#but i just wish it was addressed sooner and for someone who prides themselves on being open and honest and direct..

[keptthepieces]

just another diary entry obvs

[athalantan]

Naturally half my brainspace all day has been dedicated to thinking about El. Specifically what exactly they look for in an apprentice and how they go about looking for it. Too many who wish to learn from them are only interested in increasing their power. El is also very busy, has had difficult experiences surrounding apprenticeships (both being an apprentice and having apprentices), etc [hand waves] Point is they accept only a small percentage of those who seek an apprenticeship with them. A very small percentage.

For the purposes of this discussion, we're of course not counting anyone El raised and anyone El was divinely directed to instruct. If you grow up with El, you're guaranteed to learn a few spells. (i.e. Lhaeo being an illusionist) And of course if Mystra directed them to teach someone, they teach them. They do so as they deem appropriate, but they do it.

For anyone else, though, they'll be hard-pressed to find El in the first place. I wouldn't say they're difficult to find normally. But if they're choosing to avoid you? You'll sooner see snow in Hell. You either have to be very persistent or very creative to get their attention. Better yet, both. As many practitioners of the Art, young or old, are afflicted with fatal amounts of pride, the majority give up without ever laying eyes on El.

For the few who do come face-to-face with the Old Mage, El is basically gonna Mr. Miyagi them. They're gonna saddle the person with a stream of banal tasks. Some tedious, some simple, but all hideously mundane. They will likely feel they're being treated as a lackey. El's purpose in this, however, is to test what sort of person they are, how they respond to different situations, and how they solve problems. They're getting the measure of this individual. That is far more important to them than what skill in Art they might be bringing with them.

In fact, prospective apprentices who approach all tasks with a spell to hand will be told to hit the road. The exception is if they apply the Art in creative and thoughtful ways. El will still wish to address this tendency in the future; over-reliance on magic serves no one. Really El wants to know how prideful are they? How focused are they? Can they multi-task? Can they admit deficiencies? How do they compensate for said deficiencies? Are they open to criticism and learning new things? How do they take failure? How about repeated failure? What sort of control do they have over themselves? How do they approach problems? They'll set as many tasks as they need over as long a period as they need to get a sense for who this person is. To get a sense for whether they can teach them. Skill in the Art is of no consequence; talent in the Art is of even less consequence. That can be addressed with dedicated effort. But, are they going to put in that effort?

If El accepts someone as an apprentice, they'll do a further diagnostic to see where their skills are. Then they structure their teaching program around their needs and goals. Their approach to each apprentice is unique, entirely tailored to them. Well, using the word "structure" is perhaps generous. El can be chaotic — often intentionally. Consistently is key to success, which is why it's important to know how to maintain consistency when circumstances are against you. El teaches their apprentices spells, sure, but more importantly, they teach them habits and strategies and philosophies and ways of thinking critically. Their favorite students are the ones who think critically about El's own teachings and will challenge / debate them appropriately. Not disrespectfully or just to be a contrarian but genuinely giving it thought and presenting reasoning. They want their students to think for themselves.

Those prospective students who are promising but simply will not do well under El's tutelage are given a recommendation. El gives them the name or location of another mage (rarely both, finding the right person is part of the quest), gives them a letter or token or something of that ilk, and sends them on their way. There are three primary benefits to this. One, of course, is that anyone with a recommendation from El is all-but guaranteed an apprenticeship; no mage worth their salt will overlook that. Another is that you have someone who's taken the measure of you intentionally pairing you with a master whose teaching style will suit you; they are putting you in an environment to flourish. The third is that you can be assured your prospective master won't be abusive. It is far too common for masters to abuse and exploit their apprentices, and to kill them if they're perceived as a threat. El has been on the apprentice end of those dynamics more than once. If anyone, master or apprentice, receives their recommendation, it is someone they are reasonably certain will not feed into that cycle. (I say "reasonably" because people still surprise El all the time. Not always for the better.)

[yoitscro]

HOMESTUCK RAMBLE

The most troubling thing about the Sarah Z situation is that everything felt like damage control, tactical intimidation, and knee-jerked censorship. Right off the cuff of Hussie’s patreon message*.

(*Does anyone ever notice how Hussie only talks to the fandom when some kind of trouble eventually boils over, usually pointing a finger in one direction, versus addressing things earlier or addressing things period? Such as him having the power to speak against the actual anti queer jargon toward his employees prior to them leaving when things got worse? Or him mentioning the concerns of HS2 that people only found out through word of mouth and were reasonably upset about, such as them getting rid of the content warnings, or the fact that Hiveswap Act 2 was released without credits?

Would certainly make me less irritated if I didn’t know that that message is probably going to be one of his only few that he chooses to write and not mention other things, such as the returned antagonism toward fans. 

But this is also the same guy who continues to write passive aggressive messages in his comic and game scripts that calls everyone else a loser for still being mad about the racism and ableism. (Seriously, Psycholonials is just a vague post in game form and it’s chaotic as fuck to do things like using riots (racially prominent a year ago) in the toned environment of 2020 as goofy plot points. I thought we were suppose to do BETTER after Skaia Net.)

Idc if he’s not apart of WP anymore. Even then, he certainly left a lot of baggage for other people to handle. It’s incredibly irresponsible.

Anyways.)

Those journals have existed forever. Whether right or wrong, they have. They’ve gone unaddressed despite being known for existing. A big name youtuber giving an auditory version that doesn’t take up all the video probably shouldn’t have been the reason that fans finally got some kind of answer, and it’s blatantly transparent that it was to protect the IP from having it’s name tarnished. As if Homestuck doesn’t already have issues that it refuses to acknowledge after a decade that everyone else has talked about.

I can imagine that some kind of NDA was keeping them from talking about Hiveswap to their kickstarter backers, but the convenience of that expiring once Sarah said something gives me an inkling that the people who’ve actually stuck around to support Homestuck could’ve heard sooner. Not to mention that before this big blowout, people just wanted to know that the game was being worked on period. There was actually no NDA preventing that communication.

People wonder why there’s such a rift between WP and the homestuck community, and it’s stuff like that. The fact that Hussie only comes down to address damage when it piles up to a breaking point, rather than earlier. The fact that if you have one criticism, friends or associates of the people who write their favorite characters will maul you in the name of whatever marginalized group they happen isolate you from.

And at the end of it all, it’s almost like some big, surface level moral, because no one cared 3 days after Sarah’s video. Everyone treated it like usual youtube commentary essays about troubling developments and moved on.

Instead, now, still, everyone cares about the fact that an opinion video about Homestuck was getting legal threats during 4/13. After years of a troubled relationship with it’s fandom, this was the last thing they needed to do. I’m trying to wrap my head around what the favorable outcome was here; to look GOOD?

I can’t even imagine what this stunt looks like to other studios and IP groups. I wonder if Homestuck is secretly blacklisted at this point because so much bad behavior has been normalized instead of having a healthy blend between criticism and sympathy.

BC again, a transphobic bigot sending death threats bc homestuck “isn’t what it use to be”, and responding to that rightfully, isn’t the same as someone thinking that more jarring post-canon content and execution of things like toblerone wishes suck some, and figureheads deciding to insult minors, stir character drama, and call other bulk criticisms from the queer community homophobic or transphobic. That in fact loses support, money, and causes infighting, actually.

I’ve never seen a fandom decline in stable activity as hard as 2019-2020 Homestuck.

This is the part where I say that my caliginous crush from wanting to see this IP improve itself flares up from time to time, but is starting to die down knowing that, unless there’s a massive overhaul on how things are run, things aren’t changing...seriously. There are things HS can do even without Viz Media’s overbearing presence, but it doesn’t want to. Starting a feud on your holiday wasn’t one of those things to do, maybe, actually.

I think it’s telling that it’s actually bad enough that I usually refrain from talking as much as I am now, because some part of me knows that some ex WP member, or a friend of one, is reading this and potentially sharing it in whatever snotty chat to once more emphasize how evil of a person I am for saying what everyone else is thinking, lmao.

I think that if anyone wants to pride themselves in not being “terminally online” and in fandom, they should refrain from putting their hands on a story that’s literally embedded and literally about it’s fandom. Go join a private discord instead, or try a different franchise. Maybe have some self awareness. Just a thought.

Anyways, the trust is tainted. The fallout has been followed by quiet, and the current members are reshaping the ground of this community before the weeds eventually rear their heads again.

[duraxxor]

Character Sheet: That Damn Trio

Uh oh, it would seem Duraxxor has gotten himself in a lot of trouble this time around! He’s been split into three pieces of his former self! Oh the humanity! Well there’s only one thing to do. What’s that? Well, we go on a wild adventure to put him back together, of course! That’s why I have decided to create character sheet to explain and every one of the fragments and their traits. So without further interruptions, let’s get down to the material! 

Character No. 1

Name: Daev  ( Pronounced just like Dave ) 

Race: Sin’dorei?

Height: 5′ 8″ ( down from the 6′ 4″ that he once stood at. )

Hair Color: Silver Blonde

Eye Color: None, his eyes are as clear as glass

Age:  “ I was only born not that long ago... I jest though... “ 

Physical Traits: When a person comes in contact with Daev, the first thing they may notice as his youthful appearance. Unlike Duraxxor as a whole, Daev has the physical body of a young adult that has suffered from lack of muscle. Despite this, he seems able to stand straight and maintain himself but is unable to physically apply the strength and running speed he once had. The scar that once dominated his features is now shrunken down and appears to have lining that almost reminds some of a stitching, so to speak. Perhaps even mending? The same can be said about the majority of his black attire that decorates his body other than the sleeve that appears to have torn on the right side. A thin trench coat and a pair of black leather britches that are only matched by a pair of boots below. One can also notice the pair of snake bites piercing on his lower lip that seem to have appeared as he no longer bears even a semblance of the elven fangs gene. 

Personality: Quiet and probably the most balanced of his former self. Daev seems to be given the nickname of being the Heart of the Trio. And with good reason considering he is probably the very being that keeps the other two in existence. He is never to quickly jump to violence and seeks to see how people function and feel. Selfless thought and under normal circumstances, kind to those that share a mutual respect for him and his space. Although he is the most attuned to multiple emotions, he has a hard time properly expressing them and it may even come out in a series of riddles. However, he does seem to have something to say for every type of person. 

Abilities: Lack of physical strength, Daev has to rely on his mind and quick thinking if he hopes to manage avoiding being killed off with the help of his familiars. It isn’t known whether he retains much of his weaponry training, other than having a dagger tucked away under his coat that appears to have a significance, or perhaps even symbolic value. Despite his familiars having their own personalities, he seems able to maintain control of them in certain moments and can even call them or dismiss them at will. Daev’s greatest ability is that he has so much untapped potential that is it unpredicted what he may learn in his stay within the Shadowlands. 

Character No. 2 

Name: Randdu ( Ron-doo ) 

Race: Familiar ( Bat ) 

Height: Unspecified, look to his Abilities for details

Hair Color: White

Eye Color: A mixture of Red and Yellow

Age: “ Look, man, give me a break. I only look old. “ 

Physical Traits: You feel a piercing gaze always watching you when you approach Daev with his avian shadow, Randdu. He takes on the appearance of most bats native to Azeroth aside from some defined features that make him appear more like a Fruit Bat from our world, bearing a canine-like snout beneath the leathery wraps that are his lengthy wings. Jagged claws appear to be on both the back legs and wing joints, giving him almost the look a humanoid if not for the fact he lacks thumbs. He is the definition of wild animal with personality. 

Personality: The reckless familiar that is highly regarded ( and prideful of himself ) as the symbol of Duraxxor. Randdu is also the loudest and most immature of the trio. He would rather pick a fight and see who is the strongest than listen to negotiations. He also possesses quite the appetite match this need for combat. However, this doesn’t mean he isn’t self aware when he is in over his head, being the quickest to also panic when he feels outmatched, that is until something goes right, then he will simply mock his foe. Warning: He may curse a lot. 

Abilities: Despite his reckless personality, Randdu is actually quite the powerhouse. He is physically strong and can easily pick up something that is three times his own size, which is only matched by the fact that he is able to grow and shrink his form based on the energy reserves he has obtained through his vampiric aura. The more he fights and succeeds, the stronger Randdu gets. Claws, teeth, and even a mind piercing screech are at his disposal. However, the magical affinity seems to lie more so in the fact he is able to cast a blaze of shadows about his form, giving him enough speed to perform a Wraith Flight, an ability that projects his vampiric aura outward and making mere contact results in the sapping of one’s raw energies. 

Character No. 3 

Name: Sphula ( Sph-ooluh ) 

Race: Familiar ( Serpent ) 

Height: 15′ 07″ in length 

Hair Color: “ Crimson Scales, you uneducated pig. “ 

Eye Color: Onyx 

Age: “ To old for you to know. “ 

Physical Traits: While Randdu is regarded to be the visible lurker, Sphula sticks to remaining hidden into his time is most appropriate. The lengthy serpent bears a strange familiarity to the Arcane Serpents of Northrend, but with many more rows of teeth and definitive fangs. He also lacks the ethereal skin until certain abilities are applied. Scales, bladed fings, and circular markings that are akin to chains, this crimson familiar seems to be the most colorful of the trio. 

Personality: Calm until provoked, Sphula recognizes his own intellect and will exercise it when it is most necessary. More often than naught, he is seen wrapped around Daev, whispering into his ear while chastising Randdu. For once to gain conference with Sphula would mean that you either have earned his respect or there is something of worth about you or upon you that he would sooner have you align yourself to their cause. Unlike the other trio, Sphula is not above breaking the rules in his favor. For he believes logic is more important in the case of survivability in the cruel world of a snake. There is one he deems the most worthy of his time: The Lady in the Red @sanguinesorceress​ . 

Abilities:  Not as physically strong as Randdu, Sphula is also a constrictor and has no issue wrapping his long tail around his foes or even applying it in a flailing motion to dispatch someone from approaching Daev. And speaking of which, did you know that snakes can actually jump three times their length? Not just this one, but he can also slip his entire length through objects much like a pocket space just to come out in a near forty yard radius. Sphula is also the strongest when it comes to the use of magic and intellect. He is able to conjure geomancy, hemomancy, umbramancy, and in some cases, cryomancy and pyromancy. But what would a snake be without his bite? Twin fangs possess a potent cytotoxin, which is a toxin that induces tissue necrosis. Keep your hands away from this snakes mouth!

OOC Information Station 

Rp Style:  When interacting with this blog or even the in-game character, I cannot always guarantee that you will interact with all three of them, just as I also cannot guarantee that one of the other’s won’t squeeze themselves into the RP. Otherwise, I am generally laid back and always up to most themes, including the dark and twisted. I am an adult writer and in most cases, I am not so easily triggered and easy to speak with. Please, don’t hesitate to ask questions as I may have an actual answer for them. I also would like to remind everyone that I have been roleplaying in World of Warcraft for nearly ten years. All I ever ask is your undying patience and kindness in return. 

Platforms: Tumblr, Discord, and In-game (Planned) 

If you have made it this far, congratulations. Now to get to the nitty, gritty disclaimer warnings and rules.

1. Roleplaying with The Trio means you have agreed to not knowing the original character Duraxxor is the true identity of these characters without the proper knowledge or permission. Should you regard him as Duraxxor, Alphus, Lord Daevara, Myotis, or any other former alias, it will be ignored in-character. Should this become a continuing habit, I will ask you personally to please stop trying to ruin the mystery of the characters. Let’s make this a fun plot for all, old and new. 

2. If you are seeking to fix the problem as quick as possible, then you have come to the wrong player. I am wanting this particular plot device to go longer than a few weeks or even months as the Shadowlands is going to obviously take longer than a single year itself. There’s going to be hurdles to make evolve these characters over time. You are welcome to speak about being a part of the plot where he attempts to fix himself though!

3. When addressing particular character questions, please specify who you are addressing to unless it is all the above or the mun. This makes my life so much easier and more engaging. 

4. Do not god mod my characters as I would not god mod yours. All of them have their own individual strengths and weaknesses and should be considered only through natural interaction. 

5. More importantly, be respectful and patient. This is a brand new concept I am playing with and I really wish to see it through to the very end and want those involved to have fun. 

Thank you all for taking the time to read this and I do hope that everything is clear! I look forward to roleplaying with everyone and enjoying the Shadowlands storyline! Happy Writing everyone! 

And if you have not read Chapter 1 to the Shadowlands storyline, here is a link to the story is here

[sourbat]

A Discussion over Spoons

Characters: Toki Wartooth and Charles Offdensen

Words: 5470

Rating: T

Summary: After the events of Galatikon 2, the members of band are alive and in need of a place to offer them the care they need to heal. Charles is unconvinced that Magnus has what it takes to provide such a setting for Toki, and attempts to convince the latter with a discussion, using spoons.

Read it online on Ao3 (with added notes explaining spoon theory) 

This is technically a Hammertooth! Magnus just isn’t a huge, active force in this one. 

It was Salacia’s final curse that he bring down Dethklok with him, wiping each member off the face of the universe, reducing them to nothing, not even stardust. Though he failed in their literal destruction, the damage they received from saving the world assured Dethklok would never perform again, effectively “killing” the band, and dooming each member to a life of normalcy, and eventual obscurity. Before that though, there was the important question as to  whom  would be charged with looking after the injured heroes. There were ruptured vocal chords to consider, arms broken in several places, and crushed hands filled with splintered bones, and Mordhaus and its hospital had been burned to the ground. While most general hospitals were more than willing to accept a savior in their wing, the aftermath of their victory left most places understaffed and overwhelmed, and the injuries each man had received was nothing to scoff at. Bunching them together in one location was not possible.

Charles and the church immediately offered their support, and the band almost considered it, but then a call from the Explosions and Abigail had Nathan second-guessing, and Skwisgaar, despite being in far worse condition than the others, commented on wishing to go to regular hospital with a female staff.

They soon decided that all would go their separate ways for healing, taking refuge in whatever space they considered to be “home.” Nathan and Murderface would return to their respective families, and would visit the other whenever possible, to ensure the other’s sanity. Skwisgaar would go to whatever hospital was located within 15 miles of a sorority or a senior living community (he had no preference), and Charles would look after Pickles while simultaneously finding new ways to block the drummer’s mother from her insistent, passive-aggressive calls, demanding to know why her son didn’t think his family was “good enough” to look after him.

Toki didn’t have to think about where he would he go, because shortly after waking up from his coma he was told he’d always have a home if he needed one, and he’d never have to worry about paying rent or anything because he saved the world so it’s forever “on the house”–and then Toki groaned for more morphine–but even in his drugged-up haze he remembered Magnus going on and adding to a list of reasons why his place was always open to him. When Charles approached him, asking if he’d like to come along with him and Pickles, or maybe share a hospital room with Skwisgaar, Toki politely refused, instead slurring out Magnus’ address to his ex-manager, smiling at the fuzzy lights, the funny way Charles looked at him once he said it, and the even funnier way Charles pushed up his glasses, asking Toki if he was sure. Absolutely sure? Quite positive? Agreeable? And what about Nathan? Abigail? Murderface? Skwisgaar? Anyone else? Anyone in Norway he could rely on? Any friends? No, not Rockso, but someone else? Someone who can handle the stress?

Anyone, but Magnus?

---

Toki stared at the line of small, silver teaspoons laid out before him in the private office that had been set aside for this occasion. Across from him, Charles sat, hands cupped and covering a portion of his mouth as he glanced down at the same spoons, awaiting a specific command before making his move. Toki didn’t say it, but just knowing what Charles was going to do made him nervous, and he was hesitant to speak out of fear that their game would end sooner than later.

But he knew, no matter what, those eight spoons would vanish faster than he was prepared for.

“Well,” Charles sharply announced, eyes narrowing on Toki.  

“Uhm, wells,” Toki replied, instinctually raising his right hand, only to writhe and lurch forward in his seat once the metal rods holding it together stabbed at his nerves with a complimentary reminder of their presence. Charles’s hand appeared in his peripheral, gently rubbing Toki’s side, distracting him from some of the pain that shot up and wracked his strained nerves and muscles with sharp contractions.

“Left hand,” Charles gently reminded Toki. “Don’t forget, you’re a lefty until further notice.”

“Keeps forgettin,” Toki complained.

“Feeling better?” Charles asked, expression unwavering as he observed Toki’s crushed hand. Even with the cast and added coverings, it was an unbecoming sight, and it seemed like no amount of prescription painkillers offered to any of the guitarists could completely rid of the pain they suffered. “I can get you something,” Charles said, knowing deep down the implications of such an empty promise.

Toki shook his left hand. “No, ams good.”

“You sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, then. That’s one,” Charles said, picking up a spoon and placing it aside as he settled back into his seat.

Toki blinked, mouth turning crookedly agape as he stared at the empty space where his eighth spoon once rested. “Buts I didn’t evens do anything,” he complained, raising his head up to Charles.

Charles sighed. “You’re in pain, Toki.”

Toki jerked in his seat. He winced, but wore that look that suggested a desire to kick something was there. Charles could tell a tantrum might be in order today, and kept that thought pinned high on the list of things he’d need to account for today. Medications. Moving things aside to make his home more wheelchair accessible. Toki having a fit.

“Yeah,” Toki angrily proclaimed, “buts you saids any actions I performs that affects Magnus–”

“And would your suffering not cause him to react?” Charles calmly interrupted, stopping Toki from raising his voice, possibly getting up from his seat too fast, or risking further injury. Charles waited for Toki’s shoulder to drop, and for him to sink back into the supportive cushion. “You saw me react. You claim to know Magnus better than I do, so I’ll let you decide whether you in pain would affect him in any negative manner?”

It would. Charles’ knew Magnus reacted to violence and suffering differently than others, regarding it with a unique peculiarity that Toki couldn’t relate to. It wasn’t that Toki lacked an understanding of the trauma. He did. In fact, based upon his own observations, Charles believed that Toki and Magnus, despite their unique ways of mishandling years of abuse or abandonment, shared enough similarities that realistically meant Toki suffered from the same, if not related, illnesses that Magnus did. Charles was almost willing to bet their trauma came from the same source, but never bothered looking too deep into Magnus’ past to determine if this was true. Charles took pride in understanding the boys better than themselves, and although Magnus was never one of his, he always kept a watchful eye on him ever since the kidnapping. He was that single anomaly, but also a gear in the clock that Charles was forced to acknowledge as being part of a greater plan, but never one who warranted the same respect or care as Toki. Even after completing his role, playing the song that woke Toki and summoned the remaining members from space, to the ocean, Charles could not allot Magnus the same trust he had with the other members of the prophecy.

And he did not trust Magnus with Toki.

Meanwhile, Toki fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. His arm still smarted, and the back of his head still throbbed whenever the pains from the rest of his body added up too much. He didn’t get how so much body pain could make his brain hurt, only that it did. It was painfully, agonizingly unfair. Like this game.

How was he supposed to know  any  little thing would mean losing a spoon? Charles said he would only take away the spoons if it mattered a lot. Toki sniffed, sucking up the last bits of the hot, searing tingle that consumed his right side as he counted the remaining seven, and tried to think of a way to earn his eighth spoon back. Surely a little pain wasn’t enough to get Magnus upset? Toki remembered being in similar, albeit more emotional, pain in front of Magnus, and in those times, Magnus he’d out strong. True, they were during a darker, grim part of their shared lives, and Magnus was the one dishing the pain, but it was–  it was …not going to work.

And as Toki came to this conclusion, he saw what would realistically happen. If Magnus was willing to argue, fight and threaten doctors for moving him too much, almost getting kicked out of the hospital and put on a “no returns'' list because he couldn’t stand the way they were treating him, and complained about long waits for test results and nurses who didn’t offer up enough codeine, morphine, water, time and empathy, then Magnus would  definitely  react once he was put in charge of his well being. 

If anything, Charles had been kind to only remove one spoon. Toki wondered if Charles knew this, but was only keeping quiet so that the game would last longer.

“Fines,” Toki said with a hushed voice, pouting in dismay at how quickly things were turning against him. “Stupids game.”

“Not a game,” Charles reminded for the umpteenth time. “Again, this isn’t a game Toki, but a reflection of how Magnus’ mind works when off medication.” He saw Toki turn, already prepared to formulate his next argument, then promptly added, albeit callously, “and when faced with high amounts of stress.”

Toki tended to forget the minor details. Charles blamed a short attention span. Everyone in the band suffered from it, but Toki was up there with Murderface when it came to handling important information. To put it simply: if Toki didn’t care about the conversation just seconds prior to the information being let out, then he simply never absorbed it. Toki seemed to understand that Magnus required extra attention and monitoring because he was such a “special case,” but always seemed to forget just how permanent this situation was.

As cruel as it was, Charles needed Toki to understand this now, and in such a way he could easily comprehend. Before, Toki visited Magnus only a few days in a given month, and that number decreased the closer they got to the final hour. As training increased, klokateers revolted, and chaos ensued, those days together went up and down, and in every other direction, but never lasted much longer than a week. Now Toki was requesting to move in, stay with Magnus as a permanent roommate. Toki viewed it as the next big step in healing and quite possibly their relationship, but Charles saw the reality.

They were two glass cannons aimed at one another, each with fuses at various lengths already lit, waiting for that one trigger to set the other off, shattering both in the process.  

“Magnus ams less stressed when we talks,” Toki responded, which threw Charles off-guard. He expected a line about medication, about long-term commitment and sobriety. He was prepared for Toki to tell him he wasn’t afraid of Magnus when he blew up, or that he could fend for himself should such an event arise.

For some reason, he didn’t account for communication.

“Very well,” Charles said, settling into a slow blink and navigating a new course through their conversation. “But consider that not all conversations will end with Magnus or you feeling any better. If anything, a conversation may result in additional loss of spoons.”

“That makes no senses?” Toki half-accused, partly questioned.

“Well, what if you insist you’re alright, but he thinks otherwise? Or, what if you tell him he’s doing a good job, but he doesn’t feel that way?” Charles asked, watching Toki squirm. Reading Toki’s mind was easy. Toki made it so easy. Once he showed a moment of weakness, or built a strong sense of trust, anyone with the right mind and wrong set of goals could get Toki to expose just about anything. It was another reason he couldn’t risk Toki leaving his care. Even if Toki claimed Magnus was currently at his best, all Charles could think of was the time Magnus was at his lowest and most desperate. He’d seen the damage Magnus laid out: the bruises, the corneal abrasion, emaciated form, atrophied muscles, and the poorly sewn and infected stab wound. It was a damn shame that Toki forgave it all away, sickening that Toki rekindled a friendship, only to then build something deeper between the two of them. It was a silent act of betrayal Charles never could have predicted, and even now, blamed himself for not being there to protect Toki. No, there wasn’t a single cell in his body that believed Pickles when he claimed Toki “started it,” Murderface when he declared “Magnus ain’t too bad these days,” or Nathan when word got out that “Toki’s definitely the lead,” and finally Skwisgaar’s sad attempt of an excuse when he said, “Toki cans just kills Magnus if he reallies wanted tos.” The boys were all under the impression this was all Toki’s doing, that Toki was in control, but Charles knew it was Magnus. Toki was simply too ignorant, out of control for his own good. Somehow, Magnus manipulated the situation, and he would continue to do so if he let Toki deeper into his life.

“Okays, but if Toki ams really, really honests with hims?” Toki suggested with a childish demeanor. “Maybes if he knows Toki ams in pain, but will be okays in a few minutes, he won’t gets so stressed outs?”

“Be prepared to lose a spoon,” Charles answered plainly, ignoring Toki’s miserable expression when he gave a stiff, hurtful nod as a response.

Charles pointed at the row of spoons. Frowning, Toki picked one up and offered it to Charles without looking in his direction. Despite the quiet act of defiance, Charles could make out the outlines of a frown, and a man who foolishly considered this all one big game that he desperately wanted to win.

“Tell me more about your day,” Charles began, watching Toki snap and return to the six remaining spoons resting on the table. He could see the stress already beginning to add up as Toki counted his dwindling spoons, slowly but surely realizing that Magnus couldn’t possibly look after him without either falling into a depressive state, breaking into a manic state of blind fury, or just completely shutting down. 

Surely.

“I wakes up,” Toki begins, eyes darting up and cautiously waiting for approval. He waited, almost wondering if Charles was thinking up a way to steal another spoon, but he didn’t. Charles raised two fingers, then gave a small wave to let Toki know he was safe. A bit relieved, Toki continued. “I leaves the bed and puts on clothes.”

“You still need help dressing, correct?” Charles asked him.

“Yeps,” Toki replied, only to then realize the error in his honest reply.

“That’s another spoon.”

“Reallies?” Toki asked, voice hiking up and turning into a high-pitched whine once Charles took the third spoon from the line. Toki threw his good hand on the edge of the table. “Ams just clothes?” he loudly exclaimed.

“Continue with your day, Toki.”

“I eats breakfasts on my owns,” Toki replied with a nasty drop in his voice. “And I don’t needs helps getting’ ups or sittin’ downs, either.”

“What about the bathroom?”

“Charles, that ims privates.” Toki remained firm in his position, allowing the silence between them to stretch for some time before it became too awkward and overwhelming for him. “Fine, Toki needs helps with showers and toilets.”

Charles pointed at a spoon. Toki groaned, throwing his head back before taking a spoon with his left hand and carelessly tossing it at Charles. Charles made a remark about it, but Toki continued staring up in anger. Something in his stomach turned as he tried to figure a day and the number of trips to the bathroom he’d have to take. It was so stupid and so stressful, and it barely made any sense because Toki could do most of it on his own; he just needed helped taking off his clothes, or undoing the button on his pants. But this stupid hand of his! It just wasn’t fair that meant a whole spoon…

“Alright,” Charles said, rubbing his chin after encountering the tossed spoon. “We’ve concluded our morning rituals. With four spoons left, too.”

“Goings to keep playing until Toki loses all spoons?” Toki asked sarcastically.

“Not if you understand why I’m making you go through this,” Charles replied fluidly.

Toki dropped his head, frowning at Charles. As if it wasn’t so obvious why this was happening to him. “Because you don’ts like Magnus,” Toki answered, watching the bottom of Charles’ eye twitch.

“Because he cannot take care of you for the long term,” Charles said, stressing the word.

Toki leered back. It wasn’t like he totally disagreed with Charles’ reply, but he knew better than to assume that was the only case. He wasn’t going to pretend everyone up and forgave Magnus. Not even after the hellfire. The escape. The song. Like everything else in Toki’s life, some things just didn’t work out that way. But he at least had everyone’s support to give this whole thing a short. Everyone except Charles. Toki’s glare weakened as he continued to stare at Charles, wishing that the man would just believe in him.

“Toki, you just survived an impossible event,” Charles said, unblinking. “You and Skwisgaar will never be the same again, physically or mentally. You need months of rest, therapy, and other things that we won’t be able to account for until they start showing up.”

Blah, blah, blah. Toki glanced at the spoons. He only had four left, and there was still so much to be had. The game seemed rigged against him, but Toki figured there had to be a way to win. Some rule that Charles left out, either by accident or on purpose. Or maybe it was a riddle, and he was too hung up on the only rule presented?

“Charles?”

“Yes, Toki?” Charles replied.

Toki bit his inner cheek, a bit nervous to ask. He had no clue if Charles would answer honestly, or continue stealing spoons every time he did or said the wrong thing. “Magnus can gets spoons, rights?” he asked hesitantly.

“Well, in theory he can recover them,” Charles admitted, withholding another twitch of the eye once Toki’s eyes lit up with some hope, “mainly through rest, though  hypothetically he can regain a spoon throughout the day if he has the right support system.”

Charles regretted the honesty, because as soon as he finished, Toki started to ponder. He didn’t have to guess the next question that he’d ask, and already papered his next line of attack.

“If I tells him I loves him even if he’s stressed, will he gets a spoon back?” Toki asked, anxiety now coupling oddly with gooey-eyed romantics. It was a strange, unsightly combination that made Charles nervous. “And sometimes I leaves him alones when he ams upsets about somethings. Does that counts as rests? Or whens Toki calls him funny names until he gets so happy his face gets all darks and lips all thins and scrambly?”

Charles watched Toki’s face continue to light up with ideas, then turn a bright shade of pink as he contemplated  other  options, ones Charles absolutely had no desire to humor.

“What if we…” Toki’s expression turned as conservative as it possibly could, “what if we rests  togethers? Then we both gains spoons, rights?”

“Pardon?”

“Y’know,” Toki covered the bottom half of his face, looking somewhat embarrassed by the question. “When we…does se–”

“I’m referring to you gaining spoons,” Charles interrupted.

“Oh, yeahs,” Toki replied, dropping his hands and recovering too quickly for Charles’ liking. He practically jumped on the question. “Wells, you said Magnus cans gains spoons if he rests, so I thoughts that means I cans also gets the spoons, rights?”

“Toki, why do you need spoons?”

“To helps Magnus when he ams out of spoons,” Toki answered, pointing at the four remaining spoons on the table.

Charles dragged his thumb and finger up the bridge of his nose. “You can’t give him your spoons, Toki.”

“Yeah, buts you said rests and supports will helps him gets new spoons,” Toki aptly replied, voice returning to its more natural state, but lacking the tinge of anger or annoyance. No, now Toki sounded calmer, almost informed. “If Magnus ams going to run out spoons before lunches, then that means Toki needs spoons to take care of Magnus when he ams out of spoons, right?”

Charles’ lips parted as his jaw threatened to drop at the question.

“Toki takes care of Magnus when his spoons are low,” Toki said, face continuing to ease and confidence building as he declared his newly hatched plan. “just like befores, when Magnus only hads two or three spoons before he yells at Toki to leave. Backs in the hospitals, after he stabs himself.”

Charles frowned. This was not happening. Did Toki really think this was some game where he could simply reset the number of attempts he had before Magnus snapped? Hurt him, or himself, or others around him? Did Toki forget he was no longer a god, but a mortal capable of dying if left under the wrong care?

Did Toki take nothing from the lesson? Did he not grasp the gravity of this situation? This wasn’t a visit. This wasn’t a weekend sleepover. A romp that ended with Toki taking a jet back to Mordhaus. This was several months of wearing a cast, having rods hold torn ligaments and broken bones together in an attempt not to lose a hand. This was potentially being told, several months down the line, that his hand and arm would never function the same again. Eventually, Toki would have to accept the cruel reality that he’d never play guitar again. What then?  This was not accounting all the mental and emotional trauma. There were night terrors, Toki ceasing all conversation and withdrawing from everyone, and him breaking out into uncontrollable sobs at random. There was Toki feeling perpetual guilt over Nathan losing his voice, and him vocally wishing he’d been a better companion to Murderface and beating himself over it. It was Toki trying and failing miserably to cheer up Pickles and Skwisgaar, who had used music as a powerful means of escape, and hating that no joke or picture or board game could really make up for the loss of ability to play and perform.

“So if Magnus needs rests, Toki will gives him rests and use my spoons,” Toki concluded, ignoring Charles’ darkening expression. He could see Charles didn’t like what he said, even with his lips forming a straight line. It was impressive Charles could do that, though it meant it was hard for Toki to tell what he was thinking. Toki guessed he thought he was crazy. Maybe Toki was, and he just wanted to be crazy with Magnus. But after learning he spent so much time in the afterlife, or somewhere in between, and in a coma and now trapped in a hospital, Toki was sure he’d rather be crazy and counting spoons with someone who  honest-to-god wanted to hang out with him. Only Magnus made that offer. Charles did too, but Magnus made it when he was sick and barely conscious, and kept making even after being told Toki would need extra care. Magnus still wanted him to stay, as beat down and exhausted as he was, possessing nothing but the few things he snuck out with him during the fire, and whatever empty awards that were handed to him after he woke up. He was broke, could barely walk from his bedroom to Nathan’s without feeling winded or needing support, and he’d never be able to make music or support himself through music, or even play the guitar…but Magnus’s invitation was still there.

Toki smiled, raising his arm midway before wincing terribly against the pain. He lowered his right arm, feeling tears starting to form, though it was hard to tell whether it was more a result of him forgetting his right arm was filled with rods, or because he knew that, between them, there was enough silverware to make it through the day. Tears fell as he recounted the spoons on the table, four plus the dozen or so Toki was sure he had, despite the agonizing pain that trumped his senses, and he knew there had to be several more he wasn’t seeing, because if Magnus could still bring himself to show up to his hospital bed and, with a smile, remind him the offer was still there, than that had to count for at least an additional spoon or two?

“Use… your spoons?” Charles murmured, bottom lids raising as Toki provided an eager nod, pushing out a pleased smile through his reddened eyes. “You will use your spoons on him…and yourself. While in a cast. Reliant on round the care supervision? “

Beaming through tears, Toki answered: “Yeps. I waits for his numbers to be high agains and asks for his helps while my spoons fixes back.” He blinked, bringing his good hand up and wiping the few tears that fell down his still gaunt cheeks. “So…does that means we wins and can stays togethers?”

Charles lowered his face into clasped fingers. His eyes closed as he wrangled control of his deepening frustration. “…is that  all you took form this conversation?” he asked, unsurprised when he caught Toki shaking his head, still appearing as controlled as he could, given his obvious discomfort.

“Nopes.”

Charles raised an unconvinced brow. “Well, then, what else did you learn from this, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“That this ams not a game,” Toki answered, bringing his hand to rub his upper, right arm. Charles reached out to help, but Toki pushed his seat back with his legs, scooting away. Charles almost took it as the official lead-in to an argument or tantrum, but Toki stood up and, bringing his good hand down, picked up the four remaining spoons. “If it ams game, then Toki loses by lunchtimes. But Toki never does. Because Magnus ams not a game; he ams a person who tries.”

“You’re correct,” Charles said, with caution. “But you need to–”

“I knows it won’ts work all the times,” Toki added, fighting to have his voice heard. “And I knows there will be days when we ams both reallies low.”

“So you’re aware then–”

“But we wills figures somethings out,” Toki pushed through, successfully stopping Charles a second time. “We ams always good at thats. Maybes Magnus cans…” Toki stopped, breaking into a short fit of mad blinks. Charles waited, watched in growing discomfort as Toki’s eyes started to rain silent tears. He bit his inner lip, blinking repeatedly, struggling to say something that had been building up in him. “If Magnus cans learns to take cares of himself, even whens he hates himself, then so cans Toki,” Toki finished, and Charles’ eyes began to widen once he registered the absolution in Toki’s voice, the brutal honesty and recognition of his own, sorry state that Charles wasn’t aware the young man truly comprehended. “And, maybe if Toki is luckies, Magnus can teaches To…c-can teaches  me  to b-be okays, with alls of  this…”

Still holding the spoons, Toki gestured at himself, using the small teaspoons to point at his ruined arm, his wasted and ruined form. Stuttering, Toki shut his eyes, upset at what was left of him, what he was stuck with for the rest of his life. Charles’ shut his own eyes, unmoving as he listened to sniffs and the sounds of spoons hitting the floor. So, Toki knew. Charles wondered just how much. He was afraid to ask. He wasn’t used to being wrong. The fact that it was Toki who pulled it off only made it harder to accept.

But, when it came to it, there was little he could do to convince the man to stay behind with him. Charles could tell Toki things would be alright, but that wasn’t the case. Charles had enough training in therapy, physical education and possessed enough background in kinesiology, but a gut sensation told him he lacked the ability to help pull Toki from the brink of despair. Mayhap in a few months, once he dealt with Pickles, planning and preparation for the onslaught of trouble to arise, but right now?  Viewing Toki now, not as an overly gullible and childish man, but someone who fully accepted that this was it….that this was his reward for saving the planet, changed something. Suddenly, Charles wondered if he did have what it takes to help Pickles, and guide the other boys back on the path of the living. 

“Okay, Toki,” Charles said, shaking his sinking head into spreading palms. Shame swept and blanketed his core as he heard Toki make another loud sniff, and he wondered just far Toki had fallen since waking up, and how deep Magnus would be willing to go to find him, offer a light, and pull him out from such a dark abyss. “You win.”

---

Toki wasn’t the first to leave (that would be Nathan and his family), but he departed at the opportune moment. Magnus arrived early, right after breakfast, and had Toki wheeled out shortly after he loudly declared his arrival to the hospital staff. The staff was effective at packing up Toki’s things, and a nurse already had a stack of files for Magnus to sign off.

The scene earned a chuckle from Skwisgaar, who, despite his pains, thought it appropriate that Magnus’ off-putting behaviors would result in an easy ticket out the door. Murderface wished Toki well, and promised to see him soon. Pickles hardly reacted, only providing a weak smile before withdrawing back into his wheelchair. The silent parting only made Charles less confident in his position, and offered some silent respect towards Toki for helping him take a step back and gain a better view of the challenges to come. 

He hurried on ahead, while Magnus ordered for a nurse to carry Toki’s things. Magnus would obviously be the one to wheel Toki out. 

From a distance, Charles waited outside of the hospital, and he witnessed the scene. Magnus pushed Toki towards his car, and the only talking Charles picked up on was the accompanying nurse’s, giving out a series of “does and don’ts” before dropping off their luggage by their small, barely adequate ride. Charles had to admit, Magnus did well to listen and never interrupt. He guessed Toki must have said something, but didn't see his lips move once during the one-sided discussion. In fact, aside from a few shared words between bandmates, Charles wasn't sure he heard Toki speak at all to himself or anyone else.

 He remained outside the hospital, well after Magnus noticed his presence, but continued to observe, noting how much livelier Magnus was in comparison to Toki, how he held that false smile so well and was so animated with his movements. It was like staring at another man. Maybe that was the point. 

He saw Magnus open the passenger door, say something to Toki with a slightly concerned look, and Toki nodded his head slowly, looking so exhausted but trusting. Charles nearly left his post when Magnus bent down, arms carefully wrapping around Toki before scooping him up and earning only a slight complaint that could barely be detected where Charles stood. Upset, he watched Toki’s good arm wrap around Magnus as he brought the two of them up, legs not shaking but head leaning to bump and rest against Toki’s, soothing whatever pain that wasn’t voiced.

What is that? One, two, three? 

For a second, Charles wondered. He thought about everything he knew, and humored the idea of him possibly being wrong about Magnus, whether it be one thing, or everything adding up to this moment. After all, the prophecy was vague, and the messages translated to him had been proven wrong once before.

Maybe this was for the best. Maybe this would work out.

Silent and ever observant, Charles watched with a swelling, pained heart, Toki being lifted and carefully placed into the car by the man who stood behind his very shadow, his kidnapper and composure of the dethsong, his savior and friend. Charles let out a long exhale as the engine started up, and left his position to go back inside and look after the remaining members as Toki was whisked away, leaving behind all of his and Magnus’ titles, and moving on with whatever the fates had in store for them next.

[satonthelotuspier]

❄️ Untamed Winter Fest 2019 ❄️

Day 30 - Wish - 1.4k

The form this fic takes is mostly exerpts from correspondence between WWX/JC. I think the idea was probably better than the execution in the end but this is the concept I wanted to go with for Wish.

This does take place in the same verse as from Day 13 and Day 29 but you don’t need to have read either, Day 13 involves the cave mentioned in this fic and both include the discussions that set this up, in summary.

Disclaimer: I’ve never given myself this level of sad from writing before - maybe my poor execution didn’t get it across very well but if you want to avoid sads I’d probably give it a miss just in case.

The letter was waiting for Wei Wuxian when he returned to the Jingshi that evening. He knew it’s origin due to the familiar lotus seal. He took the letter and a jar of Emperor’s Smile which Lan Wangji had left out for him and walked out on to the veranda to read it.

The aggressive, bold script was definitely Jiang Cheng’s, but he read the content several times, at first convinced he’d misunderstood. The letter was neither addressed nor signed, but it didn’t need to be.

Jiang Cheng to Wei Wuxian

I wish my brother knew that I listened while we were trapped in the cave. That I heard him and deep down I wanted that too.

I wish he knew how much this grief had consumed me and eaten me up from the inside until there was nothing else left for years.

Someone said to me recently that now all accounts are settled its time to look to the future and let go of the past.

I wish I knew if that was possible, but I want it to be.

I wish my brother knew that I will try, that I want to make the things I said in that cave no longer true.

Wei Wuxian wasn’t sure how he felt and found himself pacing, trying to digest both what Jiang Cheng was and also wasn’t saying.

And really he felt a flare of pride at him, because wasn’t he adapting the best he could to the circumstances to make the best chance of making himself understood?

It was incredibly insightful of him.

Jiang Cheng wasn’t comfortable talking about his emotions; he never had been and his mouth and temper often ran away with themselves. This was without a doubt the best way for him to calmly and logically approach this kind of discussion. You had to consider what words were put into a letter, meaning it was thought out. If you were angry you had time to calm down and think better of what you’d written, whereas words couldn’t be unsaid. And it was so much easier to say some things when you didn’t have to verbalise them in the presence of the other person, especially when you weren’t actually writing to that person, but instead to some nebulous, unnamed entity.

And most importantly it was cathartic.

He dashed back into the Jingshi and put a brush, ink and paper out onto the desk and began to write in his own rushed, careless hand.

Wei Wuxian to Jiang Cheng

I wish my brother knew how happy I was that I had the opportunity to speak person to person with him in the cave, even though what we discussed wasn’t easy for either of us.

I wish he knew that talking through the hard, hurtful things is an important first step to being able to let them go, so even though what we discussed was mostly at odds, they were things that needed to be said.

I wish there was a magic that could erase the past, or dull it’s effects. I would have never ever hurt him or any of my family on purpose.

I wish I could have protected them all; I promised Madam Yu so faithfully, yet still failed in everything but one thing; saving his cultivation.

I wish I knew whether being honest from the start with my brother would have made any kind of difference to the outcome.

Jiang Cheng to Wei Wuxian

I wish my brother knew it wasn’t his responsibility to look after us, he was as much a child as the rest of us. There were schemes within schemes none of us could have guessed at and we were all equally pawns.

I’ve often thought of how much I regretted being so easily manipulated into leaving his side after the Sunshot Campaign. I wish he knew that.

I was so young and naive, easily lead and too concerned over what others thought of me. I wish I’d told them all to fuck off as was my first instinct.

But what they did, the whispers in the ear, was insidious and easily overlooked by an inexperienced boy struggling to build up a destroyed sect from the ashes of Lotus Pier.

Wei Wuxian to Jiang Cheng

I wish my brother understood that I didn’t blame him for being easily manipulated, the forces at work were masters of the underhand and fooled the entire cultivation world for years.

I would never deny it still hurt though.

It was lonely and scary to be the only thing standing between those innocent people and destruction.

I wish I hadn’t tried to interact with the world at all; if I’d just stayed on the Burial Mounds and given no-one a target to aim at I wonder if everyone would still be alive. I failed the Wen’s as completely as I failed my own family

If there was one thing that that I would struggle to forgive my brother for it would be abandoning his principles to cold hard revenge, taken on innocent people. I wish he knew that and I wish he knew that I will never understand that.

Jiang Cheng to Wei Wuxian

I wish my brother understood what was happening in the cultivation world at that point and what kind of compelling lies were being spread.

I wish you understood you’d have been that target no matter what.

It was easy to look back after the second siege of the Burial Mounds, after the Guanyin Temple and see the lies for what they were.

In the time since Yunping I’ve had time to consider the issue of our golden core. I wish you’d never given it to me. I would have rather died then than allow you to do that for me. I wish the Wen’s had killed me sooner and you’d been given no chance.

I’d rip it out now and give it you back if the only person in the world who was capable of transferring it wasn’t gone.

How fucking dare you make that kind of decision for me, Wei Wuxian? I wish you knew how much I hated you for that, when the world thinks I should have been on my knees thanking you.

I would have rather died. I was ready to when I drew the Wen guards away from you on the street in Yiling. Why didn’t they just cut me down there? I knew that it would be death when they caught me. I fucking wish it had been, why did you have to save that empty broken husk I became? I didn’t want to be saved.

The correspondence had become more emotionally charged over time which was to be expected; both the letters Wei Wuxian had sent and received occasionally had traces of tear stains on them, but this latest showed Jiang Cheng had lost all ability to separate his emotions from the subject and he’d fallen into addressing Wei Wuxian directly instead of that imaginary third correspondent which had kept them both relatively safe.

It was probably the reason Jiang Cheng’s final revelation; the secret he’d held close to his heart for twenty years had finally come to the fore, because he’d let his emotions write the letter and not his brain.

And the truth, finally told, broke Wei Wuxian’s heart in two. He had thought there couldn’t be anything left in this world that was able to hurt him; he had been so wrong.

He wept long into the night, folded in Lan Wangji’s comforting embrace. For the first time it didn’t help, because all he could think about was that no one had been there to hold his brother when his world had collapsed around him.

Despite Wen Ning’s best intentions he’d been told about “their” golden core in anger and whether he’d deserved it or not it would have ripped him apart as viscerally as his own disclosure had to Wei Wuxian; yet there would have been no comforting arms or soft words to ease Jiang Cheng’s pain.

He knew himself what it was to be lonely and scared and bearing a huge weight of indebtedness to someone you knew you could never possibly pay back.

It was a long time before he could bear the thought of picking up a brush again to reply.

[imagine-loki]

Pride and Prejudice

TITLE: Pride and Prejudice CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 26 AUTHOR: wolfpawn

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki was raised on Jotunheim as Laufey’s son after the war, but an agreement was then made that he would wed Odin’s daughter so Odin could secure the alliance of Jotunheim through the marriage. Loki, in turn, was raised to be king of Jotunheim, but how he views Asgard is far different from how Odin’s daughter is raised leading to a clash of cultures as well as uncertainty between the pair of betrothed youths.     RATING: Mature   NOTES/WARNINGS: Forced Marriage, not all fun and games. My first real step back into the Loki scene in over a year.

Tags - @skulliebythesea @asimovethroughthisworld @blackcherry26-blog @we-shadowhunter2901

The Jotnar were tactical with their interactions with Nigel. They ensured they were never alone in his company and that those who were there as their buffers were not allied to his as personal friends. Thor ensured he was included in the group to assist the Jotnar when he was present.

Ella’s knowledge of Vanaheim assisted the Jotnar in what little talks they had with them. It was not the time for trade agreements, but celebration, though that did not prevent such talks. No sooner did the Vanir realise that Ella had informed her husband of their supplies and their worth, they ceased all pretences and spoke plainly, allowing there to be preliminary discussions and a further date set to address said trade better. Loki thanked his wife for her information, Ella elated to hear she had been of assistance.

The trip to Vanaheim was a successful one, the Jotnar had to agree. It was uncomfortable for them in many respects, the heat was something they had never had to endure before and had Ella not assisted them so diligently with her seidr, it would have been a horrific experience for them, far too hot and humid.

The different customs they learned whilst there were a shock for them also, especially as a lot of them did not make any sense. Loki did note the act of kissing more after Ella pointed it out to him, so too did he point it out to Helbindi, who found himself more intrigued than his brother by the act, even using the fact it was not a Jotnar custom to convince a pretty Light Elf not much older than himself to allow him to learn with her. Loki used the comments Ella made on the Light Elves liking the kiss on the hand to charm a Lord and Lady of Alfheim adequately enough for them to wish to discuss ice for their home with the Jotnar. He realised quickly his wife held information of great value to the realm, even on matters of other realms. He also noted her comments on being a stranger on a new realm rang true. It was harder than he would care to admit, trying to ascertain what was the correct thing to say to not offend, that was the most difficult, more than once Ella had used her seidr to whisper in his ear what would be deemed an impertinence to one realm was a compliment on another and when such was applicable. He also noticed that there was a never-ending stream of people who wished to introduce themselves to him. He never knew who they were, but they knew him and more concerning, they knew a lot about him that he was uncertain how they could know. But again, Ella was in his ear, giving names, titles and realms as they met them, all of them seemingly knowing her, and to his surprise, her knowing details on them, even ones that he would have thought inconsequential. He realised then that her comments on remaining quiet and listening to Thor were solid advice. She rarely said anything on herself, instead, permitting others to speak about themselves, something most seemed more than happy to allow. He watched as she soaked in their information, most of which he knew would never be of any relevance, but nonetheless, she did so. It taught him more of her character as he observed her.

She stood beside him throughout any formal event, the picture of a perfect royal wife in many’s eyes, his own included. He was not blind, he knew she was good at what she had to do, even if their marriage was a complex one. The few nights of sharing a room with her had not been entirely terrible either. She kept to her side of the bed, was quiet and respectful of his space and did not insist on taking over any particular part of the room as he had heard some women were prone to doing. Their shared rooms also had them talk more and in doing so, allowed him to learn more of the woman he was forced to call his wife.

As much as the trip to Vanaheim was good for relations and though they would most certainly be going back in the near future for true agreements and talks, Loki was elated when the day came to go back to Jotunheim. Being gone from his home realm for ten days was incredibly difficult when he had never done so before, it also came with the added strain of being on a new realm that was entirely too hot, the customs were so vastly different, as were the people and to add to his worries, he had a Vanir prince trying to cause issues for them throughout. It was, without doubt, more stressful than even having the Allfather on Jotunheim, at least with that, he was safely at home, here, he was entirely out of his element. Seeing everything be readied for their return to Jotunheim settled his anxiousness substantially. He noted that everything for Ella was readied and boxed before noting something on the top of her luggage. A letter with her name on it in writing he had not seen before. The only reason he had half an inkling whom it was from was because of the large embossed seal on it, showing two ravens and a horned helmet, indicative of Odin's seal. He wondered if the Allfather had truly been ill before the festival or if there was something more to his reasoning for not being there. He knew that the absence of the Aesir royals broke Ella's heart in some manner, she clearly missed her home and family, she confessed even missing Thor some bit through everything so if the Aesir royal had lied if his reasoning for not being there, he knew she would be severely affected by it. The seal had been broken and were he to be so inclined it would be easy for him to read it, but he did not wish to do so. He was trying to build something with her, as Ella had stated, all they had at present was honesty, he would not jeopardise it, not for a letter that he doubted had any importance. Instead, he turned away, thinking of what else he needed to organise for himself.

“Nigel is livid.” He turned to see Ella close by. “Warn everyone.”

“What happened?”  

“King Wilhelm found out he wanted to give us a less than pleasant parting gift.” She informed him.

“What did we ever do to deserve this?” Loki felt himself getting angry. “I understand the anger for the war, but this…”

Ella gave him a sympathetic look before gently putting her hand on his arm. “Some people are just asses.” He looked at her. “There’s nothing we can do about them, we can only deal with us. We do not start anything but ensure they rue the day they think to do this. It’s not fair that it is you but you are strong of mind, I fear if he were to go for one less mentally strong. Perhaps that is the only good thing in this.”

Loki eyed her carefully. For a moment, he thought she was glad to feel Nigel was bothering him, but he could see she was worried for him. Inhaling deeply, he nodded. “We keep composure and we go home, away from this monster.”

“Have you everything packed?” She asked.

“Yes, you?”

“Yes, I just need to burn something.” Loki’s brow furrowed at her comment. He watched as she took the letter with her father’s seal on it and it burst into flames in his hands. For a moment, he was terrified she would burn herself, but the flames did not seem to bother her. “It’s seidr fire, harmless to me.” She assured him on seeing his concerned face. “I burn anything with my father’s seal, if someone were able to place it on a document of note, it would cause terrible issues. That and I do not wish to allow people to see private matters between my parents and myself.”

“That is both wise and your own business,” Loki stated diplomatically. “So long as everything is alright.”

Ella gave him a small smile. “It is fine, thank you. Thor had a letter with him from them, simply explaining that they were sorry to not be here. Father is still getting his legs back under him and Mother is dealing with the realm in his sickness. Thor is good at doing it for short periods, but he is still learning, so they rather he does not see it too much now, he will realise it is not as fun as he thinks it is and would be at risk of abdicating.”

“There are days I feel similar.”

“Though you have your moments, you are far more mature than he could ever wish to be. You are ready to take the throne tomorrow, him….maybe in a millennium, with a lot of work on his behalf.” Loki raised a brow. “My father has not even got that left in him, I think, as does Mother, that he is holding on simply to prevent Thor from getting it too soon.”

“I can see his reasoning.” Was all Loki could reply, not wanting to insult Ella too greatly.

*

Loki felt relief surge through him as the cold winds of Jotunheim blew across his face. Beside him, Ella had removed the spell she had cast to not allow the Jotnar feel as hot as the Vanir temperature would otherwise make them feel while also casting one on herself to allow her deal with the Jotunn climate. Part of her was happy to be back also. With everything she and Loki had learnt of one another from their time off realm, she felt there was so much more could be achieved now they were back on Jotunheim. They all walked to the palace with purpose, Loki keeping in stride with Ella, understanding that her shorter legs made things difficult for her, though she never stated anything regarding it.

They made their way to the palace and to their rooms. Ella’s room was the first one so with an arrangement to meet for dinner, she bade farewell and went into her rooms. Loki walked to his own, not making any mention of the peculiar feeling he had as he did so.

He had barely placed his hand on the door when he noted a shadow to his side. “If you still have the energy to come see me on my return, you have not spent the last week well.” He jested as he turned to smile at his older brother. When Býleistr did not return his smile, he frowned. “What?”

“I need to speak with you Loki, in private.”

Seeing his brother look at him so coyly caused Loki to become even more concerned. “Father?”

“Father is fine.” The cold tone which Býleistr used was easily noted. “He and I had an argument this morning. With the manner in which he tore into me would suggest his health is fine.”

Loki sighed and folded his arms. “What did you do this time? Honestly, you are supposed to be the oldest of us yet you are so often the least mature.”

Býleistr glared at his brother for a moment before he thought about what he had to say again. “You know I love you Brother, don’t you?”

“Leist, cease dancing around whatever it is and just tell me.”

“My mate, my new one.”

“Yes, what of her? I have to say, I am a little hurt you did not introduce her to us before now.” His eyes widened slightly. “She is not some poor young creature barely old enough to even have a heat, is she? Please don’t tell me she is barely ceased being a child, ‘Leist, that is terrible. I cannot stand by you for that.”

“No, she is legal, I swear.”

“Then what, you stole her for another?”

“No, not exactly.”

“In other words, yes.” Loki shook his head. “Only you could get into these sorts of positions, Brother. Who was the man she was supposed to mate with?”

“You.” Býleistr could not look at Loki.

“Me?” Loki scoffed for a moment before he realised what his brother was saying. “You mean....?” He rushed passed his brother to his brother’s rooms, his head shaking at what he was thinking. He entered them to see alma, Býleistr’s first mate there, and beside her, not the least bit concerned, was Angrboða.

Býleistr rushed in after his brother. “Loki, I am sorry, Brother, I know it is an unwritten rule, but…”

“There is no ‘But’ for this. This is a betrayal of the highest order.”

“You decided…”

“To tend to the realm over my own happiness, that is what I decided, and this is how my own kin sees to thank my sacrifices for Jotunheim? Swoop in and betray me, like this.” He shook his head. “You are no brother to me, not after this.” His pain blatant as he looked Býleistr in the eye, his agony clear to see as his heart shattered like fragile ice in his chest. Turning to face Angrboða again, she seemed to note his pain too. “You really are the Bringer of Grief.” With that, he turned and left the room.

[wolfpawn]

Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 26

Story Summary - Based on an idea I had that I submitted to Imagine Loki. Imagine Loki was raised on Jotunheim as Laufey’s son after the war, but an agreement was then made that he would wed Odin’s daughter so Odin could secure the alliance of Jotunheim through the marriage. Loki, in turn, was raised to be king of Jotunheim, but how he views Asgard is far different from how Odin’s daughter is raised leading to a clash of cultures as well as uncertainty between the pair of betrothed youths.

Chapter Summary -  The Jotnar barely make it off Vanaheim without incident with Nigel, but something far worse awaits Loki on his return home.

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Note - Sorry about the delay with this chapter, I wanted to strike the balance right with time on Vanaheim because the situation with Nigel will be dealt more with in the future. 

The Jotnar were tactical with their interactions with Nigel. They ensured they were never alone in his company and that those who were there as their buffers were not allied to his as personal friends. Thor ensured he was included in the group to assist the Jotnar when he was present.

Ella’s knowledge of Vanaheim assisted the Jotnar in what little talks they had with them. It was not the time for trade agreements, but celebration, though that did not prevent such talks. No sooner did the Vanir realise that Ella had informed her husband of their supplies and their worth, they ceased all pretences and spoke plainly, allowing there to be preliminary discussions and a further date set to address said trade better. Loki thanked his wife for her information, Ella elated to hear she had been of assistance.

The trip to Vanaheim was a successful one, the Jotnar had to agree. It was uncomfortable for them in many respects, the heat was something they had never had to endure before and had Ella not assisted them so diligently with her seidr, it would have been a horrific experience for them, far too hot and humid.

The different customs they learned whilst there were a shock for them also, especially as a lot of them did not make any sense. Loki did note the act of kissing more after Ella pointed it out to him, so too did he point it out to Helbindi, who found himself more intrigued than his brother by the act, even using the fact it was not a Jotnar custom to convince a pretty Light Elf not much older than himself to allow him to learn with her. Loki used the comments Ella made on the Light Elves liking the kiss on the hand to charm a Lord and Lady of Alfheim adequately enough for them to wish to discuss ice for their home with the Jotnar. He realised quickly his wife held information of great value to the realm, even on matters of other realms. He also noted her comments on being a stranger on a new realm rang true. It was harder than he would care to admit, trying to ascertain what was the correct thing to say to not offend, that was the most difficult, more than once Ella had used her seidr to whisper in his ear what would be deemed an impertinence to one realm was a compliment on another and when such was applicable. He also noticed that there was a never-ending stream of people who wished to introduce themselves to him. He never knew who they were, but they knew him and more concerning, they knew a lot about him that he was uncertain how they could know. But again, Ella was in his ear, giving names, titles and realms as they met them, all of them seemingly knowing her, and to his surprise, her knowing details on them, even ones that he would have thought inconsequential. He realised then that her comments on remaining quiet and listening to Thor were solid advice. She rarely said anything on herself, instead, permitting others to speak about themselves, something most seemed more than happy to allow. He watched as she soaked in their information, most of which he knew would never be of any relevance, but nonetheless, she did so. It taught him more of her character as he observed her.

She stood beside him throughout any formal event, the picture of a perfect royal wife in many’s eyes, his own included. He was not blind, he knew she was good at what she had to do, even if their marriage was a complex one. The few nights of sharing a room with her had not been entirely terrible either. She kept to her side of the bed, was quiet and respectful of his space and did not insist on taking over any particular part of the room as he had heard some women were prone to doing. Their shared rooms also had them talk more and in doing so, allowed him to learn more of the woman he was forced to call his wife.

As much as the trip to Vanaheim was good for relations and though they would most certainly be going back in the near future for true agreements and talks, Loki was elated when the day came to go back to Jotunheim. Being gone from his home realm for ten days was incredibly difficult when he had never done so before, it also came with the added strain of being on a new realm that was entirely too hot, the customs were so vastly different, as were the people and to add to his worries, he had a Vanir prince trying to cause issues for them throughout. It was, without doubt, more stressful than even having the Allfather on Jotunheim, at least with that, he was safely at home, here, he was entirely out of his element. Seeing everything be readied for their return to Jotunheim settled his anxiousness substantially. He noted that everything for Ella was readied and boxed before noting something on the top of her luggage. A letter with her name on it in writing he had not seen before. The only reason he had half an inkling whom it was from was because of the large embossed seal on it, showing two ravens and a horned helmet, indicative of Odin's seal. He wondered if the Allfather had truly been ill before the festival or if there was something more to his reasoning for not being there. He knew that the absence of the Aesir royals broke Ella's heart in some manner, she clearly missed her home and family, she confessed even missing Thor some bit through everything so if the Aesir royal had lied if his reasoning for not being there, he knew she would be severely affected by it. The seal had been broken and were he to be so inclined it would be easy for him to read it, but he did not wish to do so. He was trying to build something with her, as Ella had stated, all they had at present was honesty, he would not jeopardise it, not for a letter that he doubted had any importance. Instead, he turned away, thinking of what else he needed to organise for himself.

“Nigel is livid.” He turned to see Ella close by. “Warn everyone.”

“What happened?”

“King Wilhelm found out he wanted to give us a less than pleasant parting gift.” She informed him.

“What did we ever do to deserve this?” Loki felt himself getting angry. “I understand the anger for the war, but this…”

Ella gave him a sympathetic look before gently putting her hand on his arm. “Some people are just asses.” He looked at her. “There’s nothing we can do about them, we can only deal with us. We do not start anything but ensure they rue the day they think to do this. It’s not fair that it is you but you are strong of mind, I fear if he were to go for one less mentally strong. Perhaps that is the only good thing in this.”

Loki eyed her carefully. For a moment, he thought she was glad to feel Nigel was bothering him, but he could see she was worried for him. Inhaling deeply, he nodded. “We keep composure and we go home, away from this monster.”

“Have you everything packed?” She asked.

“Yes, you?”

“Yes, I just need to burn something.” Loki’s brow furrowed at her comment. He watched as she took the letter with her father’s seal on it and it burst into flames in his hands. For a moment, he was terrified she would burn herself, but the flames did not seem to bother her. “It’s seidr fire, harmless to me.” She assured him on seeing his concerned face. “I burn anything with my father’s seal, if someone were able to place it on a document of note, it would cause terrible issues. That and I do not wish to allow people to see private matters between my parents and myself.”

“That is both wise and your own business,” Loki stated diplomatically. “So long as everything is alright.”

Ella gave him a small smile. “It is fine, thank you. Thor had a letter with him from them, simply explaining that they were sorry to not be here. Father is still getting his legs back under him and Mother is dealing with the realm in his sickness. Thor is good at doing it for short periods, but he is still learning, so they rather he does not see it too much now, he will realise it is not as fun as he thinks it is and would be at risk of abdicating.”

“There are days I feel similar.”

“Though you have your moments, you are far more mature than he could ever wish to be. You are ready to take the throne tomorrow, him….maybe in a millennium, with a lot of work on his behalf.” Loki raised a brow. “My father has not even got that left in him, I think, as does Mother, that he is holding on simply to prevent Thor from getting it too soon.”

“I can see his reasoning.” Was all Loki could reply, not wanting to insult Ella too greatly.

*

Loki felt relief surge through him as the cold winds of Jotunheim blew across his face. Beside him, Ella had removed the spell she had cast to not allow the Jotnar feel as hot as the Vanir temperature would otherwise make them feel while also casting one on herself to allow her deal with the Jotunn climate. Part of her was happy to be back also. With everything she and Loki had learnt of one another from their time off realm, she felt there was so much more could be achieved now they were back on Jotunheim. They all walked to the palace with purpose, Loki keeping in stride with Ella, understanding that her shorter legs made things difficult for her, though she never stated anything regarding it.

They made their way to the palace and to their rooms. Ella’s room was the first one so with an arrangement to meet for dinner, she bade farewell and went into her rooms. Loki walked to his own, not making any mention of the peculiar feeling he had as he did so.

He had barely placed his hand on the door when he noted a shadow to his side. “If you still have the energy to come see me on my return, you have not spent the last week well.” He jested as he turned to smile at his older brother. When Býleistr did not return his smile, he frowned. “What?”

“I need to speak with you Loki, in private.”

Seeing his brother look at him so coyly caused Loki to become even more concerned. “Father?”

“Father is fine.” The cold tone which Býleistr used was easily noted. “He and I had an argument this morning. With the manner in which he tore into me would suggest his health is fine.”

Loki sighed and folded his arms. “What did you do this time? Honestly, you are supposed to be the oldest of us yet you are so often the least mature.”

Býleistr glared at his brother for a moment before he thought about what he had to say again. “You know I love you Brother, don’t you?”

“Leist, cease dancing around whatever it is and just tell me.”

“My mate, my new one.”

“Yes, what of her? I have to say, I am a little hurt you did not introduce her to us before now.” His eyes widened slightly. “She is not some poor young creature barely old enough to even have a heat, is she? Please don’t tell me she is barely ceased being a child, ‘Leist, that is terrible. I cannot stand by you for that.”

“No, she is legal, I swear.”

“Then what, you stole her for another?”

“No, not exactly.”

“In other words, yes.” Loki shook his head. “Only you could get into these sorts of positions, Brother. Who was the man she was supposed to mate with?”

“You.” Býleistr could not look at Loki.

“Me?” Loki scoffed for a moment before he realised what his brother was saying. “You mean....?” He rushed passed his brother to his brother’s rooms, his head shaking at what he was thinking. He entered them to see alma, Býleistr’s first mate there, and beside her, not the least bit concerned, was Angrboða.

Býleistr rushed in after his brother. “Loki, I am sorry, Brother, I know it is an unwritten rule, but…”

“There is no ‘But’ for this. This is a betrayal of the highest order.”

“You decided…”

“To tend to the realm over my own happiness, that is what I decided, and this is how my own kin sees to thank my sacrifices for Jotunheim? Swoop in and betray me, like this.” He shook his head. “You are no brother to me, not after this.” His pain blatant as he looked Býleistr in the eye, his agony clear to see as his heart shattered like fragile ice in his chest. Turning to face Angrboða again, she seemed to note his pain too. “You really are the Bringer of Grief.” With that, he turned and left the room.

[pengychan]

[Good Omens] Winging It - Ecclesiastes 10:1

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael. Rating: T  

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: don’t you hate it when you’re trying to have a lunch date and archangels keep crashing it.

***

“Run this by me again. Some angel wrecks the Great Plan, you do your duty to ensure he is adequately punished, and somehow you’re the only one who gets screwed over it?”

“... In extremely crude terms, yes.”

“And your closest cooperators carried it out.”

Gabriel folded his arms, giving Beelzebub what he hoped was a sufficiently icy look to hide the fact the memory still make him feel… ill, he supposed, was that what feeling ill was like? It was awful. Being human was awful. He couldn’t wait for it to be over. “They did,” he said, his voice clipped and cold, hoping they’d let the matter drop.

Beelzebub raised both eyebrows, seemingly unimpressed with Gabriel’s attempt at expressing cold disdain. “Did they pull them out, or did they cut?”

“What?”

“Or both?” the Prince of Hell leaned forward, all inquisitiveness and morbid curiosity. Had Gabriel bothered to be around Earth much during the Inquisition, he would have recognized it as the look on a torturer’s face while surveying another torturer’s handiwork, trying to figure out who did it better. “Just curious. Did it leave a mark?”

“That’s-- in no way relevant!” Gabriel protested, and this time his voice did shake. He hated that, and he shut his mouth so abruptly his teeth clicked together.

“Show me.”

“No!” Gabriel snapped, rearing back, acutely aware of the fact Beelzebub could force the clothes off his back to look if they wished, and he would be powerless to stop it. Actually, while the fact he might end up in Heaven again if his vessel was destroyed kept them from killing him, there was plenty that the Lord of the Flies could do to him. Plenty of horrible things, all manners of torments they could unleash and oh God, why had he acted without thinking, why had he thrown himself at the mercy of a being who had none, and who would not tolerate defiance?

Not much of a change from Heaven, it seems. 

The thought was absurd as it was horrifying, and Gabriel could scarcely believe it had come from his own mind. Before him, Beelzebub’s eyes darkened, their features twisted… and then nothing happened. They stared a moment, clearly angered, then they let out a long breath and their features smoothed again in a blankness that was… almost as terrifying. 

“You may want to learn better,” they droned. “No answer but yes zzzir will be accepted once you take your place in Hell.”

A wise man would have known that was the right moment to keep quiet; just nod, and let the matter drop. But Gabriel - formerly an archangel, a man for less than twenty-four hours - was in no way, shape or form wise. “I am never joining you in Hell,” he protested. 

“That remains to be seen,” Beelzebub said, sounding almost bored, and paused to rub their chin, looking intently at him. “Either way, what happened to you confirms my theory,” they finally declared, causing Gabriel to look back at them, blinking. Had they… truly worked out something about the Ineffable Plan? About the reason why he’d been cast out?

“What theory?” he asked, leaning forward. Beelzebub met his gaze, deadpan.

“God is an absolute lunatic.”

“Wha-- God is not-- don’t say that!” Gabriel protested, rearing back as though smacked, and looked around like he feared God themselves would show up in that room to smite them both. Of course, no such thing happened. God had never truly showed Their face to anyone in eons; Gabriel and the others only ever speak to God through Metatron… and last Metatron had spoken to them, it was to spell out his sentence for trying to destroy an angel without God’s permission.

A crime born of pride.

Beelzebub snorted. “What, are you outraged on behalf of the one who cast you out? Or are you scared?”

“Both!” Gabriel snapped. “Don’t you ever-- call God a-- and look who’s talking!”

A shrug. “Unlike a certain someone up above, I make no mystery of being a lunatic.”

“Ah,” Gabriel paused, thinking it over. Of all things the Prince of Hell could be accused of, he supposed false advertising could be crossed out. “... Fair,” he conceded. 

At the door, the barrier of Hellfire still crackled, but Gabriel could no longer hear Sandalphon calling out. Worry gnawed at the back of his mind - what if he’d been hurt? What if he’d been destroyed? - but Beelzebub had said that Hellfire wouldn’t harm him unless he was stupid enough to stick his hand in it to open the door. Sandaphon was probably not that stupid, Gabriel thought rather patronizingly, which was sort of rich coming for someone who had temporarily forgotten about his own mortality to run in front of a speeding car only hours earlier. 

Either way, he had little choice but to take Beelzebub’s word. And little time, too, because sooner or later some human would notice the flames engulfing the door and try to do something about it. Amusing as it might be to imagine a human trying to extinguish Hellfire with one of those funny red cylinders they liked to use, Gabriel suspected it would cause a stir.

"So, you admit I'm right. I see you're starting to learn."

"Wha-- no! God is absolutely not a lunatic! You are, if you think-- I won't ever join your side. I may not know what the Ineffable Plan has in store for me--”

“Oh, still clinging to the belief you have a somewhat relevant role in it? Or any role at all?” Beeluzebub sneered. Gabriel clenched his fists so tightly his nails sank in his palms. 

“Everyone is part of the Plan,” he spat, regretting evenr telling them as much as he had. Why had he actually done that, answered their demand to know what had happened? The Prince of Hell had no right to give him orders, even when they sounded more like requests. He was about to add something scathing, or at least he would have once he did come up with something scathing to say, but he had no time to try.

Suddenly, something rumbled. Beelzebub blinked. Gabriel groaned and doubled over, empty stomach clenching painfully.

“What was that?”

“N- nothing,” Gabriel gritted out, just as his stomach decided to give its best imitation of a jet engine. This time, the Prince of Hell clearly worked out where the noise had come from.

“What is your body doing?”

Gabriel opened his mouth to deny his current vessel was doing anything against his will, but he realized quickly enough it would be useless; his stomach thundered like… well, not like Metatron’s voice, but close enough. “Hunger,” he gritted out. “Aziraphale said it’s hunger.”

“Then you need to nourish your vessel,” Beelzebub said, matter-of-factly. “Or you’ll die.”

“I know. Aziraphale tried, but I can’t make myself--” Gabriel trailed off when Beelzebub waved a hand, extinguishing the Hellfire at the door. 

“Come with me,” they ordered. “I might just know what could do the trick.”

***

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

“I don’t think the food is too bad.”

“It’s not the food, it’s nice - not that you would know since you keep swallowing everything without chewing. It’s Gabriel.”

“Ah,” Crowley muttered, taking a sip from his drink and leaning back against the chair, one leg stretched under the table and the other crossed over it. “I also have a bad feeling about him.”

“You do?”

“I have a lot of feelings about him and all of them are bad.”

Oh, of course. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. Crowley rolled his eyes. Not that Aziraphale could see that behind the dark glasses, but he knew his demon well enough to guess that rolling was precisely what his eyeballs were doing.

“He’ll be fine. He only needs to stop being stubborn and eat something. And if he doesn’t, then he dies and it’s  the circle of life. By the way, like the new direction cinema is taking? Soulless remakes of beloved classics. I think it’s one of my finest ideas yet.”

“I don’t believe it was your work for one single moment.”

Crowley made a face. “Fine, so the humans and their fancy corporations got there first. And I am fairly sure corporations are something Heaven came up with. But it was among my plans.”

“Didn’t you cry watching the original?”

“What-- I did not!”

“Warlock says you did.”

“Warlock lies. He lies a lot. I taught him well,” Crowley shot back, tilting up his chin as though to challenge Crowley to say otherwise. Aziraphale chose not to remark having seen some smeared mascara on that particular day - angels’ memory is, of course, nothing short of miraculous - and just nodded, letting the matter drop.

“Regardless,” Aziraphale said with a sigh, setting down the chopsticks on his now empty and thoroughly cleaned plate, “I am concerned. This is unprecedented.”

“And also entirely not our problem,” Crowley pointed out. His leg bounced slightly. “It’s his problem. We got him someplace to stay and basic instructions. You know, I think this is the right moment to discuss that idea we were floating around.”

“Crowley, if this is about your plan to set free every snake in the London Zoo Reptile House, it is entirely yours and I will not--” Aziraphale began, only to trail off when Crowley waved a hand. 

“No, not that one, angel. I can do that on my own, thank you.”

“You better not, there are children visiting and last we went speak with them, the reptiles were plenty happy--”

“I’m talking about the plan to get away from London for a bit. Possibly without giving our new address to the forces of Heaven or Hell or whatnot. Somewhere in the South Downs, maybe?”

Our address. 

Crowley spoke those words like it was the most natural thing in the world, like there weren’t just about a million implications to an angel and a demon - however native they might have gone after millennia on Earth - to share the same address. And by extension, the same home. You don’t share an address without also sharing home, too. Unless of course your aim is tax evasion or something equally dishonest Aziraphale would never be caught doing. 

Not that he would be caught even if he did it, of course, but that was no reason to be dishonest. 

You go too fast for me, Crowley, he’d said a few decades earlier. This time, however, he said nothing. It was still fast enough to make him dizzy, but he found he was not scared. He found part of him - probably all of him except for a tiny voice in the back of his head and maybe his left knee - looked forward to it.

The South Downs sounded lovely. Maybe they could find a nice cottage. 

“We could give the address to someone here on Earth,” Crowley was going on. “The Them, maybe. I like the Them. And they like me, I hope - you really want a bunch of kids who got rid of the Horsemen of Apocalypse not to dislike you, am I right.”

Aziraphale smiled. He still remembered the way something in his stomach dropped when he’d seen what had been his flaming sword in the hands of War; the crushing doubt - had he done the right thing, surrendering it to humanity? - had returned… only to be vanquished when a little girl had grasped its hilt and turned it against War herself.

I believe in peace, bitch.

Well, stabbing someone with a sword might not be most people’s idea of upholding peace, but as the Romans said - if you want peace, prepare for war. It had proven him, to his utter relief, that he had done the right thing… and so had Crowley, when he had given humanity the gift of knowledge, the ability to tell the difference between good and evil. Because if you don’t know how to choose, you never really have a choice, do you? That was what he’d struggled so much with. What Gabriel was going to struggle with the most, probably, and it concerned him--

“... Bigger on the inside, you know?”

“What?” Aziraphale blinked, just then realizing he hadn’t been listening for the past minute. 

“The place in the South Downs, I mean. We could make it bigger on the inside. For your books.”

“Oh. Oh, right. I would take them with me. That might be bothersome--”

“You only need a suitcase.”

“It’s a lot of books.”

“Bigger on the inside. Is it me, or you forget you can do miracles most of the time?”

Aziraphale shifted. “Well, not frivolous ones. Last time, I got a rather strong-worded note by Gabriel and-- ah.” He blinked, and nodded to concede the point. Gabriel would not send him any more strong-worded notes. Gabriel had been fired and thrown out without a letter of warning, without even getting to put his possessions in a cardboard box. “... Well, someone will take over his duties.”

“And you really think they’ll bother telling the angel even Hellfire cannot hurt that his miracles are frivolous? After what happened to good old Gabe for trying to mess with you?” Crowley grinned, leaning back to balance the chair he was on its back legs, but Aziraphale didn’t smile. It made him uncomfortable, to think about it -  even if he’d tried to destroy him, he had never wished for Gabriel to be punished on his behalf.

… Or maybe he had, just a little. But not so harshly, never. 

“Well, you know, maybe Michael will--”

“Ugh, that wanker. If she does, you can tell her--”

“Good afternoon to you as well.”

“Gah!”

As Crowley tumbled back on the ground - oh, he really should have told him not to do that with his chair, it was an accident waiting to happen - Aziraphale looked up to see Michael standing by their table, hands folded tightly, a polite and entirely impersonal smile on her face.

“Aziraphale,” she said, voice neutral. “Mind if I join you?”

With the mind’s eye, Aziraphale saw her again - carrying the holy water Crowley was meant to die screaming in, looking ever so self-assured. Suddenly, Crowley’s grudge towards Gabriel didn’t seem so petty anymore.  

“... Very much, really,” he informed her. “But I suspect that’s not going to stop you.”

“No,” Michael agreed, taking a seat. “Not at all. Now, I suspect you have as little wish to endure my presence as I wish to endure yours, so I’ll make this quick,” she added as Crowley pulled himself and the chair back up, rubbing his head with a groan. “I have reliable information that you have met Gabriel.”

Not too long ago, that statement would have been met with some stammering and an attempt at sounding as innocent as possible. Now, to Crowley’s immense pride, Aziraphale didn’t even bother with that. “Oh?” he said politely, tilting his head on one side. “Have you not come to sample this restaurant?” He smiled innocently at her unimpressed look. “It is quite rude, you know, turning up at a restaurant and sitting at a table without ordering a thing. May I recommend a dish or two?”

“You may not,” Michael said coldly. She folded her hands on the table, looking all the world like a CEO at a meeting. Except that she wasn’t the CEO - that would be God, and last someone else had tried to replace Them things had turned kind of messy. Michael was more of a branch manager, Crowley assumed. “I have to know what transpired when he came to you.”

Well, that put Crowley before a choice: telling her to have her show up at Gabriel’s doorstep and give him a heart attack, or not saying a thing only to annoy her. Considering that he’d had plenty of chances to have some fun at Gabriel’s expenses, he went for the latter option.

“Well, good luck finding out.”

Michael’s gaze darkened. “Tell me what happened after his arrival on Earth.”

“Or else what? You’re going to miracle me another rubber duck?”

“Towel!” Aziraphale exclaimed, delivering a swift and actually rather painful kick to Crowley’s shin. “I believe you told me it was a towel you had her miracle for you.”

Oh, Crowley thought. Oh, right. “Ah, yes. Absolutely. That was the towel. I mean, I would have liked a rubber duck, but a towel was also fine,” he muttered, glancing at Michael through the dark glasses. She looked annoyed, but not confused or suspicious, thank Satan. 

… Well, no, Satan definitely had nothing at all to do with it. Maybe he should give in and thank God, if anything because they’d made Michael and… about everyone else just dense enough not to see through their rouse. But maybe it would be best not to try their luck by bringing it up again and risk saying something that would make it obvious even to the dumbest of archangels.

“... Anyway. Duck or towel, you should know better than to try threatening us. The guys downstairs sure learned the lesson. Didn't you?”

Michael gave him a look that told him, in no uncertain terms, that she would be very happy to personally dunk him in holy water if she believed it would destroy him; Crowley had to give her a point for being much, much better than Gabriel at giving the evil eye. Then again, she was known for personally throwing Lucifer out of Heaven, while Gabriel was mostly known for telling a teen virgin that she was pregnant and nearly giving her a heart attack.

Two wankers, but the one sitting across him could actually be very dangerous and maaaaybe he shouldn’t push her too far, or she might just try her luck with him.

“I have not come to threaten you,” Michael gritted out. “I have come to talk.”

“Oh, I see. Taking over Gabe’s duties as a messenger already? You were quick to replace him. Very efficient,” Crowley blurted out, his ‘do not piss off this one’ strategy already flying out of the window. He watched with keen interest the expression on Michael’s expression turning to fury and then something else - was that guilt crowley had glimpsed? - before her features smoothed in a neutral look. “That is none of your concern. I demand--”

Crowley made a buzzing noise, the kind you get for a wrong answer on a television quiz. Michael gave him an annoyed look, then spoke again. “... I am here to ask what has happened since you met Gabriel.”

Aziraphale nodded politely, but made a point to have more of his drink and wiping his lips before replying. “He arrived at my doorstep. I took him in, and healed him. He panicked and ran in front of a car. I healed him again. We gave him some, er, instructions about life on Earth, and took him to a hotel. To give him some space.”

“To get him out of our hair,” Crowley added.

“That too,” Aziraphale conceded.

Michael ignored that last statement. “I see. When Sandalphon found him in the hotel where you left him--”

“Oh, so he found him. And what was he there to do? Tear off another couple of limbs?”

That clearly hit a nerve, because Michael slammed a hand on the table hard enough to make a couple at the far end of the room wince and turn. She was livid, anger barely in check. “Harming him was never our choice,” she hissed, almost better than Crowley would have. “We were concerned as to how he was faring.”

“How lovely,” Crowley said drily. “Why turn to us if you already know where he is?”

“Because he’s no longer there. Sandalphon called back to tell us Gabriel had... turned to Beelzebub.”

Crowley blinked. He looked at Aziraphale. Aziraphale looked at Crowley. Crowley raised both eyebrows. Aziraphale opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again like a fish out of water. Or like a guy who has just been told that the Archangel Gabriel ran off with Beelzebub.

“... I am sorry,” Aziraphale said slowly, brain clearly struggling to get any meaning out of the words he had just heard. “Gabe has just done what with who now?”

A rueful smile. “So much for getting answers. I assume this means it comes as a surprise to you as well.”

“One hell of a surprise, pun intended,” Crowley muttered, and scratched the back of his head. “Wait - what would good old Bub want with him?”

“Claim him on behalf of Hell,” Michael said bitterly. “As far as they are concerned, it makes no matter that he didn’t truly Fall. He was cast out, and they consider him their property now.”

“But they can’t, can they?” Aziraphale spoke up, frowning, “They cannot claim a mortal soul until, well… death.”

“But then they only have to kill him.”

“Unless he surrenders it willingly.”

“I can’t see that happening.”

“... Right. Me neither.”

“What would even happen to his soul if he dies in this mortal form?” Michael asked. Aziraphale shrugged. 

“The usual, we suppose. Either Heaven or Hell, and not a clue of which it is until it actually happens. We don’t know, Gabriel doesn’t know - and neither does Beelzebub, I’ll bet. Which, if they do want him in their ranks, is probably the reason why he’s still alive.”

Michael frowned. “I see,” she muttered. Probably not an answer she liked, but still better than the worst case scenario, Crowley supposed. Not that he’d seen much difference between Heaven and Hell when he’d last been upstairs posing as Aziraphale; over the eons since the War things sure had changed there, and for the worst. All that whiteness and huge spaces would drive anyone crazy. Maybe he would also be spoiling for war, if he was stuck up there. Crowley had no idea how or why would anyone actually wish to go back there, but Gabriel desperately wanted to.

“Maybe Bub is planning to tempt him into something that will doom him to downstairs,” Crowley suggested. “Now that’s something I’d like to see. They haven’t done any work on the field since… huh. Come to think of it, I am not entirely sure they have ever done any work on the field. Being royalty and all.”

“Still, Beelzebub must have gained some kind of control over Gabriel,” Michael muttered. “When Sandalphon got there… he wasn’t very coherent in his call, but he said that Gabriel had turned his back to him to hide behind Beelzebub. That makes no sense, it’s not like him at all. Why would he-- what is it?” she asked, blinking at Crowley, who had raised an arm like a school kid about to ask a question. 

“Question,” he said. “Was Sandalphon there when you yanked out Gabe's wings?”

The way she stiffened was enough of an answer on its own, but she did reply. “He was.”

“And he just… waltzed in on him? Expecting to be welcomed with open arms?”

Michael stared. Frowned. Stared some more. With some imagination - and a flaming Bentley hurtling through a ring of fire on the M25 was testament to the fact he  did not lack it - Crowley could see the gears turning in her head. Finally, her frown deepening, she opened her mouth and spoke.

“... Do you think he took offense?”

“If he did-- take offense--” Crowley stammered, then snorted. “For what, getting a pair of wings yanked out of their sockets?” He gestured wildly, almost hitting a waiter who was only trying to pass by while balancing several dishes, a pile of glasses, and his own fragile mental health. “While he screamed and begged for you to stop? Naaaah. Who’d be that petty?”

Michael seemed unsure as to what to reply; not too surprising, really. Angels were the kind who showed themselves to humans in blinding looking like wheels within wheels, with a thousand eyes and multiple animal heads, yelling at them with voice like thunder to ‘FEAR NOT’. It had taken them an embarrassingly long time to realize there were better ways to go about it, after a few heart attacks the Bible did not mention. In the end, Michael turned to Aziraphale. 

He shrugged. “That is sarcasm,” he informed her. “He did take offense.”

“And he’s probably terrified of the lot of you,” Crowley muttered. “I mean, hiding behind Beelzebub? You’ve got to be desperate. Aaaand pretty foolish, really. They’re not known as someone to give help to those who need it.” 

Not anymore, anyway. It had been a very, very long time since the Fall. What they had been before then was a distant memory, for all of them. Unaware of this thoughts, Michael seemed to take offense herself. 

“He has no reason to fear us. God did not order us to… to harm him further.”

“Is that supposed to reassure him?”

Another confused look. “It ought to.”

Ah, archangels. So out of touch. So amazingly clever and so incredibly stupid. Crowley opened his mouth to say as much, but Aziraphale got there first.

“Was he told that? That he meant no harm?”

“Of course! Sandaphon told him to--”

“Fear not?” Crowley guessed.

“Of course! And that he would not be harmed - he wouldn’t listen!”

Aziraphale nodded. “It sounds like trauma.”

“Trauma?”

“It’s… a human thing. He fears you.”

“Because he is human now,” Crowley pointed out, and leaned forward on the table, chin resting on the palm of his hand. “Which raises the question, why are you pursuing him? He’s not one of yours anymore. You cast him out. Not your problem, no?”

Ah, there is was, the anger - looming behind her eyes like thunderclouds. Not too long ago, she might have tried to smite him and would have probably won; but, after the little show he and Aziraphale put up with each other’s faces, she clearly hesitated to start a fight. Not with Aziraphale there to back him up, at least. 

“It is none of your concern,” she gritted out, and stood. “As you won’t cooperate, consider this meeting closed.”

“What, are we supposed to believe the lot of you won’t be watching us like hawks, hoping we can get you to him? What makes you think we can? Beelzebub got him. Good luck getting hi-”

“We can get in touch with him, I believe.”

A groan. “Come on, angel,” Cowley protested. Aziraphale gave him an apologetic look, then turned back to Michael. Who, on the other hand, looking sceptical. 

“You can?”

“Well, we have been nice enough to help him out, despite our… differences,” Aziraphale replied, ignoring Crowley’s low groan at the word ‘nice’. Also, ‘difference’ was an interesting way to spell out ‘the fact he tried to destroy me’. “And we might still have the means to contact him..”

“Then do it.”

“Later.”

“What-- why?”

Aziraphale leaned back on the chair, folding his hands. “First of all, because we were having a lovely time and intend to keep doing so. Secondly, if he knew we have been in touch, and is so keen to avoid you, he might no longer turn to us for help. So it is best for you to leave before we contact him. We’ll figure out what’s going on and I’ll get back to you”

“How do I know you will?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Well, I said I’d try to stop the Apocalypse, and in the end I did.” No need to let her know that they had done… next to nothing, really, other than running around a lot like headless chickens and eventually just giving a pep talk to Adam. “I do keep my promises.”

“Also, you have no choice,” Crowley informed her. "If you don't leave, we won't do a thing."

She clearly wasn’t happy, but in the end, there wasn’t much she could argue; for once, they held all the cards. As she stiffly left the restaurant - “I’ll be waiting for your call” - Crowley groaned. 

“We had a chance to get them both out of our hair,” he muttered, leaning back

“Crowley.”

“We don’t even know what the Heaven is happening with Beelzebub. Maybe Gabe has already been dragged to Hell somehow. Probably doesn’t have the phone anymore.”

“Well, it’s worth a try,” was the response. As Aziraphale fished the phone out of his pocket to call Gabriel’s number, Crowley made a face and turned to the entrance. Michael was gone. 

“And here I’d hoped the show we put on had scared the lot of them enough to leave us alone.”

“Oh, it did work, that’s the thing.”

“Huh?”

“That’s why I said yes,” Aziraphale said, looking from the phone. “She never wore her heart on her sleeve, but I can tell she is afraid of both of us. And yet she took the risk to turn to us anyway.”

Ah. Crowley suspected he was starting to see his point. “To find that arse.”

A nod, and he scrolled down to Gabriel’s number. “Yes. To find that arse.”

***

“I am not an expert in human etiquette, but I believe you’re supposed to close your mouth when you chew.”

“Mghf?”

“You’re making a fool out of yourself,” Beelzebub snorted, propping their chin on their hand and raising an eyebrow as Gabriel bit down on what was probably the fourth Lardburger in a row. Before him there was still a mountain of greasy, cheap junk food that would have given Aziraphale something remarkably similar to a stroke if only he knew Gabriel had rejected the finest sushi in London to stuff his face with… that.

“Not bad, is it? Hell came up with it last century - caused a wonderful increase in heart disease. It is addictive, by the way. Maybe I should have mentioned it before… before I… are you listening at all?”

Clearly not: entirely ignoring Beelzebub’s attempt at gloating over a small victory, Gabriel threw aside the empty wrapped of the Lardburger and proceeded to empty the bag of fries directly into his mouth. A few children - annoying, loud human children - a couple of times over looked at him, giggling. The Lord of the Flies rolled their eyes. 

“I have seen famine victims acting with more dignity,” they informed Gabriel, getting no reaction at all: he just kept stuffing his face with the utter abandon Dagon would show before a brand new victim to torment. In the end they just leaned back and watched, mildly amused against their own will. They suspected that fool was going to regret losing control like that but oh, why try to warn him while he was so clearly not inclined to listen? Let him go on and find out the fun way just how frail his vessel was. 

“You should drink something with that,” they finally said, deadpan, pushing the can of soda towards Gabriel and holding back a smirk. They were vaguely aware of a human saying that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and they could only come to the conclusion that maybe so did the way to a former archangel’s soul.

Before the week if out, he’ll be ours, Beelzebub thought, perhaps just a little too optimistic considering that stuffing one’s face with greasy fast food was not precisely a sin, let alone one worth damnation - regardless what an angel called Aziraphale might have to say about that. They just sat back, and waited for Gabriel’s gluttony to be sated.

Meanwhile, in Gabriel’s empty hotel room, a cell phone kept ringing uselessly. 

***

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***

"Dead flies make a perfumer's oil stink, so a little foolishness is weightier than wisdom and honor." Ecclesiastes 10:1

[danetobelieve]

Fangs For The Memories || Ricky and Winston

Really, as far as roommates went, Winston was pretty much as good as one could get. Ricky liked having them around, and they got along well enough, but sometimes it was nice to have the house to himself. Winston had mentioned they were going to spend the night at their parents, so Ricky was enjoying the concept of some home-alone time which meant time he didn’t have to spend in hiding. Rifling through the refrigerator, Ricky decided it was as good a night as any to treat himself to the nice piece of salmon he’d bought the other day, and he was in the process of firing up the stove to sear it when he heard the front door slam open. Several things went through his mind in quick succession; one, that he wasn’t wearing a shirt, and two, that his false teeth were in their case in his nightstand, and not in his mouth which was currently filled with very bright very sharp fangs that were on display for his very human roommate to see. He slammed the refrigerator shut and busied himself in the spice cabinet, keeping his back to Winston, “Oh hey dude…. You’re back early. Everything good?”

Winston was very wet still. After hanging out at their parents they’d been distracted by Pokemon Go and through a weird series of events with Skylar -- a girl they met through chance really -- they had been attacked by a gollum-esque creature and Skylar had revealed a rather sharp looking set of fangs. It was … well it was a lot to take in. Winston was trying to explain what they had seen just hours before, and on autopilot they had driven straight home to change. After all the Cave of Voices wasn’t the ideal place to go and fight weird animal things (which Winston was in the process of convincing themselves that’s what they must be) without getting a little wet. Brushing sand out of their hair, they slipped in the front door and pulled off their coat, hanging it to dry before heading towards the kitchen. “I had a very … weird experience.” Winston frowned gently as they strode into the kitchen. 

Ricky carefully kept his back to Winston, grabbing some spices from the cabinet and mixing them in a small bowl. Without turning he reached over and twisted the volume down on music he was listening to; he knew it was probably louder than was standard for a normal conversation. “A weird experience?” He called over his shoulder, patting the spice mixture into the large salmon filet. There was no easy way to exit the conversation and make his way upstairs to put the most crucial piece of his human disguise back on. He turned over his shoulder to look at Winston and furrowed his brow at their appearance, “why are you wet?” He kept his lips as close together as he could but knew it’d be a hard conversation to follow if he couldn’t read Winston’s lips as they were talking. His hearing wasn’t completely absent on land, but it was bad enough that he usually needed to supplement with lip reading “Didn’t think it was supposed to rain tonight?”

Winston had left a basket of clean laundry in the utility room, slipping in, they began to peel their now damp clothes off of their skinny body, throwing each item of clothing straight into the washing machine and stepping into a fresh, clean pair. “I am getting to why I am wet, but have you ever been to the Cave of Voices beneath the Hanging Rock?” Winston was sure that Ricky wouldn’t have been there, “I was up at mom and dad’s and they were boring so I was playing Pokemon Go and I wandered over there.” They paused as they pulled on a warm pair of joggers and zipped a hoodie snuggly around them, pulling the hood up and slipping their glasses back on before going to take a seat at the breakfast bar. “So I go in search of a Pokemon I want, I end up in this little sea cave, and there’s that girl who helped me at the internship with those hard of hearing kids, Skylar, I’m sure I mentioned her a few months ago.” They weren’t really paying attention to what Ricky was doing, focussed more on explaining their weird day. “But that’s not the weirdest part. There was something in there.”

Ricky stiffened slightly when Winston mentioned the Cave of Voices. As far as he knew it wasn’t the permanent home of anything dangerous but it definitely had enough supernatural visitors that it wasn’t a place humans should be hanging out regularly. “You went to the Cave of Voices for a Pokémon? That place is super dangerous, Win. The tides will drag you out to sea real easy if you’re not careful.” It was Winston’s mention of something else in the cave that really gave Ricky pause however. “what kind of something?” He turned to face his roommate, cupping his chin in such a way where his fingers obscured his mouth. He didn’t think anything had taken up residence in the Cave recently but if something had it was something that was going to have to be addressed sooner rather than later and he didn’t really feel in the mood to have a knock down drag out fight with yet another alghoul. “You want some dinner? I’ve got enough for two here.”

Raising an eyebrow gently, Winston couldn’t help but admit that they wished they had known that before hand. “Now you tell me that it is dangerous?!” Winston replied exasperatedly, “If I’d known about the tides I would never have gone there.” They were too nervous taking risks as it was already. Risk averse might as well be their double barrelled middle name. “But like I was saying, the tide was not the problem, the problem was this something, and what kind of something I couldn’t tell you. Maybe if a bat and orangutan had a baby then it would’ve looked like this, but it also just looked like a jacked Gollum.” Winston wanted to tell Ricky the whole story, to explain about Skylar’s veneers and everything with her mouthful of teeth, but they didn’t feel as if that was really their secret to share. “It came after me and Skylar…” they paused and shrugged, “I’ve called animal control and informed the sergeant at the office.” After all one of the perks of working at the police department was if anything went wrong then they would be able to talk to someone they knew personally. “They said they’d send someone down there to check it out, but I don’t know if they really believed me.” Pausing for a moment, they adjusted their glasses and nodded. “If you’ve got enough, I wouldn’t say no.” 

“Haven’t you lived here your whole life?! You should know that tidal caves are some bad news bears up in this bitch. I’m glad you two made it out okay but that shit coulda gone south if the tides were super strong.” Ricky grabbed a pan from the rack and lit the stove, listening to the click click click of the pilot before the burner caught and the flame whooshed to life. A pat of butter went in the pan as he carefully listened to Winston’s story, mentally trying to catalogue what it might be that was lurking down in the cave. “Did it hurt you guys? Wild……. animals can have all sorts of nasty diseases. We should get you to the hospital if you got bit or scratched.” He knew a lot of the lesser necrophages were disgusting disease vectors, and even a scratch from one of them could lead to a terrible infection. “Well. I believe you. The legends about that place” and the entire town, he thought silently to himself, “put some pretty gnarly shit down in there. I haven’t been in since I was a high schooler,” another convenient lie, “and I don’t plan on going back anytime soon.” Given the description Ricky thought it was probably a ghoul that had attacked them, which made him feel slightly better. Ghouls weren’t that terrible. “Two salmon dinners coming right up then.” 

“Hey,” Winston snapped back, shaking their head indignantly, “I know it was a bad decision, I don’t need you to call me out like that. Besides, I’m just fine at swimming, I’d have managed. I’m more concerned about the fact that Gollum is down there and apparently without the one ring.” Raising their palms, Winston showed Ricky their palms which were still grazed and raw from their fall in the cave. “I have a few bumps and bruises, it really went took it out on Skylar worse, she was in a worse state then me but we both made it out.” Winston was surprised that Ricky accepted their story so easily. “I can’t reconcile it within my own head, it was like something out of a game dude, there’s… there’s …. I just can’t get it straight. I know rationally that this makes no sense. But I saw what I saw.” Not to mention Skylar’s fangs. This town was getting weirder and weirder by the second. Picking at the drawstring  of their waist band, Winston smiled gratefully before taking their glasses and anxiously polishing them. “Thanks, I appreciate this dude.” They knew they must’ve interrupted a quiet night alone, which was a rarity for the both of them. 

“It’s literally your roommates job to call you out when you do dumb shit. It’s like in the roommate handbook. You need a beer to settle your nerves?” Ricky pulled two out of the fridge and popped the tops off, sliding one across the counter without waiting for a reply before turning back to the meal he was cooking. The kitchen was starting to fill with the smell of pungent spices as Ricky thought about his next move. He prided himself on being honest with the people around him; but there were some very specific loopholes to that policy and they all dealt with the supernatural. Which is why he was less than pleased with his choice to gaslight his roommate. “I’m sure Gollum himself wasn’t lurking in the Cave of Voices.” He kept his voice pitched light and breezy, “it’s dark, it’s cramped, and it’s more than a little creepy. The human brain likes to fill in all sorts of blanks with the insane when it’s confronted with something terrifying. You probably just startled some poor forest creature who got stuck in there by the tide. You’re lucky you don’t catch rabies.”

Winston was about to say that they didn’t want a beer, but Ricky put one in their hand anyway and the cold, malty liquid felt good. “Thanks dude, I know it is your job to make sure that I’m not doing anything that could potentially kill me.” Ricky was a good guy. He had done a lot for Winston in the small amount of time that they had been living together. Winston was distracted, otherwise they might have noticed that Ricky was keeping his back to Winston. They might have noticed that they weren’t directly addressing them and they hadn’t seen their teeth yet. But they were kind of preoccupied. “I don’t think it was Gollum either, probably an animal and a bump on the head or something, i know that your brain tries to turn everything into a narrative and the fear probably just y’know, changed my perception.” They had been convinced earlier that whatever it was hadn’t been an animal, but this was the real world. It had to be an animal. There was nothing else that it could be. “I know, I know,” Winston replied glumly, their left thumb picking at the corner of the label on the beer, rolling and unrolling it restlessly, “I just can’t shake the feeling that there was something more to it then a rabid animal.” It wasn’t really their problem. They weren’t a member of animal control.

“Your mother would kill me if I let anything happen to you and frankly I’m convinced that she could do it with little effort on her part.” Ricky plated the salmon and slid one of the plates across the counter to Winston, setting a fork down next to it. “Fear is a powerful thing. But I know deer and badgers and the sort go down there to forage at low tide and then get trapped in the cave. You might have just startled one of them that was already at the end of its rope and its fight or flight response kicked in.” He waved his own fork glibly as he laughed off Winston’s story, trying to put them at ease while pushing them towards believing they hadn’t seen a necrophage and instead had just seen a frightened animal. He realized too late, however, that between taking a bite of his salmon and laughing brightly he’d left his mouth open for far too long, and he no longer had his back to his roommate. He snapped it shut and took a sip of his beer, hoping that Winston has been too distracted by the delicious food to look at him.

Winston didn’t think that their mother would kill Ricky. They were certain that their fate would be far more gruesome then an easy death. “Well don’t worry because I won’t let anything happen to you, and my mother isn’t about to find out about this.” Turning the plate round, Winston scooped up their fork and picked at the slice of salmon that Ricky had cooked for them. Ricky didn’t seem to eat much other then fish and meat, but they knew how to cook it and they did a damn good job. Winston just assumed that Ricky was fussy and out of deference to their friend had elected not to bring the topic up, incase it embarrassed them. “Maybe, but I’ve got to admit that it didn’t look like any sort of deer or badger that I have ever seen before, this looked like a cross between a monkey and a bat.” Winston looked up just in time to see Ricky’s gleaming mouthful of fangs. Wait … fangs? Winston felt their eyes widen and realised that they had caught Ricky’s eye for a moment. A look of shock on their face before they looked at their plate and shovelled a huge mouthful of fish into their mouth. “Mmhmmm this is great fish dude,” they said inbetween bites, doing what they could to avoid admitting to what they had just seen. But they’d seen those very same teeth on Skylar, hours before. What the fuck was going on? 

Given the profound look of shock on their face and the renewed vigor with which they ate and commented on the fish, Ricky knew pretty immediately that the jig was up. “Winston…” he sighed wearily as he set down his fork and took a drink of his beer. “Yeah. I know it’s great fish. I can cook fish like a motherfucker. Because fish and meat are pretty much all I can eat. Listen. I know you saw and you can stop trying to hide that behind food comments and eating. Mostly because at the rate you’re going you’re gonna finish that fish in two bites. So. Yeah. Let’s talk.” He’d really planned on going a lot longer without having this conversation. But. Hopefully Winston’s cool head would prevail “if it makes you feel better… it definitely wasn’t a badger or a deer you saw.”

With a mouthful of fish, Winston looked up at Ricky and let out an uneasy laugh. “Yeah, I know you eat fish and meat, because you’re a giant baby living in a man’s body and you hate your veggies, you’re a fussy eater and you’ve probably got like a gluten intolerance right?!” They let out a high pitched anxious laugh and shoved more fish into their mouth. “But you’re right, really good fish, you did an amazing job, like you always did. HA ha what amazing fish.” They chewed extra slowly on the tiny amount of fish that they had left. “I’m sorry Ricky,” Winston said glancing at their wrist and realising they weren’t wearing a watch, “but I’ve got to dash, my parents are expecting me for dinner and they’ll be upset if I’m late…” they tried to force their heart to slow down, but it wasn’t working. They didn’t have time to focus on something else and just breath. “Anyway, I’ll catch you later.” They were standing and grabbing their rucksack and keys. They would stay at their parents house tonight. They would also be checking to see if they too had a mouthful of sharp teeth. “Thanks again for the fish dude.” 

It became readily apparent to Ricky that this was going to be at least a two part conversation, as Winston gathered their things and started to head towards the door. “Winston.” Ricky called out from where he was sitting picking at his fish, “my….. fussy eating” which seemed to be the terms they were going to couch this in for the moment, “Is a secret for a reason. There are people who would use that as an excuse to hunt me. Literally. So if we could keep this between us for the moment. I’d appreciate it.” He took another swig if beer and glanced down at his phone as Winston headed for the door, “also. It was probably a ghoul. Down in the cave. Sounds like one. Don’t go back there again. It’s not safe til that things been taken care of. Be careful.” All he could do was trust that he and Winston had enough of a bond that his roommate wouldn’t go blabbing to the whole town. 

Winston was pulling their rucksack onto their back and had their hand wrapped around the handle to the front door. “Ricky,” Winston said turning to face him, “Ghouls aren’t real. In the same way that ghosts, vampires, werewolves and magic aren’t real. This isn’t supernatural or the Witcher. None of these things exist in the real world. If they did exist, don’t you think that the internet would’ve spread the word about them? You think that a secret that big could be kept?!” They laughed nervously, suddenly unsure in everything that they had just asserted was the truth. “I won’t tell anyone about your fussy eating,” Winston said sourly, “I know how to keep a secret,” they pulled the front door open and felt a cold breeze roll into their house. “Besides, I’ve always got your back, even if you … are a fussy eater.” With that they were taking a step out of the front door and heading towards their car. They needed answers. They needed time to think and try and wrap their head around this. Ricky had used the words ghoul for fucksake?! 

[akagami-no-rae]

The Ice King - part 1

AO3

Izana stared at the stack of requests for marriage interviews on his desk and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was time to deal with this again.

For Izana, choosing a wife was purely a diplomatic affair. No matter who he chose or how many alliances she’d bring, it would create just as many enemies.

Ideally he’d choose whichever woman would cause the least amount of disturbances, someone from a strong family, and beloved by the people.

For a split second Izana imagine a woman of intelligence and beauty by his side, a partner who could carry the burden of the crown with him, but he quashed that fantasy the moment it reared its head. Her looks and acumen didn’t matter.

Many of the courtier’s daughters he’d met where flighty, had no mind for politics, and resigned themselves to their roles of baring the children of the man their parent’s chose. Obedient girls who’d become tractable wives. He’d be smart to chose one of them and never worry about her becoming a weakness to him.

He felt a twinge in his chest. Stop it.

This was a business arrangement and his only prerequisite for marriage should be that she agrees to it of her own accord.

But, to think his one condition was optional for some.

Izana remembered his mother’s face, sitting in the garden one sunny morning fourteen years ago. She was smiling at him warmly even though her face was soaked with tears.

Izana gave his head a single shake. He’d sooner die than become that which he hated.

The throne was a lonely place to be. His mother had no love for ruling, she’d want to pass it on soon enough, and Zen was just getting past not wanting to be a prince, only time would tell if he’d become someone he could rely on.

He was prepared for the reality where he’d have to rule alone.

But he needed to keep up appearances.

“I’ve, of course, arranged the requests with the most promising young ladies to the front,” Haruka said, “I’ve taken into account family line, assets, land-“

“Invite them all.” Izana said standing up from his desk.

“-ownership, accomplishmen-,“ Haruka sputtered, realizing what Izana just said. “You want to have an interview with each one of them? Your highness,”he said sternly, “I think we should discuss your best options-“

“I intend to hold a match-making ball,” Izana said slowly, as he turned to face the window. Only looking at Haruka from the corner of his eye, before the view of the capital at sunset captured his full attention.

Haruka stood with his mouth agape for a moment then bowed suddenly, “Apologies. Of course, your highness. It’s wise to investigate all your options without appearing too invested in any one family.” Izana chuckled and slouched against the frame of the window with his shoulder.

“I dont know what you mean, Haruka. I simply want to sample all the beautiful women Clarines has to offer.”

Haruka stared at the back if Izana’s head, if he didn’t know any better... He bowed again. “As you wish, your highness,” he said slowly then turned to leave.

“And invite some younger noble women as well, between twelve and fifteen.”

Haruka stopped at the door. “Your highness?” He said and turned back to see Izana observing him with an amused smile.

“For Zen,” Izana said with a smirk.

Haruka nodded, “Yes, of course.”

————-

“Your highness, your brother is here to see you, per your request.”

“Let him in.”

Zen entered with Mitsuhide by his side and stood tall before Izana’s desk. The moment Izana met his gaze, however, Zen looked away. Shame. He almost got to witness the ‘Prince Zen’ the Guard had been speaking highly of. Maybe he’d catch him another time.

“Zen,” Izana addressed his little brother, “A ball will be held here in a months time. I want you and Mitsuhide in attendance.”

“Yes, Lord Brother,” Zen replied then looked confused, “May I ask, what sort of ball is it?”

Izana smiled, “It’s a match-making ball, Zen. We’re to meet young woman and choose wives.”

Zen turned red at the sudden news. Mitsuhide had informed him that Zen was beginning to take an interest in girls and dating, but it was only just occurring to Izana how inexperienced Zen was compared to him at that age. That was good though. There was no damn good reason for Izana to have been as ‘experienced’ as he was at fourteen.

“You want me to choose a wife?” Zen said meekly, his eyes the size of dinner plates.

“Relax, Zen,” Izana said, “the ball is being held for me. I’m the one who needs to choose a wife. However, this is a good opportunity for you to meet Clarines’ nobility, establish a report with the court, and create allies.”

Zen nodded, “I’ll do my best, Lord Brother.”

“Good,” Izana said.

Zen turned to leave then stopped. “Lord brother,” he said turning back around, “Are you getting an arranged marriage?”

Izana studied Zen for a long moment, “I’ll have some say in it, but whomever I choose it will be purely because she was the best choice for Clarines.”

“So, will I have to get an arranged marriage too?” Zen’s eyes were fixed on the ground. Izana couldn’t get a read on him so he continued with caution.

“You understand that, as a prince, we have to think of our country first and ourselves second?”

Zen gave only a single nod in reply. Izana looked to Mitsuhide who looked between the two princes, concerned.

“I think, “Zen said with a bit more power in his voice, “that meeting someone through fate would be better. That it could lead to someone unexpectedly good for Clarines.” He looked up from the ground to meet Izana’s gaze.

“I don’t tend to put stock into what I can’t see for myself,” Izana said flatly, “You’re dismissed.”

————-

Seiran stood by a window in a corridor of Wistal Castle. He watched his only daughter practice her drills in the yard below. It was the first time he’d brought her to the capital with him. He had sworn never to bring her, but his reason to keep her away was dead and in the ground. There was nothing to fear here anymore.

His late wife was an old friend of Queen’s and over the years he also came to love Haruto as a sister. He watched the princes grow up and was there when the Haruto took over leadership of the country. For the first time in his life, he was beginning to feel like Clarines had a bright future ahead of it.

“Earl Seiran,” Izana’s voice echoed through the marble hall.

Seiran turned from his place at the window. “Prince Izana,” he said with a bow.

Izana came and stood by the Earl. They both observed the young swordsman go through her paces.

“I wanted to inform you that I had tea with your daughter this morning,” Izana said, “She’s a very bright girl.”

“You’re too old for her.” Seiran said without missing a beat.

Izana smiled. “You make ‘five years’ sound like I’m twice her age.”

“I brought her here upon your insistence, but she’s really too young to be thinking about marriage,” Seiran said, “I’m already declining suitors for her left and right, but if you want to throw your proposal into the ring too-“

Izana lifted his hand, “I understand your desire to protect your daughter’s childhood. I’ve the same softness for my brother.” Izana watched as Seiran considered his meaning until, silently, he nodded. Izana continued, “I believe Zen and Kiki would make a good match, but Zen is determined to make life hard for himself. He’s stubborn and has naïve ideas about love and fate.”

Seiran‘s nod continued, “Kiki is headstrong.” Seiran spoke with both reverence and pride, his eyes never left his daughter, “I’ve nurtured that in her. I want her to be happy with a spouse of her own choosing. When she’s older.”

“I agree that they’re too young to be considering marriage now, but I propose we arrange for them to ‘coincidently’ meet before the ball begins. It will seemingly happen by ‘fate’. Let them use the years leading up to their coming of age to develop their friendship. Then, without any prodding from us, they’ll happily choose each other.”

“Your plan sounds smooth,” Seiran said, “But life rarely turns out the way we scheme.”

Izana nodded, “That’s true. Forgive me, if I seem to be taking this lightly.Zen’s brought me to my whit’s end.”

“I’ve known the second prince through-out his childhood, he’s only ever been a boy looking for a friend in this world.” Earl Seiran put his hand on Izana’s shoulder and gripped it firmly. “Give him time and trust and I imagine he’ll grow to be a fine young man.” He removed his hand as he walked past Izana. “Title aside, I’d be proud to have someone like Zen as my a son-in-law. If Kiki wishes it...” Izana watched as Seiran made his way down the long corridor. He stopped part way and turned to speak over his shoulder. “She practices here. At this time. Every evening.” He walked away, waving, without looking back, “Good luck.”

[treacherycuphq]

I’m really interested in taking a star player / exploring a “fame monster” dynamic but I don’t want to step on a moderator’s toes - can you guys give some ideas as to how we can explore that without feeling like we’re stealing plots?

FIRST OFF - WE WANT TO SINCERELY THANK YOU FOR THIS QUESTION. IT WAS VERY COURTEOUS OF YOU TO REACH OUT WITH THIS, BECAUSE IT SHOWS YOU'VE READ OVER THE SAMPLE APP AND ENOUGH SKELES TO GET A GENERAL LAYOUT OF CHARACTER TRAJECTORIES & WERE ABLE TO IDENTIFY AN OVERLYING CONNECTION. WE APPRECIATE THE LEVEL OF CRITICAL THINKING THAT OCCURRED FOR THIS QUESTION. I'M ( MOD S ) GOING TO ASSUME THIS IS IN CONJUNCTION WITH MY CHARACTER, MARLENE, SO I'M GOING TO FINISH ANSWERING IT.

WE'VE MADE SEVERAL "STAR PLAYER" SKELES FOR THE PURPOSE OF "FAME MONSTER" EXPLORATION PLOTS, SO I WOULDN'T BE CONCERNED WITH "STEALING" ANYTHING FROM ME ! I PERSONALLY SEE THE CONCEPT OF FAME AS A MULTI-HEADED BEAST, AND DIFFERENT ASPECTS / SCENARIOS THAT ARE BORN FROM IT WOULD AFFECT CHARACTERS IN DIFFERENT WAYS. OFF THE TOP OF MY HEAD, I KNOW AUGUSTUS ROOKWOOD, LUDOVIC BAGMAN, LUCINDA TALKALOT, AND EMMA VANITY ARE PRETTY CODED TOWARD "FAME MONSTER" PLOTS OUT OF THE QUIDDITCH PLAYERS. UNDER THE READ MORE CUT, I'M GOING TO LIST SPECIFIC PLOTS I'D LOVE TO SEE !

( SINCE THIS QUESTION SPECIFICALLY MENTIONED 'STAR PLAYERS,' I'M GOING TO FOCUS ON THEM, BUT I 100% SUPPORT THE FAME MONSTER PLOTS APPLYING TO OTHER CHARACTERS, OUTSIDE OF QUIDDITCH, AS WELL ! )

First, you need to address some key "Fame" thematics, before you tap into the monster portion:

Who was your character before they became famous, and who have they become because of the spotlight?

Does your character put on a facade for their public personality, or do they present themselves authentically for public consumption?

If they use a fake public personality, what do they do with the emotional dissonance of pretending to be somebody they're not? Does it affect their private relationships? How do they cope?

If they present themselves authentically, do they maintain healthy boundaries with the public? Can they separate their inner perspective versus the public perception of them? What happens when these two versions don't match up?

Do they have an ability to change back to who they were before fame, or has the appeal of the spotlight changed them, for better or for worse?

The "monster" portion of the fame monster trope really rests in your character responding to a slew of these circumstances negatively - similarly to a "bridezilla," the definition doesn't fit if it's not born of antagonism, y'know?

With all of that in mind, here's a non-exhaustive list of everything I could come up with re: alternate "fame monster" plots / dynamics that don't have any effect whatsoever over me & my current musings.

PLOTS:

BEST OF THE BEST OF THE BEST OF THE...: No one can be flawless forever. No one can be the best until they die. The best is the best until... what? Typically, we see the end of powerful reigns because something else begins to matter more: love, money, power, friendship, self-preservation, addiction, and anonymity are all well-known and valid reasons to finally break ties with the fame monster. Maybe your character did, and is dealing with the fallout from the limelight; maybe your character is about to, but is still trying to figure out what's worth leaving the fame monster behind.

THE LIFESTYLES OF THE RICH & FAMOUS: saying your character has adjusted to their celebrity status would be an understatement; they've flourished beneath the limelight, and now have a personal assistant, an agent, and a public relations manager to help offset even the barest inkling of a bad image. Heck, they've been famous for so long, they barely remember what life was like before - they've become someone that's lost their connection to their roots. However, that's all about to change... because where's the fun in not fracturing everything a person knows, for the sake of conflict?

ICARUS' LANDING: oh how high we fly! oh how far we fall ! your character has found themselves in a typical Icarian tragedy - their fame is hinged on the exploitation of their worst hubris, and they won't stop trying to succeed until it's far too late. Try as they damnedest to touch the sun and dazzle in its spotlight, so too will they find their end and burn beneath its brilliance; whatever your character is using to find fame, they will overindulge and find themselves plummeting toward normality far sooner than they'd ever think.

FAN BASE FAVOR: your character has fallen into the monotony of catering to their fan bases' every wish & whim, creating a public version of themselves that's simultaneously overly enthusiastic & underwhelming. That means that they constantly stop for pictures or autographs, to the point of near compulsion. If they're always willing & able to provide for their fans, what does that mean in terms of their public identity? Are they constantly putting on a show, in case fans are nearby? Do they feel invalidated if fans aren't screaming for their attention at all times? Do they lose hours upon hours responding to fan mail? How do the other people in their lives feel about this exhaustive fan service?

STARRING IN THE SHADOWS: your character's parent was famous, to a high enough caliber that their star power has created an everlasting shadow over your own reputation; nothing you do, nothing you say will keep them from being mentioned in the next sentence. But fame has sunk its teeth into you, and your left with two complex paths: do you cede under their spotlight, and hope it bolsters your own? Or do you try anything to break out of their typecast, and make a name for yourself, outside your family ties? More importantly, does anyone else in the world care? Do you talk about your complex relationship with your own privilege, or let sleeping dogs lie?

MY OWN WORST ENEMY: your character has a complicated relationship with hedonism; whether it be romantic entanglements, illicit substances, or general gluttony of all things sin, they compulsively indulge, with little to no discipline. Regardless of outside intervention, your character partakes time & time again, refusing help for what they don't see as a problem, just a "good time." There's only so long this lifestyle can be catered to, however, before they gain a level of notoriety that blackballs them from the famous circles they were once included in.

DANCING WITH YOUR HANDS TIED: your character has feelings for a certain someone, but is unable to act on it, thanks to their celebrity status. Maybe you're trying to exploit the pureblood/muggleborn dynamic? Maybe their interest rests on someone outside the public eye? Maybe that person has no interest in being brought into the public eye, making your celebrity status the difference between having or losing that special person? Can your character let go of the validation of many for the love of one? Do they even have a choice - stepping out of the public eye doesn't automatically free you from being a celebrity, ask any former child star !

DYNAMICS:

OBSESSIONS & CONFESSIONS: your character may be too famous, as they're currently trying to sidestep a stalker - or "obsessed fan," depending on your definition. Either way, no one enjoys invasions of your property or your privacy - does your character confront the stalker directly, in an attempt to gain their sympathy? Or do they take increasingly ludicrous measures in an attempt to ward them off? Maybe, they enjoy the newfound level of attention, and begin to build a complicated relationship with them?

CHASE YOU DOWN UNTIL YOU LOVE ME: Paparazzi, baby ! Love to hate them or hate to love them, the physical entity that is tabloid publication follows you around wherever you go. Does your character love the constant audience, or crave the solace of anonymity? Is the paparazzi better or worse than the rest of the world's consumption of you? Does one person in particular rile you up for the sake of a juicy photograph, leading to a cumbersome antagonism that's almost targeted at you? Does their presence give your character confidence or anxiety? Maybe your character gets on good terms with one of their paid stalkers, and hatches a scheme to always be on the front page in exchange for the juiciest weekly scoop? Maybe your character is trying to use the paparazzi to increase their celebrity status, which hasn't been fully realized yet?

PEOPLE I DON'T LIKE: there's nothing wrong with making famous friends for the sake of gaining more fame, but Lord, doesn't it get cumbersome constantly trying to please people you barely even like? The photographs may seem favorable enough, but behind closed doors & velvet ropes, these people are NOT your friends - but then what are they? And honestly, is anyone really your friend anymore? What defines friendship, in a world where the flashing light will always mean more than the people standing in front of it?

UPPER MANAGEMENT: all celebrities hit a streak of their pride where they become more eggheaded than egg-ceptional - whether your character is the celebrity or their support staff, the high horse of the limelight has finally caused a conflict between what you think you deserve & what you currently receive. Whether you're demanding a new agent, coach, assistant, or some other ludicrous proclamation, this sudden inflation of your ego has done nothing but piss off the people around you. Congrats ! Now it's time to deal with the fall out of your holier-than-thou expectations.

ASSIST ME: a niche dynamic of the one presented above, this deals with the relationship between star & personal assistant, and the synchrony needed to sail an exceptionally famous ship. Is the assistant good at their job? Is the star judgmental & opinionated, with unrealistic expectations? What does the personal assistant get from this dynamic? How does it further their career? Do they only do it out of contractual obligation to their client, or does their relationship with their assigned celebrity go far deeper than that?

SELL OUT YOUR HEART: your character wakes up one day to find that somebody close to them has leaked explicit information to the press about you. However, this source is left "anonymous." What does your character do? Do they root out the imposter, who sold their personal information for a quick dime? Do they want to know the identity of the perpetrator? Is it actually a betrayal in their eyes, or a product of their work? Or maybe your character picked out someone in their group who exclusively leaks these pockets of information for the sake of bolstering your reputation?

THE BOJACK HORSEMAN PLOT: your character has been playing the fame game long enough that the public has begun the enamored catcalls for a book about your life ! Your character's agent places them with a well-respected ghost writer to get things started; does your character enjoy their time with the writer, or do they find them judgmental / opinionated over your character's past? Does the writer respect your character's vision, or expect them to bend to narrative style of a story? Do they ruminate on ideas that your character finds hit a little too close to home, or maybe they won't write what your character wants at all? Does your character treat their sessions like therapy? Does it force them to confront deep personal issues & views they'd never questioned before? Or do they simply finish the endeavor & send them off, without ever thinking about their ghost writer again? Do they build a relationship with one another, or does it begin & end with work?

FAKE DATING AU: pretty self-explanatory & a fan favorite, especially for celebrity characters !

BODYGUARD AU: also self-explanatory & a personal favorite !!

[kimmyiewrites]

Until the Earth is Free ~ Chpt 8

“So they can’t put him to trial yet can they?” Lizzie asked as she paced the floor. After Enjolras had been swept away by Raoul, les amis went up to the hidden room above the cafe to plan how they were going to get Enjolras out of jail.

“No, they don’t have any evidence but with an accusation such as this we better act quickly.” Marius replied.

“But how can they even give this arrest any validation? We were acting as a study group. All you boys have to do is show them that you were talking about the American Revolution or any other revolution for that matter and he goes free, right?” She was trying her best to go through every possibility she could possibly think of.

“You know she has a point,” Combeferre spoke up.

“But how exactly are we going to prove that when we have our own Revolution notes written all over the notes from class?” Grantaire asked, he didn’t want to get Lizzie’s hopes up if it meant that she would wind up getting hurt later if this plan didn’t work out.

“But what if we took those out or rewrote them?” Lizzie asked, challenging Grantaire’s cynical comment. “I could even help with the rewriting. I can make my handwriting look like a man’s.”

“No, I think you’re on to something there Lizzie. We only wrote on the parts that spoke to us and then we made plans on separate papers. I know most of my notes are honestly just underlined or starred so it looks annotated which wouldn’t cause any suspicion.” Courfeyrac said, flipping through his papers.

“So do you just plan on marching in there and demanding Enjolras’ freedom?” Grantaire asked.

“No, we’ve got to be strategic about this. If we speak to the Inspector he’ll remember us and he’ll mark us suspicious since we’re freeing a man who was suspected of treason.” Lizzie said.

“Then I’ll go and a couple others.” Marius said. “You can stay here with Courfeyrac and Combeferre and continue on with today’s meeting. After all we were going to meet with the other student groups today, someone needs to stay here.”

“Well, it’s certainly not going to be me.” Lizzie replied, arms crossed as she stared down Marius. How could he even suggest that she would stay back while they freed Enjolras.

“I hate to admit it Lizzie but Marius is right. We need to stay here to greet the other groups and go over plans. Enjolras put you in his place for a reason.” Combeferre said.

Lizzie spun around to face the guide of the group. “But Enjolras needs our help…”

“And we’ll help Enjolras but he also needs us here to continue planning for our own revolution.” Courfeyrac added, making his way over to Lizzie and placing his hands on her shoulders. “This is why he chose you out of all of us to take his place while he’s gone. You have that same passion living inside of you and right now we’re going to need that passion focused towards getting these other groups on the same page as us. Marius and whoever else is going with him will get Enjolras out and bring him back here. Don’t you worry.”

Lizzie sighed, knowing very well that she couldn’t fight with Courfeyrac. “I suppose you’re right. So who will go with Marius?”

Courfeyrac smiled and went back to everyone’s notes. He and Combeferre were flipping through and pulling what could be used for evidence but not give themselves away.

Grantaire raised his hand as well as Bahorel. The two knew their friend was hurting and they wanted to make sure they were the ones that helped her feel better and who better than the original three boys who she trusted. When Lizzie saw that it was going to be her cousin and two best friends to go help Enjolras she smiled, knowing that he was going to be in good hands.

Once everything was prepared, Marius, Grantaire and Bahorel left to head to the prison. The others helped Lizzie prepare for the meeting. Lizzie was reading over Enjolras’ notes as the other students began filing in. When they noticed that the usual leader of the group was nowhere to be seen murmurs of doubt began. This was the perfect time for Lizzie to start.

Combeferre helped her up onto a chair so that she could be above everyone else. She smiled her thanks down at him and used his shoulder to keep her balance. “Thank you all for coming. I know I’m certainly not who you were expecting to be addressing you but I can assure you I certainly know what I’m talking about.” Lizzie addressed the room.

The murmurs quieted down and the les amis boys looked up to their leader’s girl with pride. Oh yes, they knew for certain that they were a match made in heaven even if the two have barely acted like lovers.

“You all have felt the stirring of the people. They are beginning to finally feel that need to fight back, to fight for their rights to live far better than what they are living now. We would like to first thank you for wanting to join our cause, for wanting to help give the people of France a better way of life. We will bring hope and change to our beloved patria if we do our jobs right and luckily we have these meetings to make sure we do.”

Down at the prison Marius, Grantaire and Bahorel were granted a meeting with Inspector Javert. The intimidating man who loved the law more than life it seemed was flipping through the notes and books that the three students brought as evidence. “And so you’re saying that my son jumped to conclusions because your friend was too close to the girl he wishes to wed?”

Marius nodded. “Yes, monsieur. We were studying for our next exam in our government class when he heard us speaking about the American Revolution and arrested Monsieur Enjolras before we could even explain ourselves.”

Javert closed the book and pushed the books back towards the students. “I see that you three speak the truth. I will release your friend since my son has yet to learn how to keep his emotions out of his work. Make sure you boys keep this class’ studies private. There are too many rumors of revolution and I don’t want to go through this again.”

All three boys nodded. “Yes, monsieur. Thank you, monsieur.”

Lizzie was no longer standing on the chair. She was now in front of a large map of Paris they had tacked up on the wall. She was using a ruler to point where Enjolras had planned to set up the barricades. She read out the road names to the students and they wrote them down. Some were a little unsure of her leading when they were used to Enjolras but she had quickly won them over. Once she was done, Combeferre helped her back up on the chair.

“Remember boys we have quite the feat ahead of us. We’re not going to change France just by fighting, building barricades and rallying. We need to talk to the friends and family that are outside of this room. Convince them that France needs to change but mention a word about revolution. That will come in due time. If we don’t convince them, we won’t be successful. Talk about those who are having to leave the warmth of their houses and apartments to live on the streets because the ones who are living more than comfortably are cutting back on jobs and taking excess resources. Talk about how those same people barely look pass their own noses to see the harm that they are causing. Talk about hope, be kind, show love, be the good that we are trying to create because then, truly then we will have the people of France rising up with us and showing the bourgeois and the king that we demand justice, we demand liberty, we demand freedom and most of all we demand equality.”

“Vive la France!” was chanted as the students cheered Lizzie’s speech.

When things calmed down there was still a clap that could be heard in the room. Lizzie looked around before she locked eyes with the man she loved. Oh yes, she loved Alexandre Enjolras with her whole being. When he was not around she felt as though she had a piece missing and that she wasn’t as strong. She was glad for the strength Combeferre and Courfeyrac gave her during this meeting but it was nowhere near the strength and confidence that she had done a job well done that she had gotten when she had found Enjolras in the crowd.

Lizzie hopped down from the chair and ran to him. She jumped into his arms, holding onto him as tightly as she could. “You’re okay.” She mumbled into his neck, relief flooding through her body as she felt his edges against her curves.

“I’m okay.” He smiled, taking in all that was her in this moment in front of the students who he was supposed to be leading.

He could not be more proud of the girl that was in his arms in this moment. He may have only caught the last bit of her speech but she had riled up emotions in all that were in that room and had implored them to go out and do some good in the world. Oh yes, he loved this girl heart, mind and soul. He just hoped that his arrest wouldn’t cause any troubles with their grandfather. He did not want to lose her. Being apart for the few hours that they were was bad enough. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to not see her for a day, a week, a month...he had to stop himself from thinking those thoughts and focus back in on the moment that was happening right now. “Thank you for coming. I apologize for not being here sooner but I believe Lizzie covered all that was needed. We’ll see you next week.” Enjolras smiled, dismissing the group of students besides his friends, while still holding onto Lizzie.

Once they were all gone, Lizzie pulled back and went to go give hugs to Bahorel, Grantaire and Marius. She thanked each of them for helping to get Enjolras out of jail. Lizzie then went over to where Enjolras was sitting with Courfeyrac and Combeferre. He wrapped an arm around her waist as the four of them easily continued their conversation on how the meeting had gone.

Around dinner time everyone went their separate ways. Lizzie and Marius returned home but Marius couldn’t quite make it through the door for Lizzie stopped in her tracks right causing him to run into her. They then stumbled through and stopped in front of the parlor. Marius then saw what, or rather who, caused Lizzie to freeze.

Raoul was there speaking with their grandfather. After his father had disciplined him for making such a idiotic move, Raoul decided he would try another way to make sure that Lizzie would spend more time with him. After all he was quite certain that if he had adequate time with Lizzie he could show her who was a far better match.

Marius and Lizzie’s grandfather noticed them coming in and wished Raoul farewell before ushering his grandchildren to sit with him in the parlour. Both of them knew what must have been coming for they shared a look before following him.

“Monsieur Enjolras was arrested?!” He exclaimed.

“Grandfather it was all a big misunderstanding! Raoul arrested him under false pretenses he was studying!” Lizzie defended.

“I don’t care why he was arrested this could ruin the Pontmercy name if it came out that you were being courted by a criminal.” He replied. “You were doing so well, Lissette. Now if you don’t cut your ties you’ll be going back in the direction of being like your mother. Your father had higher aspirations for you.”

Lizzie stood up, clenching her fists. “Neither of my parents were criminals. If anything it was you who killed my father because once who disowned him because you did not agree with the woman he loved he was trying to do anything to make you proud again.”

Monsieur Pontmercy gasped in shock that his granddaughter was talking back at him and speaking with such strong accusations. “You do not know what you say, child. Sit back down and ask the lord, our savior forgiveness before we go eat our dinner or you really will end up like your mother.”

Lizzie harshly laughed. “I would gladly wind up like my mother if that meant I got to keep love in my life!” She then stormed off, running up the stairs to her room.

Marius started after her but turned back around to say a few words to their grandfather. “She’s happy, truly happy since you separated her from Auntie. Enjolras was helping those of us who are finishing up classes study for our big government test that’s coming up that analyzes the American Revolution and so forth. Raoul heard him finish his sentence on Revolution and arrested him. Enjolras was doing nothing wrong. If you have a heart left, you would let her continue to see him.” And with that he left to prepare two plates and to check on his cousin.

[byakuyanya-purinsesu]

R&R: Royals and Reconnect. {feat. @torndragonprincess}

◀ Kamui stood out on the deck and watched the massive sphere above their heads. It radiated malice, and poured lives she hadn't lived into her head like water from a bucket. "I wonder if there's one where I stayed." 

“You mean one where we didn’t drive you off with our stupidity?” Takumi chimed in, sharing the view of the foreboding amalgamation that marred the sky above them.

“I’ve been wondering about that… since long before any of this Subspace mess started. Gods, what idiots we were back then…”

“Takumi…” The woman turned to him sadly. “No…it wasn’t your fault. If I’d been…wiser, if I had been able to handle it better, if I hadn’t been so frantic…it was just an excuse. I hadn’t been suited for command. Not then. I was too overwhelmed.”

“Well, we can’t rightly say we were much better about it. Leo and I could’ve talked more, tried harder to come to an understanding. But we let petty jealousy and pride get in our way.” Takumi replied, a hand running through his hair and scratching the back of his head in frustration.

“You’re not allowed to take this blame by yourself, got it? I’m the ‘big brother’ here after all. It falls to me to be more responsible.” Even with all different kinds of memories coming and going thanks to the Embryo’s influence, that silly bit of insistence on their sibling roles from his end seemed to remain a constant.

“Takumi you’re not even really that much taller than me, and I’m still older than you.”  There were still old old memories he had and she didn’t, but Hinoka had told her before that a certain spiky haired brother had run to Kamui for protection against nightmares once or twice when they were very young.

In a way, she relied on him for the same now.  The nightmare of war, of the situation they found themselves in.  She’d left, because…because why?  Why?  How could she have ever abandoned him.

She embraced him suddenly.  “Dear brother, I am so sorry…”

“Yeah, yeah…”  Wrapping his arms around her and returning the embrace, he gave a light pat to her back and smiled in spite of himself.

“If you’ve still got the need to try and correct me over that, then I know you’re still the same Kamui I’m proud to call my sister. The time for sorry has passed and I’ve forgiven you already, okay?” Was this reassurance for her? Or more for himself? Either way, he was glad to have her back in his life.

“The only thing…the only reason I can be here now…the only reason I could stay when I saw your face again, rather than running away in shame…”

“Was seeing how much you’d grown.  I’m so proud of you, Takumi.  You’ve matured so much.  You’re so strong.”  As was her habit when saying such mushy things, Kamui began to tear up slightly.  She was so intensely proud of the young prince she felt as if she were about to explode.

“In truth you might really be the more mature sibling now…but I do still have to insist.  I am older than you.”

“See? Now why did you have to go and ruin this cute moment with your dumb facts?” Takumi pouted, lightly jabbing her cheek with his index finger.

“Who cares if you were born before me? That’s just a technicality! That doesn’t mean anything!”

“Takumi, stop that,” why did everyone always tug at her face?  Everyone from Camilla to now Takumi always had to poke at it.  Sakura and Elise were the babies, not her…

She began to giggle quietly as she had these thoughts.  They were about to die and she was indignant over some silly sibling bickering.

“Neither does the fact that you’re taller!”

“What would that jerk Leo say right about now? ‘It seems we’re… at an impasse’?” the archer mockingly said, doing his best impression of his Nohrian counterpart. Placing a flat palm atop her head, he playfully grumbled.

“I have height on my side and you have a year or two on yours… should we just call it a draw?”

“Nope!” she said this cheerfully, patting the archer on the head.  “I’m still your big sister, whether you like it or not.”  She ruffled his hair teasingly, intentionally treating him like a child.

“Besides, you’re so cute Takumi, how could anyone not know you’re my baby brother?”

“Hey now…” he gave her as stern a look as he could muster in the situation whilst she began giving him a talking to; not unlike one would do with a kid.

“I’ll have you know that I am not cute. I am manly. If you’re going to recognize my good looks, I’d prefer something more manly sounding like calling me handsome.”

“But you are cute!  You’re my adorable little brother and I love you so much!”  She hugged him again and nuzzled his cheek fondly as if he were a small boy.

“You’ve done so well.  I’m so proud of you, taking such good care of your people, and being so responsible…and taking care of Leo.”

And speaking of Leo...

Later that evening...

Having found the ever diligent woman on patrol outside of his room once again whilst he was running through tactics in his head, he reached outward and gave her a light tap on the shoulder as a means of garnering her attention.

“A word, Kamui?”

“Leo?”

She still insisted on guarding him, even now.  After all, it wasn’t as if the reason for doing so was diminished, despite everything his opponents still seemed hell bent on blaming him for imaginary wrongs.  

She stepped inside his room now, however, a smile on her face.  “You need something?”

“Yes, well…” Leo invited her to have a seat beside him on his bed while he folded his hands over his lap; hanging his head somewhat shamefully.

“It’s occurred to me that our final march is drawing nearer and I’ve… neglected to have a proper reconnection with you. Better late than never, as the saying goes?”

She was…more than a little shocked to hear this of all things from him.  Was it really the time for this…well she supposed it was the time for everything, just in case.  A thousand just in cases.

“Well you were quite busy, Leo, and not exactly in a frame of mind for a heart to heart.  But you know I’m always happy to talk to you.”

Raising his head upward and adjusting his posture to address her proper, he elaborated:

“Well… as you’re aware, Prince Takumi has been beside me for these many months and have had a number of people come and go since. As a leader of this united army and as a prince of Nohr, I can’t truthfully claim that I was alone. But… I have wondered from time to time, just what you were doing? Did you garner any support? Someone to call an ally? A… friend?”

“I…not particularly.  The people in the village where I settled found me…odd.  The children were wonderful, of course, and their parents were grateful to me as their teacher, but I didn’t really make any close friends.”

It was a little shameful to say here and now, amidst people who knew her as almost attracting friends, but those were her kind family who’d taken pity on her…even her servants were those who had chosen to stay with her, after all.

“I spent much of my time reading, truly.”

“…Odd, you say.” Leo could only presume she told no one of her true heritage. He was curious as to why but wouldn’t pry for answers. What she said to have picked up as a hobby caught his attention.

“Reading? What kind of material do you favor when it comes to reading?”

“Leo…I’ve always read, you know that.  I had little else to do in the fortress when everyone else was busy.  Though it was mostly material for the children rather than something like my own study materials or novels, it’s true…”

She cocked her head slightly.  “Yes, odd.  I was…more than a little awkward at first.  I didn’t know much of…anything, really.”  Similar to the army, in truth.  She’d showed the signs of being raised with no true firsthand experience of the world.

“In truth, I’ve always feared what might happen if you were thrust into a life in which you had to survive on your own. You’re proving you have the adaptability if you can secure employment… immensely so in the field of child care.” His eyes then lowered when he lingered on the thought for longer; a sign of regret.

“I… must apologize for having you cooped up in that fortress for so long. It wasn’t on my orders of course, but not doing anything to try and get you out sooner makes me just as guilty.”

“Leo, it’s not as if you had anything you could’ve done about it…Garon was just as cruel to you all as he was to me.  If you’d tried to defy him, you’d have just suffered needlessly.”

What was bringing this on?  All this was…a lifetime ago.  More, it seemed.

“Is something on your mind?”

“I…” For someone who prided himself in his speaking ability, this statement he wanted to make was having a hard time being vocally quantified.

“I just… wanted to take a chance on sorting out and then pursuing feelings for you that I’ve been harboring. And I thought a good first step might be reconnecting… getting to know each other again. A fresh start, if you will?”

She was more than a little startled to hear that.  To hear that he still…had those emotions for her.  After all this time.  After what she’d done.

A fresh start?

“…I would like that very much, Leo.”

Part of him didn’t think he’d actually get this far… but here he was, and now there was no backing down. And in spite of himself, Leo found himself… smiling.

“This might sound dumb to you, like some kind of poetic waxing… but as memories flow in and out of me within the distortions of this reality I wish never to forget about you… so if I can make a selfish request: Let us keep making memories. Eating together; conversing, anything. Do not let me drop you from the forefront of my mind. Please.”

This was…after what had happened…she felt this might be something of a significant request.  Poor Leo…she had been lonely, but how had he been?  True he’d made friends with Takumi, close friends, but how long had that taken?  Her poor dear love…

“As I may have said before when I promised to guard you…I will be with you for as long as you wish me to be, Leo.  Ever at your side.”

[somekindofseizure]

When the Ink Dries VI (ch 13-16)

Rated: Explicit

Thank you: @icedteainthebag for brilliant feedback and guidance

Warning:  This story contains many potentially sensitive topics, too many to separately mention.  Read cautiously or have a friend vet it for you if you’re sensitive to something in particular.

Apology:  for it taking so long.  I recommend a refresher, if you can stand it, of at least the most recent chapters.

Read the previous chapters here

*****

Chapter 13

 Mulder was on the porch when he got the phone call, the shrill landline ringer pricking the post-midnight air from behind the screen door like a chorus of crickets.  Out here in the middle of nowhere, it seemed a new species of bug came into existence once a week.  They used to refer to the place where he was sitting as Scully’s spot - now, like it or not, all the spots were his.  He’d been watching the driveway like a Golden Retriever every night since she moved out, faithfully expecting his vigilance to bring her back sooner, full of self-pity and priding himself in his loyalty.  The past couple of years, it seemed like he was busy anytime she was sitting out there.  But the tasks on his to-do list which were once so important only held his attention so long as the smell of her shampoo still hung in the doorway over her empty coat hook.  Once that was gone, there was nothing left to do.

 In the rush and hush of it all, Stella’s smooth, silvery voice sounded even more illicit than it did any other time - so much so that at the beginning, he’d had a moment of panic where he wondered how he’d wound up on the phone with a nine-hundred-number.  

It was a very brief conversation.  She said she was calling so he wouldn’t worry.  He wasn’t worried, he told her.  Not mentioned was the fact that he wasn’t worried because he didn’t know Scully was gone in the first place -  that’s how little they’d spoken.  And “speaking” had really only consisted of text messages.

 Where’s the dustbuster?, he’d type unceremoniously.  And she:  Under the kitchen sink, are you okay?

 - or -

 Are there working batteries anywhere in this house or do we just keep circulating them from appliance to appliance to see which can operate with the least juice?  

 In the fridge, are you okay?  

 Her question marks ended every conversation and he let them. He’d stare at them for long minutes, aching as he studied their upper curves.  He’d picture her face, the one he’d watched puzzle over mysteries of the universe for so many years, and think with sorrow and nostalgia of how stoically she coped with never getting any conclusions.  No, he wanted to say to these question marks, he was not okay, he couldn’t fucking find anything and he felt dead inside, and at least one of those two things was her fault.  But that was not a conversation to have in text messages.  So he’d just go get the dust buster or the batteries and feel satisfied that somewhere, she was feeling guilty, and guilty that that satisfied him.

 When Stella hung up abruptly, he stared at the arched plastic back of their archaic telephone and thought of the few other times he’d spoken to her on the phone.  Most of the time, it was because he’d answered and was saying hello before he passed her off to Scully.  Or because Scully had handed it to him to explain his own latest confounding endeavor. Most of the time.

 *

 He’s holding her right hand with both of his and his legs press against the side of the hospital cot.  His palms have gone clammy and the pleats of his trousers have been smoothed at the knees from hours on a plane, hours in a taxi, hours in this chair.  He ignores his buzzing cell phone for the eleventh time and bends to kiss the top of her head - it seems to be the only bit of the building that smells unruined, unbroken, in need of no fixing.  She closes her eyes frequently as she speaks, as though she needs to rest them, or as though she feels put out by this whole affair, but he knows she’s really just making sure she doesn’t start crying.

 “It sounds like he was able to somehow die in your place.”

 “Mulder, that’s…” And here her eyes open as she prepares to scold him, and then close again.  “I don’t know.”

 “It’s not a sad story, Scully.  For once.”  Jesus, this woman doesn’t know how to take a win.  “He got what he wanted and you’re still here.”

 She shakes her head, swallows and he realizes, as he often does, even now, even six years into their partnership, that he’s missing the point, that he’s many steps behind her.  Someday, he daydreams, he’ll give her a ring and promise to be one step ahead or one step behind, but no further.  He knows this with some amount of certainty and zero anxiety.

 “What if… I’m…”

 And then he sees it swirling in her eyes, the blue softening helplessly, rims filling like violet bulbs in the rain to match the little spots on her hospital gown.  He knows what she’s thinking about and he has to work to subdue the automatic glee he feels whenever she’s been forced to consider fake things becoming real.  She needs reassurance now, not gloating.

 “What if you’re immortal?” he assists.

 “Like that psychic said.  I mean, I always thought he was being sweet and never gave it much thought but then… Felig made it sound so awful.  And then he shot me and I’m still here.”

 Mulder doesn’t know what to say.  It’s possible.  Anything is. But he knows, in this moment, she doesn’t want that to be the case, so he reaches for what he thinks she would say to him instead of what he wants to say to her.  The cell phone buzzes against his hip again.

 “You’re not immortal, Scully.”

 She nods quickly, four times, but then licks her lips.  And if you were, Mulder wants to tell her, you wouldn’t be like Felig.  You’d just keep finding people to love you, over and over and over again.  You would never be lonely, you would never be bitter, and the world would have done one thing that made sense.  But he decides to stay on-message.

 “No one is.”

 “Then what was going on with Felig?” she asks.

 “I don’t know,” he says and smiles, priming to tease again. It’s the only way out he can think of. “You’ll have to ask your new partner.”

 She blinks and passes a corrupted laugh through her teeth.

 “I hope you weren’t too hard on him.”

 “I would’ve killed him if anything had happened to you,” he says more seriously and she bites her lower lip, twitchy.  Though she likes - maybe is even addicted - to his passion, the reliability of it, she also doesn’t like to be reminded of how thoroughly he can lose himself or his mind.  It scares her more than it scares him, scares her more than maybe all the other stuff does.  “Luckily, he’s a bad shot.  Or you’re immortal.  Or whatever.”

 “Don’t you want to get to the bottom of it?”

 “No, Scully.  I really don’t give a fuck.   You’re okay.”

 She cocks her head, a coy little smile at the corner of her lips and it’s the first time he’s really convinced she’s okay.  

 “You might actually be experiencing growth, Mulder.”

 And suddenly, the cell phone’s buzz seems louder, or maybe it’s just that they’re both ready to hear it.

 “That’s Kersh, isn’t it?”

 “I’m sure.  My supervisor’s probably complained by now.  Backgrounds aren’t going to check themselves.”

 He’s been doing a requisite amount of sulking at his desk since his life’s work has been taken from him.  He’s been professionally frustrated and permanently aggravated, but it’s also the happiest he’s ever been.  Whatever inane questions he’s forced to ask all day, however miserable the hours between nine and five, they’re preceded and followed by Dana Scully’s warm, de-suited body (and he is making an effort to think of her as Dana) pressed and sometimes writhing and sometimes, when the stars align in his favor, slamming against him. She makes up for everything.  She is everything.  

 Which is exactly the kind of thing that unnerves her to hear. He needs balance, she tells him.  

 “You can’t piss him off if we’re ever going to get our work back.”

 He doesn’t know whether she cares more about the X-Files than she ever meant to, or that she cares on his behalf, but either way he’s moved by it.  He knows there’s a part of Scully that would be happy to do what they’re doing right now for a while.  He has never met anyone else who is perpetually tempted by boredom but always returns to adventure, instead of the other way around.

 “I know,” he says, though he feels like grumbling.  This part is their fault, not Kersh’s.  They can’t seem to bring themselves to address what’s going on between them, and for that, they suffer.  This is a good love, by far the best he’s ever had, better probably than he deserves, but it’s also a fucked up love, a weird love, a love that seems to function on its own terms like one of those sushi restaurants that doesn’t have a menu, closes for hours at whim.  He follows a long kiss on the mouth with an ear to her chest - th-thump, th-thump, yes okay.

 “Still alive?” she quips and he wishes he could squeeze her, pull her into his lap.

 “Far as I can tell,” he says and grips her hand tighter, settling for it in place of a full body tackle.

 He really only has Stella’s number for emergencies, he doesn’t ever call her himself, doesn’t dare tip the scales in any way.  But his finger finds her name as soon as he steps out of the elevator, the revolving doors whipping him like a frisbee into the city that never sleeps.  It chugs caffeine out of blue and white paper cups, churns raw meat into magic meals, spins pretzels in squalor and spotlights, makes him feel alive in the way the hospital interior made him feel dead.  How nice it would be to stay here with Scully, get her out of there and spend a few days recovering in some beautiful hotel they can’t really afford.   Watch barges pass under periwinkle bridges at twilight, go shopping.  

 This is why Stella is doing it, he knows, to be there for Scully, not as a favor to him.  But it doesn’t matter.  Three thousand miles away, someone is dismounting some poor schmuck with a hard-on and packing a bag, dropping everything for the same person he would drop anything for.  That, he thinks, has to be its own kind of love.  

    Chapter 14

  Scully sat up with her hand pressed into the cleft of the sofa as she gathered her bearings.  She felt like she’d slept with one eye open, cupped gently around Stella at the edge of the couch like a human seatbelt, worried she’d crush Stella if she really let her mind rest.  Now the cushion was cool already, almost as though Stella had never been there, as though Scully had imagined the warm wounded body inhaling and exhaling its tacit trust, as though she’d drunk-dreamed the scene on the carpet. She knew she could not blame the drinking.  She’d only had one glass of red wine and a finger of Scotch.  The finger itself had done all the damage.

 The youthful thrill of a rebellious night ran up her spine as she looked herself over:  blue sweater split down the middle over her bra, the skin on her lips raw under the pads of her fingers, and bottom half bare but for a mauve mouth-shaped welt on her inner thigh (so much daintier, more delicate than the ones she was used to.) But Scully had never been very good at breaking the rules, and in her stomach was the past-curfew pleated-skirt emotional hangover that promised consequences for her actions.  How many years they’d tiptoed around the invisible boundary set up shortly after their first encounter to protect their friendship as much as to protect Mulder… and last night they’d tripped it like an electric fence, taking the hard jolt it gave off again and again like adrenaline junkies, proving how flimsy it had really been all along.  

 She could not lose her.

 Scully took a deep breath and dragged the fluffy white robe folded affectionately over the back of the couch, sash tied like a welcome ribbon around its front.  She shimmied out of her clothes, blushing a bit at the ripe cocktail of sex and sweat the fabric gave off, and replaced it with the bright Fairy brand detergent scent of the bathrobe.  Somewhere upstairs, Scully knew, was a collection of these things in silk and lace - colors so faint they feigned nudity, cashmere so rich you’d be afraid to drink your morning coffee.  This had to be the most innocent of them and Scully was half-offended, half-flattered that Stella picked it for her.

 “Stella?” she called softly, hopefully, as she rose to her feet with her back to the kitchen, robe wrapped tight.  There was the sound of a teaspoon twinkling like a wind chime as she turned, a faucet whispering like an intermittent breeze and suddenly her anxiety seemed ludicrous.  Stella was leaning belly-first against the sink, looking out the window, her back to Scully as she watched her city slowly stretch itself awake.

 It was a treat to see Stella here amongst her things - her shiny, voluptuous espresso machine and her svelte heavyweight silverware.  Watching Stella perform her morning routine was like going to church, setting things on the altar, spacing them accordingly, sipping with reverence.  A room full of people who’d seen it a hundred, a thousand times, would do it one more time;  she was certain she could watch Stella drink her first cup of tea and butter her toast one bite at a time every Sunday til the end of time.  This is the body, this is the blood, and this, well this is my new religion: Stella Gibson, poured into a charcoal grey sweater dress, bare legs balanced on possibly the highest black heels ever made.  

 “I didn’t realize we were dressing for tea this morning,” Scully said, but she felt the smart-aleck go right out of her as Stella turned to face her, placed a backward-fisted hand on her hip so that her shoulder jutted forward. The dress was quite tight, covered skin from neck to knee -- appeared to be wearing her rather than the other way around.  Scully stepped a little closer and found herself under a jungle canopy of musky jasmine perfume.  She knew Stella only wore it when she went out.

 What am I, chopped liver? Scully had teased once or twice from her double bed as she flicked the remote at the TV.

 Unless you intend to put your name in my little black book, yes.  

 A tiny, ridiculous, starved-adolescent piece of her wanted to think Stella was wearing it for her this time, that she was preening and posing for her.  But she knew even before Stella told her that that was not what all of this was about.

 “I’m going to go into the office for a bit today.”  

 “Were you on the phone?  I thought I heard you...”

 “There’s been a homicide and I don’t want to be terribly out of the loop when I return.”

 Scully cleared her throat.  This was not going to be easy.

 “And how are you this morning?” Stella asked with a hint of impatience, as though observing a quaint Victorian social grace she didn’t personally adhere to.  “Any rug burn?”

 “I’m fine.  Stella--”

 “It won’t be the whole day,” Stella said, returning her cadence to its bright clip, honing the edges of her accent into slender cliffsides, fresh-ready for a tumble or a jump.

 “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Scully said.

 The sweater dress twisted, wringing itself at the tiny black belt banded around Stella’s waist.  She pushed her hip deeper into her hand, waiting out Scully’s censure like an aggravating little rain shower on a summer day.  Scully pressed on, stepping forward, snaking an arm around Stella like a second skinny belt.  Various beauty product scents lapped at Stella’s neck like spring’s first bloom, nauseatingly sweet but sublime.

 “Wouldn’t you rather stay and play house with me?”

 Stella granted her a tiny kiss on the neck and then:

 “No.”

 The chill of it whipped Scully off her feet and took her all the way back to a dingy hotel in Philadelphia where they’d spent their first night alone together.  The kettle of tea might well have been a sticky, lukewarm plate of pancakes, the neat brow bone sutures a spate of scars up Stella’s thigh, and Scully was as light-headed about the former as the latter.  (A student had since asked whether she’d ever gone weak about slicing up a human body.  Once, she’d said.  But I wasn’t even there when it happened.)  

What she’d done - what they’d both done - that time in Philadelphia was panic and Scully was determined not to do it again.  She poured and sipped her tea.  Ankle deep in silence, she waded toward a bulletin board that reminded her of a police station, gave her the eerie impression that Stella was running her kitchen like an open homicide.  Amidst pilates class schedules and receipts was a twenty-pound note, neat black-markered writing across it.  He that loves not abides in death.  It was from the Bible, Scully was pretty sure, John maybe.  She listened to Stella tapping the neck of her teaspoon against her glass and she took the piece of money down.

 “What’s this?”  

 It seemed like safe-enough territory.  After all, the things saved up here were the things Stella was willing to put on display.  And the thought of Stella quoting and framing Bible quotes was too curious to ignore, like finding out your math teacher had a hobby - tennis, jazz music, archery - when all you could picture them caring about was prime numbers.

 “I found it.  Outside the psychiatric hospital where they were holding Paul Spector.”

 The detective in Scully stirred and she couldn’t help herself.

 “And you kept it?”

 “Mm.”

 “Brought it all the way home from Belfast?”

 “Yes,” Stella snapped.  

 “Little sentimental for a multiple homicide case, don’t you think?”

 “Is this an inquisition?”

 “It just doesn’t sound like you.”

 Stella turned and placed her cup in the sink, ran the water hard enough to wash Scully’s voice down the drain.

 “Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think,” Stella said.

 A blind shot over the shoulder, but a bullseye nonetheless. Scully looked at the floor and then quickly forced her eyes back up, though Stella was not facing her anyway.

 “Don’t do this,” Scully said bravely, or foolishly.  “I’m sorry I crossed the line.  Don’t disappear on me.  I’ve had more of that than I can handle.”

 Stella’s shoulder blades rose and fell on either side of the teardrop shaped hole that buttoned the dress at the nape of her neck, her bones slithering into place beneath the snug wool weave - sometimes it was easier to see her softening than to hear it in her voice.  It still sometimes bothered Scully that Stella had to work so hard to trust her.  But it was not news that she had a weak spot for people who made her feel worth the effort.

 “I picked it up and kept it without much thought at first, and then after, it seemed too meaningful to get rid of it.”

 Scully could tell by her tone of voice that she had permission now to ask.

 “Why would you want to be reminded of him?”

 Stella turned on one hand, replaced the other one on the counter at her side.  She was like a ballerina in a jewelry box, pinned and spinning in a fixed spot as Scully wound her up.  She held her chin high, eyes bright as diamond studs.

 “Do you know what he did to me?”

 Scully had of course drawn her own conclusions based on what she could see, based on the way Stella moved and responded to touch, but she knew this wasn’t a test of her forensic savvy.  She shook her head no and locked her jaw as she braced herself.

 “He hit me, close-fisted.  Here,” Stella said and brushed her fingers along her temple.   “There was a table, here.  I felt it dig into my hip.  That’s the last specific moment I remember, but there’s video of the rest because it took place in an interview room -  interrogation room.”

 Scully looked down so as not to provoke Stella with the elevation of her eyebrows, the jutting of her chin.  What the fuck, why the fuck would she...

 “So you watched the tape.”

 “Yes.  I’m sure most of the team did.  Dani. All of them.  Wouldn’t you?”

 Scully scrubbed the discomfort from her lips, took a breath out of the room that she intended to keep.  Stella continued.

 “And it was quite a show.  There were several more punches.  Here… here… here, I think… and I fell to the floor.  It was cold, concrete, I remember that part, the shock of it after the heat of the blood bursting at my cheekbone.”

 The evenness of Stella’s voice, the poise, was unnerving, like listening to one of her own autopsy recordings, the sound of her own voice discussing death with such indifference.

 “He kicked me.  I was caught between him and the wall.  I was trembling when the other officer came to me.  Like a little dog.”

 “Stella,” Scully begged, but there was no room for her sympathy here.

 “It was the worst physical pain I’ve ever felt, and do you know what I thought when I was lying there?”  Scully shook her heavy head as gravity tugged at her whole body.  Any minute, her knees would buckle, but she had to finish listening.  “This is nothing compared to what he did to them.  Nothing.”

 Scully crossed her arms over the robe in a self-embrace and swallowed, digging her nails into the fabric to feel the pile under her fingernails, root herself in something tangible and present and good.

 “And do you know what I thought when he killed himself?”

 Yes, Scully thought, she did.  The two people she knew best were similar this way - the darkness, the self-loathing, the ability to take responsibility for things that had nothing to do with them, and the tendency not to take responsibility for those that did. The pattern on the kitchen floor blurred as all her concentration flowed toward the goal of not becoming hysterical.

 “I thought, I deserve this.  I told him exactly how to beat the system, how to beat me.”

 Scully allowed a breath, bit her lip and blotted her face quickly with the inside her wrist.  She had one responsibility here, had come to London for one purpose, she reminded herself - Stella’s recovery.  None of that stuff last night mattered, nothing she’d been worried about this morning.

 “It’s awful.  All of it. But it’s not going to avenge anything to refuse yourself the time to heal.”

 She turned to re-clip the stupid banknote to the board, though she wanted to tear it up and burn it.

“Do you think I’m capable of love?” Stella asked as Scully turned back to face her, placed both hands on the island in front of her.

“Sure,” Scully replied.  “I almost got you to love me once.”

“I don’t think I almost loved you,” Stella said.

 “Oh no?”

 Scully kept looking her in the eye to show that she could take it. She walked round to the other side of the island so that she and Stella faced one another over the moat of kitchen tile.  Her bare toes, polish uncharacteristically chipped, met the smart points of Stella’s shoes. The whole morning had been wild, flooded with emotion and Scully was comforted now by the idea of Stella’s characteristic grit drying it up.

 “No,” Stella reiterated.  “I think I did love you.  I still do.”

Scully blinked several times, her breath caught somewhere at the bottom of her throat.  

 “Why are you looking at me like that?”  Stella asked.

 The day Stella visited before taking her plane back to England, her knees rubbing the kitchen floor, Mulder’s arrival weeks later in the rain.  All of these years...

 “I don’t understand.”

 Stella licked her top lip, cocked her head as though considering a gallery portrait.  She hadn’t expected this to be a surprise.

 “I couldn’t do it the way he could.  I didn’t think it was what you’d need.”

 Scully gulped, trying to control the tears welling up at the corners of her eyes.  She could feel the tip of her nose turning red.

 “But occasionally, like when I look at that thing,” Stella said with nod at the banknote,  “I wonder if something’s wrong with me.”

Scully wanted to reassure Stella, but she wasn’t even sure of what.  So she nodded, dried her cheekbones again, for a moment unable to remember the last period of her life she had cried this much.  When she remembered the answer, she cried more.

“Please stop crying,” Stella said.  “You’re supposed to be taking care of me.”

Scully smiled, shuffled forward, closing the space between them without squeezing, by now aware of exactly where to press and where to protect.  She buried her face on Stella’s shoulder just long enough to recompose herself and then glanced at the marks on Stella’s face, so similar to the ones Ed Jerse had given her years ago.  She’d given Stella the play by play of it with her eyes on the road and a console between them, but by the end of the night, Stella would close that distance. And then some.

“Have your turn, then,” Scully teased with a nudge to the hip. “Cry.”

Stella blinked with the weight of five thousand pairs of eyelashes.

“Make me.”

Scully snuck her left hand into the dark roots of Stella’s hair, licked two fingers on her right hand.  Stella tugged her hem up with the nonchalance of a puddle jump as Scully kissed her.  Their mouths were hot, tingling with English Breakfast and caffeine.  Scully grinned as she found smooth-shaved swimmer’s thigh and simple seamless underwear, and then the wet part of her hand disappeared into the wet part of Stella.  She pinned a knee between Stella’s legs, tacking her to the sink like one of her bulletin board items.  Here is something you may want to attend.  Here is something worth remembering.  Stella’s neck tendons strained against her hand.

 “You wear this dress to work, Detective Gibson?”

 “Detective Superintendent,” Stella said in a slightly pitched voice, a tone like a meringhe, one that made her regular voice seem put-on, one that made Scully’s tastebuds dance, her hips grind.  Stella held onto the lapels of her robe like she was an airline pilot or a soldier, uniformed and disembarking.  And then she suddenly realized why Stella had chosen this particular bathrobe for her.

 “You took this. From that hotel in Chicago.”

 Stella half-smiled, pleased at her own rare display of nostalgia.

 “Had to purchase it, actually.”  She licked a small section of her top lip and Scully kissed where it left off.

 Below, Scully’s fingers slipped and pulled and Stella breathed deeply, winced from deep inside her ribcage.  Her hands seemed small and gentle as they clutched birdlike at the sagging sleeves of the robe.  What would she keep from this visit, what would she flash winkingly at Scully in another fifteen years?  Scully wanted to keep nothing so much as this, this skull breathing into the palm of her hand, this pair of knees going weak between hers and this smooth unclothed calf muscle rattling the cabinetry.  She pulled away to watch Stella’s face -- eyelids dancing like dervishes, honey-sweet beige lips parting like buttercups, the hills and valleys of her brow deepening.

 “Look at me,” Scully coaxed.  Then firmer, “Look at me.”

 Scully waited until she had Stella’s attention, waited till her breath was hitching and dragging, waited because fifteen years plus one more breath seemed like exactly the right amount of time.

 “I love you,” she whispered and Stella dropped her nose against Scully’s face, coming and crying in tandem. Her body sucked at Scully’s fingers, her face wet against Scully’s cheek, shivering and then still.  

 The silence simmered.  A clock ticked loudly.  The Bible verse loomed.  Outside, a plane soared by, yawning across the grey sky toward brighter places. Scully summoned some authority into her voice.

 “You’re not ready to go back to work.”

 Detective Superintendent Stella Gibson did not let go as she stepped out of her heels.

 *

She has been taking the stairs up to her apartment after work. If she were to take the elevator, she might meet a neighbor, and if she met a neighbor they’d ask how William was. She doesn’t like questions she can’t answer.

 It begins to smell like Stella just a few steps into the corridor. The scent changes halfway down the hallway to the fresh coat of adult-colored paint they applied over the weekend, and then to that of a smoldering pack of East London incense on one of the cheap plastic cake plates she keeps around. (Not the 26-pack of first birthday ones she purchased prematurely.  Those have mercifully vanished since Stella arrived, along with lots of other things. The smatter of baby powder she’d otherwise find on a dark blazer here or there.  The drawer full of clothes she didn’t give the Van de Kamps.  The stores of formula and diapers that used to live at the bottom of the linen closet.)

 She turns the key and finds the homey sizzle of shallow-panned garlic.  The warm breath of pasta water still hovers over the sink as Stella sets the table. Scully doesn’t know how Stella plans this so well, one foot in the door and hot food on the table.  One moment later, and Scully knows she would make it alone to her room, empty stomach, no shower, and fall asleep in her clothes. But instead -

 “Sit with me while I eat?”

 It’s the only question Stella ever asks.  She already knows how her day was, how she feels, and it won’t do either of them any good to have it declared aloud.  Scully manages a tired smile for her friend and sits, rests her weight, her day, her misery on her elbows.  Her seat is free of a place-setting, as it is every night, and she is grateful for the lack of expectation.  No one else understands her well enough to do - or omit - things like this, not her mother, maybe not even Mulder.

 Mulder.  Where the hell are you.  She barely has the energy to wonder.


Stella swirls spaghetti over her dish between a fork and spoon.  There’s a larger serving bowl at the center of the table, a decorative and deceptive thing that makes it look like they’re celebrating.

 “I heard from my idiotic sister today,” Stella says.  “She wants to race horses now.”

 “What do you mean, race them?”

 “Sponsor one.  She wants to know if I want to put any of my portion of the trust into it.”

 Scully postpones a blink, waiting for the punchline.

 “I told her I could imagine better ways to buy sixty seconds of pleasure.”

 Scully can’t quite bring herself to smile, but she does reach forward for a strand of spaghetti hanging over the side of the painted ceramic bowl. It goes down easier than she expects and she licks the sweet, tangy tomato off her lips.  

 “She’s older, right?” she asks.

 “Yes.  The pretty one.”

 Scully frowns as she takes another strand of spaghetti stranded on the side of the bowl.

 “Everyone’s sister is the pretty one,” she says and of course, Melissa comes to mind.  These days, there are a lot of spare sad thoughts, like wet umbrellas under restaurant chairs on a rainy day.

 “She was my mother’s favorite,” Stella says, leaving her father’s favorite unspoken.  Her attempts to be chatty and distracting make Scully well with gratitude. “However, now she’s bored and angry so I practice tolerance when she calls.  Even when she’s a cunt.”

 “That’s a strong word, isn’t it.”

 “No.”

 “What does she do that’s so bad?”

 “It’s just a lot of passive aggressive criticism, negativity disguised as helpfulness.”

 Scully picks at another strand of pasta and Stella pushes the serving bowl at her for her convenience.

 “I still can’t believe you can cook like this,” Scully says.

 “That’s exactly what my cunt of a sister would say.”

 Scully finally laughs briefly and then immediately wants to cry. It’s as though all her smiles still belong to William, as if they all remind her of him.  

 After dinner, Stella runs the water in the bathtub and sets out a towel, waits for Scully to pass by on the way to her bedroom.

 “Come here.”

 She closes the bathroom door behind them as though for privacy.

 “There’s no one else here,” Scully says.

 “Keeps the heat in.”

 Scully waits limply while Stella undresses her:  sexlessly unbuttons her shirt and pushes it back off her arms, unzips her skirt at the side, holds a hand out for balance. Scully steps into the flat, bubbleless water.  It has been years since Stella has looked closely at her naked and a few selfish, superficial thoughts cross her mind, immediately followed by guilt. How can she have vanity about her stretch marks when she’s abandoned the child who made them?

 She has a stray whim to pull Stella in with her, clothes and all, just for company.  She doesn’t want to be alone in there tonight.  Somehow, Stella knows this, and kneels at the side of the tub, reaches for the loofah, squirts soap onto it and begins to lather bit by bit - arms, chest, belly.  Scully sucks in her waist a moment at the tickle of it and blinks hard.

 “Mulder used to make fun of the pouf.”  

 She watches Stella hear this, hear his name, and she knows what she’s thinking, what everyone is thinking.

 “You think I know where he is,” Scully says.  “I don’t.”

 “You shouldn’t have to do this alone.”  

 “I’m not.”

 Stella is watching some vacant spot in the bathwater.

 “Dana, when we first met, the night you thought Mulder and I had slept together…”

 Scully waits.  She’s not worried, but has enough sense to wonder if she should be.

 “What about it?”

 Stella shakes her head.

 “I was taking a sad bath.”  She smiles gently, gulps.  “Like this. And  Mulder walked in.”

 Scully licks her teeth, mild surprise registering.  She can picture Mulder blushing and stammering.

 “That’s all.  It was very embarrassing for both of us.  He never told you?”

 Scully shakes her head no, tries to show some appreciation for Stella’s trying to make her laugh. She closes her eyes and lets her whole head sink like a boulder as Stella sends the soap down her legs.  Stella takes her hand, holds it atop the ledge as if to remind her that eventually, she must come back up to dry land.

 “Shall I leave you?” she asks.  Scully shakes her head no, feels the heavy, wet weight of her thoughts roll against the sloped ceramic back of the tub.   She half expects to leave a dent there.  

 “I don’t think you’re ready to be back at work,” Stella says.

 “I have to.”

 “No you don’t.”

 “I don’t want to look like I’m feeling sorry for myself.  It was my decision.”

 Stella nods.  There are tiny tear-shaped drops of water polka-dotting her blouse, rings of suds round her wrists.  It occurs to Scully that this is how she would have bathed Emily, how the Van de Kamps will bathe William.  The words feel like toothpicks pricking her tongue.

 “I had a daughter too.”

 She’s been trying this lately, being cruel to herself just to feel something, just to have a reason to keep her head above water.

 “I didn’t know that.”

 “I know.  I’ve never told you because I didn’t really feel like it was fair to call her mine. I only knew her for a couple of days. But she was my biological daughter.”

 “What happened to her?”

 “She’s dead.”

 And she looks at Stella, wanting to catch the glimpse of judgement - it can be very fleeting on Stella and Scully is adamant about getting her fair share of shame.  But Stella only licks her lips and swallows.

 “Have you ever had an abortion?” Scully asks.

 “Yes.”

 Scully waits and stares at Stella, her eye makeup so smudgy she can see black out her peripheral vision. She wants to hear that Stella knows, or she wants Stella to think she knows, so she can tell her she doesn’t.  She wants to tell her fuck you for getting rid of something I would have wanted so badly.  She wants to be angry.

 “It wasn’t pleasant, but it wasn’t anything like this,” Stella says.

 And then Scully just wants to go back in time and be there in the waiting room for her.  She wonders if anyone was.

 “I’m sorry,” is all she has to offer.  It’s precious little, but few people have even given her that much.

 “It’s all right,” Stella says with a little melody in her voice to prove it.

 “I went right back to work then too, after Emily.  And it seems only fair that I do it now.”

 Stella chooses this moment to pull the plug and the water begins to senselessly chase itself, clinging to Scully’s body momentarily before it’s sucked down into oblivion.

 “Do you think I sound foolish?  Wanting to treat my two absent children fairly.”

 “I think you probably weren’t ready to go back to work then, either. No sense making the same mistake twice.”

 “I make them over and over and over again.”

 Her body cries before her mouth does, her back convulsing off the floor of the bathtub.  She used to be able to tell what William wanted by the way he was crying.  She wonders if he would be able to do the same, what her voice would sound like on a monitor.

 Stella takes her arm and pulls her to her feet, wraps a towel around her and holds her, pressing her wet head down as she waits for the sobs turn to shudders, and then the shudders to grow further apart, kernels of sadness popping at slower and slower intervals.  She’s quiet by the time Stella leads her to the bedroom, pulls the covers back and guides her in.  Scully stares at the spot where William’s cradle used to be and remembers how difficult it was when it came time to move it into his own room, the separation anxiety she felt then, just that tiny distance.  What a fool.

 “Move over,” Stella says and climbs in behind her, sets her fully clothed body around Scully’s naked one, twisting her ankles around Scully’s like a candy wrapper as she she rests her head on Scully’s ear.  The room goes quiet as a womb.  Scully marvels for a moment at Stella’s patience and wonders how long it’ll last.

 “The dishes,” Scully says, unable to tell how loudly she’s speaking with her audience so close and her acoustics so distorted.  A hot drop of water falls from her ear canal onto the pillowcase and feels like a pool deep enough to drown in.  

 “I’ll do them when you fall asleep,” Stella says and moves her face to the back of Scully’s neck, parts her hair with her nose.

 “My hair,” Scully says, and wants to cry again.  “If I’m going to work tomorrow, I have to dry it.”

 There is a pause and she can hear the mechanism of Stella’s brain moving through the impetus to argue the larger point at stake.

 “You’ll be up early.  I’ll do it for you in the morning.”

 “Are you sure?”

 “Ssssh.”  

 There are no vowels to drag and no consonants to pinch and so it sounds country-less, sounds the same as when Scully said it to her son, or when her mother said it to her, how the Van de Kamps will say it.  Scully is warm now as she borrows heat and breath and even life, rebooting off the rhythm of Stella’s thumping, whirring body.  An inhale and then an exhale.  Her crying-headache melts away a bit.  She catches a glimpse of herself in the future, okay.  

 “Stella,” she whispers as she feels her body finally settle into the mattress, the weight she’d been putting on her elbows, or in Stella’s palm, or against the back of the bathtub, now anchoring her, promising her imminent numbness.  She has never felt so heavy, not even nine months pregnant.  “How am I ever going to repay you for this?”

 Stella’s nose is against her shoulder, her lips soft.

 “You’re not,” Stella says.

 *

 Thunder shook the stiff clouds by their shoulders and lightning cracked the proud chest of the old sky open.  Scully had so far only seen the English rain dither and retreat, and this sudden show of decisiveness impressed her.  Below the window, umbrellas flared like nostrils, people scurrying and drains opening.  Commit and the world conspires to assist, said somebody.  Goethe?  Now that was the kind of thing she might have expected Stella to tack to a bulletin board, some broad-backed German sturm and drang, even some British keep-calm-and-carry-on would have been more appropriate than a Bible quote.  Scully took her book and went back to the bed.

 Across the room, Stella suffered her mandatory day off with dignity, ironing clothes with her closet door propped open, racks of newspaper-toned blouses and skirts and pants neatly lined up.  She had a tank top on now, some pajama pants, a hoodie, of all things.  

 “Looks like a piano in there,” Scully said.

 Stella gave a restrained smile as the steamer cleared its throat and dropped a silk sleeve.  She changed one white item for another slightly-less-white item with childlike concentration, a taskmaster’s peace of mind.  Outside, May raindrops spangled the streets while inside, clean, wet heat spoke sense to silk collars.  Eventually, Scully’s eyelids begged off into a nap, and when she woke, the streets were quiet, the sky returned to its thick impenetrable flannel texture, and Stella was lying awake beside her with her hand on Scully’s stomach.

 “What’s the matter?” Scully slurred.  “Run out of things to press?”

 “Yes, give me what you’re wearing.”

 Scully laughed quietly and tried to blink the sleep away. It was hard to recognize the waking world when it looked and sounded like Stella.

 “Want to go for a walk?” Stella asked.

 She felt like an old couple on the walk, like they’d done every day after dinner together for years.  They passed a flower stand with a dripping awning and bought bluebells and hydrangeas.  Stella pointed out things in the neighborhood, the shops she liked, the house that had had a small fire last year, the solid granite side of a building she’d once let a second date press her into in the dark and lift her skirt.

 When they got home, Stella set the flowers down.

 “There should be a vase here.”

 Scully laughed as Stella clipped stems.  Not a single broom in the house but a whole pantry full of flower vases.  She filled one with water and felt a space inside her fill as well - this had felt so abstract before, so impossible to articulate to Mulder.  It wasn’t that she’d needed him to Do Something.  It was that she’d needed for them to do be able to do nothing at all together.

 They ate dinner in easy silence and Scully looked over Stella’s injured eyebrow with a sharpened squint, reached for her glasses.

 “When were those stitches put in?”

 “Oh right, I missed the appointment to get them out.  It was in Belfast but I couldn’t stay there any longer.”

 “The skin is starting to grow over them.”

 “Won’t they just dissolve?”

 She blinked and cocked her head cheekily.

 “Did they say they would dissolve?”

 “Well, I had my medical doctor coming to visit, didn’t I?”

 Scully smiled.

 “After dinner.”

 They set up the urgent care at the breakfast island - rubbing alcohol and clean towels, the sterilized hot pink tweezers and sharp nail scissors.  The patient perched on a barstool, hugging the doctor rather inappropriately between her thighs as she fingered the stem of her wine glass.  

 “Hold still.”

 “Bedside manner please.”

 Scully gave her a little glance down the bridge of her nose.

 “You’re good at this.  Taking care of people,” Stella said and Scully would have been annoyed at the implied surprise in her tone, except she knew that it was a surprise to Stella whenever someone was good at things like this.  She knew what Stella really meant was that she was better at accepting it than she’d expected to be.

 “Thank you,” Scully said.  

 “Are you worried about him?”  Stella asked and Scully re-sterilized the tweezers, shifted her weight. “It’s okay, you can still talk about him to me.”

 Stella’s eyes moved like water, following Scully’s wrist this way and that as she tended to the partially embedded stitch.

 “Not in a physical sense.  He wouldn’t hurt himself.  He’s too driven.”

 “Toward what?”

 Scully knew the question was rhetorical, or if it wasn’t, should be.  Stella knew as well as anyone that Mulder had never really known what he was looking for. That was part of his brilliance, his readiness to find whatever there was to be found.  But it was also his deathknell.

 “Break, please,” Stella said sweetly.

 There was barely anything to take a break from.  Stella was drawing it out on purpose.  Scully pulled her hands away and waited while Stella sipped her glass of wine.  When she was done, she turned her chin back up to Scully and placed her hands on Scully’s waist.

 “Distracting,” Scully whispered.

 “That’s all right, I think,” Stella said in her huskiest voice. “You’re not putting them in, you’re taking them out.”

 “Bossy patient.”

 “That surprise you?”

 “I’m on the last one.”

 “This morning you mentioned the line we crossed.”  She folded the sides of Scully’s t-shirt into ripples between her fingers. “I don’t want you to worry about me when it comes time to cross it back.”

 Scully pulled the final stitch through and dabbed Neosporin on the freshly mended skin. The eyebrow glistened like otter fur, swam up her forehead as Stella raised it.

 “Are you hearing me, Doctor Scully?”

 Scully rested her hands on Stella’s shoulders, searched her face. She missed Mulder, she did worry about him, but the idea of giving this up again -

 “What if I don’t want to cross it back?” Scully asked.

 “Let’s stay in the present.”

 Scully turned and began to clean up, ashamed of her own confusion and the havoc it might be wreaking.

 “Which present?”  she asked with a self-conscious snicker.  “The one where I take out your stitches and attempt to make a proper cup of tea or the one where we have sex on the living room floor?”

 Scully stumbled as Stella hooked four fingers under the hem of her shirt and tugged her back to the spot between her legs.  The stool pressed into her lower back as Stella held her round the waist, aimed her voice like an open vent at Scully’s ear.

 “The latter.”

 Stella lifted the back of the shirt, drew an apple-sized circle on her lower back.  After all this time, Scully still had trouble remembering there was something there. She had only ever seen it clearly, straight-on, up-close once - in a photograph she’d taken from her own case file. Otherwise, it took a lot of twisting or multiple mirrors and she had simply never cared that much what it looked like.  

 Stella’s hand circled it aimlessly as her chin drifted past Scully’s shoulder.  Scully could feel her attention settling off to the side and something about the mood, the meditative tone in Stella’s voice, made Scully reach out for the shiny, sharp nail scissors still there and cover them with her hand.  Stella kissed her sleeved shoulder.  There was a long pause, a river of Bordeaux breath tickling her neck.  

 “It’s not why I have them,” Stella said.  “But I did used to like them for that, once upon a time.”

 Scully said nothing, embarrassed at her own transparency.  She was glad she had her back to Stella.  She lifted her hand off the scissors.

 “I’m sorry, that was silly.”

 “No.  I like that you look out for me.  It’s sweet.” And Scully could hear the slow, drawling smile in her voice.  “You cover my scissors and hide the painkillers… behind the coffee grinder.”

 “Not very well, apparently.”

 Scully hesitated.  She took a deep breath and measured the question like the well-formed circle of cigarette smoke she would have made similar use of at fifteen or seventeen or twenty-three.

 “Do you get tempted still?  When something really horrible happens?”  Like this, she meant, like lately.

 For what felt like hours, Stella didn’t answer.  Her chin and lips seemed frozen to Scully’s shoulder, the edge of the stool wedged permanently between two vertebrae on her lower back.  She worried Stella didn’t really want to be holding her anymore but didn’t know how to let her go.  Of course, Stella probably knew how to let go of people better than anyone.

 “Will you go somewhere with me?” Stella asked.  

 “Anywhere,” she said, and then picturing all manner of international dens of iniquity, “within reason.”

  *

 The tattoo shop in Shoreditch smelled more like a department store than Scully thought it should - its diligently practiced irreverence dripping away over the wax-pool edge of an expensive amber-glassed candle.  The walls were tastefully decorated and serenaded at a reasonable volume by a female folk singer over the sound system. The proprietor was disappointingly unintimidating -- a naughty-smiled, meticulously professional twenty-four-year-old woman with a string of lovely lavender and blue planets up her arm and an innocent name (April).  Dainty jewels dotted her face in various big dipperish coordinates.  Scully wandered the perimeter like a health inspector, trying to find something wrong to make things seem right.  Not a single sheet of wholesale sailors’ sparrows and pinups for easy drunk customers, not so much as a crack in the paint job.

 “You’re lucky you caught me here this late.  I was just cleaning up,” April said.

 Stella was flipping through a portfolio while April slowly churned her hands, trying not to seem nervous.  The Stella effect.  Scully looked at her watch.

 “It’s only 8:30.”

 “They’re all like this now,” Stella murmured.  April looked on with indifferent miscomprehension, as though they’d been conversing in another language and she was waiting to see whether it concerned her.

 Scully felt partially responsible for whatever would or would not happen here.  Generally, she felt entitled to play Responsible One, but she wasn’t exactly the posterchild for well-planned tattoos.  She turned to face them and crossed her arms.  April leaned her flop of dark hair into Stella’s frame of view, watching with self-conscious pride as her work was examined.  On her arm, the planets moved, a meteor inched its way from her sleeveless band t-shirt to her wrist.  It made Scully feel irreversibly old to picture April discovering Fleetwood Mac for the first time, hearing them on a playlist or a movie soundtrack and digging up all their songs, a dollar ninety-nine at a time, pushing each one through little white earbuds.

 The plastic page-turning was peppered with all sorts of questions that Stella seemed uncharacteristically happy to answer. They were multitasking - flirting and making decisions - this could be done now, yes there was room in the schedule, yes she’d like it to be covered at work.  On the one hand, it seemed to Scully like cheating to get a tattoo in a place that closed at the same time as a bank.  Where was the risk, the stakes?  On the other hand, somewhere on Stella’s body, there was a slice of skin Scully was never going to see naked again.  

 “Stella?” Scully nudged like the spoilsport she was accustomed to being.  “Do you want to think about this a little longer?”

 “No,” Stella said and absently patted the column of Scully’s shin beside her.  April smiled at Stella and cocked her head coyly up at Scully.

 “Your girlfriend have any?”  

 “She’s not my girlfriend,” Stella said.  “But yes, you should look at it.”

 Stella’s face was still buried in the binder, making it difficult to glare at her.

 “Lemme see,” April said brightly.

 Scully turned at the waist and quickly lifted the back of her shirt so as to make as small a deal of it as possible.  She could only imagine the judgment she was going to get from this stylish little -  

 “Mm.  Very nineties,” the artist said as though there were nothing more delightful than the nineteen fucking nineties.  “I can do one of those, if you want, so you match.”

 A little knot in Scully’s chest (of what - concern? jealousy?) unwound into a laugh.  Stella smiled and licked her lips.  

 “That… won’t be necessary.”

 “Sisters?” April prodded.

 “We worked together once,” Stella said and Scully felt herself blink an extra time.  She should have been used to it.  She and Mulder had undersold one another in introductions for years.  My partner’s in there, my partner’s been shot.  Such a small, peremptory word to describe so much. Ironically, it only got worse once they finally were together.  Girlfriend seemed trivial and partner made them feel like they were still at the FBI. Sometimes, they’d joke, roommate.

 “What are you thinking?” April asked.

 “A rose,” Stella said simply.  “I’ll leave the style to you.  I like your work.”

 April beamed.

 “What ya have in mind for placement?”

 Stella lifted her arm up in the air and pointed at a spot on her black silk crepe shirt.

 “Show me how big.”

 Stella spread her fingers right… exactly… where her ribs were cracked.  Jesus Christ.

 “Just a couple of centimeters, okay,” April said and went to prepare her station.

 “Stella,” Scully said, now quite comfortable issuing warnings. “You can’t.”

 “Why not?”

 “Unimaginable pain, that’s why.”

 Stella gave her a clear-eyed, short-tempered look.

 “Wait until it heals a little.  Please,” Scully begged.

 “Why don’t you go get us both some coffee somewhere?”

 A few feet (or meters) away, April sound checked the foot pedal on her stylus.  Scully sighed out her nose.

 “Okay, ready.”

 They got up and went to where April was reclining a lounge type chair into the shape of a table.  Scully remembered the thing she sat on in Philadelphia as a scraped up stool that wobbled so badly the artist had to slip cardboard under a leg.

 “I’m going to have you take your shirt off and lie on your side with your arm folded up over your head, like this,” she said, demonstrating. Scully watched, trying to calm her nerves by focusing on Stella’s shiny, capable fingernails on her buttons.  And as Stella’s body met the leather surface, Scully felt a strange sixth sense swoosh through her, a vivid memory of what it felt like to finally be expecting something permanent to land in her life. If she’d known then how few things she would ever get to keep, she might have gotten more than one.

 April flicked a lamp and light fell in a hot, bright circle on Stella’s ribs.  

 “Oh my God,” April gasped.

 Scully looked at the floor, embarrassed for all their sake - for Stella’s pride, April’s shock, for her own failure to hit the brakes on this. None of these emotions concerned Stella. She slunk down as the artist had instructed, hip up to the ceiling, almost exactly as she’d slept on the couch.

 “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting… hm,”  April said, trailing off, her mouth making a noise like an engine struggling to turn over.  “Listen. I can’t do this.”

 “Yes, you can.”

 Stella’s translucent skin wove between pink and purple blotches and her breasts spilled from her day-off black bra against the leather table. Her eyes, when they met Scully’s, were calm and satisfied, twinkling night-sky blue as she tossed her moon-white hair up over her ear.  Scully gulped as she tried not to be taken by the beauty of it.

 “I’ve never had anyone ask me for something like this. And I’ve been asked for some crazy shit. I tatted an eyeball once.  I don’t…  I don’t know.”

 “I’m going to have someone else do it if you won’t.”

 A long pause and then April glanced at Scully, as if for permission. Scully saw no benefit in making the girl feel any worse than she did.  It wasn’t poor April’s fault Stella was psychotic.

 “She has very high pain tolerance,” Scully said.

 “Not that she knows first hand,” Stella said and then winked. “Just friends.”

 Winking.  Really, though.  April looked at Stella with a dropped jaw and wet lips, one eye nervously twitching as she rubbed her hands on her torn up skinny jeans and half glanced back at Scully. She shifted her focus back to the canvas at hand.

 “Put your hand exactly where you want it again,” she said.   Scully knew that she and the girl were thinking the same thing - just a little to the right or left and it wouldn’t have been so bad.  But Stella placed her hand right in the middle of it all.

 “Okay, I’m going to undo this,” April said with a cleansing breath, and reached back for the clasp of the bra, folded it forward carefully, so as not to expose too much, and then placed a sketched piece of parchment on Stella’s skin.  Her ribcage rose and fell under April’s hand, striped beneath the light.  “That all right?”

 “Yes, feels nice.”  

 “Compression.  Like I showed you last night,” Scully said with the pointless insouciance of a hostage. “Just so it’s clear, that is not the same as a needle burning through bruised flesh.”

 “Dana likes to play doctor,” Stella said, thoroughly amused with herself.  April was staring the spot and wiggling her fingers, as though mentally proceeding through the whole thing to a successful finish.  Surgeons did this before a procedure sometimes.  

 April reached for a drawer, hesitating only a little.

 “You mind?” she asked, and took out an already rolled joint. Now, this was a tattoo parlor.   “Don’t normally, but…”  

 She offered it to Stella, who took a drag from April’s fingers, eyes closed.

 “Mmmm.”

 April held it out to Scully.  She started to shake her head no, but to everyone’s surprise, her hand reached out to take it.  It tasted strong and peppery, nothing like what she remembered, almost too smooth. People knew too much about weed now for it to be any fun.  Not that she’d really had that much fun with it before.  She handed it back to April, shoulders finally slumping down from her ears, belly going soft.

 “Thank you.”

 “I’m going to place my hand here while I work, is that okay?” April asked, her hand hovering over Stella’s side just under her arm.  Stella nodded and April’s palm rested itself on the soft, intimate spot beneath the armpit.  The bra slipped a bit further forward toward the table.  Scully felt warmth spread from hip to hip like melted butter, her heartbeat speeding to a telling pace between her legs, her mouth watering.  She cocked her head, jerking the leash on her facial expression, embarrassed.  But Stella was staring back at her, angling her jaw like a jungle cat with dinner plans.  Scully heaved and dropped a tiny sigh.

 “You’re crazy,” she whispered, and for a moment felt like they were alone.  Stella licked her lips, shrugged the shoulder closer to her ear.  April threatened with a few more buzzes of the pedal and Stella looked down at it, lips parted, hungry for it.

 “Ready?”  April asked.

 Stella nodded and Scully realized she was holding her breath. Stella’s ribs hurt when she laughed, sneezed, hugged.  Even just now, when she had to touch the spot to show April, she was ginger about doing so.

 The pen began to buzz, at first high pitched, and then growling lower as it met Stella’s skin.  Stella closed her eyes, swallowed a grunt, held her breath a second.  The instrument went quiet as April hesitated. Scully wondered how many people jumped ship at this point.

 “No, no, just do it.”

 And the sound resumed, ink guzzling its way toward the tip of the needle and braiding itself into Stella’s flesh.  Stella’s closed eyes twitched.  After a while, the muscles of her abdomen began to tremble, fatigued from resistance, and Stella’s facial expression sharpened.  Scully stepped behind Stella’s head and and took her hand, watched her fingers turn purple in Stella’s grip.  She pulled a spare chair over to sit.  April paused and switched tools and Scully watched Stella try to catch her breath.

 “This is going to be a motherfucker,” April said and Scully sighed. Right, the color.  “But it’s almost done.”

 Stella keenly watched as April dabbed sweat and blood.  The buzzing returned and grew louder like a treadmill pumped from walk to run.

 “Fuck me,” Stella whispered.  The artist glanced up but this time was strong-stomached enough not to turn off the needle. “Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

 Scully bit her lip, put her free hand in Stella’s hair, found it damp, raked her fingers through the same few inches over and over without moving the heel of her hand.  

 “It feels good,” Stella assured them and Scully knew this was mostly bullshit but a little bit true, that there was a kind of purity to the pain, the way it made things like tumors and bruises disappear, the way it made you new.  And… at least, for her… yes… Stella’s eyelashes were fluttering, mouth going wide, a little croak escaping her throat.  Scully felt like she might slide off her chair, tried not to fidget as Stella moved her head slightly to make contact with Scully’s nose.  Her head smelled like gardenias and salt, shampoo and sweat, mortal.

 Finally, the buzzing stopped.  Each of them began to breathe normally again as they suffered the postcoital awkwardness of it all.

 “No bras the next couple days. It would be uncomfortable, not that you seem to much give a fuck.  But you also want it to heal nicely.”

 Scully tried not to smile as she watched Stella register a lingerie ban, surrendering the bra down her arm and covering her breasts with her forearm as she sat up and turned to the mirror to get a good look.  April looked on with wide knees, one bouncing, her black-polished nails picking at one another - a kid who’d just shown her mom her coloring book.  Stella’s expression was unreadable, as ever.

 “It’s beautiful,” Scully jumped in, unable to bear April’s anticipation any longer.  For a moment, she pictured herself living here full time, following Stella around just to reassure the admiring young women she held in suspense on a daily basis.

 Stella made some noises of sincere agreement and turned her back to both of them, folding her bra into her back pocket, holding out a hand for Scully to hand over her blouse.  When she put it on, there was the uncommon sight of fabric falling like water over the natural shape of Stella’s breasts, stopping to ripple only at the twisted-up points of her nipples.  The shirt was collarless, but Stella shook her hair like there was one anyway.  April was collecting a palmful of spotted towels.

 “Here,” April said and handed Stella the rest of the joint. “You might want this later.”

 “I don’t think we--” stammered Scully.

 “Thank you,” Stella interrupted.  She put it in her front pocket.  She left the cuffs of her blouse undone and the hem untucked.  As though, with no bra, there was no point polishing the look.  “What do I owe you?”

 The girl’s face twitched as she feigned nonchalance and shrugged.

 “Fifty?”

 “Fifty?”

 “It says your rate is one-fifty an hour,” Scully said with a glance at the time.  Her reflexes felt a little slow and blurry, but she could still tell time.  “This took what?  Almost three.”

 “Fifty’s all I’m going to take for it,” she said, appearing to think of a better, more conspiratorial argument.  “I’m off the clock.”

 “If you say so.  Thank you,” Stella said and April shifted her weight from one Doc Martened foot to the other. Her tongue played with the ring on her lower lip, toying with the possibility of  one final question.

 “Who was he?” she asked.  Stella looked down as she counted the cash.

 “No one important,”  Stella said and April nodded like she’d already known the answer.

  *

  Young people crowded the sidewalks outside every bar and restaurant in the neighborhood, talking loudly in harmonized accents, passing cigarettes and laughing in the face of their own futures.  The rain had turned the concrete the color of spinning pottery and their heels sounded wet and messy when they landed.  Scully hugged Stella’s arm a little tighter as they passed a drunk couple making out clumsily.

 “You didn’t have to tell her I wasn’t your girlfriend so many times.”

 “Hm?”

 “You heard me.”  Stella smiled.

 “I believe it was once,” Stella said.

 “I didn’t like it,” Scully admitted shyly, she hoped, playfully, watching her shoes.

 “Why not?”

 “I don’t know.”

 “I don’t use that word for people I only do things in private with.”

 “Is that the rule?” Scully teased weakly.

 Stella huffed and stiffened, feathers clearly ruffled by the topic at hand.  She turned and spoke, voice now on ice.

 “You’re going back to him, Scully.  You’re always going back to him.”

 “How do you know that I’d mind it in public?” Scully asked.  

 “And when you do go back to him, I think you should apologize, frankly.”

 “Stella.”

 “And then tell him to fuck you, for fuck’s sake.”  Her cheeks were turning pink, and Scully wondered if she’d ever seen Stella truly angry before, if every other time had only been aggravated, perturbed, mildly inconvenienced.  This was altogether different.  “This is an inane conversation.”

 Scully finally allowed the levity to leave her voice.

 “Admit it, it isn’t what I’d have trouble doing in public, it’s what you’d have trouble doing in private.”

 And that did it.  Stella grabbed her arm and stopped them both in their tracks, took her face in hand and kissed her like they were back on the Persian carpet.  Scully felt strands of cold hair, sticky as summer lemonade, brushing past the hollows of her cheeks as they coke-bottled inward, tangling between their noses and people wove their way around them like a parade of ants round a suddenly fallen branch.  Someone whistled.  

 They came up for breath, remaining close to study one another’s faces.  Maybe the answer to this situation was somewhere in the wet corners of their eyes, sitting like pollen on their eyelashes.

 “You feel all that blood rushing to your cheeks?” Stella whispered, distracted, but still intending to make a point.

 “Not all of it.”

 Stella smiled, dropped her eyes to Scully’s lips and back up.

 “Do you mind if I blush when you do it?”

 Stella thought a moment.

 “No, actually.  No, not a-t’all,” Stella said, vowels tearing from their syllables like meat from a bone. “Let’s go home.”

 Scully tried not to look away from the people who stared as they made their way forward through their audience.   It was a couple blocks before she spoke again.

 “Why the rose?”

 “The name of the last woman.  The one we got back.”

  *

  The monitors hum and the ventilation system cranks beneath the squeak of soft-soled shoes on clean linoleum, a familiar song Scully spent her twenties losing sleep to.  She cradles the morphine pump loosely in her left hand and slips her right one under the blanket to preserve the warmth where Mulder had squeezed it.  She is somewhat sorry there is no justifiable excuse for Mulder to be at her bedside rather than work.  They have never reported their couple status officially to the FBI.  She’s not even sure they’ve reported it officially to each other.  They’ve only just started, though it doesn’t quite feel like a beginning.  It is impossible to picture an end.

When she hears the high heels, she assumes someone’s gotten the wrong room, and when she turns her head and sees Stella approaching the bed, she thinks she might be hallucinating, might have accidentally hit the button under her thumb.  

“What are you doing here?”

Stella kisses her forehead and sits to her left.  The morphine gun rolls onto the crinkly hospital sheets as Stella takes her hand.

“Are you high?” Stella asks with a standard touch of naughtiness, eyes on the little black button.

“No.  I’ve barely used it.”  This statement is not without a bit of regret.  There’s a part of her that keeps hoping she’ll need it so this would make some sense.  A shot in the gut should hurt more.

“You look exhausted,” she tells Stella to take the attention off herself.

“I just got off a plane. Mulder called me.”

Scully feels her eyes go wet immediately.  They’ve been brimming for days – Felig’s morbidness, his loneliness, her own confusions and ultimately, fear.  She hopes if he really was able to “take” death for her, that it suits him as well as life does her.

Stella intertwines their fingers, careful not to disturb the IV, brings their joined hands up to her mouth. Scully can feel Stella’s lips trembling against their combined knuckles, her teeth setting playfully there as she pretends she’s going to bite Scully.  She’s hiding.

“I thought you were dead,” she croaks, nose between Scully’s second knuckle and one of her own. Scully knows Stella is not embellishing about this. Mulder has a way of starting a conversation at the wrong end. Scully-got-shot-long pause is how he would’ve put it, waited for Stella’s stunned what to share the fact that she was fine.  Stella swallows and her regular voice returns.  “I’m going to kill him when I see him.”

“I know that feeling.”

Scully weighs the next part, doesn’t want to have to explain it all right now.

“I don’t really need to be here.”  Stella doesn’t need to be told twice.  Her hair looks slightly green under fluorescent light and her shoulders go high and tight whenever she looks at the IV stand.

“Then let’s go.  I’m at the Royalton.  There’s a fireplace.”

“I don’t know… how to ask them to leave.  I got shot yesterday.”

“Don’t ask.  Tell.”

Scully licks her lips and chews a bit of chapped skin there. Stella reaches into her purse and hands her a luxe ginger-flavored lip balm to apply.  She looks more tired than Scully knew she could, blue eyes draining grey into the collar of her white silk shirt.  She seems to melt toward Scully’s bed, slowly lowering her head to the cot, drapes herself over Scully’s body.  The chair howls against the floor as she moves it closer.  Scully takes her right hand from under the blanket so that she can wrap both arms around Stella, clasp her hands between Stella���s shoulders. Her spine rises and falls beneath Scully’s forearms.

“I’ll tell them for you,” Stella says.  “In a minute.”

Scully knows this will make no difference.  The only people they’ll listen to are wives and husbands and parents and children, the official relationships of the world.

“A fireplace?  A real one?”

“Mm, they come up and light it for you.”

She doesn’t have official relationships.  But what she has might be even better.

 Chapter 15

Chapter 16 

[drivingsideways]

Could you eleborate on your tags in this post? I really like your metas! If it's not too much trouble! /post/163702439009/do-you-think-flint-enjoys-violence

Hi anon! Well, I’m going to try and keep this short, but it’s about Flint. SO. :D 

I think @sidewaystime did a wonderful job of talking about how Flint’s relationship to violence is a complicated thing. What I was responding to was a post series Discourse that seems to be divided at the moment along whether Silver was ‘right’ to do what he did to stop the war or not. A lot of the argument for the “yes” side of that argument seems to rely on painting Flint as someone whose anger was entirely (a) born of reasons personal and (b) completely out of control. 

So let’s address (b) first. There are examples where Flint’s rage *is * out of control: Charlestown comes to mind, the Maria Aleyne, post Charlestown murders. In fact, post Charlestown and until the Maroon Island [i.e. until he resolves something within himself with the help of Dream-Miranda] is the closest I see him as being completely batshit insane with rage/sorrow/despair. But as I see it: at no point during this time is he unaware of the consequences of what he is feeling/ doing either to himself or other people. I bring this up because I think there’s a tendency to read Flint as unaware of his own True Motives. Some of this comes from the Miranda/Flint fight in 2.05  What she says (yells!), is that he hasn’t been “clear” about his goals TO OTHER PEOPLE. A corollary to that is that he hasn’t been open about what led him to this goal. And this is absolutely true. Flint discusses his grand plans with exactly two people before that- Gates and Eleanor, both of whom remain unaware of the tragedy that drove Flint to Nassau. Miranda is saying that without communication he is closing every door to achieving his goal except the one that leads to more violence. And this is where she says -paraphrased- [you are fighting for the sake of fighting, because that’s the only state you can function in]. And I think people have taken that and run with it as though it was an Eternal, Unchanging Truth about James. Although the very next thing that happens in the plot is that he listens to her and chooses a less violent path. 

And that’s the kind of thing I feel gets missed out: all the times he doesn’t choose a violent option even though it exists. Btw, that is a thing he has done from the first episode. Yes, he kills Singleton brutally, but hey, remember the literal first dialogue that we hear from him in the entire series is him putting a stop to his crew murdering someone? He listens to Eleanor, agrees to a dialogue with Vane in S2. He listens to Miranda about Ashe. Eleanor, again, in S4, in the middle of the freaking war, he allows himself to be taken hostage if it means there may be a chance to win the war without excessive bloodshed, even when that decision is hotly contested by his own people. 

This is not a man who is incapable of not choosing violence, it is a man who deploys violence strategically. This is a man capable of swallowing his pride and anger, if he sees a way to achieve his goal without violence. Is the Peaceful Way his first instinct? NO. But is he incapable of taking that path? NO. 

Here’s Flint in 3.10 telling his back story to Silver: 

Flint: Madness is such a hard thing to define, which makes it such an easy label to affix to one’s enemies. Once it had been applied to Thomas, once our relationship had been exposed, defiled, scandalized… everything ended. There were times that I was persuaded to sue for peace since then, but that was the day that on some level I knew… that England was broken… and that sooner or later a good man must resist it. [emphasis mine]

Ok, let’s back up a bit. Earlier in S3, Flint has a chance to end a war before it even starts, an offer he absolutely refuses.  Why does he? 

3.07, On the beach with Governor Rogers: 

Woodes Rogers: Lord Thomas Hamilton. I didn’t know him, but I understand you did. Miss Guthrie tells me you were part of the first effort with Lord Hamilton and Peter Ashe to introduce the pardon to Nassau. As with most things, the men first into the breach bear the heaviest casualties. But in the hindsight of victory, they were the ones whose sacrifice made it possible. Without Lord Hamilton’s efforts, your efforts, it’s likely I wouldn’t have been successful in my efforts to finally secure the pardon. All I have done here is finish what you began. I am now what you were then. And without you, there would be no me.

Flint: Clever.

Woodes Rogers:  Thank you.

Flint: So that’s what this is. We’re all reasonable men, we all want the same thing. You offer me a pardon, I accept it, this all ends? 

Woodes Rogers: Maybe. The pardons are on the table. No one is being hanged. No one’s even being tried. They’ve all been forgiven, just as you wanted. Just as Thomas Hamilton wanted. So what is it that you’re fighting for that I’m not already offering?

Flint: Thomas Hamilton fought to introduce the pardons to make a point. To seek to change England. And he was killed for it. His wife and I went to Charles Town to argue for the pardons, to make peace with England, and she was killed for it.England has shown herself to me. Gnarled and gray… and spiteful of anyone who would find happiness under her rule. [emphasis mine]

So here we go: Flint listens to Woodes Rogers��� proposal- which sounds exactly like what they were working toward just a few months ago?? But this time he refuses it. Because he sees right through it, and he recognizes that there is no possibility of reconciliation that does not include absolute surrender to England’s [”civilization’s”] Rules. The Rules that include continued slavery. That include men like him being condemned and ostracized. Woodes Rogers’ proposal sounds exactly like Thomas Hamilton’s- except that the intent was completely different- Thomas wanted to change the status quo and Rogers intends to preserve it. 

And you know what? He’s fucking right. Because literally the next fucking thing that happens when Flint refuses, is that Woodes Rogers ceases being “reasonable” and  ALSO tries the oldest trick in the book: gaslighting. 

Woodes Rogers: “ Then let us be very clear about something. I am reasonable in seeking peace. But if you insist upon making me your villain, I’ll play the part. So let us assume that, as of this moment, the unqualified pardon is no more. From this moment on, any man participating in the act of high seas piracy will be presumed to be one of your men, an enemy of the state. I will hunt him, I will catch him, and I will hang him. And while I am aware of your feelings on the subject, I am no backwater magistrate cowering in fear of you. You know where to find me. [emphasis mine]

Right: because somehow demanding freedom from slavery is “making [you] a villain”. 

What I mean to say in the above is that: Flint’s refusal to arrive at a compromise with England is not because he’s “out of control”, it’s because he is clear sighted about how systems of power work. He’s cut through all the bs that is “civilization” as per a colonial power and has found it to be rotten to the core. And that is what he pitches to the Maroon Queen: the absolute truth, not just about England (which she knows already) but also about the consequences. There is no certainty about anything- but trying is better than not. 

And now coming back to (a) which is that Flint’s anger is entirely personal. To which my answer is: of course it is. There are people who can devote themselves to larger causes and fight oppressions that they do not themselves experience personally, and I think those kind of people have amazing empathy, and may we all be more like them.

 But the sad truth is a large number of us do not wake up to systemic injustice until we experience it personally. And then what? Are we supposed to sit on our hands and say, ok, this anger of mine is really selfish because it has its beginnings in something awful that happened to me, and now that i recognize it doesn’t just happen to me, it happens to a whole lot of people both like and unlike me, but I’m not going to do anything about it-because maybe I’m playing out my own issues? 

But (i hear you say), this isn’t just about filing a petition on change.org, it’s literally starting a war. 

Ok, first off: I’ve said it before- the war is already on. Slavery is an act of war. Imprisonment of  “sexual deviants” is an act of war by the State on the individual (and larger queer community). Flint and Madi were attempting to change the terms of it. And secondly, let’s give rest to the idea that it was Flint alone who wanted a war. 

Mr.Scott to Madi: 

Mr.Scott: “ I wish you and I had not been so separate all those years.I wish I could have found a way to be a better father to you. But over time, I was determined to leave you something behind, to give you the one thing that no one could ever take away and that would make you strong enough to understand their world, interact with their world, wage war on their world. But if their identity lies in their stories, I wanted you to know them so that when we are ready to call them enemies, you would be ready for it.”  [emphasis mine]

This is an absolute recognition of what I was saying before: the war was ongoing. Mr.Scott and the Maroon Queen have spent a lifetime to prepare Madi to respond to the war on their people. In Flint, the Maroons had finally found an ally that could actually help them get somewhere. 

And as for Flint, the discovery of the Maroon Island led to another realization: and that was he no longer has to wage war alone. That there is solidarity to be had.  And that came at the end of the period where he was at his most self-destructively lonely. And having found himself on relatively stable ground again, he’s able to both articulate the effect and the use of rage/hatred. 

Here’s a conversation with Silver, in 3.09 about the punishment meted to Dobbs (over attacking one of the Maroon Crew)

Flint: That’s not why you did it.

Silver: Really? Would you like to tell me why I did it, then? 

Flint: Well, I wasn’t there, but, um, I’d hazard the guess that you learned of what had happened, told him how fucking stupid he was, and in that moment, he gave you a look that amounted to something less than contrite. And in that moment, you felt it. 

Silver: Felt what? 

Flint: Darkness. Hate. Showing indifference to the authority that you sacrificed so much to acquire, disdain for refusing to acknowledge that his actions, had you not intervened, would have led to an outcome that he would have held you responsible for reversing. Pride. Questioning what kind of man you are if you don’t seek retribution for the offense.

Silver:  So what are you saying? You saying I went too far with him?

Flint:  Maybe you went too far. Maybe you didn’t go far enough. Maybe you did it just right. The point is that while you were doing it, you heard a voice telling you that disciplining him would prevent him from repeating the offense, a voice that sounded like reason, and there was reason to it, as the most compelling lies are comprised almost entirely of the truth. But that’s what it does. Cloaks itself in whatever it must to move you to action. And the more you deny its presence, the more powerful it gets, and the more likely it is to consume you entirely without you ever even knowing it was there. Now, if you and I are to lead these men together, you must learn to know its presence well so that you may use it… Rather than it use you.  [emphasis mine]

Silver: You have some experience with this, I imagine, living in fear of such a thing within you? 

Flint: Yeah, I do.

Silver:  I can’t tell if this was a warning or a welcome.

To repeat: this is not a man who is wandering around in blind, selfish rage that’s indiscriminately targeted and can only be quenched by blood. This is a man who’s been through hell and come out on the other side, and then says “I cannot believe we’re as poorly made as that”. Which makes me want to burst into tears, even as I type this. 

 OK WOW. I NEED TO STOP. I’m not sure if this is what you wanted to hear, anon. :)