#by the way I’m the ambassador of back bloody scratches

[fate221]

Ipomoea quamoclit

[partystoragechest]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Trevelyan has a lot on her plate.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 2,522. Rating: most audiences. Warnings: discussion of war and death.)

Chapter 29: Ostwick's Calling

It was a wonder how anyone worked in the rookery.

Located at the top of the rotunda, one had to face an excessive amount of stairs to reach it—only then to be greeted with a balcony view of the terrifyingly long drop back to the bottom.

Rumour had it that the Inquisitor had once leapt from this balcony with no means of stopping the fall, yet landed upon the ground with nary a scratch. The claim was dubious. And likely the invention of Varric Tethras.

Height, however, was perhaps not the worst aspect of the rookery—for in this regard, its residents were certainly competitive. The Inquisition’s birds, kept suspended from the ceiling in iron cages, cawed and crowed as much as they pleased. In other words: near-constantly.

Birdsong was not something Trevelyan had heard too much of, in the Circle. But Maker, right now, she did not feel as though she’d missed much. Then again, if she’d become used to the endless cacophany of the Undercroft, then she supposed one could get used to this. The scout she spoke to seemingly had, given his entirely untroubled demeanour as they conducted their business.

“You’ll know as soon as anything changes,” he said, handing Trevelyan a report on the Dales. Agents had been sent to scour the area chosen for the red lyrium experiment, just in case—fortunately, it seemed quite at peace. For now.

“Thank you,” Trevelyan said, adding the document to her collection. “And do you have the location of the clan I asked about?”

“Which was that, sorry?”

She concealed her irritation. “Clan Sumara.”

“Right! Right. I remember now. Your mage friend, eh?”

He referred to, of course, the lie she’d told to get her information. Well, she couldn’t simply out with it that an Orlesian noblewoman was elf-blooded and planning to run away from home. So, instead, Trevelyan had concocted a story in which a friend of hers from the Circle, who’d been taken from the clan as a child, was said to have returned to it after the rebellion. Quite natural, she thought, to wish to seek out one’s friend.

The scout had apparently agreed, though he was limited in his capacity to help: “Sumara was last seen in the Free Marches,” he explained. “Can’t be more specific than that, I’m afraid. They don’t give out locations so easily these days, with what’s been happening in Wycome.”

Trevelyan sighed a little too noticeably, for he followed this with:

“’Spose you could ask about it. Who do you report to? Commander, Ambassador, or Sister Nightingale?”

A curious question, for Trevelyan had never fully considered the answer. Though Dagna seemed to report to the Spymaster—the Sister Nightingale of which he spoke—Trevelyan had barely spoken two words to the woman.

“Ambassador,” she told the scout, unsure even as she said it.

“Ask her about it,” he suggested, “she’ll be able to give her approval.”

Ah, good. Another bloody permission slip.

“Thank you,” Trevelyan said regardless.

“Don’t mean to fob you off.”

“I quite understand”—Trevelyan indicated the thick pile of documents she already carted about—“I’m rather used to protocol, at this point.”

The scout gave a sympathetic nod, and thus, their dealings were concluded. With the cawing beginning to grate, Trevelyan bade him farewell, and made for the stairs. She would not be trying the Inquisitor’s method of departure.

But she stopped. For as she turned to leave, she saw nearby another visitor to the rookery: the Baroness Touledy.

The Baroness had made herself untypically small, standing off to one side, where she would be in no one’s way. One hand rested upon her cane, gripping the handle til her knuckles paled. The other held a note—small enough to have been carried by bird—which she read with a face of stone.

Trevelyan intended not to disturb her (she hardly had time for such diversions even if she wished to), but her gaze must have lingered upon the Baroness for a moment too long. As if feeling the stare, the Baroness looked up.

“Lady Trevelyan,” she greeted, her countenance relaxing.

Trevelyan approached. “Baroness Touledy.”

“How are you? I did not see you all of yesterday, nor this morning—you were not even at dinner last night.”

Trevelyan thought back to the previous night. No, she hadn’t been at dinner. But she’d eaten. Had she eaten? Yes, she’d eaten.

“I have been busy, with the Undercroft,” said Trevelyan, in the understatement of the Age. Between the Undercroft, and Samient, and Sudton, and Ostwick, Trevelyan had not had a single waking moment of peace. Nor a sleeping one, for that matter.

“I quite understand. You are here receiving a message?”

“A report,” Trevelyan told her, “which I should be getting to the Arcanist as soon as possible, so—”

“Val Misrenne is under attack.”

Trevelyan quieted at once. She stared at the Baroness, whose face remained stoic. Desperate for information, her eyes fell, instead, to the note in her palm. Touledy clutched it so tight, it could have crumbled to dust.

Trevelyan stammered, “What—what do you mean?”

The Baroness tipped her head towards the stair. “May I walk with you, to the Undercroft?”

It was hardly a request Trevelyan could deny—and so, she nodded. The Baroness fell alongside, and together, they began the winding descent into the library.

“You recall the bandits I spoke of at the banquet?” she muttered, beneath sounds of whispering scholars and shuffling papers.

Trevelyan nodded. Well-organised, defeated in a skirmish—that’s what she’d said.

“They were not bandits,” Touledy confessed. “They were Red Templars.”

A raw feeling, akin to the sting of a cold dagger, pierced Trevelyan’s chest. The subsequent stumble in her steps she managed to hide, but her gasp she could not:

“What?”

“They struck little more than a month ago,” Touledy explained. “My guard was able to fend them off, but… not without loss. I was unsure of travelling so soon afterward, but we believed, foolishly, that would be the end of it. But after I arrived here, they returned.”

Those urgent letters for the Baroness. Trevelyan had been curious of their contents at the time. She could well imagine what they said now.

“Much of my guard still recovers. Yet the Templars’ encampment, I am told, holds a force large enough to destroy Val Misrenne even if they were standing. I have attempted to entreat my fellow nobility to assist us, but the bulk of their troops remain in the Exalted Plains. The banquet was my last opportunity to muster support. Even so, I do not believe I have enough.”

Trevelyan shook her head—disbelief or denial, she did not know which compelled it. “But—what of the Inquisition? Could they not help?”

The question was spoken as if it had not been considered long ago.

“I confess, I thought I would find enough aid elsewhere,” Touledy mused, as they entered the Great Hall. “My own pride prevented me from seeking the Inquisition’s.”

Light poured in through the stained glass, and scattered prismatic patterns across the floor. Touledy swept her hand through, and splintered the rays.

“Though I do not perceive them as an extension of the Chantry, the Chantry does. They would take it as an invitation to return.”

Principled to the last. It required one with such strong conviction to oust the Chantry in the first place. The weak-willed do not provoke the ire of the Divine.

“Besides,” Touledy added, “that time has passed.”

And so they returned to the message the Baroness had been reading in the rookery. The dagger in Trevelyan’s chest twisted, as she repeated its contents:

“Val Misrenne is under attack.”

“Yes,” Touledy confirmed. “I received word of movement the day after the banquet. It is why I wished to speak to you. But, as of this morning... the siege is begun. Red Templars have surrounded Val Misrenne; they raise farms, and accost travellers. They intend to starve us out.”

She stopped a few paces from the door to the Undercroft, just out of earshot of the guards. Trevelyan faced her, expectant of some fear in her expression, or even sadness. But, most painfully, she was perfectly tranquil.

“What will you do?”

“We will hold as long as we can,” Touledy told her, “and I will keep trying. But… it may come to pass that I return home. I cannot let Val Misrenne fall without me.”

Trevelyan’s eyes widened; her head shook. “But if you do that, you’ll be—”

“I know. But at least I will see my home one last time.”

A single tear rolled down the Baroness’ perfect cheek. It was the first time Trevelyan had seen her cry. And, as it pained Trevelyan to think, it would be the last.

“I am sorry to tell all of this to you,” Touledy said, holding out a hand. Trevelyan took it and gripped it tight, unclear as to whose reassurance this gesture was for. “But I wished you to know, should the worst happen. And I wanted to say farewell—”

Trevelyan bit back her own tears. This, this couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t real. Had the lack of sleep finally come to haunt her?

“No—”

“You have been a delightful friend to me, Lady Trevelyan. I am glad to have met you.”

“Please, don’t…” There had to be something they could do.

“I wish you a happy life—and that this mysterious journey you prepare for, whatever its purpose, is successful.”

Trevelyan winced. She looked to the door of the Undercroft, for she could not look at the Baroness—not whilst knowing what slept beyond. Potential salvation, lying dormant. Waiting upon pieces of vellum to be passed around, and for tests to prove what they already knew.

Why couldn’t it have been ready earlier? How many would die before it was?

The feeling of the Baroness’ loosening fingers beckoned Trevelyan’s attention back to the woman before her. Trevelyan attempted to hold fast, but the Baroness retreated.

“I will let you return to your work,” she said.

“No, please…”

But she was already stepping away. “Thank you, Lady Trevelyan,” she said, “and farewell.”

She did not wait for Trevelyan to say it back. She knew Trevelyan had not the strength to. Instead, with her usual confidence and poise, the Baroness Touledy strode away.

Trevelyan watched her to the very last moment, until she slipped through a door, and was truly gone. The world expanded in that instant, and the presence of the Great Hall around her was felt for the first time since she had entered it.

People went about their daily tasks, some milling, some hurrying. The clank of a jug somewhere, the sound of laughter elsewhere. That was the cruelty of life. No matter who suffered, no matter how many—the world kept moving, same as the day before, and every day before that, and every day after.

Trevelyan turned and withdrew, beyond the door of the Undercroft. It muffled the noise, and provided her a moment of quiet, and dark, and reflection. She wiped the tears from her face, and gave a half-hearted effort to pat her apron dry. Her papers she saw into order; her skirts, smoothed. With a deep breath, she straightened her back, and made the descent.

Like the world above, this one below slowed for no body. Air, thick with the heat of the forge and the fumes of potioncraft, filled Trevelyan’s lungs. The sounds of labour and the shouts of many likewise flooded her ears.

In this maelstrom of people, she sought out Dagna. She was not as hard to find as one might expect—for in this place, all chaos sprung forth from her fountain. Like bees swarming the queen, people circled and left her station with the rhythm of a droning hum.

Trevelyan joined their number, and awaited her turn.

“There you are!” Dagna said, upon spotting her. “What did the scouts say?”

“The area is clear, for now,” Trevelyan replied, a shaky hand producing the report she’d been given. “They’re monitoring it. And, the, um, horsemaster says he has the horses ready. The quartermaster said they’ll pack the cart tomorrow.”

Dagna grinned. “Sounds like we’re nearly there! Come with me—we’ve been busy, too!”

She was off before Trevelyan could say another word. There was little else to do but follow.

She led Trevelyan to a chest, one that Trevelyan recognised. They had, mere days ago, escorted this chest to Skyhold’s deepest depths. And, as a result of their success, they had returned it empty.

Yet it was empty no more. As Dagna lifted the lid, a soft blue glow lit her face. A new device, better than the last, lay within. Its metal was smoother than its predecessor, shinier. Lambent runes, familiar in appearance, were carved into its surface. All their work had led to this.

And yet, it was pointless.

“Why must we do this test?” Trevelyan murmured.

“Huh?”

She looked to Dagna, firm in her gaze and voice. “If the device is ready, and we know it works—why can we not test it in the field?” She scoffed. “I am certain we could find a group of Red Templars deserving of it.”

There was a glint in Dagna’s eye at the suggestion. “I wish! But this is the way we have to do it.”

No. Trevelyan did not like this way. This way took too much time. Time she—they—did not have. Speaking with such urgency, she asked:

“Why? Why must we wait? This—this device could save lives. So many will die whilst we wait for ink to dry on forms of approval and pointless reports!”

“I understand,” Dagna spoke softly, one eye glancing to the growing glow of the runes, “but if we do this wrong, and it’s not safe to use, we’ll only put more lives in danger. It’s a hard bargain, but… it’s one we have to make, if we want to make any difference at all.”

Trevelyan shook her head, voice trembling: “It’s not fair.”

For what difference would they make now? There wasn’t enough time to make any difference. All of this would happen and there was nothing that could change it.

Dagna reached for her arm. In what was almost a whisper, she asked, “Are you okay?”

Trevelyan grimaced. Of course not! Of course she wasn’t! How could she be? Lady Samient needed escape. The Baroness faced her death. Their device was useless to those it was created for. And every moment she had spent in this Void-forsaken fortress was worthless, for at the end of it, no matter what she did, she would return home to the loathing and resentment of her parents regardless!

Trevelyan bit her lip, determined not to cry once more. She needed time. There wasn’t enough time.

Not for the Baroness.

Not for Samient.

Not for her.

“Do you want to maybe step out, for a minute?” asked Dagna.

Trevelyan straightened, and wiped her eyes. “No,” she said. No time, even for that. “I need to get back to work.”

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Blagden the Trickster

(A/N: Set before the events of Eragon, probably about a year or a little more)

~~~~~

Arya sighed and chewed idly at the end of her pen. She was drafting several reports at once, trying to get caught up with the general paperwork that came with being not only ambassador, but soldier and scout as well.

Her desk was strewn with paper. There was a nearly finished report to Ajihad regarding the supplies the elves were sending back with her and the egg, along with a commentary on the movements sighted at the edge of Du Weldenvardon near Gil’ead, a quick note replying to King Orrin’s sixth request to see an obscure elvish text that pertained to one of his experiments (an easy denial) and finally, the current report to Queen Islanzadi giving a general goings on with the Varden and the still unresponsive egg.

The woman resisted knocking her head on the table. These reports to Islanzadi were always difficult. The subject matter was usually similar, or even the same, as the reports to the Varden, but there was always that irresistible urge to write as formally and coldly as possible. She knew that it probably irked the Queen, for there admittedly was quite a heavy dose of well disguised sarcasm and sass in the formality. Coming up on seventy years did nothing to soothe the sting of Islanzadi’s banishment.

A sudden flutter of wings and claws on hardened wood drew out another sigh. “I’m not finished yet.” Arya called. There was a loud pecking in response, harsh against the treehouse’s wall above the desk. “I said I’m not finished yet. Go back to her.”

“Wyrda!”

Arya tossed down her pen in annoyed defeat and leaned over the desk, flipping the latch on the shutters and shoving them open. There was an indignant squawk and a flurry of white wings, and then Blagden appeared on the edge of the window. He puffed his chest and croaked deep in his throat, voicing his obvious displeasure.

“I told you I’m not finished yet, Blagden.” Ignoring the elf, Blagden hopped down onto the desk and pecked at one of the small drawers that grew up the wall from the desktop. “You bloody stole bullets from me last time you were here. I’m not letting you have anything.” Determined to ignore him, Arya looked back down to her report and started writing again. The sooner she finished, the sooner Blagden would leave.

It took only thirty seconds for the incessant scratching and pecking to break that vow.

“Bloody hell, fine!” Arya opened the drawer and scooped out a handful of seeds. “Don’t take anything this time and you won’t have to wait.” Blagden chuckled to himself and hopped onto Arya’s right wrist, happily snacking. Once the food was depleted, he fluttered to her shoulder and peered down at the unfinished report, cocking his head this way and that. She knew he was reading it, intelligent as he was.

“Did she send anything?” Arya asked in the following silence. The report was almost finished. If there was anything to respond to, now would be best. Blagden bobbed his head and flew out the window again, only to return with a small sackcloth bag. He dropped it on the desk and returned to his perch, looking fairly smug. “Oh joy. Thank you, Master Blagden.”

Arya dumped the contents out onto the table. Instead of the usual missive, out tumbled a simple folded note and, oddly enough, a bullet. It clattered onto the desk and nearly rolled off the edge before the elf snatched it up and placed it with the bullets she had lined up to reload her pistol. “That doesn’t bode well. What did I do this time?” She muttered, unfolding the note.

The handwriting was unmistakable.

Ambasador,

I’d thank you for your gift of bullets along with each of your reports, but as I can only assume you are advising me, again, after many past disagreements, to arm myself in the fight against Galbatorix in your own tactless way, I would ask you to stop. It is unbecoming and petty to send such an open and dare I say threatening addition to formal reports to your Queen.

Sincerely, Queen Islanzandi.

“What? I haven’t been sending—”

And then it dawned on her.

In a flurry of motion the elf’s hand darted out and just missed clamping down on white tail feathers. Blagden, a new bullet already grasped in one talon and the nearly finished report clutched in his beak, cackled madly as he took flight from the window.

Arya swore loudly and lept to the full sized port in the tree, throwing open the shutters with a clatter. Blagden was circling just out of reach, his garbled, croaking laugh drifting down as he practically taunted the young elf below.

“BLAGDEN, GET BACK HERE YOU LITTLE TWIT!” The raven seemed to laugh harder, circling twice more before veering off in the direction of Tildari Hall. “DAMN IT, I DON’T CARE IF WE’RE VEGAN! IF YOU DO THIS AGAIN I’LL FRY YOU IN RHUNÖN’S FORGE LIKE A BLOODY CHICKEN, YOU HEAR ME?!” ~ Later that same day Arya found herself stalking down a familiar hallway, wearing the emotionless mask of politics as she always did in this section of Ellesmera and paper in hand. The office wasn’t empty, but the door was closed and locked, enough of a barrier to prevent any violation of past decrees.

As she strode past that particular door, Arya smoothly bent, slipped the paper under the crack, and continued on her way.

Even as the door receded, her keen ears picked up the angry snap of authority.

“Master Blagden! Explain yourself!”

Arya couldn’t help but smirk.

[bestintheparsec]

The Same Coin - Part 3

Masterlist

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

A/N: Alright, this chapter feels like a big boi compared to the previous ones😂 I’m sorry for the delay in posting this! But I hope you enjoy it, and as always comments and feedback are appreciated!❤️ Special thanks to my lovely friends @hiscyarika​ @murdermewithbooks​ @aerynwrites​ for helping me proof/edit this thing, it would not be what it is without their help❤️

Words: 5.0k

Warnings: canon-typical violence, angst, a slice of Tender™

You pull your gun out of its holster, readying yourself against the side of the wall as Steve and Peña do the same. The sun beats down on you as you wait for the search bloc’s cue. Even if today’s mission is just a small-scale one, you’re glad to be back out in the field—and so is Peña, since it was his tip to begin with. Late last night, Peña received a tip from a previous CI regarding the whereabouts of a small lab. The colonel only allowed the use of fifteen men and a few cars, but this should be more than enough for the takedown of this particular site. Without the need for verification by Centra Spike, all three of you were promptly able to get the ambassador and Messina on board with the plan.

You’re shoulder-to-shoulder with the two of them now, waiting on the colonel’s signal as the men break down the entrance and toss a flash bomb inside. You’re given the cue as yelling erupts from inside and the whole search bloc barges in, sweeping the building. Gunfire from either side rings out, and when the smoke clears you’re able to make out the few sicarios that have been taken out on the ground. 

The quiet only lasts a few seconds before more shouting and shots come from the stairwell. Suddenly, a slew of sicarios start flooding the warehouse, coming from all corners and every room. They fire continuously and your ears start to ring from the noise. You take some of them out, but the shots keep coming and never cease.

“What the fuck!” Steve yells beside you as he continues to aim and dodge bullets. The three of you split up and scan the whole area, but you’re unsure of what you’re even looking for now. Your adrenaline’s running so you can’t process for long. Peña said there would only be a few of Escobar’s men here, not a small army of them.

The bloc continues to take them down one by one, and you’ve already made your way through most of the building when a bullet flies past your arm, hitting the wall behind you. You dodge behind a shelf and watch as two sicarios fire at you, pushing themselves through the window in the room. One of them knocks a shelf over on his way out as a barricade, and you quickly follow suit, climbing over the hunk of metal and out the window. Javier and Steve hear the noise and make their way into the room, following after they see you throwing yourself onto the street outside.

Sweat starts to bead on your forehead as you chase after them, expertly dodging the objects they throw in your path. Innocent bystanders watch with concern and you dip past them—you’ve almost caught up and can hear Steve and Peña's racing footsteps behind you. You always outrun those two—your lungs haven’t been bogged down by cigarettes the way theirs have.��

One of the men turns and shoots at you before disappearing through a doorway on the other side of the road; you’ve almost caught up to the other one so you make a split-second decision, letting this one go and continue running straight ahead.

You’re closing in on him when the sicario abruptly turns into a narrow alleyway. You follow, but lose your footing and trip over a large piece of metal that he’d thrown to the ground. He dashes off and escapes as you get yourself up, groaning loudly. 

“Fuck!” you hiss at yourself.

As you go to pick up your gun off the ground, the other sicario that had slipped away earlier appears out of nowhere, his gun pointed at you and ready to fire. You freeze like a deer in the headlights, your hands ready to fly up in surrender when a shot rings out from behind you. The bullet goes straight through the sicario’s chest, sending his lifeless body to the ground.

You exhale in relief and whip your head around, meeting Peña’s eyes as he lowers his gun. He tries to catch his breath, giving you a curt nod. Seconds pass before you realize you’ve stopped breathing, but you return the nod after taking a deep breath. It’s the only thanks you’re able to give at the moment, since he gestures in the direction the sicario escaped towards. The chase is still on, so you grab your gun off the ground and run alongside him.

You sprint back out into an open street where you see Steve pointing his gun at the sicario, who’s got his own gun aimed right back. 

“¡Baja tu arma!” Peña yells at him, but he doesn’t budge.

Your gun is pointed as well, but you briefly scope your surroundings. Aside from a few cars parked along the sidewalk, the street is void of any people. 

No one else seems to notice the unsuspecting truck that’s parked to your left, carrying large tanks with the word “gasolina” stamped on them in faded white letters.

You turn your attention back to the sicario, but it’s too late—his eyes go to where you were just looking, and Peña and Steve see the truck at the same time he does. There’s a split second of silence, but then he jerks his gun in the truck’s direction and pulls the trigger before you can yell “No!”. At the same time, Peña shouts something you can’t make out, and you’re about to move when you feel the force of his large hand shoving you and Steve face-first behind a car for cover. Your arms brace the fall and you feel the vibrations from the explosion as you lie face-down on the ground. Following the sounds of shattering glass and debris, the street fills with blaring of car alarms and smoke.

You felt an impact on the way down, but now you’re not sure if it was because of your body hitting concrete, or the weight of Peña’s body on top of yours, shielding you. His free arm is over Steve and he quickly moves it off. He grips your arm with his hand, then releases it but keeps himself over you. The sharp ringing in your ears isn’t enough to distract you from the feeling of Peña’s chest against your back, pressing on you every time he breathes in and out.

All three of you stay on the ground for a few more moments before uncovering your faces and looking up to inspect the scene of complete chaos and destruction. Debris litters the ground and the dense smoke in the air burns your lungs. You know to always expect the unexpected, but this was definitely not part of the plan. 

The colonel’s going to lose his shit. You shift your position, still aware of his weight on you. Peña starts to get up first, but keeps his arm over you just a second longer than necessary. You don’t know why but you feel a hint of warmth rush to your cheeks. With a shaky exhale, you push yourself up as well. What the hell was that? you want to ask him. He offers no explanation or the slightest comment about the strange moment of contact, so you figure it’s just you, thinking too much as usual.

You sigh with relief when all of you are able to stand, seemingly unharmed. Peña looks relieved as well, looking around as you brush the dust off yourself.

“Anyone hurt? Or hit their head?” he asks, rubbing his shoulder. You and Steve each let out a huff of air and shake your heads as you all start to walk back towards the warehouse. No one has to say it, but you know you’re all in for some harsh words once you get back to the embassy.

~

The three of you sit in the ambassador’s office with Messina, and as predicted, they’re pissed. While you three were off chasing down those two sicarios, the search bloc had managed to capture a couple of sicarios back at the warehouse—alive. So while they’re off being questioned right now, you, Peña, and Steve are getting reprimanded for how indiscreet the mission was. You’ve been listening to their lecture for nearly twenty minutes and they’re only now slowing down. Not much has been said on your part; you’re fuming on the inside and trying to contain yourself. Your jaw is clenched and you’re bouncing your leg on the floor, waiting for it to be over. It won’t make a damn difference what any of you tell them; it never does.

“Ma’am, with all due respect, we have two high-tier sicarios in our custody,” Peña comments with a wave of the hand, barely concealing the irritation in his voice. His other hand grips the arm of his chair, his knuckles white from the pressure.

“Agent Peña, this mission was supposed to be covert—in and out, is that not what the informant said? You were supposed to go in there quietly, not create a goddamn war zone,” the ambassador retorts.

“How were we supposed to know all of that would happen?” Steve clips. His frustration mirrors your own. You’re about to mutter something sarcastic when you notice Peña’s eyes shift down to the ground, then back up. He clenches his teeth and grinds his jaw. It’s a tic of his, when he’s up to something. You’re not sure what he has to do with any of this, but now’s not the time to bring it up.

After you get dismissed, you go back and sink into the chair at your desk, sighing with exasperation. Peña and Steve sit down at their own desks across from you, stowing their guns and badges away.

You quietly observe them as they pretend to skim some paperwork. Steve has some small bruises starting to form on his arms, and you’ve got a busted lip—but other than that, the three of you aren’t hurt. You shake your head at the irony—one small stakeout with Peña resulted in him being shot in the leg, yet a whole explosion happens and the most you get is a bloody lip and some scratches. Go figure. 

Your fingers twitch and can’t stay still, and you can’t figure out why. It’s been a few hours since the event, and a scolding from the higher-ups has never fazed you before. Your fight-or-flight response has calmed down now. But you almost feel shaken by the incident, even though it was far from being your first encounter with danger. You didn’t do anything differently, and no one was hurt. But your mind can’t focus on anything else except those moments where you might’ve been harmed today—that sicario was ready to shoot, and the aftermath of it all could’ve been a lot worse. Your mind flashes to Peña’s hand on your back, and you feel your face getting warm again. Why the fuck are you thinking about this? You shake your head, immediately suppressing the thought.

As astute as you are, you don’t notice that Javier is observing you, too. He doesn’t miss the way you’re massaging your fingers again, something you haven’t done in a while—at least, not around him. You cross, then uncross them several times. He suddenly feels a pang of guilt; today must have affected you more than you’re letting on. He considers how this was yet another time he’s put you—and Murphy, of course—in harm’s way. His CI had greatly downplayed the amount of violence to expect, but his anger over this isn’t boiling quite as strongly as the nagging sensation of guilt that’s slowly making itself known again. He’s had worse problems with past intel, but for a reason unknown to him, this time it’s different. You might just be a coworker, but he can't help but feel like he's at fault for more than one thing today.

So when he watches you with your multiple nervous habits, he almost has to pull his eyes away. Steve picks up on your annoyance and says something to cheer you up, and a hint of a smile appears on your face. It’s not long before Javier's attention is inadvertently drawn to the cut on your lower lip; it’s a bit swollen along the area. He purses his own lips and forces himself to finally look away. It was just another day on the job. Why the hell does any of this bother him?

You stand up suddenly, tossing the files onto the desk and breaking his chain of thought. “I’m going to go get a coffee,” you tell them, pushing your chair in. They both nod as you pull your drawer out to grab your things and leave for your break. You don’t notice the frown on Peña’s face as he watches you leave, either.

~

As you sip on the steaming beverage and walk on the quiet sidewalk towards the benches on the outskirts of the embassy, you’re hit with the feeling that today’s events are going to linger in your mind for longer than they should. You wish they wouldn’t—you’ve seen so much worse. You exhale and take a seat on the bench, rubbing your temples and taking another long sip from the cup. 

You weren’t stupid when you joined the DEA; you knew what you were signing up for. But you also knew what you had to give up, or at least you had to try to. You’ve worked here for too long to not know better. You don’t get close to people; you try not to, anyways. Even though Steve is a good friend, there's a lot about you he doesn't know; things you’ve never offered. Loss and suffering is all you’ve seen during your time here—it wouldn’t do you any good to get attached. Does this have anything to do with Peña? No, of course not. You try to brush your thoughts off, instead pondering what kind of shady dealings Peña's been involved in. He knows more than he’s willing to tell, but you don’t know if you want to know any more than that. It’s not the first time he’s done questionable things, of that much you're sure. Eventually, he’s going to get himself hurt if he keeps up the reckless behavior. Why doesn’t he realize this, or care? And more importantly, why do you? 

You start to massage your fingers, as though it’ll wash the thoughts of your life choices away.

But you’re never allowed any reprieve. As if on cue, Peña’s voice interrupts your thoughts. “You’re in my spot,” he says, approaching the bench.

You’re about to make a smart remark, but hold back when you turn and see the resigned expression in his eyes. Peña takes a seat beside you and leans back, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and offering you one. You shake your head as he lights one for himself. 

“This is my thinking place, too,” he comments when you don’t say anything. He follows your gaze to the street, full of loud cars and pedestrians out and about.

“I, um—Thank you. For today, with the sicarios,” you finally add after a few moments, turning to look at him. “I mean it.”

Javier meets your eyes, only breaking his gaze when he realizes you’re still rubbing your fingers. His mouth presses into a hard line and he doesn’t really know how to respond to your thanks, so he just nods. 

“You don’t need to thank me. Just...doing my job,” he says quietly, practically under his breath. You were almost hurt again, and it would’ve been his fault.

“What is that job, Peña?” It’s a genuine question, and you don’t mean any harm by it. “I don’t know what you’re not telling us, but...you should be careful. If not for your own sake, then for ours.” 

He puts the cigarette to his lips and takes another draw before he answers. “I can take care of myself,” he states simply.

You scoff at that—not just because he’s stubborn but because you’ve told yourself the same thing many times. You've learned to fend for yourself here.

“Maybe,” you reply. “But there’s a lot more at stake than your own safety,” you tell him. He glances away then, but acknowledges the statement with another nod.

“Don’t worry. You’re not going to get in any trouble,” he adds quietly, and it’s not laced with the typical sarcasm you’re used to. 

“That’s not all I care about, you know.” If you sound a little defensive, you hope he can’t tell.

“Really, and what do you care about, agent?” He smirks, exhaling a puff of cigarette smoke.

“The same things you do,” you answer curtly with a shrug. “Catching that asshole, staying alive while I do it.”

“That’s all?” he asks with feigned disbelief.

“I think you know it’s for the best,” you say. “It’s best not to be attached to anything, or anyone else,” you add before you can stop yourself. Your eyes widen at the admission and you turn away—you didn’t mean to say that out loud.

There’s no way Peña misses the change in your tone, but he seems to spare you and makes no other comment. You exhale deeply and stand up, tossing your cup in the bin.

“We better get back inside,” you say, deftly changing the subject. “Let’s not give them another reason to make our lives difficult.”

He chuckles. “And when they do?”

“I’ve told you before,” you reply, a slight grin on your face. “I’m used to dealing with assholes.”

~

Lately, you’ve been getting a flood of potential new leads coming in. Some of them come from the sicarios that’d been captured days ago, but a lot of them seem to come out of nowhere. The phone’s been ringing more often than any of you have been used to recently, but more often than not the sources want to talk to an American; specifically, they ask for Peña. You and Steve occasionally question him about it, but he shrugs it off, reassuring you that these are all valid intel. 

The good thing about having so much new information is that the three of you are actually motivated to look into it, grateful for anything beyond the mindless busy work that’d become part of your routine. Falling into your prior routine from when Peña was working from home, you all bring the work home to his apartment almost every night. Each day seems to run into the next as you work tirelessly, plotting and digging to move forward. Late nights turn into even later nights, but you all seem to be running on fumes anyways.

You can’t help but feel like the dynamic between you and your partners is different now, too. Something seems to have shifted after your short conversation with Peña that day at the embassy, but you can’t put your finger on what it is. 

Steve catches on to something being off, too. One night when you’re all poring over one of the leads, Javier makes some darkly-humored remark about something and you let out a chuckle but make no other comment, continuing to focus on your work. Steve looks back and forth between you two with a wrinkle in his brow, racking his brain. He’s been used to being the middle-man, constantly mediating the hostility that was often present whenever you two worked together. The friendly banter—if that’s even what this is—is just a tad disorienting to him.

The three of you pass the liquor around; you have just enough to make you forget the exhaustion of another long day. Hours blend together and you continue to power through, but sometimes your minds give out for the night before you can make it home.

When Javier looks up and realizes you’re both out cold for the night, he sits up and stretches, getting up to head to bed himself. He’s mildly envious that you’re able to succumb to exhaustion so easily, because he knows it won’t be easy for him. But then again, it’s probably not much easier for either of you—sometimes you’re simply lucky enough to have a night where the baggage of the job is strong enough to allow you to rest. Steve’s got his face on his knuckle with his mouth agape, and you’re nestled into the side of the couch with your arms crossed. A gentle smile crosses Javier’s face and he shakes his head. His partners really are something else. 

The smile fades quickly when that nagging feeling of guilt hits him again. Sure, he’s been keeping contact with his informants; it’s the only way your bosses will take things seriously. But he’ll be damned before he lets any of them put you or anyone besides himself in danger again.

He walks over and pulls the blanket that’s draped over the side of the couch, covering you with it before picking up the papers off the floor and stacking them neatly on the table. He brings the glass of whiskey with him to his room, not bothering to shut the door behind him. 

~

A car horn blares in the distance and Steve jolts awake, realizing he dozed off even with the dim lights still on; he figures it’s time to call it a night. He stands and shrugs on his jacket, smirking when he sees your sleeping form slouching over on the couch. He takes another swig of whiskey from his glass, briefly deciding whether he should tell you to go home, too. He glances towards you, then to the paperwork on the table, then to Javier’s room, and smirks again before deciding to leave you alone. He places the glass down with a clink, turning off the lamp as he makes his way home to Connie.

~

Javier wakes up abruptly, his body still and his eyes adjusting to the surroundings of his bedroom. He can barely put together what he saw, but his heart beats rapidly and he can feel his pulse in his face. He remembers an indistinct image of broken glass and fire, nothing else. He steadies his breathing, in and out, willing the pounding in his chest to stop. The nightmares visit him so often that he’s never surprised by them anymore, but he’d like to be able to sleep through just one fucking night.

He exhales heavily and shuts his eyes again, knowing damn well he’s not going back to sleep. It only lasts a moment; he opens them again and sits up on his bed, running his hands through his hair and down his face. He pushes the comforter off himself and puts his feet on the ground, leaning forward with his face in his hands. He tries harder to remember what it was about this time, but it’s already been erased from his memory, leaving only the aftereffects. He’s so fucking tired. Not just from the lack of sleep, but from everything that leads him to dark places even in slumber.

He sighs deeply again, then stands to get his drink from the top of his dresser. It’s almost empty, so he pours himself another glass. He can’t tell if he’s a little buzzed from the earlier glass, or if it’s just his mind being too loud.

~ 

Your eyes open slowly as you try to reorient yourself—you’re still on Peña’s couch. The old leather cushion squeaks as you sit up, yawning. The lights are all off, so the space is completely dark, save for the blue-hued night’s sky shining through the window. You can’t have been out for more than a few hours, but you rub the sleep from your eyes before pushing the blanket off yourself and immediately shiver when the cool AC air hits your skin. You’ve only been tired enough to fall asleep here a few times, but every time you’ve woken up with this blanket on you. You can’t help but feel a hint of warmth in your chest, but push the feeling away before you let yourself think too hard about it.

At any rate, you need to go back to your own flat, so you get up and blindly try to find your things in the dark. You dig around and find your keys before swinging the bag over your shoulder. You’re about to head to the door when you hear a quiet groan and some shuffling coming from Peña’s room. You purse your lips, unsure if you should ignore it. But when you hear the clinks of glass and sounds of liquor being poured, you hesitantly remove your bag and gently place it back on the floor.

You’re afraid of breaking some unspoken boundary as you quietly walk towards his room. Coworkers—partners—watch each other’s backs, don’t they? This is normal. 

His door is wide open, so you tell yourself you’re not barging in. Standing just outside the door,  you nervously peer inside. You expect him to be under the covers, but instead find him sitting on the edge of his bed facing away from the door, his head in one hand, his free hand nursing a glass. If you leave now, he won’t notice. But you suddenly remember his protective hold over you and Steve during the incident. Before you can change your mind, you knock lightly on the door frame. You don't know what troubles him, but if it's anything like your own demons, he shouldn't have to be alone. 

“Peña?” you whisper, so quietly that you’re not even sure he can tell you’re there. 

He makes no response, but sits up straighter and rubs his face, so you know he heard you. 

“Are you…okay?” you ask with a meek voice, waiting for him to answer with sarcasm, or anger, or...anything. Honestly, you expect him to ask you to leave, and at another time you might have gladly done so. But now you’re not so sure.

“Yeah, great,” he mutters, but his voice cracks at the end of it. You swallow dryly, not knowing what you should do. But he doesn’t tell you to leave, so you rock on your feet for a few seconds as you wait for him to add anything else. When he doesn’t, a feeling of courage overcomes you and you take a step into his room, joining him in the darkness. Your breath hitches because while you don’t know what this is, you know that there’s no going back from it.

You walk towards his dark silhouette—your pulse is racing and you have no idea why—until you’re standing in front of him, your knees almost touching his. He barely lifts his head, not meeting your eyes. If he wanted you to go, he would’ve told you so already. 

Your hands want to fidget, so you slowly reach out and gently take the glass out of his hand, setting it down on the nightstand beside him. He rubs his hands together hesitantly, looking up at you for a moment before turning away, unable to match your gaze for long. Your arms are at your side, your brows furrowed as you ponder what to do. You don't ask for an explanation because there's none needed. If only to distract yourself from the biting tension in the air, you reach out again, timidly brushing your fingers along his bare shoulder. You’re pretty sure your fingers are shaking, but when he doesn’t pull away you place your whole palm on his skin, running it down his upper arm in hopes of comforting him. You feel his muscles tense and then quickly relax, so you start to pull away—abruptly, he stops you by taking your hand and giving it a light squeeze with his calloused fingers, taking you by surprise; he quickly retracts as if he didn’t mean to do it. He still avoids your gaze, looking straight ahead at the wall behind you. You’re never this brazen unless you’re in the field, but you don’t want to leave him alone now. 

You lift your hand again, this time moving to softly run your fingers along his thick hair, smoothing it behind his ear. You swear you hear him inhale, and he seems to relax against the movement. You run the palm of your other hand along the smoothness of his back, then gently pull him in towards you. He doesn’t move his arms, but he almost instantly leans into you, his head pressing against your stomach. You wrap your other arm around him, and while he doesn’t do the same, he relaxes completely against you. Minutes pass but you don’t move, keeping your hold around him as you listen to him breathe in and out, occasionally lightly stroking the back of his head. The noises of the Colombian streets at night quietly fill the background, but all you can focus on is him. His skin is warm against yours and you almost feel comforted yourself, despite your best attempts to ignore the feeling. The heaviness of your tired eyes is long gone now.

You’re not sure how much longer it’s been when you suddenly feel him tense under your arms again. He gently pulls away as you let go. He finally looks up and meets your eyes, raising a hand towards your face. The tips of his fingers barely graze the skin on your cheeks and suddenly your heart rate picks up again; just as quickly, he removes his hand. You don’t even have time to let go of the breath you realize you’re holding. You take an inch of a step backwards, steadying yourself and tugging on the hem of your shirt. 

“I...should go," you whisper. Your voice falters and you hope it doesn’t betray you.

A beat passes. “Yeah, you should,” he agrees, but his voice is gentle.

You linger for a moment, then slowly turn and walk away, leaving his bedroom door open like you found it. You keep your steps quiet as you pick up your bag again and walk through the front door. Once you’re out in the hallway, you pause and take a deep breath, shaking off whatever feeling has suddenly taken over the emptiness in your chest.

~

Translations:

Baja tu arma = lower your weapon/put the gun down

~

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[unstoppableforcce]

dark side

—CHAPTER THREE: in too deep

pairing: Javier Peña x reader

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a/n: this part was supposed to just be the build up but then I wrote the smut too so [18+] below the cut and be warned, I’m not so great at smut writing but I do love these two

The hand was back. The bloodied phantom hand...

The touch was almost intimately familiar as it wrapped itself around his palm, intertwining itself with his fingers and tugging at his skin as he reached for his cigarette again.

He had done a good thing. He repeated it over and over again in his head, it was the only way to rationalize this much destruction. He had done a good thing, it had been good intel from good men and now Gilberto Rodriguez was in cuffs, one of the Cali godfathers finally apprehended. It was a good thing.

But the guilt wasn’t gone, if anything, it had doubled its weight on his chest.

And the hand was pulling at him, scratching at his skin like silent nails on a chalkboard. It was dragging him down, sinking his hand even as it held tight to the burning cigarette.

Martínez was a good man, a much better man than he was and he could say that without any doubt. And he did one good thing, one good thing and they covered him in the dirt he refused to dirty himself with. He was a good man and Javi had to drag him back into all of this... he did this to him.

And he did it to you too.

“I’m impressed...” you had quietly made your way to his side as the president joined in on the discussion with the statesmen at the table. And he had been so naive, so high off the successful mission that he actually turned to you with half a smile and basked in your attention.

So fucking stupid...

“Didn’t think I had it in me?” He smirked back, reaching up to scratch his brow as you locked your hands into stance behind your back. It was a good looking pant suit on you, hugging you tight in all the right places, and just the necessary amount of buttons done up on your shirt, leaving just enough for his eye to lock onto. He was really feeling the win.

“No, I’ve never doubted your dedication,” you spared him a side-eyed glance but kept your attention most of the way pinned to the meeting. “Your ability to do it without me knowing? That’s impressive.”

He let out a gentle scoff from that, not enough to disturb the dense crowd of politicians around, but just enough for you. “I thought you didn’t want to know.”

“I didn’t.” The corners of your lips turned up as you looked towards him fully. “Still, impressive.”

The nod came easily but every element of a smile fell away as the confusion set in alongside the feeling of a slip of paper slipping into his palm, your fingertips gently gracing his skin as you casually slid it in. He tried to look back to you for an explanation, but you had already dipped out of the room, slipping away with the crowd as the meeting wrapped up.

Instead, his eyes found the paper and his breath slightly caught in his throat.

‘You break it, you bought it, asshole.’

It wasn’t your handwriting and it didn’t take a genius to figure out who would use you to pass a message like that. The stare from Stechner across the room was just enough to confirm.

And that wasn’t something he could let slide.

He exited the room before anyone else could stop him to condemn or congratulate him, following Stechner as he made his way down the elegant hall of the presidential palace. But he had a head start, so the best Javi could do was stay about fifty feet behind and it turned out, that was exactly where he needed to be to hear something he wished he hadn’t from around the corner.

“The best goddamn spy in this hemisphere and you can’t figure out what an idiot DEA agent is doing in the office next to yours?” Stechner was shouting as much as he could without disturbing the hall. And even though he couldn’t see you around the corner, he figured there couldn’t be anyone else Stechner would yell that to.

And your voice confirmed that.

“You like him so much, maybe you should sit outside his office—“

“Please tell me what I did to make you think I liked your smart mouth, so that I can stop doing it.” He shot you down immediately and Javi couldn’t help but let his eyes fall shut, a burst of shame creeping up the back of his neck.

A shame that grew to guilt as you kept talking, heat shooting back in your voice, “He doesn’t like me, he keeps me at arms distance, you think he’s going to tell me something he didn’t even tell the ambassador about?”

“I don’t expect him to tell you, I expect you to find out.” There was no hesitation in his voice, it was a stone cold order and Javi couldn’t help but peer around the corner to find you stood, headstrong against him, with your arms crossed over your chest and Stechner staring you down with an accusatory finger leveled to your chest.

“I came to Colombia for real work—“

“This is your real work now. Do it, or I’m sending you back to the hell hole I found you in.” Stechner left no room for discussion, turning away as soon as his order met your ears and heading back down the hall.

Javi took a brief breath, considering following you but by the time he turned back to find you, you were gone.

And though he knew you could handle your job, that this whole ‘tell me to leave the room and I will’ thing was your idea and you certainly had the skill to back it up, it was his fault. He did this to you and he did it to Martínez.

All for what? Catching Gilberto Rodriguez felt like a win but now, he was having trouble seeing more than a few feet ahead, certainly not any further than the glass in his hand or the cigarette burning out in the tray sat on top of all the files on his desk. What was the point in doing things the right way when the consequences felt almost exactly the same...

“Congratulations...”

Every muscle in his neck screamed as his head snapped to the doorway of his office and found you slouched against the frame, twirling a hair tie around your hands, one that had clearly been pulled from your hair as it all fell around your face. He couldn’t help but scan over you again, the same pant suit as earlier, still hugging you in all the right places and your buttons still only barely enough to cover your chest. He nearly groaned into the drink in his hand at the sight. But as he moved to disguise his distraction with another sip, he found his glass empty, forcing him to set it back to the desk and turn for a fresh cigarette.

“What for?” He asked somewhat absentmindedly as he reached into his desk drawer and recovered only an empty carton.

“You kidding me? Your whole department is out here singing your praises...” you hummed, wandering into the office, pouring a fresh drink for yourself and making your way to his desk. To his side of the desk, nudging a few files and a plate stacked with cigarette butts aside to sit against it.

Your knees knocked against his legs as he turned his chair to face you further and he was hit with a wave of something he didn’t want to quantify, finding you way too close and having absolutely no will to push you away.

“They asked me to come and get you to go out with them.” You continued on, taking a hearty sip from the glass then passing it to him.

“Why you?”

You shrugged, “I think they’re afraid of you.”

He took a meager sip from the glass before setting it aside, “and you’re not?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, not able to manage out much of one but definitely as close as either of you were going to be mustering in the somber office.

“I heard about Martínez...” you sighed as your laughter faded, reaching down to steal the final sip from the glass between the two of you. “I didn’t know him but from what I’ve read, he seemed like a good man.”

“He is.” He mirrored your sigh, leaning back in his chair to finally get a full angle of the sight you were, perched on the edge of his desk. “I overheard Stechner too.”

Your face fell at that, and with no glass to bury your gaze into, you actually had to lock your stern gaze with his. But it wasn’t stern, not like he was expecting it to be. It was soft, hidden beneath the steel cut to your eyes, but the same hidden softness that had drawn him to you the first night the two of you met.

The familiarity of it, the depth to it...

Nudging his knee with your leg, you pulled him back from his alcohol laced thoughts. “That’s not your fault...”

“Didn’t say it was.”

You quirked your head, brow raised in his direction, clearly seeing through him the same way he saw through you, or at least, how he thought he did that first night. If he could see the same weight behind your eyes, you could surely see it behind his. Or maybe you didn’t even have to look that far, if he looked just as bad as he felt, he was wearing it right on the surface.

“You should go tell my people I’m not going out with them.” He huffed, turning away from your legs and slowly lifting himself from his chair.

“You should tell them yourself.” You corrected but he just shook his head, careful to not touch you again as he reached around you for his suit jacket, not willing to subject himself to another tempting sensation. But you continued, “You can’t just go home and wallow in this.”

“Yeah?” His gaze was careful, following you as you got to your feet, coming toe to toe with him. “What do you suppose I do instead?”

“Me.”

His tongue ran along the inside of his bottom lip, searching your gaze for any hint that it was just your smart mouth talking and not you actually meaning what you were suggesting, but he couldn’t find any. He actually couldn’t find anything besides the parts of your stare that damned him to you the first time he laid eyes on you.

It was a stare that said there was something you wanted to ignore tonight as well. And it would just be a plain lie to say his mouth wasn’t nearly watering at the prospect of having you again, even against his better judgement.

Because even against his better judgement, he really was beginning to trust you, and he definitely already wanted you...

“Agent Peña?”

He snapped from your hungry gaze to the same doorway he had found you in, but found one of his agents lingering there instead.

“Yeah?” His coarse voice barely managed out.

“We’re heading out for drinks to celebrate if you—“

“I’m just going to head home, have fun without me.” He added in a voice you couldn’t help but smirk at, strained and no where near as strong as he could usually manage. But the agent gave a nod and disappeared, leaving just the two of you and the weight holding between you stood about a foot apart in a fishbowl of an office.

Your top button was practically begging to be undone as his gaze fell back to it and he didn’t even feel bad about lingering there, letting his hot breath blow from his lips as he racked through his brain for the will not to do what he was about to do. But he couldn’t find anything past the wall of liquor he had been slowly building through the night.

“My place or yours?”

--

He was equally as oblivious to the locks on your door this time as he was the last, all of his focus trained on the skin between your neck and shoulder and the all too distracting by the way your breath was shaking out of your lips.

But the gun in your waist band, he was all too aware of that this time around. The second you pulled the door open, he pulled it from your belt and discarded it on the nearby table alongside his own before moving any further.

Though the second the metal hit the table, he lost all control over the situation.

You turned yourself around and backed him up into the same wall he had pressed you up against when he was trying to forget the bloodied hand dragging him down. That hand was no where to be found now though, not when you occupied every inch of his thoughts, and he didn’t want it any other way.

“Fuck,” he cursed carefully into your ear as his hands moved for the all too distracting button at the top of your shirt. He took his time undoing each and every button, teasing his fingers down the center skin of your chest while you sucked a kiss just above his collar. But by the time he reached the final button hovering just over your belt line, your impatience reached an all time high and you forcefully threw the shirt off your shoulders and reasserted yourself with a searing bite at his jugular, eliciting another, “fuck,” from his lips.

“No please,” you dropped your hands to the growing length in through his pants, “take your time.”

“I think I liked you better silent.” He groaned into your ear before taking a nip at the top of your lobe.

Taking a step back from him, your hands pulled your belt through the loops of your pants and quickly tossed it aside, then moved to strip your pants off entirely. “You caught me on a really bad day...”

He scoffed, “oh yeah?”

In only your underwear and bra now, you pressed yourself up against him again and finally brought your lips back to his for the first time that night, swallowing an orchestra of mangled moans from his lips at the mere feeling of you against him, even if he was still fully dressed. As you pulled your lips back, your hot breath fell over his face and he couldn’t help but let his lips chase after you.

“Yeah...” you sighed out, lips brushing against his as you did.

He raised his brow in a brief challenge, sarcasm flowing from his lips to fulfill his desperate need to keep up with you that had only grown since the first day he really met you. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head and he nodded, grabbing you around the waist and spinning the two around to press you hard against the wall and lower himself down in front of you.

“Good.” He whispered against the small scar stretching across your thigh, leaving a gentle kiss before hoisting your leg up and over his shoulder in one effortlessly practiced move that you almost let take your breath away.

Almost.

You had to save the last of it for when his lips moved to the top hem of your underwear and worked his way down from there, far too slowly.

“Peña...” you moaned out as the pressure of his tongue grew against the black fabric between your legs. “You can take those off, you know that right...”

He pressed a perfect kiss to your cloth-covered clit and you moaned out once more.

“Javier,” He corrected, “and I know...”

But he didn’t plan on doing anything about it, at least not yet.

He pushed the fabric aside and laid his mouth directly onto you, lapping at you with the ferocity you missed as he stripped you down at a tantalizingly slow pace. And as he gazed up to you and found your head falling back against the wall, hands brushing your hair away from your face, he forgot all about the phantom hand and it’s haunting presence.

All he cared about was you.

Slipping a finger into you, your hands met the back of his head, pushing his mouth even deeper against you, and you finally let out a moan of his name, “Javier—“

He groaned against you, the vibrations catching your voice in your throat as he brought your closer and closer to the edge, a heat being ignited in your gut with every move he made. And hearing each and every sound you made only made him realize how much of a disservice he did you and himself that drunken night when he took you on the couch.

He wanted to spend an eternity with his mouth on you, he wanted to hear the sounds you were making for the rest of his life. And he didn’t have time to consider the consequences of such a dangerous thought.

His finger curled inside of you, brushing against something that sparked a new wave of electricity inside of you, forcing your hips to buck against his face. His hand, the one not thrusting in and out of you, moved to hold your hips back against the wall but it didn’t stop you from tossing under the heat of his tongue and the pressure of his fingers now that he pressed a second one into you.

The first night you had him, you had gone off rumors, confident you’d never come into contact with him again and happy to let him use you. Happy to be used by a man with his reputation for leaving after the fact. It was supposed to be simple, to be quick and easy. But it had spiraled miles out of your control.

This wasn’t just one drunken night anymore, this wasn’t a one-off fuck on the couch.

This was a man devouring you, this was a man on a languid mission for your pleasure. Maybe he was just trying to distract himself and maybe so were you but you knew you were gone and he hadn’t even actually taken your underwear off yet...

“Javi...” you cried out as you tightened the grip of your thigh over his shoulder, the wave of your building orgasm finally breaking and spreading a warmth throughout every atom of your existence as he tightened his own grip and kept you pinned to the wall while you thrashed against him.

You could feel this slick on his mustache trailing up your stomach, damp kisses littered all along your skin while his fingers finally worked to drop your leg from over his shoulder and pull your underwear off all the way.

But his lips didn’t make it much higher, not as they slowed to a stop along the gash just above your belly button. A scar several years old, so old you barely even felt it anymore, yet when he placed his lips, still slicked with you, onto it so gently, you almost swore you could still feel more than the scar tissue would allow. It built a pressure you had just easily released against his lips, and you were practically whimpering for him to do it again.

And he easily complied, finding another wound, this one from a bullet, just a few inches higher, right under the bottom of your bra.

“You going to push that aside too?” You asked out of breath, watching his lips stop just at the hem, his cool eyes pinned on yours.

“No.”

His hands wrapped around you and stripped it off of you with a perfectly practiced hand, leaving you stood naked in front of him, still fully clothed. But no amount of clothing could hide the bulging length tucked into his pants, desperate to get out of the constricting fabric.

The second your hands made it to his belt though, he caught them and pressed you back against the wall, this time with a much less forgiving thud. “Bedroom?”

“Yeah, I have one...”

He scoffed, directly into your face. But the smirk on your lips just grew. Your hand lifted to the back of his neck and drew his soaked lips to yours, letting the taste of you pour into your own mouth as his hot tongue grazed over yours.

“Do you want to see it?” You tempted against his lips and he nodded fervently until you grabbed him by his loosened tie and began dragging him back down the hall.

You fell to the bed as he backed your knees into it, but as you reached for his belt again, he pushed you away and did the work himself. First the tie, tossed aside, then the shirt, unbuttoned just as slowly as he had done yours. It wasn’t an intentional strip show, but with your eyes on him, scanning up and down as you laid back perfectly open for him on your bed, he felt an odd amount of pressure to preform. Or at least, to keep you wanting more.

But given the way you practically groaned as he began lowering his pants, he figured he already had you. And now he was ready to lose himself in you.

All thoughts about this being a bad idea, about who you were, about who you worked for, they were all gone. All he could feel was your mouth on his and the overwhelming pleasure he felt as his tip pressed just against your clit.

“Javi...” you moaned out once more and he angled himself up and pushed himself into you, all in one go.

His head dropped into the crest of your shoulder again, his own groans muffled into your skin while your hands wrapped tight around his neck, dragging him in closer. It was a broken sound, one you echoed back to him once he started moving, rocking himself in and out of you.

“Where’s your smart mouth now?” He cursed against you, wrapping one arm around your back and shifting you up as best he could to manage a new angle that had you clawing at his back and sat in his lap.

Your mouth made it to his neck, just hot breaths at first before you began nipping at the skin beneath his ear, your nails trailing across his back. You were handsy, undeniably handsy, your calloused hands needing to be everywhere at once, not that he minded, but he didn’t want to imagine the marks he was going to have riddling his back from this. Or along the length of his neck...

“You’re so fucking...” you didn’t have the breath to make it out so you reconnected your mouth to his neck as his cock hit the perfect spot again and again.

“Fuck.” He cursed out again as your teeth nipped his jugular once more before the flat of your tongue soothed it over with a firm lick. “I like your smart mouth.”

His forearm against your back pulled you in even closer, trying, no matter how futilely, to press you even further into his chest as he fucked up into you, not even letting your hips set the pace.

“Give me your hand” You spilled out breathlessly into his neck before pulling back to meet his face, jutting your chin up to his face. He didn’t understand the question though, not until you reached down for his other hand and wrapped it around your neck, then he understood very clearly.

It was a familiar hold on you, the same hold he had as you came around him on the couch. So he gave a tentative squeeze and you moaned out again, a strangled and desperate sound that sparked something else inside him. Something new.

Something so hot, that he just shattered right there and then.

He laid you back onto your own sheets and collapsed down onto you with something tantamount to a devilish ferocity, every thrust nearly splitting you in half, driving you into the mattress with absolutely nowhere for you to go, nothing for you to do but to take it. Though again, you didn’t mind, you merely arched your back up into him and threw your head back, his hand still keeping a grip on your throat, exactly where you wanted it.

Nothing has ever felt as good as you, not any of the nights he spent with any of the many informants he used to have nearly every night, not even the night he spent with you. This was a powerful build up, an overwhelming sensation that was going to drive him insane if he couldn’t have it again a and again and again...

His hips began to lose rhythm in his thrusts, and as you began to clench around him, he felt every muscle in his body begin to tense up.

“Fuck...”

“Javi...”

He stilled within you, crying out into your neck as he pulled his hand from your throat and maneuvered it down to your clit, rubbing your through your second orgasm as he tried to catch his breath. You caught up with him almost immediately, crying out again.

Rolling off of you, for the first time since he got back to Columbia, even since before maybe... he felt satisfied, entirely satiated and well, and something else he wasn’t too quick to name as he glanced back over at you, still fighting for your breath back.

In the shadows of the room, your turned to him fully, brushing your hair back but not coming close to brushing the smirk off your face.

“You going to dig through my purse and run again?”

He managed a half chuckle before shaking his head, “I was looking for a cigarette... and you wanted me to leave.”

“Yeah, I did.” You fell back against the pillows, reaching to your wrist for the hair tie and tying your hair back.

“Do you want me to now?”

You scoffed, sitting up and glancing over your shoulder back to him, “not unless you want to.”

And from there, before he could even comprehend the words falling from your lips much less form a response, you got up with a slight groan and made your way over the bathroom, or at least the door he assumed led to the bathroom, and his stare followed your hips the whole way.

“You’re welcome to join me.” You called from behind the door and no amount of ignoring could erase the sudden bolt of heat through his chest. He was used to familiar when it came to dealing with you. This was something else.

Something that was dangerously new territory for him.

But he got up anyways, following you like there was a string connected between the two of you. It should have felt wrong, but it just didn’t.

—

->tags: (let me know if I missed you or you want to be added)

@the-feckless-wonder @arrowswithwifi @ms-dont-care @leo-moon @tiffdawg @readsalot73 @way-too-addicted-to-anime @keeper0fthestars @adikaofmandalore @opheliaelysia @magneticbucky @videogamesandpoorlifechoices @larakasser

[probably-writing-x]

Speechless.

~~~Based on Speechless by Dan + Shay~~~

"Alright babe give me five minutes!" You shout down the stairs as Tom hears you trip into something once again.

He chuckles and glances up to see your figure hurrying back down the corridor to the bedroom you shared with him. The movement encouraged the smell of your classic perfume to come trickling down the stairs toward his nose, a comfort he welcomed as he inhaled. It was like a scent that somehow defined you.

"Alright are my shoes down there?" You ask, hurrying down the stairs as you try to pin up the last parts of your hair - despite the fact it already looked effortlessly perfect.

"Stop doing that when you're coming downstairs," Tom laughs, catching your waist as you reach the bottom, "You'll fall one day,"

"And you'll be there to catch me," You smirk, pecking his lips quickly.

You dart past him to slip on your shoes that were, in fact, right by the door, and Tom can't help but stare at you helplessly. His eyes dart between the art of makeup covering your skin, down to the low neckline of the dress you wore and to the way it could flow around your legs. He let his gaze drift all across you and he found himself frozen in his spot - still unsure of how you had this much of an effect on him.

"Ready?" You ask and it shakes him from his daze, "What are you staring at?" You chuckle.

He shakes his head and scratches at the back of his neck, "I uh- Well, I-"

"You're a mess, Holland," You laugh, walking over and kissing him once again, "This happens literally every single time,"

"Nothing new," He chuckles, holding you close to him so that he can kiss you once, twice more.

The two of you were heading to a Brother's Trust event tonight. It was more of a high profile event in which a bunch of possible partners, ambassadors and journalists grouped together in order to give a bit of publicity to the organisation and, hopefully, help out in the long term. Tom always had no fear about you on nights like this. In fact, you eased his concerns about everything else just by being you. You were relaxed, comfortable, confident, welcoming and in all ways the depiction of what people would describe as 'perfect for him'.

"You don't need to worry, love," You speak over his thoughts once more as your hand settles over his in the back of the taxi that was taking you to the evening, "You've planned this meticulously over the past couple of months, it's literally impossible for anything to go wrong,"

"Oh no I'm not nervous, I mean I just-"

"I know when you're thinking about something T. I'm practically psychic," You joke to ease the worry and his shoulders begin to lose theirs simultaneously.

"I think you must be," He mumbles, eyes lingering on you for a little longer than normal.

Yours glance back up to him so that you're now simply locked in eye contact. But you'd never know how much of a deepset effect those eyes could have on him. They weren't of bold piercing colour and they weren't particularly prominent on your face. They were soft and calm and they seemed to always carry a dim light in them that brightened when you smiled. They were cool and tranquil, in all ways impossible to not get lost in. Tom was yet to find a way of combatting their labyrinth. But he wasn't complaining.

He hadn't complained since the first day they'd looked in his direction.

~~~

"It's a pleasure to meet you Mr Holland,"

Tom wasn't sure of the source of the voice but the mention of his last name made his ears awaken. He turned his gaze to notice a young woman, roughly his age, speaking politely to his father. She had an air of calm to her presence and a wisdom beyond her years - evident in the way she carried herself. He found himself completely focused on her instantly.

"Ah, Tom!" It's his father's voice that snaps him back to reality as he glances up to see that they've now both turned in his direction, "This is Miss (Y/l/n), she was just explaining to me the work that she's been doing in Namibia and it sounds like something we could get on board with,"

Despite this being the protocol time to respond, Tom finds himself completely speechless in her presence. She wore a dark red coloured dress that fit her form perfectly and shaped her figure in all the right ways. She'd paired it with a pair of heels that made her just a little taller than him and he'd only just realised how much he'd been staring...

"What you're doing with The Brother's Trust is really incredible," You smile welcomingly, "I'd love to know more about the work. Your father was just telling me about the possibility of a few future projects and they all sound amazing,"

"Uh yeah, yeah I-" Tom knew that his nerves were completely obvious, and that was making things even worse, "I'd love to get to know you- you and your work of course I-"

His Dad continued to chat away after that and the three of you were soon joined by his Mum too, who you'd welcomed with a warm embrace as though you'd known her for years. But all Tom could do was watch you. It was like he'd come face to face with his greatest weakness. And he hadn't even learnt your first name...

~~~

Somewhere between the car journey and Tom's thoughts getting the better of him, the two of you had arrived at the prestigious event. First of all, was the red carpet. The pair of you were met with endless flashing cameras and plenty of journalists requesting interviews from the top couple of the night.

"It's so exciting to have been able to witness the progression of the organisation and being able to see how much the boys have worked to really make this into something that is truly making a difference," You nod to the interviewer, your hand finding Tom's as you spoke so fondly of him.

Even hearing you talk made his heart flutter full of nerves, still after all this time. He couldn't help himself.

"And Tom, isn't it great to have the support of (Y/n) through this whole process?" Thw interviewer prompts.

"Yeah, I'm -" He stops and glances at you, "I'm the luckiest guy in the world,"

~~~

The two of you spend the night mingling between as many people as possible and Tom slowly forces himself more and more to focus on you less. He's stood chatting to his brothers when you excuse yourself to go to the toilet.

"Yeah so I think it would be great if we could speak to them more abou-" Tom continues the conversation, stopping only as his eyes catch sight of the beauty that just stepped back into the room.

You're pinning your hair up into place once again and your eyes glance around the room before you catch sight of him.

"Dude!" Harry hits him over the head, "How, are you still so distracted by her? It's been three bloody years!" He laughs, evidently knowing the effect that you had on his brother. He was yet to find himself just how much of an effect love could have.

~~~

The air was probably a little too crisp to be stood outside but Tom welcomed the bitter chill. It was late enough for the London streets to have died down from their buzz and now he was only accompanied by the, shadows of stars and their artificial friends, the street lights.

"Room for another?" A voice he could now match a face to speaks up against his quiet.

Tom turns on his heel to glance in your direction, "Hi,"

"Hello," You smile, "I'm not a stalker or something but I figured I should give myself a proper introduction to you. I'm (Y/n),"

"(Y/n)," He repeats as if a name could be beautiful enough to match her, "I'm Tom,"

"This has been a really lovely event Tom but you seem as though you're a little lost," You comment, taking a step towards him on the balcony, "I've heard a lot about you and none of the comments tell me you're very nervous,"

"I guess certain people have certain effects," He scratches at the back of his neck, "So, really, I have to blame you,"

You laugh a little and, very much to his surprise, you blush at his compliment.

The embarrassed gesture might as well have knocked the air out of his lungs. You were just goddamn perfect.

"You know, it's not very often that I meet someone that can take the words right out of my mouth," Tom laughs, evidently relaxing into the quiet setting.

"Oh, love, I'm not even trying yet," You joke and laugh so much at your own comedy that your laughter becomes impossibly infectious.

He knew he'd listen to that laugh on repeat if he could.

~~~

"Honey, you're seriously out of it today!" You chuckle, turning so that you're facing Tom and settling your hand on his chest, "What's on your mind?"

"You,"

~~~~~~~

Tags: @imarypayne @sunshine112 @bringmethehorizonandpizza @supernatural-girl97 @vibhati123 @butithasntkilledyouyet @faefictions @carisi-sonny @trap-house-homiecide @spiderrpcrker @tommydaspidey @oneblckcoffee @darlingtholland @fanficparker @xxtomxo @httpfandxms @jackiehollanderr

[faveficarchive]

The Secret Histories: Part 2

An Archaeologist, High and Low

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Mel/Janice

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Set soon after All the Colors of the World, an old flame wanders back into Mel’s life, and threatens a relationship already wrought with unspoken problems. Janice is sent off to Bavaria to work with the Monuments Men, and Mel isn’t far behind. Will their shaky relationship withstand the test of distance, violence, and ancient obsession?

September 1945

Sergeant Sally Phillips stared anxiously at the pair of khaki legs that emanated from under the car she usually drove. Grunting sounds came from the partially hidden body. "Janice, can you fix it?" she said.

"I don't know yet, Sal. Cars other than Fords...I don't know much about," Janice replied from under the vehicle. They were in a driveway outside the U.S. Embassy; Sally, with whom she became friends during basic training at Fort Oglethorpe, was a driver for the U.S. Ambassador's Office. She had called Janice in a panic, remembering that her friend knew something about cars...and she, hardly Rosie the Riveter, knew nothing about them, except how to drive one.

Sally despaired. "I know. But I can't take it back to the garage. They'll kick my ass. This is about the third time this thing has died on me, and Murtlock'll kill me..."

"It's not your fault. They should know that," Janice said, her voice muffled.

"You know how that bastard is. If anything goes wrong, he blames one of us."

Janice chuckled. "Yeah, you're right. Murtlock is a real prick."

Unfortunately, Sally felt his presence before she could warn Janice. She snapped to attention. Major Murtlock, their commanding officer, was standing right behind her. There was no telling how much of the conversation he heard, but the last statement alone was more than enough to...she sighed inwardly. She knew that Janice would get the worst of whatever shit Murtlock would ladle out; her friend was too outspoken and too indiscreet about her affair with the beautiful black-haired woman that Sally had met only once...whatever her name was...she was a looker, though, almost enough to make me switch teams...

"Stupid foreign cars...ACKPHLT!" Suddenly Janice slid from under the car, covered in oil. "God, I think I swallowed some..." Janice tried to wipe the oil off her face with an equally black hand, which made it worse.

Then she noticed Murtlock.

From her position on the ground he looked even bigger than usual. And he was a big man, probably six and half feet in his stocking feet. This was one of those moments when she envied Mel her height; if she were as tall as her beloved companion, she might feel a little less intimidated, even sitting down. The Major scowled at her, his heavy black brows crashing in consternation. "Don't get up, Covington," he rumbled. "I have something for you." He pulled a packet of papers out of his jacket, and tossed them down to her. They landed in her lap. "I'm very pleased to say you have new orders. You're shipping out in two days. The information"—he nodded at the papers—"is all there. I hope you have a pleasant trip," he grunted sarcastically.

"Yes, sir," Janice replied perfunctorily. Her lips shifted nervously in a frantic attempt to dissuade a smart-ass smirk off her face.

"Oh, and by the way, you've been promoted. To Lieutenant." He glared at her in disgust while she raised both eyebrows in surprise; the idea that such a woman could be an officer was simply too much for him to bear. "Congratulations, you little dyke."

He turned on his heel and left.

Sally exhaled with relief. "He sure knows how to sweet-talk a girl," she cracked, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket. She handed it to Janice, who took it gratefully and proceeded to wipe oil off her face. Sally peered at the papers in her friend's lap. "Hey, where do you think you're going?"

Janice handed them to her gingerly, clasping them between greasy thumb and forefinger. "You tell me," she replied. "I'm too sullied to touch them. At least Murtlock thinks so."

She was also too nervous to read them, and didn't give a rat's ass about Army protocol—at this point in my so-called military career, I'd announce my orders with a bullhorn to anyone who would listen, she thought.

Sally unfolded the papers and scanned them quickly. "You're going to...Bavaria? Some place called New—what—stein? Fucking Krauts and their mile-long names."

Sally watched as Janice scratched her cheek thoughtfully; her friend did not seem too surprised at the news—in fact, her green eyes narrowed knowingly. "Huh, I'll be damned." So I'm the bait. Good. At least I'll be there to keep an eye on that blonde bitch.

"Why?"

"Long story. Wanna get some lunch?"

"Sure, Lieutenant Covington."

"Now that was a surprise." Janice hoisted herself up from the ground.

"Yeah." Sally grinned, and poked her friend in the ribs. "Congratulations, you little dyke."

***

June, 1937

"You're amazing," Catherine said. She laid on the floor of her room, gazing up at Mel, sprawled in her divan. The Southerner's feet dangled pleasantly over the edge and she hummed "Oh Susannah" in her rich, pleasant voice. Her dark hair cascaded over one arm. She was quite drunk, having consumed five gin and tonics. Catherine had thought it would only take two; but she is a big girl...a very big, beautiful girl. "I can't believe you've never been drunk before."

"No...once I got just a little tipsy on some sherry, at a Daughters of the American Revolution benefit..." Mel suddenly found the ceiling very fascinating, as her head lolled back of its own accord.

"What the bloody hell is that?"

Mel burst into laughter. "I don't want to tell you...it's so stupid."

"Then don't." Catherine wiggled the empty bottle. "Wish we had more."

"Me too."

"I bet we could get some from Daphne."

"Oh dear. Daphne doesn't like me. You better ask her yourself."

"She's merely jealous of you, my darling." Catherine stood up. "Come on, let's go."

"Jealous?"

"Of course. Don't play Miss Modesty with me, Melinda. You're both incredibly beautiful and smart."

Mel giggled. "Oh, thank God someone said it. I really wanted a compliment."

"Really? I couldn't tell at all." The blonde held out a hand to Mel, who hadn't moved from the couch. "Come along."

"Must I?"

Catherine smirked sadistically. "You must."

Reluctantly Mel took the proffered hand and hauled herself up. Trailing behind Catherine, she was amazed at her own ability to walk in such a state, and quietly marveled at herself as they navigated the stairs to a lower floor, where Daphne's room was located.

They were giggling quite loudly when they crashed against Daphne's door simultaneously. Catherine pounded upon it. "Come on, Daph, open it," she roared.

Another minute of pounding, plus the threat that Mel would sing "Swanee River," finally persuaded the reluctant Daphne open the door. Like in a Keystone cops film, the two lovers spilled through the doorway. Catherine was on the floor, with Mel atop her, laughing like children.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," said a voice above them. Daphne, of course.

"Hallo, darling," Catherine trilled. "Melinda and I seem to be having a crisis."

"Yes, you're both in my room, uninvited."

"What, I thought we had an invitation!" Mel burbled. She and Catherine began a new round of giggling as they stood up.

"Don't be a bad hostess, Daph. There's a quite simple way to get rid of us."

"I know. All I have to do is let you continue to make a ruckus here, and they'll expel you."

"No, dammit. I want a bottle. Of scotch."

"Or gin. That's my favorite," Mel interjected.

"I don't have any fucking alcohol, Cat. It's all gone." Daphne drummed her fingers on her desk.

A dead giveaway, Catherine thought, watching the spidery fingers drum their distress signal. She always does that when she's nervous...or lying. "You don't expect me to believe that, do you?"

"I had guests over yesterday. We drank everything here."

Catherine's dark eyes narrowed, and the mood of the room seemed to alter with it; it was one of those sudden shifts that occur deep in the night, and/or deep into drunkenness. "You bloody little mooch. All the time I've paid for your drinks, bought you things...you won't even give me a damn bottle of booze?"

Daphne returned the angry glare, a fire blazing across her cheeks. But she said nothing.

Mel rolled her eyes. She didn't know why Catherine had insisted on coming down here in the first place. "Let's forget it, Catherine," she said. "I'm tired anyway. Let's just go back upstairs and go to bed."

Daphne's cold eyes did not leave Catherine's. "Go on, then. Listen to your little tart. Get out."

Mel wanted to laugh out loud. She had never been called a tart before, or anything even close to hinting at sexual promiscuity. Usually she was called "cold," "aloof," "frigid" (by a Freudian acolyte at Vanderbilt who had stuck his hand up her skirt within 20 minutes of their first date), or a "tease." It was an amusing change of pace.

"You should mind your manners, darling," Catherine threatened in a low voice.

"Or what?"

Mel gripped Catherine's arm. "Leave it," she said quietly. "Let's go."

"Look, you cow, will you just shut up?" Daphne spat at Mel. "Everything was fine until you came along, you miserable twat. Do you think she really loves you?"

"Shut up," Catherine growled between gritted teeth.

Daphne was on a roll. She inserted herself between Catherine and Mel. She was not as tall as either one of them, but stood her ground menacingly, her angry, contorted face near the Southerner's, the curls of her marcelled hair shaking and threatening to unfurl into Medusan tresses...or so it appeared to Mel's gin-addled mind. "Come on. You don't really think Catherine feels anything for you, do you, you little fool? She only wanted to bed you because you're supposedly so damned beautiful." She paused, grinning triumphantly, before delivering the coup de grace. "And because she wanted to deflower you."

Catherine opened her mouth to file the obligatory protest (true enough, but...), but she saw something that intrigued her. It was like a translucent film were covering Mel's face, darkening her features and her cerulean blue eyes. It was an anger that transformed her entire being. She had never seen her lover so angry. And it excited her. She watched, fascinated.

Daphne had noticed the transformation too, but bravery—or, more accurately, stupidity—caused her to fling one final insult in Mel's face. "You're just another notch on her belt," she drawled.

When Mel swung her arm, it was in a wide, lazy arc, as if hitting Daphne were barely worth expending energy. But this belied the force of the backhanded blow which sent the woman hurling through the air, across the room.

Mel blinked. Jesus Christ, did I just do that? She looked down at her hand, which trembled. It had been like a splash, a blot of black ink, that had spread within her, into a terrible rage. She clenched the shaking hand.

The few seconds that they stood there seemed like hours. Catherine’s look was one of amused amazement as she turned her eyes from the body slumped in the corner to Mel’s confused face. Then she slowly made her way over to the body. She felt around for broken bones, checked Daphne's breathing and pulse, and returned to Mel. "I think she'll be fine," she remarked airily. "Let's go."

Mel blinked. "What? We can't leave her here. We should take her to the infirmary. We need to tell someone...the dean..."

The blonde laughed. "Don't be ridiculous. We'll both be sent down if that happens. And she's fine, trust me. She's a stupid girl with a thick skull. She'll live. And she'll know better next time." She placed her hands on Mel's warm cheeks and kissed her soundly. "You're magnificent. I love your strength. Your power. You think you don't have it, but you do. You really do."

Blue eyes narrowed at her in disbelief. "You're crazy," Mel retorted bluntly. Or maybe I am the one who’s crazy. What did I just do? What's wrong with me?

Catherine's lips twitched a little, biting back a dozen different retorts. "I'm crazy, but I'm all yours." And you don't know how true that is, my dear Melinda.

She was on a black horse, chasing a group of men who ran away from her on foot. There was a dull pain traveling through her legs, which were twisted and crippled; when she looked at them, she wanted to scream. A rage in her was so thick and bitter she could bite into it. With each stroke of the sword it seethed, then cooled, until the need struck again: the black urge to lash out, to kill, to obliterate. Man after man fell under her. The last one begged for his life, and then a man on horseback, his dark hair pulled into a ponytail, shouted at her not to kill the last one. But she did it anyway. It felt...so good. Better than anything in her miserable life up to that point. Better than the money. Better than the fucking. Better than the power.

It felt so good. It feels so good. Doesn’t it?

The question burned in her mind as she woke up. And she woke Catherine as her body jerked forward, out of the blonde's loose yet possessive grasp.

"What is this?" Catherine murmured a sleepy protest.

"Nothing," Mel replied perfunctorily, Southern manners always at the ready. I could be bleeding, I could be dying...yet I'd still say "Oh please, don't mind me, I'm fine." Her voice felt so hoarse that she hardly recognized it.

"Bad dream?" The tone was casual.

"Yes." She sat up, on the edge of the bed, and groped for the glass of water that she knew would be on the night stand.

"Tell me." An edgy hint of command in the voice.

"I don't want to."

"Come on," Catherine cooed gently. She let her fingers trail along Mel's bare back. A shudder—desire, disgust, perhaps both—shimmied along her skin.

The tepid water felt good as it soothed her ragged throat. "All right," she murmured. Cautiously she settled back on the bed, as if sleep itself would reach up and claim her again, and the nightmare replay itself. But it didn’t. And so she told Catherine about the dream.

The blonde's legs had wrapped around Mel's as she told the dream, and contracted, almost painfully, then relaxed. "Very interesting," Catherine commented. "Why do you think you're having these dreams?" Well, at least those sessions with Freud were somewhat helpful—I get to steal his inane questions.

"I'm not sure...when I was little my Daddy always told me these stories, about some ancient warrior woman—we're supposed to be her descendants somehow. They were scary sometimes, but she—my ancestor—always wore the white hat. But in this dream, it's like I am her, but she is...not a good person."

"Hmmm. Funny how things get twisted around like that." This time Catherine sounded amused. She let her fingers run along Mel's smooth shoulders.

"I think...I'm just feeling bad about what happened the other day." Mel alluded to the Daphne Incident, which had occurred a scant three days prior. But this morning, in the courtyard, she had encountered Daphne as she and Catherine left the quad. Instead of entering the building, as she obviously intended to do, the girl bolted like a prized race horse, in the other direction. Mel had never seen anyone look at her with such abject fear.

And Catherine had laughed. This time, her laughter seemed brutal as it echoed through the air. And so familiar.

"Oh darling, just let it go." The fingers skittered along her skin.

There was something about the way Catherine touched her...it was stimulating, yet there always a threat — implicit in the curl of her hands, in the way she held back, in the way she pulled back when her touches grew too wild or passionate — of anger, as if that tactile contact would erupt into violence...if they were not careful.

And the funny thing is...I sometimes think I feel it too. Am I just projecting it onto her? Mel slid her arm out of Catherine's grasp easily. She stood up and threw on a deep blue robe. "I think...I'll read for a while."

Catherine laughed derisively. "Do you still remember how? I don't think you've picked up a book in at least a month."

Mel rubbed her aching head. She did not know how she could possibly read with such throbbing in her skull—another hangover contributed to her dissonant state of mind, already troubled by the dream—but she wanted to try. "I know," she replied grimly, and left the bedroom.

***

1945

"Guess what."

"What?"

"I'm a lieutenant."

"Have they gone mad?"

"I think so. But guess what else."

"What?"

"I have orders to go to Bavaria."

Mel stared at Janice in shock. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" she demanded.

"Sorry, sweetheart, your needs seemed more...pressing." Janice had been sprawled out in the wing chair—her favorite seat—in Mel's hotel room, her legs flung comfortably over an arm of the chair, when Mel arrived. Before she had a chance to say anything, she felt Mel's mouth on her own, and the delicious combination of kisses and caresses made her forget about the promotion, about Germany, about everything.

"Damn it all," Mel muttered. She stood up from her kneeling position in front of the chair, impatiently shoving locks of her loosened black hair behind her ears and straightening her skirt.

"Hmmm, Miss Pappas is swearing. Never a good sign," Janice teased gently. She sat up in the chair and buttoned her shirt, which had become undone in their proceedings.

"If Catherine had anything to do with this, I'll..." Weeks ago, she had officially turned down the offer. She had thought the matter closed. And every day, she hoped for Janice to be discharged, so they could get on with their lives. It all seems like some sinister plot. And if Catherine is involved, it probably is.

"Of course she had something to do with it," Janice retorted gently. "You were the one who said point-blank that you wouldn't go without me. She obviously wants you to be there, Mel. So she ships me there, you follow. I should be grateful I'm not being sent somewhere else."

"I don't trust her."

"Neither do I. But I can't refuse orders." As much as I’d like to.

"This is ridiculous! They should be discharging you. We should be going home." The tall Southerner paced a little, hands riding on her hips. It was rare that Janice saw her so agitated.

Janice smiled. "You look like you’re gonna bust me out of the Army, like Jimmy Cagney busting out of jail."

Mel scowled and hung on stubbornly to her bad mood.

"Mel, we will go home soon. I promise you," Janice replied soothingly. Wherever that was, she thought sarcastically. But I do know...my home is wherever you are, baby. She watched as Mel scanned the room disconcertingly, as if searching for something. She chuckled a little, then withdrew the scholar's glasses from her breast-pocket and held them out to her. "Here."

How did she...? Mel smiled. "Thanks."

"You know," Janice began quietly, "it's not as if we haven't done dangerous things before." She watched as Mel slipped on the glasses. Much as Xena was transformed by the sword in her grasp, the armor on her body, the chakram at her side, so Mel was transformed with glasses. They were a shield, and a weapon: her well-honed intelligence glinted in her magnificent blue eyes, refracted by the glasses. Her scholarly demeanor, self-effacing at times yet always rigorous and keen, was firmly in place. "Battling Ares was a pretty impressive stunt," the archaeologist added.

"That was Xena, not me."

"Well, it was you and not Xena who went to Macedonia in the first place. Pretty risky for a Southern belle in high heels."

Mel conceded this with a hum. She rubbed her neck. "I just...want some time with you. We nearly lost each other, do you know that? You've spent over a year getting in and out of dangerous situations. You got shot. Your friend died. You...almost died." Her voice wavered. "It's all too soon to risk losing you again."

"My life has been pretty dangerous in general," Janice smiled bitterly. "That's probably not going to change...much." Will it change? Also, did she want it to change? She loved the danger of what she did, thought little of risking her own life, but now...looking at Mel, she found a very good reason to keep herself in one piece. A very good reason for telling the Army to go to hell. Which I'd very much like to do at this point, she thought.

Mel sighed in exasperation. "Don't patronize me, Janice Covington. I'm not totally naive. I know what you do is sometimes risky. And I know it's worth it, for the scrolls. That is a risk I'm happy to take. But this was a war. In a way...it's not really over yet. And that is a totally different ballgame, as you would put it." She looked at Janice, who had raised an amused eyebrow. "I did use that word correctly, didn't I?"

***

September, 1938

When she was a child the sight of Manhattan from the sky was exciting. She could forget her fear of flying as they sailed over the toy city. It felt as if she could reach out and touch the tip of the Empire State Building—if only because she wanted to.

Now, as the plane descended toward Idlewild, she did not look out the window at the glorious city. Indeed, she had not looked out the window in hours. She had fallen into a light sleep; a stupor, almost, where she kept the conscious world at bay. The plane was not crowded, fortunately, and she sat alone.

She opened her eyes at the stewardess's touch upon her sleeve. "Miss, we're landing in five minutes...please fasten your — oh, I see it is fastened! Good girl!" She smiled at Mel (a blonde, a damned blonde just like Catherine, thought the irritated Mel) and moved on to another passenger.

Good girl.

She turned her brooding gaze to the window. Her father was supposed to meet her at the airport; they had a suite at the Plaza. He thought that staying in New York for a few days might cheer her up before they headed home. He informed her that he had bought a new house, in North Carolina, where they would live. But...why? she had wailed on the phone, immediately thinking of their home in South Carolina, where she grew up, where she could still look at a chair, or a curtain, and still recall her mother being there, inhabiting that particular physical space.

She could practically hear his shrug over the transatlantic connection. I think we both need something new in our lives, don't you?

She had not told him what happened, why she suddenly decided to leave Cambridge. She used the increasing conflict between the English and the Germans as an excuse, but she knew he wasn't entirely fooled by that. What could she possibly say, how could she possibly phrase it? (Even though he knew her nature...) Sorry Daddy, I fell terribly in love with this debauched girl who dumped me after six months...who made my body come alive, who did things to me I couldn't even imagine, yet who made me see the darkness in myself...I never hated myself so much as when I loved her.

If this is what love is about, I'll have no more of it. This is what happened when I stopped being a "good girl." No more love. No more desire.

She glared at the stewardess.

No more blondes.

Her father had a taxi waiting at the airport. She had to admit that it felt good to be really taken care of again; he had hugged her fiercely when she came through the terminal, after her passport and luggage had been checked.

The minute they entered the cab her head fell back against the seat, as if a lead weight had burrowed itself in the bun of her hair. She closed her eyes.

He squeezed her arm affectionately. "You haven't been sleeping." His tone challenged her to contradict the obvious.

"Not...very well." She scrunched her eyes as if in pain, then opened them with an effort. "Daddy, I've been having dreams...they're very odd."

"About Xena," he said flatly.

She seemed surprised. "Yes. You've had them?"

He nodded. "I used to have dreams about her...oh, all the time it seems, when I was young. Rather horrible at times. Violent. She wasn't always a great heroine, you know."

Mel frowned. Yes, he had always said that—that Xena had been "bad" but then she turned "good." But Mel had pictured Xena, her wicked past, and her ultimate redemption in terms of, say, Bette Davis in Jezebel. Not hacking people into bloody little bits. "But you don't anymore?"

He smiled wistfully, and rubbed his chin with his thumb in a thoughtful manner. "No, I don't. It's strange...I stopped having the bad ones, not long after I met your mother."

The following day at the office, Mel informed Frobisher of her decision.

He did not seem surprised. "So you're going?"

She nodded.

"I assume Janice is being transferred there."

She nodded again.

"That's the only reason why you're going, isn't it?"

She paused, looking guilty. A slight smile creased her face. And she nodded again.

He returned the smile wearily. Again, she felt bad; his office was busier than ever, and she hated leaving him in the lurch like this. But as busy as he was, he gave her top priority. "Then let's get cracking on the paperwork, shall we?"

The day seemed to pass quickly, once she made the decision, as if a burden had been lifted. When she arrived back at the room she found Janice already there, sitting comfortably in her favorite chair, a few envelopes scattered on her lap.

"The Army has finally seen fit to deliver my mail," she growled. "All of these are about six months old."

"What did you get?"

"A letter from Dan's mom...which was nice," she added cautiously. She had written to Blaylock's mother after his death, and now she had received a kind letter in return. I thank you for all that you did, his mother had written. But I didn’t do a goddamn thing, she thought. And it called forth that feeling again, the empty burning sensation...of failure. It was easier to get it under control now, but there was no doubt it still existed within her. She continued. "And, um, something from Harvard—they want me to teach a class in the fall. I think they figure that since they can't get any alumni donations out of me, they might as well put me to work. And this." Amused, she held up a pink envelope.

"Janice, darling, I think you better inform your army of ex-girlfriends that you are quite unavailable now."

"Look at the return address."

Mel peered at the upper left corner of the envelope. "Jack Kleinman?"

"I always wondered if he was a nancy boy," Janice said idly, as she tore open the letter.

Mel smirked, recalling Jack's puppy-like attentions to Janice. "I don't think so."

"Let's see what he says here....He apologizes for the stationery, says it belongs to his sister...says our cousins are fine..."

"Cousins?" Mel blurted in alarm. Good God, she can't be related to Jack.

"He means the scrolls. That's his 'code' for it."

"Oh." Mel was impressed. "I didn't know you two had worked out a 'code.' "

"Actually, we haven't...it just says right here in the letter, in parentheses, 'you know I mean the scrolls when I say cousins, right?' "

Mel laughed as Janice continued to scan the letter. A strange look came over the archaeologist's face. "What is it?"

"He asks...about you, how you're feeling...if you've fully recovered from your..." The deep green eyes turned up from the letter and stared at her. "...influenza."

It hung in the air between them. Oh...damn, Mel thought, surrendering to an obscenity. She couldn't think of what to say.

"He...misspelled it, of course." Janice tapped the paper with a finger. "I know Jack exaggerates things sometimes, but..." Her hard, inquisitive eyes caught her lover's guilty look. "He's not making this up, is he?" she demanded quietly.

Mel closed her eyes for a moment to regain herself. "I...no, Janice. He's not. I was...very ill."

The lithe young woman stood up so quickly that it startled Mel. She paced, something she loved to do when angry or frustrated. "Why didn't you tell me?" Janice spat out. "You...you could've died." Now you know how I felt, Mel thought. "Why did you keep that from me?"

"It wasn't important at the time." Mel was surprised at her calmness. "Finding you was."

Janice continued to fume. "Goddammit! Well, you found me, and you still didn't tell me!" she shouted.

"I'm telling you now." It had been a long time, it seemed, since she had encountered Janice's temper. Probably not since they first met in Macedonia. It threw her a bit, but she hoped that by remaining calm, she could get her companion's blood pressure to decrease.

"Only because you had to. You got caught." Is that a sneer on her face?

"I...I didn't think it was important," Mel responded helplessly. The Southerner felt as if she were in emotional quicksand.

"Bullshit! It's more than important. You withheld the truth from me."

Whatever thread of patience Mel possessed snapped. So she wants to be honest here, eh? She couldn't fight the dark impulse to lash out. Hello, darkness...hello, Xena. "Since we're discussing the truth here, Janice, there is something I must ask you." The tone was low, the accent almost gone under the burden of the deepening voice. The eyes were icy. "Would you care to tell me if you've made an acquaintance with an Englishwoman named Meg? During the war?"

The look of shock on Janice's face was simultaneously satisfying and sickening to Mel. So it's true. Janice's jaw shifted. "How did you know...about that?"

"I was mistaken for her in a pub. The gentleman who did the mistaking told me a little tale he heard, about Meg's amorous encounter on a ship with, I believe he said, 'A little American WAC.'" She let her eyes run over Janice's figure in a mocking appraisal. Even in her anger and pain she felt a flicker of desire. And love. "I believe you fit the bill."

"Christ," Janice swore softly. "How did—"

"Everyone on the ship knew. You're fooling yourself if you thought otherwise."

And I thought I had been so...discreet. Everyone hid it well, I must say. No one acted different, no one said a damn thing. But they sure as hell didn't keep it to themselves. Janice rubbed her temple. "You? You were in a pub?" she asked distractedly. The dizzying revelation of events left her disoriented. And picturing Mel in a smelly pub seemed the height of this surrealism. Yet it seems anything—everything—is possible these days. The whole fucking world has been possessed by madness, why not us as well?

Mel shook her head in disbelief; she did not know if she would laugh or cry. "I was looking for you," she retorted angrily.

A silence stretched out for a few seconds, as they took it all in. "I never thought I'd see you again," Janice whispered.

The tall Southerner slammed her hands down on the table that separated them, and left them there, spread out before her. "Did you think I'd let you go so easily?" Mel growled fiercely. "Couldn't you tell how much I loved you?"

Frankly, no, Janice thought. "I didn't know...I thought...I meant very little to you." She saw the pained look on Mel's face. And instantly felt sorry. "Why? You know why, Mel. You did since the day we met. Since the day we recognized who we truly are. You were the noble heroine and I was your sidekick, never measuring up to you. I know now...that's not the way it was for them. But I didn't know—I still don't—if that's the way it would be for us."

Mel walked away and sat down for a moment. She felt...very tired, and her voice was edged with resignation. "I suppose...I had no claim on you at the time." Tell me otherwise, Janice. Please.

Janice leaned uneasily against the table, unable to say the words that sprang instantly to her mind. Actually you did. You already had my heart. I just didn't know it, really. Before she could get past the shame, the anger, the hurt, and say the words, she heard the door slam.

***

Mel entered Hyde Park. The sky was already darkening and a fine rainy mist descended from the sky and drizzled her hair and face. Good....she thought. That means I can cry and no one will notice. The rain came down harder, and it felt good, even strangely comforting. She sought shelter under a large tree for a few minutes, then realized that wandering around in the rain was doing little good, for the same thoughts circled around in her mind. Confounding woman! She cursed the skies. Why do I love her? It's probably some sort of karmic debt. She walked back to the hotel, her coat wet, heavy, like armor. Probably not as heavy as armor, but if Xena had to wander around the hot sticky ancient world saddled with such weight, then my respect for her has risen even higher.

As she entered the lobby she encountered a strange sight: Sergeant McKay was standing awkwardly in the lobby, nervously twisting his cap. The big ruddy Irishman looked rather incongruous within the ostentatious elegance of the hotel. His stricken look told her all she needed to know.

McKay did not hate Janice, but he did possess an irrational fear of the beautiful young woman. No doubt it stemmed from his belief that she was somewhat unnatural: the attire (even off duty, she never changed out of khakis), the smoking, the swearing...she was, he thought, everything a woman shouldn't be. Melinda, on the other hand, met with his approval. He suspected the nature of their relationship, and didn't really want to know any more but, he thought, a woman should act like a woman, and not—he concluded, watching Janice pace the hospital corridor like an expectant father, cursing under her breath—like that.

He was the first to see Mel emerge from the room down the hall. When he jumped up from his seat Janice glared at him in alarm, then stopped as she saw Mel's approach. Still damp from the rain, she pushed rain-curled hair out of her face with an absent-minded air.

They looked at her expectantly.

"He's had a stroke," she said, as calmly as she could.

Approximately two hours ago McKay had entered his superior's office, to see if the old man needed anything before he left for the day, and he found Frobisher slumped over the desk, unconscious.

"Will he...?" whispered Janice.

"They don't know. It's rather touch and go right now." Wearily she sat down.

"Bloody hell," murmured the Sergeant. "I've got to get back to HQ, then. Have to let everyone know..." he sighed. He already felt exhausted. Mel touched his sleeve gently; despite his gruffness, she knew McKay was quite devoted to and fond of his commanding officer. "If you need anything, Sergeant, let me know. I'll probably be here most of the night."

"Miss, you should go home," McKay insisted. "You're all wet—your coat, your hair...don't want you to get the flu, you know."

At the word flu she felt Janice's hard gaze on her again. And she returned the glare. "I'll be fine, Sergeant." McKay nodded, yet squirmed as he sensed the discord between the two women. I don't want to know, he thought.

Her eyelids fluttered, and the blue eyes emerged like butterflies from a chrysalis. The clock at the end of the corridor read 6:35. Morning, she realized, and stretched her long, aching limbs. The doctor would be around soon, she remembered, and would update her on Anton's condition.

Her sleepy eyes blinked in disbelief

Janice was curled up fetally in a chair across from her, sleeping. She clutched her cap as if it were a teddy bear. She stayed here with me. Last night, Janice had left with McKay, and returned a half-hour later with clothes for Mel. Wordlessly she had placed them beside Mel and walked away, down the corridor, without a word. Mel never knew that she had returned; when she drifted off to sleep around 2 (or was it 3?) she was alone.

She felt relief. When she watched Janice walk away from her last night, she wondered when she might see her lover next. Will she run off and join the Foreign Legion this time? Disappear on a dig? Go on a bender? She sat and studied the sleeping woman, as she had done on many an occasion: the brows, darker than the red-gold hair (which was pulled back in a pony tail), were pressed together, as if the archaeologist were deep in thought, even unconsciously; the cheeks were slightly flushed, the full lips parted sensually, the breathing deep and regular. I think you tamed her, Anton had said to her about Janice a few weeks ago. Was this proof of that, the fact that this woman was back at her side? I like her a little wild, Mel conceded, but I'm also glad she's here.

She was so engrossed in her study of Janice that she did not notice the nurse who had crept up to her on little cat feet and gently touched her shoulder. "The doctor's here," she told Mel.

The doctor, waiting for her at the end of the corridor, was young. Yet like so many young men of his generation, he carried around a sense of permanent fatigue, as if the rest of his life would not be long enough to recover from the war. And it probably wouldn't. "You're Colonel Frobisher's...wife?" he asked, with uncertainty.

She almost laughed. "No, just...his family."

He looked confused for a moment, then continued. "I see. He's had a rather nasty stroke, as you've been told. His chances for survival are good, since he made it through the night. As for a full recovery, I can't say. Only time will tell. I'd like to keep an eye on him for a few days, then we'll send him home. He's a bit groggy, but you can see him in a few minutes."

"Thank you," she replied quietly.

Later she entered his room. He looked smaller, paler, fragile. As did her father, when he was dying. It was more dramatic with Daddy, she thought, since her father had been a big, strapping man. It had been agony to see him waste away. And it was almost as horrible to see this. Not again, she vowed. I don't want to go through this again.

Janice could smell coffee. Coffee...I need to get Mel some coffee, her foggy brain registered the imperative. Her body jerked awake. The first thing she saw was a cup of coffee in front of her face, held by a familiar, beautiful hand.

"Good morning," Mel said softly.

"Oh Mel," groaned the archaeologist, as she stretched out the kinks in her back and legs.

"Hmmm?"

"Goddammit, I was going to wake up before you and get you some...coffee" She took the proffered cup. "I fucked up again."

"You didn't." She said it gently. But she knew it would not convince Janice—or even herself, she was ashamed to admit—of that fact.

"Thanks." Janice stared into the black liquid, as if she had never seen coffee before. "How is he?"

"He's...better. They think he'll pull through. How much damage has been inflicted to his body, and to his mind...well, they just don’t know yet. We have to wait and see."

An uneasy silence passed between them.

I should apologize, Janice thought. I should tell her I didn't mean to hurt her, I didn't mean for it to happen...it meant nothing, I love her, I really do.

I should apologize, Mel thought. I did lie to her. And I really don't care about what happened. She could sleep with everyone in England right now, and I wouldn't care...would I? Okay, maybe everyone is pushing it...but it doesn’t matter as long as she loves me. Right?

But what Mel thought—and what she said—were quite different. A deeply imbedded impulse to hurt, something she scarcely acknowledged, something she was afraid of, reared its head and bared its ugly truth.

"I can't go with you," Mel blurted. I'm such an idiot, Mel sighed. I could have said it...in a better way. "You know that."

The words were like a hammer. "Uh...yeah," Janice acknowledged in a husky voice, while blinking like a punch-drunk boxer. "I know that. You should be here. For him."

"Janice, I'm sorry."

The newly promoted lieutenant stood up and stretched quickly. "You know something? I've got to go. I need to be briefed before I leave tomorrow."

Mel felt helpless. "I...will I...?" God, you can't leave like this. She reached out to touch Janice's arm, but she skittered easily out of Mel's grasp.

"I'll...see you later. Okay?" Janice managed to force the words out. Before Mel could respond, she was gone, striding quickly down the bleak corridor.

She had reached her threshold of exhaustion. She finally left the hospital in the afternoon, returned to the hotel, and collapsed. When she awoke several hours later, she was contorted on the bed, in her slip, and the wild colors of the sunset were flooding the room. She chastised herself for not closing the curtains earlier, and was debating getting dressed merely to go over and close them, or to dash over, scantily clad, and risk having someone see her. Propriety strikes again, she thought heavily.

Then she heard the key in the door.

The door swung open, and Janice swayed in. Drunk. Her rolling gait managed to carry her over to the bed, where she plopped down on the edge. Mel slid over to where she sat, and gasped. Blood dribbled from the archaeologist's nose, and had coated her lips. "Oh, God," whispered Mel.

"Fight," Janice supplied.

I thought so, otherwise that was one very rough debriefing you got, Mel thought. She stood up with the intention of going to the bathroom and procuring a washcloth to clean off the blood. Janice grasped her arm. "No," she moaned the protest. "Stay here for a minute."

Mel sat down on the bed and touched the bloodied lips with her fingers, wiping away some of the blood. "What?" she whispered urgently.

"Kiss me."

She did not. Instead, she pressed a cool hand to Janice's warm forehead. "Why, why do you always insist on hurting yourself?"

"Do you think I punched myself in the face?" Janice was angry, but did not pull away.

"No, that's not what I meant." But I can probably guess what happened to you, darling. You went into a pub, and you picked a fight with the biggest, nastiest piece of work you could find. If beating yourself up isn't sufficient enough, you find someone else to do it for you.

"Don't say anything else. Please."

"But—"

"I need you." Janice's lips, saturated red, claimed Mel's. The bitter, coppery tang of blood seeped into the scholar's mouth. It did not bother her. I know you so well, your blood has mingled with mine since our beginning. How many times has your touch burned through me and quenched itself within my blood, my heart? Could anything you give to me, could anything you do, be so horrible? Nothing, except leaving me. She felt Janice's hands tangle carelessly within her hair, and she slid a hand inside a khaki shirt, her touch gliding over the smooth neck and rippling shoulders. She felt guilty, thinking that perhaps they should be talking about everything that happened. But the desire was a way of coping with the imminent loss, the easiest way of doing so. It was a way of saying goodbye. As she stripped away the clothes, so she hoped someday she would be able to strip away all the layers of defenses, the bravado, the insecurities of this...complicated woman.

And I’m not complicated? she asked herself.

She gently pulled Janice back on the bed, and covered her with her own long body. Then her mind stilled and she listened as their bodies spoke to one another.

Later in the night Janice had awakened. Another nightmare. Mel held her as her breathing slowed, and until the sweat on her brow cooled. Janice never really talked in detail about the dreams, or what happened in them...all she knew was that they were somehow connected to what happened in France, to her friend's death—Janice somehow felt guilty about it. She gently traced the small scars on Janice's strong thigh, where she had been shot. She felt a muscle twitch under her fingertips. As the scars intersected each other, like pieces of a puzzle fitting together, so did something formulate in her mind.

"You've never killed anyone before, have you?" Mel probed gently.

Janice's head, buried in her chest, shook from side to side. No.

The gun she always carried, the Smith & Wesson...she knew that Harry had given it to Janice, and, from seeing her in action with a gatling gun, she knew the woman could shoot. But she hadn't really thought it through—in a way, didn't want to know—if Janice had ever really shot anyone. Or killed anyone. She didn't want to know if the rumors about "Mad Dog" Covington were true, didn't want to know if Xena's bloody legacy tainted them both. But one afternoon in Macedonia—after Ares, just before they returned to the States—she recalled the Smith and Wesson flashing in the sun as Janice twirled it around, like Jesse James. It was a romantic image. And she had felt the first glimmer of desire for Janice at that moment: her quick hands, her wide grin, her tanned, lithe body, the golden hair that rivaled the sun in its luster....Janice had caught her fearful yet fascinated look at the gun, and laughed. Usually I just wave it around, fire off a few shots maybe, and people leave me alone, the archaeologist had assured her.

***

Alexandria, 1933

A wooden ramp lead down into the excavation pit. The crew of a dozen young men watched as a bloodied, unconscious body rolled unceremoniously down the ramp, staining the pale wood on its journey. Dust swirled around the body, as it thudded to a halt in the dirt.

Fayed, the foreman of the group, looked at the body unsympathetically. He clucked and pushed back a lock of his unruly black hair. He had known that the man who lay at his feet would not last long here: He had seen the way Cherif had eyed Harry Covington's daughter. And since Cherif was his wife's cousin, he felt an obligation to warn him that it wasn't worth it—that Covington would beat him within an inch of his life if he tried to seduce her, and would definitely kill him if he succeeded in bedding the girl. And he had been right.

He turned his attention to Covington, who loomed above them at the edge of the pit. He was short yet powerfully muscular, built like a wrestler. Shouting in Arabic, hands on hips, he informed them all that the next man who laid a hand on his daughter would die. Then he ordered them back to work.

Reluctantly, the group of men walked away from the body. Except Fayed, who awaited Harry's instructions.

"Fayed..." Harry began wearily.

"Yes, Harry?" Fayed was the only one in the crew who was bold enough to call the archaeologist by his first name.

"Get that bastard out of here. Drive him home. Get someone to help you if you need to."

Fayed nodded.

"And Fayed?"

"Yes?"

"Tell your wife I'm sorry."

The Arab nodded again, a smile tugging at his lips. He couldn't wait to tell his wife I told you so.

Harry walked back to his tent. He hesitated in front of the flap, and took a deep breath. He pushed back the flap and entered.

Janice was curled on the cot, her legs tucked up against her chest, and her arms wrapped around them. Her head was pressed against her knees. She did not look at him as he came over to her. He sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. "Janie?" he whispered.

Almost a minute passed. then finally she raised her head. Her lip was bleeding and, he noticed for the first time, there were violent bruises around her neck. His anger flared anew, and he recalled the scene he had found just a half-hour ago, when he came back from the marketplace ahead of schedule: Cherif in the tent, one hand pinning Janice down by the throat, she half-naked and squirming under him, his other hand fumbling with the buttons on his trousers.

The guilt hit him. Dammit, I shouldn't have left her here. In fact, she shouldn't even be here at all. This is no place for a girl. But where would she go—willingly, for that matter? She'd follow me here every time. I know her. Gingerly he reached out and touched her hair. she did not pull away, but he felt the shudder travel down her body. "I'm sorry, Dad," she said hoarsely.

"It's not your fault," he said emphatically. "If that man knew the proper way to behave, it wouldn't have happened." He sighed. "Honey, let me take care of that lip for you. Then I'm gonna show you how to take care of yourself. It's been a long time coming."

Intrigued, the girl looked at him quizzically.

He stood up and walked over to the other cot in the tent. He threw off the thin blanket and reached under the pillow. Grinning, he pulled out a Smith & Wesson revolver. "I'm gonna show you how to use this. Between that and some boxing lessons, kid..." his smile faded, and he concluded darkly, "...no one's ever gonna hurt you again."

***

A jeep sailed across the runway. Catherine, watching from the hangar, half-expected the thing to rise off the ground, as if it were a plane too. As the vehicle drew nearer she recognized the red-gold hair flying in the air, the eyes hidden by sunglasses. The jeep stopped at the other end of the hangar. Covington climbed out of the vehicle, exchanging a few words and a quick hug with the driver, another WAC. Interesting. Is the little bitch capable of cheating on her lover? I couldn't be so lucky. It would make things too easy.

With her rucksack slung over a shoulder, Covington swaggered over to her. She wasn't in full uniform, Catherine noted with disapproval. A leather jacket covered the white t-shirt she wore, which showed off her taut physique quite nicely—and Catherine did approve of the flat stomach and the full, rounded breasts that were available for her viewing pleasure. They probably fucked like rabbits last night. In fact, I hope they did. For it will be the last time, I swear.

"Lieutenant," she drawled in greeting. "Glad you could make it." Upon a closer view, she saw that Covington’s nose looked a little red, a little bruised. Oh dear...did she make Melinda lose her temper? It takes a lot...but it is possible, and this one is just as annoying as Daphne ever was.

"Sorry about the delay. I woke up late."

"Of course," replied the OSS operative archly. "I won't ask what detained you. That wouldn't be terribly lady-like, would it? Not that either of us are ladies." She let a grin curl her face. Let the torture begin.

To Covington's credit, the young lieutenant did not rise to the bait. She smirked in return. "I agree, neither one of us are ladies. But that shouldn't keep us from our mission, should it? Are we ready to go?"

Catherine nodded toward the bomber that sat on the runway. "Yes. Over there. Shall we?" together they walked toward the plane. Catherine pulled a silver cigarette case out of a pocket and opened it with one smooth gesture. "Cigarette, Lieutenant?"

Janice hesitated for a nanosecond, then accepted. No point in antagonizing the woman. Sometimes a cigarette is just a cigarette, no? And besides, I could use it. When she left in the morning Mel had still been asleep. She had not the heart to wake the slumbering scholar, nor had the time to leave a note. She only hoped that Mel understood somehow. But I ditched her again. Maybe now she'll ditch me...for good. I guess I deserve it.

"Thanks," she said to Catherine, as the blonde agent lit her cigarette.

"Who knows, Lieutenant...this may be the beginning of a beau-ti-ful friendship," the OSS agent declared in a sing-song voice.

Janice let the angrily spewed smoke speak for itself.

***

October, 1945

"Thank bloody Christ," Sergeant McKay said, as he opened the door of Frobisher's home, and saw Mel standing on the doorstep.

"Hello to you too, Sergeant." She strode into the townhouse, bringing with her a gust of crisp autumn air. Once again he felt like a troll next to her, and cleared his throat anxiously.

"Er, sorry, Miss Pappas. But the Colonel's been acting funny today...and I'm just glad you're here."

"What's happening?" Mel asked, as they mounted the stairs to Frobisher's bedroom.

"He won't stay in bed, and he's been wandering around everywhere. It's like he's lookin' for something, but he won't tell me what."

He probably can't, thought Mel. Since his release from the hospital almost three weeks ago, the Colonel had been unable to speak, and barely able to move. Usually when he did speak, it was nonsense, although the notes he handed to Mel yesterday made more sense than usual. Every day since he left the hospital she would come by and spend the better part of the day with him and the nurse. Usually she read to him. Her unconscious selection of reading material — Trollope's Can You Forgive Her? — irked her, the title wailing its insistent question, immediately bringing to mind her errant lover.

Yesterday, however, he had seized the notepad she had bought for him, and a pen, and rather laboriously scrawled out the following message:

I hate Trollope, it said.

She nodded sympathetically. "How about Austen?"

He made a face.

"Balzac?" I'll go through the alphabet if I have to, she thought.

He shrugged. Then nodded. Then, as if he suddenly remembered something, started to write on the pad again. After a few minutes of watching him grimace and scowl with the effort, the pad was thrust at her.

Go to Germany.

"I can't...not now," she replied firmly, mentally begging him to change the subject.

He shook his head vigorously, like a wet dog trying to get dry. "Oh!" he cried softly, in frustration, which startled her. Again he set to work on the pad. Beads of perspiration popped against his forehead.

"Take it easy," she cautioned him gently, laying a hand on his arm, which trembled under her touch. He handed another message to her:

You don't understand. It's danger.

It hit a nerve. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. "I know it's dangerous. I know. But she's a grown woman. She can take care of herself." And she better...because when I get my hands on her, I'm going to kill her, Mel had thought angrily. And while that had been the day prior, her anger still lingered, of course. She leaves without so much as a word, not even a "goodbye"...what am I supposed to think? It's my own fault too, I should've said something, I should've said so much...she is driving me insane...this whole situation is driving me insane. Mel was agonizing over this in her mind for what seemed like the millionth time when she and McKay entered the Colonel's bedroom.

The old man stood in the center of the room. His bathrobe hung limply around his thinning frame, as did his fleur-de-lis pajamas. His gray hair, uncombed, stood out in wild tufts here and there. He looked utterly confused.

"Uncle Anton, I never thought I'd ever be saying this to you, but...get into bed right now!" Mel chastised.

"Nonsense," the old man muttered. "I need..." he trailed off with a sigh.

McKay looked at her, concerned. She tapped her shoulder bag, hoping to distract him. "I did bring some Balzac," she said. It was an old leather-bound volume that she bought at a bookseller's on Portobello Road earlier in the day: A Harlot High and Low. Another title that prompted her mind to wallow in all sorts of scathing commentary concerning Janice Covington. None of which she said, of course.

He sighed and looked around the room.

"Are you looking for something?" she asked.

"Love in all the wrong places," he replied.

McKay rolled his eyes. "If you could tell me what you're looking for, I can help you," she offered. "Maybe if you try to write it down."

He shook his head. "My...bag," he said emphatically. "Leather!" he cried.

"Your briefcase!" she clarified.

He nodded vigorously.

"What d'ya need that for?" McKay asked impatiently.

Frobisher growled.

"Just...look for it, Sergeant. Please?" Mel asked.

It took him half an hour, but finally McKay found the old leather briefcase. It was in a broom closet downstairs, where McKay had shoved it weeks ago after bringing home the Colonel's clothes from the hospital. The Sergeant had apparently mistaken it for a real clothes closet.

He brought it up to Frobisher, who snatched it from him and proceeded to rummage through it with great speed. He sat on the edge of his bed, Mel beside him. Papers fell at his feet as he dug through the briefcase. Finally he was staring at a black leather binder. He thrust it at Mel.

She took it and opened it. The first word she saw, screaming out to her in blood-red letters, was CLASSIFIED.

"Anton," she protested, "I can't read this!" She shoved it at him.

He shoved it back.

She exchanged a look with McKay, who appeared just as confused—and nervous—as she.

Anton's eyes were pleading as he held out the binder to her. Reluctantly, she turned her head to the document, and started reading in her usual brisk manner. But as she progressed her mouth dropped open in quiet shock. "Oh...God," she whispered.

The classified report—it was not directed to Anton but the London head of OSS, and she had no idea how he had got a hold of it—detailed Catherine Stoller's activities in Berlin during the war. She and a fellow agent had been posing as an SS official and his wife: Hans and Lotte Steiner. Three months before the end of the war, her fellow operative was dead, an apparent suicide — an encoded radio message sent by Catherine indicated that their mission had been found out. She had escaped capture, but he did not; rather than risk revealing anything to the enemy, he took his own life. Catherine had then disappeared until resurfacing in London just after Germany's surrender.

An additional document, attached to the report, was a deposition from an SS soldier, a prisoner of war. This man claimed that, indeed, the Germans had discovered — indeed, had known for quite some time — that the officer known as Hans Steiner was a British agent. They monitored his movements for some time before arresting him. After a unsuccessful attempt at extracting information from him, he had been executed by one of their agents. A double agent. Catherine Stoller.

She let the sheaf of papers fall to floor. History repeats itself. Even the history you do not know, even the history you are not aware of.

Anton's hand sought hers, and squeezed it with more strength than she imagined he had. "Go," he said simply, his voice ravaged.

She nodded mutely. Didn’t I say I had a bad feeling about this?

[weirdponytail]

Modern Inheritance Cycle drabble: Blagden the Trickster

BLAGDEN THE TRICKSTER

(A/N: Set before the events of Eragon, probably about a year or a little more)

Arya sighed and chewed idly at the end of her pen. She was drafting several reports at once, trying to get caught up with the general paperwork that came with being not only ambassador, but soldier and scout as well.

Her desk was strewn with paper. There was a nearly finished report to Ajihad regarding the supplies the elves were sending back with her and the egg, along with a commentary on the movements sighted at the edge of Du Weldonvardon near Gil’ead, a quick note replying to King Orrin’s sixth request to see an obscure elvish text that pertained to one of his experiments (an easy denial) and finally, the current report to Queen Islanzadi giving a general goings on with the Varden and the still unresponsive egg.

The woman resisted knocking her head on the table. These reports to Islanzadi were always difficult. The subject matter was usually similar, or even the same, as the reports to the Varden, but there was always that irresistible urge to write as formally and coldly as possible. She knew that it probably irked the Queen, for there admittedly was quite a heavy dose of well disguised sarcasm and sass in the formality. Coming up on seventy years did nothing to soothe the sting of Islanzadi’s banishment.

A sudden flutter of wings and claws on hardened wood drew out another sigh. “I’m not finished yet.” Arya called. There was a loud pecking in response, harsh against the treehouse’s wall above the desk. “I said I’m not finished yet. Go back to her.”

“Wyrda!”

Arya tossed down her pen in annoyed defeat and leaned over the desk, flipping the latch on the shutters and shoving them open. There was an indignant squawk and a flurry of white wings, and then Blagden appeared on the edge of the window. He puffed his chest and croaked deep in his throat, voicing his obvious displeasure.

“I told you I’m not finished yet, Blagden.” Ignoring the elf, Blagden hopped down onto the desk and pecked at one of the small drawers that grew up the wall from the desktop. “You bloody stole bullets from me last time you were here. I’m not letting you have anything.” Determined to ignore him, Arya looked back down to her report and started writing again. The sooner she finished, the sooner Blagden would leave.

It took only thirty seconds for the incessant scratching and pecking to break that vow.

“Bloody hell, fine!” Arya opened the drawer and scooped out a handful of seeds. “Don’t take anything this time and you won’t have to wait.” Blagden chuckled to himself and hopped onto Arya’s right wrist, happily snacking. Once the food was depleted, he fluttered to her shoulder and peered down at the unfinished report, cocking his head this way and that. She knew he was reading it, intelligent as he was.

“Did she send anything?” Arya asked in the following silence. The report was almost finished. If there was anything to respond to, now would be best. Blagden bobbed his head and flew out the window again, only to return with a small sackcloth bag. He dropped it on the desk and returned to his perch, looking fairly smug. “Oh joy. Thank you, Master Blagden.”

Arya dumped the contents out onto the table. Instead of the usual missive, out tumbled a simple folded note and, oddly enough, a bullet. It clattered onto the desk and nearly rolled off the edge before the elf snatched it up and placed it with the bullets she had lined up to reload her pistol. “That doesn’t bode well. What did I do this time?” She muttered, unfolding the note.

The handwriting was unmistakable.

Ambasador,

I’d thank you for your gift of bullets along with each of your reports, but as I can only assume you are advising me, again, after many past disagreements, to arm myself in the fight against Galbatorix in your own tactless way, I would ask you to stop. It is unbecoming and petty to send such an open and dare I say threatening addition to formal reports to your Queen.

Sincerely, Queen Islanzandi.

“What? I haven't been sending—”

And then it dawned on her.

In a flurry of motion the elf’s hand darted out and just missed clamping down on white tail feathers. Blagden, a new bullet already grasped in one talon and the nearly finished report clutched in his beak, cackled madly as he took flight from the window.

Arya swore loudly and lept to the full sized port in the tree, throwing open the shutters with a clatter. Blagden was circling out of reach, his garbled, croaking laugh drifting down as he practically taunted the young elf below.

“BLAGDEN, GET BACK HERE YOU LITTLE TWIT!” The raven seemed to laugh harder, circling twice more before veering off in the direction of Tildari Hall. “DAMN IT, I DON’T CARE IF WE’RE VEGAN! IF YOU DO THIS AGAIN I’LL FRY YOU IN RHUNÖN’S FORGE LIKE A BLOODY CHICKEN, YOU HEAR ME?!” ~ Later that same day Arya found herself stalking down a familiar hallway, wearing the emotionless mask of politics as she always did in this section of Ellesmera and paper in hand. The office wasn't empty, but the door was closed and locked, enough of a barrier to prevent any violation of past decrees.

As she strode past that particular door, Arya smoothly bent, slipped the paper under the crack, and continued on her way.

Even as the door receded, her keen ears picked up the angry snap of authority.

“Master Blagden! Explain yourself!”

Arya couldn't help but smirk.

[cartoonfangirl1218]

Starved

WARNING: So this is a very angsty hurt comfort, Estoma fic of which I totally blame reading Empire of Ashes again. Anyway, this has mentions of rape/miscarriage/grief/death. If you don’t like reading or getting triggered by this, DO NOT read. The lovely @pizzansunshine helped to edit this and make it flow better but any grammar mistakes are my own. 

The putrid stench of dirt, blood and beer filled her nose matching the enduring stain on her legs like an invading rainstorm. Heavy, unmovable and filled with moisture that seemed to seep into every orifice it could find, diminishing any chance for fresh air to come through. It felt like she was drowning in air. Yet while her nose was clogged, her stomach was hollow.

Well not completely empty. The scratching against the sides of her stomach was constant as if the hunger was trying to tear itself out.

It wouldn’t stop, it commanded attention with its short pierced stabs in her sides and long agonizing scratches up her throat.

Her throat felt like it could be a bloody mess based on the pain the hunger wrought as it clawed yet she knew it was parched because of how it hurt when she tried to gulp a breath of fresh air that wasn’t available.

She tried to take in a deep breath but her throat constricted tightly as her stomach stabbed once more. She wanted food.

She panted, wondering how on earth she would get that food. Her mind tried to think but it was numb, the only time it broke from the fog was to register the stabbing pain. Her eyes tried to see but bleary darkness was all that came through.

As Doña tried to sit up, the smooth silk under her fingers felt out of place, unreal. She rubbed the silk roughly, waiting for it to tear like cheap cotton. When it didn’t, she forced her to open and focus. Focus until the black dots faded from her vision and she saw the silk.

The silk from her bedsheets in her opulent guest room of someone else’s palace.

Doña almost fell back onto the soft pillows with happiness that this was her reality. She was rich, she was safe.

The smell dissipated and the feeling of blood trailing down her legs faded. Her stomach still ached but her absolute relief made the pain bearable. She reached over to her left side for her bowl of berries that she took from the dining room to put on the night drawer right next to her. The berries’ sweet liquid flowed down her throat, easing the scratches of the monster hunger, soothing the angry throbbing. A material proof that she was secure in status and money and those evils could never touch her.

The phantom pain was all just a nightmare. Well a memory of her nightmarish past. But one that would never happen again.

She finished the bowl, stopping short of licking it and relaxed into a sitting position, letting her breath start to lull her back to sleep.

Then she noticed the emptiness still quivering in her stomach. She waited, expecting it to fade but it stayed. She could never quite describe the old hunger pangs from years and years ago. Her chest grew tight, a sharp contrast to the hollowed lightness of her stomach as she shut her eyes tight, hoping that the hunger pangs would fade on their own, but she knew from experience that it wouldn’t happen.

This wasn’t her home, she couldn’t just go to the kitchen to get a midnight snack, she had to just wait until morning when the king ordered all the ambassadors to breakfast.

Then her stomach clenched.

Whether it clenched from fear or hunger, she didn’t know but it scared her enough to make her gasp. It clenched again and a strangled sob choked out. Her mind flashbacked to the previous periods of intense hunger pains. They always started out with just one or two stabs but then it would become relentless. Stabbing at every second of the day with unbearable degrees of affliction. Her body would grow weak and useless while the hunger remained strong.

The faint stabbing could have been conjured from her memory but the fear of not knowing whether it was real or not just made the faint cramps feel worse. A sampling of what was to come.

As if she didn’t already know.

In a burst of anxious desperation, she lunged for the bowl again, hoping for one more scrap but the quick movement sent it shattering to the floor.

She hugged her knees to the chest as if to make hold back the hunger. That her body could be a prison to keep it from growing but she knew it was worthless. She could not control the hunger, it was a commanding force that dominated everything. She held tight, digging her nails into her skin in an effort to concentrate on any pain but the one inside.

Just stay that way until morning.

Her mind started plaguing that thought with how naive that idea was. What if the king decided not to give them breakfast? What if they gave small portions? What if she wasn’t able to make until morning? It had happened before, she underestimated how long she could last and ended up fainting in the middle of the crowded floor. Then the nightmare would begin all over again. What if...

“Halt! I have a weapon.” A male voice hissed menacingly from behind the doorway. With a sudden bang, the mysterious kicked the door open, wielding a fire-poker.  

Doña stared shocked at the figure, but as he came closer she realized it was merely her partner on the trip, Chancellor Esteban. She turned on the lamp on her nightdesk, bringing the wary shadows to a blinding light glinting off the gilded edges of the furniture.

“I heard a crash through the wall so I came.” Esteban said sternly, still holding the fire-poker in a tight grip. It would have been a threatening sight if his crown printed boxers couldn’t be seen peeking from underneath his long nightshirt.

“I knocked something over while I was sleeping.” Doña managed to push past the lump in her throat to speak softly, “I’m fine. Go back to bed.”

“You’re crying.” Esteban stated a matter of factly.

Doña touched her eyes, confirming that they were indeed wet. She hadn’t noticed herself tearing up, she assumed she was past that point of fear.

“Nightmare.” Doña cleared her throat, “Perfectly natural thing. Good night.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Esteban lowered the fire-poker, closing the door behind him.

Doña sighed. She wished that she knew someone else beside the Chancellor. It felt so unprofessional to confide her fears to someone she worked with. Another barrier was the fact that he was a royal, he would never understand. But she had already broke down to him that her family was dead last Dia de Los Muertos. 

Sure, she lied. Everything he thought he knew about her was a lie. She had said was born and raised in Nueva Vista. That she was the daughter of wealthy merchants. After university, her parents sent her to Avalor City to learn the value of money. Her family died from the plague that hit Nueva Vista while she was away. But either way, she told him the truth of how depressed she was. He told her of his family so she supposed any sense of professionalism in knowing personal history was disposed of.

“I’ve had this nightmare before I’m used to it.” Doña tried one more to dissuade him to leave but he just stood there waiting patiently. “It was about starvation.”

“Ah,” an understanding look dawned on Esteban’s face and he came to sit on the bed next to her. “The hunger pains. I remember them. After that...that dark time when Shuriki took the throne and deposed my family. I couldn’t bring myself to eat. Starved for at least two weeks.”

Doña looked at him incredulously as he sadly accounted those dark weeks of Shuriki’s beginning reign where he felt hunger claw at his stomach.

“That is hardly starvation.” Doña sneered. Her chest tightened again in agreement with her anger at his “hunger.”

“What? I didn’t have food for days. I started getting dizzy..” Esteban explained confusedly

“Oh sure that’s starvation setting in. Fine, yes. But it’s not the same. You chose not to eat because you were upset. I had no choice. I didn’t know when the starvation was going to end. You’re not scared of starving. I’m petrified of it.” She snapped, each sentence punctuated by an ache to make her point.

“Oh.” Esteban closed his mouth looking uncomfortable, “I suppose I was wro- I was presumptuous. Some people don’t want to die by fire, you don’t want to die by starving.”

Doña looked at him, shaking her head, “It’s not dying as so much as the starving itself that scares me.”

The room was still and neither one of them moved. Doña stared at her hands noticing how pale they looked. Once decades ago, they were a dark tan from the sun, at one point they had been so pale they looked like they would disappear into the bone.

“I already told you my family died from it or from sickness.” She had seen two of her brothers die from starvation before I left home. Not that he knew that. “My brothers. Benito was the baby, so of course he was too weak to survive anything. That was sad because..well he was a baby. Babies shouldn’t die.

“It was my older brother that was worse. Sebastian was the firstborn. Firstborns are special and he was...he was amazing. He had it all. Strength, charisma, bossy he was also a pain in the ass with those same traits. He was just so alive. Then he was.. I saw how, I mean their letters said that he gave up. He didn’t want to move or try to survive. Sebastian said there was no point to it. He used to be the rock and joy of our family. The protector and then.... You cannot live off love alone.”

She looked up again to see Esteban nodded sagely, staring past of her at the painting on the wall. No doubt imagining his family that he couldn’t help.

“When I came to the city, that’s when I really start to feel the starvation. They hadn’t given me money and I had thought it’d be easy to get a job that would pay enough. But it turns out there’s a choice between paying rent and paying for food. I’m sure you at least know that no part of starving is good. It all feels equally painful. But the pain it brings is awful for its consistency. It gives no reprieves until you eat enough. Let me tell you, when you’re working 14 hours a day. You don’t get the buffet your stomach wants you to have. At some points I just want to turn my insides out to just get rid of it. But that’s what makes it worse, you can’t get rid of it. You can’t throw up and be done with it. You can’t be done with it’s because all you can think about. All the time.”

She paused to see how Esteban was digesting the information. He was no longer staring at the painting, but listening intently. She couldn’t discern what he was thinking though, but decided to plow on. 

“What I loathe most is how helpless the hunger makes you, your body fails you. Everything feels heavy, the ground always tilted and the dizziness. You can’t trust what’s in front of you. I saw these dark spots and blurriness and cruel hallucinations of food that wasn’t there. It was enough to drive you insane. I didn’t know when it was ever going to end and I couldn’t stop it. Then I fainted,”

Doña paused, shaking slightly and wondered if she should continue. She never confided the following events to anyone. Moreover, would sharing it be inappropriate? Would Esteban even want to know such personal information?  

“You fainted?” Esteban prompted softly.

Doña took a deep breath and cringed as her stomach clenched. She could say it. It happened years ago, she was past it. Worst case scenario would be he would awkwardly move past the subject or dismiss it. She could deal with it. 

“I fainted while I was..” Waitressing. She had been waitressing but he didn’t know that. She had told him she had been a salesperson until she became magister. 

“Walking” she lied. She had usually ate the leftovers from the plates at waitressing but that day...

“I guess I didn’t eat too much... I fainted. When I woke up in this back room I—” Doña’ s body tensed, swallowing hard against the lump lodged in her throat, “There was a man inside..on top of me—H-He had carried me away from the floor and so, my hero decided to reward himself.” Doña’s eyes glazed over with a faraway look at the ceiling, “I think I went unconscious a couple of times during it. I don’t know. I just remember the ceiling. I didn't look at him; I didn’t want to remember his face. It’s enough that I can remember his hands feeling my body.”

Roaming, grabbing any piece of bare skin he could touch. She had stared at that ceiling praying for him to be satisfied or that when she black out again, he’d be gone. Her mother’s voice echoing how special her first time would be. It would hurt at first, the first time always hurt, but it was something you’d always remember. 

It had been awful. She felt like the whore people always said she was meant to be. Not good enough to be married, not worth enough to be even paid for a bed like a prostitute. Ferdinand was right. She was stupid to think she could save herself for marriage, she wasn’t rich, she wasn’t special, why should anyone care about saving her virginity. She was just a whore.  “It’s almost fitting that,” Doña choked back her tears, “Th-that second time I fainted and woke up bleeding was three months later. The nurse said I had a miscarriage.”

Esteban squeezed her shoulder and whispered, “I’m sorry.” A small comfort that kept her from thinking too much about that awful day.

“It’s better probably. I wouldn’t have been able to be a good mother. I didn’t even know I was pregnant until i-it happen, that’s hardly a good indicator of my maternal abilities.” Doña muttered bitterly as a wave of sadness washed over her. She had been stupid and naive. Only the rich get to have adoring husbands with kids not born out of wedlock. The rich never get denied what they want. 

She had only been a uneducated village girl, no one needed to respect her. She cringed to remember what her employer had said after demanding an explanation for her fainting spell and subsequent disappearance, “Please don’t tell me your one of those stupid villagers that thinks he needs to marry you for taking your virginity?” With the horrified “no,” the woman rolled her eyes. She exasperated let scolded her, “Do I look like your mother, why are you telling me this? I don’t care! Village girls get raped all the time. You’re not special, get over it. I’m paying you to do your job, not break my plates and come to me for sympathy for your our sob story. Like that will make me pass over your total incompetence! I don’t work that way. Get out there and pay me back.” The nurse had said a similar thing, it didn’t matter. “Be strong, don’t let one night ruin the rest of your life.” 

It was then she realized that her feelings, her wants didn’t matter. Not to her family who had far greater troubles on their mind or anyone else. After all, it only mattered to her that she been raped. Only she cared that she had miscarriage. Only she felt lonely. It only mattered to her that she wanted to be comforted.

She had learned never to expect that comfort from others, not unless it directly benefited them or directly manipulated her. It was hard, but it was life. 

But that was fine. She was rich now. No one knew the truth. No one thought she was uneducated and stupid. People would defend her. She could pay them to care. She was too powerful to be messed with. 

She didn’t notice that Esteban had smoothed his face to a neutral expression that wouldn't betray the twisted churning in his stomach from hearing these horrific events. He felt like he should say something but it seemed awkward to do so knowing how she disliked showing weakness to people, especially him.

“Did you tell anyone?” Esteban asked sounding uncharacteristically worried for her.

“I told the nurse who cleaned me up and I wrote to my family afterwards. I knew that they couldn’t do anything about it but, but I asked if I can come home for a little bit. I missed them and I really really didn’t want to be alone. I begged and begged to come home.” Doña shook her head remembering how desperate she had been. She had even wrote a whole paragraph of just the word “please” as if that patheticness would drive her point.

All she wanted was to be with the people she knew, and trusted. She wanted that stable familiar love and comfort only family could give and be held while curled up in a fetal position.  

“But they said no.” 

They depended on her to get money so they could survive. No time to waste on sadness. They were hungry. She could get through it. She could take care of it like everything else. They had faith in her. 

“They didn’t want me to come back. I’m the capable one. I could survive this..” Doña continued, in trying to hold the dry sobs that she wanted to let out, her voice was more worn out then she had meant to sound, “I didn’t bother telling them about the miscarriage.”

That’s how the letters home usually went. Everytime she requested -pleaded- to come home, the answer was always “no.” Telling her to stay concentrated at work. They needed the money more than a family reunion. Once she made enough then they could be together.

She knew it was practical. Food and survival were far more important than emotional support. She knew that. 

But sometimes she would stare at those letters and feel worse, an irrational sense of abandonment. There were no words of encouragement. Just requests for money. She would wonder whether they still thought of her as part of the family. They all had each other if needed. She was so far away and alone. She wished that they had asked how she was, how they wanted her back too. 

She didn’t want to be their provider, she wanted to be their daughter!

Maybe that’s why she had been so eager to go back to Ferdinand’s arms. 

It had been a few months into her new job as Magister, just closed up shop for the night when a knock came at the door. As annoying as it was to see late customers, they were still customers and they brought the money.  But it was him.

Esteban must have noticed her grimace as she remembered the shock of seeing him after almost 10 years, “Is there something else?” 

Oh there was. Bitten lips, pulled hair, being so painfully conscious the whole time.. But she couldn’t, there were no excuses... that night had been all her fault. 

Ferdinand had entered the store. The same knowing look, some pride in his eyes, surprise at her new appearance but more that than, he looked like a man on a mission. She was pulled in by his casual manner, shared reminisces of the past, of the people they knew, the things they had done. And maybe she had been a bit proud too. She was rich now, and one of the most important people in all of Avalor. They were on the same level. He would respect her. He was so friendly, it almost seemed inappropriate to bring up past of how he abandoned her when she needed him most, how he did nothing to defend her from his parents, that he didn’t even have the decency to help her family with food. Not as fiancé but as human being to another human being. 

Maybe she was still a little mad, but he was here and she needed to know something. How did they did? Did they hate her? “Why would they hate you?” 

The whole story came out in uncontrolled sobs, the departure, the years alone at work, the first assault, the election, finding out the news. The first time she spilled of her convoluted feelings and emotions instead of being the strong one. Why bother? There was no one to be strong for. 

Ferdinand listened silently until she repeated her question, “Do you think they hated me for failing?” 

“Why.. it would be unfair of them to. I mean, they brought it on themselves. Depending on you to make all the money and not doing anything themselves.”  At that her tears disappeared and the fires of anger that had been missing for years came back.

"Do not speak ill of the dead." Hortensia snapped.

“I'm just saying, it's wrong to send a child to be expected to be the provider." Ferdinand said disdainfully. 

"Oh please. That's just from your point of view. You damn pampered highborns are too sheltered so you think working as a teenager is child abuse. It's not. We have responsibilities to the family. We grow faster." Hortensia retorted coldly, making a point to sniff disdainfully at the family crest on his jacket. 

Ferdinand didn't change his stance, "Doesn't matter how mature you are. You were still just 17. You were as sheltered as me, you never left the village. You shouldn't have been trusted with that much." 

"It was complicated. My brother was dead and the others were actual children that couldn't go to work, they needed our parents with them so I was the logical choice. I was-" Hortensia defended.

“So you didn't feel abandoned at all, not even once? Did they ever reach out after your rape? Did they-"

"They couldn't have. My father was sick and my mom died like a week after. We didn't have money, they couldn't waste it on me. There are more important things than me." 

"Why that doesn't sound like abandonment at all. You're in denial." Ferdinand said sternly. What was worse was his patronizing tone but his eyes, cold and almost disbelief at her denial. As if he expected her to be better. Hortensia's face burned, at being underestimated, that he thought she was so stupid that she didn't recognize the obvious.  She knew what she felt, abandonment had been one of them, but she hadn't allowed herself to admit. It would be too distracting to wallow in her feelings. But the way he looked at her.... he had to understand even if she did feel abandoned, it was not her parent's fault. The circumstances were stacked up against them, he had to see that. 

"Yes, I felt abandoned, and hated being the provider but.. what else could be done? Everything was- there was no way to.." 

"Your parents made a mistake. I mean maybe one of them could have gone to the city. Maybe he or she would have made more money and things would have turned out better for you. But who knows, maybe it would have been the same outcome as this. " Ferdinand said, his voice lost its steel edge, becoming something akin to comfort, "But don't you see, admitting that it wasn't entirely your fault didn't make the world explode." Hortensia tried to protest but he held a finger to her lips and drew her to his arms, "Not that it was their fault either. Like you said, they loved you. They're not bad people for pressuring you and abandoning you. It was an awful circumstance. A lose-lose situation all around." 

Hortensia relaxed into his chest, feeling exhausted from the emotions that she usually repressed. Relief that he did not blame her parents as she feared. Feeling lulled by the sympathy he was showing. The first taste of sympathy in what felt like forever. 

Hortensia coughed, trying her best to clear the lump in her throat but only managed to croak out, "I-I know it's not only my fault but it's easier. I just- I know that they didn't mean to, and I forgive them. I don't blame them at all for it but I- I don't want to think of it that way. That it's partly their fault when they can't explain themselves. It's not fair. It's not the dead's fault that they're dead."

Even though it wasn't only her fault, it was mostly her fault. she could have done so much more, Hortensia thought to herself. Maybe she wouldn't have gotten all the money, but she could have worked more, worked faster. Take triple shifts. Instead of crying over her tiredness and in grief of everyone she was missing.  She looked up and saw Ferdinand’s face. His sweet, understanding eyes. His forehead creased with concern and Hortensia felt her stomach sink as he shifted uneasily, holding her tighter in his arms. Like he was trying to shield her for a fatal attack. “As for dying in hatred.. I can’t say for sure since I had left for the city here but.....logically speaking, I would think they did.”  Which she promptly burst into tears again. “I’m sorry, Hortensia, but think about it. Think logically. You thought it was your responsibility, they thought it was your responsibility, and if I was your..hmmm one of your siblings perhaps living in the squalor, I would be pretty resentful too. Especially with the slow death of starvation, gnawing at my stomach. While you flitted away, knowing that I was waiting for you, and your hard earned money. You should have worked faster.” 

Then his voice became softer, “Let it out. It’s good. You needed closure. And you know, while I’m here, maybe we should get closure. We did part so abruptly.” 

He, as he reminded her, knew her so well. He knew who she really was. He knew she was worthless. A magister of trade who was uneducated, peasant-born, greedy, alone. So alone. She had no family left. Which was her fault. She was a failure as a daughter. He knew the truth. And he wasn’t afraid to make her face it. 

He had loved her once despite that flaws. That’s what love is after all. What they had wasn’t love. From the little she told her ex-boyfriend of Ferdinand, he explained that what he had done was abuse. Emotional abuse. Apparently that was a thing. Your SO shouldn’t call you worthless. You shouldn’t believe it. What they had was not love. 

So just say yes. Say yes. He could make her feel so good. It would be like old times again. They could have that marital night, they had planned for. Say yes. She wasn’t saving herself for marriage. She didn’t have any virginity. Yes, she lost it from rape, surprising really. He had thought she would have tried a lot harder to close her legs. She certainly fought  him and he had been her fiancé!  She would have fought him. She had been unconscious when it happened. She didn’t just allow to get raped. 

But... he had told her that it might happen. Her virginity wasn’t special. No one would respect it. She should have given herself to him like he told her to. He could have given her a good first time. Like tonight, he could show her how it should have been. This was her one chance. It’s not like she was surrounded by people. Not ones who would care about her if they knew the truth. He was here. Her family was dead. He could help her forget for a night. He could make her feel loved again. How long had it been since then? Wouldn't she rather be with him then stay here with only her thoughts for company. They died hating her. Her family died hating her. 

The decision was obvious. She wouldn’t be so stupid as to let a petty grudge keep herself from her true feelings. He hadn’t wanted to leave her. He had done it for his parents. She knew the feeling after all. Family was most important. Listen to the parents. That’s what she did..well, she didn’t do so well since they were dead and all but she understood the principle of the thing. They had something together. He was here, after all these years. They had to have closure. He needed it. He would come back. Everyday if he must. She knew he would. He was always so persistent. He just wore her down. 

Closure is important. Just say-

“Yes.” Anything...anything to make him stop talking. Anything to get him to leave. 

She couldn’t listen to anymore especially as the grief of hearing her family’s disdain for her made his words slur and mumble together in a pounding migraine.  

That one yes was enough. It was consent despite all the “No”s and “stops” that came after. 

“You’re the magister of trade, you know you can’t just back out of a deal.” He hissed, pinning her arm behind. It was too much. 

“It’s too similar.” “It’s not like that. We can’t just stop. You agreed to this!” She knew that. She wasn’t trying to back out. She just couldn’t breath. If he could just stop for a moment. She would still do it, she just wanted a minute to compose herself. She was going to throw up. She was going to faint. She couldn’t faint. It’d be too similar to before. She wanted to breath.

“Stop crying. Focus on me. Stop thinking about the past.” She couldn’t stop. She couldn’t stop seeing her family’s face. Her dead family in the dirt. 

“It’s only painful because you’re so uptight. It wouldn’t hurt so much if you stopped fighting me. Just stop it!” 

She did eventually. She was exhausted. He was right, as usual, once she stopped fighting, it was easier. She could let go of the emotional pain of the past and focus on the agonizing present physical pain. There were harsh spank that she had always hated, the brief feelings of pleasure, he had always know to use those fingers, but also a numbness. She didn’t care anymore. 

She just had to hold on until the closure was over. And when it was, he left. 

He informed her it couldn’t happen again. He was getting married non two days. To a proper girl. A high countess, that his parents loved. One that he respected and admired since she was the same class. He could hold conversations with her because she was on his level. But he was grateful for this night for the closure. To let off steam. Especially since his parents said a bachelor party was vulgar. No brothels. No prostitutes. 

She had never felt so much like a whore.  She told Ferdinand everything and it hadn’t mattered. It was like she hadn’t even said anything at all. Only she cared.   

She suppose this is was what her parents had meant by when you grow up, all you wanted was to be a child again. She wanted that, she had wanted them to be the ones to fix things and be responsible. She wanted them to listen and to care about her feelings. 

She knew that it was selfish. They had other priorities besides her. The money was the most important. They trusted her to be able to get that money on time. She may have been 17 but that was practically an adulthood in their village. She was responsible, she was capable. The fact that she failed. Well that was her own fault. 

But despite all those feelings of loneliness and isolation, knowing that her family was there gave her a reason to keep moving forward. She knew she wasn’t alone.

“That is why I’m scared of starving. It’s the debilitating pain that affects everything you do or see. I’m scared of being that helpless again. I'm scared because my family was the only reason I fought through it. And now they’re gone. And I’m scared that if I ever end up starving, I’m going to have to go through all that anguish again. Esteban, I don’t want to die but my family was behind me at least and now, they’re dead. I don’t think I have the strength or energy to fight at all.” Doña’s voice finally cracked and all the sobs she thought her dry throat wouldn’t emit, came out.

“It’s okay, Doña. It’s fine. It won’t ever happen again. I’m sure of it.” Esteban patted her back awkwardly as she cried into his hands. “I won’t let it happen to you.”

“That’s nice. But telling me what I want to hear just to make me feel better is basically a white lie. Don’t bother.” Doña managed to say, angrily swiping at the tears covering her vision.

She heard it all before. “I can handle anything you throw at me” boasted men offering to keep her bed warm to “It’s fine. Your word is law. I’m okay with what you want” from spineless employees who didn’t want to argue with her. It was always the same, all talk, no results.

Irritated and exhausted by this pity inducing story that was not going to bring back what she had lost—Doña rose from the bed and opened her door, trying not to grimace at the stabbing pain in her stomach. She had forgotten about the pain in her distraction with telling her story, but it clearly had no intention of disappearing for long.

“So that was nightmare,” she gestured for him to take his leave.“Thank you for caring enough to stop by. Now we really should sleep because we have business tomorrow.”

“But I was-” Esteban protested looking at her with what Doña considered one of the worst expressions—pity. She didn’t need pity. Not from herself. Not from anyone else. And certainly not from him. 

It took years for her to master the art of pretending that she had always lived in the lap of luxury, that she had always been sophisticated and elegant and in the know. A beautiful, smart merchant that humbly gave her service to others by working as the Magister of Trade.

How would people look at her if they knew the truth? A village girl, dropped out of school after her quinceñera who hadn’t even known the difference between hot pink and fuscia until 14 years ago. Who had failed to help the people she loved. Someone that would be so easy to manipulate instead of the reputation she had built to appear aloof, hardened. It was the only way to be taken seriously in business. 

Any sort of weakness would be used against you and despite the fact that they worked together, Doña knew Esteban would rather get his way. What better excuse than firing her from a project for being too much of an emotional mess.

“It’s fine, you wanted to make me feel better I know.” Doña held up her hand for silence, “But it’s one thing to make someone feel better, it’s another to actually be depended upon to follow through on fixing the problem and care about something that has no bearing on you.

Isn’t that sort of why we miss our families so much? They’re the only ones who cares for us, unconditionally. They care about your problems. About you. And they’re the only ones who’ll do that because no one else will. No one else wants to.”

Unless your family is so poor that they can only care about the money for necessities so all other problems fall to the wayside. So poor that they depend on their daughter to be the provider and not let her come home until all the money came through. Which never happened.

“You expect so little from people. That’s sad,” Esteban commented.

It could have happened, a nagging voice reminded her, if only you worked harder and put more effort. If only you were less selfish. If only you sent more money home. You could have had that family reunion you wanted. You only have yourself to blame. Only you and you alone. Always alone. 

“I expect nothing from people. That’s life,” Doña corrected crisply, trying to force her mind not to wander off, to stay focused on the present. 

But her mind refused to listen to her wants. She was hit by another wave of helplessness and agony. Her family probably hadn’t wanted her back anyway. After all that she failed to do. She had wasted time, wanting for a reunion and wanting to feel loved as they were dying. They would have hated her for acting all high and mighty like the rich people they used to insult. They died hating her for her slowness, for prolonging their starvation and suffering by not getting the money on time. It was only logical for them to feel that way. 

They died hating her. 

That was far worse than the starvation itself. 

Doña gasped, trying to hold back the wail that was threatening to rise up. Clenching her fist, she gripped her dress and focused on Esteban as he walked to the door, turned and firmly held her shoulder, speaking in a low voice. His eyes echoed the seriousness in his tone with a hint of earnestness. Hope that she would believe his words. 

“There are some things only familia can do.” He agreed, “But I wasn’t lying to make you feel better. While I think that it is very unlikely that you will to lose this job even if you did I won’t let you go through that starving period again. No one should have to survive that twice. If that ever happened I’ll help you find a job. I’ll deliver the food if you request it. I promise I will take care of you.”

Doña hesitated on whether to shrug off his touch. If she accepted it, it would only lead to more pain. She had used to long for any touch of affection but after a while she began to hate the gnawing pain that plagued her whenever someone who once held her tenderly, rejected her when she requested another touch. 

Like whenever she asked her family if she could go home. It was always a no. That rejection always stung more than any physical pain. Rejection always hurt more when it came from someone you loved.  She was fine with being alone. She really really was. Okay, maybe not, who would be? But it was beginning to feel normal so she had to guard against futile  connections offering comfort with no follow through. 

And that is exactly what she was going to avoid from Esteban. Especially Esteban. He was so easily consumed by work and Shuriki, he’d forget. Then where would she be? 

They had been perfectly professional until now. Adding affection was just a slippery slope and she knew she would inevitably, despite any oaths she made, she would eventually come to care for him too. 

She wanted to roll her eyes instead at his gesture. Dismiss this pledge as a moment of he playing the benevolent royal combined with a shining knight complex that would be forgotten once his life got occupied again by Shuriki and he realized he had no real obligation to fulfill his promise. Another predictable rejection in her life she could see coming. 

They weren't relatives nor lovers. They were simply business partners who have shared a common goal to better the kingdom despite arguing over how to do that and occasionally bear witness to a more human side. Independent but together.

But she would be lying if she said that she didn’t want to trust him to play the role of benevolent provider. 

As if sensing her disbelief, Esteban repeated, “I’m not lying.”

Doña looked at his eyes and was stunned by the intensity of his gaze. His dark brown eyes had a steady determination about them mixed with- she realized it was not pity exactly but— Assurance? Commitment?

The same look he had whenever he spoke of bettering the kingdom. The same look of when he mentioned that he wished he told his family of his love for them. He truly meant what he said.

An overwhelming feeling of relief hit her. A different kind. This kind relaxed her body knowing that she would be safe. Filled her with a thankfulness knowing that she wouldn’t be entirely alone and dissolved the hunger pains that had been taunting her for decades.

“Thank you thank you thank you thank you!” Doña impulsively hugged him, mumbling the words into his shoulder.

“No one has ever offered to” -take care of me? Comfort me? Provide for me?- “do this for me.” she managed to say.

There was so much more she wanted to say but no words to describe how much this promise meant to her. She could only repeat “Thank you” over and over.

“It is nothing.” Esteban said, awkwardly patting her on the back, “We are fri-companions and with that comes the fact that for the last few years we have been working with each other, and looking out for each other to an extent. This is the same.”

Doña pulled back from the hug, and smoothed her face to one that would not show the childlike happiness she felt by his gesture. She sensed their moment of emotional divulgence had ended and it was time to revert back to their normal cool detachment, but the emotions she felt inside were all other than focused on professionalism.

“And I will do the same for you.” Doña said softly, nodding in his direction as he closed the door.

“It goes without saying.” Esteban murmured and the door closed with a click. 

Doña gave in to the urge to do a brief twirl before falling into the bed, revealing in the new feeling of lightness.

They were never going to discuss what had happened tonight but this new agreement between them was enough for her to feel safe, like having a home again. Almost like having a family again. Bound to care for each other despite their arguments or how much they pretended that they didn’t.

Almost family....she could settle for that.

[green-eyeddragonfanfiction]

Time: Chapter 3

Summary: Soulmate!AU/Reincarnation!AU. Female!Reader lives in a world where alien invasions and hordes of death robots occur and past lives and soulmates are very real. Like most people, she gets brief glimpses of her past. although a person’s past lives and their current life may have little to nothing in common, soul mates tend to transfer between lives, the core of a person staying the same throughout the eons. Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader, Steve Rogers x Female!Reader Warnings: Language, violence, blood/injuries Word Count: ~3,092 A/N: This actually started out as part of Chapter 2, but then I realized it was 5.3k words, so I broke it up instead <<;;

Masterlist // Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

You flicked on the TV, curious to see if the mystery danger would make it onto the news. You turned to a news station and were shocked to see Steve’s face plastered all over the screen. The reporter was outside of the Triskelion, SHIELD’s huge base on the Potomac, and claimed that Captain America was now a fugitive of the state and SHIELD. They said he had a part in assassinating SHIELD Director Nick Fury alongside a redhead you recognized as Black Widow. They urged the public to keep an eye out for these “fugitives” and send any helpful tips into the police. You turned the TV off and looked out the window, suddenly fearful for Steve’s life. You knew he didn’t do it, but the rest of the country probably wouldn’t be as convinced of his innocence as you.

“Oh, Stevie. What did you get yourself into?”

You awoke early the next morning. Today was your meeting with the ambassador. You hastily dressed in the nicest set of clothes you’d brought with you, slipping on stylish flats in lieu of heels. With the city in the state of chaos that it was, you didn’t feel like getting caught in a sticky situation in pumps. You made your way to the ambassador’s office. Luckily for you, it was within walking distance. You’d been able to save yourself some cab money. You arrived exactly on time.

You were directed into a small but nicely decorated office and sat down in one of the comfortable black leather armchairs. The woman at the desk across from you wasted no time. “Alright, let’s get this over with. SHIELD is unveiling something big today and I need to be there to witness it,” said the ambassador’s agent. She rifled through papers on her desk until she found the one with your petition on it.

“I see, Miss (Y/L/N). I regret that something this minor wasn’t dealt with at... lower levels. These people you’d be staying with are family on your...?”

“Mother’s side, ma’am,” you said quickly, not wanting to give the woman more reason to be short with you.

“Yes, the Ardeleans. According to this sheet, they’re a good family from around Bucharest. Your aunt married into their family, no?” she asked, eyeing you over the paper.

“That’s correct, ma’am,” you said, nodding.

“And your business in my country?”

“A mix of sightseeing, visiting family, and working for them for a few years before I return to the states,” you said earnestly.

She assessed you coolly over the rims of her glasses before she nodded her head almost imperceptibly. “Alright, Miss (Y/L/N). Consider your visa approved. I’m sorry for the delay this entire issue has caused you. I regret even further that it brought you all the way out to DC... and to me. No offense, but this was a waste of my time,” she said, smiling slightly at you.

You smiled kindly back, too happy that you’d finally been approved to be offended. “No offense taken, ma’am,” you said, standing and shaking her hand. You turned to leave her office but paused at the door. You turned to look over your shoulder at her. “Be careful out there today... and thanks again,” you said, giving her one last smile. She rolled her eyes at you good-naturedly and made a show of shooing you off, but happily wished you a good day anyway.

You were halfway to your hotel when you first saw them. People had stopped on the sidewalk to gawk and point. You followed the direction they were looking in and gasped when you saw it. There, next to where you knew the Triskelion to be, were three huge helicarriers. Even from here, you could see that they were outfitted with huge guns.

This must be what Steve had been talking about. You knew after one glance, though, that no building you would ever be allowed in could keep you safe from those things.

They rose slowly into the sky, harbingers of doom preparing for annihilation. For the second time in two years, you ignored all of your senses that told you to run away and, instead, decided to face the danger head-on. Or, more accurately, run straight for it.

You hailed a taxi and directed him to head towards the Potomac and the huge airships in the sky. Like most people, the taxi driver didn’t seem concerned that there were huge death ships floating in the sky above his head. That concerned you more than anything else. Was this the new normal for this day and age? You didn’t like it.

As you got closer to the Potomac, the streets got busier and busier. Before long you asked him to let you out, throwing a few twenties at him as you hopped out of the back seat and started running.

You hadn’t made it more than ten feet away from the taxi when you heard cannonfire and explosions above you. You looked up into the sky, shielding your eyes from the sun with your hand, and felt your jaw drop. The huge helicarriers had begun firing on each other.

“Steve,” you breathed, heart beating so hard you thought it might beat out of your chest. There was no doubt in your mind Steve was somehow a part of this, even if it wasn’t in the way most of society thought he was. You hoped against hopes that he wasn’t stupid enough to be on one of those helicarriers, but you knew he almost definitely was. Whoever was in charge of those things wouldn’t make them fire on each other unless something had gone horribly wrong, and being in the middle of horribly wrong situations was Steve’s specialty.

You watched in horror as the helicarriers blew each other to bits. One managed to stay in the air a little longer than the others, but eventually it, too, fell into the Potomac. You didn’t realize you were running to the river shore until you were already there. Across the river, the Triskelion was on fire. It looked like one of the helicarriers had taken a huge chunk out of it on the way down. You ran along the shore, trying to get a better view of the destruction from there. You hoped against hope there’d be a sign- any sign at all- that Steve was okay. You burst through a clump of bushes, cursing as thorns scratched your legs through your pants. Movement across the small riverside clearing caught your eye. Your eyes were drawn to something shiny. Metal. You realized it was, in fact, a person, and the metal thing you saw was the person’s arm.

“Hey, you!” you yelled at the person’s back. They- no, he, you realized it was a man- froze for a moment before he suddenly sprinted away from you, not looking back. You began to run after him, but a noise near the riverbank caught your attention.

“Steve?!” you said, alarmed. You ran over to the figure lying on the bank. It was Steve, and he looked mostly dead. He coughed up river water, rolling over on his side as he spat and gagged. “Stevie, god, you look awful. We need to get you to a hospital,” you said, hands hovering over him, unsure of what to do.

He finally seemed to finish clearing his lungs. He rolled back onto his back, still gasping for air. He almost didn’t seem to notice your presence, he was too busy searching the area around himself.

���Where is he?” he asked, voice hoarse, and attempted to sit up.

“Who?” you asked, alarmed at his behavior. You placed a hand gently on his shoulder.

He finally seemed to notice your presence. “(Y/N)?” he asked, even more surprised.

“Yeah, Stevie. It’s me. We need to get you to a doctor. You look like you went through a meat grinder,” you said, brushing bloody hair out of his face. You noticed that his uniform was soaked in blood. “Have you been shot?!” you asked in alarm.

“Yeah, couple times. Where did he go?” He asked, unwilling to be sidetracked from his line of questioning.

“Who, Stevie?” you asked, voice filled with concern.

You turned to stare at you, face unreadable, obviously thinking through something before he answered. “The man who saved me,” he said finally.

“He ran away as soon as I yelled at him. Why? Did he have something to do with all of this?” you asked, suddenly worried you’d just earned a place on the shit list of a very dangerous individual.

Steve’s face twisted in grief. “Yes and no. It’s just important that I find him,” he said, trying to stand.

“Jesus, Steve. You’re no in condition to do anything but rest right now. I’m calling an ambulance,” you said, holding him down as best you could with one hand while you dug your phone out of your pocket with the other.

“No, Rosie, wait-” he sputtered, alarmed. Before you knew what was happening, he’d pulled you down into a very wet, cold hug. “You can’t call an ambulance for me. Not right now. I’m still public enemy #1 in a lot of people’s eyes right now. I’d start an angry mob,” he explained, breath ghosting against your ear.

You sat up slowly, moving out of his grasp with worrisome ease. “Then what do we do?” you asked, worried about Steve’s worsening condition.

“Gimme your phone. Please,” he said, holding a hand out expectantly. You sighed, unlocking it and placing it into his outstretched hand. He dialed a number you couldn’t see. After two rings the person on the other end picked up. “I’m alive. Barely. I’m on the other end of the Potomac. I could use some help. A civilian is with me, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t accidentally shoot her thinking she’s a hostile. I know everything’s gone to hell, but sooner rather than later would be nice,” he grunted, grimacing with pain as his fingers probed his gunshot wounds. After a response from the other end he thanked whoever he’d been talking to and pressed the end call button.

“Hey, Rosie,” he said quietly. You were too concerned about him to correct him.

“Yeah, Stevie?” you asked, leaning so you could get a better look at his face.

“Remember how we used to sit when we were kids?” he asked, mind eighty years in the past.

“Yeah, I do,” you whispered. And you did. Rosie and Steve used to sit on the couch in her parents’ house together. She’d sit on one end of the couch, reading and he’d use her lap as a pillow, reclining as he doodled in a notebook. Occasionally Bucky would join them, sitting on the other end of the couch from her. Steve would put his scrawny legs over Bucky’s, and Bucky would rest whatever magazine or comic he was reading on top of them. The three of you would sit like that for hours until one of your got bored or it was time for Steve and Bucky to go home. You felt your eyes watering at the memory. It had been a simple but happy time for Rose.

Taking his not-subtle-request, you moved to sit perpendicular to him and lifted his head, placing it gently in your lap. His hair was went and cold, but his face was warm. You tried to ignore the way your heart fluttered when he wrapped his arms around your waist, nearly curling around you. You absentmindedly ran your fingers through his hair, slipping into a habit that wasn’t yours.

“Don’t go to sleep,” you murmured.

You felt more than you heard his hummed response.

“I mean it,” you chastised.

“Yeah, yeah. Got it,” he said, opening one bleary blue eye to look up at you.

A couple of agents that Steve trusted arrived a bit later. If they were shocked at the sight of the Captain curled up around a random woman, they didn’t show it. Together they managed to carry him off to an inconspicuous car without drawing too much attention. Most of the onlookers were too engrossed in the destruction across the river to see the drama unfolding right in front of them. You insisted that you go with Steve, not trusting that they’d keep him safe. They looked to Steve for confirmation. He gave them a faint nod and off the car sped, away from the Potomac.

An hour later you were in the waiting room of a hospital. As soon as you saw the Black Widow, you’d finally trusted that Steve was safe- at least, safer than he’d be in your hands. Still, you didn’t want to leave before you got more news on his condition.

A tall man in a black hoodie and leather jacket sat down in the empty chair next to you. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. It was odd that he chose to sit next to you; Most of the chairs in the waiting room were empty. You spotted the telltale bulge of a concealed gun on his hip. You felt yourself tense up. There weren’t a lot of people around, and he was close enough that he could kill you before people could stop him.

“Relax, girly, I’m not here to hurt you,” he said, gruff voice low. You looked at him, then. He picked up a magazine and pretended to be interested in it while he talked. “We appreciate you finding the Captain for us. He may be a super soldier, but the tough bastard’s not invincible. I think he forgets that sometimes,” he said, glancing over at you.

You noticed that, behind his sunglasses, one of his eyes was scarred a ghastly white.

Holy shit, I’m talking to Nick Fury, you thought to yourself. He’s the spy. Why the hell is he here in disguise and talking to me of all people. You coached your thoughts into something resembling coherence before you spoke.

“Steve knows he’s not invincible, sir. That’s what makes him a hero. He knows he could be killed doing what he does, but he does it anyway because it’s the right thing to do. The serum may have made him super, but he was always a hero,” you argued, giving the intimidating man stubbornest look you could muster. Inside, you were sweating.

He looked at you out of the corner of his good eye, giving you a slight approving smile. “You’re sure talking like you know him,” he said, smirking at how your face fell at the accusation. “I don’t mean anything by that, of course. What you did in your past life with Steve is entirely between you two,” you balked at that last statement. He let out a single huff of a laugh before continuing. “I’m just here to warn you,” he said, staring at you seriously now. “You’re not going to be safe if you stay near him. I know leaving your soul mate behind can-”

“I know, sir,” you said, cutting him off. He leaned back in his chair slightly, assessing you.

“You know?” he asked, eyebrow peaking up over the rim of his sunglasses in disbelief.

“I’m leaving the United States for the foreseeable future. It’s been a plan of mine for a long time. I won’t put myself or Steve in danger by staying here. The world can’t lose Captain America,” you said, smiling faintly.

Fury looked you up and down as if seeing you for the first time. “I don’t know what I expected from Steve’s soulmate, but I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you’d be as selfless as him. Damn stubborn, too”

His words twisted the dagger in your heart, and you nearly winced from the pain. He noticed your reaction, but just then a nurse came up to talk to you, saving you from his torrent of questions.

“Are you Miss (Y/L/N)?” she asked, looking at you past her clipboard. You nodded an affirmation and she smiled. Weight you didn’t even know was weighing on your shoulders suddenly lifted and you breathed out a sigh of relief. “His condition is stable and he’s going to make a full recovery. He’s healing remarkably fast, too. He’ll likely be out within the week,” she said, smiling down at you.

You smiled back, almost giddy with relief. “That’s fantastic news,” you said.

“He’s asking that you come and visit him. He’s doing so well we’re allowing visitors one at a time,” she said, frowning slightly at the way your face twisted from happiness to regret and sorrow.

“Sorry, no. I need to be going now,” you said, standing.

“But he was quite insistent-” she said, but you’d picked up your things and were already walking towards the door.

“Sorry, no,” you said again, pulling your jacket on as you walked. The nurse looked confused, but walked back into the long white hallway in the direction you assumed Steve’s room was in.

To your surprise, Fury joined you outside as you waited for the taxi the valet had called for you. You let out an audible groan.

“Well sorry, princess. Just had a few more questions,” he said mockingly.

“Of course you do. Couldn’t you just find the answers with your infamous intelligence network?” you asked scathingly.

“Well seeing as SHIELD was just destroyed from the inside out, I’m a little out of the loop these days,” he said, the edge in his voice getting harder. His good eye narrowed dangerously behind his sunglasses.

“Fine, fine. Shoot,” you said, groaning internally at your word choice.

“Where are you going?” he asked as he leaned up against the hospital’s cement wall.

“Will you tell Steve?” you asked, eyeing him.

“No,” he said, voice flat.

“Can I trust you?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“In general, no. In this case? Yes,” he said, staring at you evenly.

You rolled your eyes. “Romania, around Bucharest,” you told him. Even without the resources he once had, it wouldn’t be too hard to find out where you’d gone. At least his way he might be able to throw Steve off your scent. “Got family there,” you explained, fiddling with the buttons on your jacket.

He nodded, studying you closely.

“You have another question,” you stated.

“Are you Steve’s soul mate?” he asked, as though he was asking what the weather was like today.

“Excuse me?” you asked, taken aback. You hadn’t expected him to be so direct about it.

“Are you Steve’s soul mate?” he repeated, good eye boring into yours.

Just then your taxi arrived, honking impatiently at you.

“Another day, then, Mr. Fury?” you asked rhetorically before you started walking towards the car. You got a few steps, then stopped. “Keep him safe, alright?” you asked, eyes pleading.

“Agent Romanoff and I will keep an eye on him,” he assured you. Somehow, having two of the best spies in the world keep an eye on your most important person in the world both comforted and frightened you. You nodded a goodbye to him before you clambered into the taxi.

You felt his gaze from one of the hospital rooms. You looked up through the taxi’s window as it pulled away, eyes instantly locking onto his. His face was unreadable as he watched your taxi leave the hospital parking lot. Just before the taxi turned the corner, drove out of sight, and blocked your view to his window, you swore you saw him turn and head farther into the room, face set in determination.

You hoped Fury could keep his promise.

Chapter 4

This series is finished, but if you want to be tagged in my other fics, check out this post! Sorry, but responses to this post asking to be tagged will be ignored, so send me an ask or like one of the taglist posts!

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[preciousrichard-blog]

Second Thoughts, Second Chances (Sniper/Spy)

Chapter 10: Petty Offenses

AO3 Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9419246/chapters/23469924

Rating: Teen+

Chapter Summary: There is no man or woman more deserving of pity than one that has crossed a spy. Sniper may be a hunter, but his lover is a predator, and for the first time he’ll really understand what that means.

“Don’t need it.”

Spy blinked at the Sniper who sat behind the table of his camper, cleaning the barrel of his submachine gun. “Excusez-moi?”

“I said I don’t nee-“

“I heard what you said.” Spy interjected as tension visibly took hold of him, “But this is a gift.”

“Well that’s nice of ya, but what am I gonna do with it?” Sniper frowned, peeking over the rim of his sunglasses, “Couldn’t even flay a jackrabbit with that thing.”

“I should hope not!” The spy scoffed, grimacing at the blackened fingers working a rag over the body of the firearm.

Sniper clicked his tongue and took another look at the knife Spy had brought to his table. It was a tiny, pocketable switchblade that looked very out of place in his van. As petite as it was, it gleamed with an astonishing polish. The case was silver with gold bolsters, and on the cover plates were etchings of various animals the Aussie recognized made up of dark, engraved lines against the white shine. The intricacies of the work looked so painstaking that Sniper wondered how big of a magnifying glass the artist must have needed to accomplish such a feat. When the spy’s fingers flipped a switch, the spring loaded blade shot outward from the side of the case and displayed etchings of foliage along the knife itself. But no amount of pretty art or metal would make something so small any more useful to a man who needed knives to chop saplings and skin game. The spy really had a lot to learn about the Sniper if he thought he’d like something so impractical and flashy.

“It’s a beaut,” Sniper insisted, “but you keep it. You have a use fer things like that, I don’t. I can’t fell a tree with that thing. I could barely fell a bloody petunia. ‘Sides, I’ve already got a huntin' knife.”

Spy furrowed, “I am not giving it to you to be used as a barbaric club like your kukris.”

“Then why give it to me at all?”

“Have you any idea how much-“

“Yeah yeah, probably cost ya hundreds, thousands even.” Sniper shook his head, “But it’s your style, not mine innit?”

Spy bristled, his eyes going wide with disbelief and rage. “Fine.” He spat after a silence, and before Sniper could put his gun down, the BLU spy was out the door, leaving the knife behind.

Spy stormed off, shoulders tight and nostrils flaring with indignation. He shouldn’t have expected a man who lived in the dirt to understand him or the complexities of his tokens. It wasn’t about the money, not anymore. Sniper couldn’t comprehend that his very presence was throwing the allure of wealth from its proverbial throne, but he always made it sound like that was all the spy cared about. The fool. He activated his cloaking watch as he crossed the territory between RED and BLU, ignoring the distant call of Sniper’s voice. He was anything but in the mood to hear it now. He materialized again in front of the staircase that led to the living section of the BLU base and slinked through the doors like a coiling serpent. Immediately he was greeted with the face of a blue shirted scout.

"Woah there pally, almost clipped ya- hey woah hey what's with the face? Ain't happy t'see me?"

"Out of my way, cretin." Spy hissed.

"Geez Louise, sourpuss. Who put a freakin' bee in your undies?" The young man pressed, partially blocking Spy's path.

"Scout if you do not move I will shiv you."

"Holy crap, alright already!"

Spy pushed past the runner faster than he could step aside, and practically stomped away. Scout pulled his baseball cap off and scratched at his head, watching with a perplexed expression as the other turned the corner. All the blue assassin wanted was to reach his quarters, put away the acid and tools he'd left out on his desk, and sleep off the remainder of the afternoon. He despised being confronted in this state. He'd have to make himself dinner later.

After an evening of slow boiling anger and interrogation from his teammates in the dining hall about his unbecoming mood, the spy went to bed that night more irritated than before. And if the RED sniper’s rejection of his thoughtful present wasn’t enough, he’d then been labeled Team Drama Queen by his comrades thanks to the scout’s big fat mouth. Back in his room, he stripped away his suit with a certain fury as he prepared to put such a terrible day to an end.

“I don’t need it Spy.” Spy mocked with a faux Australian accent, slipping free from his tie with a dramatic swoop of his arm.

“But Sniper mon cher it is our three month anniversary, haven’t you kept track at all?” He responded to himself in his normal, albeit irritable voice.

“Keep track? Don’t you know I’m too busy sittin’ on my behind all day to keep tabs on my relationship?” He mocked to himself again.

“Surely the gift itself must mean something, cher, I spent time, not just money!”

“Oh Spy, it means nothin’ to me! I don’t care if you made it yourself. I don’t even look closely enough to notice before I say no! I turn away the faintest hint of class because I’m so humble and practical.” Spy was violently tossing his shed garments across the room at this point, “My dirty outdoor way of life is so superior! I think spending money is a crime!” The accent Spy imitated was beginning to fall apart.

Then he was slamming his dresser drawers shut as he picked out an ensemble to wear to bed. “You didn’t even think to ask about it!” He argued to his own imaginary marksman.

“Of course not, it would have absolutely killed me to think critically!” Spy mimicked, finally dressed for bed and throwing the duvet aside to shuffle harshly into the sheets.

The hurt that came with the daunting thought that his sniper did not care as much as Spy did was a dangerous, consuming thing. It was easier for him to act angry. A man like him with a job like his could simply never afford to express that pain in any other way. Hurt would be carefully and accordingly distributed in stab wounds, bullet holes, and blood. That was the life he chose to lead, and vulnerability had no place out in the open. He admitted to being a man who held grudges, but not forever- he wasn’t such a villain. He had the decency to let it go once the offending party really got the message and acquainted themselves with the appropriate amount of regret. That night that very mindset kept him awake; allowing him little sleep as he quietly concocted a suitable vengeance for his dreadfully inconsiderate lover. Everything wrong that Spy had been forced to go through that afternoon was entirely Sniper’s fault, and hence, the gunman would just have to pay for the trouble he so thoughtlessly caused.

It was overcast the next day, appropriately gloomy for the brooding mood the spy was in. His exhaustion worked to fuel his need for payback. The RED sniper would find no rest until he’d realized his mistake and apologized. Only then would the spy relent. After all, he was a forgiving person at heart - to anyone that mattered anyway. He made no effort to interact with his team, because he would be making no effort to be a team player today. The announcer counted down as the BLUs boarded the cart. Spy knew exactly where the enemy sniper liked to hide right before the first point, and that’s where he’d start.

It was barely twenty minutes into the battle and the sniper was grumbling as he walked out of the RED respawn room. It was the second time now that the backstabbing snake got him, and a phantom pain from the sheer force of the spearing offended his back.  It seemed Spy was eager to work that morning, and the sniper was beginning to wonder if he was still miffed about yesterday’s exchange. He gripped his rifle and hurried out to his position when a quick flash of red caught his eye.

“Hey’a Snipes, thought I saw a spy ‘round here, watch yer back!” The RED scout called to him as he sprinted up behind the marksman.

“Yeah he’s bein’ a real wanka. Already got me twice.” Sniper snorted back, ducking to avoid being seen across the sightlines.

“Thrice.” The scout replied with a sudden lack of a Boston accent, and before Sniper could so much as cock a brow at the change, pain was resonating through his entire body.

The killer materialized standing over him, and life clung to the marksman’s eyes just long enough to witness a Frenchman’s self-satisfied grin.  Several more deaths, two captures, and a domination later, the sniper found himself forced to be on very high alert. It was obvious now. Spy was mad. He’d even gone as far as to bring out his Dead Ringer and Ambassador, and he never used that combination unless he was looking to be a pain in the ass. He wasn’t able to land a single real kill on the bloody ponce all day; somehow it felt like he was fending off three of him at once. Sniper hadn’t had this much trouble doing his job in what felt like years, and couldn’t peek through his scope for more than a few seconds without looking over his shoulder for a creeping, angry lover. In his pocket sat the knife that started everything. He’d put it there to give back to the Frenchman, but it was clear to him that wasn’t going to happen anymore. He sneered, he couldn’t fathom why such a stupid little trinket ticked the man off so badly. Spy often spit the dummy over little things, as the sniper more recently learned, but this was pushing it. It looked like he’d have to tough it out until the spy got over it like he always did when Sniper said the wrong things at the wrong times.

Watching from behind the doorway, the BLU spy had switched out his pocket watch for something with a bit more flexibility. The Cloak and Dagger would do nicely. He observed the paranoid sniper who obviously sensed his invisible presence nearby. His back really was Spy’s favorite. Something about the curve of his spine, the tension as he held up his gun and the lean of his body were simply enchanting. Shaking his head, the Frenchman shooed away the teasing need to slither up to those shoulders and dig his fingers into them. Now was not the time for starry-eyed reverence. No Spy, He frowned to himself, You’re angry with him! He deserves this. Well placed jabs in the back would just have to be the substitute for contact until his work was done.

With that, the blue assassin stole into the stuffy little room he’d been observing when the gunfire outside reached a crescendo. Under the cover of the racket, he snuck off not with another two-point kill, but with Sniper’s kukri instead. Nothing could make a man appreciate having an auxiliary knife in dire times more than having no knife at all. Grinning to himself as he sauntered away, the BLU spy held up the garish weapon by the handle with his thumb and forefinger to observe it. Then, he tossed it away with a look of disgust into an open barrel of a side room before alerting the BLU scout to the RED snipers position. As that business sorted itself out, the spy flicked open his disguise kit with a cocky hum to the sound of Sniper’s dying scream and selected his clueless lover’s image to wear for a while. It was time to put on a show.

The fake RED sniper now snapped at the medic beside him as he leaned painfully against the RED enemy dispenser. “Some doctor you are!”

“Was?” The RED medic asked, shock in his eyes.

“Are you goin’ bloody deaf? I called you more times than I can count! I had to come all the way down here to get any bleedin’ help!”

“Herr Sniper you are not a priority.” Medic glowered, his tone going darker with every word, “You know that. There is only one of me and I’m a busy man on the front line.”

“Yeah? Well I’ve been a bloody dead man keepin’ that blue sniper from poppin’ yer head off!” Spy’s character hissed, “Maybe if ya did yer damn job we’d be winnin’ hey?”

The medic squared up the impersonated sniper for just long enough that Spy worried he might see through the disguise. “I suggest you get comfortable on that dispenser Herr Sniper.” The doctor frowned, his cold, sinister eyes burning through the spy like acid. “Because it will be the only thing healing you today with that attitude.” Excellent.

Sniper was panting, back peddling and dodging the explosions of rockets as a lumbering BLU soldier chased him down. He leapt out of the way of his fourth shot, it’d buy him enough time to escape down an alley while he reloaded. The meaty drongo had caught him upstairs and tried to blow him to bits, but the blast knocked him from the third story instead. Now he clutched at his shoulder, his arm dislocated and his ankles definitely fractured from the fall. He called out for the team doctor, grunting with every aching step, but heard nothing in response. He wouldn’t have been in this mess if he hadn’t misplaced his knife somehow. He must have lost it sometime before that BLU scout tore his chest open with a shotgun. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember how he could have lost the thing- he never moved anywhere without it. He called for help again as he dashed across the open stretch of dirt, spotting his team ahead. The German doctor looked him dead in the eyes for a time, establishing something gritty and unwelcoming, before turning away and ignoring his plea completely.

As it turned out, Spy was taking things way more personally than Sniper anticipated. He’d now learned the spy pissed off the medic using the marksman’s own good name, costing him any assistance if things got hairy. And if the sniper had to hazard a guess, he probably stole his kukri too. The Aussie dug the heels of his hands into his eyes as he slouched against a wall by the dispenser, and he tried to ignore the sympathetic looks he was getting from the engineer hammering away at a sentry gun beside him.

“Rough day pardner?” The Texan asked.

Sniper groaned, “I’ve had better.”

“Y’know Stretch, I haven’t seen that no-good turncoat ‘round my contraptions all day.” He replied, and Snipers eyes got a little wider at the mention of the BLU spy. “I reckon he’s been hasslin’ you instead.”

“Hasslin’s an understatement.” He grumbled loudly. The opportunity to complain drew up the brunt of all of his frustration from the day, and it began escaping in his voice as he continued, “Bloody weasel has it out fer me today… That prancin’ little snot-nosed sod thinks he’s so slick. I’d like to give him a taste of his own bleedin’ medicine but he won’t just up n’ face me like a man.”

Engineer’s eyebrows arched at the sudden change of tone, but smiled at the words that formed from it. He grinned with his teeth and let out a little bellow of a chuckle. For a second it almost seemed as though the man was laughing at the sniper rather than what he said, but Sniper chalked it up to the subtle paranoia he always felt now that he was secretly involved with the enemy. Even if they never once discussed anything touching upon classified information, he doubted their allies would really consider it any less treasonous, so it was vital for him to be on his toes. Even a good a friend as Engie couldn’t be trusted with that knowledge. None of them could.

“I oughta head back.” Sniper sighed as he stood and tipped his hat. He wasn’t about to stick around and slip up with the mood he was in.

The engineer nodded at him supportively, “I’m sure you’ll work it out mister.”

When Sniper returned to his post the last thing he anticipated was a scattering of blue sticky bombs that had been shot in through the open window. The second he rushed in he heard the arrogant howl of that BLU Scottish drunkard down below and the only thing the sniper could remember was the flash of explosives. His eyes opened to quiet and the blurry floorboards of the room. He saw the cast shadows of the rubble before he felt it pressing down on his body. The bombs had toppled the tall stacks of industrial crates and supplies that had been abandoned there, and the marksman could reason they were still full containers by the way they crushed him. He thanked his physique for once, his lanky frame making it easier to wriggle free from the pile of wood and nails. But as soon as he was grateful for his genetics, they inconvenienced him yet again. He was caught in a mess of rope he wasn’t strong enough to break free from. He spat a curse, then another, there was no way to work the damn thing loose from the heap. His several clearly broken bones were also not doing anything to help. He called out, but no one answered- not even a rogue BLU willing to kill him and send him through respawn. From how the echoes of gunfire sounded, both teams were already fighting over the final point a good three hundred meters away. Damn it, damn it all. Grunting, the pain was so thorough he didn’t know which pain to focus on more. He scratched and rubbed infuriately at the dry blood caked on his face.

It was then that he had the most annoying idea he’d ever had in all his life. “I can’t believe this.” He hissed aloud as he wiggled Spy’s switchblade from his pocket and flipped it open.

The RED team lost that day after an unusually long struggle. If it hadn’t been for the knife in his pocket the sniper would have still been calling out for help in the middle of a deserted battlefield instead of sitting at his table in a warm camper. He fingered at the case, bitter at both the coincidence of the blade’s helpfulness, and the fact that Spy had indirectly saved him after a day of petty harassment. He still had yet to speak to the masked man, and frankly wouldn’t even know what to say. Caught between being the bigger man and admitting he had been too severe, and the somewhat childish desire to sock the mongrel in the teeth, he was left having to sort out what to do overnight. Maybe he had been stubborn, gifts were meant to be on the expensive side anyway. Spy was a bit like the twisting wild animals etched into the blade handle. He was a beauty of a sight to look at, but volatile and best treated very particularly like his very own species. Sniper chuckled, spies really were a species all of their own now that he thought about it. Looking closer, he came to realize every animal engraved on the silver case just so happened to be Australian. Newly intrigued, he looked harder until his eyes went wide and he was scrambling to his shelves. He threw down the album Spy had nosed through on his first visit and quickly flipped to the section of his trophies. Eyes flickering between the handle and the photos, he turned page after page.

“Fuck.” He whispered, squeezing the closed knife in his fist until his knuckles went bright.

It was a new day full of new ways for Spy to teach his red-shirted sniper a generally harmless but very valuable lesson. He felt substantially better after yesterday’s clever little games. But as long as the tall Australian remained oblivious to his own insensitivity, the BLU spy would not let him get away with turning a blind eye to devoted work. He spent extra time sharpening his balisong that morning, but every grind against the water stone only deepened his distress. He was a grown man, there was no reason he’d still be mad over something so trivial. No, he just needed to deliver a sort of justice. He was only taking what he deserved for the time and effort he’d spent. He deserved something in return, and if Sniper would not give him his gratitude, then Spy could settle for amusement.

He was poised to strike the marksman, regretfully disguised as his own RED counterpart, as grotesque as that amateur’s fashion sense was. A passing soldier was just enough distraction to quickly approach, but it apparently had not been distracting enough. The BLU spy had a lot of intricate plans that morning, but hadn’t actually planned on what happened next. He lunged right into a quick dodge. Somehow the gunman had realized he was there. Spy narrowed his eyes and sneered into the clumsy motion before righting himself and taking another swing. His disguise fizzled away with the next miss as the sniper blocked himself behind his rifle with a grunt. Spy could find no surprise in his eyes, which vexed him just long enough for the Australian to pull the gun and swing back around, smacking the stock hard against the Frenchman’s gloved knuckles and sending his knife clattering across the floor. Spy hissed angrily at the stinging in his hands, and only spared a flick of his eyes to see that his weapon was definitely out of reach.

“Spy!” The sniper snapped angrily before he recoiled from the kick that sent his body back and his rifle to the ground.

The spy stepped away as he retrieved his revolver from his pocket, pulling the hammer back as he cocked the gun up to his lover’s face. Then again his plans proved short-sighted when Sniper flung a Bowie knife in his direction, leading his eyes away for a second too long. Suddenly Spy found himself bum rushed, firing instinctively into the floor before the revolver was wrenched from his faltering hands with a forceful growl.

“Enough muckin’ about!” Sniper snapped again, flinging the weapon and struggling against Spy’s attempt to slip away. “I’ve had just about enough of your nonsense!”

Spy writhed in the marksman’s grasp, every push met with one equally as forceful. They were too close of a match unarmed. “You think this will stop me?” The spy scoffed with half a mind to laugh in the other man’s face.

“Can’t you just bloody talk to me?” Sniper huffed and struggled, denying the man any escape.

“Why? Is that something you actually need?” Spy seethed back, pulling them around by locked limbs and causing them to stumble about in a violent ballroom dance.

“Spy-“ Sniper choked as he tried his damnest to keep his footing while being strangled by his own clothing. “I’m sorry!”

Their movements slowed, and the lines of Spy’s outrage smoothed over with a wash of bewilderment. He held fast to the Aussie’s shirt, fists balled up in the fabric around his collar. He stayed that way for only a split moment, until he heard the discernible sound of Sniper swallowing the silence, accentuated with a sticky sort of sigh caught amongst his heavy breathing. As if it were a cue, the blue suited assassin bristled again and pushed forward while the sniper had his guard down. They separated, the gunman stumbling backwards in surprise.

“Sorry?” Spy frowned, offendedly brushing off his suit jacket, “Now why in the world would you be sorry?” He asked as if the other man were an idiot.

Sniper sighed and removed his hat, “Common Spy don’t be this way.”

“Oh is this not the reaction you were expecting perhaps?” Spy spat, despising everything about the position he was now in.

The sniper slipped his yellow tinted glasses from the bridge of his nose next, revealing weary, squinting eyes. “Spy I’m sorry.” He repeated.

Spy ignored the look in his eyes, his icy anger tuning out any other concerns. “Sorry for what?”

It was clearly a test, and the Aussie knew it, he knew better than to try and appeal to Spy’s overly particular expectations with wording when he was like this. He reached into his pocket instead, and waved a reassuring palm when the spy tensed at the motion. He retrieved the knife, gleaming silver, and held it up in his grip.

Spy sneered, disbelief in his eyes, “If you think I will take that thing back yo-“

“How did you remember?” Sniper interrupted.

Silence filled the air between them. Spy couldn’t quite process the words. “What?”

“The handle.” Sniper continued, softer this time, “These critters are from me album. Every one of ‘em.” He gave an imploring look but the spy said nothing. “Even the knife, those are eucalyptus trees aren’t they?”

Spy remained impassive, but mainly because he didn’t actually expect anything that was coming out of his mouth, so he wasn’t sure what to feel. “And?” He offered dispassionately.

“You memorized all of ‘em?”

“Yes, so?”

“How?”

“Unlike some people, I actually notice details.” Spy squinted, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

The marksman went silent for a moment, “It’s gorgeous Spy…”

“It only took you two days to realize.”

“When did you have time to get this done?”

“I made time Bushman.”

“You didn’t… Make this did ya?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Spy sneered, waiting until relief passed over the sniper’s features before continuing. “I only engraved the casing.”

“Wha- you can’t be serious.” Sniper gawked. The look Spy gave him was one of stern impatience and he knew then he was very serious indeed. “Okay, so, maybe, y’are… But – Spy I had no idea…”

“Clearly. You wanted nothing to do with it.”

Sniper went quiet, and they stood in that cramped room facing each other to the sound of the firefight down at the payload tracks. “Spy, I really am sorry…” He was firm, despite feeling the opposite. “It’s amazin’ work, really… Thank you.” His hand squeezed the handle of the blade, only underlining the solemn way he dipped his head before a breathy attempt at laughter left him. “I’m glad you ain’t a sniper with eyes n’ fingers like yours.”

The spy knew he startled the man when he stepped forward to grab him. The Aussie flinched defensively before he allowed himself to give. Ignoring the confusion in his eyes, Spy pulled him further and further until the Frenchman was backed up against the wall. “Are you threatened by me then, Bushman?” He asked the taller man, giving a stone cold look as he fingered at the Australian’s collar.

Sniper swallowed. “I reckon I ought’a be after yesterday.” He offered back in a low tone.

At last, Spy let himself smile. “Good answer.”

They kissed then, but it lacked the typical brevity and simplicity that their encounters at work always restricted them to. When their mouths met it was a swell of something unseen that dwarfed them in size. Spy dug his fingers into anything he could grab a hold of, and Sniper falteringly touched at pinstriped waist and hips. Spy should never have doubted, he should have known. All the sniper needed was a push in the right direction, and he would always provide the Frenchman with precisely what he wanted most.

They pressed closer, lips parting as the world around them faded away to the hotness of tongues. Whatever came over the marksman, it was entirely unlike him. Spy sucked in a sharp breath at the leg that squirmed up between his own. It looked as though Sniper found the experience of making amends rather thrilling – Spy would have to jot that one down.

“You’ve gotten bolder since our rendezvous.” the masked man grinned as he parted from the other, “Were your legs the gates to a whole new Sniper?”

The sniper’s eyes went wide before he turned a pleasant dusty pink. “Shut up.” Was all he muttered before going for another kiss in which they lazily watched each other with open eyes.

“This is very unprofessional.” Spy smirked, and his teasing was not lost on the other man.

“It’s compensation fer all my bloody sufferin’.” He retorted.

Spy made a self satisfied noise, and it drew the Aussie back in for more. The reserved marksman had never done something quite this reckless, and frankly the spy didn’t want to stop him just yet- it was too good a moment. It proved to be the wrong decision though, when just beyond the distraction of passionate reconciliation, Spy recognized the quickly approaching footsteps of others. His eyes snapped open as Sniper continued to indulge. It had all happened within seconds. He realized too late that the cart had passed their position, and there would be no credible way to explain why the RED sniper was still alive on what was currently BLU controlled territory - especially when Spy himself had been so focused on harassing him. Another second passed and he’d drawn the knife he’d kept concealed up his sleeve. By the third second, Sniper’s eyes were wide with agony and bewilderment, and a blade was seated deep into his back as he cried into his killer’s mouth. The masked assassin could tell that behind the shock lay the question of why, but he only answered with a  brief look of sadness before letting the man down easy to the floor and pressing a button on his watch. No more than ten seconds had passed before the BLU soldier and medic were passing by them. The soldier stopped and pointed his weapon at the glimpse of red that caught his eye, but he only paused to scoff at the lifeless form before calling his healer to proceed. When the fall of their boots became distant, the spy appeared from thin air, stepping out from his hiding place in the corner.

He stooped at his lover’s side, and grunted as he lifted the heavy body into his lap. He thanked God for the life clinging to the man’s eyes, at least Sniper had been alive long enough to see why he’d been killed so dishonorably. But Spy didn’t believe either one of them was in any way untroubled by what had just transpired. He found he’d shocked himself out of his eloquence; he said nothing. What was done had been done. Just when everything seemed to fall back into place, and just as he was relieved of his need to make the man suffer so, he now clutched his dying, smiling marksman. Wait…

“You could’a killed me all along.” Sniper wheezed, smirking despite his lungs filling with blood.

“Yes…” Spy admitted sadly, holding the man carefully in his arms.

“You…” He breathed, “Bloody mongrel.”

The man in the blue mask bowed, looking into increasingly bleary eyes that watched him as he pressed a slow and remorseful kiss to the gunman’s lips. He’d never seen the man die with a smile on his face like that. It was probably best that he met him up ahead to apologize.

[esseastri]

5,8 for Nyeni and Aliena for the OC codex prompts

5. Letters between two of your OC’s companions about them

Aliena:

Two brief notes, found on Varric’s table in Skyhold, and copies of their replies: 

“Varric, tell me you know where she is. She promised there’d be a letter next time I made port, but there’s been no word. I knew she was disappearing, but damn it, she promised. She would tell you though, so where the fuck is she?” 

“Riviani–get your ass up this forsaken mountain. I can’t handle Hawke moping about pining for you. It’s embarrassing. Just make sure you don’t wreck your ship this time you make landfall.” 

“You’ve had her all this time and you didn’t share? Tell her I’m coming and when she protests that it’s too far from the sea, punch her for me.”

“I haven’t had her at all, Rivaini–I generally leave that up to you. But she is here and she is determined to help, as we knew she would be. Sorry I couldn’t keep her out of this longer. But with you coming, she’ll have both of us to protect her. I’m not letting the damn world use her again. She’s been through enough.”

Nyeni:

Found between the pages of a book on the bench beside Cassandra at the Winter Palace during Trespasser:

“How’s the reconstruction going? In your last letter, you mentioned difficulties with the training–something about the recruits being afraid of going up against the Inquisitor. Has Lavellan sorted them out yet? Though she’s less likely to whip them into shape and more inclined to gently prod them in the direction she wants them to go. Tell her that if she needs tips on increasing the radius of her fire spells without losing heat intensity, she should read the latest treatise on mana conservation from that old bird down in Kinloch. Maybe the new Seekers will be more willing to attack her in groups if she’s a threat to more than two of them at a time. As for you–read the newest in the Bearly Surviving series; I think you’ll be greatly amused. I hope you two are happy together. You deserve it.”

“Dorian: she says your advice is invaluable, but if you can’t abstain from making fun of her fire spells, she’ll come out to Minrathous and set your paperwork on fire. She did, however, read the treatise, and the recruits have responded nicely to the changes she’s been making. They all still need to work on their swordsmanship, but the Inquisitor will tell you that I’m being too harsh on them. I just want them to be at their best before we move on. She misses you dearly, though she will never admit it. I do, too, if only for your book recommendations. But we’ll see you at Halamshiral soon–you are the ambassador they are sending, yes? I’m trying to keep it a surprise for her. And yes, we are happy. It is… It was worth the wait.”

8. Your OC’s doctor/healer talking about their injuries

Aliena:

Found in a corner of Anders’ clinic, from his personal journal:

“If she goes out to the Bone Pit one more time, she’s going to die, I swear to the Maker. This is ridiculous–burns all down her arm from dragon fire, scratches on her thigh, and a bite into her side. It’s a wonder Merrill could patch her up well enough to get her back home. Maker’s breath, I’m going to have to insist on going with next time–or pray there aren’t any more dragons lurking around that cursed mine.”

Nyeni:

Found by one of the surgeon’s tents in Skyhold:

“The Inquisitor continues to insist on healing her own wounds in the field–says we should all spare our mana and supplies for the soldiers who really need it. Like she doesn’t! I saw her straggle in from that last trip to the Crestwood! Blood all across her forehead from that gash across her brow, arm dislocated in a sling, knuckles all bruised and bloodied–I’m not sure whether it was the undead or the dragon that did for her, but she patched up her friends before getting to herself and still refused to be healed. Stubborn girl is going to run herself out of magic if she keeps going the way she is. Maybe I’ll send that new healer from the rebel mages up to her while she’s sleeping, pour some healing into her before she can stop us. We need her hale.”

[blackhatclubblog]

KOREAN ~ Father is Strange Empress: Weekend family dramas, not my thing... Ambassador: Welllll, Lee Joon is the main but it's a weekend family drama and I don't watch those.  Bye bye, possibility. Unni: This sounds......boring-ish...I’ll pass thank you much! ~ You're Too Much Empress: Heh, I like the impersonator angle. But again, nope. What they said. XD Ambassador: another long family weekend drama.  noooope.  Only long weekend dramas I watch are sageukes, because manes of glory are needed to offset the boredom.  And swords. Unni: *giggles at Ambassador’s reasons* But I have to agree, I have better things to be doing. ~ Queen of the Ring Empress: Hm, I might try it with my sister. We're always looking for short kdramas. XD Ambassador: another fantasy short.  Possibly I'll watch it?  Kim Seul Gi is genius at fantasy shorts if Splash Splash Love was anything to go by. Unni: Oh! This looks cute! I’ll probably fill in an afternoon or evening with this somewhere along the line. ~ Radiant Office Empress: I stay away from terminal illness dramas in general...(other than Marriage Contract, which was actually AMAZING). Ambassador: *barely stumbles through synopsis without dislocating jaw with yawns*  Lordy no.  I'd fall asleep. Unni: This...could be interesting. I might just peek at an episode before I decide on way or the other. ~ Whisper Empress: ...Yes....I have to check it out, obviously... Ambassador: YES.  This plot + Lee Bo Young and Lee Sang Yoon as leads with Lee Se Young as a secondary lead.  HECK YES. Unni: *pricks up ears* this sounds interesting. I’ll probably see what they think of it before I go for it...but we’ll see. Empress: *cracking up because Unni clearly knew what I was going to say* ~ Tunnel Empress: What Unni said - if it's like that I will love it.  And FINALLY, Choi Jin-Hyuk...XD {Even though I haven't managed to finish his drama Pride and Prejudice yet. That is a drama where actually knowing Korean would really help with understanding the plot...} Ambassador: I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS FOR MONTHS.  CHOI JIN HYUK IS COMING BACK AND I COULD NOT BE HAPPIER.  ESPECIALLY WITH THIS SYNOPSIS.  AND OCN BEING THE NETWORK. Unni: Hmm...time travel + serial killer= *wondering if this would be like 9 Times Time Travel meets Hello Monster* color me intrigued. ~ The Liar and his Lover Empress: I watched the Japanese movie because DUH Sato Takeru...I went on a Japanese movie binge following Bloody Monday...it wasn't the weirdest thing I watched because of Sato Takeru, but I spent most of the movie puzzling over why they were pairing up an adult musician and a high school girl and why that relationship was bothering no one. IGNORING THAT ASPECT (like the movie did...), I liked it. Bromance, music, and Sato Takeru's face. What's not to like. Come on. I really didn't feel like there was enough story there for a /drama/, but I'm going to have to check it out, if only to compare it to the movie. Ambassador: Lee Hyun Woo lands some pretty interesting roles but this one isn't high on my list.  Not enough to draw me in.  If Unni likes it, I might check it out.  It's based on a manga which can mean a better base for adaptations but Cheese in the Trap apparently showed how that can go wrong. Unni: Hmm, love and lies, this sounds UTTERLY PAINFUL...but then again it could have cute fluffy semi-tragic romance and a killer OST...which would be right up my ally....or it could be completely idiotic and I’ll be throwing my poor stuffed animals at the screen and screaming shut up in Chinese. I have a feeling I’ll be hooked on it....this could end badly for one of us. Empress: LOL you guys. ~ Trace of the Hand  (webdrama) Empress: *grinning* If Truly #short I might try this, just because it could be funny. Ambassador: I'm snickering so hard.  I might watch it, just because #webdrama and #short. Unni: HE SOUNDS AWFUL!!!! But isn’t this what we all want to do??????? *glances around* I mean...if we could wouldn’t we...but then we’d be the NSA..... *wonders if NSA agents are in love with people like us* I am digressing. This could be really cute, and I might watch it. CHINESE ~ House Full of Happiness Empress: Ufda. Okay, but mistranslated synopsis are frustrating but possibly hilarious, and this one... "yellow peony dusk love" and "suffered a small sister-in-law threat" --I'm cracking up. That said, it doesn't interest me. XD Ambassador: Well, it sounds like a bunch of family drama and I'm not normally keen on that but I might check this one out for the sister dynamic. Unni: My head hurts from this synopsis, but it could be....interesting but currently I am only interested in Chinese dramas that are of a historic nature. Chinese dramas don’t have the cute Taiwanese accent, juuuuuust sayin.... ~The Name of the People Empress: I feel like such a show being aired could be of historical note...but we'll see. Ambassador: A Chinese House of Cards, with Lu Yi?  GIVE ME.  NOW.  Even if it is more of a Communist POV, just GIMME. Unni: *leaves the Ambassador to her glory and moves on* Empress: The Unni has only just got me started on a Chinese drama I might actually finish...if the Ambassador loves this one, I'll go for it. XD ~ Razor Edge Empress: If it's anything like Gaksital, I am in. XD Ambassador: Sounds like a Chinese pseudo-Gaksital, at least as far as the politics and police sides go.  Absolutely trying this, out of sheer curiosity. Unni: I haven’t dared to try and tread in Gaksital...so I shall not tread here. ~ The Battle at the Dawn Empress: *wince* I love the title...I like historical...this sounds very painful. I'll wait to see what the Ambassador thinks. XD Ambassador: war, Liu Shi Shi, yep, yep, yep, count me in. Unni: This sounds like....a blood bath waiting to happen. I am not signing up to get my heart broken. ~ Dear Archimedes Empress: That...sounds intriguing. And it's only 20 episodes. *adds to list whether or not I'll ever get to it* Ambassador: Sounds a bit like Taiwan's Love Me If You Dare.  Hmmm.  I'll check it out, again because of that ever questing thing called CURIOSITY.  EXO's Sehun is in it, which'll be interesting but makes me think it won't be nearly as serious as Love Me If You Dare. Unni: *looks at Ambassador’s notes and moves Taiwanese Love Me If You Dare onto my list of things to watch*  *hears the Ambassador's information about it and moves it back off the list FAST* Empress: Heh, I want to stick the Taiwanese drama on there too.... ~ Across the Ocean to See You Empress: .......that again....if people were actually doing the idea in a new way, that'd be one thing, but when /that/ is the description... Ambassador: And the Ambassador yawns again!  Rom coms have that effect on me.  Needless to add, no, this isn't going on my list. Unni: I have enough fluff to keep me busy for the moment, and couples at odds isn’t my thing. ~ Feather Flies to the Sky Empress: This sounds interesting, but interesting in a I-want-to-read-a-history-book kind of way, and I'm not sure I want to spend my break time in that way. Ambassador: well, it sounds like it has lots of good research material but since it's not anything I need anytime soon, nope. Unni: Interesting, but I started to yawn, so a pass from me. ~ Head Above Water Empress: If Korean I'd be all over this...as is...I like the title and I'll wait to hear the Ambassador's verdict. XD Ambassador: Yes.  Police espionage thriller is the described genere.  YES. Unni: I leave this to the Ambassador. ~ Tribes and Empires: Storm of Prophecy Empress: WOW...okay, I haven't gotten to Ice Fantasy yet, but maybe if I do, then I can put this on as my next Chinese fantasy. Depending on how it's done. XD Ambassador: FINALLY WE'RE GETTING THIS.  I've been seeing promo stuff for months and it's got me pretty interested.  *scrawls title at the top of TBW list* Unni: Warrior Princess...Spirit in a stone???..Okay, Novoland has caught my interest, but I haven’t jumped into full fantasy yet...who Knows I might give this a try yet. ~ I Love My President Though He's a Psycho Empress: That sounds like a TERRIBLE idea in real life...and usually when it's /that/ bad of an idea it wrecks my ability to enjoy even a fictional story...but wow, yeah, I do like the title, and it could one of those I "accidentally start." :) Ambassador: Definite props to the title for being attention grabbing.  Of all the bizarre plots I've come across recently, this is one of the weirdest.   It could be interesting but I feel like I'd personally get a headache so I'll pass for now.  Who knows though, if the internet buzz is good enough, I might surprise myself by trying it. Unni: I am so scratching my head over this! WHY WOULD YOU FALL FOR SOMEONE WITH A PERSONALITY DISORDER??? WHY!!!! I think I’ll leave this in the no thank you pile...unless my personality changes. ~ Fox Falls In Love Empress: LOL I don't think that's enough to make me watch it... Ambassador: No idea what the details of the plot are supposed to be, but the title and brief synopsis sound amusing.  I might add this to the very tail end of my list. Unni: I see what you did there Ambassador. This sounds cute. Maaaaaaaybe I’ll try a modern Chinese drama because I love foxes and rabbits, I bought fox and rabbit socks last week. Maybe it’s destiny.Empress: I'll be looking forward to seeing what the Unni and/or possibly the Ambassador thinks of it. XD ~ Because of You Empress: There's several similar Korean dramas I'd watch before I tried this one. Ambassador: apparently the Chinese version of Korea's Come! Jang Bo Ri?  Not enough flash and bang for me. Unni: I remember faintly being interested in Come! Jang Bo Ri....and seeing screen shots and going...I don’t know about this. This does sound semi interesting but I’d go for a Korean version long before I land myself in a tangled modern Chinese one. Empress: ^that. Feb dramas that weren't listed at the time February's WWW went up: ~ Above the Clouds Empress: Gah...Somehow this makes me think of Queen In Hyun's Man, and even without time travel, if it's like that I'll love it...but I'll wait to hear what it's like. XD Ambassador: Palace dramas, secrets across time, opening historical graves... oh yes, quite probably I'll watch this sometime.  Plus, Mabel Yuan is a favorite actress of mine. Unni: General & I has condemned me to open up my brain about Chinese dramas....this sounds like it could be interesting. ~ The Journey 2 Empress: Intriiiiiiiiguing....I feel like the dramas this month are SO MUCH MORE INTERESTING than last month's...this is seriously bad for my list...um, maybe? Ambassador: Can I have this power, please?  I feel like I'd be good at making people cry sincerely.  I likely won't watch it right away but definitely some day. Unni: Oh...this is a cool super power *sigh* whyyyyy does it have to be historical!!!! And look awesome and why is there a person with cool white hair on the cover.... Why GENERAL AND I YOU HAVE CONDEMNED ME!!!! MY LIFE WAS SO MUCH SIMPLER BEFORE I MET YOU! TAIWANESE ~ Q Series: House of Toy Bricks Empress: gahhhhhhh...that sounds tragic...and...yes, I have Q Series: Close Your Eyes Before It's Dark on my list, but I'm not adding this one. Ambassador: No, I don't watch horror. Unni: This is just....horrifying. No thank you. ~ The Perfect Match Empress: It's been a while since I watched a T-drama...I'll wait to hear what the Unni thinks. Ambassador: Nothing like a challenge to the ego of a man to rouse him.  Not likely I'll watch this, though it sounds amusing.  Unni, it's right up your alley. Unni: *SQUEAK* A FOODIE, ROM-COM, TAIWANESE DRAMA WITH A NIGHT MARKET!!!! *bounces up and down* YES YES YES YES YES PLEASE PLEASE AND THANK YOU THANK YOU!!!!! PLEASE BE GOOD!!! Empress: hee. I love how by now drama preferences are pretty clear...XD CANTONESE ~ Provocateur Empress: If this were a kdrama I'd try it. But I don't think my list is short enough to pull me into Cantonese dramas. Ambassador: ummmmm no.  I just don't have time, though it sounds interesting. Unni: Cantonese dramas almost always sound depressing to me, though if I had to speak with as many tones as they do, I might write depressed stories too. Which of these dramas will YOU be watching?

[littlesnowarrow]

Security fail, pt 2

Remember that silly three-part fic I began last week to honour @saibrarutherford‘s birthday? Well, here’s the second part. Enjoy!

Security fail part 2

Previous Part - Next Part

Summary: Saibra Trevelyan returns home from an exhausting mission in Orlais, as usual, when she finds out that some things have been happening in her dear stronghold. But, who is responsible for them?

Words: 1.8k

Warnings: lots of elf sass(?) None.

AO3 Link

Grammar and vocabulary corrections are always welcome.

The scream had been so shrill that had been way over Josephine’s; she had even caused an avalanche in a nearby summit.

In a matter of minutes, the candles of the War Room were lit once again, and whole group of scouts were investigating the fortress in search of a ghost. Leliana, Cassandra and Josephine were trying to remain calm as best as they could or knew, whether it was pacing or tapping with their fingers on their crossed arms. Saibra, followed closely by Cullen and Vastra, entered the room not long after. Nobody complained about the presence of the Inquisitor’s sister among them; Lady Harrington had never meddled in the issues of the organisation, although that time she herself made an exception to her own rule.

“What in the Maker’s name was that shout for?” Cassandra demanded.

That only helped her ire to grow like a furious boar. Saibra was hopping mad, throwing off sparks from her fingers and glaring with such an enraged look that none of them had seen before. She pulled the towel off the top of her head, revealing a healthy and shining wavy mane after the recent bath. Those present stilled and slowly lifted their gazes up to the source of the problem.

“It’s… blue.” Leliana was the only one able to mutter something.

‘Blue’ wasn’t exactly the right word. Her hair, silky with a beautiful shade of chestnut, was now displaying a loud cyan, so intense it was as if Saibra had been wrong and had washed with one of Solas’ paints. It was almost hypnotising, itself gifted by a talented artist that drew all the attention towards it.

“That-that…!” Everything on her was shaking: her hands, the good shoulder, even her magic. “That servant elf!”

“Which ‘servant elf’?” asked Josephine. She was as worried as if it had happened to herself.

“That one! With… with… With the arrow in her face, Dalish!”

“Dalish?” the Ambassador was terrified. “But we have been extremely careful with them since Loranil joined our ranks…”

Cassandra nodded heartily; she herself had been there during the long journey through the Plains and had witnessed the initial mistrust of the elves. The situation had calmed down after the Inquisitor had offered them their help to deal with the grudges the elves held against the Orlesians. After all, Saibra had stated repeatedly that she preferred the Dalish cooperation in the region instead of whatever the human soldiers could do for them.

Cullen couldn’t help but notice the suspicious brow Leliana had raised. It was obvious she had taken the trickster issue as a personal attack; nothing had ever escaped the Nightingale. Since it had been found out that it wasn’t Sera who had schemed Josie’s incident, Leliana had been in foul mood all afternoon, gathering what little information they had to capture the prankster once and for all. Even Jim, who wasn’t normally able to read the atmosphere, hadn’t gone to the rookery to deliver his reports. One could almost hear her grinding her teeth, although not now.

“Pffft!”

In the midst of that short silence, a muffled snicker came from behind the curtain. All of them fell completely silent, staring at the source of the wicked giggle.

“Wh-” someone muttered, but they were interrupted by one of Leliana’s hands.

The stranger seemed to understand they had no way out -or at least one that was remotely easy- as they raised the volume until it became a contagious laughter that threatened to lift the corners of Vastra’s lips. Cassandra was already unsheathing her sword when the intruder came out from their hideout.

“Hahahaha!” Her mirth filled the room like rain after a long drought, running through their spirits and lifting them, joining her. And who wouldn’t smile at the sight of such a tiny elf laughing so much she had to hold her stomach with her hands? “Amazing!”

But Saibra had turned pale. It was her. It was bloody her. Same height, brown hair and the heart of the forest in her eyes. The fact that she was now wearing a full armour with the distinctive gryphon insignia in her chestplate didn’t stop the mage to begin insulting the damned elf in every language she knew. The elf didn’t shrink at the swearings, with that grin stuck up her cheek, and only blew a childish raspberry at her when Saibra finished. Just how old was she? Had she been that wrong at guessing her age?

Taking advantage the chaos she had set in barely half a minute, the prankster made a place for herself between Vastra and Cassandra, who were looking at her astonished, and smiled mischievously from pointed ear to pointed ear.

“This is easily my favourite prank ever,” she claimed proudly. “‘Vints don’t share my point of view though. Can you believe it, Lily? It’s a shame, isn’t it?” Buscó apoyo in the spymaster, who had already recovered from the initial surprise, and chuckled softly a la vez que le removió el pelo. The stranger answered with a tender kiss on her cheek.

“Vishante kaffas, who are you?” She was so furious her voice sounded hoarse in her tongue. “And what have you done to my hair?!”

“Name’s Skadi Mahariel, Hero of Ferelden,” she winked, as if that title wasn’t that big of a deal. “But you may just call me Skadi.”

The revelation went down on them like a stew in the middle of the summer -save for the redhead. Josephine desperately needed a chair, while Cullen grasped the hilt of his sword as if it were the only solid reality close enough to him. As for Saibra, she didn’t quite know how to react. Her fingers sparked with enraged electricity, flashes well hidden inside the pocket of her nightgown. That woman had effortlessly infiltrated one of the safest fortresses in Thedas, even evading the ever-vigilant Leliana, and had been roaming freely around the hold for a week. But Saibra couldn’t blame the Nightingale for something she would regret the second after.

“And that, lady Inquisitor,” Skadi continued with a smug grin, “is one of my best recipes, mastered through the years with the only purpose of riling people up as much as possible. And looks like I’ve accomplished that! Pfft, really. A week in Skyhold gives so many ideas. I still have a few aces up the sleeve.”

“I strongly recommend you to stop it here, Foxy.” She was surprised at first to hear the Warden’s pet name from Leliana’s lips, or the tender look she gave the elf, when Saibra remembered they had been companions during the Blight.

“Yeah, perhaps I should.” Skadi theatrically stroked an imaginary beard, almost pretending to consider it. “Hm, don’t get close to the right door of the main hall in a while, then. Oh! Did you know there’s a nug statue made of gold in that basement-cave?”

“Hold on.”

The women turned their attention towards Cullen. Saibra flinched. In her own anger she hadn’t realised the increasing agitation that had been overcoming her Commander. She could easily feel how his muscles had clenched under his armour, the fur of his collar standing on end, and his breathing had taken a pace she didn’t like.

“My, my, Commander, don’t get too worked up. She has done anything to you.” Leliana was right, but Cullen couldn’t agree with her. Just like Varric had witnessed the Kirkwall disaster, Leliana was also the living testimony to the massacre of Kinloch Hold. And now she wasn’t alone; the mighty Hero who had saved the Circle -and him- was standing right before him. It wasn’t difficult to perceive the migraine that was gathering behind the cold amber of his eyes.

“I’m still waiting your thanks for Kinloch, y’know. Has he ever thanked you, Lily?” The redhead shook her head. “Bad Cullen.” And whispered, “Do you know where he keeps his smalls?” Leliana smirked and patted on her shoulder, a plan already taking shape in their roguish minds.

Cullen was about to say something when Vastra’s gentle hand laid in his forearm. His wrath cooled down if only for a little, and stepped back until he was at the same height as his sister-in-law.

“You knew all along?” wanted to know Cassandra.

“Since the Inquisitor requested me to contact her, yes. But I suspected she had come here when she put those bells on my Baron again this lunchtime.” Everyone knew the tempe that bird had, and Saibra didn’t remember seeing scratches in her skin. Was it or not a Dalish ability, she recognised her merit in silence.

“Oh yeah, that!” Skadi snapped her fingers, as if she had forgotten the main reason of her visit -and it probably was like that. She pointed to the figurine that represented Corypheus on the map of the War Table. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to fight Comeclus-”

“Corypheus.” Cullen corrected her. Skadi looked at him as if he had spoiled the ending of her favourite book.

“Cory…” she began several times, all in vain. “That guy. Good Mythal, but ‘Vint names sure are difficult to pronounce. Now I know why dwarves hate elvhen names.” Leliana subtly cleared her throat to drive her back to the point. “He’s not an archdemon though, otherwise my Warden senses would be tingling.”

“So the Calling…”

“False, pretty much. It really gives you a bad headache, whatever he does, but nothing as serious as that. Warden-Commander Clarel should’ve known better. It’s impossible that the Calling can affect a full army at the same time, or without considering the time they’ve been Wardens.”

Saibra nodded upset. When the Spymaster had told her of a remote resource to get information of the Elder One, she had been surprised that she was suggesting the lost Warden. The mage couldn’t deny she had placed some hopes in her, or in the letter she was supposed to send, but if that journey hadn’t been worth the effort…

They didn’t take much longer to conclude the meeting. The night had went on incredibly fast by the time they finally opened the doors; almost everyone in the stronghold were in their beds or doing their scheduled rounds. Cassandra and Vastra were the first ones to go back to their bedrooms, and Josephine followed them once she had obtained the apology for her exposed undergarments.

Saibra still wanted to stay for a little longer, even though Cullen had insisted to return to their quarters. She had rarely seen him as nervous as in that evening, but she wanted to hear at least one of the Hero’s stories before she would vanish down the mountain like a ghost. Leliana reassured her, without consulting the Warden, that she was going to stay there for at least a couple of days, so there was plenty of time to getting to know each other and finding the way to return the Inquisitor’s hair to its natural state.