#but my hatred has been subsiding i think they want to fix him to be loveable | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lillotte17 · 4 years ago

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Tomorrow

Got hooked watching Word of Honor and Zhou Zishu's Sad Face Journeys in episodes 33-34 came for my life, so I wrote a little scene set after the whole Heroes Conference Thing. ...And then Wen KeXing showed up and just...*gestures vaguely* I don't know what happened here. XD

Zhou Zishu sits quietly beside the bed, watching Wen KeXing's sleeping face with an ache in his chest that has nothing to do with his failing body, and everything to do with the fact that he is about to die.

When his shidi had made a miraculous reappearance at the Heroes Conference, his first reaction was gut-wrenching surprise. It felt as though the ground had suddenly dissolved beneath his feet. His heart leaping so high in his throat that he forgot how to breathe. Dizzy with the overwhelming rush of joy and confusion. Uncertain whether to laugh or cry.

But once the shock had subsided, the anger had been hot on its heels. And he wanted to be mad about it. Wanted to take Wen KeXing by the shoulders and shake him so hard that his teeth rattled around in his skull. Wanted to scream and sob and rail against the now inevitably fast-burning candle of his fate. At the unfairness of losing his life just as he had found something worth living for again. Someoneworth living for. For a few moments, the fury had burned so brightly in him he thought it might be enough to kill him then and there. That the fire between his lungs would simply burst his chest open and engulf everything around them in a sea of red.

But when they had caught each other’s gaze, he had seen the apology roiling in Wen KeXing’s dark eyes, raw and miserable, even without a word being said. The apology, and the fear. That same fear Zishu had seen flicker across his face every time he had tried to coax him into confessing that he was from Ghost Valley. The same fear he had seen in him the night Wen KeXing had snuck out of the Four Seasons Manor to intercept Ye BaiYi and tried to prevent him from reveling his identity. And yet again, when Han Ying had died, and he had nearly killed himself in a blind panic trying to fix it somehow. The fear whispered that death was preferable to his hatred. That his blade would be kinder than his revulsion. That Wen KeXing would sacrifice anything to avoid being abandoned once again.

Zhou Zishu was helpless in the face of it; as he always seems to be. The look that passed between them had been fast and fleeting, there and gone again with barely a blink, but it was enough to douse the flames of his anger with a tide of chilling and fathomless grief. The rest of the Heroes Conference passed before him in a daze. Vengeance, and justice, and pride. Wen KeXing blazing in the brightest and truest version of himself for all to see. Dazzling and mesmerizing and impossible to look away from. He does not know if he has ever loved him more, even as he felt his heart slowly sinking down into the pit of his stomach. The numbness of acceptance settling into his bones.

There will be no escape from death, this time.

He had been quiet on the way back to Jing BeiYuan’s Manor. Quiet enough to worry both Wen KeXing and ChengLing, who always seems to see more than he understands. He had listened to their reasons and excuses, and he had done his best to reassure them afterwards, but his own words sound hollow in his ears. The best he could do was to get Lao Wen hopelessly drunk, and pray that it made him less intuitive. The suffusion of elation and hope in the air had nearly been enough to choke him, though. He did not want to rob them of it, but he found he could take part in it either, no matter how much he wanted to. He could not bring himself to celebrate a future he can no longer share with them.

Zhou Zishu understands Wen KeXing. He understands that he is just as abysmal at properly conveying affection as he is himself, if not more so. The man only knows how to protect people he cares for by either sending them away from him or drowning them both in blood. It is how he had managed to survive all those years surrounded by madness and chaos and death. Zishu had done much the same, while he was working in the capital. Hiding all of their softer places far away from where the light could reach them. Playful banter has always passed easily between them, but tenderness is heavier, and vulnerabilities almost impossible to speak aloud. They are both trying to do better, struggling to pull their own humanity back into their hands where it can be shared freely, but Wen KeXing’s hurts are older and deeper. His path back to the world of the living inevitably more winding and complex. He still has not mastered the art of articulating his fears and concerns.

Zhou Zishu’s health was tenuous even before he had been kidnapped and tortured. As much as he hated to admit it, he had been in no fit state to fight an angry mob. Wen KeXing hid the truth from him because he knew that he would chafe at being told to stay out of harm’s way; that they would have argued about it until he was either allowed to participate in the scheme or he was spitting blood and passing out on the floor. Zishu cannot even say that this assessment of his character was a bad one, but it still stung to be kept in the dark, and the hurt was lingering. And yet, however deep the barb of this secret may have landed, however misplaced the caution may or may not have been, he knows without a shred of doubt that Wen KeXing’s deception was born of love, and he can hardly hold that against him.

Especially not now.

Wen KeXing turns his head slightly, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like an extremely slurred version of his name. His expression is smooth and peaceful, his hair a dark fan across the bed behind him. The rosy glow of happiness and alcohol still pinking the apples of his cheeks.

Zishu smiles despite himself. It is much easier to find traces of the little boy his master had planned to take for his second disciple when he looks like this; safe and sleeping and completely at ease for the first time in who knows how long. He wishes he could recall those few precious days they had spent together as children with more clarity, but the memory of it is like a silk brocade left to sit too long in the sunshine, its delicate patterns fading as the colors wash away in a flood of light. Zhou Zishu had been too young to fully comprehend the weight of death when his master had returned from his trip to collect the Wen family without his shidi or his parents in tow. That his master had been sad about it was enough to impact him, but in the grand scheme of things, the wounds to his own heart had been minimal.

What would have happened if they had kept looking for Zhen Yan, he wonders. If he and Wen KeXing had grown up together as best friends and martial brothers and soulmates? Would their master have found a way to soothe Zhen Yan’s rage before it consumed him? Would Zhou Zishu have made the same mistakes with the Window of Heaven if Wen KeXing had been at his side? Perhaps they could have saved each other before things had reached the place they were now. Or perhaps Wen KeXing would have died under Zhou Zishu’s leadership with the rest of their sect, and his failures would have tasted that much more bitter.

He sighs quietly. There is no sense dwelling on things he cannot change. He had been a child, and just as powerless to save Wen KeXing from his fate as the boy himself had been. Feeling guilty about it was meaningless at this point. It was enough to have him here and now. Enough that they had had any time together at all. Enough that Wen KeXing had fallen off of that cliff and somehow still managed to walk back to him.

It has to be enough, because it is all they have. All they can have. Even if he wants more.

“Ah Xu?”

The voice is thick with sleep, but marginally less inebriated than before.

“Mn,” Zhou Zishu hums in acknowledgement, his gaze shifting slightly to watch Wen KeXing blink himself back into wakefulness.

“You didn’t go to bed?” he asks, bleary and swaying slightly as he attempts to sit up.

“There is someone in my bed.” Zishu points out archly.

Wen KeXing looks murderous for a few seconds until he realizes that the person in question is, in fact, himself. When the clouds break, his expression immediately shifts to one of insufferable satisfaction. He leans precariously off the side of the bed, robes and hair both hopelessly askew.

“I am always willing to share everything I have with Ah Xu,” he declares with feigned sweetness.

“How kind of Philanthropist Wen to make a present of what he stole from me,” Zhou Zishu snorts, “Your generosity knows no bounds.”

“Ah Xu!” Wen KeXing objects. “How is it stealing when you gave it to me freely? You think I would come to your bedroom with the intention of sleeping?”

“I’m sure I don’t know anything about your intentions.” The reply is given with a smirk, but his eyes dart away from him. “You asked me to drink with you, but the jar you brought was empty. Besides, I am thinking about giving it up. I have been told that it is bad for my health.”

“Aiya, first Ah Xu accuses me of being a thief, and now he tells me such scandalous falsehoods!” Wen KeXing shakes his head, attempting to seem wounded despite the grin on his face. “I already accepted your punishment earlier, there is no reason to be cruel.”

“Who is a liar here?” Zhou Zishu inquires laughingly, gesturing back and forth between them. “Which one of us is the most scandalous?”

“It’s me, it’s me,” Wen KeXing acknowledges, his head bobbing up and down in agreement, “But Ah Xu, you cannot expect me to ever believe that you would willingly give up drinking good wine with me? And as for not understanding my intentions, well…I believe that even less.”

“Was your intention to make sure I could not get any sleep?”

Wen KeXing only smiles at him widely.

“…I regret asking such a question,” Zhou Zishu chuckles, reaching out to lightly slap the side of Wen KeXing’s face in both fondness and chastisement. “Ask a shameless man a question and you are sure to get a shameless reply.”

Wen KeXing grabs hold of his hand before he can pull it away, leaning into it with a sigh.

“What is so shameless about it at this point?” he wonders, something soft and shining igniting within his gaze. “Living together. Dying together. Watching as our hair turns gray with old age. We’ve already promised to share these things, haven’t we? Why give me your bed when we could share that, too?”

Zhou Zishu takes a long look at him. At the dark hair spilling across his shoulder in disarray. The front of his robes just rumpled enough to expose the elegant line of his throat as well as part of his collar bones. The flush of his cheeks and the promise burning in his eyes.

He cannot deny that he wants it. Even knowing it might make things more painful later on. He wants to be selfish. He wants to be greedy while he still can. While he can still hear Lao Wen calling for him and feel his skin beneath his hands. His sense of taste and smell have gone already, but can still see him, and that could be enough. More than enough.

But will it be enough for Wen KeXing?

This is the last thing they have to give each other. The last pieces of themselves they have been holding back. Mostly because there simply had not been time for it amidst the chaos swirling around them. It always seemed as though either their lives were in danger or one of them was injured. Up until now, even Zishu had been optimistic enough to assume they would have time for it later, though. Time to use physical intimacy as an almost second meeting. To learn how they need each other in the quiet and the dark. To learn the ways they can be gentle, and the ways they can be fierce. To burn each other up in desperation and desire.

It seems too heartless to have it be a farewell instead.

Zhou Zishu lets out a long breath.

“…Not when you are drunk,” he says quietly.

Wen KeXing blinks at him in astonishment, eyes blown wide and round as saucers, clearly expecting a flat-out rejection.

A moment later, the blankets have been hastily flung aside, and he is staggering off of the bed has fast as he can. Which, as it turns out, is not very fast at all. Zhou Zishu easily catches him with one arm, lightly pushing him back into a seated position.

“Lao Wen, where do you think you are going?” he laughs.

“I need to sober up,” Wen KeXing explains, looking so serious about it that Zhou Zishu cannot help but reach out and pinch his cheek. Lao Wen slaps his hand away, his expression mulish.

“Don’t pout,” Zishu scolds, still chuckling, “It is too late to be staggering around someone else’s house. With my luck, you would drown yourself in the fish pond, and then BeiYuan and Wu Xi would be terribly put out.”

“But Ah Xu, if you won’t let me leave, and you won’t share the bed, just what do you want me to do?” Lao Wen complains. “Even if you don’t want to have sex, you should at least lay down and rest properly. I want you to get well as soon as possible.”

Zhou Zishu’s mouth stiffens slightly.

“I know.”

Wen KeXing’s brow furrows in concern. He reaches out a hand, long fingers hovering just above his heart, when Zhou Zishu catches them tightly in his own. He is not certain if Lao Wen could glean the truth about his condition from his pulse while still tipsy, but he is not about to run that risk tonight.

“Are the nails bothering you again?” Wen KeXing asks, doleful this time.

“No.”

It is not a lie.

“Then come to bed,” Lao Wen cajoles, using their joined hands to tug him closer, “I promise not to molest you unless you ask me to.”

Zhou Zishu makes a sound of grumbling disbelief, but still allows himself to be pulled down next to Wen KeXing. The bed is big enough for two, but only just. Lao Wen retrieves the formerly discarded blankets from whatever corner he had toss them and bundles them up together like two caterpillars in a single cocoon. His face is close beside him on the pillow, warm breath fanning the side of his neck. An arm drapes loosely about Zishu’s waist, and he turns his head slightly, intending to shoot a warning glare in the other man’s direction.

This is a mistake.

Wen KeXing’s eyes are dark and intense in the moonlight, half closed with either sleep or desire, it is hard to say. His lips part slightly as Zhou Zishu turns to him, and the hand draped around his waist clutches faintly at his robes as if on instinct. Both of them seem to have forgotten how to breathe.

“…Ah Xu, you can kiss me, if you like,” Lao Wen whispers finally, so soft it almost seems like a dream.

“What makes you think I want to kiss you?” he means it to sound teasing, but it comes out in almost a sigh.

“Because I want to kiss you,” Lao Wen replies matter-of-factly.

“I never thought of you as a pillar of self-restraint,” Zhou Zishu huffs.

“I promised to be a gentleman.”

Zishu closes his eyes and lets out a deep, soul-rattling sigh. He is almost glad he cannot smell the oils Wen KeXing uses in his hair or the trace of alcohol on his lips. The proximity is staggering enough all on its own.

“…It would not stop with a kiss,” he admits aloud to both of them.

He does not open his eyes again, but he can feel Wen KeXing’s body tremble slightly as he laughs, and that is almost as bad.

“Ah Xu, I would hardly complain,” he replies, testing his luck by shifting close enough so that their foreheads are lightly touching. “But you want to rest, and I want you rested, so it is no great loss, either way. You will still be here with me tomorrow, after all. There is no need to rush these things. Sometimes, a slow spring is sweeter.”

“Yes,” Zhou Zishu manages to reply around the lump lodged in his throat, “I will still be here tomorrow.”

#Word of Honor #Wenzhou #wen kexing #zhou zishu #fic #this was supposed to be all angsty #but they are SO EFFING FUNNY #it's so fun writing their banter #askdjghasdfgk #i am sorry #i have no idea what emotions this actually conveys at this point #i just work here

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fallenrepublick · 4 years ago

Note

Rereading your work and I got a thought: how maul and savage (and also thrawn) react to them hurting you is just for a minor injury. But what if the hurt had been much bigger, like breaking a bone or knocking you out? How would they react (or should I say how badly would they panic) then?

I like the way you think, friend

Maul

There has never, in the history of the galaxy, been such sheer panic.

The fear that takes over is unlike anything he’d ever experienced, anything he’d ever have thought it possible for him to experience.

And when the shock clears from his frozen mind, when the realization hits him that you hadn’t stood up yet, oh gods, he’s already praying.

He drops everything, his feet feeling heavy beneath him as he runs to your side, wanting to hold you and process what to do, but the fear that he may hurt you further makes him hesitate.

What if something worse happens? What if he put you in more pain than you were already in?

But you need him, you need him to be there, and he knows that. So gingerly, he lifts your head onto his lap, holding your face, calling your name as he tries to hold himself together to the best of his ability.

He feels around, checking your pulse, watching you breathe.

And though an onlooker would never know it, he’s cursing beneath his breath, asking himself, “How could I do this? How could I hurt you like this? What have I done, what have I done, what have I done?”

But this is no time for self-hatred, so he carries you to the medbay as fast as he can without jostling you. And as per usual, there are people standing by to ensure that you’ll be alright.

He refuses to leave your side until you come to.

And when you finally do, he’s there, still awake, waiting for you, and it seems like he’s on the brink of snapping.

He apologises over and over again, promising he never meant to do such a thing, that it was an accident and he would rather die a thousand times than harm you.

You try to tell him that you know, that you aren’t upset over it and you’ll be fine in no time.

But he isn’t the type to give up so easily, and over the course of the next few days, you find yourself drowning in gifts trying to make up for it. However, you’re still concerned.

He’s there, and he’s there constantly. But he isn’t... there. His mind always seems to be somewhere else, and he looks as if he’s afraid to touch you again, even in the smallest ways. Opportunities that he used to take to hold your hand or brush at your cheek, he begins letting pass by.

You initially chalk it up to him trying to let you heal, but it continues even after you’re released So you resolve to bring it up to him.

He refuses to admit it at first, his pride standing once more in the way of the truth, but you insist he not lie to you.

“This hurts me more than that wound ever could,” you say to him. And it works, his eyes widening in concern, the best course of action (finally) dawning on him.

Yes, he had been avoiding you in a way. “I lost control over my own strength,” he says, regret rising to the surface. “I couldn’t bear it if I did so again.”

So you hold tight to him, unafraid of consequences that don’t exist, and you let him know, you make him know, that it was never his fault. Because you wouldn’t be here still if it was.

Savage

He doesn’t even realize what happened at first.

Oftentimes when he spars with you, you need frequent pauses, because he’s just that strong.

But today when you were training, you stopped longer, holding your upper arm tightly at your side, flinching every time you tried moving again.

Upon noticing this, he hesitantly walks closer to you, only to find the section of your arm that you’re tentatively prodding to be growing ever-closer to a deeper, darker, more unnatural shade of your skin than it should be.

Not only that, but the area already swells up, the area much larger than the same spot on your other arm, a trait not often found in small bruises.

He isn’t sure what exactly to do in the moment, and he has a difficult time keeping himself from touching it, as if he could somehow fix the wound by poking at it.

But he does eventually walk you to the medbay, profusely apologizing with every step he takes, holding your shoulder in an attempt to stabilize your movements and not harm your bones anymore than they already are.

He can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when he finds out it’s only a small fracture, but the realization that sparring with you may be too dangerous weighs on him like a block of iron.

The thing is that he enjoys practising with you. Having the opportunity to help with your combat skills and spending all that time with you was something he didn’t know he cared so much about until this moment.

Still, he prioritizes your safety over these things, and as much as it saddens him to give that up, he convinces himself that it’s the best option.

So when you’ve assured him that the pain has subsided and you’ll be healed in only a few weeks, he finally tells you what he’s decided.

Needless to say, you aren’t too happy.

You argue, insisting that whatever led him to the idea that you weren’t safe was absolutely ridiculous. People get hurt during practise all the time. It’s simply a lesson in what not to do next time.

He hates arguing with you, even if he thinks it’s for the best. But in reality, he let’s you make most decisions, and even for this instance, he won’t contest you if you refuse to sit out on training from here on. You simply won’t have it.

And of course, it takes him some time to accept that. When you feel completely better and return to the training grounds, you notice him going even lighter on you than usual.

So in protest, you try to fight him harder, increasing your intensity with every blow you make.

And you’re back to normal in no time.

Thrawn

He is no stranger to bad wounds.

So when he sees you doubled over after a kick that landed on your chest harder than it was meant to, he identifies what that means almost immediately.

He calls for medics. Now.

And he stays beside you, holding your back and one of your shoulders to keep you upright. He tries to keep his composure one of support and care, but he finds it more than difficult to hide his disdain that help hadn’t arrived within a few seconds.

He’s reassuring you softly, making sure you don’t move too much, telling you that it’ll be alright and not to worry.

And he continues doing so, even after the medics begin checking you, through discreet scowls at the inefficiency of their arrival and mumbling about the expectation during emergencies.

When you’re in the medbay, half groaning from the soreness of your chest, he holds your hand in between his, admitting that he was careless, that he was making baseless assumptions about your reactions. Of course you would move to protect your head first and foremost. Why hadn’t he seen that?

And he’s unsurprisingly calm, as always, but that doesn’t mean he was relaxed. In fact, quite the opposite. Beneath the cool, rational reactions and the critical exterior lay an unceasing worry that you had learned to find and identify.

It isn’t much, but you squeeze his hand just a little tighter in response, and for a split second, you think you see that fear present itself in his expression.

When you both learn that he had fractured two of your ribs, you think you see the expression again, and this time, he’s the one that tightens the grip on your hand.

No one’s allowed to bother you, to try and pawn off work to you that they don’t feel like doing. Without your express permission, no one’s even allowed into the medbay. Thrawn’s had it, and he’s made it clear.

He blows off a good bit of work to see you for days at a time, only bringing with him things that are extremely high priority. Other than that, though, he pays the ultimate amount of attention to you.

And once you’ve healed, that doesn’t really change. Not for a while, at least.

He doesn’t mention training again, unless you bring it up, and even then he’s hesitant to discuss it. He doesn’t like leaving you alone simply so that he can train, but he also still feels as if you’re too delicate to combat for now.

He eventually does allow it again, but only after months of denying it, if only to make absolutely certain that you won’t fall apart upon contact.

#darth maul #darth maul x reader #darth maul x you #maul #maul x reader #savage opress x reader #savage x reader #savage opress #savage opress x you #grand admiral thrawn #thrawn #grand admiral thrawn x reader #thrawn x reader #star wars x reader #star wars x you

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bellatrixobsessed1 · 4 years ago

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The Killing Cure (Part 6)

Sleep takes her regardless of whether or not she welcomes it and her waking comes as a very unpleasant surprise. She is only tolerant of her awakening as far as her daughters go, even then she is no more able to protect them than her rotting corpse could.

“Mother?” Cassandra murmurs sleepily.

Alcina weakly strokes her hair, “I’m still...here dear.” She isn’t sure for how long. She needs to get up but her body ails her unceasingly and without mercy. She tries to stand, her muscles are all so weak and the pain in her abdomen is still so sharp. She gets to her feet anyhow, she is going to have to endure. Endure until her last breath.

“Lay back down mother.” Cassandra mumbles.

Alcina shakes her head. “I have to do things for myself.” She makes her way across the room, somehow she has to make herself useful. She loathes to think of what Hiesenberg will say to her when he sees her again, the mockery and the endless taunting. And she would deserve it getting bested like that by a human man.

She braces herself against the wall.

“Don’t hurt yourself, mother.” Cassandra frowns.

“Where are your sisters?”

“Daniela thought that it would be nice to make you some new dresses. Bela is better at sewing though.”

“When did Bela learn…?”

“She watched the maiden do it before we turned her into fine wine!” Cassandra replies joyfully.

Alcina chuckles. It is the first prickle of genuine humor she has had in a while. At the very least it is the first moment that the pain had subsided even just a little. She attempts to heave herself away from the wall and stand on her own. It is still dizzying to look upon her furniture from this vantage point. It is one thing to get adjusted to it from the semi-comforts of her mattress and another thing entirely to walk by the towering room decor.

She inhales deeply--at least she doesn’t have to put thought into breathing anymore. And she takes her first few steps, slow and meek. Cassandra holds out her hand and Alcina takes it, privately pretending that she has done so for the girl’s comfort and not her own.

“Where are we going, mother?”

“Let’s check on your sisters and perhaps I can find myself something to eat…”

.oOo.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” Ethan shouts. Lady Dimitrescu is not tucked safely into her bed when he arrives in her bedroom. He runs his hands through his hair, he can’t imagine that she could get very far.

Most likely, she is somewhere in the castle, lurking as she always had. But what if she has gotten herself further hurt than she is already? He imagines that she is the exact sort of woman who would push herself well beyond her limits just to prove something to herself, to impress an audience that isn’t even in attendance.

Or maybe she has assumed that he wasn’t coming back for her. Maybe she has left the castle in search of something to fix her up. But she wouldn’t leave those little demon flies, would she? He rubs his hands over his face and curses again.

He tells himself that he is only frustrated that he had gone all of that way and endured all of the Duke’s chatter and taunting for nothing.

“Got yourself in a really tight situation this time, didn’t you, Mr. Winters?” He’d chuckled. A fool he was to think that that would be the end of the Duke’s commentary.

“I thought up an assortment of scenarios about you and Lady Dimitrescu but this one never crossed my mind…” He had trailed off. “A small human. You might have four daughters to take care of now.”

“Absolutely not, Duke. She’s ill, not a child.”

The Duke had chuckled. “You’ve never overheard one of their family meetings, boy! The woman can cavil and grouse like the most petulant teenagers I’ve come across.” He took a swig of ale. “And that Hiesenberg, what a mouth that one has!”

“Duke…”

“Just how small is she now? I’ve heard hearsay that she was a tiny thing.”

“She’s...she’s small. Yeah.”

At that he had given his heartiest, most bellowing laugh yet. “Oh! What a treat. You’ll have to bring your new missus by when she’s all healed up!”

“She’s not...she won’t be...just sell me my goods, Duke!” He had waved the coins at him. Even a bribe--double the usual charge--hadn’t been able to deter him from his jesting. And so he’d resigned himself to several hours of jokes, gossip, and idle conversation. None of it of any particular importance. And now Dimitrescu is gone.

“Son of a fuck!” He shouts, noting that Heisenberg would probably appreciate that one. He slams his fists against her nightstand, knocking a glass to the floor. It shatters at his feet.

“Haven’t you ruined enough, Winters?” The woman, looking more thoroughly exhausted than before, stands in the doorway pinching her nose.

“I’m sure that you have a lot more glasses.”

“It’s the sentiment, Winters.” She, accompanied and assisted by her daughters, finds her way back to her bed. She falls heavily upon the mattress and just about curls in on herself. “What kept you?”

“Have you talked to the Duke?” He groans.

The look on her face and that deep sigh tells him everything that he needs to know.

“Now, you might want to start treating me better because I didn’t have to do this…”

“You didn’t have to put me in this condition either, Winters. I won’t thank you for fixing what you broke…”

Broke. He looks her over. Does she really see herself as broken? Really he thinks with the proper treatments she could probably function relatively well. “Well, look, I didn’t just get you medication, I also got some new clothes for you and some food that’s more...suitable for a human.”

She seems none to pleased about this.

“Look, I even got you a new hat, just like your other one.” He tries.

This seems to lift her mood, if only a little. She reaches for it and fixes it onto her head. It is only when he hands her the pile of clothes that he realizes she is already dressed in something new. Rather, aged but different than what she had been wearing.

“Bela and Daniela made it for me.” She notes.

He doesn’t want to be touched by it but, by God, he is. To think that those beasts have flickers of humanity. “There are two types of drugs here.” He holds them out, “one for diet and nutrition and one to suppress the immune system. Believe it or not, the Duke said that he got a supply just in case something like this happened.”

Lady Dimitrescu takes the pills and supplements.

“He was going to charge me extra too! He said that he was planning on getting extra riches from this, I told him that I put up with enough chatter to get a discount!”

She rolls her eyes. “That man is a character.” She takes a glass of water and swallows a pill. He can’t imagine that someone so small would need any more than one. She seems to stare sadly at her hands. But when she looks upon him it isn’t with as much hatred as it has been prior.

.oOo.

Alcina picks her way through the pile of clothing and, to her relief, finds a pair of gloves. She stuffs her rashed and blistered hands into the gloves, glad to be rid of the sight of them. She hates the sight of them, hates the sight of herself in general. She doesn’t just hate the sight of herself, she thinks that she hates herself entirely.

“Do you want something to eat?” Winters breaks her from her daze.

“Yes!” Daniela declares.

“I wasn’t talking to you.” He mumbles.

“A meal would be ideal.” She replies quietly.

The man seems to bite at his cheek before asking, “what would you like?”

“I don’t know, Winters. I haven’t had a taste for human dishes since making dishes of humans.”

For some reason, he chortles at this.

“Surprise me, you’re aggravatingly good at that.”

Ethan nods. “Alright, I’ll cook some potato salad, Mia used to love potato salad especially when I added cider vinegar…” He trails off in thought.

She thinks that the memory is painful for him, it must be with his wife so newly dead. She tries her best to fight off the sympathy but doesn’t quite succeed. She has enough success to not reassure him but not enough to stop herself from pulling him out of his own head. “My girls need food too.”

“They can have some of the salad.”

She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “You need to go hunting. They prefer raw human, but deer or wolf will suffice.”

He sighs and says exactly what she hadn’t expected. “Alright, I’ll show you how to make a good potato salad and then I’ll go on a hunting trip. I’ve already shot dozens of lycans, how hard can one deer be?”

#Resident Evil #Alcina Dimitrescu #Lady Dimitrescu #Ethan Winters #Alcina/Ethan #Fanfiction

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depressedhatakekakashi · 3 years ago

Text

Why Protect Them?

AU: Age Swap Au

Words: 1558

Rating: Teen

Characters: Hatake Kakashi and Uchiha Sasuke

Warnings: Blood, Blood Mention, Murder, Minor Character Death.

Summary: Revenge is something Kakashi has been seeking since he left Konoha. For the pain he felt, the life he lives, the hatred he faced. Yet, when he thinks he has finally gotten that revenge he still feels empty. As if there’s something else for him to do. A masked Shinobi shows up to tell him just what it is he’s missing.

The night air was heavy. Fatigue, anger, hurt, all wearing at him. Pulling him down until his knees buckled and he came crashing to the ground. His body ached, but it didn’t matter.

He’d done it.

He had won the fight, and yet the anger was still there. Burning deep inside of him. Tearing at his soul the same as it had before.

Nothing had changed, and it angered him. No matter how much he wanted to cheer. How happy he should be at his victory, he couldn’t even manage a smile.

“Why!?” Slamming his hands down against the ground, he screamed into the empty air around him. No matter what he did it wouldn’t go away. It refused to leave him alone. A curse placed on him from birth that would follow him until he died.

Lifting his eyes, he stared at the bloody, broken corpse of Konoha’s elder.

Orochimaru.

Leader of Root. Corrupt politician. The person Danzo had told him had made sure he had been left alone growing up. With no one to care for him. No one to love him.

No one to even like him.

“What do I have to do!?” He screamed at the corpse, desperate for an answer. For anything that could make the hurt inside his heart go away for just a little bit.

“I thought that much was obvious,” Scrambling to his feet, Kakashi moved into a defensive position and searched the area for any sign of whoever it was who was trying to talk to him. “Surely you didn’t think this was all you had to do. That taking down one person would solve all of your problems.”

Nothing.

No matter where he looked, or how much he tried to sense the enemy, he couldn’t find them. It annoyed him. He was good at telling where people were, even when they didn’t want him to.

He always knew who was around him and where they were, but right now he was exposed. Susceptible to attack.

And he hated it.

“There’s so many others to go after,” hearing the voice directly behind him, he turned to face his enemy. Except, there was no one there. Just empty space. “You can’t just let them get away with it, can you? Surely you want them all to pay for the part they played in making your life as miserable and empty as it was.”

“Who the hell are you!?” Digging his feet into the ground, he prepared himself to lunge towards his opponent as soon as they were visible. “And why won’t you show yourself to me?”

In the blink of an eye, the enemy appeared. Clad in an Akatsuki jacket with a blue swirl mask hiding his face from view and a hand resting on his hip, clearly not recognizing Kakashi as a threat. Which burned Kakashi on the inside.

Even after taking down Orochimaru, a high-ranking Shinobi of the leaf village and the current Hokage, he still wasn’t considered a serious threat? Who did he have to kill to get some damn respect in this world?

“You’re not really going to let them all forget what they did to you, are you?” The man behind the mask taunted. “All of those people that left you alone with no one to care for you. The villagers who hurled insults at you and hated you for something you couldn’t control?”

No. He didn’t want to listen to this.

Taking a step back he tried desperately to put distance between himself and the stranger as if it would help him to ignore his taunts. But his movement was met by the stranger taking a step towards him. Closing the gap that Kakashi had tried to create.

“No,” he growled, turning angry eyes onto the man who had so rudely interrupted his moment of victory. “No! I won’t become that!”

All it would do is prove them right. Show them that they were correct to fear Kakashi. To hate him. That was the last thing he wanted.

“Why are you holding onto mercy?” the stranger drawled, one empty black eye staring back at Kakashi. “Why would you hold any mercy for the people who hurt you? The ones who shunned you and hated you?”

Another step back met with the stranger closing the gap between them once more. This time coming closer. Stepping up right into Kakashi’s space so that he was hovering over him, his one eye spinning to life with a deep red six-pointed star.

The Sharingan.

“Who the hell are you!?” his feet moved to get him out of there, but before he could even hope to escape there was a hand grabbing hold of the front of his shirt. Holding him in place as the stranger stared down at him, his Sharingan staring down at him with a look Kakashi knew all too well.

Disgust.

“They treated you like shit,” the words burned deep. A reminder of things Kakashi had tried so hard to forget since leaving Konoha. Things he could never leave behind him, no matter how hard he tried to press forward. To forge his own path separate from Konoha. “And you’re still angry, we both know you are. If you didn’t care about Konoha you wouldn’t have gone after Orochimaru.”

Looking past the stranger, Kakashi focused on the dead body still laying on the ground. Covered in his own blood, one arm on the other side of the battlefield where Kakashi had chopped it off when they tried to grab him.

He had been so angry when Danzo had told him the truth before meeting his own death.

The fire had burned in his soul having to hear what role Orochimaru had played in ensuring Kakashi had been left alone. With no one to care for him. How he had manipulated all of the higher-ups into believing the best course of action was lying to Kakashi.

Denying him knowledge of his parents, or his family name. Ensuring that he was hated in the village. Shunned for something he had no control over.

“My friends…”

Obito, Rin, Gai. Even after all his time away from them, he couldn’t forget them. Wouldn’t dare to harm them. They hadn’t done anything wrong, and Konoha was their home. The village they would protect with their lives. He couldn’t…

“Are you so desperate to hold onto those few ties you have in that village that you’re willing to ignore the role everyone else played in making you feel unwelcome in your own village? Treating you like trash!” dragging his eyes back to the masked man, Kakashi found himself unable to focus on anything but the Sharingan that stared back at him with a deep burning hatred. “Cut your bonds! All they are doing is holding you back. Keeping you from getting the revenge you deserve. You don’t need friends. They didn’t do anything for you while you were in Konoha, and they’re not doing anything for you now. As far as they’re concerned you’re a traitor to their village. Someone, they will kill if they see again. So stop holding onto a past that you burned yourself, and focus on what matters.”

What matters.

“Konoha…” the anger returned. Violent and heavy in his heart.

All he had ever been to Konoha was a monster. Someone to hate and fear, even as a child. A liability to their quiet peaceful life.

“This is your chance to get the revenge you deserve. Not just against Orochimaru, but all of Konoha. Every single person who yelled at you, called you a monster, threw you out of their shop. All of them are to blame for the life you led, and you’re already a monster in their eyes. Why not show them what a monster you can really be?”

The masked man finally released his grip on Kakashi’s shirt and took a step back.

“Or are you just going to stand by and let them get away with it all?” his voice shifted. Anger subsiding for a taunting tone. “Pretend that none of it ever happened. Maybe you’re right. I’m sure your friends can forgive you for turning your back on them even when they pleaded with you to stay...because you have that bond.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

His heart ached.

Even when he had trained under Danzo he had held onto his friends, but they didn’t care about him.

They would rather put Konoha and the villagers who hated him over him.

They didn’t want the village they loved so dearly to be fixed. To face the consequences of their actions. They just wanted Kakashi to come home and forget anything bad had ever happened. Act like all was fine with the world.

He couldn’t do that though.

Refused to forget the way he had been treated all his life.

“I’ll burn it to the ground.” he met the masked man’s gaze, anger burning deep in his soul. A hatred he had pushed down for so long. Had tried so hard to ignore it no matter how bad it hurt, because that’s what a good shinobi did.

He was done being a good shinobi. It was time for Konoha to meet the anger of a Jinjuuriki.

“Good,” the masked man straightened himself up, a triumphant note in his voice. “It’s what they deserve.”

#Age Swap AU #Hatake Kakashi #Uchiha Sasuke #Jinchuuriki Kakashi #Akatsuki Sasuke #Blood #Blood Mention #Blood TW #Orochimaru Dies #XD

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queen-of-the-avengers · 4 years ago

Text

Better Late Than Never

Characters: Steve Rogers x Stark!Reader, Tony Stark, Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanoff, Wanda Maximoff

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: angst, fluff at the end, reunion

Request by anon: Hi there!! Just curious, would you ever make a one shot to the avengers reunion for your story pick a side?

Summary: After years apart from your dad, you come face to face with him. Will he hate you for leaving? Will he resent you even more? Or will he accept you back into his life?

sam’s wings for @star-spangled-bingo

tears of joy for @foundfamilybingo

Part One

Author’s Note: If you have any requests, please send them in! This is unbeta’d and any and all mistakes are all on me.

You’re good at your job, but you’re not that good. You take after your father--working on things building big projects, and always innovating new ideas. You’re not as good as he is, but you try to do your best. Sam managed to break his wings, so you tried fixing it on your own. He gave you enough time to come up with a plan and execute it, but as soon as that time was up, he needed to move on to someone slightly better than you.

After all, you have the Captain America serum in your body, so you’re more useful out in the field than behind a welding mask. Sam needed an expert to fix his wings, and you were slightly offended that it wasn’t going to be you. All he said is that he found someone to do the job, but he never said who. Even Steve, Wanda, and Natasha were very quiet about it, but you kind of brushed it off.

“Give me another chance, okay? I think I can fix it,” you beg Sam as you follow him around the Quinjet.

“Major, you’ve done enough,” he laughs.

“My name is Y/N,” you pout.

“You’re just below Cap. You’re Major.”

“Fine, but you need to give me another chance. I have a better understanding of it now!”

“No.”

You don’t take no for an answer and head over to his wings that are on the table in the middle of the jet. You whip off the blanket that is covering them only to have him drag it back on.

“Sam!”

“I said no. I found a guy.”

“Steve!”

“Y/N, I love you, but you’re a crappy welder and an even more crappy engineer.”

“Language,” you gasp teasingly, and he rolls his eyes slightly.

“We’re approaching our destination,” Natasha calls from the driver’s seat.

“Where are we going?” you ask and bounce to the window.

“Y/N, wait--”

Steve’s warning is cut off when you reach the window. The clouds clear to reveal the new Avengers facility that your dad had built in upstate New York. Your blood runs cold and you freeze in your spot at the thought of running into him. It’s been three years since you two last saw each other--after he made no moe to contact you. The last thing you heard from him was him accusing you of picking Steve’s side because you were “fucking” him.

He’s never made any effort to call you after you left with Steve.

“Y/N, we were going to tell you, but he’s the only one who can fix this,” Steve whispers.

You hear him, but your brain doesn’t register the words that are coming out of his mouth. All you can think about was the fight that happened at the airport in Germany. When you got in line with Steve and his team, your dad gave you the coldest look you’ve ever seen. He was so angry at you for not picking his side that he didn’t care why you did it or what you believed in. All he saw was betrayal, and all you saw was hatred and disappointment.

When the fight started, he tried his best not to fight you because even though he was mad, he didn’t know if he could hurt you. Then, the unthinkable happened. Steve and Bucky were racing to the jet to get to the place where the other winter soldiers were when you stood between them and your dad. He didn’t want to hurt you, but he couldn’t let them get away.

He ended up hurting you in more ways than just physical. Physically, you only had a bruised stomach and some cuts on your face. However, emotionally, there was a gaping hole left in your chest. Your dad saw the damage he did to you and he just left without another word or a glance in your direction. He just took off, and that was the last time you ever saw him.

The months rolled by, and you thought he was going to call you, but he never did. Those months turned to years, and you lost all hope of seeing your dad. It crossed your mind that you should be the one to go after him, but he hurt you a lot more than you hurt him. You couldn’t put yourself through that embarrassment and torture of seeing how you made him disappointed by coming back.

So, you never did.

Fighting with Steve made you happy--at least, that’s what you tell yourself. In reality, it provided you with a distraction long enough to keep thoughts of your dad out of your mind. Then, when the distraction subsided, Steve had already found another case to be on. It’s been a few years, and you’ve been everything related to misery. You miss him so much, but he clearly doesn’t miss you. So, seeing his new Avengers facility brought all those unwanted feelings back to the surface--the ones you tried so hard burying.

“You know, you could have told me,” you sigh and look away from the window.

“I didn’t know how.”

Steve thought about calling Tony plenty of times just to kick his ass into being with you, but he always thought twice about it. You were at a point in your life where you were almost at the peak of getting over it, so he couldn’t possibly let you bring all those feelings back into the light. You were just so sad and you cried almost every night for a long time because all you needed was your dad. He couldn’t give you the comfort you needed, and because there was a small possibility that Tony would reject you once again, he just couldn’t make that call. It breaks his heart to see you so sad.

When Sam’s wings broke, and no one in his group could fix them, he knew that it was time to go see Tony once again. There was no way you would be staying on your own, and he couldn’t think of a good enough reason to keep you away, so you joined them without a hint of where you were going. Ever since the big fight happened, they’ve all been looking at you like you’re going to explode at any given moment. They’ve been hovering to catch you despite you telling them that you’re okay.

But you’re not okay.

How can you just worry everyone like that when there is no fixing it? There is nothing they can do, so why bother them with it in the first place? Everything you’ve ever mashed down inside you started to inflate the minute the Quinjet landed. As soon as the doors opened, you became frozen where you stood. Natasha and Sam left the bird first with his wings in hand, leaving you, Steve, and Wanda left inside.

“I can take away your fear if you want me to,” Wanda whispers.

“No, it’s okay,” you whisper back. “Go on, I’ll be there in a minute.”

All you see is pity on her face, but she leaves your side nonetheless.

“Are you sure you can do this? You don’t have to go in there,” Steve supports.

“I do. He left, not me. I shouldn’t be scared to walk in there, he should be scared that I’m here. Does he know I’m coming?”

“No, I didn’t tell him. I was afraid he would say no to fixing Sam’s wings. Listen, he sounded pretty miserable on the phone. I think he’ll be happy to see you.”

“He was so mad at me,” you remember your last conversation that actually mattered, “like he couldn’t fathom the thought that I would pick your side over his. I just did what I thought was right—I still think that. He always taught me to stand up for what I believe in, and I did just that. I’m just scared he’ll hate me all over again. I don’t think I’ll survive that again.”

“Then stay in here. We’ll be in and out. I promise.”

“I’m sorry,” you sigh sadly.

You look down at the ground just as two tears left your eyes. Steve looks at you, and he just cups your chin with two fingers and lifts your head so you’re staring at him. He wipes the tears away with his thumbs as gently as he can.

“Don’t be. You’re not ready. That’s okay. I have to go inside now, but I promise we will be back before you know it.”

He leans down and kisses you tenderly, keeping it short. The feel of his lips on yours help keep you grounded, and you hold onto that comfort even when he pulls away from you. You keep your eyes closed for a few more minutes as if it would shield you from the fear. If you can’t see your dad’s place, then you’re not really there. However, just as soon as you open them, you miss the comfort from Steve immediately.

Why should you be the one who fears this place? It should be your dad that fears you coming here. He was the one who broke things off with you, so why do you feel like it’s your fault? You’re his daughter, and he is supposed to treat you as such. You’re not one of his friends that pissed him off--he doesn’t get to cut you out of his life like you mean nothing. You’re his fucking daughter; he is supposed to love you no matter what. It’s what a parent does for their children. Yeah, they are supposed to make you mad and get on your nerves, but you don’t get to cut them out of your life like that.

Why should you just stand here while everyone else gets to be inside? Maybe seeing your dad’s new place is giving you the courage you never had. It’s giving you a sense of what’s right and wrong in this situation. Fuck this, you’re not going to wait out here like some scared little girl afraid she is going to get grounded by her dad. You’re an adult, so he can’t punish you anymore--not like this.

You leave the Quinjet and head inside the place, impressed how it turned out. Your dad is an arrogant ass sometimes, but he sure doesn’t know how to build a beautiful building. Jarvis is no longer with your dad, so he had a new system put in place: Friday. The only thing different about her is that she has an Irish accent while Jarvis had a British one. Since your face is known on every server that your dad has, Friday doesn’t announce your presence. Jarvis did that with strangers, and you think that it’s the same thing with Friday.

This place is huge on the inside as much as it is on the outside, but you don’t have any trouble going where you need to go. The main room is close to the entrance of the place, so just as soon as you enter, you hear everyone’s voice come from the room. Despite being angry and pissed at your dad for treating you this way, there is something inside of you--no matter how small--that tells you he is going to hate you when he sees you.

You freeze right before you can turn the corner. The doors are open, so you can hear everything clearly, but you’re completely out of sight. Will he stare at you with disgust and disappointment? Will he yell? Throw you out? Tell you that he never wants to see you again?

“Thanks for doing this, Tony,” Steve says as Sam hands over his wings to the billionaire.

“First time you called in, what, years, and this is what you asked me?” Tony says and glances at Steve.

He noticed immediately that you weren't in the room.

“Is it safe to come home yet?”

“No.”

“Then, yes, it’s what I asked you to do.”

“Where is she?” your dad asks as he inspects the wings.

“Do you care?”

“Do I care? Of course I fucking care, Rogers. How can you ask that?” your dad hisses.

“You haven’t called in, what, years?” Steve throws that comment back in your dad’s face.

“Is she at least here?”

“I’m not going to answer that. What needs to be done is fixing these wings so we can be on our way.”

Tony looks at everyone’s faces and knows immediately what they are saying. You are here, probably on the Quinjet that just flew in, and there is a reason why you’re not coming in. He really fucked up big time. All Tony has ever done for the past few years is regret yelling at you in the first place. All he wants now is his daughter, and you can’t even come inside.

“I’m right here,” you say and reveal yourself.

Hearing your dad ask those questions pushed the doubt to the back of your mind and brought back the courage. Every single person turned to look at you, but you’re only looking at your dad. He seems frozen where he stands, unable to do anything but just look at you. You’re really here no thanks to him. He grips Sam’s wings tightly in his hands, wincing when one of the parts dig into his palm. Feeling that pain brings him back to reality.

He sets the wings on the table right in front of him before marching over to you. You honestly think he is going to yell at you or do something mean, but instead, he just brings you into a tight hug. Your arms immediately wrap around his neck, and you find yourself sinking into his body.

“I missed you so fucing much,” your dad says emotionally.

“I’m so sorry,” you cry into his neck.

He pulls away and makes sure you’re staring into his eyes when he speaks.

“No, you don’t get to be sorry. I’m the one who should be sorry. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have yelled at you or made you feel like what you did was wrong. I’m the one who fucked up. You’re my daughter, and I shouldn’t have ever let you go.”

He brings you back into a hug, and you squeeze him tightly to remind yourself that this is really happening. You look at Steve from over your dad’s shoulder, and he smiles proudly because this is the moment he has been waiting for. This is the moment that should have happened years ago. Well, better late than never is what everyone always says.

You and your dad have grown separately, but it’s time you grow together. You’ve lost precious years without him, and you’re not going to waste another over something stupid like last time.

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bluesfortheredj · 4 years ago

Text

Change of plan.

Talk of infertility from the get go.

“I didn’t realise it would take so long,” Ben mumbles quietly as you sit with your head in your hands at the kitchen table, “we’re both still fairly young… it didn’t even cross my mind that this would ever happen.”

You can see the negative pregnancy test through the small gap between your fingers and a tear falls into your palm as you squeeze your eyes shut and hope it’s not there when you open them again. It was taunting you from where it sat; the result practically laughing in your face as if it knows that’s all you’ve ever seen.

Ben moves around to where you’re sat at the table and stands next to you so he can place a comforting hand on your back, rubbing it up and down your spine as he tries to think of something helpful to say. There was nothing really that he could say, nothing that could take the sting away from yet another disappointing result after three years of trying, and he knew how you were taking every knock back to heart; blaming yourself most of the time.

“It’s not taking long… it’s never going to happen,” you sniffle as you wipe your tears and your top lip with your hands then rise out of your seat, “I can’t do this any more, it’s obviously not meant to be.”

“Don’t give up, we can go back to the doctor’s and there’ll be loads of options for us,” Ben attempts to reassure.

You turn to face him, your eyes glistening with fresh tears that are threatening to fall at any moment, then you shake your head slowly from side to side as you take his hands in yours, “Ben, I love you, but I can’t keep going through this. Do you really want to keep repeating this same cycle all the time? Getting our hopes up, feeling that something is different this time, then having exactly the same result? We’ve exhausted all avenues without some serious medical intervention, and IVF is so expensive that even if we did get something out of it we wouldn’t be able to afford to live as we do now. Every time I get my fucking period I feel like clawing at my stomach to try and get back at my body for failing what I was basically made to do. I can’t live with the self hatred as well as the disappointment any more.”

As soon as you finish your sentence you let out a sob that shakes your entire body and Ben slips his hands from yours to quickly wrap his arms around your quivering frame. He holds you as close as he physically can as your arms lift weakly to hold onto him with as much strength as you can muster, and you both stay like this until your tears finally subside; purely because you feel as if you’ve completely run out of them.

“I’ll get you a drink,” Ben soothes, “what do you want?”

“Just a glass of water,” you croak, “I think I’m going to head to bed.”

Ben moves to the sink and picks up a clean glass from the draining board before filling it up and turning back around to you then gives you a solemn nod as he hands you the drink.

“Do you want to keep trying?” you ask as you take the glass.

He shakes his head as his bottom lip quivers, “I can’t stand the disappointment, but seeing what it’s doing to you is worse than anything I could have imagined and ten times more painful. I love you and I would love a family with you, but if we can’t do that then it doesn’t matter; all I want is to see you happy and the last few years I’ve watched you smile less and less, and I can’t bear it any longer.”

“Oh Ben,” you exhale as you place your free hand on his cheek and wipe away the first single tear that falls, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I can’t give you-”

“Shh,” he frowns as he grips onto your wrist, “don’t you ever apologise. It’s just not meant to be for us; it’s no one’s fault.”

“Do you want me to cancel tomorrow?”

“No, no, not at all. I’ve been looking forward to a nerf rematch with Oscar; this time with me winning hopefully,” Ben smiles as he now runs his fingers up and down your forearm gently.

You lean in and place your forehead against his softly with the two of you taking a moment to close your eyes before you kiss his lips and slip your hand from his face to go to bed.

“I’ll be up in a minute,” he calls after you.

He was almost relieved, for lack of a better word, that you could now work on getting back to your old selves, the people who didn’t bear the weight of the world on their shoulders, the people who didn’t rely on a tiny plastic stick to make or break their happiness, and the people who just enjoyed being together with family and friends in between their careers that kept them with a solid roof over their heads. Ben just wanted to see the carefree you again, the one that he’d fallen in love with all those years ago, but he knew that this moment in your lives had to happen because it was through this that he realised just how deeply his love for you ran; if you two could stay together through this dark time then you could conquer anything as long as you were with one another. He gets himself some water then switches off the lights before heading upstairs to join you, your exhausted body already fast asleep under the covers after the amount of crying you’d done.

“Night darling,” Ben whispers as he settles next to you and kisses your forehead lightly.

You’re last to wake the next morning, finding an uninvited cold spot next to you in bed instead of the warmth of Ben, and you slowly creep downstairs to find him in the kitchen making breakfast.

“Morning,” you say softly, “how are you?”

“All the better for seeing you,” he smiles as he turns at the sound of your voice, “thought I’d get a head start on breakfast knowing that Oscar’s coming over.”

“Are you sure you’re okay after yesterday?”

“I am,” he nods, “are you?”

“I’ll get there.”

“And I’ll be here every step of the way,” he smiles.

Ben heads upstairs to get ready first as you try and gather some strength for the day ahead; spending it with your four year old nephew Oscar which you’d promised your brother a couple of weeks ago. It would be the first time seeing anyone in your family after your decision last night and you weren’t entirely sure you could keep it together, especially as now you’d be looking at Oscar with a heavy heart instead of a hopeful one. He was the reason your natural instincts had kicked in, he was the perfect little boy you looked at and thought that one day you’d have someone just like him, and you knew Ben felt the same as well. It wouldn’t be easy but the thought of Oscar’s perfect little features staring up at you was already enough to put a smile on your otherwise solemn face.

“They’re here!” Ben calls up just as you’re untwisting the towel from the top of your head and shaking out your damp hair.

“Be down in a few minutes!” you call back, quickly grabbing the brush and pulling it through your tangled mess.

“Uncle Ben!” Oscar shouts, and you instantly smile at the sound of his voice.

“Hey trouble!” Ben laughs.

“Where’s Auntie (Y/N)?”

“She’s just getting ready and will be down in a bit. How do you fancy going into the garden and finding the football, huh?”

“Yeah!”

You descend the stairs just as Ben and your brother are having hushed words with one another, then both men look over at you with concerned expressions.

“Don’t,” you sigh, shaking your head from side to side, “I just want to have a fun day with my main little man. Now off you go on your mummy and daddy date.”

“(Y/N), I-”

“It’s fine Paul, honestly, it’s fine. Go and have fun, but you know you won’t be having as much fun as us!”

Your brother reluctantly leaves you both to it then you head into the garden to find Oscar running around hugging the football.

“Auntie (Y/N)!” he screeches excitedly, dropping the ball and rushing towards you with his little arms outstretched.

“My favourite little man!” you grin as you take him in your arms and lift him up, “how are you doing?”

“I’m okay, but I broke my red car and now I only have a blue one,” he pouts.

“Well I’m sure we can fix that and get you a new one!”

“Yes we can!” Ben adds as he walks into the garden behind you.

Oscar manages to keep your mind off of lurking dark thoughts in the back of your head and it only makes you more thankful for having him in your life and having such a close relationship with him. Ben keeps him occupied with football and the rematch of the nerf fight while you keep the boys hydrated and fed well during the day, then you all sit at the garden table as the sun begins to set; Oscar snuggled on your lap and leaning against your chest as his tired eyes fight to stay open.

“Oscar...” Ben says in a questioning tone.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think Auntie (Y/N) and I should get a dog?”

Both yours and Oscar’s eyes grow wide at the question and Ben grins at the two of you from across the table.

“Yes! Yes!” he nods excitedly.

“Uh… where has this come from?” you ask quietly as Oscar settles down again and you rub his back softly.

“I’ve just been thinking, that’s all. Maybe we could do a bit of travelling first, use up some of that holiday we never get around to booking, then pop over to Battersea and see if there’s an animal that needs a loving home. Only if you want to,” he shrugs.

“I want to,” you nod, “I really want to.”

He reaches his hand across the table and you slide yours towards his until your fingers interlink, then Oscar shuffles around on your lap until he can stand in between your thighs and lean over on the table so his small hand lands on both of yours, and you can’t help but laugh at his sweet gesture, knowing that he’s never truly know how much it meant to both you and Ben right now.

Can we do something with Reader x Ben in a long standing relationship and realising that they can’t have kids but actually end up okay with that (because fun auntie and uncle is a great title & I’m projecting) and just adopt a dog together and travel the world?

@peachllobotomy @lv7867 @aynsleywalker @pink-lemo @painthatiusedto @itisjustmethistime @mamaskillerqueen @queenslandlover-93

#ben hardy #ben hardy imagine #ben hardy fluff #ben hardy x reader

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fantastic-rambles · 4 years ago

Text

The Skylark’s Song [1 /4]

Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!

Characters: Hibari Kyoya, Hibari Kyoya’s parents, Unnamed Gang

Warnings: Violence, Gang, Implied Rape, Attempted Murder, Murder, Police Corruption, Gaslighting

Word Count: 1.8k

Summary: My personal headcanons of the (pre-canon) experiences that made Hibari into the man that he is today. Part One: why he has such a strong hatred of crowds and the beginning of his commitment to discipline.

(The other parts won't be this dark. I think.)

It had been a day like any other.

On a warm spring afternoon, they'd gone out together as a family to his school festival, nine-year-old Kyoya running from attraction to attraction, his parents following at a more stately pace but always keeping him in sight.

"Mom! Dad! Here, here!" he called out, practically bouncing with excitement in front of his classroom. Laughing, they caught up to him, following him into the room as he tugged at their hands.

The walls were covered with the students' essays, and Kyoya paused by his, his chest puffed out with pride. Indulgently, they bent over slightly to read what he had written in his neat but still childish hand.

My Dreams

When I grow up, I want to be a great person like my dad. Dad is a hero, fighting the bad guys who are making people sad. He's like a policeman or fireman, except he's even cooler than that! Dad and Mom both love Namimori and want to make this town into a happy place for everyone, and I want to help them. They also love me very much, and I love them, too.

He beamed up at them as his mother knelt to hug and kiss him while his father ruffled his hair. Their pride practically emanated off them in waves, and Kyoya was the happiest that he could ever remember. After the festival, they'd gone to his favorite family restaurant, where he ordered a hamburger steak, still chattering away happily about school: how he was the top student in his year, how his teachers praised him for his work, what he was learning in class now... His parents had been smiling throughout his monologue, sometimes asking questions to encourage him to keep speaking.

But the day had to come to an end eventually, and the setting sun found them walking back to their house, Kyoya hanging onto his parents' hands and occasionally just completely lifting his feet off the ground so that he could swing between them, making all three of them laugh. By the time they arrived home, he was completely exhausted from running around all day, barely able to change into his pajamas and brush his teeth before he fell into his futon. The last thing he remembered before sleep claimed him was his mother sitting beside him, softly humming a lullaby.

It was completely dark when a loud crash woke him. Sitting up and rubbing his eyes sleepily, he called out, "Mom? Dad?"

But there was no answer, though he could faintly hear voices elsewhere in the house. Still only half-awake, he followed the sounds to the brightly lit living room, freezing in the doorway as the sight unfolded before him.

Men he didn't know were standing all around the room. His father knelt in the middle, his face battered and dripping blood onto the floor from a broken nose, while his mother sobbed quietly in a corner, held back by two men. A couple of the other men had wooden baseball bats... and guns. Kyoya started to shake as he recognized the weapons he'd only ever seen on TV before. Too scared to step into the room but too afraid to run away, he was frozen in place, at least until one of the men standing by the doorway looked down and saw him.

"Well, what's this?"

As he bent down, his movement caught the eye of Kyoya's mother, and he saw stark terror spread across her face as she recognized her son.

"KYOYA! RUN!" she shrieked. As if a spell had been broken, Kyoya turned and obeyed, his bare feet pattering on the smooth wooden floors as he blindly sought an escape. Suddenly, his familiar home was filled with strange shadows that jumped out of him, making him flinch in the dark corridors, all too aware of his pursuer behind him with steps like thunder. He'd just shoved open the sliding door that led to the garden when the man caught up, seizing him around the waist and swinging him onto his hip with ease.

"No! Stop! Let me go!" Kyoya yelled, pounding against his captor's back with his small fists. The man didn't even try to silence him--they lived too far away from anyone else for the commotion to be noticed--and returned the way they had come, eventually dumping the child in front of his mother. She grabbed him immediately, curling herself around him protectively and pressing his face to her chest as he squirmed, trying to turn around and see what was happening.

"Come on, you don't want to do this in front of your wife and kid, right?" a voice asked, harshly mocking. "Just give us the data and we'll leave, no harm done. It's not like we like doing this either, you know."

A few of the other men chuckled, covering up his father's quiet response, and Kyoya felt his mother cringe just before there was a dull, wet, thumping sound that was repeated several times. It sounded just like when they smashed watermelons on the beach.

"Change your mind yet?" the voice asked, sounding slightly winded. The only response was a groan and panting, and the voice sharpened. "Hey, bring me the kid."

"No!" Kyoya was pressed even harder against his mother's chest, half-smothering him, as hands reached out to grab him, trying to pull him away. Now he began to cry as his limbs were pulled roughly, twisted behind his back or jerked as if they were trying to rip him apart, but his mother still clung to him.

"Take me instead! Please! Leave him alone!" she begged above his wailing.

The voice clicked his tongue, then replied, "Fine, whatever. Shut the kid up."

Her hands ran through his hair, and she pressed a kiss to his forehead, murmuring quietly, desperately. "It'll be okay, Kyoya. Be quiet, shhh, shhh, shh. It'll be okay."

"Hurry it up," the voice snapped, and they were suddenly wrenched apart, the absence of his mother making Kyoya start crying again, until one of the men casually backhanded him in the face, the sudden pain shocking him into silence as the taste of blood filled his mouth. He subsided into small whimpers, his hand pressed against his burning cheek, as he watched his mother forced to her knees next to his father. The man who seemed to be the leader of the gang tossed aside his bat and reached into his pocket, pulling out a switchblade that he flicked open before crouching down in front of Kyoya's parents.

"You've got such a pretty wife, Hi-ba-ri-san," he taunted, resting the blade against her face. "It would be a real pity if something happened to her, wouldn't it? Looks are everything to a woman, after all. Do you think you'd still love her if she was all scarred, without her nose and ears? Would she still love you, for letting it happen to her?"

"You'll kill us anyways, after you get what you want," Kyoya's mother spat. "Just get it over with. We won't tell you anything."

She flinched as the man dragged the weapon down the side of her face, leaving a thin red gash across her cheek, but she continued to stare at him defiantly. The man snorted, getting to his feet.

"Brave woman. But let's see how long that lasts. Hold her down." He began to unbuckle his belt, his comrades grinning as they dragged the woman down, piling on to stop both Kyoya's mother and father from struggling. Kyoya didn't understand what was happening, but he saw the look on his mother's face, and he ran between her and the man, spreading his arms wide to protect her.

"Stop bullying Mommy!" he screamed, tears and snot running down his face as he shook like a leaf. The man's face twisted into an expression of disgust and annoyance.

"Someone take care of this brat," he ordered, and another man stepped forward, hefting his bat in his hand.

"You got it, boss." Like a cleanup hitter getting ready to smack a home run, he drew back and swung, the sharp crack drowned out by the shrill screams of Kyoya's mother and the hoarse cries of his father. Kyoya collapsed, and the last thing he remembered was the feeling of a foot in this stomach, kicking him out of the way.

He awoke with a splitting headache to a room full of people and bolted upright, screaming, "MOMMY! DADDY!" Startled, somber faces turned to look at him, and a woman in a police uniform walked over to him, wrapping her arms around him soothingly as he kept screaming for his parents. Bright sunlight was falling into the room as other men and women walked around, taking pictures and putting things into labeled plastic bags. The policewoman cradled his head, then drew away in shock, her hand tacky with blood.

"We need paramedics!" she called out, carefully lifting the boy into her arms and heading toward the door. Draped over her shoulder, Kyoya continued to scream, his eyes fixed on two lumps in the middle of the room, covered with white sheets.

A week later, Kyoya stood in the Namimori graveyard, watching as two caskets were lowered into the ground. His head was still wrapped in bandages from the surgery to repair his fractured skull, the doctors having proclaimed it a miracle that he'd even survived. The young boy's eyes were dry as he stared at the marble headstone, dressed somberly in black and surrounded by adults.

Shock, they whispered when they thought he couldn't hear them, shaking their heads sympathetically. Poor boy. Who could have ever imagined it? They had seemed like such a perfect family. But everyone has their skeletons.

The case had been wrapped up quickly: a murder-suicide. Kyoya's mother had found out about his father's affair, and in the midst of a passionate argument, he'd killed her. Consumed with regret, he'd then attempted to kill his son before taking his own life. The boy's story was nothing more than the result of head trauma and a completely understandable psychological refusal to accept the truth. So he'd invented a wild tale of home intruders, blaming nonexistent ghosts for the crime while repressing his memories. The officers in charge of the investigation hadn't even bothered to write down his account, sitting patiently with him for hours in the hospital as they tried to explain what had happened to him.

But he knew. His parents had been slaughtered by that pack of animals: weak, undisciplined cowards too afraid to do anything alone. And they'd had enough influence to cover up the crime, so that the only thing that was published was a short obituary listing his parents' names and ages, and the fact that they had been survived by their child.

Heroes didn't exist. But that didn't mean that he couldn't get revenge.

[Part 2]

#katekyo hitman reborn #khr #reborn #fanfic #fan fic #hibari kyoya #kyoya hibari #hibari #character study #headcanon #mine #don't ever expect chapter titles from me #i can barely come up with story titles

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galahadwilder · 5 years ago

Note

I donated $12 to Buggachat! Updates to a fic where Lila gets her comeuppance, like Thief or the one where Adrien exposes her through an interview, would be welcome if that offer’s still open!

All’s Fair in Love and War (And Turnabout’s Fair Play)

Chapter 3: There’s a Hole in my Soul, Can You Fill It?

This chapter of “Turnabout” is part of the “Fix @buggachat‘s Laptop Fic Drive.”

Turnabout Archive

There’s nothing quite like the heady feeling of power that comes with being Akumatized. Her whole body feels like it’s been plugged into a live wire, and she wants to laugh, to rejoice, to exult as she looks at herself in the mirror. She has power again.

Empathy looks almost exactly like Lila Rossi. She’s a masterpiece of subtlety, she thinks, pressing her fingers around her chin—her hair is maybe half a shade lighter, her eyes a little more flat, but if she hadn’t been looking for it she’d never have noticed.

The susurrus of sensations in the back of her mind grows, then dims, as Mireille passes by the bathroom door. Empathy grins. Hawkmoth has given her his own power, the power to read emotions. She was a master manipulator before. She can only imagine how much better she’ll be now.

And nobody will be able to blindside her again.

She straightens, brushing her hair out of her face with her fingers. Akumatization refreshed her makeup, purged the bags under her eyes, so she looks perfect. She’s ready to go. She can’t go subtle—if she wants to salvage her reputation, she needs to ruin Adrien and Marinette, and she needs to do it quickly. If she can take out Adrien’s reputation, if she can destroy people’s trust in him…

You’re not the only one who can play the victim, Agreste. And I’ve been doing it since I got here.

As she prepares to leave the bathroom, she notices a growing sensation in the back of her mind—concern. It feels odd. She’s… worried? About herself? It feels kind of removed, like—

The bathroom door opens, and in steps Rose—gentle, sweet, naïve Rose, and Empathy realizes exactly what’s happening. She’s feeling Rose’s emotions as if they were her own.

It’s… strange. Unfamiliar. Rose’s worry about something other than herself is something Empathy has never experienced before, but… well, she’s always known Rose was a bit dim. She just… revises her estimation of the girl’s intelligence slightly downward.

“Lila?” Rose says, her voice as soft as her footfalls. “Are you okay?” Her concern pulses in the back of Empathy’s mind, mixed in with fear and confusion and a stubborn determination to push those things aside. Lila can’t get a good enough read on her to know what, exactly, she’s worried about, but she can make a good guess.

She’s afraid that Lila is as bad as Adrien said. She’s afraid that she misread her. But she's also afraid that maybe Lila is perfectly normal, and kind, and Adrien may not be the golden boy they all believed him to be. She’s afraid that one of her friends is lying to her.

And now Empathy knows exactly which buttons to push.

She forces out a sob. “I don’t know,” she chokes out. “I thought—Adrien always said he was my friend.”

Empathy’s gut squeezes in an unfamiliar manner as anguish spikes in her mind, but it mixes with triumph that her words worked, and she fights down a grin. Check.

“What happened?” Rose says, and Empathy’s heart pounds in her chest. (It’s rather unpleasant.)

“I don’t even know,” Empathy mumbles, doing her best to appear like she’s trying not to cry. “All of that stuff was his idea, I don’t know why he’d…” She sobs, letting Rose fill in the rest.

Rose is confused, but Empathy can feel the doubt plant in her mind, and that’s a start. If she pushes too far, tries to suggest conclusions herself, Rose will suspect her. Better to let her come to her own conclusions.

Then Rose’s confusion hardens into resolve. “We should talk to Adrien!” she says brightly. “I’m sure the two of you can clear this up.”

Empathy’s eyes widen. No, she thinks. That cannot be allowed to happen. If Rose talks to them both at the same time, the whole thing will fall apart. “Um,” she says. “I—I’m… I don’t think I can face him right now.”

Rose’s sympathy burns in her mind, forcing her to feel the very fear she’s faking. “Oh,” Rose squeaks.

Empathy smiles, trying to make it look forced instead of victorious. “I’m… I’ll be okay,” she says.

The hallways are much worse than the bathroom was. There are too many people—everyone’s nervous, everyone’s panicking. Empathy can feel her nerves buzz, her hands shake, and—God, how do people like Rose live like this?

The pressure on her mind is astounding—she can’t tell anyone’s minds apart from each other, can’t pick out which sensations belong to whom. She feels like she’s drowning under the waves of anxiety that her schoolmates are throwing off like head from a busted lightbulb—everyone’s worried about something, and she can’t separate her own feelings from anyone else’s. She wants to—she wants to hide. To run back to the bathroom and not come back out, ever, not until everyone has left.

The tsunami of hatred that slams into her every time anyone looks in her direction is stunning, too. And completely unexpected. She hasn’t done anything to most of these people—or at least nothing most of them can prove; why do they all care about Adrien? Some of these people have never even interacted with him!

Her throat squeezes in on itself as she feels the hatred in her mind grow into something dark and violent. She wants to—she needs to be punished. She wants to hurt.

Keep it together, she thinks. That’s not your thought.

Tracking down Sabrina is difficult, to say the least. She can’t look anyone in the eye without feeling a rise of loathing for herself, and she keeps having to steer clear of people’s faces, but luckily Sabrina is always wearing those ugly sweater vests.

”Sabrina!” Empathy gasps, yanking on the sleeve of the redhead’s blouse. “I need to talk to you!”

Sabrina turns to her in rage, with what Empathy is sure is invective on her lips, but that rage quickly dies away when she locks eyes with Empathy, replaced with—what is that? Is that—is that pity?

”Oh, Lila,” Sabrina murmurs, and Empathy suddenly realizes how she looks to the other girl right now—she’s trembling and sweaty, and she must look as much like a cornered animal as the crash of everyone’s emotions is making her feel.

“He’s going after Chloé next,” Empathy gasps, and is rewarded with a sudden rush of mind-wrenching panic from Sabrina that makes her want to drop to her knees and scream.

“What do you mean?” Sabrina says, her panic bleeding from her like blood in the water, and Empathy knows she’s guessed right—she found Sabrina’s weak point. This is where to keep pushing.

Empathy grits her teeth, forcing through Sabrina’s overwhelming fear. “Listen—Brina,” she says, risking Chloé’s nickname for the other girl. Spike of annoyance. “Sorry, sorry, that’s—sorry,” Empathy mutters. Apparently that nickname is reserved for Chloé only. “Sabrina.”

Sabrina’s annoyance subsides, much to Empathy’s relief—it’s replaced with gratefulness, that “Lila” noticed how she was feeling, and that “Lila” was accommodating. Which makes this a perfect moment to strike.

”Adrien—he did this on purpose,” Empathy says. “He tricked me into—he told me he loved me, he tricked me into—and then he…” She grips Sabrina’s shoulders. “He’s been doing the same to Chloé,” she says. “I just found out. He’s going to ruin her.”

Sabrina’s emotions are mixed, confusing, much to Empathy’s delight. There’s jealousy in there, and relief, and anger, and shock, and possessiveness. And… wow. Sabrina doesn’t want to be just Chloé’s friend.

Which means she wants to believe Empathy. Wants to believe anything that will push Chloé away from Adrien.

“Chloé won’t listen to me,” Empathy says. “You need to get her away from him.” She squeezes Sabrina’s shoulder. “You have to warn her.”

Sabrina’s shock grows, almost overwhelms Empathy’s mind, until it hardens into something else. Something shaky and quiet. “Okay,” Sabrina says. “I’ll—I’ll make sure she knows.”

Empathy flexes her fingers. Two practice runs down, two rumors planted, though she has no idea if Rose will bear fruit. Enough practice, though—it’s time for the big run.

Alya Césaire.

Empathy skips the next class period: showing her face in front of the people who hate her is only going to make them angrier. She needs to make them think she’s hurting worse than she is.

And besides, in her current state, she’s not sure she’d be able to hold herself together for an entire class period with all of her classmates’ insipid emotions cavorting about her skull. What was Hawkmoth thinking? This ability—it’s useful, yeah, but there’s too many drawbacks. It hurts. It hurts too much to use it the way she should be able to.

It must’ve been an accident. She wants to yell at him for his incompetence, but the lack of the pressure indicating his voice in her head means that he must’ve detransformed, so no matter what she says, he can’t hear her.

Instead, she shuts herself away from the school and all their chaotic and useless emotions and goes over what she knows about Alya.

She’ll admit, Alya taking Adrien’s side—and taking down Lila’s interview—was a bit of a shock. Unexpected. But now that she’s had time to think about it, it makes sense: Alya Césaire is a journalist, and as a diplomat’s daughter, Lila knows journalists. They’ll do anything for a good story, and Adrien’s story is juicy beyond belief. Better than Lila’s was. Alya siding with Adrien makes sense now; she’s chasing the story, and she needed to get rid of the interview in order to keep consistency, keep her reputation.

Which means all Empathy needs to do to sway the reporter back to her side is give her a juicier story. One that implicates Adrien, and clears Lila. Alya won’t be able to resist, and she’ll drop Adrien like a hot potato as soon as Empathy gives her what she really wants.

And with her new powers, Empathy can figure out exactly what that is.

Empathy skirts the side of the cafeteria, trying to hide out on the edges of the waves of overwhelming emotion. There are simply too many people in the cafeteria, and any one of them seeing her could trigger a debilitating spike of hatred that would pin her to the floor. She’d prefer to get Alya alone, but the girl is a social butterfly—she never goes anywhere by herself. The cafeteria is the only place loud enough to give them any privacy.

“Guys, guys!” she hears Alya shout. “Give Adrien some space!”

There’s a crowd gathered off to the side of the cafeteria, and in the middle of it, a waterfall of red-brown hair. Alya is standing on a chair, pushing people away with a—well, Empathy can’t tell what that expression is, she’s too far away to get a good read. She’s with Adrien, and Nino, and Dupain-Cheng, and the rest of the class seems to be crowded around them, but at Alya’s words they begrudgingly back away.

Adrien says something that Empathy can’t hear, only to be interrupted by Nino, who says something in that annoyingly kind tone he makes when he’s trying to get into someone’s good graces. Dupain-Cheng looks away from them both with downcast eyes, and Ivan adds something, turns around, and begins to clear the rest of the class away.

Then he locks eyes with Empathy, and she doesn’t even need powers to feel the force of his anger. She shrinks, trying to appear nonthreatening.

He leans over toward his pig of a girlfriend and murmurs something in her ear. Immediately, the rest of the class turns to look at Empathy, and the surge of their collective hatred (where is this coming from? She did nothing to most of them! Or at least nothing they can prove) pushes her bodily against the wall.

She wants to hurt. Instead, she bolts from the room.

Lila has spent enough lunches with Alya that Empathy knows which bathroom she prefers. Without any ability to actually go into the cafeteria, she’s forced to wait for Alya to come to her. She’s already spent the whole day in the bathroom, hiding from all the goddamn emotions that are pressing on her mind.

Remember, Empathy, this is what you asked for.

“Hawkmoth,” she growls. “You want me to win? Help me out here.”

There’s no answer. Of course there’s no answer. She wants to—she wants to—

Actually, she feels… pretty good. A bit vindictively satisfied, maybe, but…

Wait that’s—

The door to the bathroom swings open and Alya steps through.

“Alya!” Empathy cries, grabbing at the other girl’s arm. “We need to talk—!”

Her sentence is cut off in a shiver as Alya’s eyes turn toward her, and everything Empathy has felt over the course of the morning jerks into perspective as Alya’s blood-curdling rage slams into her like a truck dropped from orbit.

“Rossi,” Alya snaps, her voice cold enough that Empathy actually feels the chill strike into the marrow of her bones. “I told you to stay away.”

Empathy gasps. “I know, I know,” she says. God, she must’ve risked more damage to Alya’s reputation than she thought if the girl is this angry. “I’m sorry. But—you need to hear this!”

Alya’s expression doesn’t change, and Empathy feels her veins catch fire as the other girl’s rage and hatred presses down on her. Come on, Rossi, she thinks. Just tough it out a few more seconds. Then she’ll be on your side again.

“Alya, Adrien is stalking Ladybug!” Empathy hisses.

She’s expecting Alya’s anger to instantly turn to interest. Empathy knows how Alya is about Ladybug, and this is a truly juicy scoop. It’s everything Alya could possibly want—

Why is she getting angrier?

“Why should I believe a single word you say?” Alya says.

Empathy is shaking with Alya’s rage at her words; she wants to smack something, to punch something, to pound her fist into the sink until the porcelain snaps. Not mine not mine not mine—

“Adrien was trying to discredit me,” she says. “I found out he was using me to get to Ladybug and—”

Bile surges up her throat, cutting her off mid-word.

“He was using you?” Alya hisses. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

Empathy shivers. “He—I found out he was—”

Alya snorts. “He was what, Lila?”

This—this isn’t working. Why isn’t it—this is the biggest story that’s come across Alya’s nose in months, why isn’t she biting? Why isn’t she at least entertaining the idea? Alya’s emotions aren’t making any sense. There’s no interest at all!

“What—what are you—” Empathy gasps, her heart pushing up on her sternum. “Why don’t you believe me?”

It takes a moment for Empathy to realize the confusion she’s feeling isn’t just her own.

Alya steps back, horrified. “Believe you?” she says. “You’ve been attacking my friend and lying to me about it for months.”

Empathy’s stomach swoops. “Marinette—she’s lying to you, she’s—”

A piledriver blend of indignation, disbelief, amusement, disgust, and condescension crashes through Empathy’s forehead. Alya shakes her head. “Should’ve known,” she murmurs. “Mari knew. Of course she did.” Alya narrows her eyes, and suddenly Empathy wants to—drop to her knees and beg forgiveness from that stupid hussy? Protect that ridiculous blond asshole? She wants to—she wants to—

Alya—Alya is actually their friend. Alya actually cares about them. No. Impossible. She can’t—she can’t be wrong, can she?

“Eat shit, Rossi,” Alya snarls, turning on her heel. “I’m gonna find another bathroom. Don’t follow me.”

As her rage retreats, Empathy is left with only her own emotions in her head. And they’re unfamiliar ones. She’s—she’s lost, she’s confused, she’s… she’s relieved that she’s not feeling the self-destructive force of Alya’s rage, and yet it’s like there’s a hole in her chest, right where her heart goes. Something is wrong. Something is—something is missing. Something that Alya had, something that—

No, she thinks. I can’t be wrong. The—the powers are useless. She collapses back against the wall, pressing her palms against her skull. Hawkmoth, she thinks, what have you done to me?

Turnabout Archive

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#miraculous ladybug #all's fair in love and war (and turnabout's fair play)#original content #asks #buggachat laptop drive #my fic #ml salt #lila rossi #lila petard hoist #lila karma #lila downfall #lila exposed #alya cesaire #rose lavillant #sabrina raincomprix #chlobrina #alya redemption #lila salt

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sirrriusblack · 5 years ago

Text

The Consequences of Betryal

Sirius knew.

He was on his motorbike, wind whipping through his hair, trying to forget his thoughts. He didn’t like thinking of Remus the way he did. He didn’t want him to be the spy. But it was—it was the only reasonable explanation. And Sirius didn’t want to think about it. So he was on his motorbike, wind whipping through his hair and he knew. He wasn’t sure how, whether it was some sort of connection that could only be explained by magic, or just a feeling between two brothers, but his whole head emptied and he just… knew. He spun on his bike, a sharp turn that he’d never usually risk, and flew it into the air. He’d get there quicker by flying. He revved the engine and shot through the stars, over the city and into Godric’s Hollow. He got there quick.

But not quick enough.

The side of the house, where Harry’s nursery was, was just… gone. Blown off. When Sirius hit the driveway, hard and fast, he didn’t even bother turning the bike off before he ran to the door. With his wand already out, he stepped inside.

Sirius knew. But he still hoped he would be wrong.

He’d never seen Regulus’ body. He used to get so angry about that. There was no body, no way to even bury Regulus. Like he didn’t deserve that honour. Sirius used to get so angry about it but now all he could be was grateful. Because James’ body, lying on the floor, was too much to bear. His skin was pale and dull, like the curse thrown at him had drained him of all his light. Sirius looked down at his best friend, his brother, laid dead before him. His glasses were askew, crooked on his face. Sirius sat beside him and put them back into place.

He couldn’t do anything else. He wasn’t crying, he wasn’t screaming he was… he was just numb. Everything felt wrong. James’ hand lay by his side, cold and stiff. His wand was nowhere near him, but over on the coffee table in the living room. Sirius could imagine it. James standing there, defenceless. The curse hitting his chest. James stumbling backwards. His last thought of Lily and Harry. Sirius knew James would do anything do anything for them.

At that thought, some sense was knocked back into Sirius and he could stand again. He made his way to the stairs, where the baby gate had been ripped away. Like a mockery. Like a message. He ran up the stairs and into the nursery. A million memories flashed before him. Sirius walking into the room, fresh hot tea for James and Lily, who were covered in bright yellow paint and smiling from ear to ear. Pete setting up the cot, screwing things into the wrong place and turning bright red as James laughed his ass off at him. Sirius placing Harry in his cot, bundled in a yellow blanket. Walking in to hear Remus reading—Charles Dickens of all things—to Harry. James and Lily standing by the cot, watching their son sleep. A million memories flashed before him. A sob finally escaped his lips at the scarlet hair falling around Lily like a crown. She’d given Sirius the jacket he was wearing. He remembered how happy he’d been, how he’d shrugged it on and stared at himself for hours. He remembered how Lily had smiled at him “Happy Christmas, Black.” He could still hear her words in the back of his mind. What had been her last words? She looked like a fallen angel. Cast from heaven and falling, falling and burning and broken. She’d hit the ground and here she was. She wasn’t cold and dull like James was. Her cheeks were still red, they were still wet with tears. As if Lily had more life, more hope than James had. Like she hadn’t given up, even in her last breath. And James has been ready for it, ready to face death if it meant sparing Harry and Lily. Sirius took a step forward and another sob sounded. But it didn’t come from him. No, it was a loud, messy, deep sob.

Sirius clutched his wand and listened to the steps coming closer. He backed up against the wall.

“Oh Merlin,” a voice gasped. A familiar voice. Was that—

“Hagrid?” Tears were running down his face, and he ducked through the door. “Oh Lily,” he murmured. Hagrid turned to Sirius and held up his pink umbrella. Sirius almost laughed at the familiarity, and yet he felt nothing warm. Because there was a look in Hagrid’s eyes that Sirius could only flinch at. It was the look he got from nearly everyone when he told them his surname. It was the look of hatred and—fear.

“Black,” Hagrid murmured, glancing between Sirius and Lily. A baby started crying. Harry. Sirius made to go him, to pick him up and calm him down. But Hagrid moved between Sirius and the cot.

“Hagrid, I—“ Sirius started to speak, to ask what was happening, before Hagrid flinched. Tears were falling into his beard.

“Black, I don’t know what happened here,” he glanced around the room again, the wall that was missing, the stars leaking in, Harry crying in his cot, looking down at Lily, spread out on the floor. “But I’ve got orders to get ‘arry and take him back to Dumbledore. I need you—“ Hagrid’s voice cracked and Sirius shook his head, not wanting to hear what Hagrid was saying. “I need you to get outta my way.” Sirius thought of all the injuries Hagrid had fixed for him and his friends, all the times he pretended not to see them sneak into the forbidden forest, all the cups of tea and the ‘Er- I shouldn’t ‘ave told yer that…’s. And now Hagrid thought… what did he think exactly?

“Hagrid, it wasn’t me, I didn’t tell him anything,” Sirius explained. Hagrid’s fist went white around the handle of his umbrella.

“Oh, Sirius, I want to believe yer, but you were the secret keeper, were ya not?” He said with a sadness Sirius couldn’t bear. Like Hagrid had already accepted that Sirius was just who everyone thought he was. A dirty, rotten Black. He winced.

“No, Hagrid! I’m not. I— I wasn’t,” he corrected. Hagrid tilted his head. “Well, I was, but then I told—“ Sirius’ voice cracked at his brother’s name. “I told… James to change it. To Pete. Because I figured that I would be the most obvious answer and we all… we all thought that... that Remus was the spy,” he spat out. “But he wasn’t,” Sirius quickly realised. “Remus wasn’t the spy...”

Pete was.

Wormtail. Who hid chocolate for Remus and cleaned up Sirius’ cuts and built Harry’s cot. Wormtail was the spy. Sirius felt his gut drop. It had been so easy to blame Remus. It had been easy to think that something would have to come between Sirius and Remus, that nothing could stay that good. Sirius had sabotaged his and Moony’s relationship. It had been so easy to think he was the spy, and then Dumbledore sent him to the werewolf camps and it just… it fit in with everything. And it was Pete all along.

“It was Pete.” Hagrid’s eyes widened. Harry cried louder. This time, when Sirius made to grab Harry, Hagrid didn’t stop him. Sirius picked the baby up and pushed his hair out of his face. There was a large scar on Harry’s forehead, shaped like a lightning bolt. Sirius cried then. He felt the tears, hot on his face as he held James’ son. Harry’s wails subsided.

“Pa’foo,” he said, nuzzling into Sirius.

“Shh… shh Harry, Uncle Sirius is here, everything’s going to be alright,” he said, kissing Harry’s head. Hagrid stepped forward. Sirius turned to him. “What does Dumbledore want to do with him?” Sirius asked. He was Harry’s godfather. That meant Sirius and Remus would raise him, right? As soon as the confusion was cleared and he worked through this with Remus. As soon as Peter was found guilty. Hagrid loosed a breath.

“I… I don’t know, ter be ‘onest,” Hagrid finally lowered the umbrella, looking at it like he’d forgotten he was holding it in the first place. “I’m ter meet ‘im at ‘arry’s aunt’s.” Petunia. Right. But that would only be temporary. And then Sirius would get Harry. He looked up at Hagrid.

“My bike’s down in the driveway. Take Harry, get him safe. I need to see Peter. Tell Dumbledore it wasn’t me. Give him…” Sirius ran to the study and wrote something down on a piece of parchment. “Give him this and tell him I’ll be ready for Harry by morning,” Sirius said, handing him the parchment. Hagrid gave him a sad look, but took the note along with Harry. Sirius sighed. “Twist the handles back twice to get the bike in the air. It turns invisible to the muggle eye as soon as it leaves the ground. Take care of Harry, will you?” Sirius said. Hagrid nodded.

“‘Course I will,” he promised, turning to leave. He turned back in the doorway and looked down at Lily before he glanced back up at Sirius.

“They didn’t deserve this,” Hagrid said, “but don’t go doin’ anythin’ you’ll regret,” he finished. Sirius nodded and watched him walk away.

He waited until the engine revved before he kissed Lily’s cheek and made his way back down the stairs. He couldn’t just leave. Not James. He was still there, lying on the floor. That seemed obvious, but it shocked Sirius still. James was his life source. When everything felt dull, and painful and quiet, Sirius only had to look at James, at the glint in his eyes, the hand messing his hair, and he felt alive again. James was his brother, his family, his best friend. And now he was cold and dead and that life in his eyes was gone. Sirius fell to his side again. The mirror was sticking out of his pocket. The mirror Sirius and him had charmed in fourth year so they could talk to each other from miles away. Sirius held it and pulled his own piece out of his back pocket.

“James Potter,” he whispered, holding his piece up to his face and James’ up to the roof. Nothing happened. “James Potter!” he said again, shouting this time. Sirius watched his face stare back at him, waiting for an answer. Once again, nothing happened. Sirius screamed a string of curses and threw James’ piece at the wall and it shattered. James was dead, Lily was dead, Harry was an orphan. And it was all Pete’s fault. How long had he been spying? How long had he been on the wrong side of the war? Had he been in league with Regulus? Narcissa? Bellatrix? Sirius growled and stood up. He took one last look at James—at his brother’s corpse—before he stepped out into the night with one desire on his mind. Answers.

#sirius black #james potter #lily evans #jily #harry potter #marauders era fanfiction #marauders era #my writing #october 31st #anggggst #padfoot and prongs

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thoughtfullyyoungduck · 5 years ago

Text

Too much said

A/N: This was requested by an anon, I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think! If anyone has any requests please let me now!

Summary; After a long and terrible day for Richie, he gets into a fight with Eddie, worsening his day.

Warnings: a lot of curse words.

The fight happened so fast and unexpected that Richie was left blindsided. Sure, Eddie and him have their arguments from time to time, but never have they been so cruel and vile before.

It’s honestly Richie’s fault, both for starting the fight and pursuing it, and there’s no excuse that he can give obtaining why he did that.

See, Eddie has this gift where he sees straight through Richie, past all the layers of defense and deflection until he comes across the real, raw Richie, and most of the time Richie loves that about him. But at times, it unnerves him too. The amount of layers he manages to surpass baffles Richie, no number of walls stopping him from getting to the truth. He scratches and tears to uncover everything about him, leaving him torn open for the world to witness. That’s how it feels at least, and Richie can’t help but want to scurry away from it sometimes.

No one has ever cared about him enough to do something like that, most noticed his overload of jokes and his overly outgoing personality and walked, no ran, away as fast they could. Richie was fine with that, as he was only able to see his negatives anyway and figured they were all right for doing so, but Eddie proves to him everyday that he is worth it. The anxiety in his mind and Eddie fight each other every day, thankfully with Eddie victorious, but the days Richie does succumb to his fears, give way to bad moods and even worse decisions.

The fight started with a simple question on Eddie’s part, an innocent inquiry that had no business leading up to the brawl it did.

‘Hey Richie, you okay? I haven’t heard you spout a joke all day.’ He says with a teasing smile, yet the corners of his lips a tad too low to genuine, a strong indicator that he’s faking the chaff, and worry is hidden behind it.

And that’s the loaded question isn’t it? A question that so many answers can be given too, either truth or lie, and a query that no is able to verify anyway. Today sucked for Richie, from waking up late to blowing his interview with the board directors and spilling water over his computer causing it to crash and delete all the documents on which he wrote his new material.

During the day Eddie texted to ask if he wanted to go out shopping for new suits that are required for Ben and Bev’s wedding. ‘You can’t wear a Hawaiian shirt to my wedding Richie. I’m a fashion designer.’

Richie agreed, not that he was jumping on the opportunity to go in and out of stores, but solely for spending time with Eddie, but then he got the text message. That god-for-saken text message highlighted the terrible day. He refused to mull over that now though, so while he adjust his smile to appear naturally, he nodded to Eddie.

‘I’m fine Eds, why wouldn’t I be?’

Eddie’s brow twitches, then stills and smooths out again. He’s suppressing his telltale of wary that Richie points out time and time again to taunt him.

‘Are you sure? Cause I have never heard you in my life say no to fast-food,’ he pushes.

Richie sighs inaudible, and walks over their liquor cabinet in the living room, pulling out a bottle of red wine, the only kind of alcoholic drink Eddie likes.

‘Like I said Spaghetti, I’m fine, tired but good.’

Grabbing two wine glasses by the stem, per Eddie’s requests, he uncorks the bottle and pours plenty of the drink into it and offers one to Eddie.

Eddie takes it with a small ‘thank you’, and shuffles over to their couch, patting the seat next to him to invite Richie over.

Too obvious, Richie’s mind hisses at him, use a joke, do anything to distract him from your mood so he doesn’t asks questions.

‘We’re not eating McDonalds’ right now because I wanted to cook you spaghetti, Spaghetti’, Richie explains with a grin, watching as Eddie works himself up again. During a party where he was highly intoxicated, Eddie entrusted Richie that he cherishes the nickname ‘Eds’, but he still absolutely despises the nickname Spaghetti.

‘Fuck you’, he responds with so much conviction that Richie blanches for a second, a stab of sadness straight to the heart, until he sees Eddie’s own teasing smile.

‘And anyway, you’re going to cook? I would love to be able to have a kitchen. Remember how you burned an oven pizza when we were kids?’ He adds dryly.

‘Oh Eds, you wound me. I was ten.’

‘Old enough to read a clock then.’ While chuckling, they both take a sip of their drink.

They fall back into their old pattern of ribbing and mocking, and Richie believes for a moment that he got away with his behavior. He’s not that lucky.

When the chuckling subsides, Eddie fixes Richie with a stern look, his hand falling on top of Richie’s knee.

‘Rich, you hate cooking. Tell me what’s going on so I can help you.’

He knock the glass of wine back completely to the last drop, gulping it down in an effort to get drunk. ‘Will you get off my back already?’

That was a mistake, Richie never talks to Eddie that way, especially not for something so insignificant.

Eddie’s face hardens, not angry or upset, but determined, and that tells Richie that he’s not backing down now, it’s not in his nature.

‘Now I’m sure somethings wrong. Was it Steve, did he push you again to go on tour? You declined that once before, he needs to accept it.’

Richie slams the glass on the coffee table a little too harshly, while knocking Eddie’s hand of his knee and scrambling up from the sofa to pace up and down.

‘It’s not Steve, drop it Eddie I mean it. I don’t wanna talk about it.’

The lack of jabs is disturbing, so Eddie is not giving up, following Richie and attempting to hug him. Richie rejects the hug, and huffs as he storm through the backdoor into the yard to cool himself off.

The last thing he wants is to upset Eddie, but he has to be alone to get his mind in order, and maybe to wallow in self-pity.

Eddie trudges on the patio behind him, not allowing him to gain a second of peace. All traces of teasing disappeared and any underlying worry is now visible on the surface. Richie lights a cigarette, something he distanced himself from as soon as Eddie returned in his life, his fingers trembling harshly making it hard to light it.

A scowl is omnipresent on Eddie’s face, his lips tilted in distain, waving away the smoke with his hand despite Richie not having even lit it yet. Tears tingle to escape but Richie stubbornly fights then, but even he can tell that Eddie notices them. He loathes crying in front of others, Eddie not being an exception, and now it’s even worse because he’s striving to pretend that he’s good.

‘Come on Rich. What’s wrong with you today?’ Eddie questions, itching to grab the cigarette from Richie and disposing of it.

‘There’s nothing wrong with me. What’s wrong with you?’ Richie begins hysterically. He wishes Eddie would let him be, so that he’s blind to all of the bad things that make Richie Richie. His mind is firing solutions to the situation, and way that he can change the subject.

‘Jesus fucking Christ, you’re acting like your mother, following me around all the time, demanding to know what’s wrong with me, I can have some free time of my own you know?’

The moment the words fly out of his mouth, Richie aches to swallow them back in. He hankers to beat them to dust, set them on fire and then bury them so deep that no one ever lays eyes on them again.

Eddie’s face turns, the scowl evaporating and leaving a defeated face in it’s wake. The tears that were building a minute ago dry up too, and the cigarette falls uselessly to the ground. ‘Eds, I’m so so sorry’, Richie tries, his nails digging in his palm at his self-hatred, his trash-mouth once again getting him in trouble.

Not looking at him, Eddie stares at a far away spot near the back of their garden, silent and still. Richie briefly considers begging on his knees for forgiveness, and spout out a one-liner, or explaining what got him so bothered, but none of that comes close to the apology Eddie deserves.

‘Fine, fuck off then’, Eddie mutters, turning on his heels and disappearing in the house, banging the patio door shut in rage.

Richie sniffles, feeling stupider than he has ever felt in his life. He inhales deeply to stop the tears, having no right to cry himself now, and scurry’s to catch up to his boyfriend.

The house is silent, no Eddie anywhere in sight, and his shoes are missing too. When Richie checks the cabinet where all their keys reside, he observes that the front-, and car-keys are missing. Eddie left, and Richie is clueless as to where he is.

‘Shit’, he says, the panic building and building until every pore of his being is filled with a negative energy.

The urge to hit himself over the head is astounding, but he resists it in favor of grabbing his phone and calling Eddie.

Ironic, considering the reason Richie got pissed off was because Eddie gave him no space. The phone rings three times before Richie realizes that the ringing is coming from inside the house, placed on the kitchen counter top, odd since Eddie never travels without it.

Most likely Eddie put it there to show Richie there’s no point in calling him, and Richie nearly screams in frustration. He’s so fucking stupid.

He decides to try Bill instead, scrolling trough every contact until he finds it, and then stops. Bill might be Eddie’s best friend, but there’s no way Eddie would pay him a visit or discus this with him. He’s an a grade idiot about relationship, and anyway, Eddie only has conversations about his mom with one person.

Richie clicks out of Bill’s contact and seeks out Bev’s, the picture of her smiling face with sunglasses on greeting him. He’s in for an earful with Bev he knows, but if it helps him find Eddie, Richie is willing to endure it.

She answers the phone after the second dial, her breathing heavy yet she’s laughing too.

‘Ben hold on one second, it’s Richie.’

‘Hey Bev’, Richie maffles, leaning his back against the wall and tilting his head upwards. If only the day would start over.

‘No Nicknames? Okay what did you do?’ Bev asks him straight to the point, no beating around the bush.

‘I messed up.’ Richie confesses, holding his breath to wait for Bev’s answer. She halts for a second, then says; ‘Honey, you’re kind of an idiot, I’m going to need more information than that.’

‘Badly. I told Eddie that he was acting just like his mother.’ Repeating the words only hammer in Richie’s head how much he fucked up, how asshole of him it was to say such a thing.

‘Oh Richie. Why did you do that?’

‘I was upset, and I don’t know. There’s no excuse. But he ran off and took the car and I don’t know where he is, has he called you?’, he begs, a mantra in his sounding ‘please, please.’ He will never forgive himself if something happened to Eddie and it was his fault.

‘No he hasn’t’, Bev groans. ‘Make this right Richie, you know how sensitive a subject this is.’

‘Yeah I know, thanks Bev. I’ll talk to you later.’

‘Oh hey Richie, maybe you can check out the lake? I think he jogs there.’ Without thanking her, Richie abruptly ends the call, rushing for their other car. Of course the lake, how did he not think of that?

Barely bothering to close the car door, Richie is already speeding away, until he drives on the main road. Traffic is jammed in L.A, moving an inch in 15 minutes, as it often it, unconcerning about the hurry Richie is under.

He bangs his hands against the steering wheel, and allows himself one yell in the confinements of his car, to let all the frustrated energy out, the scream galloping in the vehicle. A woman’s head whirls his way from the car beside him, a perfectly trimmed eyebrow raising.

Richie laughs awkwardly, gesturing his hands in front of him. ‘Traffic, what can you do huh?’ He mouths, The woman merely breathes through her nose and returns her attention to the cars in front of her, ignoring his antics as best she can.

It remains embarrassing between them up to the intersection where they split up, Richie taking a U-turn. The five minute drive from there to home took him twenty minutes today.

The lake-park in question is one that Richie only tagged along for once, back when he promised Eddie to jog along side him every so often, but after that first time and Richie not being able to move for a day, he gave up that idea.

Still, he locates it fairly easy, a small lake surrounded by trees and walking trails with a huge parking lot attached to it. Seriously, Richie bets that the parking lot is bigger than the actual park.

Richie misses the car Eddie occupied, but since it’s such a large space, that means nothing, and so he parks, and sets out to find him.

A cold breeze washes over, causing him to shiver and clench his jacket tighter over himself. He hopes Eddie took a jacket as well.

After an intensive search, Richie finally descries Eddie, sitting on the park bench that he covered in his overalls. Forgetting the situation for an instant, Richie chuckles, the whole thing so Eddie that his heart soars and sings.

The grass crunches under his feet as he approaches, loud enough apparently that Eddie is alerted and glances Richie’s way. He doesn’t smile or states anything, he just monitors Richie and what he does.

On the way here, Richie’s mind was so occupied that he forgot to think of what to say when he saw Eddie again, and now he’s coming up blank, the only words that mull in his head are related to an apology, and proving to Eddie that he knows he fucked up.

‘Eds, I’m so, so sorry.’ Richie tries, still two steps away from where Eddie is seated, unsure if he’s allowed to come any closer. He balances himself from the tip of his toes to the ball of his foot, rocking back and forth. He would love to humor Eddie, but that might not go down well, and another fight, no matter how mundane, is the last thing they need right now.

‘It’s not enough of an apology and I know that I’m just so sorry and I wish I would have never said it.’

‘She didn’t care about me you know?’ Eddie interrupts him, starting a whole new conversation that Richie did not expect they we’re going to have.

‘Sure, she loomed over my shoulder at every turn and asked how I felt every fucking day, but she didn’t care. What she cared about was being portrayed as this godsend and a way to do that was by making me ill, but if I died she would have been fine with that, that’s another to way to gain attention.’

Richie inches closer, dropping down next to Eddie but refraining himself from touching him, because he uncertainty loomed in the back of his mind.

‘I love you Richie, even when you’re a fucking asshole, and I’d rather you didn’t die, even though right now I’d really like to yell at you. I’m not her.’

With a startle chortle, Richie nods his head in agreement. ‘I’d let you, I deserve it. ’ Eddie rolled his eyes, pushing Richie lightly, not enough to hurt or push him off the bench, no more like a friend type of punch.

‘No you don’t. You’re a dumb ass sometimes and can be absolutely infuriating, but I shouldn’t have pushed you so much in the first place.’

‘I cherish that you care so much about me Eds, I wasn’t ready to talk, but that gave me no right to say such a thing You’re nothing like her, you don’t even resemble her at all, not even if you tried. I was bottling shit up again and I avoided the subject, but really I needed to be honest with you. I hope you can forgive me.’ Eddie merely shrugs, the small smile playing on his features when he looks up at Richie again giving him away.

Tentatively, Richie adds; ‘I guess I’m usually that pushes I you know what I mean, both in our relationship and me and your mother’s.’

The joke strikes the jackpot, Eddie snorting a hearty laugh, shaking his head in disbelieve. ‘And I assumed your jokes couldn’t get any worse than those you performed when you started.’

‘Rude.’

‘You know what’s rude? Your boyfriend turning you into a laughing stock at Saturday night live, I know your moves bitch, and I’m onto you.’ Eddie jabs back, his bite and fiery spirit back on board.

Their lips connect, Richie pouring all his feelings and emotions into, conveying the many apologies he hadn’t spoken out loud. Eddie reciprocates enthusiastically, his hands sliding up in Richie’s hair, winding around a curl and tugging until they separate.

‘You ever say something like that again and you won’t get away with it that easily okay dumb ass?’ Eddie baits, waiting for Richie’s agreement.

‘Oh, and also, I get tv privileges, I want to decide what we’re going to watch, when we’re going to watch it.’

‘Agreed’, Richie relents, so happy that they’re well on their way to making up, that he would say yes to anything.

‘Now lets go home, my ass has been sitting here for way to long and it’s freezing off.’ Eddie states, standing up and seizing a hold of his cardigan.

‘Oh no, not my Spaghetti’s ass, what ever would I do without it?’

Entering the house again when they make it home, Eddie clasps his phone in his hands, frowning at the missed calls Bev left him.

‘Hey, why is Beverly calling me?’

‘Yeah, I don’t think we’ll be able to go visit for a while, I may or may not have ended the call without saying goodbye.’

#reddie #reddie fight #hurt comfort #making up #My writing #richie tozier #richie tozier imagine #Richie x Eddie #eddie kaspbrack #eddie kaspbrak imagine #it chapter two imagine #it chapter 2 #mentioned Beverly Marsh

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letaintedserpentine · 4 years ago

Text

ZADR WEEK: Late Nights

day 7!!!

Dib was too quiet on his end. “Dib?” “I’m still here, I just thought I heard something.” @zadrweek3 this event has been absolutely amazing- thank you for the experience! Here’s some Zim PAK memory malfunction angst for my final submission- Thank you all for reading! fic below or in Ao3

-- Dib was stubborn. Gaz knew this. But it was a bitter pill to swallow, to be helpless watching her brother go down a path that she couldn’t reach.

And the fun part of it all, was that she knew that removing him from the situation would only make things worse. Maybe she can delude herself that she’s helping by being the confidante, the someone that Dib could talk to- a thought that made her scoff. It wasn’t enough.

“Don’t you think this is a little above you?” Gaz would give anything for her words to be snarky and not concerned.

Dib sighed on the other side of the line. “You know he has no one else.”

Who else would believe them? And if they did, Gaz doubted they would treat Zim well.

“Don’t destroy yourself in the process,” she warned.

“I won’t.”

“How bad was it this time?”

“I don’t know why he fixates on a smeet.” His voice was torn between incredulity and mild annoyance.

“Hm.”

“Well… Maybe I do understand. It’s easy to get swayed by delusion… But I don’t like it. And I’m not proud of it but… I snapped.”

“What did you do?”

“I told him the smeet wasn’t real. He freaked out.” Dib sounded like he was trying to keep his voice even. Gaz wasn’t falling for it. “He broke Gir and shut down again. I don’t…” The tattered couch, the screams of pure hatred, and the fight that ensued was all too fresh in his mind. He held his breath, swallowing a lump in his throat. “And I keep wondering, is this it? What if he doesn’t wake up?”

Gaz lightly sipped on a cup of coffee, momentarily stunned- but she had to be the tough one eventually. “He’s woken up before, right?”

“Not like…” Slamming Gir’s face down on the floor until the poor robot was in dents, then tossed like scrap. “It was always just like, falling asleep at the most opportune time. I think this one was deliberate.”

“What are you planning to do?”

“I’m still going. But… I’m waiting to see if I could say goodbye. I don’t want to leave off… I don’t want to remember him being so mad at me, if things go wrong…”

Would he have told her goodbye if she hadn’t called? Zim held a different spot in her brother’s life, she knew that, but she often wondered if she was losing him. But she had an act to do, and she played the role well. “Humor him, Dib. Maybe the smeet is just a projection of everything he wanted when he was a kid. Trying to give something that he wasn’t given and all that.”

Dib was too quiet on his end.

“Dib?”

“I’m still here, I just thought I heard something.”

Paranoia again. Gaz sighed, and tried to prepare herself for the long night ahead.

“I love you!” Bright golden eyes greeted him, ones that rushed in to hug Zim. His tiny arms barely had any strength to them, with soft skin that’s barely hardened.

The symphony was unmistakable, and Zim leaned forward to hug back, never wanting to let go.

Thunk.

Cold steel slammed in Zim’s face, and he shook himself up, dazed, and stared at the quiet darkness of his base.

Oh.

He inhaled sharply, and loudly sighed. Sleeping always did weird things to his head, which may be in part how Irkens weren’t supposed to sleep- but his PAK had been malfunctioning lately… everything just made him so tired.

He roamed his base, seeking nothing in particular, but feeling that something was missing. He frowned as his footsteps seemed to echo in the large rooms. Where was the soft whirrs of the Computer, or the loud monkey shows of Gir?

And a faint memory that tugged at him- a broken, defeated sound just before he went to sleep- he remembered someone crying.

Was it his smeet that needed him? Was he the one waiting for him?

He hurried in his steps, only barely noticing Gir in the corner, too quiet and unmoving.

Just around the corner were whispers of a conversation.

“It’s not going to get better on it’s own.” Dib scoffed, although it came out a little forced. “It’s a natural reaction to stress, Gaz. You’ve seen me cry before.”

Zim perked up. Dib-human was here?

“I’m not giving up, see? If I have to use his leader’s own PAK’s to fix his, then-” A pause. “I know. But I need you to stay here. I can’t trust anyone else, you would keep an eye on him, if I don’t come back-”

“Dib?”

Dib flinched, then turned to his phone. “I’ll call you back,” he said, amidst the protest that only he could hear.

Warily, Dib watched him. “You’re back.”

Zim looked at him in confusion. Was he ever gone? Right, focus. “Dib, my smeet-”

Dib cut him off instantly. “He’s fine.” Too quick, too cold.

Zim nodded, that figured. But doubt still lingered, as well as annoyance. How could Zim not know the condition of his own smeet? But if Dib said he’s fine…

Zim reassessed. Dib didn’t look any better. “And are you?”

“Seen better days.”

Zim felt their whole interaction was wrong- Dib wasn’t supposed to be distant. They were close, weren’t they?

Zim huffed his chest and crawled between Dib’s legs, leaning on him and urging the other to embrace him.

Dib obliged, a little stiffly at first, then melting at the familiarity of Zim’s body.

“Are you going somewhere?” Zim murmured, not wanting the cool comfort of the air but needing to know.

“Yeah,” Dib said, almost reluctantly. “I don’t want to leave you, but…”

“Is it regarding my condition, then?”

Dib’s strength seemed to leave him. “Don’t worry about it, Zim. Can we just have this?”

Zim wanted to protest, but he couldn’t deny the request. His antenna began to lightly stroke Dib’s hair, trying to give comfort. He shifted gears. Maybe Dib needed a distraction. “Tell me about my smeet?” He suggested, not entirely for Dib’s sake. “My memory is…” he gave a lithe shrug, “but you remember, right? Is he into the paranormal like you?”

Dib blinked at the question. “I… no?”

“An invader, then, like me.” Zim accepted. “Our smeet…I remember his first words, you know.”

Dib tensed, turning the phrase over. Our. “Do you remember what he looks like?”

“Of course.” Zim said with pride. “Golden eyes, brighter than your browns, antennas a little crooked.”

“What else do you remember?”

Zim quieted.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Zim felt a headache coming on. “I don’t…”

“It’s alright.” Dib stopped himself, then pressed a kiss to the top of Zim’s head. “You’re going to be fine.”

Zim’s headache wouldn’t subside. “Dib-mine? Hold on to me?”

Dib cradled him closer, until Zim could pick out the warring sounds in Dib’s heart.

“Zim?”

“Yes?”

“Will you forget me, too?”

Zim felt compelled to lie, but he knew Dib would know. “I don’t know.”

“Will you tell me you never want to see me again?”

“Of course not. Why would I? Where is this coming from?”

Dib blinked away tears. “I love you.”

Their late night was ending, and Dib wished it wouldn’t.

#zadrweek3 #zadr #zadr week #mine #holy shit ma #i made it #omg 10k in about give or take two weeks of writing #this is a big deal for me #as usually im so slow #im really glad i participated in this

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perfectlyandrogynousbouquetworld · 5 years ago

Text

Gilbert & Anne in Anne of green gables’ book

« That's Gilbert Blythe sitting right across the aisle from you, Anne. Just look at him and see if you don't think he's handsome." Anne looked accordingly. She had a good chance to do so, for the said Gilbert Blythe was absorbed in stealthily pinning the long yellow braid of Ruby Gillis, who sat in front of him, to the back of her seat. He was a tall boy, with curly brown hair, roguish hazel eyes, and a mouth twisted into a teasing smile. Presently Ruby Gillis started up to take a sum to the master; she fell back into her seat with a little shriek, believing that her hair was pulled out by the roots. Everybody looked at her and Mr. Phillips glared so sternly that Ruby began to cry. Gilbert had whisked the pin out of sight and was studying his history with the soberest face in the world; but when the commotion subsided he looked at Anne and winked with inexpressible drollery. "I think your Gilbert Blythe IS handsome," confided Anne to Diana, "but I think he's very bold. It isn't good manners to wink at a strange girl." But it was not until the afternoon that« things really began to happen. Mr. Phillips was back in the corner explaining a problem in algebra to Prissy Andrews and the rest of the scholars were doing pretty much as they pleased eating green apples, whispering, drawing pictures on their slates, and driving crickets harnessed to strings, up and down aisle. Gilbert Blythe was trying to make Anne Shirley look at him and failing utterly, because Anne was at that moment totally oblivious not only to the very existence of Gilbert Blythe, but of every other scholar in Avonlea school itself. With her chin propped on her hands and her eyes fixed on the blue glimpse of the Lake of Shining Waters that the west window afforded, she was far away in a gorgeous dreamland hearing and seeing nothing save her own wonderful visions. » « Gilbert Blythe wasn't used to putting himself out to make a girl look at him and meeting with failure. She SHOULD look at him, that red-haired Shirley girl with the little pointed chin and the big eyes that weren't like the eyes of any other girl in Avonlea school. Gilbert reached across the aisle, picked up the end of Anne's long red braid, held it out at arm's length and said in a piercing whisper: "Carrots! Carrots!" Then Anne looked at him with a vengeance! She did more than look. She sprang to her feet, her bright fancies fallen into cureless ruin. She flashed one indignant glance at Gilbert from eyes whose angry sparkle was swiftly quenched in equally angry tears. "You mean, hateful boy!" she exclaimed passionately. "How dare you!" And then--thwack! Anne had brought her slate down on Gilbert's head and cracked it--slate not head--clear across. Avonlea school always enjoyed a scene. This was an especially enjoyable one. Everybody said "Oh" in horrified delight. Diana gasped. Ruby Gillis, who was inclined to be hysterical, began to cry. Tommy Sloane let his team of crickets escape him altogether while he stared open-mouthed at« tableau. Mr. Phillips stalked down the aisle and laid his hand heavily on Anne's shoulder. "Anne Shirley, what does this mean?" he said angrily. Anne returned no answer. It was asking too much of flesh and blood to expect her to tell before the whole school that she had been called "carrots." Gilbert it was who spoke up stoutly. "It was my fault Mr. Phillips. I teased her." Mr. Phillips paid no heed to Gilbert. "I am sorry to see a pupil of mine displaying such a temper and such a vindictive spirit," he said in a solemn tone, as if the mere fact of being a pupil » « When school was dismissed Anne marched out with her red head held high. Gilbert Blythe tried to intercept her at the porch door. "I'm awfully sorry I made fun of your hair, Anne," he whispered contritely. "Honest I am. Don't be mad for keeps, now" Anne swept by disdainfully, without look or sign of hearing. "Oh how could you, Anne?" breathed Diana as they went down the road half reproachfully, half admiringly. Diana felt that SHE could never have resisted Gilbert's plea. "I shall never forgive Gilbert Blythe," said Anne firmly. » « Mr. Phillips's brief reforming energy was over; he didn't want the bother of punishing a dozen pupils; but it was necessary to do something to save his word, so he looked about for a scapegoat and found it in Anne, who had dropped into her seat, gasping for breath, with a forgotten lily wreath hanging askew over one ear and giving her a particularly rakish and disheveled appearance. "Anne Shirley, since you seem to be so fond of the boys' company we shall indulge your taste for it this afternoon," he said sarcastically. "Take those flowers out of your hair and sit with Gilbert Blythe." The other boys snickered. Diana, turning pale with pity, plucked the wreath from Anne's hair and squeezed her hand. Anne stared at the master as if turned to stone. "Did you hear what I said, Anne?" queried Mr. Phillips sternly. "Yes, sir," said Anne slowly "but I didn't suppose you really meant it." "I assure you I did"--still with the sarcastic inflection which all the children, and Anne especially, hated. It flicked on the raw. "Obey me at once." For a moment Anne looked as if she meant to disobey. Then, realizing that « there was no help for it, she rose haughtily, stepped across the aisle, sat down beside Gilbert Blythe, and buried her face in her arms on the desk. Ruby Gillis, who got a glimpse of it as it went down, told the others going home from school that she'd "acksually never seen anything like it--it was so white, with awful little red spots in it." To Anne, this was as the end of all things. It was bad enough to be singled out for punishment from among a dozen equally guilty ones; it was worse still to be sent to sit with a boy, but that that boy should be Gilbert Blythe was heaping insult on injury to a degree utterly unbearable. Anne felt that she could not bear it and it would be of no use to try. Her whole being seethed with shame and anger and humiliation. At first the other scholars looked and whispered and giggled and nudged. But as Anne never lifted her head and as Gilbert worked fractions as if his whole soul was absorbed in them and them only, they soon returned to their own tasks and Anne was forgotten. When Mr. Phillips called the history class out Anne should have gone, but Anne did not move, and Mr. Phillips, who had been writing some « verses "To Priscilla" before he called the class, was thinking about an obstinate rhyme still and never missed her. Once, when nobody was looking, Gilbert took from his desk a little pink candy heart with a gold motto on it, "You are sweet," and slipped it under the curve of Anne's arm. Whereupon Anne arose, took the pink heart gingerly between the tips of her fingers, dropped it on the floor, ground it to powder beneath her heel, and resumed her position without deigning to bestow a glance on Gilbert. « but when she met Gilbert Blythe on the road or encountered him in Sunday school she passed him by with an icy contempt that was no whit thawed by his evident desire to appease her. Even Diana's efforts as a peacemaker were of no avail. Anne had evidently made up her mind to hate Gilbert Blythe to the end of life. « She flung herself into her studies heart and soul, determined not to be outdone in any class by Gilbert Blythe. The rivalry between them was soon apparent; it was entirely good natured on Gilbert's side; but it is much to be feared that the same thing cannot be said of Anne, who had certainly an unpraiseworthy tenacity for holding grudges. She was as intense in her hatreds as in her loves. She would not stoop to admit that she meant to rival Gilbert in schoolwork, because that would have been to acknowledge his existence which Anne persistently ignored; but the rivalry was there and honors fluctuated between them. Now Gilbert was head of the spelling class; now Anne, with a toss of her long red braids, spelled him down. One morning Gilbert had all his sums done correctly and had his name written on the blackboard on the roll of honor; the next morning Anne, having wrestled wildly with decimals the entire evening before, would be first. One awful day they were ties and their names were written up together. It was almost as bad as a take-notice and Anne's mortification was as evident as Gilbert's satisfaction. When[…] » « When Gilbert Blythe recited "Bingen on the Rhine" Anne picked up Rhoda Murray's library book and read it until he had finished, when she sat rigidly stiff and motionless while Diana clapped her hands until they tingled. » « Then, just as she thought she really could not endure the ache in her arms and wrists another moment, Gilbert Blythe came rowing under the bridge in Harmon Andrews's dory! Gilbert glanced up and, much to his amazement, beheld a little white scornful face looking down upon him with big, frightened but also scornful gray eyes. "Anne Shirley! How on earth did you get there?" he exclaimed. Without waiting for an answer he pulled close to the pile and extended his hand. There was no help for it; Anne, clinging to Gilbert Blythe's hand, scrambled down into the dory, where she sat, drabbled and furious, in the stern with her arms full of dripping shawl and wet crepe. It was certainly extremely difficult to be dignified under the circumstances! "What has happened, Anne?" asked Gilbert, taking up his oars. "We were playing Elaine" explained Anne frigidly, without even looking at her rescuer, "and I had to drift down to Camelot in the barge--I mean the flat. The flat began to leak and I climbed out on the pile. The girls went for help. Will you be kind enough to row me to the landing?" Gilbert obligingly rowed to the landing and Anne, disdaining assistance, sprang nimbly on shore. "I'm very much obliged to you," she said haughtily as she turned away. But Gilbert had also sprung from the boat and now laid a detaining hand on her arm. "Anne," he said hurriedly, "look here. Can't we be good friends? I'm awfully sorry I made fun of your hair that time. I didn't mean to vex you and I only meant it for a joke. Besides, it's so long ago. I think your hair is awfully pretty now--honest I do. « Let's be friends." For a moment Anne hesitated. She had an odd, newly awakened consciousness under all her outraged dignity that the half-shy, half-eager expression in Gilbert's hazel eyes was something that was very good to see. Her heart gave a quick, queer little beat. But the bitterness of her old grievance promptly stiffened up her wavering determination. That scene of two years before flashed back into her recollection as vividly as if it had taken place yesterday. Gilbert had called her "carrots" and had brought about her disgrace before the whole school. Her resentment, which to other and older people might be as laughable as its cause, was in no whit allayed and softened by time seemingly. She hated Gilbert Blythe! She would never forgive him! "No," she said coldly, "I shall never be friends with you, Gilbert Blythe; and I don't want to be!" "All right!" Gilbert sprang into his skiff with an angry color in his cheeks. "I'll never ask you to be friends again, Anne Shirley. And I don't care either!" He pulled away with swift defiant strokes, and Anne went up the steep, ferny little path under the maples. She held her head very high, but she was conscious of an odd feeling of regret. She almost wished she had answered Gilbert differently. Of course, he had insulted her terribly, but still--! Altogether, Anne rather thought it would be a relief to sit down and have a good cry. She was really quite unstrung, for the reaction from her fright and cramped clinging was making itself felt. » « Previously the rivalry had been rather onesided, but there was no longer any doubt that Gilbert was as determined to be first in class as Anne was. He was a foeman worthy of her steel. The other members of the class tacitly acknowledged their superiority, and never dreamed of trying to compete with them. Since the day by the pond when she had refused to listen to his plea for forgiveness, Gilbert, save for the aforesaid determined rivalry, had evinced no recognition whatever of the existence of Anne Shirley. He talked and jested with the other girls, exchanged books and puzzles with them, discussed lessons and plans, sometimes walked home with one or the other of them from prayer meeting or Debating Club. But Anne Shirley he simply ignored, and Anne found out that it is not pleasant to be ignored. It was in vain that she told herself with a toss of her head that she did not care. Deep down in her wayward, feminine little heart she knew that she did care, and that if she had that chance of the Lake of Shining Waters again she would answer very differently. All at once, as it seemed« and to her secret dismay, she found that the old resentment she had cherished against him was gone--gone just when she most needed its sustaining power. It was in vain that she recalled every incident and emotion of that memorable occasion and tried to feel the old satisfying anger. That day by the pond had witnessed its last spasmodic flicker. Anne realized that she had forgiven and forgotten without knowing it. But it was too late. And at least neither Gilbert nor anybody else, not even Diana, should ever suspect how sorry she was and how much she wished she hadn't been so proud and horrid! She determined to "shroud her feelings in deepest oblivion," and it may be stated here and now that she did it, so successfully that Gilbert, who possibly was not quite so indifferent as he seemed, could not console himself with any« belief that Anne felt his retaliatory scorn. The only poor comfort he had was that she snubbed Charlie Sloane, unmercifully, continually, and undeservedly. » « They had met and passed each other on the street a dozen times without any sign of recognition and every time Anne had held her head a little higher and wished a little more earnestly that she had made friends with Gilbert when he asked her, and vowed a little more determinedly to surpass him in the examination. « not a word could she utter, and the next moment she would have fled from the platform despite the humiliation which, she felt, must ever after be her portion if she did so. But suddenly, as her dilated, frightened eyes gazed out over the audience, she saw Gilbert Blythe away at the back of the room, bending forward with a smile on his face--a smile which seemed to Anne at once triumphant and taunting. In reality it was nothing of the kind. Gilbert was merely smiling with appreciation of the whole affair in general and of the effect produced by Anne's slender white form and spiritual face against a background of palms in particular. Josie Pye, whom he had driven over, sat beside him, and her face certainly was both triumphant and taunting. But Anne did not see Josie, and would not have cared if she had. She drew a long breath and flung her head up proudly, courage and determination tingling over her like an electric shock. She WOULD NOT fail before Gilbert Blythe--he should never be able to laugh at her, never, never! Her fright and nervousness vanished; and she began her recitation, her clear« sweet voice reaching to the farthest corner of the room without a tremor or a break. Self-possession was fully restored to her, and in the reaction from that horrible moment of powerlessness she recited as she had never done before. When she finished there were bursts of honest applause. Anne, stepping back to her seat, blushing with shyness and delight, found her hand vigorously clasped and shaken by the stout lady in pink silk. » « I wouldn't feel comfortable without it," she thought. "Gilbert looks awfully determined. I suppose he's making up his mind, here and now, to win« the medal. What a splendid chin he has! I never noticed it before. I do wish Jane and Ruby had gone in for First Class, too. » « Gilbert Blythe nearly always walked with Ruby Gillis and carried her satchel for her. Ruby was a very handsome young lady, now thinking herself quite as grown up as she really was; she wore her skirts as long as her mother would let her and did her hair up in town, though she had to take it down when she went home. She had large, bright-blue eyes, a brilliant complexion, and a plump showy figure. She laughed a great deal, was cheerful and good-tempered, and enjoyed the pleasant things of life frankly. "But I shouldn't think she was the sort of girl Gilbert would like," whispered Jane to Anne. Anne did not think so either, but she would not have said so for the Avery scholarship. She could not help thinking, too, that it would be very pleasant to have such a friend as Gilbert to jest and chatter with and exchange ideas about books and studies and ambitions. Gilbert had ambitions, she knew, and Ruby Gillis did not seem the sort of person with whom such could be profitably discussed. There was no silly sentiment in Anne's ideas concerning Gilbert. Boys were to her, when she« when she thought about them at all, merely possible good comrades. If she and Gilbert had been friends she would not have cared how many other friends he had nor with whom he walked. She had a genius for friendship; girl friends she had in plenty; but she had a vague consciousness that masculine friendship might also be a good thing to round out one's conceptions of companionship and furnish broader standpoints of judgment and comparison. Not that Anne could have put her feelings on the matter into just such clear definition. But she thought that if Gilbert had ever walked home with her from the train, over the crisp fields and along the ferny byways, they might have had many and merry and interesting conversations about the new world that was opening around them and their hopes and« ambitions therein. Gilbert was a clever young fellow, with his own thoughts about things and a determination to get the best out of life and put the best into it. Ruby Gillis told Jane Andrews that she didn't understand half the things Gilbert Blythe said; he talked just like Anne Shirley did when she had a thoughtful fit on and for her part she didn't think it any fun to be bothering about books and that sort of thing when you didn't have to. Frank Stockley had lots more dash and go, but then he wasn't half as good-looking as Gilbert and she really couldn't decide which she liked best! » « Anne worked hard and steadily. Her rivalry with Gilbert was as intense as it had ever been in Avonlea school, although it was not known in the class at large, but somehow the bitterness had gone out of it. Anne no longer wished to win for the sake of defeating Gilbert; rather, for the proud consciousness of a well-won victory over a worthy foeman. It would be worth while to win, but she no longer thought life would be insupportable if she did not. » « Jane promised solemnly; but, as it happened, there was no necessity for such a promise. When they went up the entrance steps of Queen's they found the hall full of boys who were carrying Gilbert Blythe around on their shoulders and yelling at the tops of their voices, "Hurrah for Blythe, Medalist!" For a moment Anne felt one sickening pang of defeat and disappointment. So she had failed and Gilbert had won! Well, Matthew would be sorry--he had been so sure she would win. And then! Somebody called out: "Three cheers for Miss Shirley, winner of the Avery! » « I don't know it. I guess you're going to teach right here in Avonlea. The trustees have decided to give you the school." "Mrs. Lynde!" cried Anne, springing to her feet in her surprise. "Why, I thought they had promised it to Gilbert Blythe!" "So they did. But as soon as Gilbert heard that you had applied for it he went to them--they had a business meeting at the school last night, you know--and told them that he withdrew his application, and suggested that they accept yours. He said he was going to teach at White Sands. Of course he knew how much you wanted to stay with Marilla, and I must say I think it was real kind and thoughtful in him, that's what. Real self-sacrificing, too, for he'll have his board to pay at White Sands, and everybody knows he's got to earn his own way through college. So the trustees decided to take you. I was tickled to death when Thomas came home and told me." "I don't feel that I ought to take it," murmured Anne. "I mean--I don't think I ought to let Gilbert make such a sacrifice for--for me[…] » « I guess you can't prevent him now. He's signed papers with the White Sands trustees. So it wouldn't do him any good now if you were to refuse. Of course you'll take the school. » « The beauty of it all thrilled Anne's heart, and she gratefully opened the gates of her soul to it. "Dear old world," she murmured, "you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you." Halfway down the hill a tall lad came whistling out of a gate before the Blythe homestead. It was Gilbert, and the whistle died on his lips as he recognized Anne. He lifted his cap courteously, but he would have passed on in silence, if Anne had not stopped and held out her hand. "Gilbert," she said, with scarlet cheeks, "I want to thank you for giving up the school for me. It was very good of you--and I want you to know that I appreciate it." Gilbert took the offered hand eagerly. "It wasn't particularly good of me at all, Anne. I was pleased to be able to do you some small service. Are we going to be friends after this? Have you really forgiven me my old fault?" Anne laughed and tried unsuccessfully to withdraw her hand. "I forgave you that day by the pond landing, although I didn't know it. What a stubborn little goose I was. I’ve« been--I may as well make a complete confession--I've been sorry ever since." "We are going to be the best of friends," said Gilbert, jubilantly. "We were born to be good friends, Anne. You've thwarted destiny enough. I know we can help each other in many ways. You are going to keep up your studies, aren't you? So am I. Come, I'm going to walk home with you." Marilla looked curiously at Anne when the latter entered the kitchen. "Who was that came up the lane with you, Anne?" "Gilbert Blythe," answered Anne, vexed to find herself blushing. "I met him on Barry's hill." "I didn't think you and Gilbert Blythe were such good friends that you'd stand for half an hour at the« gate talking to him," said Marilla with a dry smile. "We haven't been--we've been good enemies. But we have decided that it will be much more sensible to be good friends in the future. Were we really there half an hour? It seemed just a few minutes. But, you see, we have five years' lost conversations to catch up with, Marilla. » « Something about the firm outlines of Anne’s lips told that Mrs. Rachel was not far astray in this estimate. Anne’s heart was bent on forming the Improvement Society. Gilbert Blythe, who was to teach in White Sands but would always be home from Friday night to Monday morning, was enthusiastic about it; and most of the other folks were willing to go in for anything that meant occasional meetings, and consequently some “fun.” As for what the “improvements” were to be, nobody had any very clear idea except Anne and Gilbert. They had talked them over and planned them out until an ideal Avonlea existed in their minds, if nowhere else. » « I could never whip a child,” said Anne with equal decision. “I don’t believe in it at all. Miss Stacy never whipped any of us and she had perfect order; and Mr. Phillips was always whipping and he had no order at all. No, if I can’t get along without whipping I shall not try to teach school. There are better ways of managing. I shall try to win my pupils’ affections and then they will want to do what I tell them.” “But suppose they don’t?” said practical Jane. “I wouldn’t whip them anyhow. I’m sure it wouldn’t do any good. Oh, don’t whip your pupils, Jane, dear, no matter what they do.” “What do you think about it, Gilbert?” demanded Jane. “Don’t you think there are some children who really need a whipping now and then?” “Don’t you think it’s a cruel, barbarous thing to whip a child…any child?” exclaimed Anne, her face flushing with earnestness. “Well,” said Gilbert slowly, torn between his real convictions and his wish to measure up to Anne’s ideal, “there’s something to be said on both sides. I don’t believe in whipping children much. I think, as you say, Anne, that there are better ways of managing as a rule, and that corporal punishment should be a last resort. But on the other hand, as Jane says, I believe there is an occasional child who can’t be influenced in any other way and who, in short, needs a whipping and would be improved by it. Corporal punishment as a last resort is to be my rule.” Gilbert, having tried to please both sides, succeeded, as is usual and eminently right, in pleasing neither. Jane tossed her head. » « Anne gave Gilbert a disappointed glance. “I shall never whip a child,” she repeated firmly. “I feel sure it isn’t either right or necessary.” “Suppose a boy sauced you back when you told him to do something?” said Jane. “I’d keep him in after school and talk kindly and firmly to him,” said Anne. “There is some good in every person if you can find it. It is a teacher’s duty to find and develop it. That is what our School Management professor at Queen’s told us, you know. Do you suppose you could find any good in a child by whipping him? It’s far more important to influence the children aright than it is even to teach them the three R’s, Professor Rennie says.” “But the Inspector examines them in the three R’s, mind you, and he won’t give you a good report if they don’t come up to his standard,” protested Jane. “I’d rather have my pupils love me and look back to me in after years as a real helper than be on the roll of honor,” asserted Anne decidedly. “Wouldn’t you punish children at all, when they misbehaved?” asked Gilbert. “Oh, yes, I suppose I« shall have to, although I know I’ll hate to do it. But you can keep them in at recess or stand them on the floor or give them lines to write.” “I suppose you won’t punish the girls by making them sit with the boys?” said Jane slyly. Gilbert and Anne looked at each other and smiled rather foolishly. Once upon a time, Anne had been made to sit with Gilbert for punishment, and sad and bitter had been the consequences thereof. “Well, time will tell which is the best way,” said Jane philosophically as they parted. » « What is the matter?” asked Gilbert, who had arrived at the open kitchen door just in time to hear the sigh. Anne colored, and thrust her writing out of sight under some school compositions. “Nothing very dreadful. I was just trying to write out some of my thoughts, as Professor Hamilton advised me, but I couldn’t get them to please me. They seem so stiff and foolish directly they’re written down on white paper with black ink. Fancies are like shadows…you can’t cage them, they’re such wayward dancing things. But perhaps I’ll learn the secret some day if I keep on trying. I haven’t a great many spare moments, you know. By the time I finish correcting school exercises and compositions, I don’t always feel like writing any of my own.” “You are getting on splendidly in school, Anne. All the children like you,” said Gilbert, sitting down on the stone step. » « Gilbert had finally made up his mind that he was going to be a doctor. “It’s a splendid profession,” he said enthusiastically. “A fellow has to fight something all through life…didn’t somebody once define man as a fighting animal?…and I want to fight disease and pain and ignorance…which are all members one of another. I want to do my share of honest, real work in the « world, Anne…add a little to the sum of human knowledge that all the good men have been accumulating since it began. The folks who lived before me have done so much for me that I want to show my gratitude by doing something for the folks who will live after me. It seems to me that is the only way a fellow can get square with his obligations to the race.” “I’d like to add some beauty to life,” said Anne dreamily. “I don’t exactly want to make people know more…though I know that is the noblest ambition…but I’d love to make them have a pleasanter time because of me…to have some little joy or happy thought that would never have existed if I hadn’t been born.” “I think you’re fulfilling that ambition every day,” said Gilbert admiringly. And he was right. Anne was one of the children of light by birthright. After she had passed through a life with a smile or a word thrown across it like a gleam of sunshine the owner of that life saw it, for the time being at least, as hopeful and lovely and of good report. Finally« Gilbert rose regretfully. “Well, I must run up to MacPhersons’. Moody Spurgeon came home from Queen’s today for Sunday and he was to bring me out a book Professor Boyd is lending me. » « In the twilight Anne sauntered down to the Dryad’s Bubble and saw Gilbert Blythe coming down through the dusky Haunted Wood. She had a sudden realization that Gilbert was a schoolboy no longer. And how manly he looked—the tall, frank- « faced fellow, with the clear, straightforward eyes and the broad shoulders. Anne thought Gilbert was a very handsome lad, even though he didn’t look at all like her ideal man. She and Diana had long ago decided what kind of a man they admired and their tastes seemed exactly similar. He must be very tall and distinguished-looking, with melancholy, inscrutable eyes, and a melting, sympathetic voice. There was nothing either melancholy or inscrutable in Gilbert’s physiognomy, but of course that didn’t matter in friendship! Gilbert stretched himself out on the ferns beside the Bubble and looked approvingly at Anne. If Gilbert had been asked to describe his ideal woman the description would have answered point for point to Anne, even to those seven tiny freckles whose obnoxious presence still continued to vex her soul. Gilbert was as yet little more than a boy; but a boy has his dreams as have others, and in Gilbert’s future there was always a girl with big, limpid gray eyes, and a face as fine and delicate as a flower. He had made up his mind, also, that his future must be worthy of its goddess. Even in quiet Avonlea there were« temptations to be met and faced. White Sands youth were a rather “fast” set, and Gilbert was popular wherever he went. But he meant to keep himself worthy of Anne’s friendship and perhaps some distant day her love; and he watched over word and thought and deed as jealously as if her clear eyes were to pass in judgment on it. She held over him the unconscious influence that every girl whose ideals are high and pure, wields over her friends; an influence which would endure as long as she was faithful to those ideals and which she would as certainly lose if she were ever false to them. In Gilbert’s eyes Anne’s greatest charm was the fact that she never stooped to the petty practices of so many of the Avonlea girls—the small jealousies, the little deceits and rivalries, the palpable bids for favor. Anne held herself apart « from all this, not consciously or of design, but simply because anything of the sort was utterly foreign to her transparent, impulsive nature, crystal clear in its motives and aspirations. But Gilbert did not attempt to put his thoughts into words, for he had already too good reason to know that Anne would mercilessly and frostily nip all attempts at sentiment in the bud—or laugh at him, which was ten times worse. “You look like a real dryad under that birch tree,” he said teasingly. » « Gilbert Blythe was probably the only person to whom the news of Anne’s resignation brought unmixed pleasure. » « But there’ll be so many clever girls at Redmond,” sighed Diana, “and I’m only a stupid little country girl who says ‘I seen’ sometimes…though I really know better when I stop to think. Well, of course these past two years have really been too pleasant to last. I know somebody who is glad you are going to Redmond, anyhow. Anne, I’m going to ask you a question…a serious question. Don’t be vexed and do answer seriously. Do you care anything for Gilbert?” “Ever so much as a friend and not a bit in the way you mean,” said Anne calmly and decidedly; she also thought she was speaking sincerely. » « Then she locked the door and sat down under the silver poplar to wait for Gilbert, feeling very tired but still unweariedly thinking “long, long thoughts.” “What are you thinking of, Anne?” asked Gilbert, coming down the walk. He had left his horse and buggy out at the road. “Of Miss Lavendar and Mr. Irving,” answered Anne dreamily. “Isn’t it beautiful to think how everything has turned out…how they have come together again after all the years of separation and misunderstanding?” “Yes, it’s beautiful,” said Gilbert, looking steadily down into Anne’s uplifted face, “but wouldn’t it have been more beautiful still, Anne, if there had been no separation or misunderstanding…if they had come hand in hand all the way through life, with no memories behind them but those which belonged to each other?” For a moment Anne’s heart fluttered queerly and for the first time her eyes faltered under Gilbert’s gaze and a rosy flush stained the paleness of her face. It was as if a veil that had hung before her inner consciousness had been lifted, giving to her view a revelation of unsuspected feelings and realities. « Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one’s life with pomp and blare, like a gay knight riding down; perhaps it crept to one’s side like an old friend through quiet ways; perhaps it « revealed itself in seeming prose, until some sudden shaft of illumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music, perhaps…perhaps…love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful friendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from its green sheath. Then the veil dropped again; but the Anne who walked up the dark lane was not quite the same Anne who had driven gaily down it the evening before. The page of girlhood had been turned, as by an unseen finger, and the page of womanhood was before her with all its charm and mystery, its pain and gladness. Gilbert wisely said nothing more; but in his silence he read the history of the next four years in the light of Anne’s remembered blush. Four years of earnest, happy work…and then the guerdon of a useful knowledge gained and a sweet heart won. » « They were leaning on the bridge of the old pond, drinking deep of the enchantment of the dusk, just at the spot where Anne had climbed from her sinking Dory on the day Elaine floated down to Camelot. The fine, empurpling dye of sunset still stained the western skies, but the moon was rising and the water lay like a great, silver dream in her light. Remembrance wove a sweet and subtle spell over the two young creatures. "You are very quiet, Anne," said Gilbert at last. "I'm afraid to speak or move for fear all this wonderful beauty will vanish just like a broken silence," breathed Anne. » « Gilbert suddenly laid his hand over the slender white one lying on the rail of the bridge. His hazel eyes deepened into darkness, his still boyish lips opened to say something of the dream and hope that thrilled his soul. But Anne snatched her hand away and turned quickly. The spell of the dusk was broken for her. "I must go home," she exclaimed, with a rather overdone carelessness. "Marilla had a headache this afternoon, and I'm sure the twins will be in some dreadful mischief by this time. I really shouldn't have stayed away so long." She chattered ceaselessly and inconsequently until they reached the Green Gables lane. Poor Gilbert hardly had a chance to get a word in edgewise. Anne felt rather relieved when they parted. There had been a new, secret self-consciousness in her heart with regard to Gilbert, ever since that fleeting moment of revelation in the garden of Echo Lodge. Something alien had intruded into the old, perfect, school-day comradeship -- something that threatened to mar it. "I never felt glad to see Gilbert go before," she thought, half- resentfully, half-sorrowfully, as she walked alone up the lane. "Our friendship will be« spoiled if he goes on with this nonsense. It mustn't be spoiled -- I won't let it. Oh, WHY can't boys be just sensible!" Anne had an uneasy doubt that it was not strictly "sensible" that she should still feel on her hand the warm pressure of Gilbert's, as distinctly as she had felt it for the swift second his had rested there; and still less sensible that the sensation was far from being an unpleasant one -- very different from that which had attended a similar demonstration on Charlie Sloane's part, when she had been sitting out a dance with him at a White Sands party three nights before. Anne shivered over the disagreeable recollection. But all problems connected with infatuated swains vanished from her mind » « Gilbert Blythe and Charlie Sloane, both trying to keep as near the elusive Anne as possible » « She enjoyed the evening tremendously, but the end of it rather spoiled all. Gilbert again made the mistake of saying something sentimental to her as they ate their supper on the moonlit verandah; and Anne, to punish him, was gracious to Charlie Sloane and allowed the latter to walk home with her. She found, however, that revenge hurts nobody quite so much as the one who tries to inflict it. Gilbert walked airily off with Ruby Gillis, and Anne could hear them laughing and talking gaily as they loitered along in the still, crisp autumn air. They were evidently having the best of good times, while she was horribly bored by Charlie Sloane, who talked unbrokenly on, and never, even by accident, said one thing that was worth listening to. Anne gave an occasional absent "yes" or "no," and thought how beautiful Ruby had looked that night, how very goggly Charlie's eyes were in the moonlight »« worse even than by daylight -- and that the world, somehow, wasn't quite such a nice place as she had believed it to be earlier in the evening. "I'm just tired out -- that is what is the matter with me," she said, when she thankfully found herself alone in her own room. And she honestly believed it was. But a certain little gush of joy, as from some secret, unknown spring, bubbled up in her heart the next evening, when she saw Gilbert striding down through the Haunted Wood and crossing the old log bridge with that firm, quick step of his. So Gilbert was not going to spend this last evening with Ruby Gillis after all! » « They started gaily off. Anne, remembering the unpleasantness of the preceding evening, was very nice to Gilbert; and Gilbert, who was learning wisdom, took care to be nothing save the schoolboy comrade again. Mrs. Lynde and Marilla watched them from the kitchen window. "That'll be a match some day," Mrs. Lynde said approvingly. Marilla winced slightly. In her heart she hoped it would, but it went against her grain to hear the matter spoken of in Mrs. Lynde's gossipy matter-of-fact way. "They're only children yet," she said shortly. Mrs. Lynde laughed good-naturedly. "Anne is eighteen; I was married when I was that age. We old folks, Marilla, are too much given to thinking children never grow up, that's what. Anne is a young woman and Gilbert's a man, and he worships the ground she walks on, as any one can see. He's a fine fellow, and Anne can't do better. I hope she won't get any romantic nonsense into her head at Redmond. I don't approve of them coeducational places and never did, that's what. I don't believe," concluded Mrs. Lynde solemnly, "that the students at such colleges ever do much else than flirt. » « Gilbert and Anne loitered a little behind the others, enjoying the calm, still beauty of the autumn afternoon under the pines of the park, on the road that climbed and twisted round the harbor shore. "The silence here is like a prayer, isn't it?" said Anne, her face upturned to the shining sky. "How I love the pines! They seem to strike their roots deep into the romance of all the ages. It is so comforting to creep away now and then for a good talk with them. I always feel so happy out here." "`And so in mountain solitudes o'ertaken As by some spell divine, Their cares drop from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine,'" quoted Gilbert. "They make our little ambitions seem rather petty, don't they, Anne?" "I think, if ever any great sorrow came to me, I would come to the pines for comfort," said Anne dreamily. "I hope no great sorrow ever will come to you, Anne," said Gilbert, who could not connect the idea of sorrow with the vivid, joyous creature beside him, unwitting that those who can soar to the highest heights can also plunge to the deepest depths, and that the natures which enjoy most keenly are those which also suffer most sharply. » « But there must -- sometime," mused Anne. "Life seems like a cup of glory held to my lips just now. But there must be some bitterness in it -- there is in every cup. I shall taste mine some day. Well, I hope I shall be strong and brave to meet it. And I hope it won't be through my own fault that it will come. Do you remember what Dr. Davis said last Sunday evening -- that the sorrows God sent us brought comfort and strength with them, while the sorrows we brought on ourselves, through folly or wickedness, were by far the hardest to bear? But we mustn't talk of sorrow on an afternoon like this. It's meant for the sheer joy of living, isn't it?" "If I had my way I'd shut everything out of your life but happiness and pleasure, Anne," said Gilbert in the tone that meant "danger ahead." "Then you would be very unwise," rejoined Anne hastily. "I'm sure no life can be properly developed and rounded out without some trial and sorrow -- though I suppose it is only when we are pretty comfortable that we admit it. Come -- the others have got to the pavilion[…] » « Gilbert did not love any of them, and he was exceedingly careful to give none of them the advantage over him by any untimely display of his real feelings Anne-ward. To her he had become again the boy-comrade of Avonlea days, and as such could hold his own against any smitten swain who had so far entered the lists against him. As a companion, Anne honestly acknowledged nobody could be so satisfactory as Gilbert; she was very glad, so she told herself, that he had evidently dropped all nonsensical ideas -- though she spent considerable time secretly wondering why. » « Gilbert, to be sure, was still faithful, and waded up to Green Gables every possible evening. But Gilbert's visits were not what they once were. Anne almost dreaded them. It was very disconcerting to look up in the midst of a sudden silence and find Gilbert's hazel eyes fixed upon her with a quite unmistakable expression in their grave depths; and it was still more disconcerting to find herself blushing hotly and uncomfortably under his gaze, just as if -- just as if -- well, it was very embarrassing. Anne wished herself back at Patty's Place, where there was always somebody else about to take the edge off a delicate situation. At Green Gables Marilla went promptly to Mrs. Lynde's domain when Gilbert came and insisted on taking the twins with her. The significance of this was unmistakable and Anne was in a helpless fury over it. » « You mustn't work too HARD," said Anne, without any very clear idea of what she was saying. She wished desperately that Phil would come out. "You've studied very constantly this winter. Isn't this a delightful evening? Do you know, I found a cluster of white violets under that old twisted tree over there today? I felt as if I had discovered a gold mine." "You are always discovering gold mines," said Gilbert -- also absently. "Let us go and see if we can find some more," suggested Anne eagerly. "I'll call Phil and -- " "Never mind Phil and the violets just now, Anne," said Gilbert quietly, taking her hand in a clasp from which she could not free it. "There is something I want to say to you." "Oh, don't say it," cried Anne, pleadingly. "Don't -- PLEASE, Gilbert." "I must. Things can't go on like this any longer. Anne, I love you. You know I do. I -- I can't tell you how much. Will you promise me that some day you'll be my wife?" "I -- I can't," said Anne miserably. "Oh, Gilbert -- you -- you've spoiled everything." "Don't you care for me at all?" Gilbert asked after a very dreadful pause, during« which Anne had not dared to look up. "Not -- not in that way. I do care a great deal for you as a friend. But I don't love you, Gilbert." "But can't you give me some hope that you will -- yet?" "No, I can't," exclaimed Anne desperately. "I never, never can love you -- in that way -- Gilbert. You must never speak of this to me again." There was another pause -- so long and so dreadful that Anne was driven at last to look up. Gilbert's face was white to the lips. And his eyes -- but Anne shuddered and looked away. There was « nothing romantic about this. Must proposals be either grotesque or -- horrible? Could she ever forget Gilbert's face? "Is there anybody else?" he asked at last in a low voice. "No -- no," said Anne eagerly. "I don't care for any one like THAT -- and I LIKE you better than anybody else in the world, Gilbert. And we must -- we must go on being friends, Gilbert." Gilbert gave a bitter little laugh. "Friends! Your friendship can't satisfy me, Anne. I want your love -- and you tell me I can never have that." "I'm sorry. Forgive me, Gilbert," was all Anne could say. Where, oh, where were all the gracious and graceful speeches wherewith, in imagination, she had been wont to dismiss rejected suitors? Gilbert released her hand gently. "There isn't anything to forgive. There have been times when I thought you did care. I've deceived myself, that's all. Goodbye, Anne. » « Phil," pleaded Anne, "please go away and leave me alone for a little while. My world has tumbled into pieces. I want to reconstruct it." "Without any Gilbert in it?" said Phil, going. A world without any Gilbert in it! Anne repeated the words drearily. Would it not be a very lonely, forlorn place? Well, it was all Gilbert's fault. He had spoiled their beautiful comradeship. She must just learn to live without it. » « Life was very pleasant in Avonlea that summer, although Anne, amid all her vacation joys, was haunted by a sense of "something gone which should be there." She would not admit, even in her inmost reflections, that this was caused by Gilbert's absence. » « Gilbert would never have dreamed of writing a sonnet to her eyebrows. But then, Gilbert could see a joke. She had once told Roy a funny story -- and he had not seen the point of it. She recalled the chummy laugh she and Gilbert had had together over it, and wondered uneasily if life with a man who had no sense of humor might not be somewhat uninteresting in the long run. But who could expect a melancholy, inscrutable hero to see the humorous side of things? It would be flatly unreasonable. » « Fred and Diana drove away through the moonlight to their new home, and Gilbert walked with Anne to Green Gables. Something of their old comradeship had returned during the informal mirth of the evening. Oh, it was nice to be walking over that well-known road with Gilbert again! The night was so very still that one should have been able to hear the whisper of roses in blossom -- « the laughter of daisies -- the piping of grasses -- many sweet sounds, all tangled up together. The beauty of moonlight on familiar fields irradiated the world. "Can't we take a ramble up Lovers' Lane before you go in?" asked Gilbert as they crossed the bridge over the Lake of Shining Waters, in which the moon lay like a great, drowned blossom of gold. Anne assented readily. Lovers' Lane was a veritable path in a fairyland that night -- a shimmering, mysterious place, full of wizardry in the white-woven enchantment of moonlight. There had been a time when such a walk with Gilbert through Lovers' Lane would have been far too dangerous. But Roy and Christine had made it very safe now. Anne found herself thinking a good deal about Christine as she chatted lightly to Gilbert. She had met her several times before leaving Kingsport, and had been charmingly sweet to her. Christine had also been charmingly sweet. Indeed, they were a most cordial pair. But for all that, their acquaintance had not ripened into friendship. Evidently Christine was not a kindred spirit. "Are you going to be in Avonlea all summer?" asked Gilbert. » « It was filled with lilies-of-the-valley, as fresh and fragrant as those which bloomed in the Green Gables yard when June came to Avonlea. Gilbert Blythe's card lay beside it. Anne wondered why Gilbert should have sent her flowers for Convocation. She had seen very little of him during the past winter. » « On the accompanying card was written, "With all good wishes from your old chum, Gilbert." Anne, laughing over the memory the enamel heart conjured up the fatal day when Gilbert had called her "Carrots" and vainly tried to make his peace with a pink candy heart, had written him a nice little note of thanks. But she had never worn the trinket. Tonight she fastened it about her white throat with a dreamy smile. » « Say, Anne, did you know that Gilbert Blythe is dying?" Anne stood quite silent and motionless, looking at Davy. Her face had gone so white that Marilla thought she was going to faint. "Davy, hold your tongue," said Mrs. Rachel angrily. "Anne, don't look like that -- DON'T LOOK LIKE THAT! We didn't mean to tell you so suddenly." "Is -- it -- true?" asked Anne in a voice that was not hers. "Gilbert is very ill," said Mrs. Lynde gravely. "He took down with typhoid fever just after you left for Echo Lodge. Did you never hear of it?" "No," said that unknown voice. "It was a very bad case from the start. The doctor said he'd been terribly run down. They've a trained nurse and everything's been done. DON'T look like that, Anne. While there's life there's hope." "Mr. Harrison was here this evening and he said they had no hope of him," reiterated Davy. » « Marilla, looking old and worn and tired, got up and marched Davy grimly out of the kitchen. "Oh, DON'T look so, dear," said Mrs. Rachel, putting her kind old arms about the pallid girl. "I haven't given up hope, indeed I haven't. He's got the Blythe constitution in his favor, that's what." Anne gently put Mrs. Lynde's arms away from her, walked blindly across the kitchen, through the hall, up the stairs to her old room. At its window she knelt down, staring out unseeingly. It was very dark. The rain was beating down over the shivering fields. The Haunted Woods was full of the groans of mighty trees wrung in the tempest, and the air throbbed with the thunderous crash of billows on the distant shore. And Gilbert was dying! There is a book of Revelation in every one's life, as there is in the Bible. Anne read hers that bitter night, as she kept her agonized vigil through the hours of storm and darkness. She loved Gilbert -- had always loved him! She knew that now. She knew that she could no more cast him out of her life without agony than she could have cut off her« her right hand and cast it from her. And the knowledge had come too late -- too late even for the bitter solace of being with him at the last. If she had not been so blind -- so foolish -- she would have had the right to go to him now. But he would never know that she loved him -- he would go away from this life thinking that she did not care. Oh, the black years of emptiness stretching before her! She could not live through them -- she could not! She cowered down by her window and wished, for the first time in her gay young life, that she could die, too. If Gilbert went away from her, without one word or sign or message, she could not live. Nothing was of any value without him. She belonged to him and he to her. In her hour of supreme agony she had no doubt of that. He did not love Christine Stuart -- never had loved Christine Stuart. Oh, what a fool she had been not to realize what the bond « was that had held her to Gilbert -- to think that the flattered fancy she had felt for Roy Gardner had been love. And now she must pay for her folly as for a crime. Mrs. Lynde and Marilla crept to her door before they went to bed, shook their heads doubtfully at each other over the silence, and went away. The storm raged all night, but when the dawn came it was spent. Anne saw a fairy fringe of light on the skirts of darkness. Soon the eastern hilltops had a fire-shot ruby rim. The clouds rolled themselves away into great, soft, white masses on the horizon; the sky gleamed blue and silvery. A hush fell over the world. Anne rose from her knees and crept downstairs. The freshness of the rain-wind blew against her white face as she went out into the yard, and cooled her dry, burning eyes. A merry rollicking whistle was lilting up the lane. A moment later Pacifique Buote came in sight. Anne's physical strength suddenly failed her. If she had not clutched at a low willow bough she would have fallen. Pacifique was George Fletcher's hired man, and George Fletcher lived« next door to the Blythes. Mrs. Fletcher was Gilbert's aunt. Pacifique would know if -- if -- Pacifique would know what there was to be known. Pacifique strode sturdily on along the red lane, whistling. He did not see Anne. She made three futile attempts to call him. He was almost past before she succeeded in making her quivering lips call, "Pacifique!" Pacifique turned with a grin and a cheerful good morning. "Pacifique," said Anne faintly, "did you come from George Fletcher's this morning?" "Sure," said Pacifique amiably. "I got de word las' night dat my fader, he was seeck. It was so stormy dat I couldn't go den, so I start vair early dis mornin'. I'm goin' troo de woods for short cut. » « Did you hear how Gilbert Blythe was this morning?" Anne's desperation drove her to the question. Even the worst would be more endurable than this hideous suspense. "He's better," said Pacifique. "He got de turn las' night. De doctor say he'll be all right now dis soon while. Had close shave, dough! Dat boy, he jus' keel himself at college. Well, I mus' hurry. De old man, he'll be in hurry to see me." Pacifique resumed his walk and his whistle. Anne gazed after him with eyes where joy was driving out the strained anguish of the night. He was a very lank, very ragged, very homely youth. But in her sight he was as beautiful as those who bring good tidings on the mountains. Never, as long as she lived, would Anne see Pacifique's brown, round, black-eyed face without a warm remembrance of the moment when he had given to her the oil of joy for mourning. Long after Pacifique's gay whistle had faded into the phantom of music and then into silence far up under the maples of Lover's Lane Anne stood under the willows, tasting the poignant sweetness of life when some great dread has« been removed from it. The morning was a cup filled with mist and glamor. In the corner near her was a rich surprise of new-blown, crystal-dewed roses. The trills and trickles of song from the birds in the big tree above her seemed in perfect accord with her mood. A sentence from a very old, very true, very wonderful Book came to her lips, "Weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning." XLI Love Takes Up the Glass of Time "I've come up to ask you to go for one of our old-time rambles through September woods and `over hills where spices grow,' this afternoon," said « Gilbert, coming suddenly around the porch corner. "Suppose we visit Hester Gray's garden." Anne, sitting on the stone step with her lap full of a pale, filmy, green stuff, looked up rather blankly. "Oh, I wish I could," she said slowly, "but I really can't, Gilbert. I'm going to Alice Penhallow's wedding this evening, you know. I've got to do something to this dress, and by the time it's finished I'll have to get ready. I'm so sorry. I'd love to go." "Well, can you go tomorrow afternoon, then?" asked Gilbert, apparently not much disappointed. "Yes, I think so. » « Is that the dress you're going to wear tonight?" asked Gilbert, looking down at the fluffs and frills. "Yes. Isn't it pretty? And I shall wear starflowers in my hair. The Haunted Wood is full of them this « summer." Gilbert had a sudden vision of Anne, arrayed in a frilly green gown, with the virginal curves of arms and throat slipping out of it, and white stars shining against the coils of her ruddy hair. The vision made him catch his breath. But he turned lightly away. "Well, I'll be up tomorrow. Hope you'll have a nice time tonight." Anne looked after him as he strode away, and sighed. Gilbert was friendly -- very friendly -- far too friendly. He had come quite often to Green Gables after his recovery, and something of their old comradeship had returned. But Anne no longer found it satisfying. The rose of love made the blossom of friendship pale and scentless by contrast. And Anne had again begun to doubt if Gilbert now felt anything for her but friendship. In the common light of common day her radiant certainty of that rapt morning had faded. She was haunted by a miserable fear that her mistake could never be rectified. It was quite likely that it was Christine whom Gilbert loved after all. Perhaps he was even engaged to her. Anne tried to put all unsettling hopes out of her heart, and reconcile herself« to a future where work and ambition must take the place of love. She could do good, if not noble, work as a teacher; and the success her little sketches were beginning to meet with in certain editorial sanctums augured well for her budding literary dreams. But -- but -- Anne picked up her green dress and sighed again. When Gilbert came the next afternoon he found Anne waiting for him, fresh as the dawn and fair as a star, after all the gaiety of the preceding night. She wore a green dress -- not the one she had worn to the wedding, but an old one which Gilbert had told her at a Redmond reception he liked especially. It was just the shade of green that brought out the rich tints of her hair, and the starry gray of her eyes and the iris-like delicacy of her skin. Gilbert, glanc« ing at her sideways as they walked along a shadowy woodpath, thought she had never looked so lovely. Anne, glancing sideways at Gilbert, now and then, thought how much older he looked since his illness. It was as if he had put boyhood behind him forever. The day was beautiful and the way was beautiful. Anne was almost sorry when they reached Hester Gray's garden, and sat down on the old bench. But it was beautiful there, too -- as beautiful as it had been on the faraway day of the Golden Picnic, when Diana and Jane and Priscilla and she had found it. Then it had been lovely with narcissus and violets; now golden rod had kindled its fairy torches in the corners and asters dotted it bluely. The call of the brook came up through the woods from the valley of birches with all its old allurement; the mellow air was full of the purr of the sea; beyond were fields rimmed by fences bleached silvery gray in the suns of many summers, and long hills scarfed with the shadows of autumnal clouds; with the blowing of the west wind old dreams returned. "I think," said Anne softly« that `the land where dreams come true' is in the blue haze yonder, over that little valley." "Have you any unfulfilled dreams, Anne?" asked Gilbert. Something in his tone -- something she had not heard since that miserable evening in the orchard at Patty's Place -- made Anne's heart beat wildly. But she made answer lightly. "Of course. Everybody has. It wouldn't do for us to have all our dreams fulfilled. We would be as good as dead if we had nothing left to dream about. What a delicious aroma that low-descending sun is extracting from the asters and ferns. I wish we could see perfumes as well as smell them. I'm sure they would be very beautiful." Gilbert was not to be thus sidetracked. « I have a dream," he said slowly. "I persist in dreaming it, although it has often seemed to me that it could never come true. I dream of a home with a hearth-fire in it, a cat and dog, the footsteps of friends -- and YOU!" Anne wanted to speak but she could find no words. Happiness was breaking over her like a wave. It almost frightened her. "I asked you a question over two years ago, Anne. If I ask it again today will you give me a different answer?" Still Anne could not speak. But she lifted her eyes, shining with all the love-rapture of countless generations, and looked into his for a moment. He wanted no other answer. They lingered in the old garden until twilight, sweet as dusk in Eden must have been, crept over it. There was so much to talk over and recall -- things said and done and heard and thought and felt and misunderstood. "I thought you loved Christine Stuart," Anne told him, as reproachfully as if she had not given him every reason to suppose that she loved Roy Gardner. Gilbert laughed boyishly. "Christine was engaged to somebody in her« home town. I knew it and she knew I knew it. When her brother graduated he told me his sister was coming to Kingsport the next winter to take music, and asked me if I would look after her a bit, as she knew no one and would be very lonely. So I did. And then I liked Christine for her own sake. She is one of the nicest girls I've ever known. I knew college gossip credited us with being in love with each other. I didn't care. Nothing mattered much to me for a time there, after you told me you could never love me, Anne. There was nobody else -- there never could be anybody else for me but you. I've loved you ever since that day you broke your slate over my head in school. » « I don't see how you could keep on loving me when I was such a little fool," said Anne. "Well, I tried to stop," said Gilbert frankly, "not because I thought you what you call yourself, but because I felt sure there was no chance for me after Gardner came on the scene. But I couldn't -- and I can't tell you, either, what it's meant to me these two years to believe you were going to marry him, and be told every week by some busybody that your engagement was on the point of being announced. I believed it until one blessed day when I was sitting up after the fever. I got a letter from Phil Gordon -- Phil Blake, rather -- in which she told me there was really nothing between you and Roy, and advised me to `try again.' Well, the doctor was amazed at my rapid recovery after that." Anne laughed -- then shivered. "I can never forget the night I thought you were dying, Gilbert. Oh, I knew -- I KNEW then -- and I thought it was too late." "But it wasn't, sweetheart. Oh, Anne, this makes up for everything, doesn't it? Let's resolve to keep this day« sacred to perfect beauty all our lives for the gift it has given us." "It's the birthday of our happiness," said Anne softly. "I've always loved this old garden of Hester Gray's, and now it will be dearer than ever." "But I'll have to ask you to wait a long time, Anne," said Gilbert sadly. "It will be three years before I'll finish my medical course. And even then there will be no diamond sunbursts and marble halls." Anne laughed. "I don't want sunbursts and marble halls. I just want YOU. You see I'm quite as shameless as Phil about it. Sunbursts and marble halls may be all very well, but there is more `scope for imagination' without them. And as for the waiting, that doesn't matter. We'll just be happy, waiting and working for « each other -- and dreaming. Oh, dreams will be very sweet now." Gilbert drew her close to him and kissed her. Then they walked home together in the dusk, crowned king and queen in the bridal realm of love, along winding paths fringed with the sweetest flowers that ever bloomed, and over haunted meadows where winds of hope and memory blew. » « Gilbert lifted Anne from the buggy and led her into the garden, through the little gate between the ruddy-tipped firs, up the trim, red path to the sandstone step. "Welcome home," he whispered, and hand in hand they stepped over the threshold of their house of dreams. » « Anne, this is Captain Boyd. Captain Boyd, my wife." It was the first time Gilbert had said "my wife" to anybody but Anne, and he narrowly escaped bursting with the pride of it. » Extrait de: L. M. Montgomery. « The Complete Anne of Green. » iBooks.

#anne with an e #gilbert blythe #anne shirley #anne of green gables #shirbert

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