picking up English in the past few months but there are still times when they’re not quite up to par with actually learning a language.

There are times when Shiro’s fizzles out entirely, stumbling over a word no one’s used in English yet, and he has to ask for clarifications until he can make an educated guess on the missing item. Those are the easy gaps. Other times, it’s a problem in concept: an object or an unspoken space rule science-fiction didn’t prepare the Terrans for, and then they have to sit around the table and talk around if for hours on end before they can decide which English words to mash together and wrestle into something entirely new.

(Shiro suspects Coran and Allura have the same difficulties, sometimes, but at least there’s only two of them. The debates are probably less heated in their linguistic corner.)

And of course, there’s no preventing those moments when both party hear the same words but don’t quite give them the same meaning. It’s not an exclusive feature of Altean-Terran communication, really, the difficulties they’ve all had in getting used to one another’s habits is proof enough of that, but the difference in language doesn’t help any of it, and they’ve had more than one close call where Shiro found himself smoothing down far more feathers than he’d ever have anticipated.

All of that in a group explicitly made of friend and allies. What’s it going to be like once Doc walks among them? It’s not like Shiro will be in much of a state to help anyone wind down, after all, and at least one member of Team Voltron is pretty dead set in hating the man no matter what. If he can’t find a way to keep things down somehow….

“You know it’s gonna be fine, right?”

Shiro doesn’t jump at Hunk’s words, but it’s a close call. For someone his size, the kid can certainly move unnoticed which, really, should teach Shiro a lesson about his expectations of fat people and their physical abilities. Right now though, he tries to focus on Hunk’s sympathetic smile over the sound of Coran’s clicking Altean and the occasional burst of Pidge’s colorful Italian vocabulary.

“I know,” he tells Hunk, even though it’s more of a hope than a certitude, “but I’d like to try and avoid the bumps in the road, and I don’t know if that’s going to be possible.”

Hunk taps at his translator with a definite air of commiseration, and Shiro swallows around the worried grimace he wishes he could share with someone. He doesn’t have a problem with the team per se. They’re all driven, well-meaning, and disciplined enough to rally together when the time calls for it...it’s just that, with Coran’s exception, they’re also all teenagers, with Allura’s nineteen years making her the oldest one.

Sometimes it’s hard not to miss the company of Terran adults, especially when the ones Shiro needs to see the most are currently painfully unavailable.

“If it makes anything better,” Hunk offers with a contrite expression, “you know you’ve got at least three of us on your side.”

“Three?”

Pidge and Keith will definitely try and welcome Doc into the ranks, Shiro has no doubt of that. He’s their best lead to Matt and Samuel’s whereabouts, and Keith has already said he regretted doubting the man. Shiro isn’t nearly modest enough to pretend it has nothing to do with Keith’s intense brand of loyalty, but it still means he’ll make effort and that, in itself, is a relief.

Hunk’s support, while appreciated, is more of a surprise.

“Allura hates his guts,” Hunk elaborates with an uncomfortable shrug, “I get why but I’m not sure it’ll help making the cohabitation easier. I’m not promising to be like, buddy-buddies with him, but I’ll be polite, at least. I just hope the translators have enough vocabulary to understand things that aren’t mostly war-related.”

“Oh, don’t you worry your little mind, Number Four!” Coran pipes up as the healing tank beeps to announce the end of a cycle, “if it comes down to it, words won’t be necessary to get informations out of him.”

“Hey, are you talking about sticking him in a pod to steal his memories?” Lance asks from where he’s sitting nearby. “‘Cause the last time we tried that I almost got vented out the airlock!”

“An inconvenient development,” Coran concedes with a nod, “but Number Five and I have since rearranged the pods in a closed circuits, we’ll just have to scan for viruses and—”

“No one is getting in a memory pod,” Shiro interrupts through the roar of blood in his ears and the rushing of his heart, “Doc cooperated with us up until now. If there’s a misunderstanding we’ll solve it.”

They should never have done it in the first place. There are many things to say about tearing information directly out of somebody’s brain and none of them are pretty. Matt, if he’d been here, would have had a lot of Italian for them when they suggested the idea, and Matt’s Italian generally doesn’t come out for nice things.

Plus, if Shiro never sees anyone sent out to a slow, suffocating death because he was too weak not to freak out again, it’ll be too soon. No pod is most definitely a better idea.

“Alright,” Coran agrees, surprising the rest of them with his easy shrug.

He’s about to say something else, Shiro thinks, when the healing tank finally swishes open. The Galra hand’s fingertips click against its palm when they move too fast and, to Shiro’s right, a quiet shuffle of boots signals Allura’s presence with more impact than a shout would.

He doesn’t feel guilty enough about feeding the distance in their rank not to put himself between her and a slowly blinking Galra, just in case.

Doc’s confused frown doesn’t even last a second, if that, but it’s more than enough for Shiro’s heart rate to pick up and a sheen of sweat break out all over his body. Shiro steels his spine against the urge to flee and makes himself look the man in the eyes, greet him with as even a voice as he can possibly manage.

“I must confess,” Doc breathes out as he takes his tank-appropriate garments in, “I did not actually expect to wake up.”

The silk soft tones of Galra drift through the air and into Shiro’s ear, weaving themselves in the more familiar mechanics of the translator’s artificial words. It brushes against his soul like spider net in the middle of the woods, catches him by surprise and makes Shiro wish he could just stuff his ears and be done with it, but he can’t.

He and Pidge are the only ones who actively want Doc in the ranks, and it wouldn’t do for a leader to leave at that delicate a time anyway. Besides, as bad as it may sound, he doesn’t really trust Coran to herd a group of teenagers on the right path...meaning he’s stuck here, making conversation.

Oh well. It’s hardly the first time he does something he’d rather not be doing.

He waits until Doc accepts a spare translator from Pidge and fits it over his left ear with a dubious expression before he says:

“In all honesty, we weren’t sure you’d wake up either, but Pidge and Coran can work miracles with the tanks.”

“Well, I’d give my life for our cause any day, but I can’t say I am disappointed to live longer.”

Behind him, Shiro feels Allura tense at the words, and he thanks the princess’ diplomatic training for her silence even as he hurries to steer Doc toward the room their prepared for him.

It’s under surveillance, it’s true. Allura insisted on it and Coran, as usual, took her side without question. Aside from that, though, it’s mostly the same as the Paladins’: a bed and a wardrobe to the left, a desk and a wide bookshelf to the right. Shiro has no idea who got the three parchment rolls out of the library, but he’s glad for it. At least someone made a bit of an effort.

“My room’s next door,” he tells Doc once the man’s had time to take the space in, “in case you need anything. Or you can ask the others, of course, we’re all—”

“Not to sound ungrateful,” Doc interrupts with a small smirk, “but it seems to me like ‘all’ isn’t quite the right word here.”

Shiro’s lips pinch together out of reflex more than anything else, but Doc doesn’t seem to mind too much. It’s a good thing, too, because Shiro may disapprove of Allura’s attitude but she’s his teammate and his leader. If he’s forced to chose between her and Doc, he know where his loyalties lie.

There’s a short pause, and then Doc asks:

“Does my voice bother you?”

Shiro blinks, flinches in a way that doesn’t have enough to do with surprise for his taste, and stands there without quite knowing what to say.

“It seems to me like it does.”

It takes effort not to step back when Doc steps forward with an appraising gaze, the Galra hand twitching into a defensive posture before Shiro realizes what’s going on. To the left, his own arm seems mostly lifeless, and there are razor blade in his throat when he manages:

“It’s not you, it’s—the words.”

They glide out of Doc’s mouth like water, trickling down Shiro’s spine no matter how hard he tries not to hear them. They’re softer than any language he knows, full of vowels and wind-like whispers, and they settle over his heart like poison, always a beat ahead of the translators’ droning tones.

Of all the things he’s forgotten in the past year-and-some, this is is the part he dreads the most.

“Of course,” Doc replies, lowering his voice like it’s going to help with Shiro’s problem, “I assumed your crew had removed it, but I suppose they don’t know enough about your anatomy to operate safely.”

Somehow, Shiro manages to blink through the ice in his veins.

“What do you mean? What’s there to remove?”

Doc frowns again, the movement enough to make the Galra hand twitch, but it’s gone just as soon and he doesn’t sound disturbed at all when he says:

“Zarkon’s empire cares little for those who do not speak Daibazeel, and new slaves are generally fitted with neuronal implants that allows them to bypass the learning phase. You had no difficulty using the language when we first met.”

There must be some kind of airlock in Shiro’s lungs, a trap of some kind that’s stuck open because between one second and the next it’s like he can’t get enough oxygen inside, blood withdrawing from his fingers until they tingle, and it takes Doc’s hand between his shoulder blades for him to realize he’s bent over and seconds away from feeling sick.

“Deep breathing,” Doc reminds him, “it’ll come back, just keep breathing.”

There’s nothing to do but comply here, and at least the early attention makes it easier for Shiro to get back into a normal breathing, but the attack still leaves him as worn out as an intense marathon session, with far more questions floating in his head than before. Zarkon’s doctors took his arm and tinkered with his brain, what else did they do? It’s not like ethics stop them—what if Shiro lost even more of himself than he thought? What if he’s condemned to spend the rest of his life finding new things to miss, new reasons to mourn and—

“Shiro, you are panicking again,” Doc warns.

Shiro squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to remember the breathing exercises he learned from Sam. ‘Just because you don’t see the problem about flying in a sardine box doesn’t mean they can’t be useful to you one day’ he said when he first suggested sharing his knowledge. Ha. If they’d only known.

“I’m fine,” he says once he’s done and back in control of his own body. Then, because Doc doesn’t seem convinced: “I’m functional. Sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it. I wasn’t too happy about the implant either, and the Blade had warned me about it.”

“Wait,” Shiro starts, latching on the new topic like his life depends on it, “you mean you were in contact with the Blade of Marmora before you joined Zarkon’s army?”

“Of course. Nothing else could have gotten me to work for that man otherwise.”

A moment passes where Shiro tries to reconcile what he just learned with his image of Galras...it’s not an easy feat. Allura is more open and aggressive about her issues than he is, but he’s still aware enough to realize he’s not very fond of Galras in general. Heaven knows the sight of purple fur is enough to get his heart racing, and if he’s really honest with himself he can admit that, up until now, he’s mostly pictured the Galras as unanimously falling in line with their leader until a small minority of them realized the error of their ways and started fighting back.

It’s stupid, really, to think this way when faced with a ten thousand years old empire that spans about ninety-five percent of the known universe, but then it’s not like human brains are incapable of irrationality.

“Sorry,” Shiro says when it becomes clear Doc guessed where his surprised came from, “I—”

“Oh, you’re hardly the only one,” Doc replies with a shrug, “and you do a very acceptable job of moving past that...but perhaps this is a conversation best postponed until we can calibrate your translators to accommodate my birth language and spare you the sounds of Daibazeel.”

***

“What am I looking for again?” Pidge asks, fingers flying over the keyboard with incredible speed.

Between the glasses and the haircut, she looks almost exactly like Matt, although knowing him he’d probably make a point of highlighting their height difference. Still, if it weren’t for the voice, Shiro could almost confuse them, and the sight of Pidge in that state of intense concentration hollows something in his chest...or reveals it, rather. Like a manhole you forget and fail to notice until the beam of your flashlight brushes over it and suddenly the void is all you can think about.

Shiro looks away before Matt’s voice can crawl back into his ears.

“A translator calibration form,” Doc repeats from a few feet away, just far enough to let Hunk see he’s not trying to spy, “I’m not sure what shape it’ll take, given how ancient the technology around here is—”

“Hey, that castle got us out of more than one scrap with Zarkon!” Hunk protests, a protective hand resting on the wall next to him, “Don’t trash-talk it!”

“I was not trying to ‘trash talk’,” Doc says, hesitating on the English words, “this castle is as old as Zarkon’s empire. It is a miracle you haven’t been defeated yet.”

“Let’s not fight about that,” Shiro intervenes when it looks like Hunk is going to try and keep defending the castle’s honor, “we’re trying to accomplish something here.”

“Right,” Doc agrees while Hunk flushes crimson and mumbles apologies, “if the forms look like what we use on Naquod, they should be interactive files with text in High Daibazeel and support audio recordings.”

Shiro watches Pidge squint at the screen and mutter indistinct words of Italian under her breath as she searches for something that’d match Doc’s description. If she’s anything like her brother, it’s probably just as well they can’t translate what she’s saying. It’d make Hunk’s look of surprise even worse, and Shiro would probably end up laughing in the poor guy’s face.

“Do you do that often?” Hunk asks after a moment, his own project set aside as he looks Doc up and down in open curiosity, “Calibrating translators, I mean?”

“Not recently, but I used to work with refugees before the Blade of Marmora assigned me to my post in Zarkon’s fleet. I mostly gave out signs-to-words devices, but the principles are the same.”

“Guys, I think I’ve got something,” Pidge says as she pulls a file onto her screen.

It’s Galra alphabet alright. Shiro hasn’t seen much of it since he woke up on Earth, but he must have gotten more than familiar enough with it during his captivity because the mere sight of it is enough to clamp his stomach tight. Doc looks the document over and nods in approval, prompting Pidge to ask:

“What happens now?”

“Well, all the languages we want to use are words-based so the process is rather straightforward,” Doc explains, Hunk leaning over his work to try and catch a glimpse of the form. “The form is a list of the most used words in High Daibazeel. I’ll read them out loud individually, then translate a number of prompted sentences and let the software work out the grammar rules from there. After that it’ll only be a matter of waiting for everything to load in the processors. We’re lucky these things still have a free slot or two. I doubt I would have been able to erase a language from their system.”

To Shiro’s surprise, it’s Hunk that asks about the slots rather than Pidge. Doc is in the process of explaining the ear translators ‘of old’ only had room for about half a dozen of languages each when Shiro’s endurance gives out and he barely bothers trying to look calm when he flees the room.

He almost runs into Keith when he reaches the corridor, heart skipping a beat at the unexpected encounter. It’s far too intense a reaction for something that happens a million times in a life, he knows. Then again, with the week he’s had, he feels like he’s kind of entitled to a little bit of a freak out, thank you very much.

“Are you all right?” Keith asks, concern carved into a line between his eyebrows.

Shiro hasn’t been anything even approaching all right for well over a year now. He was taken from one side of the universe to the other, enslaved, forced to harm one of his closest friends, amputated, shoved at the head of a team of teenagers with as much cohesion as a pile of dry sand, and told to save the universe because no one else was there to do it. And that’s putting it nicely. At this point, ‘all right’ is so far beyond his grasp he’s starting to question whether he’ll ever even be okay again.

He could, possibly, tell Keith all of that. It’s not like the kid ever asked for a sugar coated version of the story, after all, quicker to look at a problem and try to figure out a solution than offer reassurance...but the thing is, he’s just a kid. Yes, okay, he’s an eighteen year old soldier-in-training with more stubbornness in his little toe than the average human possesses in their entire body and yes, he would most definitely figure out a way to grab the moon if he felt it was required.

He still looks at Shiro like a little boy, though. Wide eyes and deep frown, and the shine of something pleading at the corner of his eyes, because he needs to know there’s at least one person in this solar system he can lean on. It’s fading lately, the budding team spirit of their group rubbing away at it in steady bits but it’s still there.

Keith wants the truth and so do Lance, Hunk, Pidge and Allura, but all still need Shiro to be okay, too. They need to know their commanding officer, or the closest approximation of it they could find, will be the good man in a storm and hold his stuff together long enough for them to get over their own terror and get back on track.

Shiro would do his best to meet those needs even if it weren’t the only thing holding him vaguely upright these days.

“I’m tired,” he admits anyway. There’s no hiding that much, not this close to dinner time, and it’ll make the next sentence more believable: “I’ll be okay though. Don’t worry.”

“Are you sure?” Keith insists with a twitch of his right arm and a hint of doubt at the crease of his mouth, “with Allura….”

“She’ll come around,” Shiro tells him with a little more conviction than he actually feels, “don’t worry too much about it.”

“She’ll have to,” Keith says, more of a promise than a statement, “you were right about him. She has to see that.”

Shiro allows himself to give Keith a grateful smile before he makes his way down to the training room.

***

Dinner is a tense, if not entirely stiff affair. Shiro has to divide his time and attention between Doc and Allura, occasionally getting sympathetic-slash-apologetic glance from Coran. It’s not even a surprise, it’s been clear from the beginning that Coran is here for the the princess more than the kids, and he’s been on Allura’s side more than theirs from day one. Given Allura’s current position, it’s a good thing that she has that kind of unwavering support.

It’s just that in situations like these, it’d be great for Shiro if he could have a little help in trying to make her see things from a different angle.

Fortunately, the most notable effects of that frankly unsuccessful dinner are that everyone goes back to their own thing instead of hanging out together like Shiro’s tried to get them to do about once a week, and it takes Pidge three times to catch his attention when he rounds the corridor.

She looks worried when he finally turns back to her, her gaze searching his face a little longer than he’s comfortable with before she looks at the ground and fiddles with her glasses.

“Doc kind of let slip why he wanted to calibrate the translators for Naquodi,” she says, one foot scratching at the ground, “and I just—I’m sorry I didn’t realize. What Daibazeel did to you, I mean. If I’d known I—”

“You’d have politely asked Zarkon to keep his minions quiet?”

The Galra arm hides behind the rest of him when Shiro gives Pidge a reassuring smile. Okay, so maybe it’s a little bit of an embarrassed smile because Matt’s comfort techniques aren’t the ones he’s naturally comfortable with. Time to get back to the things he actually know how to do.

“I’m sorry,” he says, reaching out to bump Pidge’s shoulder with his hand, “that was ridiculous. My point stands though. You couldn’t have done anything about it on your own. Not before you learned to read Coran and Allura’s alphabet, anyway.”

Besides, how could Pidge even have thought of that? Shiro’s year in Zarkon’s custody is still a complete mystery. Who would have guessed he’d come out of it with issues about a language he couldn’t remember? He certainly didn’t.

Pidge looks small, though, smaller than she normally does, and much too young. She’s blinking an awful lot, too, so Shiro catches both her shoulders and waits until she’s looking at him before he promises he’ll be okay.

“Besides, this thing with the translators will help. More than you know. See? You’re already doing everything you can. There’s nothing to feel guilty about.”

Pidge nods, trying to mask a sniffle by scratching her sneakers together, and Shiro sort of wants to scream. She’s just fifteen, for heaven’s sake, fifteen! She’s practically a child, still, what was the Garrison thinking? What was Allura thinking for that matter?

Well, alright, Allura was mainly thinking about an intergalactic war she had no one to fight with and a giant enemy ship en route to annihilating planet Aurus and the seven of them along the way. It’s not like Allura herself is much older than the rest of Shiro’s teammates anyway, and unless there’s a much wider cultural gap between Altean royals and Earth, she probably did the best she could with a truly dismal situation.

That doesn’t make anything any less terrible though and, not for the first time, Shiro promises himself that if there is a God somewhere, he’s definitely getting punched at one point or another.

“Sorry,” Pidge mutters again before rubbing at her eyes, “it’s just—sometimes I forget there’s a war out there. There’s all this cool tech and all these things to learn and Lance always talks like it’s a movie and I just—I forget, okay? But then someone gets hurt or we’re attacked or I think about my family and I—”

She cuts herself off with a hoarse, frustrated shout, and Shiro’s heart breaks when he realizes she’s already beyond saving. It’s not even a surprise, really, but it doesn’t hurt any less, because Pidge’s childhood is over.

It’d be too dramatic to say Katie Holt is dead, especially when it’s so easy to find her behind that strange Matt costume she built for herself, but she’ll never be the same again. Even if everything stopped now, if they could go back to Earth and forget Zarkon, forget Voltron, forget space altogether and never look at the sky again, the war would follow her home.

There’s nothing Shiro can do about that but try and do some damage control where he can.

“I’m fine,” Pidge protests when Shiro tries to pull her into a hug, “I mean, obviously I’m not, but I can handle it on my own.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Shiro promises with utmost sincerity, “but the good part about being on a team is that you don’t have to.”

He’s relieved when Pidge accepts a hug the second time around, and not just because he needed one too.

***

“I’m not the only one who thinks it’s kind of sad,” Lance whispers, almost too low to be heard over the quiet swish of a closing door, “right?”

Shiro doesn’t quite get it, at first, but then he takes a look around the room and finally spots Allura on the opposite corner of the recreation room, with ridiculously large headphones and a thick tome of Altean literature in her hands. She’s curled up into a tight ball, every line of her body tense and displaying a very clear ‘don’t talk to me’ vibe, and the sight of it shakes something loose in Shiro’s stomach.

“Pidge said the translators won’t be reading until lunch, at best,” Lance continues, still trying to pretend he’s not staring at Allura out of the corner of his eyes, “I don’t know what I’ll do if she keeps looking like a clam all day. It’s getting ridiculous.”

Ridiculous isn’t exactly the word Shiro would use. They’re roughly halfway through the first half of the day cycle, which means they’d usually be gathered in the rec room to talk about their mornings and the things they’ve been up to until now. Occasionally, Pidge gets a cat nap in those moments, but they’re generally a time filled with innocent conversations and too many voices trying to talk at the same time.

With the translators gone, however….

“D’you think it’ll still be that awkward when the translators come back?”

Shiro blushes a little when Lance catches him staring, but honestly he’s too surprised to care. Out of all the words he’d use to describe Lance, perceptive isn’t exactly at the top of the list. Probably wouldn’t even make it to the top ten, actually. He wouldn’t have thought Lance capable of thinking that far ahead, or at the very least not willing to.

Apparently he was wrong with that. Worse, judging by his lack of reaction, Lance expected him to be.

“I know I’m stupid,” he says with a stiff little shrug, “but even I can tell this is probably not about the book.”

“Probably not,” Shiro agrees.

They used to speak Russian between themselves in the beginning. Mastering the language is a requirement to enter the Garrison, a tradition that dates back to the very first days of humankind in space, and there are things that are easier to say in Russian, or at least more of a reflex, for some...not to mention that, in space, Keith wouldn’t have been allowed to use English at all. It’s easy enough for them to switch from one language to the other between one sentence and the next, and they didn’t think anything of it until the Lions told them they were messing with the translator software.

Now, they can either speak English or leave Coran and Allura in the dust, the only two speakers of their language left in the universe. No one else understands the rise and fall of Altean, the clicking sound of its consonants that sound like a fight in Shiro’s ears, or the shortness of its vowels that might as well not be there. Lance is right: this is probably not about the book.

Which goes to prove….

“You’re not stupid, though,” he tells Lance. Then, before the kid can protest: “You have terrible timing, and you need to sort through your priorities, alright? But someone stupid wouldn’t have noticed that.”

“I—don’t think Pidge would agree with you on that,” Lance manages at last, face red and eyes carefully kept away from Shiro’s.

Well, that one, at least, will be easy to deal with.

“Pidge’s brother was selected for a history-making mission at the tender age of twenty two and she called him an idiot all the time.”

It was all siblings’ teasing, and Shiro really hopes Lance will know better than to try and discuss that with Pidge right now, but he’s still heard Matt complain about it enough to last him for a lifetime, thank you very much. Besides, it’s not good for anyone to use the Holt family as a base for how smart they should be. It’s really just setting oneself up for disappointment.

“Was he?” Lance asks, “Before he—I mean—”

“Yes,” Shiro replies, even though the word hurts a little, stings at his throat and eyes in a way he has yet to get used to, “he is. It’s completely possible to be an idiot and a genius at the same time.”

Lance’s grin is the kind that announces a bad joke in the very near future, but the proverbial bell comes to Shiro’s rescue in the form of Coran, who all but dances into the room and over to Allura, barely waiting until she looks at him before he presents her a translator like it’s a royal crown. He’s babbling about something or another and looking disturbingly serious about it when Lance decides to repeat the words he just said.

Coran and Allura stare at him like he’s just grown a second head for a second, before Coran asks a question with a suspicious raise of his eyebrow. Lance parrots that, too,throwing an imitation of Coran’s stance into the mix, and grinning harder when it only prompts Coran to look even more flustered. By the third time this happens, Coran is about ready to pop a vein, and Shiro would tell Lance to stop if Allura weren’t trying to hide her giggle into her hand.

Pleasantly surprised at the turn of events, Shiro makes a note to praise Lance for it later on, and to pay more attention to the boy’s talents. It’s easy to feel inadequate compared to people like Hunk and Pidge who really know their stuff, and it won’t do to have one or their team members develop an inferiority complex. Besides, apparently Shiro himself could stand to learn not to judge people on one single criteria.

***

“It’s a good thing you finished calibrating the translator this fast, Pidge,” Allura comments while the teams settles down at the lunch table, “we never know what’s going to happen, and being unable to communicate for too long is strategically unsound.”

“Yeah, it’s a good thing Doc knows his way around these things,” Pidge agrees, “it’d have been a lot longer otherwise.”

Shiro, separated from Allura by Coran’s silhouette on his right, can’t clearly see her features, but the pinched silence that follows Pidge’s statement can hardly be interpreted as anything positive. Shiro bites on a sigh and, when the door opens to let the last guest in, he gestures for Doc to sit on the opposite side of the table, one seat removed from Pidge so he won’t take Hunk’s chair. It’s not that he wants to emulate old fashioned ideas about who sits where, precisely. No one realized that’s what was happening until Coran marveled that they’d finally learned to take their proper places at the table.

With the present situation, though, taking that kind of detail into consideration can’t hurt.

“Honestly,” Lance says when it’s clear no one else is going to break the awkward silence, “I think we should do that more often. Coran and I had a super interesting conversation in Altean earlier—”

“You are learning Altean?”

“Oh, yeah,” Lance replies, only glancing at Doc before he turns back to the Alteans of the team: “isn’t that right? It’s like Coran says: ‘Stop being so obnoxious!’”

Shiro’s translator beeps off, the electronic voice an odd addition to Lance’s words, and for a moment everyone looks kind of at a loss for words. Ironically enough, the joke worked much better without the translators, which is a first...Shiro is kind of considering where to go from there, when Pidge says:

“I’m impressed you pronounced that well enough for the machine to get it.”

“And I only heard it once, too,” Lance replies with a noticeable puff of his chest, “I guess I’m a language genius or something.”

“Probably,” Pidge agrees with a little too much enthusiasm to be sincere, “can you say ‘sono un ragazzo infantile’?”

Shiro, who has enough experience with Matt’s use of Italian to dread the worst, half expects Lance to trap himself by trying to keep the joke going. Instead, the kid’s face goes from boastful to offended as he yells:

“¡Hey! ¡No soy infantil!”

“Ma sei un ragazzo?” Pidge replies with the cheekiest grin Shiro has ever seen on anyone.

“Do you understand that?” Coran fake-whispers.

Shiro shakes his head while Pidge and Lance continue their slightly-stilted argument.

“I didn’t know Lance spoke Italian.”

“It’s not Italian, it’s Spanish!” Both Lance and Pidge protest in accidental but somewhat amusing unison.

Hunk comes comes bearing food before anything more can be said, but at least when Shiro glances toward Allura, he finds her a little less tense than before, which he’s willing to take as progress. He goes as far as giving Lance a discreet thumb up, guilt blossoming in his chest when the kid all but glows in response.

The peace, fragile as it may be, lasts until Hunk is done serving everyone and Doc winces as soon as his spoon enters his mouth, all put spitting the thing back into his plate.

“Is the food that bad?” Hunk asks with a puzzled look down at the serving dish, “No one’s complained about the taste so far….”

“Not at all,” Doc explains after a long drag of water, face scrunched up in distaste as he gestures at his spoon: “metal tastes extremely unpleasant to my species, but I assume you do not face the same problem.”

“No, we don’t,” Keith answers with a frown, knuckles oddly white around his own cutlery, “what do you generally use, then?”

“At home, I eat with my fingers, like everyone else. Zarkon uses stone cutlery.”

“Well we’re sorry we don’t have Zarkon’s silverware.”

Allura keeps her voice low enough that Shiro almost misses the words, and by the time he turns to try and catch her gaze she’s already flushing and looking down at the table, Coran’s eyebrows drawn together while he looks at her. It’s a relief to realize neither Doc nor the rest of the Paladins seem to have heard any of that.

It’s still enough to make the Galra arm twitch with the urge to punch the table and tell everyone to start behaving like reasonable adults, thank you very much.

“For a second there I thought I’d poisoned you,” Hunk’s saying by the time Shiro goes back to the conversation, but it makes Doc chuckle:

“Not at all. I’ve always been fond of Altean cuisine.”

“How would you know Altean cuisine?”

This time Allura doesn’t disguise her voice and. Well.

She has plenty of reasons to act the way she does. She’s young, stuck in a terrible situation with little to no adequate support system. She’s lost her family, her planet and any chance at what she’d probably consider a normal life in what felt like the blink of an eye, and she’s been at war with Zarkon’s empire ever since.

She’s seen Zarkon’s soldiers hurt countless of people, kidnap her, injure Lance and Shiro to the point where their survival was not a guarantee. And then, between all of this, she’s also had to listen to countless stories of the Galra army’s cruelty. It’s no wonder she has a hard time moving on...heck, for that matter, so does Shiro!

Really, it’s almost over the top when you look at it: he’s never going to be able to look at anything purple the same way again, his opinions on facial hair have drastically evolved since he was last on earth, and even the language makes him want to run out of the room and crawl into bed...and that’s before you even get to the piece of Galra tech he never wanted but probably wouldn’t have survived without. If there’s anyone on this team other than Coran and Allura who knows what the Galra can do, it’s definitely Shiro.

He’s trying to move past it though! It’s tiring and grueling and sometimes it leaves him shaky and on the edge of collapse but he keeps going because that’s what must be done! And yes, okay, maybe it’ selfish to want others to do the same. Maybe he should just do his job quietly without expecting literal kids to reason like the trained adult he is. He’s probably being unbearably entitled just for thinking this.

He still sort of wants to grab Allura by the shoulders and shake her until she stops thinking with her wounds.

“I was born on Naquod,” Doc explains with a stiff shrug, one claw tapping at the edge of his plate, “it’s hasn’t been economically significant for a long time now, but it is quite close to both Daibazaal and Altea’s former positions. When those two planets were destroyed, the Naquol welcomed Galra and Altean refugees alike.”

It makes sense, really. Whenever there’s a huge displacement of population, there’s always at least one party willing to provide a place to stay, but knowing that doesn’t leave Shiro any less surprised.

Judging by her face, Allura wasn’t expecting that, either.

“You mean we—there are other Alteans alive?”

“I...don’t think it would be fair of me to say yes, Princess,” Doc replies, picking his words with undisguised caution, “it has been several thousands of years since the Migration, and things have had quite the time to change. There are Naquodi of Altean heritage, but your people as you know it is well and truly lost.”

“Why would Naquod take refugees from both planets?” Lance asks with a frown, “Wouldn’t it put them at risk of a civil war?”

The rest of the table stares at him.

“What? I’m Cuban! You think we don’t learn what civil wars are like in school?”

Shiro mostly thinks the lot of them need to stop underestimating Lance, but that’s neither here nor there.

“I don’t think that would have been the refugees’ first idea,” he points out, “no matter what destroyed Daibazaal, the Galra who landed on Naquod would have just lost their planet, their roots, their homes—”

“There was that,” Doc agrees, “all the histories I’ve heard say the mourning ceremonies lasted for at least ten years...and besides, the Naquol hid the Alteans. Our two people didn’t make unsupervised contact until about three thousand years ago, when the Altean Naquodi started venturing to the surface more often.”

“You mean the Naquol kept these people hidden for seven thousand years? Why?”

“Zarkon, of course,” Doc shrugs. “My knowledge of other planets’ is widely informed by his school and therefore untrustworthy, but there are numerous accounts of Daibazeel assaults on Naquodi settlements, especially in the early centuries. They were looking for Alteans.”

“What for?” Hunk asks, but it kind of looks like he’s already figured the answer out.

“Extermination. I don’t know why the Alteans didn’t fight back—”

“There were outnumbered,” Allura scoffs, fists so tight Shiro can almost pretend he sees the blood recede from her fingertips, “Zarkon had just destroyed their planet.”

“Yes, our histories agree with you there. They do also state that an Altean fleet destroyed Daibazaal first, though.”

“That was different!”

The silence that follows presses against Shiro’s ears until they start whistling, heavy and harsh against his ribs. Across the table, Pidge, Hunk and Lance stare between Coran and Allura with identical gaping mouth, and Keith’s fingers cling to Shiro’s wrist tight enough to hurt.

None of that holds a candle to the burning shine of Allura’s eyes as she glares daggers at Doc, half raised out of her chair as if to jump at the Galra’s throat. She’s shivering too, and Shiro can see her shoulders rise and fall with each of her heavy breaths, but before he can make a move to try and deescalate the situation, Coran says:

“From your father’s perspective, maybe. I am not sure the Galras would have been quite so ready to agree.”

Allura, when she falls back into her seat, looks like a distressed rag doll. The room has fallen silent enough that Shiro wouldn’t even be surprised to hear a pin drop, and even Doc looks kind of uncomfortable with the sudden shift of events.

To Shiro’s right, Coran stares straight though Lance at something long gone. There are lines around his mouth Shiro never noticed before, and when he blinks back to the present and tilts his head forward, the usual extravagance of his demeanor vanishes under the weight of age.

“I believe it is time we had a conversation about this war and how it started,” Coran says. He follows it with a sigh and concludes: “We should have talked about this a long time ago, but I was not ready to face that particular disaster, and I used your inexperience as an excuse to indulge my sensitivity and pride...for that, I am sorry.”

Shiro kicks Keith in the ankle before he can voice what looks like a rather annoyed recrimination. They can argue about the past later, if they ever have that kind of time and energy to waste. Right now, though, Shiro agrees with Coran. It’s high time they learned how this mess started.

Before he can start talking, though, Allura turns to Doc and tells him:

“I think we would rather have this conversation in private.”

“No.”

Coran pauses to make sure no one moves but honestly, it’s entirely superfluous. He’s discussed some of Allura’s orders in the past, yes, but he’s never disobeyed them, let alone encourage someone to do the same. It’s more than enough to keep the Paladins riveted to their seats and their mouths shut.

“Doc trusted us with the existence of Altean survivors which, considering Zarkon’s genocidal intentions, would put them and any who allies with them in great danger. It seems natural to trust him with this...Zarkon knows what happened then better than I do, anyway.”

Allura’s wide, wide eyes turn to Shiro as if to ask for help understanding what’s going on, and he can’t do anything but offer a helpless shrug. He’d love to help here, yes, but he’s not responsible for Coran’s abrupt change in attitude, and he does want to know what’s going on. Besides, if Zarkon was at the heart of it from the beginning, there really is no reason to keep any of what they know a secret from a spy who’s been working against him for longer than he’s been in his army.

“Zarkon was the first Black Paladin of Voltron,” Coran tells Doc with a somber air.

The Galra takes the news with more stoicism than Shiro and the rest of the team first displayed, but then again he did spend who knows how long surrounded by faithful followers of Zarkon. He’s got some practice in controlling his face.

“He was already king of Daibazaal when Prince Alfor visited him as an envoy for his mother, Queen Aleen. I hadn’t entered royal service yet, and King Alfor never shared the details of their acquaintance with me, but I do know that it did not take long before their relationship progressed beyond professional necessity. Together, they forged solid bonds of diplomatic collaboration between Daibazaal and Altea before they moved on to negotiating treaties with other neighboring planets...three rulers in particular proved to be most cooperative, and rapidly became King Alfor and Zarkon’s friends.”

“Who were these people?”

Pidge’s leaning forward on the table, eyebrows drawn together like she’s afraid Coran will stop talking if they stop paying sufficient attention. That would be disastrous, both from a strategical standpoint and with regard to their still-tenuous team spirit, but Shiro almost wishes he would. After all, they already know the end of the story.

They know nothing good is coming.

“Gyrgan, Grand Councilman of Rygnirath,” Coran recites, eyes closing as he speaks, “Elected Princess Trigel of the Dalterion Belt, and—”

“Blaytz the Giant.”

Doc flinches a little when they all turn to look at him, but Shiro suspects him of doing that on purpose, to put them at ease.

“He’s a prominent part of our pantheon,” he explains with the slightest shrug. “According to our founding myth, the Galras were stolen from the mother planet by a fleet of creatures dressed in white. Blaytz saw this and gathered them all in sea foam. He brought them to Nalquod, plucked asteroids from the sky to make them habitable lands, and told them they were were free to stay on the planet until it adopted them. That’s what Naquodi means: the adopted people.”

“Well, ‘giant’ isn’t exactly the word I’d use to describe Blaytz, although he was rather tall even for a Naquol,” Coran says with a nostalgic chuckle, “but Naquol ships relied on magic more than achievable science to make their way through space, and one of their more remarkable features was the spherical, transparent force fields that made them look like giant bubbles. And of course, knowing him, he would have enjoyed the idea of being mistaken for a trickster god immensely.”

Coran, Shiro’s sure, doesn’t mean for them to see the wistful smile that settles on his face at the memory, but it’s impossible to miss nonetheless. It’s a sharp reminder that they know almost nothing about him, except that he is deeply devoted to Allura.

The rest of his life up until the Paladins eventually woke him up in the Castle of Lions is a complete mystery.

“Did you know him well?” Hunk asks, then blinks when Coran chuckles.

“I did, yes. I dare say I knew him better than I ever had time to know King Alfor. Blaytz got me a post in the palace, but I didn’t enter the King’s personal service for several years after that. Ah, the things that can happen when the right people think you’re funny.”

Coran’s face in that moment kind of reminds Shiro of his older instructors at the Garrison, the ones who’ve been doing this job long enough that they’ve lost all reserve about sharing their most outrageous pranks with the cadets. There’s always a certain sense of nostalgia hovering somewhere around their lips when they do.

Generally speaking, it does to them the same thing it’s currently doing for Coran: it makes them look more human. Or, well. More like a real person.

“Anyway, enough about me.”

“Yeah, let’s get talking about Voltron!” Lance exclaims, and grunts when Pidge knocks him in the ribs.

“It didn’t start with Voltron,” Coran corrects, “it started with a comet. It crashed on Daibazaal a couple of years before Princess Allura’s birth. No one had ever seen the metal that composed it, so when Zarkon declared his scientists too busy trying to save an already dying Daibazaal to study this new phenomenon, King Alfor reacted in true alchemist fashion and more or less begged Zarkon to let him dispatch a team to Daibazaal.”

“My father didn’t beg,” Allura protests—softly, yes, but with no less feeling for it.

“These are the words your father used when he told shared this story with me, Princess,” Coran tells her in a gentle voice, “‘A metal no one’s ever seen before and a dimensional disruption in one place!’ he said, ‘of course I begged Zarkon to let me study it’.”

“Alright, let’s pause,” Lance interrupts with furrowed eyebrows, “what’s a dimensional disruption?”

“I must admit an explanation would be useful to me, too,” Doc adds.

Truthfully, Shiro could use one as well. He’s fairly sure Matt’s explained something like that before, but it’s been a while and a lot of things happened since then. A little refreshing can’t hurt.

“We have a similar theory on Earth,” Pidge says before Coran can reply, “though we haven’t managed to confirm it for ourselves yet. Anyway, the idea is that the reality we live in isn’t the only one; that there is an infinity of realities coexisting next to one another without ever meeting.”

“What, you mean like parallel universes?”

“Yes, Lance, exactly like that.”

Sometimes, when Pidge starts explaining science to the others, she sounds so much like her brother Shiro wonders how anyone at the Garrison could possibly miss the relation. Evidently, Earth needs to strengthen its defenses if it wants to stand a chance against aliens.

“Isn’t the keyword in this theory ‘parallel’ though?” Keith asks from his spot next to Shiro. “How does a comet crashing punch a hole between two of them? Because if all we gotta do is dig, the universe had better start worrying.”

“Things aren’t quite that simple,” Allura says, rubbing at her temples with the tip of her fingers, “from what Pidge told me, your earth scientists discount magic in their research, right?”

“Discount magic?” Doc says with an air of deep puzzlement, “How does anyone discount magic?”

For the first time since they met the Galra, Coran and Allura seem to share a certain feeling of commiseration with him. Shiro isn’t sure how he should take the fact that they’re bonding over what seems to be a sizable amount of disappointment with Earth’s techniques.

“It is a rather foolish endeavor,” Coran agrees, “but most civilizations go through that phase in their primitive stages. To be fair,” he adds when he realizes the Terrans in the room aren’t too pleased with his assessment of their planet, “magic couldn’t fully explain what the comet was or how exactly it created the Rift. It did, however, allow King Alfor’s lead scientist, Honerva, to come up with a new source of fuel which King Alfor later used to power the vessels he’d built with the comet’s metal.”

“The Lions.”

“Yes, Hunk,” Coran confirms, “the Lions were, indeed, built with the metal found in that comet, and powered with the quintessence Head Researcher Honerva found in the Rift.”

Allura, when Shiro looks at her, looks small and wide-eyed, like a child in a crisis too big for them to grasp. She knew that Zarkon was Black’s first Paladin, she made that clear enough, but if her reaction is anything to go by, she wasn’t privy to all the details until now.

Shiro, selfishly enough, is kind of glad he isn’t in her shoes.

“Alright, so there was a big dimensional hole in the middle of Daibazaal, and Alfor made a bunch of kinda magic robots,” Hunk sums up with slightly more efficiency than eloquence, “I still don’t see how that equals conquering the entire universe and trying to wipe an entire planet’s worth of species out of existence.”

“You heard Coran,” Pidge says with a displeased twist to her mouth, “Daibazaal was already dying before the comet crashed there. The impact itself won’t have helped the planet’s structural integrity—”

“But the gravity variations surrounding a dimensional distortions would only have accelerated the process,” Hunk realizes with a gasp of horror.

“So, wait,” Shiro asks, “is this what caused Daibazaal’s destruction? The Rift compromised the integrity of that planet so much it couldn’t hold it?”

“But then it wouldn’t make sense for Zarkon to go to war over it,” Lance points out. “The planet was already dying, anyway. And even if the Rift made it faster, he couldn’t blame Alfor for the comet falling there, right?”

“But that reasoning is only valid if the Rift really was the reason Daibazaal exploded,” Doc remarks. “Altean Naquodi tell stories about a great Abyss poised to engulf the galaxy, and a fleet of heroes setting out to close it.”

“You know Altean legends?” Allura asks, visibly too exhausted to put much energy into the question, “How?”

“My great grandfather was one of them.”

The room erupts in a cacophony of protests, ranging from from ‘your species were from different planets’ to ‘do you really expect us to believe that’, and for a second there Shiro has to resist the urge to just get up and leave the room. He doesn’t of course, that would be completely irresponsible, but he does think about it, and wishes Matt were here to share a Look with him over all of this.

In the end, the responsible thing to do wins out, and he ends up getting to his feet to shout at everyone to stop.

“We all need to know what went down, and we need to hear it now, not in three weeks,” he reminds the crew with the sternest voice he can muster, “so everyone sit on your debates and let Coran finish.”

For a moment there, he’s afraid people are just going to keep staring at him and forget the important thing again. Fortunately, Coran is quick to recover once Shiro sits down, and he ventures:

“There’s… actually not much left to tell? The Naquodi stories, while they obviously took on some legendary qualities as time went on, align with what King Alfor told me. According to him, something did come out of the Rift, but Zarkon and Honerva refused to close it, even when the planet’s integrity was compromised beyond repair. Even after the creatures came back, Zarkon tried to trick the other Paladins into keeping the Rift open. In the end, he and Honerva fell in and perished. King Alfor ordered an emergency evacuation of Daibazaal, which the population was neither prepared for nor warned about. According to Princess Trigel, some of them had to be dragged out of their home by force.”

“Well that certainly explains why Doc’s people think the Galra were stolen from their planet,” Keith mutters, “what was Zarkon thinking?”

“Evidently, nothing good,” Allura states, steadier than she’s been so far but harder, too.

It’s not necessarily a reassuring sight, but Shiro can’t exactly find it in himself to disagree, not when Doc himself doesn’t have anything to say against it. It’s hard to form a definite judgment, of course: Coran’s story isn’t nearly complete or exhaustive enough to allow for that, but it does give the beginning of an explanation as to why the Galras agreed to follow Zarkon’s quest for Altean blood.

Earth, after all, has seen genocides that started for reasons far smaller than the seemingly-arbitrary destruction of a planet.

“As for his death, as you can imagine, it was only faked. My father and the other Paladins organized official funerals for Zarkon and Honerva, but when Councilman Gyrgan’s retinue went to retrieve their bodies, they were gone.”

“And yet,” Coran says in a subdued tone, the fingers of his left hand twirling at his mustache, “your father personally confirmed their deaths, and with magic to boot. If they faked their demise, they used magic techniques I’d never heard of before...if anything, if that was all part of their plans to go on and destroy Altea, they missed a great opportunity by leaving before their funerals.”

“Oooh, yeah!” Lance exclaims with a hearty chuckle, “can you imagine that? Suddenly, the king’s back from the dead! He could have just pretended to be a god or something and wham, people would have just flocked to his side to do his bidding.”

“This is no laughing matter, Lance!” Allura protests, “Zarkon attacked Altea three days after his supposed death—our people barely had time to flee! Do you have any idea how horrified we all were?”

Lance blanches, then flushes, and he stammers around apologies he doesn’t quite seem to know how to form. He didn’t mean anything by it, Shiro is sure, but he does need to learn how to think before he speaks. He can’t just go around putting his foot in his mouth like that all the time.

“Okay, Lance is a dunce,” Keith sighs in a familiar ‘duh’ tone, “but he’s got a point. Pretending to come back to life during his funerals would have been a great way to get people to do what he said and believe in him.”

“You are not seriously suggesting we assume he was genuinely killed then resurrected?” Doc asks, medical indignation written in all the lines of his body, “not even magic can do that. There has to be a rational explanation.”

“Well,” Shiro says, shrugging to soften the blow, “we do have a thing on Earth called Lazarus syndrome. I don’t remember the medical reasons behind it, but the main thing about it is that the victims of it appear dead even after extended testing, and then they ‘come back’ after a while. Zarkon and Honerva could have gone through the Galra equivalent of that.”

“Besides,” Pidge points out with a pained-looking cringe, “Zarkon has apparently managed to survive for ten thousands of Altean years. Unless you tell me that’s a normal life cycle for a Galra, it makes resurrection a lot more plausible than it normally would.”

For once, Shiro doesn’t have any reservation about joining in the collective groan of despair. As if their situation wasn’t bad enough! First they were a ragtag team faced with an army powerful enough to get the universe on lock down, then it turned out the enemy was the former Black Paladin, and now the guy is immortal as well as eternal? What the heck is wrong with their collective luck, seriously?

Really, though, having hope until now was hard enough as it was. It’s been an uphill battle for the start for Shiro. Yeah, okay, the kids have been doing pretty good, all things considered, but they’re just that: kids. They may not all have had the easiest life, but while losing family members hurts like nothing else, it’s still not adequate preparation for war, let alone in these conditions!

The weight of realization sinks into Shiro’s shoulders faster than he thought possible, drags him down toward the table, and the only thing preventing him from face planting right into the metal is the Galra hand that slots itself under his forehead, the metal surprisingly cool against his skin.

Around him, the room falls silent. He glances at the other side of the table under the fingers. At Pidge and the subtle shiver of her lips. At Hunk and the way he sways from one side to the other. At Lance, and the open mouthed gap of shock on his face.

Right, no. He can’t collapse. Not here, not now. If he needs to sit down and have a good cry, he’s going to have to wait until he’s alone for that because right now, his team is counting on its commanding officer to lead the way, and he’s not about to drag them down to the ground with him.

“Well, this is wasn’t nearly as encouraging as I’d hoped,” he says, knowing better than to try and pretend he’s alright after that poorly thought-out display of weakness, “and I really hope we get better news next time, but at least now we’re better prepared.”

“Really?” Hunk squeaks, “Because from where I’m standing all of this just sounded like one terrible piece of news after another.”

“We know how the war started. We know Zarkon was obsessed with the Dimensional Rift, and that it’s where he got the formula for his fuel from.” Shiro releases a breath for a while, relieved to realize exactly how useful Coran’s story might prove to be in the long run, “We know the Lions have only been in effective use for, what, nineteen, twenty years?”

“Twenty-one,” Coran supplies, his relief and hopefulness mirrored on the others’ faces.

“Twenty one years,” Shiro repeats. “It’s nothing. Completely insignificant compared to how long they’ve existed, and they’re magical semi-sentient robots. They may have evolved in all that time. Even if they haven’t, they may well have powers Zarkon isn’t aware of.”

“And if he doesn’t know about them, he won’t know how to counter them!” Keith grins beside him.

“Which means we’ll have an advantage over him!” Lance continues.

“We also know Honerva might still be alive,” Pidge adds with a wide grin, “maybe she can help us—”

“Honerva was Zarkon’s wife,” Coran cautions, “If she’s still alive, she might very well still be helping him.”

“If that’s the case, we know we can cripple Zarkon’s machine by taking her out,” Shiro counters, “that’s not something to be forgotten about.”

“We might also have the beginning of an explanation for Zarkon’s lifespan.”

Shiro, like the others, turns to stare at Doc like he’s grown a second head, but he barely even has to run a hand over his mostly-shaved skull before he takes it all in stride. If Shiro’s being honest, he’s more than a little envious about that.

“I told you earlier that I had Altean blood,” Doc explains with a little frown, “I understand your instinctive denial. It makes little sense for species coming from different planet to be reproductively compatible, especially when Altean Naquodi have adapted to their life underwater, but it is no less a reality, and more and more of our children have mixed ancestry with every cycle that passes. In fact, in my experience, Galras can reproduce with just about anything.”

“What do you mean, anything?” Shiro asks, trying to give himself time to process the news more than anything else, “How broad a range of species does that encompass?”

“Any species whose babies could conceivably fit inside a Galra’s body. So long as the mother is Galra, everything takes...and by everything I mean I once helped a Galra soldier give birth to a green octopus.”

“I’d never heard Galras were capable of that,” Coran remarks.

Judging by her expression, neither had Allura, but then that might just be a consequence of Alteans’ approach to sex and reproduction. It’s not like Shiro knows about these things, after all.

“Well that’s the thing,” Doc replies, one claw tapping at the edge of his plate, “I do not believe it to be a normal evolutionary quality. As you pointed out, it makes no scientific sense for a species to be somehow able to produce offspring with any and all occupant of the universe, let alone for said offspring to be just as capable of reproduction….”

“So you think it’s magic,” Hunk deduces, far calmer than Shiro would have expected him to be, “right?”

“Yes. I’m not a druid,” Doc continues with a tight pinch to his lips, “which is why I could never fully confirm this theory on my own, but if what Coran said about Daibazaal’s Rift is exact, and if it is indeed the source of Zarkon’s life span, then it is possible that its presence on the planet may have affected the Galras in deeper ways than anyone realized.”

“Okay but no one’s got proof for that, do they?” Lance points out, “I mean, isn’t proof supposed to be the basis of science or something?”

“Yeah but you gotta have a theory first, before you can prove it,” Hunk replies with a shrug, “so now we think that’s what might have happened, we can try and look for proof.”

“Where?” Allura cuts in with a sharp tone, “None of this sounds...entirely implausible...but we can’t exactly ask Zarkon about it can we?”

“But Zarkon isn’t the only Galra in the universe,” Shiro mutters, more to himself than anything else, “Coran, do you know where the rest of Daibazaal’s refugees were taken? Maybe they’ll have some kind of record we could get our hands on, see if they reveal anything interesting.”

Keith stiffens on Shiro’s left, a palpable aura of tension shrouding him in a way that makes Shiro’s hair stand up at the back of his neck. He makes a note to ask Keith about this at some point, see if he can understand where this sudden sensitivity to the Galras came from, but for now he pretends he hasn’t noticed. They’ve all got their hang ups, but they can’t afford to let them interfere with their mission, not matter what.

No matter how much it may cost them.

“As far as I know the refugees were taken in by the Paladins at first,” Coran states, vivacity coming back to him and making him look like the slightly bizarre man Shiro’s grown used to. “I have no doubt there will still be a number of Galra colonies in the Deltarion Belt... Rygnirath, on the other hand, may have sought to dispatch their charges to other systems, and there’s no telling what would happen to them or their records after that.”

“At least now we know to look for them,” Pidge says with a strained smile, “on top of all the other things we need to do and look for.”

Shiro, fully aware that she’s most likely thinking about Matt right now, sends her a sympathetic look. She doesn’t look like she buys it, exactly, but how could Shiro blame her? Just because he has to put his personal quests aside to make sure the team’s needs are still met doesn’t mean she’s forced to do the same.

It’s not like Shiro himself doesn’t wish he could just drop everything and go looking for Sam and Matt, after all.

“It’ll be slow work,” Coran tells them after a beat, “we don’t want to clue Zarkon in on our intentions, and if the Blade of Marmora is as efficient as Doc seems to believe we’ll have to rely on them to take any sort of of decisive action...but I do believe we may have the beginning of a plan to defeat him and dismantle his empire.”

“And we all know what that means, right?” Lance exclaims with a wide grin and something that comes pretty close to a clap, “right?”

“Lance—”

“IT’S PARTY TIME!” Lance yells before Hunk can finish his sentence, grabbing at the other kid’s arm and tugging him to his feet, “Come on, we’ve only got ‘til dinner to get it all ready, get a’cooking man!”

“You’ve still got chores to do!” Keith protests, but Coran’s laughter cuts him off before he can really get launched on his tirade.

“Let them be, Number Four, we may have figured out how to take Zarkon’s empire down. It is a cause for celebration.”

“But we still don’t know how to get rid of Zarkon himself!”

“We’ll have to do both anyway, won’t we?”

Pidge’s eyes are on the table when Shiro looks at her, but she doesn’t sound scared so much as weary in advance, and he finds himself echoing the sentiment with surprising intensity. They’re going to try and dismantle an empire that spans the entire known universe with eight people and more bravado than anything else...who wouldn’t be tired just thinking of it?

“I’ve felt it coming for a while,” Pidge continues, “I mean...it makes sense, right? It’s not like Galra soldiers are going to drop down on the spot when we kill Zarkon.”

“Pidge is right,” Doc agrees with a look at Coran, “you encourage them to celebrate, but they do not seem to realize the enormity of the task they have ahead of them. They react like children, and you do not discipline them for it.”

“That,” Coran says with a tired, sad smile, “would be because they are children. Puzzling things in any species, I agree, but there is something to be said about letting them act their age once in a while.”

“...The fate of the entire universe rests on the shoulders of a bunch of untrained children?”

Well. To Doc’s credit, he’s taking it with a lot more composure than Shiro would be able to muster in his position.

“We’re not children,” Keith tells the Galra, but there’s no heat behind it, “and we’ll learn. Unless you’ve got someone better to suggest as Paladins….”

No one takes him up on the challenge, but Shiro doesn’t miss the way Coran seems to jolt a little at the words, or Doc’s sharp glance at Allura. He’s pretty sure what that glance means, too. He’s been wondering about the selection process for Paladins ever since Allura assigned him to the Black Lion, and finding out about Zarkon’s history with the giant bot didn’t exactly help either.

There’s nothing to do about that right now though. If they meet someone who’s clearly better suited than them as a Paladin, they’ll do what they have to do. In the meantime, asking too many questions can be just as bad as asking too few, and Shiro has no desire to get on that path.

“In any case,” Coran concludes, a little too low to be sure he meant for Shiro and the others to hear, “none of them will be children by the time all of this is finished.”

He visibly shakes himself before declaring it time for a break, and Shiro has to agree. The past week has been even more exhausting than usual anyway, and today’s conversation may have been long overdue but that didn’t make it any less of a grueling process, intellectually and emotionally. Even Coran wasn’t left unaffected: he sits up straight, still, but his face is drawn and his shoulders sag, like he’s forgotten how to lift them up somehow.

Shiro himself would kill for a nap right about now but, barring that, he does need the war talk to stop for a while. It’s not like they can go hop around Galra colonies before they figure out how Zarkon tracked them to Doc’s base anyway, and even then it’s certainly not going to be a one day trip. Might as well rest get some rest while it’s still possible.

The others must have reached the same, independent conclusion, because Doc rises to his feet with a sigh and asks for directions to the library.

“The scrolls on thermoreactive Nidhesti camouflage were interesting,” he says with a slight smirk, “but I’m curious to see if the Altean texts will yield anything about medicine.”

He leaves the room at a sedate pace and, after a few seconds and some noise about wanting to use the training room, Keith follows him out of the door. For a moment there, Pidge looks like she’s going to stick around and try to continue the discussion, but her mouth falls shut with a little click, and she sighs.

“Well, there’s nothing much we can do just now,” she says with the tone of someone who’s trying to convince herself more than others, “I think I’m gonna go fiddle with the computers.”

It’s probably code for going over what little they have on Matt’s whereabouts once again, and Shiro wishes she could find something else to busy her mind with, but he doesn’t dissuade her. Anything’s better than aimless brooding, after all.

Coran is the next one to get up, back ramrod straight despite the clear signs of fatigue in his expression. Shiro expects him to just go do whatever it is he does in this free time, but instead the man gives him a solemn look, clicks his heels in front of Shiro, and bows deep enough to show off the top of his head.

“Please accept my renewed apologies for failing to discuss this matter with you any sooner,” Coran tells Shiro with stiff resignation. “We have no way to measure the time my neglect cost us, but—”

“Coran, please,” Allura cuts in, more anguish on her face than Shiro remembers seeing before, “stop. You kept quiet on my orders.”

A look of deep unease passes over Coran’s features, something sad weighed at the corner of his eyes, but he doesn’t protest. He turns to Allura instead, letting her know he’ll be in command central running a couple of routine maintenance protocols before he leaves without any of his usual flourishes.

Shiro resists the urge to ask for all of a few seconds before he caves in.

“You told him to keep all of that from us?”

“I was hoping to protect you from this mess,” Allura says, the tone of her voice indicating she’s fully aware she’s already used that argument. “How naive of me, wasn't it? I’ll send children to war but I won’t tell them friendships can break. What a magnificent leader I make.”

“It’s okay, Allura, you—”

“How can you tell me it’s okay?” Allura protests, pushing away from the table in a painful scrape of chair against the floor. “I’m the one who chose you! I threw you at the Lions, I pushed you all through entirely inappropriate training exercises…I’ve asked you all to put your lives on the line again and again without consideration for your ages, your lack of experience, or your legitimate wishes to get back to your planet and your families! Again and again, I ask you to sacrifice everything for a cause that wasn’t even yours—”

“Zarkon conquered most of the known universe,” Shiro points out, using Allura’s words from that fateful first day right back at her, “sooner or later he’d have stumbled on Earth and we’d have been involved in all this whether you were with us or not. Fighting with Voltron is hardly a walk in the park, but I assure you we’re far safer here than we would be if Galra forces suddenly invaded our homes.”

“Even so,” Allura counters, clearly unconvinced, “if not for me, you would all be with your families.”

“Not me,” Shiro point out, getting to his feet so he can stand in front of Allura and get his point across more easily, “If it hadn’t been for the Blue Lion and your help I’d be back on a Galra ship right now. I don’t remember a lot from my first time there but it’s enough to know I’m better off here. Pidge would be no closer to finding Matt and Sam.”

Shiro has to bite on a sigh when Allura looks up at him like she’s five and hurt and hoping for a magic band-aid. She may be worried about the children she sent to war, but she’s not that much older herself, and it’s not like she’s spared her own efforts.

“Look, I’m not going to pretend the situation isn’t terrible,” Shiro tells her with the serious, honest tone he’s found works best when he’s trying to comfort someone, “and it’s true you messed up in the beginning, but that happens to everybody. You had no resources, no support, no way of knowing what was going to happen and not only did you get all the Lions back, you got us out of there alive and with enough team spirit to form Voltron. You did great.”

“They’re too young to fight a war,” Allura sighs after a beat of silence.

Shiro smiles and squeezes her shoulder, relieved to see it eases something in her expression. She’s not settled by any stretch of the imagination, not yet at least, but she’s definitely calmer than she was a minute ago. At this point, Shiro is literally ready to accept any kind of progress.

“You’re too young to be a commander in a war,” he tells the princess, “none of this is fair for anyone, least of all you, but you’re still doing great.”

“I’m just doing my best,” Allura mutters, cheeks darkening with a flush.

Shiro’s laughter catches him by surprise, but he’s certainly not about to complain about it.

“If it makes you feel better, this is exactly what I’m doing. We’re all doing the best we can with what we have.”

Allura’s eyes close and hear breathing hitches a little, but then her shoulder unwinds under Shiro’s fingers, and the smile she gives him is wobbly but sincere.

“Thank you for your support.”

“It’s only normal,” Shiro replies with a little shrug, “what kind of captain would I be if my team couldn’t rely on me?”

“You’re right,” Allura agrees, though the beat that passes before she speaks leaves Shiro a little perplexed, “but I wasn’t only talking about just now. I know you disapprove of my attitude toward the Galra spy.”

She gives a bitter smile while Shiro tries to figure out what to do with his face. On the one hand he doesn’t want to use the same blank face he’s served to the handful of truly insufferable officers in the Garrison. On the other, he’s not sure he wants to let his feelings on the matter be too obvious just now.

“I know you want us to get along,” Allura adds, sitting back down with a sigh, “but I fear you may never have your wish. His people destroyed my planet.”

“His ancestors did that.”

“Where’s the difference?” Allura asks, without heat this time.

In fact, she mostly just sounds as tired as Shiro feels, and he’s not as graceful as he could be when he sits down in the chair next to her and asks:

“Did you have countries on Altea?”

“Countries?” Allura repeats, the English word a little clipped in her mouth, “the translator isn’t working.”

“They’re like...a surface of land with a certain name where people live. Sometimes they’ve got different languages and flags. Sometimes they go to war with one another.”

“Oh—yes. Yes, we had those. Why do you ask?”

“A little over three centuries ago, Keith’s country and mine were at war. Keith’s country sent bombs to mine—the most powerful weapon the Earth had ever seen. It scared people so much, no one’s used it again since. They killed many of my ancestors that day. At the same time, Keith’s country also rounded up some of its citizens and kept them in prisoners camps because they or their families had once come from my country. Do you think I should blame Keith for that?”

“I—why would anyone do that?” Allura asks, obviously disturbed by the very idea, but Shiro doesn’t allow himself to fall for the change of topic.

“Do you think I should blame Keith for what his ancestors did?”

Allura lowers her eyes. There’s no doubt she knows exactly what Shiro is getting at, but anger and fear and resentment are hard things to let go of, especially when one’s used them as reasons to keep going for a while now. Shiro doesn’t want to presume too much of Allura’s motives, but then he does notice she doesn’t answer his question.

“Around the same time period,” he adds, softening his voice to show he’s trying to educate rather than blame, “my country invaded several of its neighbors. People were massacred, kept under my ancestors’ domination, and mistreated for any sign of dissent. Do you think I should be blamed for that?”

He nearly misses it when Allura shakes her head, but what matters is the gesture, not its scope.

Honestly, Shiro doesn’t even blame her. Maybe he’s just biased, but he can’t bring himself to resent someone who was most likely trying to make sense of the world in a way that allowed her to move forward… and things always seem to make more sense when they’re clear cut.

Besides, it’s not even like Shiro doesn’t wish things truly were that simple, sometimes. His life would certainly give him less migraines if he could just know to shoot every Galra he comes across and know he’d made the right choice, at any rate. It’s never been how life worked, though, and trying to pretend it is only leads to people getting hurt for no good reason.

“I get it,” he tells Allura, because there’s really no denying that, “I really do. But people are complicated, and unpredictable. If we start assuming we know them based on what species they are, we’re no better than Zarkon. So you and I, we need to learn to look a Galra in the eye and see who they are beyond the shadow of those who hurt us.”

Allura sighs and runs her hands over her face before he manages a shaky:

“You’re right. If I’m going to advocate for unity and freedom, I cannot turn around and point fingers at an entire species...or at the very least, I cannot do that and refuse to be judged by the same token.”

“What do you mean?”

“Honerva.”

Ah. Yes, that makes sense. They have no indication that she’s still alive, let alone where she is if that’s the case, but she did marry Zarkon and appear to follow him in the beginning of his crusade. If she’s still by his side, that makes her complicit not only in the attempted eradication of the Altean species, but also in the oppression of a solid nine tenths of the known universe, the destruction of at least one planet, and mass incarceration and slave trade on a scale too vast for the human brain to process. Should Allura be judged on that basis, she wouldn’t last five minute in any corner of space.

“Well, the good news is, if she’s helping Zarkon, you definitely have the moral high ground.”

Allura’s giggle is out of the ordinary, but it is no less welcome for the way it devolves into nervous, perhaps slightly hysterical laughter. Their position still isn’t ideal by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s mostly okay.

They’ll just have to do their best.