#but it felt impossible to escape and honestly that's just a reflection of real life

[david-watts]

I. I don’t think I want to be alive anymore

[lila-lou]

✨His true fate - Part 4/?✨

Summary: Jensen hasn't been happy for years. But it seems almost impossible for him to escape. After another nasty argument between him and his wife, he decides to visit his ´former´ best friend for his birthday. Back in Austin, an encounter awaits him that will turn his life completely upside down.

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: Language, age gap, "cheating"

Word Count: 5492

A/N: English isn’t my first language, so please be lenient. 💙✨

You sat down beside Jensen, feeling the weight of the evening’s intensity still hanging between you. There was a few moments of silence, both of you unsure of how to proceed. You nervously looked towards your intertwined hands resting on your knees, trying to gather your thoughts.

Jensen followed your gaze, his own eyes softening as he observed your uncertainty. He gently nudged your knee with his own. “You okay?”, he asked softly, his voice filled with genuine concern.

You glanced up at him, meeting his gaze with a mixture of gratitude and vulnerability. “I… I think so”, you replied honestly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “It’s just… everything feels a bit overwhelming, you know?”.

Jensen nodded in understanding. “I know”, he murmured. “Tonight has been… unexpected”.

You chuckled softly, feeling some of the tension begin to ease. “That’s one way to put it”, you agreed.

He smiled warmly, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I didn’t mean to come on too strong”, Jensen murmured, his voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty. “But I just…”. He trailed off, his expression searching for the right words.

You gently shook your head, meeting his gaze with understanding. “It’s not that I didn’t like it”, you whispered softly, a fond chuckle escaping your lips. “Because I did”. You looked down at your intertwined hands for a moment, feeling a rush of warmth at the memory. “I’ve never been kissed that damn good before, but…”, you trailed off, biting your lip nervously.

Jensen’s eyes softened as he watched you, sensing your hesitation. He reached out, gently lifting your chin with his finger to meet his gaze again. “But what?”, he asked gently, his voice encouraging yet filled with a hint of concern.

You took a deep breath, gathering your thoughts. “But I’m not for meaningless hook ups”, you admitted quietly, searching his eyes for understanding. “I want more than just a moment. I want…”. You paused, unsure of how to articulate the yearning in your heart.

Jensen’s thumb brushed lightly over your cheek, his touch gentle and reassuring. “You want something real”, he finished for you, his voice soft but resolute. “I understand”.

Jensen let his hand fall from your face, the warmth of his touch lingering even as he withdrew. He hadn’t intended for things to escalate so quickly, nor had he planned on a casual fling. But hearing you express your desire for something more, complicated things. The reality of his situation—his public image, his family—made it clear that an affair was the only thing feasible, even though it wasn’t what he wanted.

You sighed deeply, your eyes reflecting the inner turmoil you felt. “There’s so much more to the story”, you mumbled, a note of frustration in your voice. “But right now, I don’t want to talk through all of this”. You glanced back at him, your expression softening. “You’re a nice guy, Jensen. Incredibly funny, outrageously good looking, and… just so lovable, but…”.

The realization hit you harder as you struggled to articulate your thoughts. You bit your lip, feeling a pang of sadness. “You’re too old for me, Jensen. Too old to be something more than a hookup. And since I’m not down for hookups anyway, there’s not much more left for us".

Jensen’s expression tightened slightly, the weight of your words sinking in. He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. “I get it”, he said quietly, his voice tinged with a mix of regret and understanding. “I didn’t plan for any of this, believe me”.

There was a moment of silence between you, the air thick with unspoken emotions.

There was another moment of silence between you, the air thick with unspoken emotions. You took a deep breath, gathering your courage to continue. “I’m incredibly drawn to you, Jensen”, you admitted, your voice trembling slightly. “I’ve never felt such a strong connection to someone, especially someone I just met recently. It’s… overwhelming”.

You bit your lip, hating yourself for speaking the truth when all you wanted to do was straddle his lap and feel those plump lips of his one more time. To smell his intoxicating scent, to feel his huge rough hands on your skin. This man was trouble, and you knew it the moment your eyes fell upon him.

“I’ve already got enough fights left to fight”, you continued, your voice barely above a whisper. “A hookup with this amount of intense connection… it might lead to a situation I don’t want to be in”.

Unknown to you, Jensen felt the exact same way. The moment he laid eyes on you, he knew you were different. Special. The connection between you was undeniable, and it scared him as much as it excited him.

He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek. “I’m sorry”, he murmured, his voice filled with a mix of longing and regret. “I wish things were different".

You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch for a brief moment before pulling away. “Me too”, you whispered, the ache in your chest intensifying. “But we can’t change what is”.

Jensen’s hand dropped to his side, a resigned sigh escaping his lips. “No, we can’t”, he agreed softly.

You smiled, but it was a strained, bittersweet smile. “But I’m up for a friendship if you want to”, you said quietly, laying your hand gently on his forearm. The simple touch sent a shiver down both your spines, the electricity between you undeniable even in this moment of trying to establish boundaries.

Jensen looked down at your hand on his arm, feeling the warmth and the connection that still lingered between you. He took a deep breath, lifting his eyes to meet yours. “A friendship”, he repeated softly, as if testing the word, trying to see if it could contain the depth of what he felt.

“Yeah”, you nodded, your thumb unconsciously brushing against his skin. “I don’t want to lose whatever this is, even if it can’t be what we might want it to be”.

Jensen’s eyes softened, and he covered your hand with his own, giving it a gentle squeeze. “okay”, he said, his voice steady but tinged with a hint of sadness.

“So”, Jensen continued, trying to lighten the mood, “what do friends do in a situation like this?”.

You chuckled softly, appreciating his attempt to ease the tension. “Well, friends usually talk, hang out, and support each other”, you said, a genuine smile spreading across your face. “And maybe share a drink or two?”.

Jensen grinned, the warmth returning to his eyes. “I can definitely do that”, he replied, standing up and extending his hand to you. “Let’s go grab something to drink and start this friendship right”.

You took his hand, feeling the familiar spark, and stood up beside him. “Sounds like a plan”, you agreed.

As you walked together towards the kitchen, you couldn’t help but feel that despite the complications, you had found something special in each other—a connection that, while it might not fit neatly into the roles you originally envisioned, was still incredibly valuable and worth nurturing.

It took quite a while for the thick air to lighten up, but eventually, the tension began to fade as you and Jensen started talking about lighter topics. You found yourself sitting on the kitchen island, swinging your legs slightly, while Jensen leaned against the countertop across from you, his arms crossed and a relaxed smile on his face.

The conversation had drifted to past experiences, and you were telling him about the first time you had a hookup. It was a story that was both mortifying and hilarious in hindsight, and you couldn’t help but laugh along with him as you recounted the details.

“So, there I was, thinking everything was fine”, you said, shaking your head with a chuckle. “We’d had a great night, and I woke up the next morning to find that all my panties were gone”.

Jensen burst into laughter, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he tried to catch his breath. “Wait, for real? He stole all your panties?”, he asked, still chuckling.

You nodded, taking another sip of your drink. “Yep, every single one of them. I was mortified! I had to call my best friend to bring me something to wear. Ever since that terrible, crazy night, I don’t do hookups anymore”.

Jensen laughed even harder, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s insane! I’ve heard some crazy stories, but that one takes the cake”.

You grinned. “Yeah, it was a nightmare at the time, but now it’s just a funny story to tell. Lesson learned, I guess”.

Jensen’s laughter gradually subsided, and he looked at you with a twinkle in his eye. “Well, I can’t say I’ve ever had anything quite that wild happen to me, but I definitely understand why you’re cautious about hookups now”.

You nodded, appreciating his understanding. “Yeah, it’s just not worth the hassle. I’d much rather have meaningful connections".

Jensen’s smile softened, and he nodded in agreement. “I get that. Meaningful connections are definitely worth more”. He took a sip of his own drink, his eyes still sparkling with amusement from your story.

"So, come on", you teased with a mischievous grin, "an old man like you must have some legendary hookup stories. I bet you've seen it all".

Jensen chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned back against the countertop. "There's the old man thing again", he teased back. "I'm starting to think you enjoy reminding me of my age".

You laughed, raising your hands in mock surrender. "I plead the fifth", you replied, feigning innocence. "But seriously, spill the tea. I want to hear about young Jensen's wild adventures".

Jensen smirked, pretending to ponder for a moment before leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Alright, but you didn't hear it from me", he said with mock seriousness, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Let's just say, my younger days were full of unexpected twists and turns".

You leaned in, genuinely intrigued. "Oh, come on now, you can't leave me hanging like that", you urged, your curiosity piqued.

He chuckled again, running a hand through his hair. "Okay, okay", he relented, a smile playing on his lips. "But I have to warn you, some of these stories might make you rethink your impression of me".

You grinned, ready to hear whatever scandalous tales he was willing to share.

Eventually, the two of you found yourselves drunk again, which obviously wasn’t the smartest thing to do. The night had taken a playful turn, and now you were straddling his thighs while he lay on the carpet in front of the couch. This had happened after he insisted you show him some self-defense tricks, clearly underestimating your technique.

Jensen chuckled, his hands resting lightly on your hips as he looked up at you. "I didn’t think you’d actually flip me", he admitted, amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Guess you underestimated me", you replied with a grin, trying to ignore the fluttering in your stomach at the closeness between you two.

His grip on your hips tightened slightly as he laughed, the sound sending a warm shiver down your spine. "You’re full of surprises", he said, his tone softer now, more serious.

You felt a rush of warmth, a mixture of the alcohol and the undeniable chemistry between you. "You don’t know the half of it", you teased, but there was a note of honesty in your voice. The moment hung between you, charged with the potential for so much more.

You couldn't help but notice his hardness, visible again under his sweatpants, but you didn’t say or do anything. Even if you told him earlier that there wasn’t much more happening except for a friendship, the feeling of being drawn to him didn’t lessen. Still, even though you were drunk, you held onto your morals. At least being close to him, you couldn’t deny yourself that much.

Gently, you rolled off him and lay beside him on the carpet. You yawned tiredly, feeling the alcohol's effects intensify, making everything spin slightly after your little self-defense action. You simply didn’t move, staying beside him on the carpet.

Jensen turned his head to look at you, a soft smile on his lips. "You okay?", he asked quietly.

You nodded, turning to face him. "Yeah, just… tired and tipsy", you admitted with a small chuckle.

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. "We should probably get up, but this carpet isn’t too bad", he joked, trying to lighten the mood.

You laughed softly, closing your eyes for a moment. "I think I might just stay here", you murmured, feeling a sense of peace despite the swirling emotions and alcohol in your system.

Jensen shifted slightly. "If you’re comfortable, then so am I", he said softly.

His head was spinning too, clearly too much alcohol in his system. The quiet grew between you, a comfortable stillness that felt almost natural after the whirlwind of emotions and events.

As you lay side by side, the warmth of his presence became a soothing balm against the dizzying effects of the alcohol. The carpet was surprisingly comfortable, and the closeness of Jensen was reassuring.

Without even noticing, you both began to drift off. The exhaustion from the night's emotional rollercoaster and the alcohol in your veins took over. The world outside faded into the background, and the gentle rise and fall of your breaths synchronized in the dimly lit room.

The peaceful silence enveloped you both, and before long, sleep claimed you. The night's intensity and uncertainty melted away.

It wasn't until around ten in the morning that Jensen finally woke up. As he slowly opened his eyes, he found you curled in like a fetus next to him, facing him while still sleeping. There were just inches between the two of you. Even in his groggy and tired state, he carefully lifted his hand, brushing a strand of hair out of your beautiful and peaceful face.

His heart ached. "Fuck", he muttered under his breath, the words barely audible. What was wrong with him that he felt so damn connected and drawn to you? If he didn't know better, he might think he had fallen in love with you.

As he lay there, watching you sleep, the weight of the situation pressed down on him. He knew how complicated things were, knew the risks involved. But in that quiet moment, none of that seemed to matter. All he could focus on was the way your presence made him feel, the way you seemed to fit perfectly into a space in his life he hadn't even realized was empty.

Jensen's hand lingered near your face for a moment longer before he gently withdrew it, not wanting to wake you. He lay back, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the whirlwind of emotions swirling within him. The night had been a blur of laughter, connection, and unspoken desires, but now the reality of the morning brought everything into sharper focus.

He knew he had to be careful, had to tread lightly. But as he glanced back at you, still peacefully asleep beside him, he couldn't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, there was a way to navigate the complexities and find something real with you. The thought both thrilled and terrified him, but he knew one thing for certain—he couldn't ignore what he was feeling.

The morning light filtered softly through the windows, casting a warm glow over the room. Jensen took a deep breath, feeling a sense of calm wash over him.

You slowly stirred from your sleep, instinctively nestling closer to Jensen. Your face pressed softly against his chest, and he couldn't help but chuckle at the unexpected intimacy.

The sound of his laughter made you groan, still caught between the remnants of sleep and waking up. "Morning", Jensen teased softly, his voice filled with warmth. "Comfortable, are we?".

You groggily mumbled something unintelligible, trying to hide your face in his chest. Jensen’s chuckle deepened. "You know, if you wanted to use me as a pillow, you could've just asked".

Your eyes fluttered open, and you realized your position, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. You quickly sat up, trying to compose yourself. "I—uh, sorry", you stammered, looking anywhere but at him. "I didn't mean to—".

Jensen sat up too, his smile gentle and reassuring. "Hey, it's fine", he said, his tone playful but sincere. "I've been called worse things than a pillow".

You couldn't help but laugh at that, the tension easing a bit. "You're ridiculous", you said, shaking your head, but a smile tugged at your lips.

Jensen's eyes twinkled with amusement. "And yet, you´re still hanging out with me. What does that say about you?".

You blushed deeper, finally meeting his gaze. "I guess I like ridiculous people", you admitted with a shy smile.

You slowly sat up completely, clutching your head and groaning again as the hangover hit you hard. Jensen sat up beside you, hissing a strained “fuck” as he held his back, a series of cracks echoing through the room. His discomfort made you chuckle, despite the pulsing in your head.

“Getting too old for this, huh?”, you teased, trying to suppress a wince from your own hangover.

Jensen gave you a playful glare, still rubbing his back. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. You won’t be so smug when you hit my age and can’t even sleep on the floor without falling apart”.

You chuckled, though it was cut short by a twinge of pain in your head. “Well, for an old man, you sure kept up pretty well last night”.

He raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Kept up? I think I won that little self-defense match, thank you very much”.

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “If by ‘won’ you mean got flipped and ended up on the floor, then sure, you won”.

Jensen laughed, a deep, genuine sound that made your heart flutter. “Alright, alright, I’ll give you that one. But only because I’m feeling generous today”.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face.

“You sure you’re okay?”, he asked, his voice quieter now, filled with genuine concern.

You nodded, meeting his gaze. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Just need some water and maybe a nap. Or two”.

Jensen looked around, realizing there was no food or water left in the house. He rubbed his temples, contemplating the options. With no car and neither of you in any shape for a walk, he knew he had to figure something out.

“Give me two minutes”, he mumbled, getting up to his feet and searching for his phone.

You watched him move around the room, wincing slightly as he bent down to pick up his phone. He scrolled through his contacts, muttering under his breath. After a few moments, he sighed in relief, tapping on a name and holding the phone to his ear.

“Padalecki”, he said when the call connected.

Meanwhile, at Jared’s house, Genevieve walked towards her husband, handing him some painkillers for his own hangover. Jared took them gratefully, swallowing them with a gulp of water.

“Where’s Jensen, anyway?”, Genevieve asked, a hint of curiosity in her voice. “I didn’t see him when I got up”.

Jared shrugged, just as his phone rang. He glanced at the screen and saw Jensen’s name. “Speak of the devil”, he muttered, answering the call. “Hey, man. Rough night, huh? Where are you hiding?”.

Jensen hesitated for a moment, glancing over at you before replying, “I’m at my place. Could you swing by with some water and painkillers?”.

There was a pause on Jared’s end, then he burst out laughing. “Ah, I see how it is. You’ve got company, huh?”.

Jensen sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, something like that”.

Genevieve, who had been listening in, felt a pang in her chest. Her face paled slightly, but she kept quiet, not wanting to interrupt their conversation.

Jared continued teasing, his voice lighthearted. “Alright, man, I’ll bring the essentials. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to grab enough for your guest too”.

Jensen rolled his eyes good-naturedly, knowing Jared wouldn’t let him live this down anytime soon. “Thanks, Jared. See you soon”.

As Jared hung up and began gathering supplies, Genevieve turned away, her mind racing. She knew Jensen’s marriage had been struggling, but hearing him with someone else confirmed her suspicions.

Jared, oblivious to Genevieve’s distress, started packing a bag with water bottles, some snacks, and a couple of aspirin packets. “Alright, I’m gonna head over to Jensen’s place. You okay here?”.

Genevieve forced a smile and nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. Go help him out”.

Jared kissed her on the cheek and headed out the door, bag slung over his shoulder. As he drove to Jensen’s place, he couldn’t help but chuckle to himself, thinking about how his friend had probably ended up in this situation.

Back at Jensen’s house, you were sitting on the couch, trying to make sense of the previous night. Jensen hung up the phone and turned to you, a small, reassuring smile on his face. “Jared’s on his way".

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “Wow, you even have ‘room service’. Impressive”.

Jensen let himself plop down on the couch beside you, groaning as his back cracked again. “Yeah, well, I guess it’s one of the perks of having friends who don’t judge too much”.

You smiled, feeling the tension ease a little. “You really should take better care of that back of yours, old man”.

He shot you a playful glare. “Keep it up with the old man jokes, and I might just make you walk back to Jared’s to get your car”.

You laughed, the sound echoing in the quiet room. “I’d probably end up more lost than anything. Plus, my head is killing me”.

Jensen nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, mine too. But don’t worry, Jared will be here soon. He’s always good in a crisis”.

You leaned back against the couch, closing your eyes for a moment. “I’ll take your word for it. Right now, I just need to survive this hangover”.

Jensen leaned back, his head hanging slightly over the couch, his eyes closed. His back cracked again, eliciting a small groan from him. Just as you were about to tease him once more, he reached out and gently grabbed you by the hair, pressing your face against his stomach to muffle your words. He did this without opening his eyes or moving his head, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.

“Hey!”, you mumbled against his shirt, your voice muffled but playful.

“Shh”, he murmured, a hint of amusement in his tone. “Let an old man rest in peace”.

You wriggled free and sat up, smirking at him. “You know, there are easier ways to avoid my jokes”.

Jensen opened one eye, peering at you with a playful glint. “But where’s the fun in that?”. He let go of your hair and settled back into the couch.

You shook your head, unable to suppress a smile. “You really are something else”.

Before Jensen could respond, the sound of a car pulling up outside caught your attention. You both turned to look out the window just as Jared’s familiar truck came into view.

“Looks like room service has arrived”, Jensen remarked with a grin, slowly getting to his feet.

You stood up, still feeling the effects of the hangover but grateful for the reprieve. Together, you walked to the front door, opening it just as Jared was about to knock.

Jared stepped inside, glancing between the two of you. His eyes landed on your outfit, which consisted of one of Jensen’s shirts and a pair of his boxers. Jared raised an eyebrow, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

“Well”, Jared said, his tone teasing. “Did you two hook up or what?”.

Your face flushed a deep red as you stammered, “N-no, we didn’t…”.

Jensen, shaking his head, elbowed Jared in the ribs. “Knock it off, man. You know it’s not like that”.

Jared chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, just asking. You two look awfully cozy”.

Jensen sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Actually, we accidentally fell into the pool last night. That’s why we’re in these clothes”.

Jared raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “Fell into the pool, huh? That’s a new one”.

You nodded, trying to back up Jensen’s story. “Yeah, it was pretty late, and we were messing around. Things got a little out of hand”.

Jared crossed his arms, a smirk still playing on his lips. “So, you’re telling me you two just happened to end up in the pool and now you’re here in Jensen´s clothes. Sounds a bit too convenient, don’t you think?”.

Jensen rolled his eyes, giving Jared another nudge. “Believe what you want, man. That’s the truth”.

Jared laughed, clearly enjoying the teasing. “Alright, alright. I’ll let it go. For now”.

Jensen shook his head with a chuckle. “You’re impossible, you know that?”.

Jared grinned, taking a step back towards the door. “Just doing my job as a friend. Make sure to drink that water and take those painkillers. And try to stay out of the pool, okay?”.

You couldn’t help but laugh at Jared’s relentless teasing. “We’ll do our best”.

You went back to the couch while Jensen was ready to close the door, but Jared held it open.

Jared whispered, "Seriously, man, did nothing really happen?".

Jensen rolled his eyes, leaning in slightly. "I’ll tell you later", he said, a small smile crossing his lips before disappearing quickly.

Jared nodded, giving him a knowing look. "Alright, take care, and call me if you need anything".

Jensen closed the door, turning back to you with a sigh. “He’s relentless”.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “He’s just looking out for you in his own way”.

Jensen nodded, sitting down beside you on the couch. “Yeah, I know. But sometimes it feels like having a big kid around”.

You smiled, reaching for a bottle of water from the bag Jared brought. “Well, at least he brought supplies. Let’s try to recover from this hangover”.

After eating something and taking the painkillers, you both felt somewhat revived. You changed into the now dry clothes from the previous night, preparing to head back to Jared’s house. As you walked side by side down the quiet street, the morning’s conversation weighed on your mind.

You glanced at Jensen, hesitating for a moment before speaking. “Hey, about what I said this morning… about you being too old for me. I’m sorry if that came off harsh. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful or dismissive”.

Jensen looked at you, his expression softening. “Don’t worry about it”, he said, trying to downplay his own discomfort. “You were just being honest. I get it”.

You sighed, feeling a pang of guilt. “It’s just… you’re really great, Jensen. And I didn’t want to make it seem like your age was some sort of dealbreaker. It’s just, well, complicated”.

He nodded, giving you a reassuring smile. “I know. It’s complicated for me too. Believe me, I didn’t expect to feel this way either”. He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “But we both know that life doesn’t always follow the rules we set for it”.

You returned his smile, feeling a bit lighter. “Yeah, that’s for sure. I guess I just wanted you to know that I don’t see you as just ‘some old guy’. You’re someone I genuinely enjoy being around”.

Jensen tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I really appreciate that. But can I ask you something?”.

You nodded, curious and a bit apprehensive. “Sure, what is it?”.

“Why is a woman like you even single?”, he asked, his tone genuinely puzzled.

You sucked in a breath, the question hitting a sensitive spot. You hesitated, gathering your thoughts before answering. “I’m not technically single”, you admitted slowly. “But… I kinda am”.

Jensen looked at you, eyebrows raised in confusion. “What do you mean?”.

You sighed, feeling the weight of the confession. “My boyfriend and I have been on a sort of break since I moved away. Our relationship has been pretty bad for over a year now, and honestly… I don’t know how to feel anymore. I don’t love him anymore”.

Jensen’s expression softened with understanding. “That sounds really tough. I’m sorry you’re going through that”.

You shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant even though it hurt. “It is what it is. I guess sometimes things just don’t work out the way we hope”.

He nodded, his gaze thoughtful. “Yeah, I know that feeling all too well. But for what it’s worth, I think you deserve someone who makes you happy".

You smiled softly, touched by Jensen’s sincerity. “Thanks".

He nodded, his expression serious. “Have you talked to your boyfriend about how you feel?”.

You sighed, the question weighing heavily on your mind. “Of course I have. But he refuses to end the relationship. He keeps saying there will come better days, that things will get better. But I don’t know if I believe that anymore”.

Jensen looked at you, his eyes filled with empathy. “It’s hard to move on when someone’s holding on like that”.

You nodded, feeling the truth of his words. “Yeah, it is. I just wish he could see that it’s not fair to either of us to keep pretending”.

Jensen sighed, a hint of frustration in his eyes. “It’s not. Sometimes the hardest part is accepting that things need to change, even if it hurts”.

You glanced at him, seeing a flicker of pain in his expression. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience”.

He chuckled softly, though there was little humor in it. “Yeah, you could say that. It’s easier to give advice than to follow it, I suppose”.

You looked at him, your curiosity piqued. “Do you want to talk about it?”, you asked gently.

He waved off the question, shaking his head. “Better not. Let’s just say I’ve had my fair share of complicated relationships”.

You nodded, accepting his reluctance to delve into his own issues. “I understand. Just, please, don’t think too poorly of me. I’ve never kissed another guy while in a relationship before”.

Jensen’s expression softened, and he held up his hand, showing his wedding ring. “Believe me, I won’t judge you. Besides, you and your boyfriend are at least on a break”.

Your breath hitched at the sight of his ring. “Oh… shit…I-I didn’t see the ring”, you mumbled, feeling a wave of guilt wash over you. “I feel even worse now”.

Jensen lowered his hand. “Hey, don’t beat yourself up. My marriage is… complicated".

You nodded slowly, still feeling a pang of guilt. “I just don’t want to be that person, you know?”.

“I know”, Jensen said softly. “And you’re not. Sometimes life throws us into situations we never imagined. It doesn’t make us bad people; it just makes us human”.

Jensen mumbled, almost to himself, “And believe me, there’s nothing left to destroy”.

You sighed, feeling a mix of sympathy and curiosity. You wanted to know more about his marriage, about what had gone wrong, but since he didn’t want to talk about it, you didn’t push. Instead, you walked in silence for a few moments, the tension between you easing into a comfortable quiet.

Finally, you broke the silence. “I guess we’re both navigating through some pretty rough waters, huh?”.

Jensen nodded, his gaze distant. “Yeah, seems like it”.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

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Part 5

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[whilereadingandwalking]

Ok. This will be a long one. I enjoyed almost all of Girls Lost by Jessica Schiefauer, translated by Saskia Vogel (although the title puzzles me as the Swedish translates to "The Boys"). In the short book, three girls on the verge of puberty discover a flower whose nectar allows them to transform into boys. At first they enjoy the freedom of being able to walk down streets without fear, avoiding sexual harassment and predatory stares. But with time, the flower begins to pull them apart. Because Bella and Momo are ready to stop playing—but for Kim, it's no longer a game. Kim feels right in a boy's body. She loves it. In that body, she falls in love with Tony, another boy, who gets her into a life of crime and adrenaline. The story does something fascinating here by showing how for Bella and Momo, it's only temporary escape from the inherent fear that comes with how the world treats their girl bodies, just like the fun 'masquerade' parties of their childhood that allow them to shed their personas in lieu of ones that feel more bold, more powerful, less fragile. But Kim experiences gender euphoria in this male body, and it's not something she can do without. She needs it, more and more. But here’s the thing. Bella worships the flower, which seems to be a divine feminine object with a consciousness of its own. Kim's constant use of the flower drains it. Their small tastes of nectar were ok, but it seems that her desire to be a boy all of the time is sucking the life out of the flower. So Kim's friends treat her continued use of the nectar as a betrayal, almost an addiction, and an act of violence and greed. Kim's love for her boy body is framed as not just impossible, but damaging. It's something she has to let go. It is something that has changed her for the worse. Without spoiling the events, Kim eventually flees and declares to a strange that she is not a boy, but also describes herself as a person inside a girl-body. At the end, she looks in the mirror and smiles at her reflection: she sees a boy with a woman cast over him like a veil. Shortly after, in the final scene of the book, grown-up woman Bella is luscious, with swelling breasts, adorned by a cloud of butterflies. She says to Kim, "She's waiting for us." On one hand, it seems like a book about gender dysphoria in which, at the end, Kim is happy with themself. Which is great, and I almost felt satisfied there. But honestly, my brain keeps returning to this image: a girl-body who wants to be a boy, draining the life out of a divine feminine flower as two budding women watch, in order to escape her girl-body. That was the wrong thing. The right thing is the flower alive, thriving, the divine feminine represented in Bella, its cultivator. The right thing is Kim's slow acceptance of her body as it is. It felt like the book was saying to Kim, "You don't need to change your body. You don't need to be a boy for real. You can feel masculine energy and be a woman. But your desire to actually be a boy is poisoning the well of the divine feminine—once you accept that you can't change your womanhood, women will be better for it." And look, maybe if Kim's only desire really was the power and freedom of masculinity, like it was for Momo and Bella, I could give this statement a pass. But Kim's gender dysphoria and euphoria are just too vivid. So for me, it keeps feeling like this book is telling a trans boy that if he just gets over the idea of transforming his body or in anyway 'actually' being a boy, and accepts that women can be multitudes, he will be very happy as a woman. It feels like there's a sharp undercurrent of that old prejudice that trans men are actually just women who want to shed the oppression of being women. It feels like it's calling hormone therapy and gender affirmation surgery a betrayal of womanhood. And I can't possibly read this book and say that Kim's boy-body was just a mask, because it isn't written that way. Kim felt right in the boy-body, and felt pain when it was taken away. So after enjoying so much of this book, and even, for the first half, thinking that I would give it a full five stars, I'm left feeling that it was maybe actually very transphobic. There are other interpretations, I know, because for about 75% of this book, I was ready for an ending where Kim confronts Momo and Bella, where he finally explains to them his truth, that he is a boy and that's why his boy-body fits him so well, that's why he needs the nectar. I didn't need it to all work out, but I thought it was a novel about gender nonconformity. I thought that alongside the story of Momo and Bella and their fears and pain as women, it was also a story of Kim's queer realization that a boy-body was his proper body. But when I finished it on that note of divine femininity, it just left a heavy taste of TERF in my mouth. Content warnings for sexual assault, violence, toxic masculinity, drug use, gender dysphoria, sexism, suicidal ideation and behavior.

[nozomijoestar]

Starting another NozoEli series as a sequel to my old Kaleidoscopic collection that could use some expanding; I will never leave these two alone no matter how many years pass- here’s Eli fully coming to grips with being gay after her first time and me & @cavehagsanonymous would like to thank t.a.t.u. for Ya Soshla S Uma personally

Russian speakers feel free to correct me because I don’t know Russian beyond a surface skimming/ I also tried using phrases with the appropriate altering meanings 

TW: internalized homophobia

The room had gone quiet save for their breathing and passing cars below the open window. It was strange, this new silence, yet calming all the same. Eli had never been on a boat but had stood outside before storms. Really if she had to guess then they were the same thing, the same feeling, just at different points. They were the dotted lines printed on her Second Year homework; their paths yet to meet. She could understand that concept, that crossroad between logic and emotion telling anyone they should brace themselves or be swept along, or drenched. This time she had chosen to stand in the storm; now only this silence in its aftermath remained uncharted.

Honestly, where did she even begin? Should it be with their clothes scattered on the floor, the fact that she’d just returned from the longest pee of her life, or with how right their bodies fit under the duvet? Should it be with the way Nozomi’s breath tickled her hair, how their legs intertwined, or Eli’s impulse to rest against her chest? She had no damn idea.

All she relished in at that moment came with Nozomi stroking her forearm. A kiss was pressed against her head. Eli felt her breath hitch. An electric wave seemed to course through her in an instant. They could never pretend this hadn’t been real. No, it never should have been real in the first place. Then she let Nozomi kiss her nose, the curve above her lips, along her jaw.

Eli basked in it as her eyes fluttered closed. For a moment, she could get used to this part of worship. But a nausea speared her stomach the second Nozomi’s lips left in one lingering motion. In her fear she found Nozomi’s eyes. The certainty she read in them brought her shame.

How could this girl act as if they’d done the most natural thing between two girls? How could Eli hold such an ugly thought? She averted her gaze in silence. Her skin tingled and blushed not with the heat of earlier, but punishment for her cowardice.

“Elicchi yer not sayin’ nothin’ after all that hollering before; something botherin’ you?”

“…I didn’t holler. I…made noise.”

“Same difference ta’ me, I know wha’ I heard. Ain’t ever thought my name could get so high pitched before. ‘Ooooo No.zo. miiii.’, and the rest; it was real cute.”

“E-E-Enough! I don’t even know where you picked up half of those things you did. Wasn’t this your first time too?”

Eli’s face skipped every step of a creeping blush straight into rushing up the tips of her ears. That Kansai accent Nozomi turned on and off for her own amusement and dazzling anyone who listened ran wild when she had no one to impress. It made Eli’s insides go strange yet wonderful much like whatever else they did.

Nozomi made a sound Eli couldn’t definitively read as annoyance, worry, pride, or all three. If she had to bet then it was absolutely all three. You took that on once you knew Nozomi Tojo; no other person seemed like they’d been snatched from a combination of every reflection in funhouse mirrors. Fascinating…no other word fit her, and even that one felt limited. Thoughtful was…another good candidate.

“I tried those things because it’s my first time. It was our first time. Did I do something wrong?”

Ah, the accent had vanished. This was a serious Nozomi. If that’s how things were going then she wanted a serious Eli in response. Her body tensed. The way Nozomi looked at her so focused, so ready no matter what Eli might say; as if she held a grand answer impossible to know alone, the weight made her shiver.

“It wasn’t bad.” The words fell out before she might think.

“Then why’re you being so weird? Feels like I hurt you but I don’t know how.”

“We did it. That’s why.”

She rolled over showing her bare back as if to squash anything left unsaid. She needed to simmer, that’s what it was; let the euphoria from earlier flush out completely until her rationale returned. She needed to eat her heart or it might become something else. It might even be something she’d love- it dangled her over a cliff in the thrill freefalling brought, but also the knowledge it meant an end. If she wasn’t Eli Ayase, grounded, tepid, cautious, then who was she?

Would those pieces of her disappear?

There came a firm touch on her shoulder as if she were a cat held by the scruff.

“Elicchi…Eli, did we have sex just so you could make me happy?”

Her voice cracked and tapered off; Eli winced. Her chest tightened. By the time she remembered how to breathe her vision clouded. To turn around now was to face a wolf.

‘I’ve lost my mind already.’

She spoke, her voice heavier than it had any right to be. There wasn’t another way for it to be.

“I want you, every part of you, but it doesn’t matter. You got what you wanted. You’ll be on to the next girl before I can get dressed again. That’s what my family says about lesbians.”

Nozomi’s weight pressed against her; her arms wrapping them both in a hug that wouldn’t let Eli escape. She yelped in surprise. Their skin touching, their warmth bound together finally let her tears fall.

“Elicchi be quiet and listen. What do you hear right now?”

Eli shut her eyes.

“My heartbeat.”

“What’s pounding against it?”

“…Yours.” Her entire body went red.

“Listen to how they sound.”

“Ok.”

The room went still again, only now she didn’t pick up a single car or passerby or anything else. A thumping sensation raced against her, almost lost beneath her own. She swallowed hard.

“You’re nervous too.”

“So if you can tell, are you done acting stupid?”

“Wha- I’m not! I-I’m…”

She turned around chasing the pain in Nozomi’s voice, desperate to stop it. They came face to face after what had been too much time apart. Then Eli ached. In her sixteen years alive, she could count on her fingers those moments the world sank. Suddenly the room light shined too bright, the window curtains could have been those of the ballet stage. One blink and she wore the despair of a little girl crashing against failure. She was still so small.

The tears wouldn’t stop spilling down Nozomi’s cheeks; she didn’t bother wiping them when they dripped down her chest. When she saw her tremble Eli clung to her. She gripped her shoulders, could feel her knuckles turn white.

“Nozomi I-I’m sorry. I’m scared. You’re amazing and I’m scared of what it means.”

Nozomi’s touch stroking her hair was enough to make her pride break, for her heart to follow. By god she could melt, and they did against one another.

“I know. It’s ok to be scared. But don’t take it out on me Elicchi.”

Their heartbeats hammered in her ears, easing from a race into a lulling rhythm. She rested her head on the dip between Nozomi’s neck and shoulder. Her entire weight leaned against her as she slid her hands down her sides. Nozomi’s skin was so smooth, her voice so soft yet decisive, her breaths tickled Eli’s ear as she let her be. They stopped time like this; molded into the moment and the unspoken. The image of Nozomi’s tears returned. She set her thoughts aside and became free.

“Я хочу быть с тобой.”

“Huh?”

“I thought I could love you. Now I know I do.”

A tiny sound, something like vulnerability, made her shudder when Nozomi pulled back. She took in the resolve on that face always a step ahead, embracing fear yet grappling it. No one looked at her, saw her, in a way that made her quake. It was terrifying to find a wound filled you never knew you’d had. Worse still knowing you had bled from it.  

Then gently her face was held, and when their lips met she draped her arms around Nozomi’s neck.

“моя сладкая…”

She whispered it letting her eyes study Nozomi’s face; her round cheeks, handsome chin, the framing of her forehead under shiny bangs, all of it burned into her memory. They kissed again as she felt hands wander then rest at her waist. Her voice wavered into something that made her clench.

“Я люблю тебя.”

 With no resistance, she let Nozomi press her down; pulling her into the first kiss she’d given free of lingering shame. Looking up she saw nothing else but her, stared then into her eyes. Nozomi smiled. Eli smiled back as she cupped her lover’s cheek.

 “Я тебя люблю.”

 “I love you too.”

They kissed for a long time, and when Eli closed her eyes she saw the little girl she’d been, dancing and soaring on that stage. Warmth filled her.

[julyarchives]

Lunar Love || (M)

Stuck between forbidden love and duty to the kingdom, decisions under the moonlight may change everything

→ Pairing: Yanan x Female Reader

→ Genre: Smut

→ Words:  2.8K

→ Contains: Smut; Princess MC; Royalty AU; whole lot of romance

→ A/n: So, we tried a different kind of language for this story, and writing this beautiful romance was really fun! We hope you guys like it as much as we do!

You consider yourself lucky. Being born part of royalty had something to do with that but also being able to live the life you wanted since a little kid was a dream come true. You have everything, a beautiful big royal housing, a lovely mother and a caring father, every luxury you could think of, and many more. Of course, it is not completely perfect, having strict duties and forced into marriage for alliance purposes was not at all part of your dream. But even though you were promised to a faraway prince, you had your own prince, so to speak. 

 Since learning you were to be married, your mother insisted on making you take classes on proper manners and house managing to suit your soon-to-be husband. She left the teaching role to the youngest and studied man in the kingdom. He was sure wise and proper like she expected you to be and it helped that he was a close friend of yours growing up. Yanan was a dream come true to all the royalty ladies you knew, and some commoners as well, and who was to blame…

 Yanan took the role of your teacher against his will, claiming to be needed for studies elsewhere but never leaving nevertheless. He taught you many things as to how to please a man and honestly, it was all dull and you knew it. So did he. When he was certain you two were no longer watched closely by the Queen or any maid answering to her, he'd stop pretending he believed in female submission in marriage and simply enjoyed time with you. 

 That's when things went wrong. Or maybe incredibly right. You learned subtly that even though he was always leaving the kingdom for studies, his heart never parted with him, it always stayed in the royal housing, with you. To claim you loved him from the start is a lie, you didn't even know you were allowed to feel love for someone who was not to be your husband but his actions as the days went by, carefully moving his routine around you so to not force his feelings to the surface got you enchanted in mere weeks.

Once enchanted there were no turnbacks. Your cheeks would flame up as he smiled at you, his smooth and gentle manners captivating your heart more and more. Subtly, just as the wind caressed your faces by the housing lake, you confessed your confusing heart, even if it hurt knowing this lovable man was not to be yours. That day he was your first. Your first love, kiss, and first night awake in someone else's arms. It was also your first tears when you parted ways, scared of never living your love. 

 Since that day your chambers were always filled with flowers, coloring the royal house differently, filling your heart with more love and more longing. The maids designed to accompany you always thought it was the goodwill of yours to be husband and you nodded along, letting your mind dream that to be true. The downside of being a princess was the need to be surrounded by people all the time, your security and comfort coming first, so outside classes, it was incredibly hard to meet Yanan.

 So when he showed up at the door of the main room as you had your daily tea with other noblewomen, your heart almost stopped. Their whispers angered you in envy and jealousy but your eyes were strained in the soft black-haired man standing in front of you. With an elegant bow, he addressed you. 

 "My princess", he kissed your hand as any other man would but the tenderness you felt there was special. 

 "What brings you here?"

 "I was given this message. I was told to deliver it to you to deal with it privately, since I'm closer acquainted with you, my Princess".

 You nodded, lost for words. You quickly unfolded the parchment and you almost dropped it from shaking.

 As the moon sets higher, I'll be waiting by your beloved garden. Be so kind to meet me there after dinner.

 "I- I completely understand, sir. Please take this away and seek to do what you judge best with it. Maybe burn it", the shocked gasps from the ladies brought you back to reality. "Oh, fret not, ladies. It was a mere message from the head maid over my request to more rose waters". 

 You prayed for it to be enough to calm them down and luckily it did. It was not good to have them gossip about what that note was about. They knew better to question you and even better to know you're not supposed to keep a message from a housekeeper. His elegant writing was impossible to not recognize and you smiled gently at him, bowing your head and watching him leave silently. Your heart was euphoric and you knew time was going to pass way more slowly than usual. Thankfully it was the end of the afternoon and soon enough you had to go have dinner with your family and nobles.

 Dinner did no good to you, for it was spent exchanging secret looks between you and your lover, anxiety building up as the clock ticked away the long seconds remaining for your tryst.

 “You look rather distracted, my dear” your mother stated, “is there something troubling you?” 

 “I’m just a little tired, mother, nothing a good rest can not fix,” you said, containing your leg under the table, which was shaking in anticipation.

You tried your best to remain present, but your mind did nothing but wander back to the last time your lips met, your romantic rendezvous rather chastely, but now you were craving his lips like you never had before, dreaming about the feeling of being in his strong arms again.

 Took it long enough, but you were finally excused from the table and accompanied to your room by your loyal maidens. 

 “I shall not be disturbed tonight, for I must heal from this terrible headache” you dramatically touched your temples. “Wake me up only for my morning tea.”

 They bowed obligingly, leaving to fulfill their other duties.

 Wasting no time, you evaded your chambers as soon as there was no one in sight, not even bothering changing from your formal dress, carefully prepared for dinner with guests. You ran away, sneaking around hidden corners that only you knew, and finally, you made it to the gardens.

 Your beloved awaited for you under the pale moonlight, which reflected on his skin beautifully like he was part of the collection of marble statues that adorned the bushes and flowers in the area. He was breathtakingly handsome, and you felt like the luckiest lady in all the kingdom.

 He spared his words as he simply took your hand and, in between giggles, you two ran fast through the darkest spots, finally making it to the forest, where you two could live your romance without being bothered by the real world. Over there you two could be accomplices and lovers, living your fantasy and desires as you please, whilst everything else was dearly forgotten. Far enough from the castle, the moon was the only source of light, and it didn’t take long for his lips to urgently seek yours.

 You blushed, embarrassed from the moan that escaped you as soon as you felt him all over you.

 “I longed for a taste of you, my lady” he whispered between kisses.

 “Me too, my charming lover” you confessed “being in your arms last time only made me yearn for more.”

 He kissed you passionately, but his hand gently found in your, and in between pecs he said:

 “I’ve prepared something for us.”

 You followed him without any hesitation, trusting him with your life and heart.

 A bedsheet spread across the prickly grass decorated with flower petals awaited you both on a glade. You removed your shoes, so did he, and you two stood in the middle of it, now kissing with patience. His hands now caressed your face, kindly guiding you with sweet dominance, and you were completely his.

 "May I touch your beautiful skin, my princess?" He said, hand positioning on the small of your back, ready to untie your corset.

 You nodded and so he did. Although he was undressing you, and you were now more vulnerable and exposed than you've ever been before, his eyes were locked on yours. Even as he slid your dress down your shoulders, dropping it at your feet, he still couldn't stop staring at your face, eyes burning with love, and yours reciprocating in the same intensity. 

 He then proceeded to delicately kiss your shoulders, as he was caring for every centimeter of skin he could see. You longed to feel him as well, so you took his jacket off, then unbuttoned his shirt. Your hands immediately went to his back, his wariness comforting against your palm.

 "Make me yours, my sweet Yanan." You whispered in his ear "for tonight I'm no princess, nor any part of royalty. I am yours and yours only."

 "What have I done to be gifted with such blessings? Or perhaps I'm being tainted with the most beautiful sin." He said, locking eyes with you again, resting his forehead against yours as he held you close.

 "I am no devil as well, but if sinning is drinking from you, then nor a saint I am." Was your final words before pulling him into a passionate kiss.

 Both of your exposed chests were now pressed together, and although this was your first time being undressed in front of a man, you felt no shame. The moment was magically flowing, and it was a bubble you never wanted to come out of.

 Yanan was still a little bit cautious, afraid of crossing any limits, always treating you so gently. You decided to encourage him and guide his hand to your chest, making him gasp with the contact. 

 "Touch me, my love" you said in between kisses 

 "Let's lay down first, darling" he replied, holding you still, so you would do it comfortably.

 You laid against the soft sheets and he positioned himself on top of you. Yanan still had his bottoms on, but somehow that made him more attractive. He put his hand back in your chest, this time more sure of it, and now massaging it lightly while his finger played with your nipples.

 You felt wetness pooling in between your legs, and the bulge in his pants told you he was aroused too, and taking advantage of that, you buckled your hips against his, getting some relief from the friction, small moans escaping both of your lips.

 "Those sounds are heavenly" Yanan whispered, nibbling your earlobe.

 You let out another moan as a response, and to reward you Yanan caught your other nipple in his lips, swirling his tongue around it, making you throb in desire. Your finger intertwined in his soft hair, tugging it to show him that you were liking what he was doing, your moans becoming louder as you did so. He put his tight higher up, so now you were riding it, the jolts of pleasure pooling in your lower stomach.

 "I need you inside me, Yanan" you managed to say, sliding your hand inside his pants and lightly stroking his member.

 There was no time to lose as you felt desperation so strange yet so welcoming to have him. And thankfully his desire matched yours, his moan indicating his own lust. He pulled down his pants enough to get his member free and entered you slowly, eyes locked in yours, his hands finding yours to hold. It was such a special moment, your connection going beyond anything you ever felt, it was physical and emotional, you felt in your soul and when he shuddered from being inside of you, you knew both of you needed him to move.

 "My love, please, I need you", you whispered, feeling the stretch burning so pleasantly. 

 "Any wish of yours is a command to me, my princess", he whispered back, hips moving slowly against you.

 You both moaned at the feeling and you held his hand tighter, his member hitting the perfect spot for you to see stars with eyes closed. Yanan whispered praises at you nonstop, pouring his heart out for you as he picked up speed slightly with his thrusts, his own need clouding anything else. The night felt hotter as he made love to you in a gentle yet intense manner, his voice sending shivers down your spine and his member sending flames up your core. All too soon your hips moved harder against him, a silent plea to release the impending desire burning inside of you. He grunted at that, grinding harder and faster against you, feeling you clench around him. 

 "Let go, my love. Let it wash over you, that desire inside", he moaned, one hand caressing your nipple again. 

 It was all too much for you, eyes closing and mouth opening in ecstasy, moaning nonsense that only your heart knew. That white-hot burning feeling taking over your body and you knew no other man would ever make you explode like him. Yanan followed immediately, voicing his own love for you as he spent inside of you. Your body shook from the intensity of your orgasm and Yanan held you close as he finished with you, both of you a trembling mess. When you both came down from it, eyes staring curiously and adoringly at each other, you couldn't help but smile at him, your free hand moving a lock of his hair behind his ear, his own smile matching yours.

 Yanan laid next to you and you turned to cuddle him, laying your head on his chest, hearing his heart beating as if to the sound of thunder. For a moment you worried for he spent inside of you and your hand shot to your belly, holding it as if your fear became true at the second you felt it.

 "It would be a beautiful child if it had your eyes, my lady", he smiled down at you, knowing what your fear was.

 "I beg to differ, my love. If the child was ever to be born, it'd be a delight to have one with your handsome features", you smiled back.

 "Y/N, I sure feel I am not worthy of your affection, impossibly so of having your body next to mine as we are, but my lady, you have my undying devotion". Yanan's eyes were heavy and the sudden change worries you. 

 "What worries you, dear? Why are you telling me your heart once more?", you sat up, not even caring about your nakedness and he sat up as well.

 "We are not fated together, my lady. We are challenging fate and the palace goodwill just by being close", he sighed, his hand caressing your cheek adoringly, "the King is pushing up the date to your marriage, my princess".

 Your head began to spin and he could only hold you close as silent tears adorned your face. Holding him close, all you knew was that no matter what happened, you'd fight for your love, you'd stay by Yanan's side for the rest of your life, no matter how many years. 

 "If I were ever so brave to challenge fate, even more, my love…", he spoke so low you had to look up so you could understand, "I'd propose a new life for our love. A new start to our hearts, together, on a faraway land. Where no prince will steal my heart's muse from me again".

 His smile matched yours and you knew it was the only way. You didn't answer when he brought up the marriage by being certain a sob would come out instead of words of how you felt like a different kind of explosion would burst in your chest.

 "It is the only way to make our love happen, my sweet Yanan. And if I have to fight until the day of my death for your love, then so I will. You tell me when and I'll run away with you without any hesitation, my love".

 "Tomorrow", his stern voice made you shiver in excitement. So he had plans for you, he was fighting for you and that made tears pool in your eyes. Your cheeks hurt from smiling so much but you didn't even care. "I took the liberty to think of a plan to start anew, my princess, for I knew your heart is a mirror to mine and so will be for all eternity. From tomorrow on, I'm forever yours, my beautiful Y/N".

 "From tomorrow to all eternity, my beautiful Yanan".

[razorblade180]

Twin Snowflakes 22: Ground Zero

Part 21 -> here! <-

Bad luck has been a part of Qrow’s life for as long as he could remember. It manifested in a variety of ways but there was one in particular that was absolutely the worst, travel. Flat tire on a road trip, inconvenient. Plane delay, well that one was probably not his fault, but it felt like it! Certain cases like that were always a little iffy on if it was him or life. As the veteran huntsman stood on the deck of his son’s boat in the pouring rain with a Kraken raising from the depths, Qrow was sure of one thing. This one had to be his fault.

“I didn’t think grimm this big were still around. We’re in the middle of the ocean for crying out loud.” Qrow sighed, grabbing harbinger.” It’s cases like this he’d usually leave. Two big problems though. Problem number one, Sparrow was already firing cannons at it. Problem number two, it was waving Oscar around like a toy. He seemed okay though.

“CAN I HAVE SOME HELP HERE!?” He screamed, louder than the roaring winds and rough seas. “THIS GUY IS REALLY SLIMY!!”

“Slip out then!” Sparrow shouted in earnest. Oscar might’ve been far away but Sparrow could tell the man was not amused by that response. “What!? Do you want me to shoot that arm with you in it!? Penny will have a fit if I shot you!”

“PENNY WILL HAVE A FIT IF I'M EATEN!!!” Oscar wiggled and squirmed before finally managing to create an orb to push the tentacle off, then dispelling the orb to drop straight down. Cannon fire rained down on the center mass like grand finale fireworks, but only angered the beast. More tentacles cut through the air to reclaim its lost hostage.

“Give me a break.” The rain continued to pour down and sting against Oscar’s skin. He paid no mind to the whirlpools forming or the ship deck quickly approaching. Oscar simply closed his eyes. “Hey it’s been awhile. Mind lending a hand?” He called, subconsciously to his old friend.

“Hehe Oscar, do you even have to ask?”

Oscar smiled, opening his eyes and seeing Oz smile back through the reflection of the rain drops before seeing his own again, complete with white hair and golden eyes. “Let’s get to it shall we?”

xxxx

Nick remained quiet as Weiss drove back home from school. He was happy he made it back in time. A gigas dragging him away after his fight with Valerie would’ve made the entire incident worse. Though if he was being honest, fighting a gigas sounded cathartic in a way. He gently pulled up the window switch over and over, repeatedly.

Weiss took note of her son’s unusually sad demeanor. “Alright, wanna tell me what happened in there? You were full of energy before getting your work, and I doubt the workload has spooked you.”

“Nothing I’m not used to.”

“Ah, Valerie troubles.” Weiss glanced over and saw Nick glare at his own reflection. Looks like she was right on the money. “Take it from me, I’m sure whatever happened had more to do with her own personal feelings and not the feelings you have for her.”

“You say that with such confidence.”

“I was a teenage girl once too, you know? One with plenty of personal hurdles I tried to associate with other people instead of myself. It doesn’t ever really stop truthfully. You just get better at accepting the fact the problems fix itself when you decide to change how to respond to it.”

“Do you think I have a problem I should change? Loving a girl who pushes me away, it probably makes me look like a joke.” He tried rolling down the window again but found the switch had been locked. Yet another thing to make him sad.

“I think it’s not the wisest thing you’ve done, but it’s definitely the most normal teenage thing about you. Joke or not, feelings are feelings. They’ll work themselves out. Just don’t force anything and before you know it, you’ll see things a lot clearer.” Weiss reached over and ruffled his shaggy hair. “Who knows, maybe you’ll see this dew of yours needs to finally change.”

“As if!” Nick laughed, “I look too much like uncle if I cut it, and any longer makes me look like dad.”

“Not if you style it. Oh, or grow it out even longer. Like when you’re little! “Weiss cooed, “You and Summer were really hard to tell apart then.”

“Yeah, and people kept calling me ‘she’ and stuff. Nooooo thank you!” He folded his arms in protest.

“That won’t happen now that you got your father’s looks. You’ll just be a pretty boy. Then if you get facial hair!? Nick, let me make you gorgeous! I have Coco on speed dial!”

“This is why you had a boy and a girl, mom! So I can escape this torture.”

Weiss pouted, “Summer likes doing her own makeup and hair. I should be proud considering it’s my old look from waaaaay back, but I still wanna change things up. I’d give this entire family a makeover if you all weren’t so whiny about it.” Weiss looked in the mirror at neck length hair. She remembered how free she felt the first time she cut it. Having twins meant twice the hair pulling, three times if she counted the one person she wanted to pull her hair. Thinking back, there was a good chance it was one of times Jaune pulled it that gave way to the discussion of kids in the first place.

“Hmmm, maybe I should grow my hair out. I miss the old length sometimes.”

“Summer would be so upset.”

“Good, then she’ll change it. That’s one family member down.”

Nick playfully rolled his eyes. A makeover didn’t sound too annoying actually. Maybe after the tournament? He’d think about it. “Hey, mind if we train again today? I got a lot of pent up energy and new ideas.”

“I suppose. Someone has to make sure you don’t overdo it. Winter is coming over too, so it’s for the best I warm you up anyways. I’m positive after your recent school events that she has a few words for you.”

Nick gulped, knowing he was in for a workout. “Well now…guess I’m dying today.” He could already feel his muscles ache.

xxxx

Meanwhile in the woods, Summer and Veronica had crossed into unfamiliar territory, casual conversation. It wasn’t going well. They both agreed to chat but neither of them were actually talking! They were just walking with Veronica taking the lead, leaving Summer awkwardly following a few steps behind.

The girl had finally pulled herself together after her little episode. In truth, she was a little embarrassed to say anything after it. She hated looking weak, especially in front of Veronica, a girl who manages to look strong against even the harshest of critics and peers. It was quite envious, her attitude. Summer would give just about anything to have it. Summer looked down at her scroll for what must’ve been the tenth time. Still no missed messages.

“Expecting a call?” Veronica finally said, noticing the Schnee’s gaze consistently drifting. “Got a boyfriend or something I don’t know about?”

Summer felt like that might’ve been a jab but chose to ignore it. “Nick always calls me if Shiva gets out or nearly escapes. He’s always had a sixth sense for knowing her moves. It’s unlike him to not immediately call, even if he’s doing something urgent.” Summer put her scroll away. “Him not calling is odd.”

“Are you telling me she almost got out earlier? I didn’t really smell anything.” Veronica looked back to see the girl look at her confused. A fitting look honestly. “The one time Shiva was out and even when we argued yesterday, I smelled peppermint, a disgusting amount of it. The diamond dust smells the same.” Veronica pointed to her nose, “I didn’t smell that earlier.”

“Oh.” was all Summer could say. It should’ve been a relief, but it wasn’t. “Great, my panic attack was just unhinged. Even when she’s quiet, she’s ruining my day.”

“Are you saying Shiva tries escaping when you’re hysterical?”

“Apparently not, or at least not all the time? Agh, it’s impossible for me to tell.” Summer was even more perplexed than before. “Just when have I been talking to her? They’re not all fake, but...they’re not all real either? I can’t afford not knowing the” Her train of thought was broken when a snowball thrown by Veronica hit her coat. “Hey! Wh-”

Veronica quickly covered Summer’s mouth. “Shhh! Grimm.” She pointed several yards into the distance where two sabertooth grimm were roaming. “Alright, do your thing.”

Summer looked at the grimm, then back at Veronica, who gave a casual thumbs up. “Wait, you’re not helping?”

“Nope.”

“Whhhhyyyyyy exactly?” Summer questioned.

Veronica sighed, because one of the reasons I wanted to be out here is to better see you in action. Why else would I tell you to bring your blade?”

“You lead me here under the assumption of a fight…” Summer deadpanned, “Couldn’t you have looked up old videos of me? I didn’t see you drag Nick off to fight grimm so you can make his outfit.”

“Nick has double the videos of him fighting, as well as him figure skating. Also, I pay more attention to him than I do you.” It might’ve been rude, but it was the honest truth. Summer didn’t even seem surprised. She just looked at Veronica with judgment. “What?”

“Nothing, much.” Summer drew her blade and put a glyph at her feet. “Any requests for data purposes?” She could not believe this was happening.

“Just handle them how you would normally, oh huntress in training.” Veronica teased lightly.

Summer pointed her sword out with her right hand and her right foot forward, then took off. The distance between her and grimm was closed in a matter second. She leaped over one, slicing it’s head off through the back of its neck. Another glyph formed midair behind her. Summer used it to kick off right after the attack and thrust her blade through the second grimm’s eye socket. Not even a snarl was heard before it died instantly.

Summer looked back at Veronica. “Cake walk. You’d get more data out of a video than th-”

“BEHIND YOU!” Veronica shouted.

Summer looked over her shoulder to see a third one already pouncing. With a subtle breath, Summer slowed its approach and then back stepped to safety. One more glyph was put under the paws of the beast and pulled out like a rug to trip it. Summer spun the chamber of her Myrtenaster and threw into its ribs like a javelin. The chamber landed on flame dust, setting it ablaze.

“Phew! That was...unexpected.” Summer said, coming down from a surge of adrenaline.

Veronica ran over to Summer, surprised. “How did you do that, the breath thing?” Veronica asked, “That’s a trick I’ve never seen.”

“ Oh that? Well…” Summer took her left glove off and focused. Little snowflakes started floating upward from it in place like a snow globe. “I’m not too good at it, but I can control a bit of Shiva’s powers. Only when I’m cold though, or freaked out, but that second one is more involuntary.” Summer put back on her glove, “considering the potential risks and conditions, I don’t use it in fights. Explaining it to officials would be a pain anyways.”

That made sense. Veronica could smell a hint of peppermint coming off Summer. That was Shiva’s power alright. This also explained the mass amount of ice she saw Summer create in her video fighting the Paladin. “Permission to touch you?” Veronica asked, like she always did. Summer nodded. Veronica reaches out and places two fingers against the pulse in Summer’s neck. “Any other Shiva related tidbits to share?”

“Ummm, we share a subconscious, sort of? More like a neutral ground.”

Veronica paused momentarily, “what?” She said, annoyed by all this cookie cutter information. “Gonna need more tidbits?”

“It’s hard to explain. I don’t understand it either.” Veronica looked at Summer, unblinking. Apparently that wasn’t a good enough answer. “Look, imagine something like...an ocean, just water and the sky above. Now flip it upside and make that ocean completely frozen. That’s more or less what the subconscious looks like. There’s ground to stand on, but I can’t really see. Depending if I’m actually dreaming or in a certain place, then that’s what the subconscious can look like. The only constant is that ice ceiling.”

Every sentence from this girl felt like a fever dream to Veronica. “Summer, I doubt you're lying to me, but do you by any chance also do drugs? You know, the hard kind.”

“As if!” Summer swatted Veronica’s hand off her neck. “First of all, drugs and I don’t mix. Second, be serious!”

“It was a valid question. Rich kids do a lot of things. If Nick told me he tried it before I wouldn’t be surprised. Saddened, but not surprised.”

“While I would be hounded by you no doubt?”

Veronica crossed her arms, “I’d berate anyone who would do drugs.” Her tone was stern and cutthroat, “It’s an ugly slope that goes down fast.”

The way she spoke about it was rather serious compared to what Summer was used to. “Have...you done drugs?” Summer asked cautiously.

Veronica thought about her answer carefully for a moment. “For a brief time, yes. I’m past it however, totally clean. I thought it might help control my instincts.” Veronica slouched over with a sigh, “Unfortunately, noooo dice. Come on. Let’s keep moving.” Veronica continued to walk.

Summer stood quietly for a moment, then followed as well. She wasn’t expecting to get to the topic of Veronica’s genetics in such a personal way. Then again, someone’s very birth is nothing but personal. Curiosity began to get the better of her. They did make a deal after all.

“V-Veronica…?” Summer stuttered, “I held up my end of the bargain. The only other thing that may be worth mentioning is Shiva only knows what I know when she tries escaping, and I only know what she does if I’m conscious. Other than that I think all the dribble about the state of mind would make you snore. So…..”

Veronica could tell where this was going. “Relax, I’m not about to break a deal that I proposed in the first place.”

She reached for a nearby branch and plucked a silver flower off of it. It’s five petals were spread wide Veronica placed it in her own hair. “I take it that even your school isn’t bold enough to ignore basic faunus knowledge and history, despite their…questionable place in said history?”

Summer nodded, “Hey, Atlas isn’t the kind of place to bury the leads. Older society and its people simply do what they want, how they want.” Summer cringed, “Not that doing so is exactly better in the long run. Besides, you think rich tycoons wouldn’t tell their heirs and shady dealers how they amassed their fortune? Atlas’s people might know too well the benefits and contributions the faunus play in our history and in a work capacity.” Summer felt sick saying that. “It’s disgusting really.”

“Couldn’t agree more. With all that said, how much do you wanna bet there’s aspects glossed over?” Veronica wagered.

“I could’ve sworn you made it clear that you have no interest in money?” Summer quipped.

Veronica let out a humorous breath, “Tah, a girl can change her mind can’t she?” Veronica watched Summer reach in her pocket and pull out a hundred lien casually, giving it up. Veronica was surprised. “We didn’t even make the bet yet.”

“If I knew everything, then I wouldn’t be curious about this in the first place. Odds of you teaching me something new about your people is a given.”

Maybe it was the fact that Summer was made of money, or had good intentions for learning more, but Veronica couldn’t take the money. She could only waved it away. “Geez it was a joke. Making you pay would look bad.” She said, in a forest with nobody but themselves around. “Qualities Like night vision and other adaptations aren’t the only animals traits given. It’s fundamentally built into everything about us. Disposition, personality traits, social skills, everything; the animal you are influences all of these in a variety of ways in varying amounts.”

“Like how faunus with nocturnal animal traits tend to take night jobs?”

“Veronica nodded, “Yes. A bird faunus might choose a home at high elevations, even if they don’t have wings. A deer or rabbit faunus may have to work harder at public speaking than let’s say a wolf faunus. The subtles can get even tinier; or as obvious as a feline faunus loving fish.”

Summer never really thought about it, but that made sense.“What you’re basically telling me is for a faunus, nature vs nurture takes on an entirely different level of complexity? Nothing stops a rabbit faunus from being a motivational speaker, but it would be more work, unless their parents or even their environment had predisposed them to be apart of a more vocal and outgoing lifestyle?” Summer’s eyes lit up. “That’s actually really fascinating, sowhere do you fit in with all of this?” She asked, wanting to learn more.

Veronica was taken off gaurd by how interested Summer was. “For a person who apparently hates school as much as I do, you look eager to learn.”

“School sucks because of social pressure and redundant information.” Summer deadpanned, “Anyone would get bored of learning material that is forced upon them and is as quickly discarded.”

“Well, I guess that’s true. I wouldn’t say I’m in love with any aspect of school, but learning is the least problematic part of what I had to think about it. Anyways, what I’ve told you so far applies to all faunus. With the way the world is and all the kinds of possible traits, finding a place to fit in isn’t difficult. Those animal instincts are very much submissive compared and don’t hinder our ability. Like you said, a rabbit faunus can do public speaking. A bat faunus can absolutely walk around in broad daylight. However, there’s a minority among faunus that have their animal gene act way more dominant than the majority. Roughly 13 to around 18 percent of the faunus population, if I remember correctly. This group, my group, are easily recognized by having exaggerated or extra features. Extra large wings, skin more animal than human, cold blood-”

“Ears and a tail?” Summer interjected, “appearance wise, you seem to have gotten off easy. You covered in fur or having whiskers would be a little distracting. Not gonna lie.”

“Externally, I’m just a tick higher on date lists for everyone with disturbing cat girl fantasies. Make no mistake though, I’m not the average faunus. Super faunus, the minority, have their animal qualities cranked up and deformed. I can’t see in the dark, but my nose is keener than any dog I’ve encountered. All those little traits I mentioned before? They tend to manifest in my people aggressively and often. To put into perspective, I have more in common with my grandpa than I do my mom, on an animal level.”

“Wow, that’s…intense. Your grandpa roars and gets all apex predator on people when he’s pissed- oh! Wait, your temper is shit because of your genes!?”

Veronica inhaled, ignoring the insult for the sake of conversation. “To a degree, yes. I cannot pin the blame entirely on my DNA, unfortunately…” she added that last bit quietly. “Despite what people write online about my family, we aren’t just cats. We are big cats. I’m a panther for crying out loud.”

Summer squinted, “Well, seeing how you’re mostly blonde, aren’t you technically more of a jaguar or a leopar-”

“Panther.” Veronica said, this time with feeling. “I could dye my hair red and that doesn’t change my DNA, Summer.”

For her own safety, Summer wisely chose not to make a very easy pink panther joke. She thought about it, but this conversation didn’t need to fall apart for the sake of Summer wanting to be a smartass to Veronica for once. “Fair enough, continue.” She said, still thinking about the joke.

“My athletic ability is exceptional, hearing too. My tail gives me balance more than other faunus. Despite the term super, anyone with the mutation would tell you how daunting it is. The type of animal, like everything else, determines what the faunus might deal with. For me it boils down two major things that contradict each other. Problem number one, not eating enough meat.”

“What happens?”

“Same thing that happens to any starved predator. I become impulsive, irritated easily, confrontational, my senses get...sensitive, adrenaline makes me dizzy-”

“So you’re super hangry?” Summer said without thinking. She immediately tucked her lips in and accepted the “you are an idiot” look that Veronica gave her without mercy. “Why the hell did I say that?”

Veronica groaned, “Minutes ago I heard you bring up nature vs nurture for comparing and explaining what I’ve said. Now you compare things to being hangry? It’s not even about how full I am, it’s the nutritional and instinctual part of devouring meat that my brain wants. It’s no different than your body craving milk for calcium. If I’m not careful and reach my limit, I tend to lose sense of reason and even blackout into a haze of instinct. Essentially, I go feral. Your brother can tell you that it’s not a pretty thing.” Veronica frowned.

The bruises on his face that day after school started to make a little more sense. No way he’d just let Max and Darren get clean hits in! He was dealing with an enraged Veronica. It actually put a lot of things in perspective. Summer couldn’t count how many times Veronica looked like she wanted to actually claw a person’s eyes out. She might’ve actually been thinking it over! That...was a scary thought. “What’s problem number two?” There was no way it could be just as bad.

“Eating too much meat. That’s when I’m an apex.” Veronica said, giving a thousand yard stare. Summer immediately took her statement back. That sounded way more problematic. “My attitude shifts. My fuse isn’t as short as when I’m starved but let’s say I can be very...demanding. Yeah, let’s go with that.”

Summer raised a brow, skeptical of that statement. “Are you saying-”

“Better think twice before saying I’m already demanding. Neither you or Nick has seen me when I’m caught up in the euphoria of being what I am. I’d put that girl Amber to shame, and my physical prowess are even better. I’m wild in a completely different way. Filter, broken. Can’t even put that state into words. So yeah, that’s my genetic mishap in a nutshell.”

“You being a food snob and all of your diets make a lot more sense now. Why keep this to yourself for so long.”

“Simple, it’s not anybody’s business what I’m dealing with. It’s handled, and doesn’t need to be explained among faunus. Living normally isn’t hard when you know what you’re dealing with, which is why I’m shocked every resource hasn’t been poured into figuring out your problem.”

That stung a bit. “Oscar is currently crossing the sea to potentially find answers, I have you know.” Summer said defensively.

A scoff came from Veronica. “No offense, but that sounds like a waste of energy.”

“Saying no offense doesn’t make me feel less hurt.” Summer folded her arms. “How would you know? Unlike you, my affliction has no prior information to go off of, and isn’t a genetic thing at birth. Any move could be closer to the truth, or a shot in the dark. For all intended purposes, you were born and live normally like anyone else.”

“Hate to make you sound stupid, but a test tube baby isn’t normal in most circles. Two moms, remember?” Veronica said, coldly.

Summer stopped walking. For some reason, that didn’t sit right with her. “Isn’t that name...an insult?”

“Yep.” Veronica kept walking, “Keep up. I’ll leave you out here.”

Summer listened. Maybe it was her imagination, but that atmosphere between them felt like it changed again. They had both held up their end of the bargain. Now things felt cold between them like before. Summer wasn’t expecting to learn as much as she did. Many things were answered today, so why did it feel like she knew less about Veronica. Blanks were filled into a picture she never knew the true size of, and still didn’t. One of those pieces felt out of place. The piece that helped put build up to this situation in the first place.

“Veronica…?” Summer uttered, “By any chance, does any of what you told me having anything to do with the torn pages in your-” suddenly, Summer’s words were stuck in her throat. Veronica had turned around to look her dead in the eyes, coldly and without care. Summer felt herself become small and beneath Veronica yet again, inferior.

“Never bring this topic up again, got it?” Veronica had to stop herself from balling up her hands, or she’d cut them with her nail. “Got it?” She said again, doing her best not to blow a fuse.

“S..sorry. I just...thought-”

“You thought wrong.” Veronica said. She turned around and kept walking. “We’re not friends.”

Heat rose to Summer’s face. It was impossible to know if she was feeling embarrassed, upset, or anything. All she knew was for a moment, she felt tears well up before vanishing. She breathed through her nose and bit back. “Yeah, I’m well aware.”

xxxx

“Sloppy!!!” The commanding voice of Weiss’s sister cried, knocking her nephew into a bush for the tenth time today. “You’re unfocused! Surely you can do better?”

Weiss witnessed her child stumble back to his feet, hair messed up and panting. He stabbed his sword into the ground to brace himself momentarily. His aura was still high, and yet… “Winter, he’s still under the weather. Ease up.”

“This is me easing up. You simply coddle him too much. Nick is more than capable of continuing. I don’t remember going as easy on you when you asked for training all those years ago. You turned out fine.”

“I wouldn’t exactly use our relationship as a standard.” Weiss mumbled.”

Nick raised his sword quickly. He channeled a fire ball to the tip of his blade as fast as he could, but was still too slow. Winter had already rushed towards his left. He had no choice but to abandon the fire attack for a block that barely withstood his Aunt’s blade. Nick slid backwards on the stone ground.

Winter shook her head. “Once again, you waste aura and energy not because the attack was a bad choice, but because you simply cannot use your semblance fast enough.”

Winter shot off a fire ball not even a second later. She waited closely for Nick to raise his block, then used a standard glyph to propel herself forward. Her speed surpassed the fireball, and Winter was able to position her blade behind him as the flame made contact with his.

Nick looked over his shoulder at her, frustrated, but not willing to yield. He pivoted around with his blade held out to direct hers away, then put a glyph between them. By the time he did so, Nick already knew she was on the move again. “Don’t count me out!” His left hand pulled a summoned sword from the glyph. Nick swung it out to the left and around to his back while his actual blade was swung right. The weight to Winter’s attack came from back and was blocked, perfect. He leaned his body left with his blade as he felt Winter shift that direction to his opened side.

Winter could only smile as she went in to strike. Nick just played her and she knew it. Her blade still clashed with the summon weapon, leaving his right blade free to use the momentum from the lean and make a clean stab with no chance for her to block. Winter did the wise thing and jumped back, abandoning her assault. His left side was never really opened. It was bait. Both swords were used to block wherever she came from. The right one only stopped short because the left one did the job of making sure she aimed for his back by swinging outward. Winter would have either been hit or blocked if she immediately attacked left or right, and the glyph protected the front. By making her attack his back, he all but ensured she would aim left next because it was the only unguarded spot, a spot he was ready to defend and attack from simultaneously. It was this kind of quick thinking and reckless style that separated Nicholas from anyone else. Even his sister. Especially his sister. Winter loved Summer to death, but the girl was quick to panic if plans fell apart.

Normally Winter would hear him say something self-indulgent. Nope. Just a quiet stare and a fireball he had to fire off thanks to the distance between them. Still…

“Nice effort.” Winter said, knocking it away with ease. “But no. The simple fact you can summon the sword of an Arma Gigas so easily yet remain sluggish with more basic functions of your semblance is a baffling talent. If it wasn’t for your unconventional swordplay that you somehow make work, I’d say getting a gold medal would be impossible. Still might be. It only does so much.”

“Well it’s a little late to change my style now. This is what I know best.” He dropped his sword and slowly let out a breath, filled with irritation. “I know I’m lacking.”

Winter raised a brow. She looked at Weiss confused, “What’s wrong with him? The usual?”

“No. Well, yeah, but he’s been stretched thin in general recently.”

“I’m not stretched thin. I just...nothing feels like it’s enough. Training in particular. Like you said, I can make swords in my sleep. All the other things our family is supposed to be good at, I’m average!”

Winter turned off mentor mode for a moment. Clearly this is more than about training, but she’ll play along. It was time to be an aunt. “Nick, you are in a class of your own. Sixteen and this skilled by no means is average. In regards to us, your family, no one here was perfect. Nobody here is perfect. Your mother still over extends her strikes from time to time and your father definitely wasn’t a genius by any means.”

Weiss narrowed her eyes, “Hey, I’m free game but be nice to my husband. You’re right, but be nice.”

“Like me, you choose to wield two blades. Unlike me, it’s your go to stance.” Winter informed, “Our semblance works best when we have a free hand. That’s why shields aren’t a good option for us. The choice to use two blades isn't bad by normal standards. I’ve faced many foes that pressured me with similar tactics, even beat me. Though only one is real, another sword has made it harder for you to use glyphs. At least it should be, but summoning and a video of your exam says otherwise.”

Nick looked at his summoned blade in frustration. “I still don’t know what I did differently that day. I was faster and more in control than I have ever been. Not only did I actually make a gigas, but even all my other glyphs felt on par with Summer’s.”

“Remember Nick, You and Summer excel at different things.” Weiss reminded him. “Yes, her fundamentals and use of dust are better, but she has a knack for it. That’s her edge. In a fight, Summer’s wide range of dust and glyph combinations always means she’s never out of range to attack or control a fighting space. You may not have that but your speed, stamina, and reflexes make up for it. In close quarters, no one your age matches you in Atlas.”

“That merit just so happens to have made you neglect the need to sharpen your other talents. Do you know how dangerous you could be with-”

“Time dilation? Yeah, mom told me.” He interjected, “something about those other things simply don’t click in my head. Can’t even get a fireball right.”

He sat down on the ground and took another breath. “The way I fight, it isn’t like I built it to be the most versatile. My offense is my defense. The use of momentum to add power behind my strikes helps keep in moving. It’s why my stamina and speed is good, to push my body for relentless attacks.”

He didn’t say it out right, but he didn’t have to. Nick made a style that didn’t make him good against a variety of people in mind. No, Nick thought of style against Shiva. In the end, that’s the only fight that matters. Beating others with it was a way to refine it for the moment it mattered. Abandoning it was not an option. Only improving.

Winter could only look upon the boy's face and see someone who only ever has the best intentions for others slowly begin to waver. Her teenage years were long gone, but no one ever truly forgets the confusion they went through during that time. Winter walked over to her young nephew and sat in front of him, legs crossed. “Why is it always the most caring of people who can never give themselves the break they give others? Nicholas Schnee, you are a kind, hardworking young man that never doubts himself often. Much like your mother, you take hold of what you want and clench it tight.”

“Lately holding on seems to hurt more than letting go. Nothing...feels right. Not just in training either. I feel like a gap between me and everyone else has been growing, like I’m out of a very important loop. Val, Vee, even Summer.”

“This time of year gets people stressed. It’s possible every one just needs a breath. I can speak much on a gap, but I’m positive time will mend it. Despite my feelings towards the young Belladonna, it is pretty clear the two of you get along. Confide in her.”

Weiss and Nick went bugged for a moment. They both looked at each other and then back at Winter.

“Wow.” Weiss spoke, “That’s pretty big, coming from you. Anytime you see that girl, you have nothing but disappointing looks.”

“Yeah Auntie, I’m shocked.”

Winter turned a little red, “I don’t see why. I may find her a bad influence on you and your sister, but my opinion is one of many. With you, Veronica is a welcome distraction to break up your daily routine. I’ll give her that much.”

“How generous,” Nick said sarcastically. Veronica was starting to sound more like a battle tactic than a person. Though she probably wouldn’t mind if it meant spending time with him. Regardless, “I appreciate the suggestions, but my time is better spent training at the moment. If I can be half as capable as I was during my exam, then I chalk that up as good progress.”

Winter hit his head. “Fool, you’re not getting it!”

“Ow! What!? All I said was- Ow!” Weiss also hit his head, much lighter though. “Stop hitting me! I thought this was a pep talk!?”

“It is.” Winter stated, “It’s also a lesson. The way you are now, you can’t progress much further. I urge you to really think about what made that day different from now; what made your last attack against me different even. That is all the hints I will provide to him. I do hope your mother keeps quiet as well.”

“Hey! I get I’m a little...lenient with him, but I would never skip an opportunity to watch him grow. Besides, telling him wouldn’t mean he could do it any faster anyways.” Weiss teased. She could hear Nick’s ears practically buzzing.

“If that’s the case then say it!” He asked eagerly. He was given no answer. Winter and Weiss walked away from him like they didn’t peak his curiosity. He assumed training was about to resume like normal. However, it didn’t. A look of shock came to him when both of his elders faced him, blades drawn.

“What, both of you at once.” He said nervously, grabbing his sword and rising quickly to his feet. “What happened to me being under the weather, mom!?”

Weiss smiled, “Hey, you wanted fast results. Until you find the answer to your glyph problem, we’ll double down or swordsmanship. Brace yourself. I’ll hold back.”

“I will not!” Winter smiled.

Nick didn’t even get a chance to blink before the two of them came after him. He gulped, “Should’ve stayed in bed.” Nick prepared himself when suddenly, a cold chill went down his spine. Weiss and Winter immediately recognized the look of fear on his face and stopped their approach while he pulled out his scroll to call his sister. “Pick up. Come on Summer, pick up!” He muttered.

xxxx

Summer felt like an idiot. Of course nothing has changed. Why would it? A talk didn’She walked faster, out pacing Veronica.

“Hey, slow down. I haven’t told you where we’re going.” Veronica said, but Summer didn’t listen. “Hey!”

“Leave me alone! I may not come here often but I live here. I’ll find my way without you.” Summer said, grunting as she forced her way through dense branches and bushes.

“Can you not act like a child for once!?” Veronica yelled, running after her. “And stop ignoring me!” Veronica was near her wits end.

“.........”

And then she reached it. Veronica’s tail and tensed up. “Summer!” Veronica yelled again, going through the bushes. “I said stop ignoring-” the potent odor of peppermint invaded her senses out of nowhere. Veronica looked around the area, seeing nothing. Nothing, but a frozen lake, shimmering with diamond dust below the surface; and Summer standing in place, shivering.

“Summer…?” She said, concerned this time. Her words didn’t reach, not immediately. The scent wasn’t only coming from the lake. Veronica didn’t dare to move as she watched a finger point across the water. Her eyes looked in that direction to see nothing but scared trees and large rocks that had been chipped rather deep.

“A fight?” Veronica thought. She looked closer. All the markings looked to be going outward and from one spot. A spot several feet off the lake. Even with all the dust, it was clear that spot smelled the most foul. “No, an explosion.” Her attention went back to Summer. “A dust explosion.” Veronica yelled again. “Hey! Summer! Answer me, please!?” She could no longer be calm. Veronica ran to the girl screaming her name.

Summer might as well have been deaf to Veronica’s voice. All she heard was laughter. Her laughter, coming from Shiva skating on the ice.

“Hahahahaha! Oh wow! We haven’t been here in ages Summer!!!” Grinning and filled with joy, Shiva extended her hand, “Summer, come join me!” The glow of her eyes grew more dazzling, as well as her smile. “Just like before….”

[tiaragqueen]

ah, requests are open!! i love your work! maybe with the zodiac prompt list,♏️ for Garou? I love that man, especially as a yandere. and if it's okay, could reader be just a regular civilian? I love that huge difference in power.

Unpropitious

✂ Pairing: Yandere! Garou x Reader

✂ Word Count: 1,1k+

✂ Trigger Warning: Possessiveness, isolation

[Edited]

***

Ah, the quality of my Garou content is worsening… *broods in the corner*

♏️-“oh, don’t worry! This won’t hurt! Well, it won’t hurt me. You? No it’ll hurt really really bad.”

If you like my writing, please support me on ko-fi!

“Why you keep me waiting? Why you test me? All that I want from you, my love, is everything I know you got. Oh, why you holding out on me, baby?” - Test My Patience [Donna Missal]

Garou never wanted to hurt you. At least, not intentionally. There were times when he pinched or gripped your limbs a bit too tight whenever you disobeyed him – like refusing to cuddle him after a particularly long and hard day of spreading ‘justice’, for example – but they only left minor bruises in its wake. The furthest thing he’d done was a slap across your cheeks, and even so, it was rare and far in between. He knew just how vulnerable you were, how defenseless you were against the real monster which was him. You were merely a civilian before he abducted you, after all. What chance did you have to oppose him in a fistfight? How high was the percentage of you coming out unscathed? He might’ve never killed a human before, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t.

You knew, and that’s why you didn’t complain about his fragile approach towards you. It was better this way, you reasoned with yourself, instead of being maimed like those poor heroes. There was a mild resentment that came from being treated like porcelain, however, it never bothered you much.

But, of course, being isolated was an entirely different matter. Garou might have the best interest in mind – the world was a dangerous place, after all, what’s with all the monsters lurking in every corner – but it still couldn’t justify his hasty action at all. Hasty, in your opinion. You didn’t know the length and time he’d taken to ensure that the transition happened smoothly. You didn’t know the painstaking efforts he’d exerted just to memorize your entire schedule. You didn’t know the extent of his tolerance when he saw other men touching or flirting with you, or the gruesome killings that he’d committed to the monsters who dared to lay a hand on your unsuspecting self.

You were unbearably naïve, prancing from one place to another despite knowing the dangers that merged with your shadow. That’s why he had to protect you, but you failed to appreciate it. Not a single thank you was uttered; all you seemed to do was crying and sulking in his presence. Sometimes, you even gave him a cold shoulder to the point where Garou ‘abandoned’ you for a few days just to make you taste your own medicine. There wasn’t a trace of silly grins and jubilant smiles that used to grace your radiant face – the positive expressions that amazed yet confounded him. How could someone look so happy when meeting a monster like him? How could you retain your optimism in this otherwise bleak world?

All Garou truly desired was love and acceptance. Time and time again, he’d been rejected by people close to him just because he happened to favor villains above heroes. Time and time again, people jeered and criticized his unconventional preference. And yet, you didn’t even bother to show a drop of gratitude to him. The things he’d done to guarantee your safety and life were spat on and stomped over by your childish tantrums and insults. And the last straw that broke his composure was your latest escape attempt.

It wasn’t the first you’d tried to flee, honestly. Many times he’d caught you struggling to unlock the bolts, destroying the boards that covered the windows or sneaking out of the bed during ungodly hours. What you lacked in strength, you made up in dogged determination. It was amusing to watch sometimes – how you thought you could simply leave without any repercussions – but everyone had limits to their patience.

For him, the limit was seeing you skulking around the city and sought help from a hero. A male hero, nonetheless.

He was weak, Garou mentally sneered as he stared down at the barely recognizable body. Beating him didn’t even give him a rush he usually felt when fighting against an A or S class hero. He concluded that the said hero must be a lowly B-rank because he’d never seen his face on the Hero Book. It didn’t matter, though. His presence had helped Garou eased some of his wraths, and he ensured you’d seen him in action. He wanted you to realize just how angry he was, and for you to regret your actions before it was too late.

You didn’t apologize, however. Instead, you decided to garner the attention from passersby by screaming at the top of your lungs and smacked his back repeatedly. A few people tried to step in, but a savage glare promptly scattered them without further debate. Garou knocked you out and locked you in your room for a day while he went out again to dispose of the lingering fury to some nameless heroes, and yet, you stayed adamant.

“You can’t keep locking me here forever, Garou.” you hissed, squirming against the ropes that bound your hands to the bed poles. “I’ll leave this hellhole someday and I’m gonna report you to the Hero Association. You’ll be thrown to jail in no time or, better yet, die on their hands.”

He said nothing for the next minute and kept polishing a knife instead. The thick silence sped up your heartbeat as you stared at his back, trying to deduce his thoughts. It was futile, though, since his face lacked any emotions. Normally, he’d scoff or jeer at your weak convictions because he knew – you knew – that as long as he was still alive, there was no way you’d be free. The freedom was there, lying behind the door and boarded windows, but his shadow never truly left you. It stood in the dark corners of the city and the recesses of your so-called home, anticipating another shenanigan that you’d pull behind his back.

Had you pushed him too far this time? From what you gathered, silent anger was primarily more… dangerous than the obvious one.

“That’s impossible and you know it, [Name].” he finally spoke, the cool and assured tone burned your ears more than his usual mockeries. Garou turned around, eyes lidded with the coldness that he used to show to the pests that bothered you. The knife nestled in his hand as he crawled towards you, yellow irises reflecting your agitated mien.

“S-stay away! I’m not… I’m not going to let you hurt me.” Your voice wavered the more distance he’d shortened between you two.

Garou cocked his head and sneered. “Oh, don’t worry! This won’t hurt! Well, it won’t hurt me. You? No, it’ll hurt really, really bad.” The fake warmth disappeared as quickly as it’d appeared. “I’ll give you a lesson you won’t forget.”

[unluckyadept]

Character Journal Entry

{EASTER SUNDAY, 2021T}

The journey does not end here.

=-=-=-=-=-=

[It had been a long time since he had properly written. A very, very long time. So much had happened. It wasn’t just A long story—it was SEVERAL long stories.

But he had to at least try. Had to put in the effort, during this lull, this brief respite.]

=-=-=-=-=-=

It is something I have had to remind myself, now. More often than before.

=-=-=-=-=-=

[He had one particular person in mind as he reflected. If only he had proper time for a letter….

Maybe he could draft one as he wrote down his thoughts.]

=-=-=-=-=-=

How easily a man’s fortunes may change! It was not too long ago that I looked out to a new sunrise, a life of my own choosing.

My friends and I were well. Our families were well. Our lives were secure, and our allies were prospering. The common man could travel freely, secure in the knowledge that he need only concern himself with the {[business/matter/reason]} that drives his journey—others maintained security within the towns and across the countryside, and would maintain order and enforce justice should lawlessness prey upon him.

Everything was so secure, in fact, that I no longer held it a concern. Yes, even then, the tension was growing—and the Prideful summer season of the Colosso was a month of (what felt like torturous, at the time, before we learned what it was like when it’s even worse) hatred and disdain, and unpleasant as usual—but I was certain that with the sunrise, peace could be made possible by reaching out in joyful prosperity to the common human nature that is within all people.

It was not so long ago that all was right in our worlds, and we eagerly climbed out of the dust of mere survival and into the sunlight of true Living.

Not so long ago, indeed, that all was well for us in the world.

We had all we could ask for; health, family, friends, purpose, security, justice, fair recompense, resources, joy, peace, and—for the first time in an incredibly long time, on my part—

Hope.

It seemed, in those golden days, that against all odds—against all I’d been told, all that I’ve suffered, all that holds contempt for me, despite all my previous perpetual misfortunes, the repeated betrayals, the years of futile struggling!—against all odds, at last, all was well and we could all begin to know a life of true Joy in a happy and prosperous peace.

The years of darkness were finally behind us, and in that hour—brief as it was, and all too quickly and most painfully stolen—it was all worth it.

It had all been worth it.

To experience such true peace, surrounded by blessing, unburdened by darkness—

Oh, it was so, so worth it!

=-=-=-=-=-=

[…And then it was gone.

His heart ached as he sat in silence and sorrow, thinking back on how it started to fall apart, piece by piece.

Worse, and worse,

and worse

and worse

and worse

and worse

and worse and worse and worse and WORSE until at last, it had stuck so incredibly deep that it could only distinctly get worse if the walls continued to close in and suffocate him entirely.

It was so profoundly and inexplicably terrible that it sounded like a wild story written by an inexperienced Writer, too intent on giving suffering to the main characters that they failed to appreciate how it muddied the main plot and was too arbitrary to be realistic.

If he weren’t currently LIVING through this Purgatorial suffering, he wouldn’t believe it were even possible to be “realistic” for things to go so suddenly, so terribly, and so thoroughly wrong.

Each day was a year, now. His wretched and arduous labor was compounded by the yawning abyss that was the hopelessness of seeing no end in sight to such misery.

How quaint of poetic irony to strike him in such a way, that he was truly blind of the world as much as he was (and in fact, because he was) blind of true Hope.

Oh, he knew what it “looked” like, well enough. He knew he had once held such confidence and serenity, and that it had been worth it, to press on until his burdens were lifted. Abstractly, he did believe—within a given set of necessary requirements for it to be possible—that it could happen again.

He knew it existed. Logic dictated it was still true.

But he could no longer feel it. 

Not in its true state.

=-=-=-=-=-=

What is a man’s life, to toil away, and have tyrants destroy all he worked for? How easy it is to be so burdened by suffering under hateful tyrants that such a mindset drains the will to live.

Even I ask myself this, in my own iteration.

For mine is a terrible fate, a burden one would not wish on any man. And indeed, my whole life has been filled with sorrow and pain. All my joy has been fleeting in comparison. And it seems to me now, in this hour, as our enemies close in on us once more… that what little good I have managed to do will be meaningless. Soon to be forgotten, even sooner to be lied about, and already been robbed of any credit for what people DO acknowledge as positive.

But there was something that a good friend said, shortly before I lost

=-=-=-=-=-=

[He stopped there, feeling the terrible weight on his chest—from all the tension, all the strain— making it hard to breathe.

And he clenched his jaw, trying to fight off the inclination to be overcome by the raw pain that still ran deep.

For this was the message he was getting at, after all, wasn’t it?

And yet a single tear still managed to escape and mar his face, betraying the lonely sorrow that persisted despite an adult appreciation of reality and a mature acceptance of the inevitability.

Taking a moment to close his eyes and let it pass, he took in a deep breath and let out a sigh before he continued.]

=-=-=-=-=-=

It is not Man’s fate to have to rely on the whims of the world to determine whether or not existence will have meaning.

The journey does not end with losing everything over time, until at last, even the connection to this world is permanently severed.

It does not end in sorrow, in loss, in suffering, in misery, having long forgotten even starlight in the grim darkness of years without a sunrise.

=-=-=-=-=-=

[And his heart was less burdened now, reminding himself of this fact.]

=-=-=-=-=-=

Did not our ancestors toil away in thankless drudgery, generation after generation, subject to the greed of entitled ignorance, before we ever came to know those moments of prosperity and peace?

If we endure, if we stay true, then if nothing else, those who come after shall benefit from the good we have done and the foundations we placed—even if it had been torn asunder again and again, still, able to pick up the pieces—and build the world we wish to see.

And so we must remain strong, we must continue, for it is a certainty that there is good in all people, and it is never too late for the true repentance of past evils to contribute to a genuine reconciliation and peace.

For how many could honestly say that there is naught in their life that they regretted so deeply, so truly, that they were moved to become a better person? When we learn from our mistakes and desire to do better—to do good—then we do indeed turn aside from the darkness and work to build a better future.

How, then, can we say so readily that it is impossible for others to do the same? Are we not all equal?

We are not identical, but that is not necessary to be equal in dignity.

Therefore, let us resist the despair that “they” will never change, and are dead set on hatred and misery.

It is writ upon every heart this indelible truth: just as we know our hopes, dreams, dramas, sorrows, anguish, labors, friendships, enmities, joys, and rewards of time and effort…

…so does every human soul. I refuse to accept the notion that judgment must be made upon entire groups for the sins of individuals. And it is unfounded, cruel, unjust, and bafflingly pointless to treat people poorly for the sins—real or imagined or generalized—of their ancestors, let alone the ancestors of people who are judged to be similar in appearance.

So too do I reject the notion that it is impossible for things to change.

Everything is impossible if no one puts forth the effort to make any given “impossibility” a reality. 

Such true Joy and Hope as I had known was indeed a prosperity such as been admired in ancient ballad and inherited dream.

If I had known it then, against all odds, having healed from the wounds and sickliness of years of suffering—

If I did indeed live long enough to Live, however briefly, then might it not be possible again?

The journey does not end here, my friends.

This is not the end.

Darkness does not have the final say—nor is anyone barred from true change, such as drives one to grow strong, work hard, and do good in this world.

For it is not indeed about whether we knew luxury, in the end of this life. Nay, rather, what lingers, what is carried over, is this—

We live to build the world around us. Each labor we undertake that adheres to the paths of virtue provides the resources used to build a better world. As we continue down this road along the shoreline, yearning for those who have already taken the road to dawn, we know this—

The good others have done for us has brightened our lives and brought us higher out of the darkness and into the sunlight, and has had meaning.

So, too, do our good deeds impact others.

The journey does not end here, my friends…

This is where it BEGINS.

—Felix

[sadaboutniall]

something about you;

introduction | masterlist | tag | wattpad

Twenty Six. August, 2017.

It all happens so fast. It’s like one morning he’s talking about how to best release This Town, if they should just throw it up on SoundCloud or give it a proper release, and the next he’s on a world fucking tour of his own, album in his back pocket, screaming fans lining up outside once again. He hadn’t expected this, didn’t really think anyone would care so deeply about him, on his own. 

They come up with the idea for Flicker Sessions and Niall thinks it’s fucking brilliant, a great way to ease into a solo career, a perfect way to showcase his album—his life’s work—the way he wants it to be heard. It’s fucking brilliant and he can’t wait to kick it off—until it actually happens. 

Because he hadn’t thought, really, about what it would be like to sing Flicker in front of people for the first time. Hadn’t really considered that this record, so intimate, so personal, such a reflection of his soul, would be something that he doesn’t want other people to hear. The prospect of it is fucking terrifying, and he’s got fifteen minutes to get over it before he goes on stage.

‘I think I’m going to go out there now,’ says Isla, who’d been in the dressing room with Niall, watching him get ready. They’d made out against the wall for ages, his hands on her thighs under her sundress, her lips soft on his neck, careful not to leave any marks. It calmed him, being close to her like that, but she wants to watch the show from the crowd like everyone else, wants to experience it properly, and Niall’s not sure how he can manage fifteen more minutes alone with his thoughts. ‘You ready?’

‘Not really,’ Niall admits, fiddling with the sleeves of his white t-shirt. ‘Fucking shitting it.’

‘Yeah, I would be too,’ Isla says honestly, pressing a kiss to Niall’s throat. ‘But you’re going to do great. They’re gonna love you.’

‘Just feel so,’ Niall drags a hand over his face. ‘Naked?’

Isla tilts her head, eyebrows raised. ‘I mean, if you want to be—’

‘Please don’t tempt me right now,’ he whines, and Isla laughs, eyes warm as they trail over Niall’s body. ‘Tonight,’ he lowers his voice for her, leans in for a kiss.

‘Ah, you’ll be too drunk to get it up,’ she says it in the same low, sultry voice as Niall, smile pulling at the corners of her lips. ‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep.’

-- 

It really does feel like he’s on stage naked. He had thought the Jingle Ball tour was exposing but this is totally new, a different level, an intimacy he didn’t even think was possible. Almost everyone he grew up with is here tonight and everyone knows—they all know this is about Isla, who’s standing with them, singing along to songs they’re all hearing for the first time. He’s literally laying his heart out for people he’s known since he was a child: dissecting the intricacies of the love that has defined his entire life, for the entire world to hear. He never knew he had it in him to do this. 

He relaxes into it a few songs in, feels like he fully finds his groove by the middle of This Town, when the whole crowd can sing along. He finds Isla then, too—he’d been searching for her the whole set to no avail, and something about it feels particularly fitting, that his eyes land on hers at that moment. She’s the only person in the room as far as he’s concerned—fuck the Capitol execs, the journalists, the musicians he grew up listening to who are here now to listen to him. It won’t make him any better, worrying about them; this is for her. 

During Flicker, he has to close his eyes. It feels impossible to look at anyone when he’s this vulnerable, this honest. He can only think about how he felt while he was writing it, how terrified and clinging to hope he was—and then how it felt to play it for Isla for the first time, to watch her break down over the things he never found the courage to tell her properly. He could’ve saved them both so much pain, if only he hadn’t been so afraid. 

He gets it together, though, after Flicker and then Too Much To Ask. He finds his footing when the setlist speeds up, when he glances back into the crowd to see Isla and Emilia dancing, drinks raised above their heads, to Since We’re Alone. It’s smooth sailing from there out—he tries not to look at Isla too long during Slow Hands, for an entirely different reason this time, and feels his heart swell and nearly burst with the crowd’s reaction to On My Own. By the end of the set all he wants to do is keep going. Again, again, again, again. He wants to keep doing this on his own. 

--

The afterparty is in Coppers, which feels ridiculous but perfectly stereotypical. It’s part business meeting for Niall, who spends the first half of the night talking to the Capitol team and to journalists, accepting claps on the back and handshakes and congratulations, watching out of the corner of his eye as Tara collects business cards and phone numbers on his behalf. It’s all good news, Niall knows that, but it’s making him itchy and antsy, standing here doing this while his friends and family mingle around him, dancing, laughing, throwing back shots and raising pints. He wants to be with them, too. 

He escapes near midnight, when the execs have gone home and Tara’s disappeared with some guy who went to uni with Deo. Part of him wants to take a few seconds alone just to breathe, but he’s not willing to risk it, sure that someone will come up and interrupt if they see him alone. Being with Isla is better, anyway, than being alone.

He finds her with the Mullingar crew, no surprise. Mully’s got one arm slung over Mia’s shoulders and the other slung over Isla’s, and the sight of it makes Niall’s heart do a few flips in his chest, a smile rise on his face.

‘Something you need to tell me?’ He asks, sidling up to the group and gently touching Isla’s lower back. She’s beaming when she turns to him, and very, very drunk. 

‘I’m her surrogate fella,’ says Mully, stupid smile on his face. ‘Her real one fecked off to make business deals.’

‘How’d everything go?’ Isla interrupts, shrugging Mully’s arm off her shoulder and leaning into Niall instead. He feels a rush of pride in his chest, as if there had ever been anything to worry about. 

‘Really well, I think,’ Niall drops a kiss to Isla’s hair. ‘But I don’t wanna talk about work shite anymore. Shall I get us drinks?’

‘I’ll come with you,’ she says, smiling. ‘Anything to escape these eejits.’

Their friends shout after them as they walk away, Niall’s arm fitting comfortably around Isla’s waist. She drops her head onto his shoulder and the butterflies don’t let up—he doesn’t think they ever will, no matter how long he and Isla stay together. He loves this: walking through a crowd of people with his hands on her, her body pressed up against his. He likes that everyone in this room knows they belong to each other. 

It makes him itch for more of this, more moments and places where they can be open, together. But Niall’s seen what going public with relationships does for people like him. He swallows the idea, tells himself he’s not thinking straight. He’ll let Isla make the decision when she’s ready. 

At the bar he gets a Guinness for himself, and another vodka coke for Isla. They find a quiet spot near a window and this is all Niall wanted, he thinks—just some time with his girl, alone, before he has to face the rest of the world again. 

‘How do you feel?’ Isla asks around her straw, already deep into the drink. This is so typically her, piss drunk and still asking how everyone else is doing. ‘You were fucking brilliant. I fucking cried. Like, a lot.’

‘Did ya?’ Niall wishes he had his eyes open during Flicker, all of a sudden. He hates the idea of Isla crying without him. ‘I was that bad?’

‘Fuck off,’ she giggles, reaching up to cup his cheek. ‘I’m so proud of you.’

He grasps her wrist, pulls her hand around so he can press his lips to her palm, a gentle kiss. ‘Love you,’ he tells her. ‘This wouldn’t have happened without you. Thank you.’

‘It would’ve,’ Isla whispers, barely audible over the loud music, the roar of people talking. ‘You would be just as talented without me.’

‘No,’ he shakes his head. ‘All this is you. I wouldn’t have even auditioned without you, let alone written an entire album.’

‘Ah, you would’ve found someone else to inspire your angst.’

‘No,’ Niall repeats himself, trying to convey just how serious he is through his voice. ‘It’s only ever been you.’

Isla doesn’t fight him, just runs her thumb over the outline of his lips, over his dusting of stubble. ‘Colm is here,’ she says eventually. ‘He came up to talk to me earlier.’

‘What?’ Niall feels a strangely specific tightening in his chest, one he hasn’t felt since secondary school. ‘How did he get in? I didn’t invite him.’

‘Came with Nicky as his plus one.’

‘For fuck’s sake, I’ll kill the bastard.’

‘S’alright,’ Isla soothes. ‘It’s been ages. Was weird, though. He asked me if I was happy with you, if I was okay with being kept a secret.’

‘He what?’ It kind of feels like the only word Niall can say right now. 

‘I dunno, it really was weird. He was saying how I shouldn’t settle, how I deserve someone who doesn’t feel like he has to keep me a secret because he’s ashamed of me. I know he talks shite but, like, what a weird thing to say for no reason,’ Isla sips her drink, not quite meeting Niall’s eye.

‘He’s a fucking idiot bastard,’ is what Niall manages to get out, corners of his vision clouding with anger. ‘Just wanted to make you feel like shite one last time, and that was the best he could come up with. Petal, I’m so sorry, I wish you told me right away. Would’ve had him kicked out that second, but I’ll do it now, let me call Bas and—’

‘It’s okay, Niall,’ Isla touches his chest gently. ‘It won’t do any good to make him angry. I don’t even know why I told you it just… I’ve been thinking about it, is all.’

‘About what?’

‘What he said,’ says Isla softly, stirring what’s left of her drink with her straw. 

‘Do you feel that way?’ Niall asks, bile rising in his chest. ‘Like I’m ashamed of you? Because that’s the furthest from the truth, Isla, I—’

‘No,’ she shakes her head quick, cuts him off. ‘But I know, like. I know that I don’t fit in. With your work friends and stuff.’

‘What are you talking about, yes you—’

‘I’m not, like, a model or anything. I’m not talented or stunning or charming or cool, like that. I know I’d make a tit of myself if you took me to any of your work events, and I know that, like, publicity-wise there are better choices for you in terms of a girlfriend.’

‘Isla—’

‘I just don’t want you to feel pressure, like?’ Isla still won’t look at him. ‘I love you so much, but if I’m not the right fit for your job—’

‘Isla,’ Niall raises his voice just enough to get her to look up at him, brown eyes wide, wet, sad enough to snap his fucking heart. ‘I don’t want you to think like this. I don’t want anyone but you—I’m never going to want anyone but you ever again. Every time I had someone who wasn’t you I was thinking about you, for fuck’s sake. Christ, if you knew the number of times I almost said your name while I was in bed with someone else… it’s fucking embarrassing. You’re drunk, petal, and I don’t want to have this conversation right now,’ he brings his hand up to cup her cheek now, hoping she can feel just how much he loves her this way. ‘But I want to carry it on in the morning, when you’re sober. Is that okay?’

Isla nods, swallows thick and closes her eyes for a second. Niall waits. He’ll wait as long as she needs him to. 

When she does open her eyes, it’s like she was never upset in the first place. ‘You thought of me while you were fucking someone else?’ she asks, bringing her drink up to her mouth, wrapping her lips around the straw. It’s amazing, how quickly Niall feels a rush of heat through his body.

‘Every single time,’ he tells her honestly. ‘Listen, I’m gonna go find Bas and get McAnderson kicked out of here. But after that, I think I made you a promise earlier today that I’d like to keep?’

####

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[mediaevalmusereads]

A Rogue By Any Other Name. By Sarah MacLean. New York: Avon, 2012.

Rating: 2/5 stars

Genre: historical romance

Part of a Series? Yes, The Rules of Scoundrels #1

Summary: A decade ago, the Marquess of Bourne was cast from society with nothing but his title. Now a partner in London’s most exclusive gaming hell, the cold, ruthless Bourne will do whatever it takes to regain his inheritance—including marrying perfect, proper Lady Penelope Marbury. A broken engagement and years of disappointing courtships have left Penelope with little interest in a quiet, comfortable marriage, and a longing for something more. How lucky that her new husband has access to such unexplored pleasures. Bourne may be a prince of London’s underworld, but he vows to keep Penelope untouched by its wickedness—a challenge indeed as the lady discovers her own desires, and her willingness to wager anything for them... even her heart.

***Full review under the cut.***

Content Warnings: explicit sexual content, gambling

Overview: I don’t know how to rate this book. On the one hand, MacLean has a knack for writing addictive romances, and I found the heroine to be fairly complex and the crux of the plot to be compelling; but on the other hand, there were a lot of tropes I personally do not care for in this book, so enjoying it fully was difficult. I ultimately settled on giving A Rogue by Any Other Name 2 stars because of my subjective experience, not necessarily because MacLean is bad at her craft.

Writing: I found MacLean’s prose to be fairly well-crafted; not only does it flow well, but it also balances showing and telling. Sentences and descriptions are lush and emotive when they need to be, and slow and sensual when appropriate. MacLean also paces her novel fairly well; on the whole, the story (and sentences) moves along at a quick pace that doesn’t feel rushed, and moments that were more emotionally weighty felt like they had room to breathe.

Perhaps the most interesting thing MacLean does with her book’s structure is insert small excerpts of letters in between scenes or between chapters. These letters are written primarily from the heroine’s point of view, showing her attempts to write to the hero from the time he goes away to Eton to almost the present day. In my opinion, these letters were a good way to show that the heroine had a long history of trying to reach the hero, and I think it worked better than MacLean simply telling the reader in some flashback or climatic scene.

Plot: The main plot of this book follows Michael (the Marquess of Bourne) as he seeks revenge on Viscount Langford, the man who took his entire inheritance in a game of cards. After nearly ten years, he finds that Langford has lost his lands to the Marquess of Needham and Dolby, who has added them to his eldest daughter’s dowry. Bourne thus traps the eldest daughter in a compromising situation which forces them to wed, and he must devise a way to get back at Langford while also dealing with the angst that his marriage stirs up. Not only is his wife, Penelope, one of his dearest childhood friends, but Langford’s son is the third part to their inseparable childhood trio. Bourne must thus figure out whether revenge or love for his childhood friends is more important.

On top of that, Bourne is notorious for not only losing his inheritance, but for building back his fortune by running one of London’s most dangerous gambling dens. His reputation, as well as the scandal should the circumstances of his marriage leak out, is sure to cause harm to Penelope’s family by making it impossible for her younger sisters to marry.

Honestly, I was pretty intrigued by this plot. The question of what matters more, revenge or love, was a really interesting promise with a lot of potential for angst and moral dilemma. I think in general, MacLean handled the plot well by making Penelope a formidable force and making the details of the drama feel real. The thing I really didn’t like, however, was how the initial “marriage trap” went down. Bourne puts Penelope in a compromising situation by having her spend the night alone with him. To her credit, she tries to escape, and Bourne was 100% a horrible person for making her stay with him. I honestly felt like that wasn’t the problem, since it created high stakes and a flaw that Bourne had to atone for. Where it went wrong for me was in Bourne’s character and his actions. I think if Bourne had just blocked the door and prevented Penelope from leaving their shared room, it would have been sufficiently bad, but Bourne also picks up Penelope and spanks her before ripping her dress so that even if she escapes, she’s well and truly ruined. To me, picking up a woman and spanking her feels infantilizing, and it’s a misogynistic flaw that I simply can’t get over. I also feel like ripping her dress and exposing her constitutes sexual assault, and I couldn’t get over that either.

Characters: Penelope, our heroine, is fairly likeable at the start. She’s the eldest in a line of daughters whose spinsterhood threatens to ruin her sisters’ chances at finding matches, and her dilemma between doing right by her family and doing something for her own happiness was a compelling one. I liked that she was sharp-tongued to the point where she would say or withhold things from Bourne to hurt him; it made her seem flawed without being overly petty, mainly because most of the things that hurt him were borne out of her frustration over her situation. The main thing I didn’t like about her was that she didn’t seem to have any female friends, and when she met another woman who was beautiful or who may have shown interest in Bourne, she got absurdly jealous. To MacLean’s credit, Penelope never acts in hostility towards other women and eventually develops a kind of friendship with Bourne’s gorgeous housekeeper, but I found this jealousy over a man who does nothing but hurt her disappointing.

Bourne, our hero, is an archetype that I really don’t like: self-hating, brooding, controlling, and violent. While I liked his revenge vs love dilemma, I hated that he was self-loathing to the point of destroying everything around him (when he could have easily just... not). I think more could have been done to make him a selfish, obsessive, manipulating character without making him so controlling of Penelope. His actions regarding their marriage are bad enough; I really didn’t need him to try to control Penelope’s life by giving her no control over the household, over where she goes, etc. and I really didn’t need him to be so violent and jealous that he thought about murdering anyone who so much looked at Penelope.

To be honest, I was hoping Penelope would run away from Bourne and end up with Tommy, a childhood friend who seems to treat her with genuine kindness and worries about her happiness. Tommy was interesting in that he loves Penelope as a brother would, not as a suitor, and respects her decisions even if they are obviously toxic or self-destructive.

Other characters were interesting for their potential to offer commentary. I liked Penelope’s sisters, who embody different personality types and have different views on marriage and scandal. Watching Penelope worry for them was honestly touching, and provided unique opportunities for reflecting on romantic expectations versus realities. Bourne’s colleagues at the gambling den were also pretty great in that they seemed to be more respectful of Penelope than Bourne was. I liked that they called Bourne out for his behavior and didn’t try to control Penelope on his behalf.

Langford, our primary antagonist, wasn’t present enough for me to have an opinion one way or the other. Honestly, I didn’t feel that much animosity towards him - he was an ass for taking the entire inheritance from a 21 year old, but I felt like the blame was more on Bourne. I only reveled in his eventual demise because he got pretty sexist in the final showdown.

Romance: I’m going to just say it: I wasn’t rooting for Penelope and Bourne to be together. Most of their “love story” involved a lot of manipulative, controlling behavior on Bourne’s part, which would have been something to atone for and could have been a good story had Penelope not forgotten about it the instant Bourne showed some basic human decency. A lot of their fights consisted of Bourne being manipulative, Penelope realizing that everything he does is for selfish reasons, then forgetting it because she finds him attractive or because he does something nice. There was no acknowledgment or atonement for him hurting her or using her, and Penelope decides she loves Bourne because he raised himself above his scandal by building back his fortune. For some reason, she finds that admirable, but because we see Bourne ruining people in the same way he was ruined at the beginning of the book, I couldn’t see him in the way Penelope did.

Bourne’s redemption also felt pretty empty. Throughout the whole book, there’s this constant lamentation that he’s not good enough for Penelope, that he will only cause her ruin, but he wants her anyway. He’s also so obsessed with revenge that everything he does hurts Penelope, whether it be ignoring her happiness or going after Langford by way of Tommy. Instead of a slow, steady process where he comes to value love over revenge and where he makes up for all the hurt he caused her, he seems to turn on a dime with maybe 25% left of the book. Honestly, I found their whole romance exhausting after the first hundred pages, and I wished there was more of a gradual ennobling of Bourne’s character, rather than the self-indulgent pity party he seems to exhibit.

TL;DR: Even though A Rogue By Any Other Name has quick, witty prose and an interesting crux at the heart of the plot, the self-loathing, controlling hero and exhausting romance ultimately prevented me from enjoying this book.

[sylaesschasewind]

A Little Piece

That laugh.

A shiver ran up her spine, twisting her shoulders with its violence. 

Memory,  dream, or hallucination? What a bitter game. 

It seemed to echo in her mind. It really wasn't so hollow here to allow an echo; in fact it was too loud all around. The clatter of dishes. Wooden toys being scraped across the floor. Crashed together gently. The hum of casual, meaningless conversation.  It sparked too much thought in her already strained mind. She knew it. Fleeting concern melted against the analytical side of thought. 

Puzzles were a crux of hers. 

So went the evening. She chased away the fog of memory with... What even was this? Some kind of brandy? Sylaess stared at the rim of the carved wooden cup, letting the flitting shallow thought pull her from the darkness.

Maybe. It burned all the same. She savoured it. Let her eyes half-close.

“Oh. Is it bad? Crap--let me get that.” His hand reached out for the cup before she knew what he was talking about. Caught her blinking in surprise. But she released her fingers around it, offering no resistance to its removal. “Huh. No, it wasn’t.”

Syl pulled her hand out of his reach, shaking her head slightly. The boy’s brow was knit again, big brown eyes flickering from each of hers in an attempt to read what she knew very well was a neutral face. Oh. Perhaps he was owed a small explanation? He fumbled with the cup a moment, pouring more brandy into it. Making his hands busy. Embarrassed? Perhaps.

“I was... lost in thought. My apologies.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

He looked chastised. Shit. She tugged her lips up in an attempt at a bemused smile. It worked enough to lessen his hurt. Loosen the tension in his shoulders just enough that he didn’t look afraid of being hit. Not that she had ever threatened such a thing, but she could understand that undeath carried a certain... reputation. 

He shrugged helplessly, grinning back at her. That smile just a bit too bright as he put the cup down before her, and poured a sliver of drink for himself. 

Dax. Sandy brown hair, bright hazel eyes glinting in the lamplight and a sharp nose. Well. It’d been broken before, judging by the lump on the bridge. Maybe it was never straight to begin with. But she suspected it had been.

Guilt. It attacked so carefully, like a shadow sweeping through. Sylaess cast her eyes away, down. 

Noted the way his mother, thought she was minding the young girl that was toddling about with wooden toys had an eye on her. Wary as a cat, but with a friendly smile that didn’t touch her eyes. His father whittled at a block of wood. Concentrated, but in a relaxed manner. One that suggested he, too, was not all that relaxed. But it was still better than the first time they had caught up. 

A deep sigh filtered through her nose.

Damn. Damn it. Why had she come back? This was a horrible mistake. The headache settled in on her like a crown. The slow, heavy thump of her own heartbeat reverberating distractingly. They were becoming too common. Nearly daily. Sometimes enough that she needed to take a step back, take a moment to collect herself.

That wouldn’t do on the battlefield. No. She shouldn’t think of dinner as a battlefield, either.

This was a dangerous distraction.

“Hey... If you don’t want to stay, I’m not holding you here. I know it's uncomfortable.”

She blinked again, putting away the baggage. 

“Its not..” A deep sigh. “Hm.” She shook her head, stuffing a hand into the loose hairs at the top of her head. Tugging absently. “I didn’t intend to be so maudlin. Forgive me.” Softly spoken.

Two apologies in one night.

Daxius gave her a warm chuckle. “I guess so. Don’t worry about it.”

“Hey, how’s Stormwind? Everyone settling in alright?”

His mother was cutting her concerned looks from the counter. Shooting them when she thought no one would catch her. Brow knit, lips thinned, eyes tight with worry. Smart woman, honestly. Sylaess could empathize. 

“I suppose. Lots of refugees still.”

It was the third time she’d tentatively taken the invitation to dinner with his family. Just as awkward as the first time. She’d stay just long enough not to be overtly rude. Just enough that he’d lose his worries and stop looking for her. 

“Pay the price.”

It froze her like a knife to the throat. The slithering whisper.

Sylaess grunted softly, finishing the drink. Rising from her seat nearly silently. A ripple of concern and then the acceptance of departure peripherally on the parents’ faces released a lot of that hidden tension around her. 

No, she needed to leave. She’d been here too long. Too many times. 

“You going already?” Daxius, mild disappointment dampening his bright eyes. He hoped to glean something from her. Experience? Fighting tips? Something. It was silly, naive, and utterly innocent. Did he actually look up to her? Oh, what a mistake that was. Far past time she should have left. Like a sword hanging above her head, the threat was real, and imagined all in one. Tricky.

A quick half-bow, and she slunk out the door like a shadow. No need for words. They’d only take more time. Felt the silent sighs of relief from his parents. The fleeting curiosity from his little sister. The honest and mildly smothered hope from Dax. She knew she hadn’t succeeded in pushing him off. Not like this. There was a certain art to it, but she’d missed the mark heavily tonight. Shut the door on it carefully. Felt like closing a book. Wished bitterly it was that easy.

Brandy still flavoured her mouth as she stepped smartly away. Not rushing, but not dawdling. Away. Putting distance between the tiny little hamlet and herself. The warmth of the windows fading.

The sense of danger doesn’t fade.

Sylaess grimaces in the starlight to no one but herself. Breathes out a soft sigh, collecting herself. Pulling that warrior calm on again and again. A worn out garment if ever there was one.

No. There isn’t an escape from this.

“I call upon its radiance to expunge the evils that have gripped this elf!”

The struggle is worse than the fight in the surf. No blades needed. Hands slipping, losing grip faster than they can catch anything. Hair. Clothes. Armor. Flesh. The leather of her gauntlets creaks under the pressure, but the salt water seems to laugh in a burble, causing enough pressure to peel her fingers off like a handful of sand. It’s impossible to catch, but that doesn’t dull her efforts to hold it. The very same reason she didn’t make it as a mage.

The Knight doesn’t budge. Much. Some subconscious part of her witnesses her hands shaking with the effort of just standing in the cascade of Light. Her heart thumps wildly, the threads of power are--

Can she see them? Is this just her imagination to make sense of the calamity? It seems so surreal. Disconnected, somehow.

It isn’t her body anymore.

Is it?

She can hear Argonas continuing his chant. The words sonorously pouring from him  just as burning as the conviction he holds in his heart. He fully believes. No--he knows the Light can save her. It's not a question. His devotion. His determination.

Sylaess wanted to scream. It wasn’t true! It couldn’t be true. The darkness at the edge of her eyes, seeping through the fiber of her being... The very ties to her unlife itself. All of it in shadow. All of it some form of...

Dark threads folded around her, unbothered by the absolute storm of Light. Reflexively, she clenched her hands as if holding them.

No; pieces fell away. Her face burned. Eyes felt blinded. But she could hear the calmness of that whispering voice in her shadows. The conviction of the Vindicator. The love he held.

Her damnation.

No; Argonas would be the best prize she could offer. More than enough in payment for the trivial gifts she asked for. She could see how it could end up. What path to take. What words to say. She wanted to laugh. Scream. Cry. 

Surrender.

It would be so easy to fall back into the darkness. Let the shadow defend this... corpse. Let loose the weapon. Let go.

“Enough--!”

The sound of her own voice jerked her back to the present roughly. Heart thumping a wild rhythm in her chest, she hissed out a slow breath between clenched teeth and hurried on. It irked her on some level how choked she had sounded. How small.

The cobbles were always damp near the ocean. The smell of rotting seaweed and damp wood all bombarded her. Sounds of the city. Usually so unobtrusive. Not so much right now.

She had made it to the bridge into Kul Tiras. Guards eyed her with a mix of curiosity and alarm.

Couldn’t blame them.

The Acherian stepped it out, long legs eating up the distance. To where, though? Where could she run to? 

She shook her head violently. It didn’t work to remove the feeling of the hooks in her skin. Paused on the bridge, looking out at the reflecting lamp lights on the waters. Rubbed her arms harshly. Maybe not warding off a chill, but the sensation brought some form of reality back to her. Comfort, if fleeting.

To say she missed Argonas deeply was a sad understatement. 

It hurt. Vividly. But it had been necessary. Had his child been born? Was he still recovering from her betrayal? A quietly reverent hope pled that he had forgotten her, but she knew it likely wasn’t so.

She couldn’t stomach the threat to him. The last piece of a life she barely remembered, stoically friendly despite the odds. Wouldn’t. Refused it.

[amphtaminedreams]

A/W 2020 Fashion Month: Before Vogue Went Blank (Part 2)

Hi to anyone reading,

I was going to start this post by jumping straight into Dion Lee and part 2 in general but there's been a lot going on the past couple of days-although this blog is primarily fashion, it wouldn’t feel right to start talking about designers without acknowledging all the shit that’s been going down.

^Photo Credit to @spiltcoco on Twitter

Yesterday, police footage came out of US police murdering yet another black man in broad daylight-George Floyd. He joins Sandra Bland, Eric Garner, Tamir Rice, Freddie Gray, and Alton Sterling, plus hundreds more named and god knows how many more unnamed African American citizens in the ever-growing list of victims of police brutality.

The majority of these are just people going about their daily lives, a majority of them doing absolutely nothing wrong; even those we know to have committed crimes have been unarmed and non-violent offenders. That being said, their offences are beside the point when we’ve seen the white perpetrators of mass shootings be calmly cuffed and escorted into the backs of police cars as if they were the ones selling cigarettes without permits. American police, given the amount of them that are armed, regularly become judge, jury and executioner trained for 8 weeks by an institution that originated from slave patrols. I cannot imagine how terrifying it is just to walk around as a PoC in America. I cannot imagine the collective trauma that has been suffered because of recent events on top of the intergenerational trauma that most likely exists because of centuries of oppression. I cannot imagine what it’s like to live in a country that was built to suppress you and was by law allowed to do so until very recently, those original structures still in place. I cannot imagine what it’s like to be made to feel like this is your fault. I mean, Boris Johnson is a useless, cold-hearted twat and I won’t defend him or this country for a minute (we have much blood on our own hands, and racial profiling is just as much a thing here as it is in America-I read earlier that you’re 28 times more likely to be stopped and searched in London as a non-white person compared to a white person), but I still can’t imagine him publicly advocating for the mass murder of groups he knows to be primarily made up of black people via Twitter. This whole situation is so unimaginably fucked up; anyone who still sees America as one of the world’s most developed nations needs to take a long, hard look at what is going on and reconsider that opinion.

Whilst we can’t fix everything, we can all speak up and make our voices heard, and it is our duty to do so. It’s not good enough to just “not be racist”, you have to be ANTI-racism, even if that means constantly reflecting on your own privilege and challenging your assumptions. Neutrality is complicity. Signing a petition isn’t going to change the world, but it’s a start:

https://www.change.org/p/mayor-jacob-frey-justice-for-george-floyd?recruiter=false&utm_source=share_petition&utm_medium=twitter&utm_campaign=psf_combo_share_initial&utm_term=psf_combo_share_abi&recruited_by_id=7ba70000-a127-11ea-87fb-d1ff0bf6ea96

As I publish this, there’s less than 50,000 signatures needed to hit the target of 6,000,000 so if you happen to see it, get signing! There are lots of other petitions online but Change.org seems to be the only major one you can sign in the UK as the other are US based and require a zip code. I never thought I’d close a paragraph by quoting Macklemore but the line “no freedom 'til we're equal, damn right I support it” is at the forefront of my mind right now. Again, neutrality is complicity. We’re never going to achieve a fair society by sitting on our asses and hoping things will improve. Let’s all do the best we can.

Sorry if that intro wasn’t what you came here for, but I just think it’s so important to talk about. I know I’ve said in the past that fashion is supposed to be an escape from everyday life but there are some times when real life needs our attention and this is one of them. Feel free to unfollow if you disagree.

Anyway, onto the fashion. If this is the first post you’re reading, welcome! There’s a part 1! But I don’t wanna be pushy so start here if you wish!

If you read part 1, welcome back! 

I ended that post by practically falling at the feet of Dilara Findikoglu, and I so wanted to start this post by regaining a sense of dignity and go straight into what-the-fuck-ing at Dior, but I know breaking chronological order would really piss off those “OmG I’m SoOo OCD, tHis BuzZfeEd aRtiCle WiTh DiFfereNt SiZed TiLes ToLd Me!” which is basically me minus claiming liking things to be organised means I have OCD-no, just dermatillomania and the denial that a compulsive skin picking disorder has anything to do with OCD because the neuroses club that is my brain doesn’t have any space left. SO, I have to continue where I left off and star the post with Dion Lee, whose collections I am a big fan of.

I could ramble a bit more but I did enough of that at the beginning of part 1 and am sure I’ll do more than enough in this post anyway, so here it is, Dion Lee:

Considering we ended with the maximalism of Dilara Findikoglu, sliding back over towards the other far end of the scale with a designer that tends to pitch their tent on the borders of the minimalism camp feels correct. Dion Lee, fortunately, seems the perfect collection to open with. There aren’t many other brands who do edge in such an understated and masterful way. If you want to be ready for combat and look like you’d fit right in at Vogue at the same time, look no further. This season’s collection is full of perfectly placed cut outs and immaculate tailoring and subtle street fighter-esque details as ever, and that’s why it pains me to say it:

Not that this is enough in the way of critique to restore my dignity by any means, it’s not a patch on last season.

I don’t think there was a single bad look in that show, and at times it felt like I was weeding through them here. When the looks were good, they were GOOD but a lot I found to be disappointing. Plus I have no idea why you’d put tie-dye in an A/W collection. I appreciate that it’s an Australian brand and that our winter is their summer, but they’re presenting to the rest of the world at fashion week and anyone in Paris, Milan, London and New York is going to be freezing their tits off and looking like a twat in an orange tie-dye sundress. There wasn’t much of a dip in quality for the menswear compared to last season, but honestly womenswear left a lot to be desired. That’s what happens when your expectations are high.

I used to think that if you assume the worst, it’s impossible to feel let down. And then I saw Dior’s A/W 2020 collection. Did a full 180 on that statement.

I suppose it’s a step up from haute couture, but then at least the styling in that was simple, and it just didn’t look like anybody had tried at all; here it’s clear Maria Grazia chucked everything she could at this collection, every headscarf, every gingham print, every shallow feminist undertone, and it was still a fucking mess. At first you think some of the individual pieces are cute but have just been ruined by the styling, and then you begin to look, and realise that even those individual pieces could’ve easily been bought in a New Look Boxing Day sale.

THIS IS CHRISTIAN DIOR, SUPPOSEDLY ONE OF THE MOST LUXURIOUS BRANDS OUT THERE. WHAT IS GOING ON!? 

I don’t know, I included as many looks that I didn't mind as I could, but it’s like there always has to be a crappy, unnecessary detail in there. Everything is so literal. Of course the collection based around the divine feminine has the models dressed like basic ass Greek goddesses, so of course the collection based around the modern woman and equality has women walking the runway in ties and ill-fitting shoes too. Maria Grazia, here is a box:

Think outside of it. 

Next is, thankfully, Elie Saab:

No, not exactly a trailblazer of a collection, but executed with poise and elegance as always. I mean, the styling is spot on. It looks like each part of the outfit was made for another, to contribute to a whole clearly envisioned look, similar to what we saw in the Alberta Ferretti show. Elie Saab is known for its haute couture shows where all the tiny details, the sequins and the silk and the embroidery come together to make something beautiful, and this is just that on a larger scale, with less “wow”s and more quiet admiration, more wishing you were the one wearing that outfit. If you’re gonna play safe, do it this well. The night dresses are stunning of course, but not even my favourite bit of the show. It’s the casual looks, the pussy bows and the ruffles and the neck scarfs and the private girls school monochrome colour palette with the occasional pop of red or purple, a toned down version of what we saw at haute couture, any of which deserve to be worn whilst eating macarons in front of the Eiffel Tower before trip to Musee D’Orsay. It’s Poppy Moore’s school uniform grown up and made fit for a fashion magazine editor:

Somehow managing to cram an Emma Roberts early 2010s fashion moment into every post is my talent, who knew. Wild Child was really a gem.

Erdem was a mixed bag:

With a lot of the outfits, I can’t tell if I actually like the garments that much or if I just like the look as a whole. I mean, without sounding too gluten-free Callie from the Valley, I like the VIBE, but there was a lot of outfits I almost included before I had to ask myself “LAUREN, do you ACTUALLY like this or do you just like the walking-into-your-sugar-daddy’s-will-reading-to-claim-his-fortune DRAMA of it all!?” 

It happened a couple of times, where once I took off my black and white, theatrical violin accompanied entrance filtered sunglasses, I realised that the actual print was ugly. A collection so cohesively ornamental and kitschy is going to lean too far into that at times, and they were a few overly-fussy moments where it seemed less nudge nudge wink wink and more like Erdem Moralıoğlu fell into his grandma’s wardrobe, stole some fabric, and called it a day. I don’t want to sound like I’m not a fan of the collection because overall it’s gorgeous, I just thought it was a bit much at times.

Continuing with the theme of clever seasonal continuity that weaved its way throughout this year’s A/W offerings, Ermanno Scervino kept the core of his summer collection and made it just that little bit darker, added some weight to everything, and this is one of the rare occasions where I like the winter incarnation a lot more. I’m not huge about either but there’s a lot of things I’d love to wear here, the coats especially.

Up next is a reliable favourite of mine: 

Etro.

Was it REALLY necessary for you to include ALL those coats I hear you ask?

Alaska Thunderfuck as Gia Gunn voice: Absolutelyyyy.

When it comes to bohemian fashion, Etro is unbeaten. Everything is always exquisitely coordinated and styled. Like I usually fucking hate aztec print but I love the way it’s done here. I’ve never known a brand to make belts seem like such an integral, tasteful part of the outfit in a field where they so often seem like a last minute addition for the sake of accessorising; it pains me to say it, but Elie Saab, I’m looking at you. It’s your only fault. 

Yes for bringing back embroidered jeans! Yes for all those high necks! Yes for the tapestry print! Yes for the Afghan waistcoats! Etro will keep fedoras cool forever and I love them for that; I don’t know if she ever actually wore any of their stuff but I just know Stevie Nicks was in her prime would’ve ate this shit UP and she is my style icon for the ages. Plus, I might be way off base here but a lot of the collection seems to be inspired by traditional Romani style and it’s a beautiful direction to take things, a treasure trove of layers upon layers and rich textures and opulent prints.

I can’t wait til the phase of my phase of my life where I can swan around in maxi dresses and ponchos. I just hope those maxi dresses and ponchos are Etro.

Onto another brand which hasn’t had a bad show since I started my reviews: Fendi. This season, they took their late 60s/early 70s wild child aesthetic and gave a millionaire’s high maintenance wife spin on it, and what’s not to like about that? 

I mean, Fendi is a brand which is always going to excel in its F/W presentations-the rich, bohemian prints (pro-tip: if you can’t already tell, me mentioning the word bohemian in a review pretty much guarantees I like the collection), the furs, and the warm colour palette all perfectly translate into clothes suited for walks through a city going through a post-summer burnout, where it rains red and orange leaves. You can tell Silvia Fendi is in her element when she’s got texture to play with, something that comes across in the gorgeous coats Fendi consistently puts out, and this season continues that trend. Plus, there’s a lot of adorable details here-shoes that show off the decorative socks underneath, the cube shaped bags and those furry ear muffs which I hope bring about a high street muff renaissance because they’re the equivalent of slipper socks for my ears and THEY’RE ACTUALLY REALLY PRACTICAL. The only thing I’m not in love with is the mirrored glasses, and I can’t help but think how replacing them with a pair of grandad style aviators would be the icing on the cake for the collection. Maybe I just need to see Miss Robyn Rihanna Fenty wearing them and then I’ll get on board. Usually works.

Ah, GCDS. I got so excited for it after last season but this time round, it was a bit of a disappointment. There were a few outfits that semi-matched up to how cutting-edge I saw their last collection, however a lot of the pieces looked pretty low quality. I get that streetwear is in the name, but it’s supposed to be a high fashion take on that, and a lot of the looks were quite pedestrian. Stand outs are the top 2 rows and the leather motocross style jumpsuit on the far right, third row down, but the quality of these pieces wasn’t consistent across the board and I feel like I ended up having to convince myself I liked some of the others just so I had enough photos to justify including the brand. It really sucks when I look back on how ahead of the game last season’s collection was-we’re talking outfits that wouldn’t be out of place on Instagram’s Tokyofashion page and as far as I’m concerned that’s the fashion holy grail. Some of these looks, especially the menswear, could be from a Boohoo TV ad and that makes me sad.

Meanwhile, Giambattista Valli put out a collection that looked like a virtual postcard of Parisian fashion; if a St-Germain-des-Prés streetwear themed Instagram doesn’t exist already, someone should capitalise on that, stat, because if my typical vision of French feminine fashion is correct it would be full of outfits like this. I feel like this is what a fashion novice EXPECTS Chanel to look like. Trust me-these days the reality is much more disappointing.

There’s many things I'm happy to see here besides the tulle and florals and prettiness I expect of the brand. Obviously the berets and the bows and the elbow length gloves are the kind of off-duty ballerina style touches I’ve become accustomed to but there are also some nice surprises here: the military style white jacket, the unexpected snake motif on clothing that’s otherwise overly delicate, and to my delight the return of the boater hat. IDGAF, this is the summer where I’m buying myself one off Ebay and making this happen for me whether they become a “thing” or not. I shouldn’t squander having this little of a double chin; the opportunity may never present itself again. 

I haven’t watched Killing Eve in a longggg time since there’s only so much of two women attempting to kill each other and then miraculously avoiding death you can watch but I’d love to see Vilanelle prancing round a city in this kinda shit slitting some necks again. I hope that doesn’t make me sound like too much of a sadist; only in a purely fictional world is this something I want to see, I assure you.

Givenchy was really, really great this season too, imo. Definitely a step up from the last RTW anyway. Aside from the drama of the exaggerated floppy brim hats and the quirky tassle detail dresses a la Schiaparelli, a lot of these outfits kinda remind me of something a Miranda Priestly/Cruella De Vil type would wear, and you know me; I’m all for that kind of intimidating, about-to-either-slap-you-or-fire-your-ass bad bitch energy. The gathered leather gloves with the androgynous subtly checkered power suits feels CORRECT and if Giambattista Valli is the bottom in this relationship, Givenchy is the top. Am I allowed to reinforce sapphic relationship stereotypes as a bi girl? Probably not. I’m sorry. Won’t do it again. Just this once. And you know I’m right really xoxo

And OMFG Gucci. Another impeccable collection for me, honestly. Once again, it’s probably my favourite of the season. How it is that Alessandro Michelle gets it SO right for me despite his vision being so bold and different every time? He has this specific brand of strange, conceptual beauty which blends past and present trends in a way so supreme it should be considered art. It’s not a term to throw around loosely but the man is a genius, and tbh I’m still not over the human head props from the 2018 F/W winter show.

In my Haute Couture week review, I talked about the Viktor and Rolf collection (which I loved, don’t get me wrong!) and said that pretty meets grunge is my fave thing ever-this is that, but much even more substantial and intelligent. The Wes Anderson-esque pieces or that late 60s/early 70s hipster aesthetic that I loved in last season’s show hasn’t been done away with either-be it the level of detail or the colour scheme, it all somehow fits together. Never did I think I’d see dresses fit for porcelain dolls through the lens of Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen seamlessly slotted in between outfits that could’ve been put together from the clothing rack of Dazed and Confused’s costume department. I want it all-opulent fur-trimmed coats, crucifix jewellery and pilgrim hats I’m sure both Edgar Allan Poe and modern goths would approve of, and the tiered skirts that wouldn’t be out of place in a Westworld saloon. The models were delightfully sad and almost creepy looking and I wouldn’t change that for the world. To say 10/10 doesn’t do it justice, so I’m gonna have to open a reviewer’s can of worms and say 100/100.

Gucci is a tough act to follow, and I’m sorry it has to fall onto the shoulders of Halpern. In the nicest possible way (as if there is any nice way of saying it), I don’t think I any expected anything but a downgrade, so if anything, my standards will be lower so...Michael Halpern, you can thank me I guess? 

That was really mean, I’m sorry. It’s not a bad collection, and I definitely like it more than last season’s. It’s a slightly garish colour palette at times but an exciting one in spite of that, which when paired with the animal print dotted throughout makes this collection the perfect fit for a tropical beach party or at the very least, a semi-decent night at the Caribbean themed bar in your local town centre. The sequins and silk, a Halpern trademark, are as tastefully done as ever, and seeing them on the models, I can’t deny these are some power fits-the kind of clothes you are bound to look and feel confident in; if you wanted to play queen of the urban jungle for a night, this is what you need to be wearing.

Ah, Hermes.

Generally not one to stoke a fire inside me. In all fairness, the tailoring here is really, really nice and French biker chic, and the pieces are perfectly crafted-it’s not that I don’t like the outfits because I think that if I saw one of them individually in a natural, messier setting I’d probably be impressed. These are classy, elegant winter looks and what more could you want when you’re looking for outfit inspiration for this season? It’s just that it’s always a little too neat and uniform for me, and on the runway I like my fashion to be risky. This could almost be the sophisticated mother to a Tommy Hilfiger collection and whilst that’s something I would probably wear if I wanted to look put together, it’s not what you get excited to see at fashion week. Primary colours all together aren’t where it’s at for me either, the infamous colour scheme of the cheap plastic playhouses you’d find in the garden of every working/middle class British household back in the day. Yes, I had one. So did the after school club I was forced to attend whilst my mum was at work. Apparently the negative connotations are still too much for me (a boy I went to the after school club with did once fall off the back of one and crack his head open so maybe it’s justified).

Isabel Marant was pretty much exactly what you’d expect from Isabel Marant; if the Etro bohemian woman is one who rolls out of bed and chucks on the first thing she sees, the Isabel Marant bohemian woman is the one who claims she’s done the same thing but who actually planned it all out the night before. She designs for the gluten-free, bikram yoga Kourtney Kardashian style “hippy” who claims to be a free-spirit but would definitely not do acid with you. I was gonna say it was a collection for the Gwyneth Paltrows of the world but then I remembered Gwyneth proudly released a candle she claimed smelled like her vagina and changed my mind-she’d definitely do acid with you. 

It’s definitely a cohesive transition from the summer collection; both have that seemingly laid-back, clean-cut vibe, and cater to the rich, impeccably groomed scented candle loving woman everywhere. Obviously the pieces are a tad more suited to an alpine lodge in Switzerland than a beach in Malibu this time round, but that same mild colour palette, pretty, naturalistic patterns, and generally relaxed fit persists. It’s cute enough.

J.W Anderson is a bit of an enigma.

Despite the experimental silhouettes and the kooky details that you think would very “look at me!”, the collections still seem to have a chilled, easy-going feel to them. They toy about with the strange but remain entirely sophisticated whilst doing so-I think it’s because aside from the little quirks that make the garments J.W Anderson, they’re otherwise fairly reserved and simple; even the quirks themselves mostly tend to be exaggerated, more conceptual takes on more typical stylistic motifs anyway. Anderson has a knack for producing statement pieces that don’t look like they’re trying too hard to be statement pieces, a talent he expertly deploys at Loewe as well. Whilst Maison Margiela collections are like the fashion equivalent of that Jughead “I’m weird, I’m a weirdo” speech, J.W Anderson’s refusal to conform is quiet and modest. I like it. It’s not generally my personal style but I can admire the thought behind the work, and there are still some things I’d love to try. I have a few standouts-the shoes with the hoop detailing dancing from the ankle straps, the dress on the bottom right with what appears to be art nouveau typography on, the trench coat with the cape detailing and the gossamer dress to its right are all stunning, especially that dress. If I ever want to dress as the bubble Glinda the Good Witch descends in when she meets Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I know where to go, though I don’t suppose there’s going to be an occasion that calls for that any time soon. Can I just have the dress anyway?

Kim Shui is another new designer I found through blessed Twitter screencaps-thanks guys for doing my research for me. Much appreciated.

But anyways! Like Charlotte Knowles, it’s clear she’s still establishing her aesthetic as a designer, and thus far I love it. The whimsical, throwback prints on urban silhouettes that range from the androgynous suits of city dwelling cool girls to the amped-up sex appeal of nightclub dresses is gorgeous, especially twinned with dainty headscarfs and opera gloves-all in all I think this a very cool and wearable collection and I’m looking forward to the next collection she puts out.

Next up is Lacoste, and IDK why I always include their collections to be honest, considering they’re not really known for “high fashion”. I guess it’s because my dad has collected Lacoste shirts since I was little so I kinda have a soft spot for it and feel obligated to include it every time presentation season comes around. Yes, the outfits are unbearably preppy and the colours are garish but I feel like that’s kind of the appeal? So what if some of the tracksuits look like they could’ve been pulled out of a bad mafia movie? I see the argyle jumpers, with a bit of wear and tear, as a charity shop gem my sister would come across (she has the #Y2K Depop girl knack for finding old designer pieces in the shittiest charity shops without the audacity to try and sell them at a 70% markup) that I would then steal from her wardrobe to wear myself, contrasted with a ripped mini skirt, chains and and docs. I see the POTENTIAL of a look that is very fuck you to the rich middle age tory styling we see here. It’s punk, okay?

Lanvin was STUNNING this time around. Maybe it’s because I’ve been watching Mad Men recently and it reminds me of the fashion on that-which I hope somebody won an award for at the time BTW, it is SO fucking good-but I just adore every look here. I can’t even remember if I reviewed Lanvin’s SS20 show, and so clearly if I did it wasn’t that memorable (no shade intended), however this collection is a different story. Every single one of these outfits is iconic movie moment worthy, a 60s Cher Horowitz plaid two piece equivalent that would get screencapped and replicated ad-nauseam, all the best looks of Betty Draper and Peggy Olsen and Joan Holloway and Megan Calvet brought together and refined for the modern day woman. I might even consider sacrificing my anti-royalist principles if it meant I could transport myself back in time and switch bodies with Grace Kelly so I could make this collection my princess-off-duty wardrobe and drive around Monaco in that Bella Hadid look, roof down, all the drama of the fur trim and the gloves and hair whipping about in the wind (but in this unrealistic vision I can actually see what I’m doing and I’m not choking on random strands and swearing at Mother Nature as if she is a real entity with a personal vendetta against me).

Loewe! More J.W Anderson! I’m gonna try not to repeat myself by arsekissing too much all over again and get the good points out of the way quickly! So rapid fire: elegant! Delicious colour palette! Interesting shapes! I think I’m seeing a Victorian/Edwardian influence there! Correct me if I’m wrong! I like it! The coats are strong! Remind me of the suffragettes! But lets pretend in this case these Loewe style coat wearing suffragettes are not raging classists!

AH. Apart from that, it was a bit too austere for me. I definitely preferred Anderson’s eponymous collection; there were a fair few recurring details in this show that I couldn’t get behind that I didn’t include, in particular this bib-like black panel that just kept popping up on everything. Sorry J.W Anderson. But a 50% success rate is still good! And at the end of the day, having 2 collections on Vogue Runway at once is more prestigious than the accumulative total of every accomplishment I’ll probably ever have achieved in my life by the time I’m on my deathbed so what do I know anyway? Sigh:( At least I’ll always have the honour of having the largest head by circumference of my class in year 4, right *sweats nervously*!?!?! 

Louis Vuitton was definitely a downgrade on last season for me. There were for sure elements I liked-the Vera Wang-esuqe mixing of the tulle bustle skirts with the rougher, more masculine biker inspired vests and jackets was a cool choice, reminiscent of Gucci’s mixing of the lace dresses with harnesses. I enjoyed the baroque jackets and subtle nods to steampunk style too. Though we’ve already seen it a lot this season, the wet look coat with fur trim I can’t help falling in love with, and I’m immune to the potential ugliness of the muted blue monotone look purely on the basis I can picture Ripley from Alien in it. So like I said-it’s not as if I hated it. I guess when it comes down to it, the collection wasn’t bad so much as I just had higher hopes. I will say though, the staging was INCREDIBLE. As a history nerd, I never thought I’d see the day when a Henry the 8th lookalike actor was part of the backdrop of a Paris fashion week show-and I always thought there was no interesting career path for me in the subject!

And another big name I don’t tend to be so partial to, Maison Margiela. IDK, I did like last season but I wasn’t a fan of haute couture and it took me a while to warm to this. Call it deconstructed, experimental, whatever, but you know when you can’t decide what to wear and you’re in a rush so you kinda just throw all the shit you decided against into a pile? Well, my initial thought was that this season Margiela is kinda that, on the runway.

I will say, once I let go of my need to see a clear shape, a lot of the individual pieces were stunning (NOT the puffed up tabis though, I still can’t even get behind the regular ones). I guess I just wish they’d go for less is more with the styling because as it currently stands, it makes it hard to actually take the clothes in. 

Ultimately, one thing you can always say about Margiela, like their clothes or not, is that it has a monopoly on being effortlessly bold.

Marc Jacobs I really liked again, though I will say it doesn’t stand out quite like the S/S collection did. That was absolutely STUNNING-I can’t remember specifically where I ranked it in my top ten but I know it was at least in the top 5. This, on the other hand, is...pretty. It’s very pretty, and very put together, so I’m not saying at all that I don’t rate it. I suppose it’s just a lot simpler than I expected it to be-I don’t have a problem with simplicity, at all, especially if it’s what a brand is known for but I feel like part of the appeal with Marc Jacobs is that it’s pretty kooky. I mean, not Thom Browne or Margiela kooky, but commercial kooky at least. I feel like the kookiness is lacking here? And that’s where this feeling is coming from? And also, the fact that Lanvin tackled the same era and did it a lot better? So there’s that, too. Plus, I adore Miley Cyrus but...why? Random celebrities waking the runway just doesn’t do it for me-it always comes across as a publicity grab, as if the designer isn’t confident enough in their collection’s ability to get people talking on its own, and I suppose in this case that says it all really.

Margaret Howell was...well, Margaret Howell. She’s known for her basics, and they’re always pretty non-offensive “regulation hottie” in the words of the icon that is Damian from Mean Girls. It’s been, what, four years? More? Since I last watched that film but I’m pretty sure watching it about twenty times between the ages of 9 and 15 tattooed it on my brain. I include her because even though they don’t get my pulse racing, I like these pieces; considering the fact that expecting straight white men to ever have style on the level of barbiedrugz (his instagram is my favourite thing ever) or Rickey Thompson is ludicrous, Margaret Howell’s menswear looks are probably are the best, realistic goal for any future partner. Because I like my men dressed like Paddington bear/a depressed Brown University English lit lecturer, okay? Or in other words, Will Graham from Hannibal.

Marine Serre had a few good moments-the looks that I liked were the ones that stayed within her lane of blending the weird with the visually appealing. There were a lot of cool things going on, and I like the utility vibe (the boot with the pouch detailing and the mask are perfect examples of this done well), but outside the fits I picked out a lot of it went over my head tbh.

Marques Almeida is a show I was looking forward to-it has such a youthful, experimental quality to its collections (it’s no surprise the designers said they were influenced by the HBO show Euphoria this year!), similar to Central Saint Martins, and you can tell the designers (Marta Marques and Paulo Almeida) are based in London too; we are talking about the birthplace of the punk fashion movement, and as a designer it’s probably almost a rite of passage that you incorporate elements of that into your work. Marques Almeida does that with a flair and consistency you can count on. Their clothes don’t have the wildest silhouettes or anything like that but the fun they have playing around with print and colour and the ease and confidence with which they settle on those combinations always comes through-the black and white coat with the yellow furs trim is one of my favourite pieces from the entirety of this season’s offerings.

I wasn’t so fond of Max Mara’s SS20 collection and I'm not gonna lie, this isn’t THAT much of a step up for me personally. It’s just one of those brands I feel obligated to include because it’s talked about quite a bit but I’m not totally sure if it’s for me. Too monotone, but I’ll give it another season! And I mean, there is a slight improvement here-this collection is a lot more laid back than the stiff, austere feel of the last, and there are some very well fitted and structured pieces. A lot of the looks kinda remind me of a 2020, fashion take on The Breakfast Club’s “Basket Case”, which is kinda cool, and just from looking at the clothes, the high price tag is palpable. Also, scruffy hair club unite! Though obviously it’s intentional here! That’ll be my excuse for the next time I turn up at work looking like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards-Max Mara made me do it.

Ending on those words of wisdom, I’m gonna bring this post to a close, because I can’t fit any more photos in! I’m desperately hoping that I can fit this all into 3 parts like I did with my last RTW review but even if I do have to make 4 posts, I still include my top 10 shows as I did before. I hope to get that post up within the next couple of weeks! After that, I’ve shot a Lana Del Rey inspired by each of her different albums and “era”s though given last week’s events I’m on the fence about whether to post it or not, especially given her silence over the last couple of days. I’m really proud of what I’ve put together and I’ll always love her art and music (I have 2 bloody tattoos, for fuck’s sake!), so I’m trying to think how I can reconcile that with those awfully worded posts and just the general lack of awareness of bigger issues that she’s displayed the last week. JFC, being a Lana stan has always been so chilled up until now. All the very valid and important takes aside, that “Lana pls delete that post and apologise, we can’t fight the barbz all your stans are depressed” tweet is the only good thing to come out of this shitshow. He got a point. Breathing feels like effort lately:( IDK, if you’re also a Lana stan and you have any opinions on the matter, feel free to DM me, because I’m feeling pretty conflicted rn.

Most importantly though, are the issues I opened this post by talking about, and I thought I’d finish by including the thread of petitions I saw on Twitter. Like I said, a lot of them aren’t available to sign in the UK but to anyone who read up until this point (thank you!) idk where you’re reading from so maybe some of them will apply to you:

https://twitter.com/yericvIt/status/1265801832930045953

Also, while we’re at it, because every tory voting twat seems to treat our country as if it’s some beacon of hope where racism is non-existent and love to tell PoC to stop moaning about their experiences, here’s a thread of black British men and women who have lost their lives to police violence:

https://twitter.com/illh0eminati/status/1266441604170223617

Thank you for reading until the end. I hope that you enjoyed the fashion part of the post but also that if you did read this far, you read the other bits too if you didn’t know what was going on already. It seems like everyone does but you forget that Twitter’s a bit of an echo chamber and that outside of it, there’s a lot of ignorance, whether intentional or not. I know Tumblr has a similar audience to Twitter so I imagine there’s loads on here about everything going on too, but ya know. I wanted to talk about it just incase. 

Stay safe, keep fighting the good fight, and again, thank you for reading!<3

Lauren x

[badgersprite]

Fic: Desiderata (5/?)

Chapter Title: Perspective

Fandom: Mass Effect

Characters: Miranda, Samara, Oriana, Jacob

Pairing: Miranda/Samara very slow burn, friends to lovers

Story Rating: R

Warnings: References to past childhood abuse/trauma, and people being shitty about it.

Chapter Summary: In 2186, Miranda spearheads the search and rescue operation she helped organise. In 2185, Samara gets Miranda to see an incident from someone else’s perspective.

Author’s Note: Miranda is still bad at people, but she’s trying. Shout out to self-isolation for giving me time to work on this.

*    *     *

“You’re sure this will work?” Miranda asked, examining her forged identity documents. A passport. A driver's licence. Even a birth certificate.

“Can’t be any surer than I am,” Niket answered with a slight shrug. “It’s not like I could test it, but I have nothing but assurances from everyone I’ve spoken to that these counterfeits are the highest quality. They never fail.”

“What if they do?” Miranda had imagined a hundred different ways her father might deal with them if they got caught. She still wasn't sure which one was the worst, or that he couldn't exceed her expectations of his cruelty.

“Relax.” Niket placed his hands on her shoulders. “Even if they do pull you up, I've spent months creating an online identity for you. The only thing left is to set up an account and wire some money into it. Enough to keep you on your feet for a while. We've thought of everything, Miri. You won't trigger any red flags. As far as anyone would be concerned, 'Jessica McMahon' is a real person.”

Miranda sighed uneasily. She’d been working on this escape for so long that it was making her paranoid. No matter how careful she was, it was simply impossible for her father not to notice what was going on, given enough time. For all his faults, he was a smart man. He had to sense something was awry, at some point. It always felt like she was moments away from her plot being uncovered.

“Are you forgetting something?” Niket remarked, expectantly waiting for her to say her thanks. To her credit, Miranda realised her oversight.

“You’ve done a lot for me, Niket. When I’m out of here, I won’t forget that,” she said sincerely. Niket was the closest thing to a friend she'd ever had. She was grateful towards him. She really was. She just wasn’t fantastic at expressing it. Her upbringing might have played a role in that.

“You’ve already helped, in a way,” Niket admitted, taking out another passport. “Got one of these for myself with your money. Figured I’d involved myself enough that I’m going to have to get out of dodge once you make your escape, or else your father’s going to find my fingerprints all over this.”

“Good idea.” Miranda nodded, signalling her approval, glad he’d protected himself. Besides, she didn’t give a damn about her father’s money. He had plenty.

Being the daughter of an extremely rich man did have its benefits. As part of her preparations, Miranda had been able to casually drop a few thousand dollars at a time here and there without raising suspicion.

There was no mistake about it, though - the money he gave Miranda to spend was a symbol of his own vanity, not a kindness. She was his daughter. That meant she had to fit a certain image, or it would reflect poorly on him. She had to indulge in expensive tastes, dress well, buy and read rare books, play music on the most expensive piano, or else people might not be impressed by how inordinately wealthy he was.

He framed it like a reward for living up to his impossible standards, but really it was another means of controlling her. Miranda had no freedom in what she spent money on. It was a test. He’d only given her access to her own money so that he could see for himself how well he’d trained her - to prove that his little experiment would continue acting in accordance with his designs and his preferences even when he wasn’t watching her over her shoulder.

But he’d underestimated her. Her father always had. As long as she remembered to keep her stories consistent with the fake transactions on the bills, he would never suspect anything, even if he was secretly going through her spending with a fine tooth-comb, which he did, of course. Provided that she appeared to be spending money on purchases he approved of, he wouldn't question it. And Niket had taught her how to manipulate that data.

“You know, don’t take this the wrong way, but not everyone would resent your fate as much as you do,” Niket spoke frankly. “You have a nice house. Nice room. Nice clothes. Fucking...palatial gardens. Provided you don't piss him off, your Dad usually gives you enough money to buy anything you want, within his rules.”

“That makes up for being an experiment?” Miranda shot back instinctively.

“For some people, it would, yeah,” he pointed out with a shrug. “Don’t get me wrong, Miri. I’m not saying it’s great to be raised by a loveless jackass or that you’re wrong for hating him and wanting out, but there are plenty of people who would trade their life for yours in an instant. I mean, you’ve told me how he treats you. And, sure, he’s strict, but not to where you’d say he’s violent or he beats you. Some people aren’t that lucky.”

Wow. Miranda was hardly a sensitive person, but that comment was a dagger in her heart. She’d confided in Niket about her father’s cruelty because she trusted him. Nobody else knew, who wasn't an accomplice to it. To hear him downplay what she went through only twisted the knife her father had put there long ago.

“If those people want my life so much, they can have it,” said Miranda, trying not to show how deeply it hurt to hear Niket undermining everything she endured under her father's toxic influence. “It’s not my fault they don’t.”

“It's not about fault. It's about reality. Some people not only have shit fathers, but they get to be dirt poor too. I should know. It was my reality,” Niket countered, his words chastening Miranda into silence. She didn't know enough about the outside world to compare experiences. She barely knew anything about the outside world that she hadn't read in books, or learned about from a screen.

Maybe Niket was right. Maybe other people did have it worse than her. Far worse. Maybe she was selfish, ungrateful and privileged. Then again, she’d never told him her very real fear that her father might…murder her one day.

Niket could probably only imagine her father throwing her out on the street if she displeased him, or if he decided it was time to replace her. At worst, he probably expected her father might sell her off to some stranger to be their “daughter” instead of his. Killing her, though? That wasn’t something Niket would have predicted, unless she brought it up as a possibility. And Miranda hadn’t.

She didn’t want Niket to know of that risk. If he did, Miranda could picture him acting rashly to protect her, dismantling their carefully crafted escape plan.

Niket wasn't like her. He was more passionate than she was. More emotional. Normal, presumably. Miranda may not have understood normal people very well at all, but she did have feelings. And she knew well enough that getting emotional could cause a loss of control. Bad judgement. So what did that mean for someone who lacked her restraint? Someone who didn't have years of practice at suppressing their instincts? At suffocating those feelings?

Miranda couldn't trust what Niket might do if he had a reason to hate her father as much as she did. That was why it wasn’t worth telling him the truth. But, even so, he was the last person she would have expected to second-guess her desire to escape this gilded cage.

“I’ve never claimed to have the worst life in the world. I know I don’t,” Miranda continued, her voice quieter, defending herself as calmly as she could.

“No. Don’t worry about that,” Niket assured her, regretting his poor choice of words. “I’m not saying I…Look, when it comes to getting you out of here, I’m with you all the way. Don’t ever think I’m not. That’s not an issue with me.”

“Good,” said Miranda, still offended by the fact he’d even brought it up. He’d explicitly confirmed that all the things she’d told him about her father didn’t qualify him as a cruel man in his eyes, and that Miranda's problems weren't real problems. What more was there to say? “Then let’s not discuss it.”

“Miri…” He reached out to her apologetically, but she brushed him off.

“We don’t need to talk about this,” she stated firmly, smothering her own emotions, putting up her defences. “Just get it done.”

*    *     *

“Come on. Where are they?” Miranda complained, growing tired of waiting for the bulk of her team to catch up. Honestly, she was faster hobbling on a crutch than these grunts were at full fitness. With tanks. “Ox team, report. I need an ETA on those bulldozers. We're in search grid V-44A. What's taking you so bloody long to reach us?” Miranda asked, impatience starting to get the better of her.

She'd used up her last political favour to organise this effort. This was the last big chance they would have to find anyone alive. If this failed, there would be no do-overs. No second chances. As far as they ventured in the next three days would be as far as they would go for a while. It might be months before they expanded the habitable zone of London any further again.

Every second counted. They had to make the most of what little time they had.

“Apologies, Director Lawson,” the comms crackled in her ear. “We picked up some readings of instability in the area. Almost like seismic activity. Our crew is checking it out. We're waiting on an all clear from them before the vehicles advance. Don't want to open up a sinkhole by accident.”

“A warning would have been nice. Run a scan,” Miranda commanded the soldier on her right. She would have used her own omni-tool to do the job, but her arm was busy supporting her weight, and she didn't have a spare. The soldier dutifully obeyed. “We'll continue searching the area on foot ahead of you. Keep me updated on your progress. Time is short, and this debris won't clear itself. Find another path to us if you have to.”

“Roger that. Ox out.”

“Useless,” Miranda muttered under her breath. This was why she preferred to work alone. At least she knew she could rely on herself to get things done. But this was the kind of operation that required a lot of bodies on the ground. Hers was just one of several teams conducting their wide-scale push across the city. Jacob was leading one. Wrex another.

The efforts to coordinate between the Council races had also paid off. The human, asari and turian military forces on the ground had all organised their own teams as well. Miranda's team was even partially comprised of Alliance soldiers, but mostly those who had already been working in close concert with Bailey. Nobody really seemed to care that they were taking their orders from him. What mattered was that, in total, their search and rescue must have consisted of at least a thousand people, if not more. It was a start.

“I'm not reading anything. Then again, their scanners are stronger than mine,” the soldier on her right remarked. Miranda rolled her eye, deciding to make use of the people already with her, and do the rest herself.

Bailey wouldn't like her doing any heavy lifting. Miranda was useful to him, after all. If she got hurt, he lost a valuable asset. But screw it. He could sanction her if he had a problem with it.

“You, do a full sweep of that building. You, over there,” she commanded, gesturing with her crutch, splitting the relief crew off into groups to search the street for survivors, supplies and paths through the wreckage. That way, the demolition, clearance and salvage teams could plough through without wasting any more valuable time when they finally did arrive. “You two, come with me,” she instructed impatiently, heading into a dilapidated ruin of a building personally, not bothering to wait for the bulldozers.

“Yes, Director Lawson.” Everyone followed her orders without question, including the two Alliance soldiers who began to follow her.

It was the middle of the day, but the skies were still dark from the dust. Miranda hadn't forgotten how difficult it was to tell time in the wasteland. Even the brightest hours of the day felt like dusk. And it was cold. It was always cold now.

Miranda approached the only building that hadn't half-collapsed. An office block, with a lobby and reception area on the ground floor. Its exterior was still largely intact, bar the windows, which were all gone, shattered during the battle. Parts of the outer walls had come down, exposing the insides, as if a Reaper had blasted a hole in one side of the building.

“Get a light in there, would you?” Miranda instructed. One of the soldiers complied, the other continuing to run scans as he had before. The flashlight washed over the inside of the building. It was a mess. Some of the upper floors had fallen down into the lobby. Broken desks, computers, wires and lights hung from a half-broken ceiling. The sad thing was, that was a vast improvement over most places they'd come across. At least this one was still standing.

“Director Lawson, my scan couldn't penetrate too deep, but I'm detecting a possible source of the instability,” the male soldier, Alexei Resnikov, told her. “There are cavernous openings right below us.”

“Cavernous openings?” his squadmate echoed, a woman named Keiko Yoshizawa. “You mean the London underground? Or a car park? Here on Earth, we don't all travel by skycar, space cowboy. It's not like a space station. In case you haven't noticed, some of us still use roads and rails to get around.”

“How rustic,” Resnikov remarked with a snort.

“Knock it off,” Miranda ordered, bringing their pointless chatter to a swift and sudden end. “You mentioned the underground. We haven't been able to access it this far out. But if there is a station near here, that would be a likely place to find survivors. It's safe, it may still have leftover food and water, and the tunnels provide an easy path across the city. Until you hit the cave-ins, anyway.”

“Yeah. That makes sense.” Yoshizawa nodded, bringing up a holographic map. “We're heading in the right direction. The nearest one isn’t far from here. Cutting through this place is probably the easiest way, since the streets are blocked.”

“Why are you standing around like you're waiting for a taxi, then? Get moving,” Miranda spoke curtly, prompting the two soldiers to go on ahead of her. They didn't hesitate to comply.

She followed them into the lobby. It was even darker than outside, the air filled with a heavy cloud of particles. Miranda paused long enough to lift up her scarf, covering her nose and mouth. Ceiling panels and broken light fixtures were dangling down from the floor above, like vines in a thick jungle. Thankfully, there was no electricity to worry about. But it still required a little caution not to get tangled up in the wires as they moved through.

Resnikov and Yoshizawa's torches were the only light source, beams flashing through the shadow as they examined the scene. They made it maybe halfway across the floor before their path hit a dead end.

“This could be a problem,” said Resnikov, torchlight finding no longer finding any promising gaps they could manoeuvre through. “The upper floors have completely caved in ahead of us. We're blocked.”

“There's an elevator shaft,” Yoshizawa pointed out, nudging her beam of light towards it. “Given this building has underground parking, there should be a ramp or a stairwell to take us out the other side.”

“Should be?” Resnikov emphasised, clearly sceptical. “Look, I already saw an entrance ramp near where we came in, and that was totally clogged. If there is another exit, we can't guarantee it won't be blocked by rubble too.”

“So let's check,” Yoshizawa insisted.

“Pry the lift open,” Miranda ordered, willing to chance it. Yoshizawa set to work.

A slight tremor passed through the building. Dust sprinkled down from above.

“Did you feel that?” asked Resnikov.

“Nothing to worry about,” Miranda assured him, shaking her head, clearing the dirt from her hair, blinking it out of her eye. “We're not going to be in here for long.” Even as she spoke, the strange ripple coursed through the foundations once again. She furrowed her brow. “...Wait a moment. That isn't coming from above us,” she observed, concentrating on the subtle disturbance.

It happened again, shaking the ground beneath her feet. These tremors were happening in steady intervals, their tempo too precise to be something random. It almost sounded like a slow, low-pitched drumbeat.

“It feels like there's something underneath us,” said Resnikov.

“Whatever it is, it's sending out a pulse of some kind,” Miranda murmured, thinking aloud. “A signal, maybe.” If she was right about this, that would suggest there really were survivors in the tunnels. Perhaps these vibrations were somebody's way of trying to get the attention of anyone on the surface.

“Alright. We're clear.” Yoshizawa backed away from the doors after wrenching them apart as far as they would go, gesturing for the two of them to go ahead.

Miranda took a quick look inside. The fortunate thing about this building being largely intact was that the lift didn't seem to have been destroyed, meaning there were no obstructions at the bottom of the shaft. By sheer luck, the steel cables were still in one piece, supporting the weight of the elevator, which must have been hanging somewhere above her, frozen due to lack of power.

It was odd to still see an elevator with this design. Miranda had forgotten how low-tech parts of Earth could be, especially in old cities like London, where past architecture often survived through retrofitting, or, as in the case of the underground, a sense of tradition. 

This building may have stood largely unchanged for a hundred years, for all Miranda knew. Maybe longer.

“Hold this,” Miranda stated. It wasn’t a request, giving her crutch to Yoshizawa before the soldier could ask what she intended. Miranda biotic-pulled the cables towards her, rappelling down the shaft and swinging out onto the level below. The landing wasn't particularly gentle on her knee, which was nowhere near healing from the shuttle accident, but she could live with the discomfort. It was dark down there. Pitch black, almost. But she saw sunlight ahead.

“You were right. There is a way out,” she told them, lowering her scarf long enough to be heard, leaning against the wall to take the weight off her leg while she waited for them to follow her lead. Part of the wall on the far side of the building had collapsed, leaving a hole and a pile of rubble that led back up to the surface. Probably where an emergency stairwell used to be.

“What would you have done if there wasn't?” Yoshizawa asked on her way down.

“Climb,” Miranda answered bluntly. She was one-armed and wounded, but she wasn't useless, for heaven's sake.

She felt the tremor again. It seemed louder than before.

It was oddly familiar to her, but far too faint to place. What was it? It was like a word on the tip of her tongue. If she could just put her finger on it...

Soon enough, the three of them made it back to the surface, manoeuvring around debris on their way to the station, which wasn’t far ahead. If someone was using the tunnels to get around, Miranda admired their cleverness. It would have saved her a lot of trouble if she could have done the same, but alas she hadn't found an intact tube station during those five days she spent crawling through the wasteland. Intellectually, she was sure she would have passed more than one, but they must have been buried under debris, or otherwise inaccessible.

On the other hand, if she'd gotten stuck down there, Samara never would have found her. Given the state of her injuries, even if there had been one nearby with any food and water left, it probably wouldn't have kept Miranda alive. She would have succumbed to her wounds eventually, and died alone of sepsis. Her bad luck had been good fortune, as it turned out.

“That's it right there,” Resnikov pointed out, approaching the steps that led to the underground. They were partially obstructed – debris from the very building they'd just left, most likely.

“Stand back,” Miranda said, using her biotics to clear a path into the station, blasting away the pile of loose rubble that blocked the entrance. It was then that something clicked in her mind.

Of course. Miranda knew what the sound she'd heard before was. That was why it seemed so familiar.

Detonations. Someone was causing biotic detonations down there.

But for what purpose?

“Still plenty to scavenge here,” said Resnikov, his flashlight moving over to a small, abandoned kiosk. The security grating had already been bent by looters, probably months ago. But they hadn't taken everything. “Hey, Tupari. Love this stuff.”

“I only drink Paragade,” Yoshizawa remarked.

“Your loss.” Resnikov bent down beneath the warped security shutter and picked up a can, stowing it away for later.

“There's that sound again,” Yoshizawa commented as they passed through the ticketing gates, heading down the stairs and towards the station platforms, following the sound. She activated her omni-tool, analysing the noise. “There. It's coming from that tunnel. North of here.”

Yoshizawa jumped down onto the tracks, quickly followed by Resnikov. Miranda ignored Resnikov's unspoken offer of assistance, easing herself down unaided.

This wasn't the first time Miranda had explored the underground since getting back on her feet. Her first search and rescue operation under Bailey's command had taken her through the carcass of a train, not far from Paddington station. Their hopes of finding anyone holed up inside the carriage had quickly dwindled when they realised the train had been swarmed by Reaper forces long before the final battle. There were no survivors.

“Hello?” Resnikov called out, his voice reverberating off the walls. “Is anybody there?” Squeaking rats scurried through the darkness. Miranda hid her growing physical discomfort as she limped behind her troops.

Yoshizawa went on ahead, leaving Resnikov to help light Miranda's way. Miranda watched her silhouette head further into the hollow, claustrophobic chamber, the small circle of light hitting the walls ahead. Abruptly, the sound happened again. This time, it shook the ground they were standing on.

“Director! That was right ahead of us!” Yoshizawa instinctively rushed towards the noise, disappearing around a bend in the tunnel. Miranda hastened after her, listening to the young soldier speak with whoever it was that was causing these detonations. “Hello? Can you hear me?” Yoshizawa paused. “It's alright; I'm a rescuer. I'm with two others right now, but there's more above us.”

That confirmed it then. There were survivors down here.

She came around the corner to see Yoshizawa at a thick blockage in the tunnel. It looked like part of the road above had collapsed, leaving an impassable obstacle of concrete, metal and earth. Probably the footprint of a Reaper.

“Please! You have to help us,” a muffled voice pleaded from behind the debris. Miranda could barely make it out, even as she got closer. But she sounded young. Younger than Oriana. “We're stuck back here!”

“Keep them calm; I'll call it in,” Miranda ordered. “Sweep team, we have survivors trapped in a collapsed metro tunnel in grid V-44A. We need a drill to get them out.”

“You're going to be fine,” Yoshizawa answered back to the anxious voice. “Just hold tight. We'll dig you out of here.”

“Teach, they're telling us to stop,” another voice spoke, a male this time. “Maybe you should cool it with the detonations? You've been at this for way too long. You're going to wear yourself out at this rate.”

“No. Screw that,” a third voice sharply replied. Older than the others, but no less impetuous. “Seanne needs help now, Prangley. Not later. I'm sure as hell not sitting here in the dark counting on a bunch of assholes who can't do a damn thing to help us to be our only way out. We're doing this my way!”

The entire tunnel shook as a brutal burst of biotic force smashed into the wall.

Miranda whirled around, startled by the shockwave that rocked the ground underfoot. “What the hell is wrong with you?! Are you trying to get us all killed?!” she shouted through the obstruction, livid at the woman’s recklessness.

“If I stop, Seanne dies!” the obscured voice answered back, followed by another biotic combination. Chips of concrete and dust sprayed everywhere. With so little time to react, Miranda didn't know whether she should prioritise keeping her balance or shielding her eye from the fallout. Instinctively, she ended up choosing the latter when a second strike occurred.

A small shard of concrete grazed her cheek, opening a cut. With one last roar, the rogue biotic slammed into the obstruction, finally blowing open a gap in the debris. Miranda saw her shadow fall forwards, onto her outstretched palms, panting for breath, visibly worn out.

The woman arose from the ground, onto her knees, holding up a hand and squinting against the blindingly bright beams of light that Yoshizawa and Resnikov were pointing at her, both soldiers staring at her, too stunned to move.

Miranda's breath caught.

It couldn't be.

This wasn't possible.

“Ow. Hey, cool it with the damn flashlights, will you?” the figure groaned in discomfort, turning away to let her eyes adjust after living in darkness for so long.

“Jack?” Miranda said in disbelief, astonished to see that all too familiar face.

Judging by the silence that followed, Jack recognised Miranda's voice immediately, now that there was no wall blocking the sound. “Oh, fu—crying out loud...” Jack reluctantly swallowed the urge to curse in front of her kids. Of all the people she could have run into...

Miranda quickly recovered from the shock.

“What were you thinking?!” Miranda scolded, marching right up to Jack, despite her impairment. Not the consummate professionalism her soldiers expected from her, but her anger was warranted. “Do you have any idea how unstable the buildings are above us? This whole area is on the verge of collapsing in on itself! While you were blasting away like a lunatic, this entire tunnel could have caved in on top of you, and taken me and my people with it.”

“So? It didn't. I didn't know you were up there, anyway.” Jack shrugged as she stood up, doing her best to block out the headache-inducing onslaught of those torches shining directly into her face, barely even able to make out Miranda's silhouette, despite standing right in front of her. “Hey you, point those fucking things somewhere else,” she grumbled at Miranda's team, clearly a threat.

“Language, teach,” one of Jack's group spoke up.

“Ah, ffff...” Jack trailed off into a groan.

“You'd been doing so well, too,” another student joked.

“Hey, laugh it up later. We aren't out of here yet. And we still need to get Seanne to a doctor,” Jack said, her tone stern but fair, calmer now that they'd made contact with someone she knew, even if it wasn't someone she liked. She turned back to Miranda, her eyes still adjusting to the light. “Isn't that the part where you come in? What's the hold up, cheerleader?” she asked, gesturing at her to hurry it up.

Miranda shook her head and sighed with exasperation, activating her earpiece once more. “Ox, this is Lawson. Belay that order on the machinery. It's no longer necessary,” she informed them. “We're extracting the survivors on foot.”

“Roger,” the earpiece crackled in reply. “We'll meet you back at the square.”

Miranda closed the channel, glancing at her old squadmate. “I'll get you and your students the help you need. You're welcome, by the way,” Miranda muttered.

She heard Jack snort. “I never thanked you.”

“I noticed,” Miranda curtly replied.

“Yo, you two know each other?” one of Jack's students asked, the entire group of them beginning to emerge through the hole behind her one after the other. There weren't that many. Probably ten all up.

“We're acquainted,” Miranda answered dryly.

Jack uttered a sardonic snort, evidently having more choice words in mind to describe her history with Miranda. To her credit, she refrained from sharing them. This wasn't the time. Not with her kids depending on her. That didn't escape Miranda's attention. It was a far cry from what the old Jack would have done.

In that moment, in the torchlight, Miranda saw Jack wiping beads of sweat from her brow. It was no secret that using biotics consumed a lot of energy. Biotics who actively used their powers might have to eat three times more than a normal person just to function, if not more. Jack was holding herself together admirably, but she looked drained. Miranda softened, reminded of how she'd battled with exhaustion during her own struggle to survive.

“Resnikov, give her that Tupari of yours,” Miranda said, thinking that might help Jack recover some blood sugar.

“Sure thing, Ms. Lawson,” Resnikov responded, handing Jack the can.

“...I could use a boost,” Jack reluctantly murmured, which was about the closest she could get to an admission of gratitude, at least where Miranda was concerned. She cracked open the drink, and started chugging it.

“We should get moving,” said Miranda, shifting focus to what mattered. This place didn't exactly scream stability. “I don't want to stay in this tunnel longer than we need to. Resnikov, Yoshizawa, give Jack's students a hand, would you?”

“Will do,” Yoshizawa responded, nodding her head, she and her comrade heading over towards the small gap in the debris, where the students were awkwardly squeezing their way through the hole one by one.

Jack's eyes widened when the two passing torches suddenly washed over Miranda's form. She nearly choked on her drink, taken aback when she finally saw her old squadmate illuminated as more than a dark silhouette hidden in shadow.

“Whoa. Holy shit. What the hell happened to you?” Jack coughed to clear the mis-swallowed drink from her throat, startled at the sight of Miranda's extensive injuries. She hadn't been expecting that.

“Looks worse than it is.” Miranda turned away, not sure she wanted to hear Jack's take on her condition. Not that she was bothered by how she looked. She just knew Jack would have a bloody field day with it.

“Yeah, no shit. 'Cause you look like you should be dead. I mean, seriously, what the fuck? Did you get in a fist fight with a thresher maw?” Jack questioned, in what sounded like a snicker, shock quickly giving way to twisted humour.

“Something like that,” Miranda drawled offhandedly, only half-listening to Jack's comments, concentrating on counting heads as Resnikov and Yoshizawa tended to the students. Jack's mockery didn't really matter to her. She had other priorities.

“Hey, if you ask me, having half your face blown off is a huge improvement.” Jack shrugged casually. “For you, anyway. Garrus would say it gives you character.”

“Right,” Miranda distractedly replied, scarcely paying attention.

“How bad's the scar?” Jack asked, trying to glimpse beneath the bandages.

“Don't know. Hasn't healed yet,” Miranda answered, gradually losing patience.

“From the looks of things, I bet it's real fuckin' ugly,” Jack said, smirking.

“Are you done?” Miranda ignored the comment, already bored with this.

“Not even close. I haven't even started making fun of your arm yet.” Jack grinned mischievously, enjoying this way too much to quit anytime soon. “Want me to shut up? Clap once for yes, zero times for no.”

Miranda just stared at her expressionlessly, not offended but not amused.

“Instructor?” a young woman called out. Miranda glanced up to see several of the students huddled over one of their own, the last one to be brought through the gap Jack had created. All appeared desperately worried. Their friend looked faint. Pale. Almost green. “Seanne's getting worse again. She's burning up.”

“I know, Rodriguez. You did good, taking care of her. But these jerks will handle it from here,” Jack spoke, calm and confident. “Drink your juice, and let them carry her. Except you, Reiley. You can stay by her side. Miranda will make sure she gets all the help she needs. Or, if she doesn't, I'll punch a hole in her stomach,” Jack assured them, and Miranda knew that threat was a guarantee. 

In Jack's mind, anyway.

“No need for that,” Miranda said, having no intention of impeding the girl's treatment. “Let's get moving. The sweep team will meet us on the surface. They'll take your friend to a hospital.”

“Okay.” Rodriguez nodded, comforted by that promise. The boy they’d identified as Reiley gave Seanne's hand a gentle squeeze, staying by her side as Resnikov and Yoshizawa picked her up, draping her arms over their shoulders. The poor girl could barely walk. She probably didn't even know where she was.

“The station's not far,” Miranda said, limping alongside Jack, ahead of the others. It was good that they were getting an opportunity to speak before meeting the rest of the team. Despite their strained history, there were details she wanted to know from her, and she was sure Jack could say the same.

Over a month had passed since the war ended. Jack didn't know a damn thing about what had happened in that time. About Shepard, and the Normandy...

“These are all your students?” Miranda asked, aware of Jack's role as a mentor to gifted biotics in the Ascension Program. She'd learned about that long ago, having kept tabs on her former squadmates while she was on the run from Cerberus, to the extent that it was possible to do so. Jack had spoken fondly about her 'tykes’ back at Shepard's apartment on the Citadel. That makeshift reunion seemed like a world away. It was strange to think how recent it was.

Shepard had invited them all to that party, gathering the whole gang together on a whim, knowing it would be the last opportunity to do something like that before they took on Cerberus and the Reapers. Back then, Miranda had wondered how many of those faces would never see the light of day again. Now, she knew at least part of that answer, but the fates of all but a handful of their group were a mystery.

“Yeah. These are my kids. All the ones who lived.” Jack instantly dropped what remained of her joking demeanour, an uncomfortable hint of stark seriousness crossing her face. Miranda recognised the shift in her expression – it betrayed the presence of a deep sense of responsibility.

She blamed herself for everyone she'd lost, a burden Miranda knew too well. The difference was, Jack actually cared about the people under her command. She loved those kids. And she'd had to watch some of them die.

“What happened?” Miranda encouraged, urging her to share her story.

“We were stationed a ways south of here during the fighting, managed to escape north when the big wave hit. There was an outpost near us. Emphasis on was. Went there first, but no survivors. We holed up there for a while because it had some food and water. We figured, if anyone else had survived, somebody would fly over and spot us eventually, but nobody ever did. Once there was nothing left above, I came down to the tunnels; I figured the train lines were our best chance of crossing the city,” she explained.

“You were probably right. Much of the surface is impassable, and our search and rescue teams would have had no chance of reaching you. This is the first time we've gone so far northeast,” Miranda commented. “You would have been stranded out there. Staying above ground would have meant certain death. It nearly was for me.”

“Not sure this was much better,” Jack mumbled to herself, crushing the empty Tupari can and throwing it aside, her frustration becoming evident. “I thought it was a good deal. I mean, we found shit to eat and drink, they were safe places to sleep in, and there's not as many dead things as there are in the streets. But we'd always hit blocks in the tunnels. We'd either find another station nearby, or dig our way through. Eventually, I figured we'd be better off staying in one place for a while. Hunker down. Try to radio out or something.” Jack drew a deep breath, releasing it in a heavy sigh. “But I fucked up. I got too comfortable, and I stayed put when I should have been making ground.”

“How do you mean?” Miranda pressed.

“A few days ago, Seanne started throwing up,” Jack told her. “For a while, I thought it was best to keep her in one place and hope it would pass. But it's gotten worse. Her fever is out of control. I know she's dehydrated, but any fluid we give her won't stay down. She just vomits it up again. Her brother has to sit there and watch her waste away. I don't know if it was dirty water or if the rats got to her...”

“Don't worry. A drip in her arm will do her a world of good,” Miranda assured her. Jack looked down at her feet, visibly troubled to think she'd caused this – that she might lose another student, through nothing but her own poor judgement.

Jack shook her head, hating how powerless she felt. “Shit, it's my fault. I should have moved faster,” she said, wishing she'd had the sense to realise that something like this might happen. “I could have gotten her to you days ago.”

“Don't blame yourself. You didn't even know we were there,” Miranda reminded her. It was in Miranda's nature to be critical of others, thanks to her father's influence. But she knew how hard it was to navigate the wastes. How desolate they were. How easy it was to get lost, or think you were the last person alive. “You did the best you could for her, and now you've found us. I'll pull whatever strings I can to ensure she gets the best care possible.”

Jack slowly nodded, swallowing as she absorbed that reassurance, setting her mind to the thought that Seanne was going to be okay. For as many issues as she'd had with Miranda, she knew she wouldn't have said any of those things just to be nice to her. Far from it. If she thought Jack was at fault, she would have been the first person to tell her everything she did wrong. Miranda wouldn't have told her things were okay unless she meant it. She took some comfort from that. Everything really was under control now. They were over the worst bit.

“...Yeah. Yeah,” was all Jack said, lost in her own thoughts.

Miranda's expression softened, well aware that this was the most genuine moment she and Jack had ever shared. Not that there was any competition. The loss of so many friends, and the near-destruction of an entire galaxy could put a lot of things into perspective like that.

“Jack?” Miranda spoke again, prompting her to look up. “I'm glad you're okay,” she admitted, willing to be the bigger person in this situation, and to extend the olive branch. And, oddly enough, she actually meant it.

Jack uttered a quiet but authentic laugh, letting her head fall back for a moment. “Yeah, you too,” Jack conceded. Strange, but true. “You're still a cunt, though.”

“Well, we can't change everything,” Miranda remarked, choosing to take that as a term of endearment rather than an insult. Judging from the light chuckle she gave, Jack probably intended it to be both.

For as irreconcilable as their differences had once seemed, they had parted on comparatively good terms the last time they met. Certainly, their brief interactions at Shepard's apartment hadn't magically transformed them into friends or anything like that, but it seemed to have quelled the bulk of the animosity between them, resulting in something perhaps not far removed from mutual respect and tolerance. They appeared to have reached the point where they could mostly co-exist, without lingering feelings of hostility. Miranda could live with that.

“Found anyone else of ours?” Jack asked, breaking Miranda's train of thought.

“No. Well, yes, but...What I mean is, before you, I was the most recent find,” Miranda clarified. “Samara brought me out of ground zero. Saved my life. That was four weeks ago. Jacob was already at the camp. Wrex is there, too. They're both fine. Physically, at least. Since I woke up, Samara's...disappeared, for unknown reasons. We think she's still alive. Everyone else? Not so fortunate. They're all unaccounted for.”

“Ah, shit.” Jack scuffed the ground with her boot. Miranda paused, wondering if she should share the news about Shepard's demise, but she thought better of it. This wasn't the right time. It would only upset her.

Honestly, Miranda didn't like to dwell on it, either. As far as she knew, the four of them were all that remained of the Normandy SR-2.

Her morose ruminations were swiftly silenced. A vicious crack echoed throughout the tunnel, as loud as thunder. She whirled around instinctively, as did Jack, unable to tell where it was coming from. Yoshizawa and Resnikov shone their lights back down the tracks. In the glow, Miranda saw dust trickle from the ceiling, from the same direction where Jack had demolished the blockage.

Oh, bloody hell.

“The tunnel's falling apart. This whole area could cave in at any moment,” Miranda spoke, her firm tone punctuated with an undercurrent of creeping urgency.

“Fuck,” she heard Jack curse beside her, realising she may have triggered this in her reckless haste to get Seanne into the hands of someone who could cure her sickness. “Come on! Double time it!”

Even if they weren't directly under the most precarious point, none of them wanted to take that risk, nor be trapped down there if anything should happen. All it would take was a building being tilted too far to one side, and then countless tonnes of collapsing concrete, glass and metal could leave them trapped inside. If they were lucky enough to survive.

They couldn't afford to let that happen.

“Move, move, move!” Jack pushed the students to run past her. Miranda also made sure Yoshizawa and Resnikov carried Seanne ahead of them, not about to leave anyone behind. Not again. Suddenly, Miranda felt a sharp pain in her injured shoulder. “You too, you crippled motherfucker,” Jack said.

“Hey!” Miranda instinctively protested through gritted teeth when she saw Jack draping her bandaged stump of an arm over her shoulder, all but carrying her out of there. God, it hurt. “Let me go.”

“Fuck that. Joker moves faster than you do,” Jack pointed out.

Miranda couldn't really argue with that. She couldn't run with her left knee practically demolished on the inside.

Miranda swallowed a gasp of pain, trying not to show how much her body was killing her. It felt like Jack was going to tear what little was left of her arm clear out of the socket, or snap her already wounded leg clear in two. Still, she could see the platform getting closer by the second. They'd made it back to the station in one piece, not far behind the others.

Jack jumped up first, extending her hand to pull Miranda up onto the platform behind her, the two of them ascending the stairs to the upper level. They'd made it about halfway through the concourse before Miranda heard the sound from the tunnels below. The very place where they'd been standing a minute ago was no doubt now completely buried under a mountain of earth, bitumen, concrete and twisted metal. It was a good thing they'd left when they did.

“I think we're in the clear for now,” Miranda said, wincing as she gingerly made her way out of the underground and into the ash-clouded sunlight.

“Director Lawson?” Miranda heard a voice over her earpiece. “What the hell was that? Are you okay?”

“We're fine here, Ox. One of the train tunnels collapsed. Fortunately, we weren't in it,” she informed them, taking her last few steps back out onto the street, easing herself back against a nearby skybus shelter, keeping the weight off her throbbing knee, her body reminding her just how injured she still was. “We've located eleven survivors. One critically ill. Can you get through to us at the station?”

“Negative, Director. With that tunnel caving in beneath you, this whole street is one giant catastrophe waiting to happen. Protocols prevent us from moving the dozers in your direction right now, which means we can't get to you. It's simply too dangerous,” the Ox team commander answered back.

Miranda hesitated. Objectively speaking, she understood their decision, and they were only obeying her earlier commands by keeping those priorities in order. But that left them stranded in a precarious position. If the ground shifted again, any one of these buildings could come crashing down on top of them.

“Is there another way around?” Miranda asked over the communicator.

“Another way? We don't have time for another way!” Jack pressed, as if that should have been obvious. “Our best bet is to cut through one of these buildings right now and meet them wherever they are.”

“Jack, please.” Miranda silenced her, focused on her conversation. She couldn't rush this decision. She needed to think. Exasperated, Jack threw her hands up in the air and began to pace back and forth impatiently, Seanne's health weighing heavily on her mind.

“I suppose we could circumvent the area, or try to meet you somewhere else, but honestly there's no telling how long that might take, or if those other paths to you are any safer,” the Ox team coordinator told her straightforwardly. “Besides, that still leaves you in a danger zone. Even if we hurry, it's risky.”

“Look, listen to me,” Jack began, coming back to her once more, trying to present as calm and rational of a demeanour as she could manage. “These structures are already unstable. The longer we sit here and wait, the shakier they're gonna get.” Miranda could hear the undercurrent of emotion in her voice. Jack was doing a good job of staying composed, no doubt knowing Miranda might disregard her advice otherwise. She did tend to be more amenable to a plan presented without yelling or swearing. “So why wait? Let's just punch through here nice and quick. Get out now, while this block still stands.”

Miranda paused, considering her words. A few months ago, she wouldn't have given her input much if any consideration. But that was a different time. Jack really had changed since then.

She wasn't the selfish, violent psychopath Miranda had met last year. Far from it. Instead, Jack had helped her without a second thought, making damn sure everyone got out of that tunnel in one piece. Hell, maybe the person Miranda once thought Jack was never existed. Maybe she'd always been wrong about her.

Plus, it wasn’t lost on Miranda that Jack had managed to do something she hadn’t during the war. She’d kept people alive.

Miranda’s breath shallowed, remembering the faces that haunted her nightmares. The team she’d led to Earth. The Alliance soldiers she’d fought beside at the barricade. The shuttle crew that had come to her rescue. One by one, they’d followed Miranda to their end, like lemmings off the edge of a cliff. Weren’t there enough deaths on her hands?

In that silent moment of reflection and regret, Miranda did something she’d never done before. She second-guessed herself.

“Alright,” Miranda agreed, making the decision to trust Jack's judgement over her own. “There's a car park underneath that building. That's how we reached you. The ramp is obstructed on the other side, but we can climb up through the elevator shaft. Once we're out, the rest of my team should be waiting for us there.”

Jack seemed relieved, though Miranda had a sneaking suspicion that it wouldn't have mattered whether she supported her idea or not. Knowing Jack, she would have disregarded any order to stay put.

“Remain where you are, Ox. We're going to try and reach you. Better that a few of us move through this area on foot than risk the bulldozers triggering a reaction that threatens us all,” Miranda informed them, straightening up once again. “When I return, we'll resume our operations on a different route.”

“Copy that. We'll keep our heavy machinery at a distance just to be safe, but a few of us can head your way to help get the survivors to safety.”

“One survivor is in critical condition. She needs an urgent evac,” Miranda relayed, not sure Seanne would be able to survive the journey back without medical attention. She didn't fail to notice Jack watching her as she spoke to her team, an unreadable expression on her face. Miranda turned away, electing to ignore her.

“Noted. We've already radioed for an emergency medical shuttle. Should be here soon, so just get her to us and we'll load her on. In any event, we'll make sure some medics are there to meet you.”

Miranda breathed a small sigh. That was all they could do. “Alright. Lawson out.”

“Let's go,” Jack didn't hesitate to instruct her kids, eager to get Seanne into proper care. Resnikov carried her through the street and down the loose slope of rubble into the car park unassisted, Yoshizawa focusing on lighting the way once they made it inside.

“Resnikov, you should take Seanne up first,” Miranda advised, recognising that getting the poor girl into the hands of a medic could make a huge difference to her odds of survival. “Get her to the rest of the team and have them bring her to a hospital. Letting her wait here for the rest of us is only an unnecessary delay.”

“I'll need someone else to help me get her up the shaft,” Resnikov answered.

“Reiley should go with her,” Jack spoke up, gesturing to him. “He's her brother.”

“Fair enough.” Miranda nodded. That was as good a reason as any. Without delay, Reiley went into the shaft, scaling the tight space with the aid of the cables. Seanne was still aware enough that she could extend her hands under her own power, letting her brother pull her up, while Resnikov pushed from below.

“We're up,” Resnikov called down. “I'll come back in a few minutes.”

“Hopefully we'll be out by then,” Yoshizawa answered. “Alright. Who's next?”

Two more students went up the cables. Miranda had a good internal clock, which was normally a blessing, but in this case made her uneasy as she took note of how long this evacuation would take. Six more students had to go, followed by herself, Jack and Yoshizawa. She knew why this space made her so tense. If something went wrong, this basement car park was not the place they wanted to be.

“Jack,” Miranda spoke in hushed tones, subtly pulling her aside in the darkness. “Now that Seanne is in good hands, the rest of us should consider taking the long way around,” she suggested. None of them had any pressing need to hurry.

“Why?” Jack shrugged. “We're, what, ten minutes away from getting out?”

“Maybe, but it does occur to me that we're right above that tunnel you inadvertently destroyed,” Miranda pointed out. “Call me overcautious, but that knowledge doesn't exactly make me comfortable about standing here for any prolonged period of time.”

“Don't be a pussy,” Jack said with a snort.

“Better than being dead,” Miranda retorted. Jack blew her off, moving to be with her students. So much for that conversation.

“Okay, you're next.” Yoshizawa gestured for the girl named Rodriguez to come forward. Miranda approached them, standing among the remnants of the group, contemplating running a structural scan on the building, if only to disprove her own doubts. Maybe Jack was right. Maybe she was just being paranoid.

Rodriguez reached out for the cables, a little unsteady on her feet. She caught one, but seemed reluctant to go into the dark space alone. Miranda had noticed consistent signs of anxiety in the girl. She reminded herself to have all these kids scheduled to meet with a crisis counsellor later for a mental health assessment, overburdened though those services were. Post-traumatic stress disorder certainly wasn't out of the realm of possibility for any of—

Suddenly her non-deaf ear pricked up, her thoughts snapping into silence.

Rodriguez flinched and glanced up. “What was that?” she gasped.

Miranda heard it too.

“What was wh—?”

“Get back!” Miranda darted past Yoshizawa, hastily pulling Rodriguez away from the doors, sending them both tumbling to the floor. They escaped the impact by mere moments, Miranda shielding the girl with her body as best she could.

Metal crashed into concrete with crushing force. A concussive blast resonated through the cold, dark space in a deafening echo. Miranda didn't need to guess what had happened. One of the elevator cables had snapped, and the lift had slammed into the ground. From a long way up, it seemed.

“Holy shit,” Jack's voice broke the silence, stunned with shock.

Miranda released a sigh of relief. Wounded though she was, her reflexes were still as fast as ever. She groaned as she picked herself up, resting back on her good knee. “You okay?” Miranda asked with a grimace, checking on Rodriguez.

“Yeah. Thanks,” the girl answered, shell-shocked, but unharmed. “What about you?” she asked in return, not so sure she could say the same about her saviour.

Miranda stifled a wince, trying not to let it show just how badly her body hurt after doing that. “I'll be fine. Just give me a minute.” She waved her off, not quite sure her leg wouldn't just buckle underneath her if she tried to stand.

Rodriguez didn't question her, silently handing Miranda her crutch for whenever she was ready to use it. She got back to her feet, giving Miranda her space.

Jack watched on. Miranda could feel her scrutiny, feel those eyes assessing her. She was painfully conscious of it, in fact.

Jack was the only one among them who knew what Miranda was capable of before the war. She'd seen her at her strongest. To everyone else, the fact that Miranda could do anything at all must have made her seem like a superwoman, which wasn't entirely inaccurate to be fair. But not Jack. Jack could recognise just how badly Miranda was struggling. How much pain she would have to be in to be unable to stand. How much weaker she truly was.

From her silence, Miranda knew it was already too late. Jack had seen through her efforts to keep it hidden as soon as her mask had slipped. The only saving grace was that Miranda was quietly confident that Jack wouldn't give a shit.

“Well, I guess we're not climbing out,” Yoshizawa broke the silence, shining her torch in the shaft. Sure enough, the cables were broken now.

Suddenly, Miranda heard a shrill, high-pitched scream. Followed by another, and another. The sound crescendoed, like the swell of a rising wave, voices yelling out in horror, but their cries were drowned out by sickening cracks from above. Yoshizawa pointed her flashlight upwards. What Miranda saw there made her blood turn cold, and the rest of her freeze in place.

The floor above them was crumbling. The entire building was breaking apart. And it was coming down on top of them.

People often said stupid things about how time slowed when death was imminent. Miranda could attest otherwise. It happened incredibly fast. Too fast for even her to possibly react, even with her heightened reflexes. She heard the upper levels cascading down on top of each other, entire storeys sliding loose and falling into the streets below, the levels of the building collapsing in on themselves one by one. Dust and debris rained down from above, filling up the elevator shaft. Deep gashes burst open in the ceiling as the immense mass bore down upon them.

Miranda instinctively raised her hand and looked away, realising it was too late. But nothing happened. Seconds passed, and she was still alive.

A faint blue glow washed across her face, prompting her to glance up and scan the area. All she could hear was the thunderous pounding of her own heartbeat, her thoughts racing to assess the situation.

Then she saw it. Miranda was awestruck.

Jack was single-handedly holding up the building, using only her biotics.

“What in the...How are you doing that...?” Yoshizawa gasped in awe.

Jack grimaced, her body shaking as blue biotic light dimly illuminated the darkness around her. “Whatever you're going to do, do it fast. I don't know how long I can hold this.”

Miranda knew that was no exaggeration. Frankly, it was a miracle she was doing this at all. Anyone else would have been flattened instantly. Anyone else but the most powerful human biotic ever to live.

A quick glance at their surroundings revealed that the way they'd just come in was sealed shut, too much debris having fallen behind Jack. That meant the other exit was their best hope – the only chance they had. But they wouldn't get anywhere unless Ox team could help dig them out from the other side.

“Over there!” Miranda pointed to their best way out, pushing herself up to her feet, leaning heavily on her crutch. “Everybody move as fast as you can. We'll need to dig our way out,” she urged, and Yoshizawa didn't hesitate to follow her direction.

“Come with me!” the soldier commanded, leading Jack's students towards the debris blocking the ramp. They quickly began pulling at every loose bit of rubble they could find, grabbing nearby bits of steel to help wedge fallen chunks of concrete out of place.

Miranda activated her earpiece. “Resnikov, do you read me?”

“Yeah. We're all okay over here. The top part of the building just collapsed and fell off, but it looks like it stabilised somehow,” Resnikov replied back.

“From where I'm standing, it's not looking very stable. We're still trapped in the car park underneath. And now the way we came in is blocked,” Miranda replied, keeping her tone as calm as she could, given the circumstances. Panicking would help nobody.

“What? Shit...” Resnikov swore on the other end of the line.

“Listen to me, I need you to gather everyone you can to start digging us out from your side. Everything. Bulldozers. Machines. People. There's still nine of us trapped down here, with no other way out,” Miranda instructed, tension running high.

“But...Director! I...The protocol—!” a different voice came over the channel.

“Override the fucking protocol!” Miranda snapped into her communicator, momentarily losing her cool. It was warranted. This situation was hanging on a knife's edge. If they didn't act immediately, they would die. They would all die.

Emergencies didn't come more urgent than this.

“...We'll do everything we can. Hold on,” Resnikov replied.

Then the channel went quiet.

Miranda swallowed, adrenaline coursing through her system. She didn't do fear. She didn't get scared. But the stakes of the situation were not lost on her. They should have already been dead. The only reason they weren't was...

She glanced back at Jack. Standing alone. Shaking under the strain. Burning with biotic light. Carrying the weight of an entire building on her back.

She was damn near tearing herself apart to try and save them. But she was a long, long way from that blocked exit ramp. Even if they opened up a gap, how the fuck were they supposed to get Jack out without the building falling down on top of them?

No. That wasn't an option. Past grievances between them meant nothing anymore. Jack was part of her crew. And Miranda wasn't about to let someone who'd fought at her side for the future of all organic life die if she could possibly help it. She would think of something. She had to.

With that in mind, she headed back for her. Miranda may have been crippled, but she still had her biotics. If she could just take the pressure off Jack for a little while, maybe she could buy them all enough time.

Jack eyed Miranda like she'd lost her mind, watching her hobble across the distance between them. “The fuck are you doing?” Jack asked, teeth clenched, barely able to move her lips given how hard she was concentrating.

“Saving your life,” Miranda coolly answered, raising her one good arm, adding her strength to Jack’s, beginning to feel just how tenuous the structure actually was through the 'fingers' of her biotic field. She couldn’t do much, but that dim blue glow grew a little bigger, and a little brighter.

“More like dooming us all,” said Jack, visibly wincing. Miranda didn't want to think about how badly it must have been hurting her, holding this building up by herself.

From Miranda's meagre contributions, she could tell that Jack was using her biotics in two different ways. First, to make the building lighter, to the extent that she could. Second, exerting force – a barrier to hold it up. Miranda was carrying only a fraction of the weight that Jack was, not from lack of trying. Even that was enough to give her a sense of just how monumental this feat truly was. How was it even possible to have this much power, let alone this much control?

“We don't have time for this. Get them out of here,” Jack said, jerking her head towards the ramp, the students and the soldier trying in vain to dig their way out. “I'd do it myself, but...” A tremor running through the building above them cut off whatever Jack intended to say. She looked like she was about to either throw up or pass out, but she endured. Somehow.

“We have a fleet of rescuers converging on our position as we speak,” Miranda assured her, not worried that the machines could dig out an opening. That's what they were there for.

“Yeah, good for you, but in case you haven't noticed, I'm kinda busy keeping us from getting flattened. If I move, we're toast,” Jack pointed out, managing a roguish laugh despite the stress her body was under. “Much as I'd like to bring this building down on top of you and take you down with me...” She trailed off, briefly meeting Miranda's gaze. She couldn't even pretend she was considering that anymore, much as the old Jack would have. “Well, that would set a bad example for the tykes. And I wouldn't want to do you the favour.”

“That's not going to happen. To either of us,” said Miranda, glancing over her shoulder to see a sliver of light as the team outside began clearing the ramp. A hiss escaped her as the weight of the building shifted again. “If we can just brace the ceiling long enough, they can get in a crane to hold this up for us, or knock the upper floors down away from us—”

“Are you serious?” Jack all but snapped. If her hands weren't otherwise occupied, she would have slapped Miranda on the mangled side of her face. “This building's coming down no matter what we do. I'll hold it as long as I can. But you need to get your stupid ass out of here.”

“Damn it, Jack. You stubborn—” Miranda cut herself off from unleashing any insults. As motivating as her mutual animosity towards Jack had been at times, now was not the time to bicker. “Just hold on.”

“What do you think I'm trying to do?!” Jack shot back, pushed beyond her limits, both mentally and physically. She was giving Miranda an out – giving her former enemy a chance at life by sacrificing her own – and she wasn't taking it. Miranda wouldn’t let her do it. It must have been driving her crazy. “This is fucking bullshit...” Jack commented under her breath, glancing down, as if the burden of her thoughts surpassed the weight of the building.

Miranda couldn’t argue with that assessment.

After a moment, Jack collected herself, and cast a sideways glance at Miranda. “Look, I'm stuck here, but you don't have to be,” Jack said, speaking with the kind of even, straightforward tone Miranda would normally have associated with Shepard. “I don't care about surviving. You just get these kids somewhere safe. Now clear the ramp and get them out before this building comes down on top of us,” she calmly instructed, looking her dead in the eye, though it went against every fibre of her nature to be so composed. Jack would talk to Miranda any damn way it took to get her to do what she told her.

Miranda stared at her. The selfish psychopath she'd met a year ago was nowhere to be seen. Either that, or she'd grossly misjudged her this whole time. Suffice it to say, Miranda was stunned by the depth of the change in Jack. She'd grown more than any of them. It wasn't even close.

Suddenly, Miranda felt a lot more riding on getting Jack out alive than mere duty to an old shipmate. These fleeting moments they'd shared since they'd reunited down in the tunnels, they'd forced Miranda to see Jack as a real person, a three-dimensional person, a complex person, a person who deserved better than the cruel hand life had dealt her. And, if the genuine concern and emotional connection those teenagers had for her was any indication, that person had a lot left to live for.

“Did I stutter or did you lose your ears too?” Jack challenged when Miranda didn’t move. “I'm not making a polite request. I'm giving you a fucking order.”

“I don't take orders from you,” Miranda persisted, refusing to abandon her.

“Get moving. Do it. Get the fuck out,” Jack said, her stance momentarily wavering under the burden of the half-broken building.

For once in her life, Miranda didn't know what to say. No perfect, prepared answers or replies. She was torn. Intellectually, she knew that the smartest thing to do was focus her efforts on clearing the ramp. Get the most people out. Save herself. But the other part of her knew that would mean leaving Jack to die. And she couldn't do that. She couldn't add another name to the list of people she'd lost. She couldn't add another face to the ghosts that haunted her dreams. The people she'd failed to save in this war. The team she'd led to their deaths in London. The friends and crewmates she'd never see again.

The old Miranda would have made the pragmatic decision in a heartbeat. Without hesitation. But Jack wasn't the only person who'd changed. Maybe Miranda's change hadn't been as drastic. But the person who could make that cold, calculated choice didn't exist anymore. Somewhere down the line, she'd learned to care. Sometimes she wished she hadn't. Because, even though she was terrible at it, it couldn't be unlearned.

What was she supposed to choose?

“Jack—”

“Do it or I swear to every fucking god what happened to your fucking face in life will be a fucking cakewalk compared to what I'll do to you in death if you don't get my kids the fuck out of here!” Jack finally snapped, her patience frayed to breaking point, and her meaning deadly serious.

A steely look came over Miranda. Like it or not, Jack was right. Miranda knew what to do; what she had to do. But she would be damned if she was just going to accept it that easily.

“I'm coming back for you, Jack,” Miranda vowed, reluctantly stepping away, much to Jack's relief. She moved as quickly as she could towards the others, adding her biotics to the effort to clear the ramp. The students had made progress, with help from the soldiers on the other side. Miranda could hear machinery through the wall of debris – it sounded like handheld drills. They were starting to cut through.

Pretty soon, they started to see light. Small holes. Each one felt like it was worth its dimensions in gold. Every ray of light was a beacon of hope. They worked frantically on both sides to try and wedge the holes open, digging wherever their hands and their tools found purchase.

“Come on. A little more and we can probably start squeezing through,” Yoshizawa encouraged the students, doing an admirable job of keeping them focused. She wasn't wrong, either. The holes were widening inch by inch. Miranda could hear her team on the other side barking directions to each other, working as hard as they could to get them out.

Just as Miranda tried to peer through the gaps to see what was going on outside, she heard a pylon not far behind her crack, everyone ducking instinctively, most of them certain they just saw the ceiling get about a foot lower. Miranda clenched her teeth, glancing back to Jack. Jack was struggling, the weight gradually pushing her closer to the ground. She was bending, bowing under the pressure. But she didn't buckle. Somehow, she was still enduring. But every passing second must have felt like an eternity.

“Where the bloody hell are those bulldozers?!” Miranda called out through the holes in the debris, slamming her fist into the concrete in frustration.

“They're coming as fast as they can. But I don't know if they can make it in time. The roads aren't clear,” Resnikov told her, from his position just beyond the rubble. Miranda growled, cursing internally. He was right. The street was blocked by too much debris, mostly from all the other buildings that had crashed into the ground during the war.

“Then we keep doing it the hard way,” said Miranda, grabbing her crutch and wielding it like a battering ram, bashing her way through the wall of rubble, even if her one-armed efforts were basically useless.

Eventually, their combined efforts managed to push through the debris, forming a gap just wide enough to get people through. About six different pairs of feet kicked at the hole, knocking away anything that someone could potentially get stuck on. It would have to do.

“Alright, let's move,” Miranda ordered, all but pushing one of Jack's students towards daylight, waiting for them to worm their way through the narrow crack before doing the same with another. It took time for each person to squirm through. It wasn't easy.

“Go, go, go!” Resnikov ordered, still working on wedging the crack open from the other side, stretching the gap further apart, knocking away loose bits of rubble, finding it easier now that they had a little more leverage.

“What about Jack?” asked one of the students, a young man. Miranda hadn't caught his name. “We're not leaving without her!”

“I've got her. Don't worry,” Miranda assured them, heading back for her, limping out across the floor to where Jack stood alone. “Come on, Jack,” she spurred her on, gesturing for her to make a dash for it now that they had a way out. The hole was getting bigger. The light was getting brighter. “There's enough space for us to get through. It's now or never.”

“What part of 'this building will collapse if I'm not standing under it' do you not understand?” Jack shot back, furious with Miranda for endangering herself despite her repeated efforts to get her to leave.

“Is sprinting intellectually beyond you?” Miranda sarcastically countered.

“I'll be dead before I take my first step,” Jack replied, knowing that if she moved for even a second the roof would immediately cave in right above her head. She could feel the crumbling structure like an extension of herself.

Miranda wasn't a fool; she'd felt what Jack was going through. And she knew she was right. But Miranda didn't care anymore. She'd lost too much already. Surviving the war had come at such a cost. She hadn't even begun to fully count the price. If this was going to kill her, then so be it. But she wasn't about to let the universe take one more god damn thing from her. Not without a fight.

“Well, I'm not leaving you behind,” Miranda vowed, a surge of power flaring through her wounded body. Without even thinking, she used her biotics to pull a largely intact column out of the debris pile that had been blocking the exit ramp, slowly prying open a massive, person-sized hole. She didn't even care that moving something so big and dense took a lot out of her, or that she was pushing herself beyond her limits. At a time like this, she couldn't afford to have limits. She strained with effort as she began to tear it free.

“What—?” If Jack had intended to ask what she was doing, she didn't need to. Yoshizawa and the remaining students had to quickly duck and dodge out of the way as Miranda abruptly pulled the column loose and dragged it across the floor. Her biotics were running on sheer determination alone, moving the column into position beside Jack, forcing it to prop up the ceiling beside her. Jack snorted. “Don't be stupid. You know that's not going to hold the building.”

“It doesn't have to. It just needs to last long enough for you to make it out,” Miranda answered her, steadfastly refusing to budge, even as she could feel the effort ripping at the muscles in her arm, and sending piercing jolts of pain through the implant in her brain. Miranda could take it; it was nothing compared to what Jack was suffering.

Jack uttered a hollow laugh. “You're a real fucking cunt, you know that?” she said. Yet again, coming from her that sounded almost like a term of endearment. As much of one as Miranda would ever get from her anyway.

Miranda tasted blood, her teeth grinding together from the exertion. She looked back over her shoulder, leaning heavily on her crutch for support. The person-sized hole she'd torn in the wall meant the last of the students had gotten out easily, together with Yoshizawa. Distant faces watched on from the other side, too sensible to risk going in after them. There was no one left to rescue. Just Jack.

Miranda's gaze narrowed to a glare when she turned back to find Jack still hadn't moved so much as an inch towards her. Both women stood their ground, as if fused to it in a game of self-sacrificial chicken.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Miranda, feeling her pulse quicken as time grew shorter. “Alright, Jack, you wanted to prove something to me? To show how much you've grown, and how much of a better person you are than I am? Well you have. You were right about Cerberus, and I was wrong about you. You're a better person than I am, and you've overcome things that I never could have,” she admitted, willing to acknowledge that Jack's ability to pull herself together and get her life on track had far exceeded anybody's expectations. She'd come the furthest out of all of them, which was a fucking miracle given where she'd started. Was that what she wanted to hear? “You don't have to kill yourself to spite me.”

“Spite you? Man, fuck you. You would win the gold fucking medal in self-centredness. But, news flash: everything isn't always about you,” Jack remarked, giving something between a sneer and a hiss.

“Then why won't you go?” Miranda challenged, her biotics beginning to falter from overuse. She wasn't alone in that. The strain of maintaining her biotic field for so long made bulging veins visible beneath Jack's skin, like her blood vessels were threatening to burst, or pop clean out of her flesh. She wouldn't hold out long, especially given how tired she'd been to begin with.

The more Miranda looked, the more she realised Jack was beyond exhausted. Even the last remnants of her energy reserves were long gone. She was running on empty. She should have been dead by now. Maybe she already was, and they just didn't know it.

“Look. Here's the thing. If I sprinted, I might make it out,” Jack conceded, breathing more heavily by the second, perspiration falling from her dehydrated brow like torrential rain, soaking the ground beneath her quivering feet. “Probably got about a one in twenty shot of making it. Not likely, but it could work. But what about you? You can't even walk, let alone run.”

“I can try,” Miranda replied, not concerned. She could handle herself.

“Or you'll just kill both of us,” Jack pointed out. She'd been watching Miranda, noticing the signs that belied her façade of strength. She knew exactly how sick and injured Miranda still was. She wouldn't make it two steps before being buried beneath the wreckage.

“I'm prepared to take that risk,” Miranda insisted, unwavering. It was worth it, if it gave Jack a chance. Miranda may have survived the war against all odds, but she'd made peace with death a long time ago. Besides, she'd led enough people to their untimely ends. Maybe she deserved to join them.

“Then where the fuck does that leave the tykes?” said Jack, her tone increasingly dark. “Those are my kids. They're mine.” Her stance kept getting lower, like there was someone pressing their hands into her shoulders, pushing her down with all their might. Her strength was slowly wavering. Her arms were shaking like they were about to break off. “Ugh. You know, you really do suck for making me go through this,” she grumbled, but if it was intended to sound resentful, it didn't. More like resigned.

Miranda didn't plan on giving up on her just yet.

“Is the building clear or not?” the voice of Ox team's commanding officer came over her earpiece. Miranda hadn't even been paying attention to the comms, too focused on herself and Jack.

“Ms. Lawson's still in there with a survivor,” Resnikov said. “Should we go back in?”

“No. It's too unstable. I can't send anyone else in after them,” the commander replied. Cold, but sensible. Exactly what Miranda would have instructed in any normal situation. “We can't afford casualties.”

Hearing that motivated Miranda to move closer. “Come on, Jack. Go,” she ordered, prepared to drag Jack kicking and screaming to safety if she had to. If she weren't one-armed and limping, she would have done that already. “I'll hold on to the pylon as long as I can.”

“That won't do shit and you know it,” Jack responded. For all her gifts, Miranda's biotics couldn't hold a candle to Jack's. Especially not now.

“Then what do you suggest?” Miranda snapped. Even when she was trying to save her life, Jack still managed to vex her to no end. Bloody nutcase. “Run for it now and you have a chance. The building is coming down whether you move or not—”

“Damn it, would you shut up and listen to me for five fucking seconds!?” Jack cut her off, sick of Miranda making everything about herself, and her guilt. At that, a spark of recognition flashed across Jack's bloodshot eyes. Maybe there was still away to appeal to Miranda – to talk her out of this senseless self-sacrifice.

“Hey. If you really do regret the way things went down between us, or if you feel the slightest bit of shame about working for Cerberus, then do this for me – you look after those kids,” Jack said, giving her one-time nemesis a long, unwavering look, as if staring into her soul, to see if any part of her deserved to be imbued with that amount of faith. Jack had long doubted that Miranda had any genuine redeeming qualities, but, if there was ever a time for her to show them, this would be it. Maybe saving her life would bring it out of her. “I need you to make sure they land on their feet, okay? They haven't got anyone else.”

“They've got you,” Miranda persisted, continuing to walk forward with her arm outstretched to hold up the pylon, her crutch long abandoned, her knee screaming in pain.

Jack gave a sardonic laugh. Of all the people she would have pictured entrusting her found family to, Miranda wasn't anywhere on that list. Hell, a year ago, Jack would never have pictured there being anyone she cared about, let alone a bunch of kids she considered her own, and protected as fiercely as a lioness defending her cubs. But things changed. She'd grown enough to gain a new perspective.

“Hey, cheerleader,” she began, channelling the Commander who'd given her a chance what seemed like a lifetime ago, “I'm going to be straight with you: part of me still wants to kill you, especially knowing that I'm already dead. Yeah, I admit, you're not as bad as I thought you were. We shared a few drinks, and we had a few laughs back on the Citadel. But I don't trust you for shit. Can't help that. What can I say? You're a fucking snake, alright?

“But, when we took down the Collectors, you showed me something, and that one thing is the reason why I think saving your life right now is worth it. And that's how much you love your sister. How much you gave up to keep her safe, without her even knowing you existed. I didn't understand it before. But I get it now. And that's why I know I can trust you to give my students a good life – a normal life,” Jack said, and she meant it. “Promise me. Promise me you'll take care of my students,” she implored her, blinking back tears that got lost in the sweat pouring down her face. “Treat them the way you'd treat your own sister. Do that, and we're cool.”

“Damn it, Jack,” Miranda didn't know what she hated more, Jack's foolhardy determination to be a bloody hero or the fact that, had she not been injured, she would already have marched over there, bashed her in the back of her head and forcibly dragged her out of the building. If she had just been in a better condition, Jack would already be safe. They wouldn't be having this conversation.

“Promise me, damn it!” Jack demanded, feeling her control beginning to slip.

“You can look after them yourself! Come on. On the count of three, we both let go. And you take my hand and run,” Miranda pleaded with her, in spite of the searing sting that shot through every nerve as she moved closer, biotics firing on overdrive as she reached out, extending her hand to Jack. She was within arm's reach. Fingertips away. “Just do it. Please,” she begged her, not sure how much longer her biotics could hold out. “We're getting out of this together. I won't leave you.”

For a second, it looked like Jack was considering doing exactly that, even if it meant risking them both. Miranda dared to feel hopeful that she'd succeeded in convincing her that she wouldn't take no for an answer. They would thrive together or perish together, just like the old days.

Who would have thought it would be just the two of them?

Suddenly, Miranda heard a sound above her, and felt a sheet of dust rain down onto her shoulders. Jack saw it too. The cracks in the ceiling were rapidly getting worse, spreading across the concrete, threatening to break like glass under the pressure. The roof was about to cave in directly on top of them. Jack's biotics were waning. She'd run out of time.

“Look out!” Jack yelled. Miranda threw up her arm and unleashed what little remained of her biotic reserves to brace the ceiling just a few seconds longer. She heard the roaring wave of destruction advancing towards her from the highest floors of the building. Gravity was about to catch up with them. Fast.

All of a sudden, a sonic boom cut the air. A beam of light shot into the darkness, and abruptly stopped. A hand grabbed Miranda about the waist. Green skin.

Her eye shot wide open with recognition. Shiala. And she was preparing a biotic charge straight back the way she came. Without Jack.

“Wait!” With her last burst of strength, Miranda lunged forward, just barely managing to seize the lapel of Jack's jacket and pull her forward. Reluctantly, Jack gave in, offering no resistance, letting herself be grabbed and dragged towards Shiala. She was still holding up a biotic field, although now it was serving more as a shield against the debris rapidly pelting down around them than a brace, doing little prop up the collapsing building.

Shiala took Jack in her other arm once she got within reach, securing them both as best she could amid the downpour of falling masonry. She crackled with energy, preparing for another charge.

“As soon as we stop, run,” Shiala warned them, her voice nearly drowned out by the cracks that tore through the foundations of the building.

At the last possible moment, she charged back towards the ramp. Less than a split-second later, the very place where they once stood was buried, engulfed in a tidal wave of rubble.

They came to an abrupt stop, a few yards short of the entrance ramp.

“Go!” Shiala pushed Jack ahead, almost throwing her. There were people waiting for them, countless hands reaching, frantically grabbing Jack and pulling her to safety as they all hastened to retreat and take shelter from the impending collapse.

Ignoring the pain in her still injured body, Miranda scrambled for the entrance, narrowly dodging the torrent of falling masonry. Her bad knee buckled, slowing her down. Shiala noticed that she was struggling. She reached back and physically pulled Miranda up the ramp by the scarf around her neck, the two of them dashing and diving out into daylight as the structure came crashing down behind them, barely escaping death.

Miranda didn't even utter a hiss at the blaring flashes of agony blazing through her body, too busy turning to look back at the disaster zone to care if she'd worsened her injuries.

A wall of dust all but exploded out from the collapsing building, swallowing everyone in the street. She raised her arm to protect her face as pieces of the broken building began to rain down onto the street. Shiala threw up a makeshift barrier, which diverted some of the shrapnel. Even so, a few stray projectiles hit Miranda in the side and in her good shoulder as everything that remained of the building fell down on top of itself, leaving only a pile of rubble. It sounded like a freight train driving straight into the ground.

It was all over in seconds. The silence set in, unrelentingly cold. The only thing Miranda could hear beneath the ringing of her ear was her own heavy breathing, and the thundering of her heart as she dared to look up through the dust cloud.

The building had been flattened. Everything had sunk into the basement levels.

A second slower, and that would have been her. A moment longer, and none of them would have survived.

As the dust settled, shock slowly giving way to a delayed sense of relief, Miranda glanced over to the familiar green face beside her, regarding her with silent recognition. She didn't know how or why, but Shiala had saved her life. And Jack's. And nearly killed herself trying to save people she barely knew.

Shiala looked back, as if sensing at least one of Miranda's wordless questions. “I heard you were in trouble,” she explained with a small shrug, somewhat awkwardly rubbing the back of her neck. “I came as fast as I could.”

Miranda's head was still reeling, scarcely able to make sense of the fact that she was still alive. Incredulous though she was, she wouldn't forget what Shiala had done for her. At least this was one saviour Miranda would be able to thank.

Her thoughts were quickly shattered by a loud scream.

“Jack?” Miranda barely heard herself saying her name beneath the ringing in her ear. Her focus shifted. She grimaced as she pushed herself forward, past Shiala, trying to see what was going on.

“Teach? Teach?” One of Jack's students was leaning over her, visibly concerned.

“What's going on? What's wrong with her?” another of them asked the soldiers.

“Move aside,” Miranda instructed, wincing as she dragged herself over, pushing her way between bodies. She looked down and saw Jack writhing in agony, her muscles all tensed, her limbs rigid. She was wide awake, and conscious, even though every fibre of her body seemed to be seizing up in pain – so much that she couldn't speak.

Miranda had never seen anything like this before, but she understood immediately. She had felt a fraction of the weight Jack had carried on her back for so many minutes – the biotic energy she had to exert to keep that up. Her body had been pushed beyond its limits and, for lack of a better word, overloaded. It must have felt like being struck by lightning.

“Give her a sedative and a muscle relaxant, and get her back to camp,” Miranda quietly commanded, figuring the best thing she could do for Jack was help ease her pain, and knock her out for a bit while her body began to heal itself. A nearby medic didn't hesitate to follow her orders.

“Will she be okay?” the student Miranda recognised as Prangley asked.

“I can't make any promises, but for what it's worth, I don't think she's done any permanent damage,” Miranda replied, watching as the sedative began to take effect, and Jack slowly began to calm down, her muscles going limp as the tension gradually left her body. “If my best guess is correct, then the worst she'll have suffered is a torn ligament here or there.”

“We've got it from here, Director Lawson. We'll take her to the medical evac shuttle with the other critical patient,” one of the medics told her.

Miranda gave them a nod. “Make sure the rest of the kids are okay, too. They've been through a lot. We'll wait here while you do.”

“Sure thing.” They got to work carrying out her orders, loading Jack up on a stretcher, taking her back to where the bulk of the team was waiting. The medics began to evaluate the health of Jack's students. Everyone else within sight...needed a few minutes to recover. A building just came down in front of them.

That had been a close call. Too close.

With that, Miranda hobbled a few paces back from the wreckage, as if finding physical space would give her the room she needed to think. She ran her hand through her hair, releasing a long breath, processing what had just happened while the tinnitus blared in her ear. She let her forehead fall against the cold stone of a nearby building, her mind voicing a thousand different thoughts of how close she'd come to letting things go horribly wrong, and the words she and Jack had exchanged when it seemed like their lives were about to end.

It didn’t seem real. It had just happened, but it felt like waking up from a vivid dream. She couldn’t quite fathom the things that had gone through her mind (or hadn’t gone through her mind) in the intensity of the moment. 

No matter how much she and Jack clashed in the past, there was a special bond between shipmates, especially those of the Normandy. No matter how much they still disliked each other, they'd been part of something. Everyone on that ship had seen things no one else in the universe could appreciate or understand.

And Miranda had been given an opportunity to save her, one of those people who'd walked through the fire with her, and she had so very nearly failed. Hell, in a way, she had. By sheer luck, Shiala had been there to bail them out from a situation Miranda should have seen coming, and should have prevented. Her mistakes had nearly cost them all.

What was worse was knowing that, with so many others she had served beside, she wouldn't get that chance to even try. They were already gone.

How had she come so close to wasting not only her own life, but Jack's, and her students'? What had she been thinking? What was wrong with her? Why had she doubted herself when she knew going underground was the wrong call?

Not only that but...what if Shiala hadn’t shown up? Jack was right. There would have been no saving either of them, let alone both. Miranda would have thrown her life away pointlessly, all because she would have rather died than live with one more person getting killed on her watch - one more person she knew. Realising that about herself was...going to take some time to process.

“Director?” Yoshizawa's voice penetrated her thoughts. “Director Lawson, are you okay?”

Miranda blinked herself out of her strange stupor. It seemed like an eternity that she had been standing there in thought, but, when Miranda broke herself out of it, it had probably only been a minute at most.

“I'm alright. I'm unharmed,” she answered, gingerly shifting her body around. She'd lost her crutch in the building collapse. That was annoying. But the job always came before anything else. That was just how Miranda did things. She couldn't function any other way. “Make a report, will you?”

“Report?” Yoshizawa repeated vacantly, still dazed by the events that had just occurred.

“Yes, report to base. Eleven survivors rescued. Two in need of urgent medical attention.” Miranda hesitated, looking over at the students, and at Jack. They were all watching their teacher get carried off towards the same transport as Seanne was on, going to get the help they needed.

Yoshizawa followed her gaze. For a moment, Yoshizawa seemed to consider whether to extend some word of comfort to her after nearly losing someone she knew, as well as nearly losing her own life trying to rescue Jack, but she apparently thought better of it, carrying out the order without another question, leaving Miranda in peace, letting her dwell on her thoughts in private.

Miranda noticed a few sideways glances in her direction from her team, some quiet words being discussed about her. She wondered if they thought her heroic and brave for staying behind with Jack. If so, little did they realise there was nothing courageous about it. Her reasons had been entirely selfish.

Funnily enough, Jack was the only person who had seen that.

“Could somebody fetch me a bloody walking stick?” Miranda acerbically remarked in the general direction of some of the privates who were hanging around the scene. They all stiffened, visibly scared of her. One of them saluted and ran off to fulfil her request. Miranda rolled her eye as she shifted around to lean back against the wall behind her. “Incompetents,” she muttered, because it was easier to snap at them than kick herself for letting this disaster nearly happen.

“Are you sure you shouldn't go with them too?” Shiala asked, moving to Miranda's side, nodding her head towards the medics. Miranda hadn't even noticed that she'd followed her.

“I'm fine,” Miranda assured her. Shiala sent her a look, as if to make sure she was telling the truth. “Really,” she added, trying to sound sincere, not failing to remember that Shiala had seen the vulnerability beneath the mask before.

“Then I'm glad,” Shiala replied, taking up a position beside her, almost matching Miranda's stance against the wall. She sighed, admirably calm, but understandably a little shaken by her near-death experience. “You are a very impressive woman, Miranda Lawson, but it would be my preference if for once we could meet under less...dire circumstances,” she remarked, sensing a recurring theme.

Miranda uttered a chuckle at that, unconsciously rubbing at her injured shoulder, trying not to aggravate her amputation site. “If I bought you a drink later, would that count?” she asked. That was the least she could do to express her gratitude.

Shiala summoned a small smile, as if liking the sound of that. “It would be a start.”

Miranda looked out over at Jack's kids again. Some of them were crying, wiping tears from their eyes as the shuttle carrying Jack and Seanne departed, the aftershock of everything they'd gone through passing over. 

It was funny. In all honesty, Miranda couldn't say her heart hurt for any of them, or what they were going through. She understood it intellectually, but seeing people cry didn't elicit any emotion in her. She didn't possess that latent empathy. She didn't even know most of their names.

But, that being said, that didn't mean she didn't feel anything. It would have been extremely easy for her to choose not to care but, well...that Miranda had been left behind many months ago. She wasn’t that person anymore.

Her past self wouldn’t have, but Miranda did feel sorry for these kids, and what they'd gone through. As much as she could, at least. She knew what they'd endured. She understood their loss. She'd seen how much they cared about each other – how much they meant to Jack. She'd nearly watched them all die avoidable deaths, because she hadn't trusted her instincts to get them out of that building. Because Miranda had been indecisive and taken a fucking shortcut.

It wasn't right. It wasn't right to just...walk away from any responsibility she bore, like it had never happened. To wash her hands, and absolve herself. Not now.

It wasn't lost on her that they were all only a little younger than Oriana. She was twenty now. They were, what? Seventeen? Thinking of Ori was always the ticket to bringing out Miranda's softer side – a side she wouldn't have even had without her.

Miranda thought about the things Jack had said to her mere minutes ago, in the heat of the moment. About looking after her students, the same way she would look after her sister. Protecting them. Keeping them safe. Giving them normal lives.

Miranda wasn't good with other adults, let alone kids. She'd never really been one. Or had friends at that age. Giving Oriana a normal life had meant staying far away from her. But when Miranda set her mind to anything, she could do it. Already, she had begun to think about how she could pull strings. Make sure their needs were looked after. Make sure they landed on their feet.

There were nine of them. Ten, including Seanne. Ten teenagers. And Jack.

Eleven. Eleven people might be feasible. Temporarily, anyway. That was how many housemates Miranda already had, after all. It was worth trying, wasn't it? Worth seeing if it worked out. Worth trying to do the one thing Jack had asked of her.

Miranda had never made any promises to Jack, so, technically, she wouldn't have been doing anything wrong if she ignored that request. She didn't have any obligation to honour her wishes. And Jack was still alive to take care of her students herself. But, frankly, those technicalities Miranda might once have clung to in order to easily rationalise this all away and to absolve herself of any sense of duty didn't seem to matter anymore. She didn’t want to take a pass on this.

She was sure something could be arranged. Miranda had a lot of pull with Bailey. She was his best agent. Surely, if she spoke with him, he would be willing to make a few special accommodations for her. Anything to ensure she continued working for him for as long as possible.

Even if her plan worked, that would take a few days, at a minimum. Not to mention that Miranda's work out here in the wastes wasn't over yet. They needed somewhere to stay in the interim. Someone to look out for them while Jack was out of commission. Someone she could trust.

“Shiala, you've already done a lot for me, so I wouldn't want to impose by asking anything further,” Miranda began, trailing off momentarily. Shiala tiled her head, listening intently. “Those nine kids need a place to stay. I know you and the Zhu's Hope colonists probably don't have enough room, but you have connections in the green zone. You know it better than I do. If you could put them up somewhere, just for a couple of days, while I get their affairs in order...”

“That's not an imposition at all,” Shiala stated plainly, thinking nothing of it. “I can take them on my shuttle, get them there faster.”

Miranda had to admit, she was a little taken aback to hear Shiala so readily volunteer her assistance again. She was expecting she'd have to work harder to convince her, or trade her something of value. Not that she was complaining but...why did Shiala keep helping her? What was she getting out of this?

“I appreciate it. I'll make it up to you,” Miranda offered, since it only seemed fair. That and she didn’t like feeling at a deficit in terms of favours to call upon.

“You don't have to do anything for me.” Shiala shook her head, dismissing the thought. “You've already earned my help. And...well, if you'll have it...you’ve earned my friendship too,” Shiala added, a little more self-consciously, as if wondering if she was saying too much, or being too awkward.

Miranda blinked. Oh. Was that what this was? Was that what she wanted from this?

Honestly, she had never contemplated that. Miranda had a habit of viewing all her dealings with other people as inherently transactional, due to how she was raised. It was a mindset she was slowly learning to change, but it still caught her off guard every now and then to be reminded that sometimes people just did things for others, not because they were repaying a favour or because they expected something in return, but just because they cared and wanted to help.

That and, in her entire life, Miranda had met maybe five people who actually seemed to like her as a person and enjoy her company. One of them was her sister, and two of them were dead. Suffice it to say, she wasn't used to it.

“...Sure,” Miranda said, not sure how else to answer that. She didn't know Shiala particularly well, and in all honesty she saw her purely as a useful contact. But she saw no reason to reject her offer. That would just hurt her feelings, and more importantly sabotage the inroads Miranda had made with her as a reliable ally.

If this was all Shiala wanted in return for assisting her then Miranda could...try the friendship thing, she supposed. It was less effort than the blackmail she usually had to resort to when securing third party contacts. Presumably.

Shiala turned a more bashful shade of green. “Uh, well, that's great! I'm...glad. And I will...take you up on that drink,” she said in that awkward, stilted way of hers. It was like she was always torn between whether to speak with traditional asari formality, or whether to emulate the more casual ways of speaking the Zhu's Hope colonists would surely have taught her to use with humans by now. That and it always kind of seemed like she was talking through a headache.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Miranda replied. She wasn’t really, of course, but Shiala didn’t need to know that. In any event, she wasn’t averse to the idea. And lying to be polite was a skill she still needed more practice at, unless she wanted to continue alienating people with blunt honesty for the rest of her life.

Tempting, but no.

“Me too.” Shiala nervously cleared her throat. “I will, uh...see you around. Stay safe this time,” she said, taking her leave. Miranda gave her a parting nod.

Judging from her reaction, Miranda got the sense Shiala hadn't had that many friends before either, Zhu’s Hope not included. She wasn't sure whether that would make maintaining this proposed friendship extremely easy, since her standards would be low, or whether that made this a terrible idea, because neither of them brought anything of value to the friendship table. Maybe both.

Miranda watched Shiala approach Jack's students, introducing herself and offering them a place to say. It was funny. Despite how much she'd grown over the past year, Miranda was still at a distance from all but a select few – looking from the outside in at people who could form bonds so much more easily. People who could just naturally relate to others.

She would never be able to do that. She just couldn't.

At the end of the day, did it really matter? Did it matter that she didn't genuinely care about these kids as much as Jack did? Did it matter that she didn't honestly reciprocate Shiala's feelings of friendship? She was doing good by her actions, wasn't she? Doing what Jack had asked of her. Somehow, despite a complete lack of effort, managing to be someone whose companionship Shiala enjoyed. Those positive outcomes had to count for something, right?

Progress was progress. After all, who would have ever thought that Miranda fucking Lawson would become a person who risked her own life for Jack’s, a protector of lost teenagers, and a person who made friends? Jacob would have been proud of her, if not for the fact that he would never believe it.

It was also a hell of a lot easier to focus her attention on those things than to confront the fact that she still hadn’t dealt with the phantom faces that haunted her in her dreams, or the missing names from the Normandy, or the tinnitus that made trying to fall asleep at night into a marathon of audial torture, and how those things were affecting her even in her waking moments.

Miranda swallowed, not ready to face those problems. Not yet.

“Alright. Playtime’s over. Let’s get moving,” Miranda called out to her team assembled in the square. “We still have a city to clear.”

*    *     *

Miranda was definitely in a mood that day when she stormed into the Starboard Observation Deck, her arms folded across her chest. She sighed and went to the viewport, leaning with one arm against the transparent window. Samara continued to meditate, undisturbed. That earned a somewhat suspicious glance back over Miranda's shoulder.

“What?” said Miranda, eyeing her. “You're not going to ask me about the fight I had with Jack?”

“I was not,” Samara replied. “Although I did overhear it, as did everybody on this deck of the ship.”

“Great.” Miranda shook her head, flipping her hair back. “I know Shepard managed to talk her down, but she walked into my office and physically assaulted me. She's unstable.”

“She did. And that was wrong of her,” Samara acknowledged, pausing for a moment. “Did you do anything to provoke it?” she asked, sensing Miranda was perhaps...minimising her role in the argument.

“Provoke it?” Miranda echoed, offended at the insinuation.

“It is merely a question,” Samara said calmly. “Jack is a volatile character. However, she has been a member of this crew for a considerable time without incident.”

“So I must have caused it?” Miranda sarcastically shot back, rolling her eyes and shaking her head when Samara didn't respond. Typical for her to get blamed for everything.

Samara waited a few moments, perhaps considering that she had erred in taking the direct approach. “I am aware that she recently revisited a place of immense childhood trauma,” Samara began, choosing a different approach. “This must be a sensitive time for her.”

Miranda sighed and glanced down, her arms stiffly folded across her chest. She could acknowledge that. “I never said what Jack went through wasn't horrible. I know it was. I went to that facility. I saw it for myself. No child should ever have to endure that. All I said was that it couldn't have been Cerberus. Or, if it was a Cerberus affiliate, then someone clearly went rogue and made a terrible mistake.”

That had to be the case. Cerberus didn't play by the rules, but the organisation had just aims. It was the first place where Miranda had been praised instead of criticised – allowed to make her own choices and do things her way. The Illusive Man had been a better father to Miranda than Henry Lawson ever was. Sure, they walked a morally grey line and did things other people weren't courageous enough to do, but Cerberus wasn't malicious or cruel, merely pragmatic.

“Do you think that distinction was important to Jack?” Samara's question broke Miranda from her musings.

“What?” Miranda regarded Samara strangely, finding her difficult to read. Samara let the question hang, waiting for an answer. Miranda had to admit, this wasn't what she had expected, given their growing friendship. If anything, she was a little hurt. “I thought you'd be on my side.”

“You sought me out to speak about this. If you did so and did not desire my honest opinion on the matter, then you have grave misapprehensions about my character,” Samara remarked. She would never give counsel that contradicted her morals.

“So you agree with Jack?” asked Miranda. That was the last thing she would have expected from someone as rational as Samara.

“It is not a question of agreement. You are focused on 'black and white' instead of seeing things from her perspective. And, with the greatest of respect, you must be aware that you are in a superior position, because the subject of what Jack endured does not affect you. This was not your trauma. You are detached – you can think about your words and actions in this situation, in a way that Jack, for whom these events are intensely personal, cannot.”

Miranda snorted. “Are you saying I should lie to her?”

“As a Justicar, I could never advocate for dishonesty, merely mindfulness. Like you, I am a hard woman. I have many honest thoughts. In the past, I have often voiced them carelessly, with little regard for their effect on others. There is wisdom in appreciating when our opinions are best kept silent, lest our words do harm,” Samara thoughtfully replied.

“If she can't handle my words, that's her problem,” said Miranda, staunchly believing herself to be in the right. “We've all been through bad things. That doesn't excuse attacking people.”

“No, it does not, but your own experiences should enable you to understand her better than most,” Samara dispensed her sage advice, encouraging sympathy.

“Exactly my point, though; I'm not the way she is. We turned out completely differently. We couldn't be more polar opposites if one of us was made of anti-matter,” Miranda pointed out, extending her hand to emphasise that. “My father did horrible things to me too. I'm not saying that it was on the same scale as what was done to Jack, but you don't see me losing control of my emotions.”

“Do not compare her reaction to yours. This is not what is important,” said Samara, dismissing that distraction. “Instead, try to empathise with her perspective as to why your words were harmful. For example, imagine speaking to someone about what your father did to you.”

“You don't know what my father did to me,” Miranda interrupted her before she could get started on that subject. “Nobody does.”

“Yes, precisely. They do not know. However, you do,” Samara continued. “You lived through those experiences. You understand how they affected you. Now, instead of listening to you and acknowledging what you endured, imagine someone giving you their unsolicited opinions on your childhood or your father, even with regard to something that may technically be correct.”

“Like what?” Miranda asked, shrugging her shoulders. Why would she be bothered by something factual?

“For instance, your father created the genetic code that exists inside you and your sister. Clearly, he is a brilliant scientist,” Samara observed. “Here is a hypothetical scenario: you tell me about his abuse towards you in your youth, I acknowledge that what he did was wrong, but I keep repeating to you that he was a brilliant scientist. How would you feel?”

Miranda's lips pursed, and she released a slight exhale. God damn it. Leave it to Samara to express things in a way that actually made her see what she was talking about, and see things from someone else's perspective.

“I would think that you're diminishing what I went through and defending the people who did it to me,” Miranda acknowledged. “I would probably find that very frustrating. If you or Jacob were saying it, I might even feel betrayed for confiding in you only to have you speak up for him.”

She knew, because it had happened before. Niket. The man she'd trusted to help her escape. The one person she thought understood the effect of her father's abuse. Instead of taking her side, he had accused her of being wrong for sparing Oriana all of that suffering. He'd even implied that growing up wealthy was a fair trade for her father's callousness and cruelty.

Miranda sighed, dropping her guarded posture as she raised one hand to rub her forehead. “Okay, so you have a point. Maybe I did inadvertently provoke her just a little bit. Not that it takes much.”

“You made a mistake. You are learning from it,” said Samara, not judging her for her imperfections.

“I suppose I have to; I didn't exactly learn social skills growing up,” Miranda admitted, never particularly happy with it when she realised there was something she'd done wrong. Her father had made certain that she despised failure, as he always went out of his way to make her dread the consequences. “That's becoming more apparent, lately. Being in such close quarters here with so many non-Cerberus personnel on The Normandy has forced me to do more 'socialising' than I have in the entire last thirty-five years of my life. People can be so...”

“Alien?” Samara supplied, somewhat wryly.

“I was going to say 'complicated', but that works,” said Miranda, slumping down on the floor beside Samara, chastened by her lecture, no matter how kindly put and...astute it had been. “You're lucky I trust you that none of this is going to leave this room,” she commented, glancing over at her companion. “If anyone else heard me acknowledge that I have weaknesses, I'd never live it down.”

“Everyone has weaknesses. To demand otherwise is unattainable,” Samara reassured her.

Miranda bit her lower lip. She thought about how much she already knew concerning Samara's past, and how she had obtained that knowledge behind her back. She still felt something resembling guilt about it. It only seemed fair to open up about some of her own secrets, so they could be on more even terms.

“I wasn't allowed to have anything he deemed a weakness. My father, I mean,” Miranda confessed, finally broaching that subject that she had long kept to herself. “The problem was, his definition of 'weakness' was anything that didn't directly benefit him. That included making friends, or smiling, or having my own interests, or feeling pain, or crying. Everything you can imagine really. All I knew throughout my entire childhood was control. I had to do everything exactly the way he wanted when he wanted it, even if I had absolutely no way of knowing what that was, even if it changed from one moment to the next, which it often did. And that was what I had to do just to be tolerated. Never anything more than that. Not loved, or praised, or accepted. Just tolerated. Anything less than his version of perfection and I would be punished, in some form or another.”

As she spoke, she felt Samara's eyes on her. It made her slightly self-conscious. She didn't want Samara to think she was heaping her personal problems upon her, or throwing a big pity party. That wasn't her intent. She just thought...Samara might actually understand her a bit better, if she told her the truth.

“I'm not saying any of this for sympathy or as an excuse,” Miranda explained. She didn't want those things. She didn't need those things. “I think it's just starting to crystallise for me that maybe I never really stopped listening to his voice, or obeying his vision. Perhaps there are some things I need to...reassess.”

“Much as the trauma of her youth is the source of the anger you experienced from Jack, you too carry the scars of your past, as I do with mine,” Samara spoke up. “Jack may not yet be ready to move on from it, but I believe that you are, if you so choose. You have already come further than you may appreciate. You have the capacity to identify what you need to change within you, and you have the will to see it done. This may take time and self-reflection, but it is achievable.”

“That's what you were talking about before, with the meditation, wasn't it?” Miranda surmised.

“It was one reason I suggested it,” Samara acknowledged. “It is a means of pursuing this kind of clarity – identifying aspects of oneself that the rigours of life normally distract one from perceiving and analysing.”

Miranda paused and glanced down, swallowing. “...I suppose I should thank you,” she said. Samara's silent response indicated she didn't know what Miranda meant by that. “For seeing the best in me, instead of dismissing me for my faults.”

“Could I not say the same to you?” Samara replied.

That thought managed to bring a small smile to the corner of Miranda's lips. She had a point. Then again, it wasn't hard to see the best in Samara. It was quite touching to think that maybe Samara would have said the same thing about her.

Maybe that was just what it was like when you met someone you felt instantly connected to. Maybe that was just how someone knew a rapport like this was real.

*    *     *

It was a few days before Miranda was really able to get back to the green zone and get her affairs in order. The operation had been a moderate success. They had found outposts of survivors who had hunkered down during the war, found pretty much anything resembling usable supplies that was left in the covered area, and found some habitable buildings to start moving people into.

Nobody had seen Samara though. Miranda was trying very hard not to let that concern her. It helped that she had other priorities to focus on.

Shiala had kept her updated on the status of Jack and her students. Thankfully, Seanne was recovering quickly from her illness. She was still in care, but expected to be released in the next couple of days.

Jack was...well, doing a lot worse than Seanne. Her condition was stable but her biotics had damn near destroyed her body. Almost as bad as the shuttle crash had destroyed Miranda's. No permanent damage, most likely. But her muscles were in a lot of pain, still slowly repairing themselves. From the sounds of things, it would take a lot of time and rehab to get her back to where she was.

Miranda was able to confirm all that with her own eyes. It wasn't hard to find Jack, even among all the beds, and all the sick and injured. She didn't look great. There were clear bruises where capillaries had burst beneath her skin. It did look like she'd been in a crash.

Jack must have sensed someone watching her, obviously not coping much better with bed rest than Miranda had. Bleary eyes glanced over in Miranda's direction, immediately turning with irritation when she realised who was standing there.

“Who the fuck let you in?” Jack groaned. Miranda was the last person she wanted to deal with when she was like this.

“It's a field hospital, Jack. Not much in the way of security.” Miranda thought about reminding her that she was known around here and people let her go wherever she wanted, but she had the good sense to realise that Jack would probably want to kill her if she said that. “How are you doing? Are you okay?”

“Fuckin' hurts,” Jack remarked, draping her arm over her eyes, hoping Miranda would just go away. “But I still look a damn sight better than you, fuckface.” 

That was debatable, honestly. “You're lucky you didn't tear yourself apart,” Miranda said quietly, moving closer. She was trying to be civil and understanding. “Not just limb from limb, but on a cellular level.”

Jack didn't respond, deliberately ignoring her in an effort to get Miranda to leave.

Miranda rolled her eye. So much for her efforts to be kind to her. Obviously her presence wasn't wanted. With that in mind, it was probably best to just cut straight to the point.

“Listen, I've spoken to Bailey. They're starting to house priority personnel in apartments in the city. That means Alliance officials, and people involved in the recovery effort. Civilians and non-essential personnel are the lowest priority. You'll be lucky to get a look-in on a place to live even a year from now, unless all of you are prepared to work for it. And, no offence, but you're not really in a condition to do that,” Miranda set out the facts.

“Why the fuck do you always talk like you're answering a question nobody fuckin' asked?” Jack grumbled. Despite her complaint, she reluctantly opened her eyes and shifted her head to listen to what she had to say.

Sensing she had her attention, Miranda continued. “I tried to convince Bailey to make an exception for you and your students, but he can't. Not unless someone who warrants high priority quarters chooses to take you in. Someone like me.”

“I'd sooner fucking drink bleach than live with you,” Jack shot that down.

Miranda had expected Jack to say that. “Okay. But what about your students? They don't have spare beds at this field hospital, Jack. There's barely enough room for them to breathe if they wind up in tent city. It's not safe for them out there by themselves. You don't know anyone else here. And, right now, you can't exactly look after them. Not without help,” Miranda explained. Much as she visibly hated it, Jack couldn't object to that. “I've already made the necessary arrangements. I can cancel them if you want, but I'm prepared to take them in, with or without you.”

“...Why are you doing this?” Jack asked suspiciously. It sounded like Miranda was being sincere, but it was hard to tell. Miranda never did anything for anyone without an agenda behind it. Unless it was for her sister. Or Jacob. Not for someone she didn't care about. Not for Jack.

Miranda pulled up a chair and sat down beside her bed. “There are only four of us left, Jack. If not for Shiala, that number would only be two; neither of us would be here right now. You nearly died the other day. And it would have been my fault if you had,” Miranda stated frankly. Jack had held an entire building up to keep her alive, and broken her body doing it. “That was why I couldn't leave you.”

Contrary to popular belief, Miranda had never hated Jack. Disliked her, yes, but the hatred had been entirely one-sided. Truth be told, she'd never cared about Jack enough to hate her. She hadn't cared about her at all. Not back then. In a way, that was a lot worse than hate. Jack would probably take it that way, if she knew. And Miranda had the decency to feel a tinge of regret about that, in hindsight.

Most of her memories of Jack were of conflict, or mutual avoidance at best. But Miranda had never set out to antagonise Jack, deliberately or otherwise. She hadn't sought her ought for anything, good or bad or neutral. Not once. She was completely uninterested in her. Apathetic. She didn't give Jack any unprovoked attention at all. Not that it mattered one way or the other. The fact that she was a Cerberus Operator had been cause enough to make her enemy number one.

Miranda hadn't batted an eye, save when things got violent. To her, not getting to know Jack was fine, and her hostile attitude had said more than enough about how little she was worth anyone's time.

Jack had loathed her. And Miranda had found her a nuisance at best. An insignificant insect who would be brushed aside as soon as the mission ended.

But she'd been wrong about her, hadn't she? Jack had been right about Cerberus the entire time, and Miranda had been too blinded by loyalty to believe her. And, while Miranda had been on the run from The Illusive Man and his agents, Jack had turned her life around. She'd set out to give the kids in the Ascension Program a far better shot at life than she ever got herself.

Miranda had done some growing of her own as well. She'd been cold and callous back then. Not just towards Jack but towards everyone. Whether she'd realised it or not at the time, she'd still been living in her father's shadow, letting the way he'd raised her shape how she treated others.

But things had changed. They weren't the same people they once were. Maybe they were never the people they'd assumed each other to be. But they were both working on being better people. And they'd lost almost all of their other comrades along the way.

Maybe Jack still wanted to hold onto her grudge, and maybe she was justified in doing that. But Miranda was tired. She wanted no part in this anymore. She couldn't carry on pretending her past grievances with Jack meant a god damn thing to her anymore. She didn't have the energy. If there was ever a time to bury the hatchet and move on, this was it.

“You said if I wanted to make up for all the bad history between us, and all the atrocities Cerberus committed against you, the only way for me to do that is to look after these kids the way I would look after my own sister,” Miranda recalled, knowing how much the students meant to Jack. “So...Okay. This is my answer. I want to honour that. I can't promise I'll be any good at it, but I intend to fulfil that bargain. This is me trying to make things...better.”

Jack looked at her for a long moment, a cold, hard stare, studying her face for any signs of duplicity. She didn't find any. Miranda wasn't lying. Her motives may have been self-centred, but that was to be expected. Jack would have been suspicious if they weren't. At least that reasoning made sense as to why Miranda suddenly wanted to be a less shitty person. For her, this was progress.

“...I never thought I'd say this, but you're actually fucking right about something,” Jack admitted, willing to put personal feelings aside for the well-being of her kids. “Living in a real fucking apartment is better for them. Better than being out here in this depressing shithole. So I'm going to tell them about you and what you’re offering. But I'm not going to force them. It's their choice.”

“Okay.” Miranda nodded. That was it, then. This was really happening.

She didn't want Jack to sense it, but she had mixed feelings about what she was getting herself into. Looking after teenagers was not high on her list of things she wanted to do. And she knew she was taking on a lot of responsibility. But this had been the one thing Jack had asked of her when she thought she was going to die. Doing her best to deliver on that request was the least Miranda could do, especially since Jack had saved her life that day.

“What about you?” Miranda asked, not sure whether Jack would be joining them. “I know we don't exactly get along, but you're welcome to stay too. I'll just make sure to hide the bleach before you do.”

That remark elicited a snort. “Yeah, about that. I don't think I'm gonna be going anywhere for a while,” Jack glanced down at herself.

Miranda gave a small, understanding smile. “I was in your position not long ago. I promise you, it will feel like an eternity. And your rehab will take time. But you'll be healthy enough to stay somewhere else sooner than you think. It doesn't have to be with me. Jacob is keeping my old bed free in case you'd prefer that.”

A conflicted look passed over Jack's face, a little bittersweet. “So I wouldn't be with the tykes?” she realised aloud.

Miranda suddenly recognised a possible flaw in her plan. “Jack, I'm not trying to separate you from them. I'm just offering them a place to stay. A roof over their heads. They're at liberty to see you whenever they want. And vice versa.”

“I know, dumbass,” Jack cut her off. “I'm just...I'm not sure they'll take it that way.”

Miranda softened. “You nearly gave your life to save them. If they don't know by now that you love them far too much to abandon them...well, I don't know, maybe tell them?” Miranda suggested. That's probably what Samara would have advised. “I don't know. I'm not good with people. Maybe don't listen to me on this subject.”

“I don't listen to you about anything,” Jack assured her, only half-joking. It hadn't escaped her notice that Miranda really was making an effort. Having some semblance of humility. Admitting that she sucked at something. The old Miranda never would have spoken to her like this. “...I'll think about it. I've got time. I've got some healing to do. I'll decide my living arrangements later.”

“Sure.” Miranda nodded, accepting that. “...Well, I'll start getting the apartment ready. There's still a lot to do, so...we'll talk another time.” Miranda elected to take her leave, getting up from her seat.

“Hey, Miranda.” Miranda paused, wondering if that was the first time Jack had actually called her by name. She turned and looked back. “We're not starting over at zero. It's too late for that. But I know you had nothing to do with what Cerberus did to me. And, if you're serious about trying to be straight with me, and you're not just going to throw my kids to the wayside the second you feel better about yourself, then...fuck it, I'll give you a shot.”

“This is you trying?” Miranda inferred. Jack didn't say anything, but nor did she protest. Miranda gave a nod, satisfied. She could live with that.

There was no chance they could ever become friends. But coexisting relatively peacefully would be good enough.

*    *     *

“Finally making use of the library, I see,” Miranda remarked, catching Samara in the act of reading.

Samara cracked a small smile as the doors closed behind Miranda. “I do reside on a human vessel. It would seem a terrible waste to remain ignorant of your arts and cultures when you have been so gracious in sharing these resources with me. That is if you do not object.”

“Knock yourself out,” said Miranda, not at all surprised that Samara appreciated what humanity had to offer based on their previous conversations, but glad for it nonetheless. Her long lifespan had not robbed her of her curiosity and adventurousness.

Despite their reputation for benevolence and co-operation with others, some asari Miranda had encountered could be incredibly patronising towards human cultures. Even if they welcomed other species into the fold, there were some who looked down on humans as effectively a novelty – like lost children taking their first steps on the galactic stage, whose beliefs and habits were cute, but would soon be a thing of the past once they were 'enlightened' by more ancient races. Thankfully, Samara wasn't like that. Her respect for other species was genuine and unfeigned.

“How many books have you read so far?” Miranda inquired, noticing that she was currently nearing the end of her copy of Moby Dick.

“Fewer than I would have liked,” said Samara, almost with a hint of self-deprecation.

At that point, EDI piped up. “Justicar Samara has requested my assistance in selecting texts from a diverse array of authors whose works were written in different cultural and linguistic contexts, as well as different genres and time periods.”

“This is correct. Thank you, EDI.” Samara nodded her head at EDI's holographic interface, which continued to operate silently. “I have heard that your species is far more diverse and varied than those who have come before. I did not wish to make the error of inadvertently and arbitrarily narrowing the scope of human literature available to me. This could lead me to draw false inferences, such as misconstruing humans as more homogeneous than you actually are.”

“Read anything by an Australian author yet?” Miranda asked, impressed by the care and consideration Samara had put into her decision to explore human literature for fun. That was thoughtful of her.

“Not at this time, no,” Samara confessed.

“You're not missing much.” Miranda shrugged nonchalantly as she joined her on the couch, not even sure there were any Australian texts in their small library. Out of curiosity, she brought up the database on her omni-tool. It contained a record of all available books aboard the ship and showed who had checked out what and when, so nobody could get away with not returning them.  Unsurprisingly, Samara was the most frequent user of the library, closely followed by Kasumi.

“I am sure that is not the case. I have yet to encounter a text that I have not enjoyed the experience of reading. Although I confess that, at times, certain details may have been lost on me,” Samara admitted as she closed her book and put it aside, acknowledging the effect that her own limited understanding of Earth and human history had on her comprehension of these stories.

Miranda tried not to smirk. “You had to ask EDI to explain to you what a whale is, didn't you?”

“She was very informative,” said Samara, which elicited a chuckle from Miranda. “Do you read?”

“When I have time, yes,” Miranda answered. It was also one of the few things her father had allowed her to do as a child, since he saw intellectual value in it.

“Are there any books you would recommend?” Samara asked, implicitly trusting her taste.

“Sure. I could send you a list, but I'm not sure that my preferences would be along the lines of what you're looking for,” Miranda acknowledged, earning a curious look from Samara. “For the most part, I don't read fiction anymore. There are some exceptions, but I rarely enjoy it.”

“I see.” Samara took a moment to contemplate that, choosing to seek elaboration. “Is there any particular reason why you tend to dislike it?”

“Well, on merit alone, ninety percent of all content produced is not worth consuming. As for the remaining ten percent, the vast majority of novels I've read are like being locked in a room listening to the inane thoughts and dialogue of annoying characters while the author either beats you over the head with their uninformed opinions or waffles on aimlessly while avoiding making anything that constitutes a worthwhile observation or statement,” Miranda explained, remembering how irritating she had found so many texts she was forced to study in her youth. “Even when the ideas and concepts are intriguing to me, I find it’s often ruined by the characters or the writing style getting in the way.”

“What makes a character annoying to you?” Samara pressed, curious about her comment.

“They make stupid decisions, they think things that I would never think, and everything is just a frustrating waste of time while you wait for them to cut the nonsense, realise the obvious and get to the point of the plot,” said Miranda. She hadn't anticipated an interrogation of her views on fiction. Fortunately, her frustrations were well-founded, and she never struggled to defend her positions.

Samara stared at her like she wasn't entirely certain whether or not Miranda was being facetious. “...Is that not, perhaps, the intent?” Samara considered aloud, prompting Miranda to glance up from the library database. “If the story reached its conclusion from the outset, bypassing all conflict and circumventing all faults and failings possessed by the characters, then would the author not have lost the opportunity to explore the – what is your term for it? – human condition?”

“It's not my bloody condition,” Miranda dryly remarked.

“You understood my meaning; do not be coy,” said Samara, mildly amused by her retort. “One of the benefits of literature over and above any other artform is that it allows you to experience life through the perspective of another, even down to their most private thoughts. It prospers empathy and understanding, even for those characters who are deeply flawed, as we all are. It is why I personally find that I have learned more about other species through reading their stories told in their own words than from any other source – certainly far more than I have gained from the detached academic writings of an asari anthropologist.”

Miranda shrugged, seeing her point. “I'm glad that you get so much out of it, but I never have,” she said honestly. “I can appreciate the themes of all these works on an intellectual level and the skills and techniques they've used in their writing, but I've never connected with a book or related to a character the way I've heard other people say they have. Fiction just doesn't resonate with me. Perhaps we're built differently like that.”

“Perhaps,” Samara replied, though if she had thoughts to the contrary she did not express them. “What is your preferred form of artistic expression?”

“Music,” Miranda answered without hesitation. “Not 'songs' per se, but I'm not as rigidly confined to the great composers as everyone seems to assume. I like my operas and my symphonies but I have a flair for the experimental as well. The theories and formulas that underpin music are there for a reason, but brilliant minds know how to break them in just the right ways.”

“Do you play?” asked Samara.

“Not since I was sixteen. But yes. I was classically trained in piano. I also did two years of violin before my father objected. Didn't like hearing me practice.” Miranda didn't feel the need to share that he'd ripped the violin out of her hands and thrown it across the room to break it in front of her because he'd decided she hadn't mastered it quickly enough and therefore wasn't taking it seriously. It wasn't relevant to the conversation and was more personal than Miranda cared to get.

“That is unfortunate,” Samara spoke sympathetically, evidently inferring why it was that Miranda had stopped playing nearly twenty years ago, given it held such a strong association with negative memories of her father. “One day, when the time is right, maybe you will play again.”

“I think you're the only one who wants to hear that,” Miranda commented, finding the thought of her other crewmates' reactions comical to ponder. “The rest of them out there would assume I was showing off and hate me for it.”

“Most likely. But you do not strike me as a woman who constrains herself based upon the opinions of others,” said Samara, with a knowing twinkle in her eye.

“Do I make it that obvious?” Miranda joked, unfazed by her unpopularity.

“Nevertheless, if the opportunity arises, perhaps you should consider it,” Samara quietly encouraged. “Your devotion to your work is admirable, but you should not squander the time you have by avoiding things that bring you joy. A day may come where you look back upon your years, and find them filled with regret for chances you did not take, and simple pleasures you let pass you by.”

“...I guess you'd know,” Miranda conceded, although in her heart she knew she had no intention of following through on playing again. Too close to home.

With that, Samara returned her attention to the book cradled in her hand, content to sit with Miranda in silence, as they often did. Miranda watched her for several seconds before speaking.

“Which one was your favourite?” she asked, prompting Samara to glance up at her in search of clarification. “Of the works you've read, I'm guessing either Don Quixote or Romance of the Three Kingdoms,” Miranda speculated. They seemed to her taste.

“Astute choices. But there was another I preferred. A poem, in fact,” she said. Miranda arched her brow, curious. “You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars. You have a right to be here. And, whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be and, whatever your labours and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul,” she recited.

Miranda's lip quirked in recognition. “That's Max Ehrmann, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Samara confirmed, meeting her gaze. “There is much wisdom in those words. I would do well to remember them when I stray. So too would it benefit many others to hear them.”

“You may have a point,” Miranda agreed, appreciating that Samara found meaning in those words, even if they did not particularly strike a cord with her. “It sounds like the sort of thing you could reflect on in your meditation.”

“I have,” said Samara. “Every day.”

*    *     *

[blueboxesandtrafficcones]

The Nuptial Necessity - Chapter 10

A 12xRose Human AU

Despite an unglamorous job description, Rose loves the work she does with The Thistle Foundation, a charity founded by her best friend’s great-uncle.  It doesn’t hurt that her boss, her friend’s father, is easy on the eyes.  With a great job, wonderful friends and a loving family, life couldn’t be better – except for having someone to share it with.

All of that is threatened, though, when the great-uncle dies – and sets a strange condition for his nephew to inherit, jeopardizing the Foundation and Rose’s future, sparking a chain of events that might just get her everything she dreamed of and more.

Chapters will be posted on Saturdays and Tuesdays.  Many thanks to my beta, @stupidsatsuma

Rated: Explicit, for eventual smut

@doctorroseprompts

AO3  |  Masterlist

—

Monday

With a grunt of frustration Malcolm shut off the radio, plunging the kitchen into silence.  Pete was due any minute, and it was only now occurring to him that he should have mentioned the dinner to Rose, and found out what he was and wasn’t permitted to say; while Clara obviously knew the truth, Rose had given no indication of if she wanted her family to know.

This can’t end well.

Draining his wine glass in one go he refilled it, before bracing himself against the countertop and bowing his head.  Everything had gone spectacularly pear-shaped after the reading of Wallace’s will, and all he wanted was for his life to return to normal.  Things were uncomfortable now, with Rose, and he didn’t know how they would find their way back- or if such a thing was even possible.

The doorbell rang just as the grandfather clock in the hall chimed off the start of the hour, and he had to give a reluctant grin at the man’s punctuality.  Drying his hands he headed for the door, putting on a brave face before swinging it open.

“Pete!  Good to see you, come on in,” he invited.

Showtime.

-

Keeping one eye on the clock over the mantle Rose aggressively fluffed her throw pillows, straightening up her living area just to keep moving.  In typical Clara fashion her friend was now officially thirty minutes late, and Rose’s poor nerves were suffering under the strain.

She’d thought, perhaps rather naïvely, that by making the choice of whether or not to move forward things would somewhat settle down, that her worries would evaporate with a plan in place.  If anything they’d gotten worse, as she faced spending the next five years of her life married to a man who didn’t love her.  Oh, Malcolm cared, certainly, but he didn’t love her- not the way she loved him.

She was, she’d been disgruntled to realize, in love with him.

“Oh, fuck you,” she scowled at the innocent pen that had rolled from her organizer onto the floor.  “Seriously?”

The expected knock finally came, and slamming the pen back onto the open organizer in the crease to keep it from escaping again, she stalked towards the door.

“Took you long enough,” she snapped, swinging it open to find Clara looking equally annoyed.

“Oh fuck off,” her friend shot back, pushing past her to the kitchen, a large takeaway bag in hand.  “It’s raining cats and dogs out there. Traffic’s a nightmare.”

Throwing the deadbolt Rose followed her, slightly chastened.  “Sorry. Any trouble?”

Clara rolled her eyes, dumping her things on the countertop.  “Not really. Just slow.  Now, d’you want to eat and plan, or take a few minutes?”

“Let’s just get this over with.”

Rose watched her pull two large salads out of the bag, raising an eyebrow when nothing else appeared.  “I thought you were bringing the food?”

“I did.”  Clara opened the drawer to fetch two forks.  “Water?”

“Where’s the rest of it?”  Rose filled the two waiting glasses from her filtered pitcher, narrowing her eyes.  “Don’t tell me you consider that dinner.”

Kicking off her shoes, Clara settled onto her usual spot on the couch, salad balanced on one knee, tablet on the other.  “You’re getting married in two weeks.  There’s only so much you can do, but you might as well try to get down at least to the next size, though I suppose it depends on what style you want.”

“Style?”  Rose joined her, peeling off the lid of the salad and frowning even more.  “What’s this, then?”

“A salad, duh.”

She poked at it half-heartedly.  “It’s just greens.”

“There’s carrots!  Cucumber.”

“No dressing?”

“Balsamic vinaigrette.”

Rose crinkled her nose.  “Am I being punished?”

Stretching out her leg Clara nudged her thigh with her toe.  “No, but you want to look as good as possible on your wedding day, don’t you?  Though picking your dress style may help with that.  I made us some appointments for tomorrow at lunch so you can start trying things on, though I fear your options’ll be limited.”

“I’ve already got a dress,” she stabbed a forkful of lettuce.  “Looks good as I am, if I say so myself.”

“What?”

Rose looked up to find Clara staring at her, fork halfway to her mouth, forgotten.

“What?”

“What d’you mean, you’ve already got a dress?” her friend repeated, lowering the fork.  “When?”

She swallowed, took a sip of her water, and said, “We left the office early today, so I went to Harrod’s to just poke around.  Third dress I tried looked good, was reasonably priced, so I got it.”

“You… you bought your wedding dress?  Alone?  From Harrod’s?”

“Yes.”

Clara’s face fell, eyes welling, and Rose sighed.

“I didn’t mean to leave you out, I just went to look, but… I dunno, it just seemed right.”  She hesitated.  “D’you… want to see it?”

Slowly, her friend nodded.  “And you in it, please.  As Maid of Honor- thanks for the flowers by the way, they were gorgeous- it’s my right to have final say over your wedding dress.”

“Sure,” Rose agreed easily, though she had no intention of changing the dress.  “I’ll be right back.”

On her way past to her bedroom she paused, bending down to kiss the top of her friend’s head.

How much drama can this wedding cause?

-

Beer clutched tightly in one hand, Malcolm gave the steaks more attention than they needed as they sizzled on the stovetop in a frying pan.  His intention had been to do them on the grill, but the downpour had effectively nixed that idea, leaving the two men in his kitchen in silence.

He’d known Pete Tyler for going on fifteen years now, been in his company a thousand times, and yet none had been so awkward and painful, not even their first conversation (not Malcolm’s strong suit).  Since Pete had asked for this dinner Malcolm was content to let him start the conversation, though so far, that hadn’t happened past general small talk.

It wasn’t until they sat down to eat that Pete finally sighed and said, “Could you please not be so weird?  I’m not here to threaten you or anything.”

“I know that,” Malcolm said defensively, though he wasn’t quite convinced.  “I mean- Why are you here?”

“Why are you marrying my daughter?”  He took a large bite of steak, and groaned.  “Bloody hell that’s excellent.”

“Thanks.”

Pete finished chewing, then raised an eyebrow.  “Well?”

“Because… I asked and she said yes,” he said carefully, poking at the mashed potatoes regretfully; his appetite had vanished at the question.  “That’s generally how it works, to my understanding.”

“That’s not exactly convincing,” Pete pointed out.  “Or reassuring.”

“Reassuring?”

The other man sighed, crossing his arms on the table and leaning forward.  “That this wedding is happening for the right reasons.”

Shit.  How can he know?  “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Honestly?  Do you want to know what I think?”

Malcolm didn’t, but he nodded anyway.  “Of course.”

“I know you’re in love with my daughter.”

It took effort not to react to that.  Pete was more perceptive than Malcolm gave him credit for, but given that he was engaged to Rose and she hadn’t shared the full story with her parents it shouldn’t be a surprise, and he should absolutely not be feeling defensive in anyway.  “Yes,” was all he said, when it became clear the other man was waiting for a response, and he was horrified at the melancholy, wistful tone in his voice.

“I’ve been watching you.  Both of you.  For a long time now.  I see how you look at each other.  To be perfectly frank I think I’ve seen this writing on the wall since I realized Rose had stopped looking for a real job.  And yet, nothing has changed.  You seem no different from six months ago, or two or five years ago, which can only mean one of two things – you’ve been involved with my daughter for a very long time without telling me, or nothing has changed.  My suspicion is the second, but neither explains why you’re getting married now, all of sudden, especially if she’s not pregnant.  So help me understand.”

Sitting at his own kitchen table, untouched steak cooling on the plate in front of him, Malcolm had never felt more idiotic or… or transparent.  Has he really known all this time how I felt?  For a fleeting moment he was certain his hours were numbered, that the man would want him dead for his feelings towards Rose, but then he realized that if Pete had known for years, and never done or said anything to discourage the ‘relationship’ or separate them… he couldn’t possibly approve, could he?

“I see how happy you make my daughter,” Pete continued, unaware of the war ripping Malcolm apart inside, “and how happy she makes you.  I’ve known you for fifteen years, seen you with countless women, and I’ve never seen you as happy as you are with her.  And yet if you’re hiding a romantic relationship you both deserve fucking Oscars, because it’s impossible to tell.  You’ve got the yearning looks down pat.”

Malcolm took a long pull off his beer, mind racing.  It seemed they’d been caught out, and he didn’t know which would be worse – lying to Pete, or betraying Rose’s secret.  And then he registered something Pete has said – or at least implied.

“Are you saying…”  He swallowed, heart thumping painfully in his chest with something akin to hope.  “Are you saying she… Rose feels…”

And Pete started to laugh.

-

Smoothing the dress over her thighs Rose examined her reflection, just as happy with her choice as she had been earlier that day in the Harrod’s dress department.  While it wasn’t a traditional bridal gown, it was still elegant and beautiful and right.

She’d chosen a brocade sheath-style cocktail dress, in a beautiful shade of champagne with golden embroidery.  It hugged every curve, though not quite skin-tight, and the square neckline helped keep it on the right side of decent.  Wedge sandals in the same shade as the dress had convinced her it was fate, and she felt classy, elegant, and mature.  Normally she would have preferred a stiletto, which might have gone with the outfit a bit better,  but with the ceremony being outside in the garden, she didn’t want to have to worry about sinking into the grass.

The last thing she wanted was to make a fool of herself.

The other few dresses she had tried on had been nice enough, perhaps more her usual style, but she had suspected that standing next to Malcolm and his salt-and-pepper hair in them would make her look more like a child bride or a trophy wife than she was comfortable with.

“Right, I’m coming out,” she called, stepping carefully through her apartment back to where Clara was waiting impatiently on the couch.

“What do you think?” she asked uncertainly when her friend said nothing, merely stared at her with an open mouth, salad forgotten on the coffee table.

Slowly Clara stood, coming around the couch with her hand over her mouth, eyes wide.  “You look beautiful,” she whispered, and Rose nearly sagged in relief.

“You really think so?”

A beaming smile spread across Clara’s face as she began to nod.  “Absolutely stunning!  Like a beautiful bride.  Albeit a divorcee going to the courthouse, but still, lovely.  Really.  It’s perfect.”

Rose grinned happily, throwing her arms around her friend.  “I’m so glad you think so.  I hadn’t been meaning to buy, I just wanted to start getting ideas, but… it just called to me.”

“Well, I’m glad you picked up the phone,” Clara joked, pulling back and wiping at her eyes.  “Wow.  Okay, you’re forgiven.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course, your mum may not be so easy to convince.”

The blood drained from Rose’s face as her stomach plummeted.  “Oh, shit.”

-

“What’s so funny?” Malcolm asked defensively, when the other man continued to laugh.  “Stop it!”

“Well, for one, I think you proved there’s more to this wedding than your relationship,” Pete sighed, still smiling as he calmed down.  “And second, you’re so far bloody gone, mate.”

Malcolm huffed, unable to dispute either charge but not wanting to give the other man the satisfaction of admitting he was right.  “It’s not funny.”

“It is, actually.”  The man let out another chuckle.  “And now I’m extremely curious as to not only your reasons for proposing to my daughter, but why she said yes if you don’t even know how the other feels.  Also, Jacks owes me twenty quid, she didn’t think you felt that way.”

With that Malcolm gave up, groaning and letting his head thunk forward onto the table.

“You have no idea how fucked up this all is.”

And, against his better judgement, Malcolm told him.

[faunusrights]

OFFAL HUNT REMASTERED LIVEBLOG // CHAPTER 16

in which murphy nearly cries AGAIN over this fic AGAIN

Cinder didn't say anything. She returned that searching look, like she was wanting something too, like she believed Glynda held some key for her own soul.

HELP ME PLEASE GOD HELP

STOP!!!!!!!!!!!! STOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! PLEASE I BEG OF YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!

i GUESS WE HAVE THIS CHAPTER TOO. I GUESS. OH MY GOD. IM GONNA SCREAM.

we’re opening with florence + the machine lyrics and i LOVE me some florence which is the only thing helping me cope rn but HERE WE GO. WE JUST HAD PAIN. NOW IT’S TIME FOR. MORE, PROBABLY.

The room was cast in filtered blues that seemed to drown all other color, an abyss of night that stole the reds of Cinder’s dress, smothering her in wine-violet.

i once made an offal hunt bingo card that i should have been using the entire time (whoops) but add ‘colour theory’ to it somewhere. and also because i see violet i see glyndas colour am i onto smthng here,

ALSO:

She hadn't said a word beyond what was strictly necessary through the entire ride up to her little apartment.

glynda... have u been invited into a lady’s apartment,,,,,,,,, GLYN,,,,,,,,,, HAVE U PULLED,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, G L Y N D

The lights reflected in her eyes in discs, like screens, like cat’s eyes—shockingly yellow in all the somber blue.

OH

FUCK YEAH

FUCK YEAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

IT’S GLOWY EYES HOURS FUCK YEEEEEEEEEEEEAH

i have been WAITING FOR THIS MOMENT for like FOREVER oooooooh my god yes. YES. cinder yr PRETTY EYES. i love her. did i mention that. because i do,

Glynda had heard of Faunus taking blades to themselves, to try and hide their features and escape the ever-present eye of human oppression. To cut away ears and horns and tails, shearing parts of their own bodies in a desperate break for freedom.

i want to say something thats VERY 👈😢👈 because i. hrm. dont worry abt it. im filing it away. like glynda is. but in a sadder context.

‘whats sadder than this?’

dont ask,

That couldn’t happen. Glynda didn’t want that to happen. No matter the risk. No matter how Cinder would lash out.

OUGH,,, glynda if u start 2 care then cinder will start 2 care and thats a one way ticket on the pain train to gaytown. i, for one, am thrilled,

The response on Glynda’s tongue withered as Cinder, with little fanfare, lifted her dress over her head and laid it haphazardly across the dresser. When Cinder turned back around, the faint sliver of light found purchase in the thin chain around her neck and the jade pendant laid against her bare chest.

OH

OH SHIT

/crashing sounds

MA’AM,

im having to take a minute just give me a minute please give me a m in u te

It was impossible to tell whether Cinder noticed her sliding out to the left of her own body.

glynda, but slightly to the left,

HONESTLY ME TOO!!!!!!!!!!!! HELLO??????????????????? MA’AM

this bed sharing is the straw thats gonna break the murphy’s back. this is it. im gonna die.

Mindfully slow in the darkness, Glynda walked to the other side of the bed, folded her glasses onto the nightstand, and slid under the covers next to Cinder. A small space existed between them. Glynda’s heart thumped in her chest as she tried to discern even the slightest motion from Cinder at her back. Proximity made her dizzy with warmth.

im not even able to comment on like specific instances because im as LOST AS GLYNDA IS RN,,,, WHAT,,,, HELLO?????????????? GLYNDA. THEYRE

THE BED

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Glynda jostled her shoulder. “Are you awake? Cinder?”

“You’re not giving me much of a choice,” Cinder said, unmoving.

og offal hunt COULD never DID never WOULD never i am absolutely going fucking ape shitt crazy feral rn. holy shit. holy shit. lads. the bed. the bed. theyre in the bed. you. whats going on.

“I know,” Glynda agreed. “You’re kind of a menace.”

Cinder was silent. In hindsight, that hadn’t come out as encouragingly as Glynda meant.

hsdjgfsgdf if this is what its like when these two are. semi-enemies. can u imagine what it’ll be like when theyre dating

(i can)

“If I showed up on Sienna Khan’s doorstep with an army behind me, she’d demand to know what took me so long to come home.” Cinder’s eyes were burning coals lodged in the sockets of her shadowed, furious face. “Fuck her. Fuck all of them.” She paused only for breath. “It’s been years—decades—and they still think—”

GOD. THE LORE!!!!!!!!!!! i am SO interested in cinders backstory and this version is rly just going wild. going hoggie wild on this shit. what the hell happened. why did it happen????????? whats going on?????? CINDER... TELL US MORE...

She was furious, like a cornered and wounded Grimm; furious, and hungry for violence.

👈😔👈

“If there is, bring me with you.”

“You?”

“Yeah.”

this is some poetic cinema. this is some soft and tender shit. i want to cry. why is this SO good.

Something small and charmed crawled out of the hollow of Cinder’s expression: the flicker of a smile, for just a moment. She said softly, “We weren’t all born with ancient souls, Glynda. Some of us were lucky to be born at all.”

👈👈👈😭😔😞👈👈👈

this is so soft. im absolutely dying. im going to die. take me out.

It must have been the room, or the night, or air, or—something—that made Glynda admit, “I wish—that I felt that way.” At the expectant silence that followed, Glynda swallowed and continued, “Not—not with the White Fang. Just… I wish that it felt like everything had been leading to something. That everything in my life was worth it.”

Cinder was very quiet.

I AM LITERALLY SCREAMING. DIESEL. KC. I WILL PERSONALLY BURN DOWN YOUR HOUSES OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!! STOP!!!!!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

oh this sucks SO MUCH MORE when you KNOW THINGS(tm) ABOUT THINGS and ooooooooooooooooh my god im literally gonna fuckin die oh my GOD STOP!!!! STOP I HATE IT

It was like swallowing water and holding it in her lungs. She hated how it hurt. But she would rather that than drive Cinder away. She would rather anything than be alone right now.

the good news: this edition of offal hunt is so much more potent abt everything. EVERYTHING feels more vibrant and more real and more interesting and more... everything. and its GREAT i adore it

the bad news: im fucking sobbing

“Ten,” Glynda said. “I enrolled at Beacon when I was twelve.”

okay this is still a very sad moment but also can you fucking imagine rolling up to class at 17 and seeing a literal 12 year old look you in the eye and go ‘you know i can tutor you if you need extra help’. id be fucking livid. who is this square,

Instead, Cinder dared nearer, smoothing a stray lock of hair behind Glynda’s ear. It was an oddly comforting gesture, coming from her. Glynda’s heart stalled in her chest and Cinder, ignoring it, said, “I know it meant a lot to you. That he meant a lot to you.”

me, pointing: this is it ladies and gents and beans. this is it. cinder’s gone and done it now. i can feel it on the wind. here it is. there it goes.

“What is your destiny?” Glynda asked, feeling bolder than before.

The fingers brushing hair behind Glynda’s ear stalled. Cinder’s palm laid warm against Glynda’s high, sharp cheekbone. Something stuttered and then leapt between them, and Glynda’s face went hot when Cinder whispered, “You.”

“Me?”

“We were born in the same year. You couldn’t have known that—that we’re the same age.” Cinder paused and withdrew her hand, tucking it against her own chest. “But my mother felt it. I always knew.”

Glynda didn’t begin to know how to respond.

“We were born in the same year,” Cinder repeated, almost as if to remind herself, like swearing an oath. “We’ve always been each other’s destiny.”

“I always thought it was my destiny to die,” Glynda finally admitted. “Just like my mothers.”

“No,” Cinder said, distantly. “No, it isn’t.”

okay its bad form to grab SUCH a huge section to like bring attention to it but this is. so much. not just from a fucking offal veteran perspective but SO much more too. like this section is just IT its the CORE of the THING!!!!!! and i wish i could go into why hooooooooooooly shit this bit is just. It(tm) but thats a spoiler so i will settle for this

👈👈👈👈👈👈👈👈👈👈😭😭😭😭😭😭😔😔😔😔😞😞😞😢😢😢😢😢😨😨😨😨👈👈👈👈👈👈👈👈👈

cinder’s last line? has me on the FLOOR. THE FLOOR.

When Glynda asked Cinder what her destiny was, Cinder had said you.  

The echo of it was butterflies in Glynda’s stomach.

im losing it. ima bsolutely beside myself

An unfamiliar tension lined Glynda, one she couldn't name or place or recognize. It choked up her throat and clogged her lungs with some unfathomable longing, but for what, she could not place. She looked at Cinder, studying every part of her face, and knew she was studied in turn; Cinder’s lips parted slightly as if she was about to speak, but she said nothing in the end.

But even without speaking, Glynda felt like she’d found an answer to a question she hadn’t had the courage to ask.

OOF. GOD. IM. AH. SHIT. C H R I S T.

i know that this is. [redacted]. and things. and that this is gonna turn into a chapter i look back on and WINCE at when [redacted] and [spoilers] happen but ooooooooooh my goooooooooooooooooood im dying. im outtie. goodbye. rip. fuck me.

[crushedbyhyperbole]

Feeling’s Mutual

Summary:  When Bucky Barnes agreed to join The Avengers he didn’t know what to expect.  There was kindness and support, more than he could have hoped for, and understanding.  There was also misunderstanding.  Dr Veronica Edwards is a hurdle Bucky can’t seem to get past.  Why she doesn’t like him, he has no clue but it’s obvious to him that she really doesn’t.  When routine testing on the new prosthetic arm puts him in Dr Edwards med-suite he finds himself angry at the lengths his new team will go to in order to keep him on a leash.  After that, Bucky decides that maybe he doesn’t like her much either.

Word Count:  4284

Warnings:  Self-loathing and a smattering of PTSD with some mild language thrown in.

A/N:  This is part one of my Muscle memory series..POV Bucky Barnes, first person.  Set between CA:CW and A:IW, with some of the later story mixed in.  I do what I want, okaaayyyy.

“Good morning, Sergeant Barnes.”

Dr Veronica Edwards’ smooth voice surprised me.  She was standing in for Dr Harvey while he was off sick with a stomach virus.  I wasn’t expecting to see any of the ladies here this morning, so I hadn’t bothered with anything more vigorous than a quick wash and a cursory brush of my teeth.  You know how you regret not doing something just when it’s too late?  Yeah, this was one of those.

Being dapper had been part of my persona, from back before Hydra, before trigger codes and before the war; a man should always make an effort when ladies are present.  I supposed that was all out the window now my reputation had changed and I wasn’t James Buchannan Barnes, ladies man, any more. I was Bucky Barnes, Winter Soldier.

I winced as the shadow of a memory flickered in my minds eye like a film reel running too fast, showing snippets of the film in between its skips and jumps on the projector;  a murder here, a massacre there, they all flowed together in a tapestry that was as blurry as it was busy.  The reel skipped off completely and I refocused on her face.

Dr Edwards smiled warmly, moist-looking nude lips curling upward gently making the peachy complexion of her cheeks seem radiant and her green eyes sparkle with kindness.  I knew that was just her bed-side manner, so to speak, to be kind and considerate to all of the people she assisted, but honestly it made me feel a little uneasy.  In my extensive experience, niceness was either a weakness, a grave miscalculation or a form of manipulation, and I trusted none of it. But I was trying to change that with the help of Steve and the folks here at Avengers Central.

Striding further into the room, looking thoroughly classy in my black jersey sweatpants and crumpled white t-shirt, I squared my shoulders and tried to push the uneasy feeling aside. I regretted wearing the two-day-old clothes, but the Doc didn’t seem to care how scruffy I was.

Dr Edwards was always pleasant, courteous and respectful.  She was also confident and empowered, and it made me feel pretty vulnerable.  She knew who she was, and what she wanted.  That kind of strength was rare and it made me feel, uhhh, inadequate.

“Shirt off please.” She held eye contact for a moment longer than was comfortable.  “Take a seat when you’re ready.”  She gestured to the blue, leather-cushioned examination table to her right.

Hopping up, as instructed, I stripped my shirt off to reveal musculature that I was proud of (super-soldier serum aside - I’d worked hard to stay in shape), and the scarred juncture where my flesh ended and the arm began.  I bunched the shirt up at my side and shook out both arms, getting ready for the exam.

Dr Edwards, had conducted my monthly exam only three times in the past.  Each time she had neither been impressed nor distracted by my semi-naked glory.  Perhaps that’s part of the reason why she made me uneasy.  In the past, women had always thrown themselves at my feet, without my asking them, they’d been there flirting and giggling and vying for attention.

Not Veronica, she was in her own category, she didn’t even bite at the little flirtatious jibes I sometimes made towards the ladies on the team.  With the exception of Nat, Wanda, and Pepper, all of the female SHIELD agents and Stark Industries staff were either terrified of or swooned after me.  Well, me, Steve and Thor.  It was hard to compete with the two big blonde guys but Nat said I still had it.  Whatever it was.

Shame my sex drive wasn’t the same as it had been before, well, before hydra.

“How are you finding the latest modification?”  Dr Edwards said, holding her hand out casually asking for permission to examine the arm.

I lifted the tech arm, laying the wrist into her palm lightly.  I could feel so much more through the articulated metal casing than I could before, it almost felt like she was really touching my skin.  Her hands were cool, smooth and soft, and her fingers were delicate as she deftly turned the metal hand over in hers until our palms were touching.

“It’s fine.”  I said gruffly, the feel of her skin on the metal was distracting and oddly intimate.

“It’s taking you a while to get used to the enhanced tactile responses I take it?”

I’d worn a leather glove over the metal hand since Shuri had come up with this new upgrade.  It was like sensory overload, overwhelming me with intense feeling that my brain could hardly cope with.

I simply nodded, for want of a better response.  She was so intuitive.  I’d hardly spoken with her but it was like she could see right inside me and pick out the parts that she needed to know.  How could anyone defend against that?  Maybe she had a telepathic power.  Steve would know.  I decided I’d ask him later when we both hit the gym.

“It’s ok to be overwhelmed. I can turn the sensitivity down for you today if you’d prefer, or you can continue wearing the glove and just ease yourself in slowly?”

In truth, I didn’t really like to be tinkered with.  And I only went along with this monthly exam because Steve had made it mandatory in order to make everyone feel safer, and for my own good, apparently.  That’s what he’d said anyway.  I couldn’t argue with his reasoning really.  I had a past that was impossible to escape and a reputation for murder and brutality that went with it.

“I’ll just do it myself.” I’d succeeded on my own for so long, so I should be able to overcome a few issues with feeling things.

“No problem.” Veronica said, plugging a ribbon cable into the port just inside my metal armpit.  “Right then, show me your range of motion.  Start with fingers, then wrist, elbow, and shoulder.  I’m looking for improved flexibility in the rotator cuff from last time when we fixed the pinching at the shoulder.”

I wiggled all the parts she asked me to with no discomfort at all.  The tech felt the smoothest it had ever been, almost like it was a real arm but I would always see it as foreign, never think of it as mine.  It was something I wore, like shoes, necessary and functional.  I knew I’d feel off-balance without it, and fighting would be difficult.

With the arm Bucky Barnes was a fully functioning member of The Avengers.  Without it he was a pity case, or at least that’s how it felt.

“Step up to the testing machine, please Sergeant Barnes.”  She didn’t look up from her tablet, but she stepped confidently to the control panel with the ease of someone who had memorised the space and knew exactly what was where.

I had never seen that machine before.  It looked a little like a mini hydraulic crusher.  Eying it suspiciously, I slid off the exam bench and approached, shirt forgotten on the table.  The diagnostic cable was still plugged in under the arm and although I couldn’t feel the physical connection, I could feel the flow of power as data passed from the arm to the tablet in Dr Edwards’ hands.

“This is new.”  I licked my lips, slightly nervous.

New things made me uneasy. New things were variables, variables were risks, risks were dangerous.

“It’s a custom-made tensile strength machine, made just for you.”  She smiled brightly as if I should be flattered that they’d come up with a new way to scrutinize me.  “Only instead of testing the strength of the metal your arm is made from, it measures the crushing ability and the strength of your arm in a way we can compare easily with other things for example the tensile strength of structural steel is around five hundred mega pascals.  Human skin is around twenty mega pascals.  Vibranium, well, vibranium is significantly higher at fifty giga pascals but that doesn’t reflect the force you can apply with your arm, if you know what I mean.”

I didn’t.  Not really, but I wasn’t about to ask her to elaborate. She was smarter than most of the techs working at Stark Industries, I’d heard the iron-skin-suit call her brilliant but until now I’d never seen her as anything more than a junior tech.

“You made it?”  I asked with a frown.

“Helped design it yes.” She held my gaze almost as if she sensed my disapproval.

Trust a woman to come up with new ways to test and torture me.  As if I hadn’t had enough of that my whole super-soldier life.

“What do I have to do?”

Veronica ran through the protocols and procedures, and I got the feeling she dumbed it down a little when she described it as ‘weight training for your enhanced limb’.

Slotting the arm into the device, I patiently waited for her to check and double-check the alignment and safety measures.  The commands of pull and squeeze seemed simple enough to follow.

“Are you ready to start the test, Sergeant Barnes?”

I nodded with another frown. She was going to start thinking I hated her, and probably start calling me ‘him’ instead of just my military title. It wasn’t lost on me that Veronica was one of very few people who never called me by my preferred name ‘Bucky’, she was always so formal.

“Ok, and pull for me.”

I compressed the arm in a bicep curl, feeling the machine’s tension counteracting my efforts.  It was like pulling an oar through water to begin with.

“And again.”  She commanded.  “Keep repeating until you meet maximum resistance.”

“How will I know when that is?”  I curled again, feeling the weight against the arm increase.

“You and the machine will reach an impasse.  You won’t be able to pull any more.”

I mumbled a nondescript acknowledgement and continue to work the arm.  At first it was easy, I curled quickly but after a few minutes I found it much tougher.  The machine ramped up the difficulty quickly after my initial efforts and then I was grunting, sweating, and straining against the mechanism.

“Good.  Good!”  She praised and I felt a little hotter in the face with either a blush or sweat, it was hard to tell right then.  “Keep going, you’re doing great.”

After a few more curls the machine locked up and I couldn’t move it any further.  I strained and yanked at it, grinding the mechanism until the arm was locked up too.  I glanced at Veronica, panting and flustered from my exertion.  She disengaged the machine and, with a hiss, the hydraulics powered down.  She took notes quickly before setting up the next task.

With the arm still fixed in the device, I couldn’t move anywhere.  It was like that time that Steve caught me in some factory machinery and forced me to remember who I was.  I was eternally grateful to him for never giving up on me but the feeling of helplessness wasn’t something I enjoyed a replay of.

Sweating, and with regret, I wished I could reach my shirt to blot my face.  I hadn’t realised the exam was going to be so physical, and goddamn if I hadn’t been clenching just about every muscle in my whole body whilst fighting against the damn thing.  Even my crack felt sweaty.

“Is there anything I can get you before we start the next stage?”  Her voice was soft with concern.  It was unnerving how well she read me.  “Do you need to rest?”

“I’m good.”  I said, pride making a fool of me.

“Ok, well let me dry you off a bit.  The port is still connected and should be dry when open.”

I blushed hard at that. She was telling me that I was too sweaty.  Gross. I frowned, embarrassed, and shied away from her touch when she brought a wad of paper towels to my brow.  It had been the very thing I had wanted but not from her.

Her hands were still quite cool but she felt colder against my heated skin.  Too close, she leant over me to smooth the moisture from my body. Swiping the tissues over my face, neck, shoulders and chest, Dr Edwards watched me curiously.  She had to know she was tormenting me.  How could she not notice my flared nostrils and ragged breathing? This kind of physical contact wasn’t something I felt comfortable with.

Tense and scowling, I held my breath, tolerating the contact as much as I could.  She continued with her ministrations until she was satisfied with the dryness of my skin.  It had been too personal in contrast to the formality of her pervious interactions with me. Never more than polite yet professional conversation, zero contact outside of the examination room or combat training, limited off-duty interaction.  It made me feel confused and uneasy.  There was something about her that put me on edge, made me listless.

“The second part of the test is to gage the pressure you can generate with your hand.”  She said, creating space between us that I welcomed. “I’ll do come calibrations after that if needed and we can have a chat about your needs.”

“My needs?”

My heart thudded once, twice, three times before I got it under control.  Why did I have to talk about myself with her?  Dr Harvey was unassuming and easy to ignore.  I didn’t mind talking to him because… Why?  Because I didn’t feel…  Feel what?  Because he wasn’t… Wasn’t what?  Because she made me feel…  Oh for Christ sakes, WHAT?

She made me feel threatened, made me feel nervous.  Veronica made me feel like she didn’t really like me all that much.  The coldness she gave me when she was friendly with everyone else, first names, laughing, joking, and the ease of casual contact.

“Come again?”  I sought clarification.

Oh, Buck, why did you have to make it sound like that.  Like what? Like that?

The way she eyed me then, I didn’t know if it was hatred or something more predatory.

“I don’t follow.”

“Some people prefer to have prostheses that do what they tell them.  Unless you have a penchant for crushing instead of caressing.”

I’m sure my mouth was flapping in the non-existent breeze.  Agape and floundering, I had nothing to say.  Stuck in the idea that flirting and bitterness were one and the same thing to her, or maybe it was too subtle a difference for me to separate the two, I blushed crimson.  Then it struck me that maybe she was goading me about my past.  It was no secret that The Winter Soldier had crushed more than a few windpipes in his time.

“Fine.”  I said, swallowing dryly.  “I’m ready to carry on.”

“Very well.”  And just like that, her stone-faced stoicism was back, with polite professionalism draped over the top.  “Please let your hand relax and fall open.  Good.”

A device with five finger shaped recesses arranged around a silvery ball lowered and rested in the palm the metal hand.  I could feel the metal on metal contact creating a strange thrumming vibration through the arm.  It felt like when I had handled Steve’s shield; a tell-tale sign that vibranium had been used to make this device.

“I’m going to ask you to hold an object, and I would like you to use your muscle memory to create the pressure with your prosthesis.  The machine will respond, mimic the item and measure the results.  It sounds harder than it is.  Ready?”

I nodded, just wanting to get this over and done with.  The sooner this was over, the sooner we could have our ‘chat’ about my needs, and the sooner I could hit the gym with Steve. The punching bag was definitely going to get ruined today.

“An apple.”

The device in the not-my hand seemed to have the same resistance against my grip as would a firm green apple.  I held it, turning it in the not-my fingers.

“Good.  See, you got it.”

Dr Edwards’s praise was both frustrating and pleasant.  I didn’t like the feeling of wanting to please her, but at the same time it was nice to hear her soften towards me, even slightly.

“An egg.”

The machine adjusted slightly and I could feel the fragility of it against the prosthetic fingers.

“A feather.”

I pinched my thumb and forefinger, holding the imaginary feather in between.

“The hand of a loved one.”

Well, shit, if that didn’t throw me for six.  The way the machine moved around my hand gave me chills.  It slid between my fingers, and almost felt real for a second before I managed to distinguish the materials from real skin.  I hardly touched skin with the prosthetic anymore, except my own.

“A mouse.”

The machine wriggled against my palm.  I held it loosely in the cage of my fingers, just firm enough that it couldn’t escape.

“Excellent.”

The test carried on like that for several more minutes before Dr Edwards removed the mimicking device and switched to something that looked like a hand dynamometer.

“Ok Sergeant, I’m going to ask you to squeeze as hard as you can.  This will create a maximum pressure output for me to work with.  What I’m going to do afterwards is set some values into the prosthesis’ programming that will allow you to quickly achieve an exact pressure to accomplish a task.”

“Like what?  Break a bone?”  I scoffed, and before I even looked at her face I knew that was exactly what she had meant.

“Not just that.  But also how not to break a bone.”  She had the sense to look a little abashed.

Dr Edwards had read my file, of course she had, they all had.  She knew when she agreed to run these tests that she were going to be programming instant kills into me or programming me to stop just short.  My money was on the latter.

“And you couldn’t just tell me that this was what it was all about?  Nerfing me so I don’t lash out and kill someone.”  Irritation seethed up my spine and settled as heat in my face. “I get it, I really do.  But I’m a person, not a tool.  Would it kill ya to include me in decisions about, well, me?”

“James…”

“Don’t.”  I shut her down.  “Get the test finished.  I’m done after that.”

When she said my name, my heart almost stopped.  Gone was her formal, guarded façade.  In its place was concern and a look of such sadness that I just didn’t know what to do with myself.  How do you deal with a switch like that?  And fuck me if I wasn’t simultaneously happy as a school boy on the first day of the summer holidays and irritated enough to rip that damn machine apart and storm out of the med wing.  Steve was gonna get a tongue lashing from me before the day was done.

Her face was pale and remorseful as she started the machine off on its cycle.  I squeezed that damn thing as if I was squeezing the life out of the sonofabitch who turned me into a killing machine, squeezed like I was crushing all of the hatred I felt for myself, squeezed like my life depended on it. Who knew, maybe one day it would.

Dr Edwards sent the data to my prosthesis and closed me up.  She was silent but continued to search my face for something, hope maybe, I dunno.  She wasn’t going to find anything.  I was about ready to shut down and stay the fuck away from everyone and everything until I got a chance to have things out with Steve.

I got up to leave, scooping my crumpled white tee off the exam table as I went.

“Good day, Sergeant.”

I closed my eyes as her coldness returned.  Stood in the doorway shirtless and feeling used, I paused, not looking back.

“Dr Edwards.”  I nodded curtly, showing my face in profile only, before striding off in search of something to beat on.  She didn’t need to receive my frustration, she wasn’t the only person, or even the main person, to oversee everything ‘Bucky’.  Rogers and Stark, each had equal hands in this.

 “We didn’t think about it that way, Buck, I’m sorry.”  Steve said.

He held the Everlast bag still for me as I slogged into it.

“That’s the thing about being a weapon most of your life.”  I said smacking the bag hard enough to make the stuffing start to crumble out of the seams.  “Everyone sees you as inhuman, even yourself.”

“That’s not how I see you, man.  You’re my best friend.  I want what’s best for you.”

“And what’s best for me, Steve?  Programming? A kill-switch?  Cyanide implant?  You’re acting just like HYDRA.”

“Whoa!  No-one said kill switch or cyanide.”

I pummelled the bag until the seam split completely and the broken filling plumed out onto the floor. Stepping back, I saw Steve was genuinely upset.

“Sorry punk.  I didn’t really mean that.”  I held my hand out.  “I’m just pissed off.”

He tagged me and smiled dryly.  All was forgiven.

“I’ll get them to lay off on the hardcore controls.  To be honest I didn’t even see that mandate in the requisition forms so I’ll look at that again.  Just please tell me you didn’t terrorise Vee.  She’s one of the best we have and she’s cool.”

“Dr Edwards?”

“Yeah Veronica.  You didn’t scare her, did you?”

“Nah, I was angry but not that angry.”  Had I scared her though?  “I doubt she’d take much notice of anything I said anyway, she doesn’t like me…”

“Whatever, dude.”  He said dismissively.

“…And she’s not the sort to rely on the opinions of others to fashion her idea of her own self-worth.”

“Wow.”  Steve half laughed, blinking his shock away.  “You know her well.”

“We hardly speak. She’s always so formal.  With you it’s Steve this and Steve that, or Cap, yeah she calls you Cap.  And you’re like ‘oh Vee you have to see this movie’ or ‘Vee can you come explain this report to me’.”  I nattered like a bitchy college girl slating her BFF.  “With me it’s Sergeant Barnes, or just Sergeant.”

Steve laughed.  “Are you jealous, Buck?  Have you found a woman who you can’t charm?”

“Haven’t tried.  You know when you can tell that someone hates your guts?  Besides, my charming days are over.”  I waggled the metal arm.

“Some people are gonna find that hot.”  A sultry voice interrupted.  “Can you make it vibrate?”

Natasha flashed a flirtatiously shocked ‘oooh sir!’ face which had me busting out laughing and Steve groaning.

“Don’t worry Barnes. You’ve still got it.”  She licked her finger and touched her chest, making a ‘tsssss’ sound before she mouthed the word ‘hot’ and sauntered away to the locker room.

“She really knows how to play on my insecurities.”  I said deadpan, making Steve crack up.

By the time we both stopped laughing, I actually felt better.  The kind of camaraderie we shared was one of the things that kept me going, through all of this.  Nat was one of my closest friends and even though she loved to mess with me she also knew when not to push.  That stunt she had pulled, maybe an hour earlier, might not have gone down so well. Her timing was impeccable, unlike mine.

After cleaning up and winding down I met Steve back in the kitchen where he was making a protein smoothie.

“Want one?”

I nodded, sitting at the counter.  I wasn’t gonna turn down a free smoothie.  Life was full of little gifts, like food you didn’t have to make yourself and, apparently, people who wouldn’t drop a damn topic.

“Seriously though, you need to get over this thing where you automatically assume people don’t like you, man.  Maybe try to open up a little.  Have a little fun.”

“Yeah, ok, Marilyn Hickey. Sure, a little bit of good old Christian fun sounds like just the ticket.”  I slapped my thigh and winked.

“Fuck off, Buck!”  He blitzed the smoothie maker, trying to drown out my retort, no doubt.

“Ooooh!  You kiss your mother with that mouth?”  I said, chuckling.  “I miss Nick, where is he when you need him, huh?”

“Stop deflecting.”

“I dunno what you’re talking about, buddy.”

“Not what, who.”  He slid the smoothie-filled glass over to me. “Talk to her.”

“Drop it, Steve.  I don’t care if she doesn’t like me.  I’m getting along just fine without an extra person up in my business.”

I downed the thick pinkish goop in the glass, it didn’t taste half bad but it wasn’t a steak.

“And to be honest, all this extra stuff with the arm and the testing just makes it easier for me not to like her right back.”

The noise of a door closing loudly made me jump.  Steve was out of his seat and rushing out of the kitchen only to return a few minutes later with a grim look on his face.

“You’re an asshat.” He said picking up his glass and walking away.

It didn’t take much to put two and two together and figure out that Dr Edwards had overheard me talking about her, but did it really make a difference?  So what if we both didn’t like each other.

It is what it is.