#could I do thirty days in a facility. would it even be worth it to make my mom go broke. it might not fix me or even help me.

[milo-is-rambling]

Me when my therapist recommended in-patient treatment and then i started actually considering it

[raaorqtpbpdy]

This Sure as Hell Never Happened on Scooby-Doo

While investigating a fairly routine haunting in a Michigan hotel, Sam and Dean come face to face with a creature unlike any they've faced before. [Takes place around mid season 1 for SPN, and at a non-specific point in the DP timeline]

Written for @crossoverdanuary Week, Day 7: Supernatural | Veil

First off, congrats to Supernatural for finally making the main prompt list after two years of being an honorable mention lol. I had a lot of trouble coming up with an idea for this one for some reason, so it ended up being kind of generic. This is, however, the first time I've ever written the Full Hazmat AU, which was pretty exciting.

AO3 Link

[Warning for minor violence, and references to suicide throughout]

As a general rule, hunters steered clear of Amity Park, although the reason why varied from one to another.

Some believed all the so-called supernatural occurrences there were just a hoax, like Bigfoot, so there was no point wasting valuable time and energy looking into them. Others swore up and down that, hoax or not, there was something about that town that made you see things. Impossible things. Things that made even the most experienced hunters pause. Some simply believed that Amity Park could take care of itself. Outside interference would only cause more problems than it would solve.

Then there were those who believed that Amity Park, that the very town itself, didn't want them there. That hunters were just not welcome.

The town was infamous in the hunter community. Grizzled, plaid-wearing men would talk about it at roadhouses and truck-stop diners. They'd warn other people away, tell them not to even drive through it on their way to somewhere else. There was nothing in that town worth dying for, and they took care of their own. Hunters weren't needed, they weren't wanted, and they'd just do better if they stayed away.

Every once in a while though, Amity Park's unique brand of freaky bled out of that isolated town. And when it did, then it became the hunters' problem. Unfortunately, more often than not, they wouldn't know it until it was too late.

Sam and Dean were investigating a supposedly haunted hotel. Staff and guests they'd spoken to had all reported blinking lights, cold spots, scratching in the walls. The staff seemed content to blame it on the owner's unwillingness to spend money to fix or update anything. The guests, on the other hand, not so much.

Those who stayed overnight reported horrible nightmares about bleeding out from their wrists. Some of them even claimed to have seen things, although they couldn't seem to agree on what they saw. A few saw a woman, covered in blood from slit writs, and crying, who vanished in the blink of an eye. But another claimed to have seen a small figure in a partially melted hazmat suit.

"Could there be more than one?" Sam asked when they'd returned to their own room in the hotel.

It was more expensive than the crappy motels they usually stayed it, but it was more convenient, and it gave them an excuse to wander around if they were actually staying there.

"Maybe, but... I don't know. If someone committed suicide in the hotel, it makes sense that their spirit would linger," Dean said. "I just can't think of any reason why there would be a ghost in a hazmat suit. Can you?"

"If the building used to be some kind of lab or research facility, it's possible," Sam said, "But this hotel was established back in the late thirties, and even if there was a research facility here before the hotel, the hazmat suit he described was much more modern than they would have worn back then."

Dean scoffed as he plopped down on his bed.

"Of course, leave it to my nerd brother to know what hazmat suits looked like in the thirties," Dean mocked. "Seriously though, that second ghost just doesn't make any kind of sense."

"We'll know more once we find info about anyone whose died in this hotel," Sam said. "This place has been in business for almost seventy years, I'm sure we'll have plenty to wade through."

"It could have been that guy was just making up a story," Dean said. "We've got three people claiming they saw a woman who disappeared, but only one mentioned the hazmat suit. Maybe he was messing with us."

"He seemed pretty shaken up about it," Sam said. "I didn't think he was lying."

"I didn't either, but...." Dean shook his head thoughtfully. "Something about that story just doesn't sit right. And you know what else? That redheaded girl who got all defensive when we started acting questions. Something doesn't sit right about her, either. She acted like she was responsible, or trying to protect the person who was. Except we already know this is a haunting. We know there's at least one ghost, so why did she act like that?"

"I don't know," Sam said. "Could be she was trying to hide something else."

"Maybe...."

"Come on," Sam said. "Let's start by combing through local death records at the library."

"You go ahead," Dean told him. "I wanna talk to that girl's parents, see if they know anything. I'm starting to think there might be more to this case than just a standard haunting."

"Fine. We'll meet back here later."

—

"So, what'd you find?" Dean asked when his brother got back to their room.

"Okay, so get this," Sam began. "There have been several deaths in this hotel. A couple of heart attacks, a couple of accidents. One guy fell out his window, which caused the hotel to seal all the windows on the upper floors shut so they couldn't be opened. There have also been three suicides since the hotel's founding.

"A World War 2 vet shot himself in the head in December of 1945, just a few months after the war ended; A girl OD'ed in 1963, leaving a note about how the state of the world had made her unwilling to live in it; and lastly, a woman in 1992 slit her wrists in room 201 after her husband divorced her, blaming her for the murder of their only son."

"Sounds like we've ID'ed our first ghost," Dean noted. "We got a name?"

"Jennifer Bishop," Sam said. "She was accused of murdering her son, but never convicted because they never actually found the body, only a whole lot of blood they identified with DNA testing. She defended her innocence until her death, but the police never actually investigated anyone else for her son's disappearance and presumed death. Once she offed herself, they just closed the case."

"Another gold standard of police incompetence," Dean said. "Did you find out where she was buried?"

"Her family was catholic, but since she committed suicide, they couldn't bury her in their family plot at their church. Instead, she was buried in a public cemetery, Lincoln Memorial Park... but it's in her hometown: Petoskey, Michigan. She was only here for the trial."

"Great, so we gotta drive all night to get to friggin' Petoskey," Dean moaned. "Awesome. This is why hotel ghosts suck. Did you find any leads on hazmat suit?"

"Nothing. What about you?" Sam asked. "Get anything useful interviewing that red-headed girl's parents?"

"Nah," Dean said, shaking his head. "Remember those hellhoundslair dorks?"

Sam nodded.

"That's what they were like," he continued. "Overenthusiastic, but incompetent. She probably realized we were asking about ghosts and was nervous they'd overhear. While I was talking to them she reminded them they'd promised not to hunt any ghosts while their family was on vacation. They didn't seem too happy about that, but they at least stopped insisting they'd help me 'catch that slippery specter', so that was something, I guess.

"I did learn she has a younger brother, though. I didn't get to talk to him, but when I was leaving, I overheard the two kids talking, and he said something like, 'there's not enough of her there to talk to', and 'there's not a whole lot left of her at all," Dean finished. "Not sure what that was all about, but it seemed like they were trying to keep it on the down-low, especially from their parents."

"You think it could be related?" Sam asked.

"As far as I know, the brother never promised not to hunt ghosts," Dean replied with a shrug. "That and a gut feeling are pretty much all I have to base it on, though."

"Well, we know who our suicide is, at least," Sam said. "One of us should go take care of Jennifer Bishop while the other stays here in case she starts causing anymore trouble, or in case the hazmat ghost shows up again, if its even real."

"Why don't you take the salt-and-burn this time," Dean suggested.

Sam froze and looked at his brother, completely shocked. "You... want me to take your car and drive two hundred miles away... by myself?"

"And if you bring her back with so much as a scratch on her, I'll make you wish you were never born," Dean said. "But I feel like there's something at this hotel that I'm missing, and I'm gonna stick around until I figure it out."

"It's really bugging you, huh?" Sam noted. "Alright, well... it's a three hour drive, so I'd better get going."

"Yeah, and don't forget to fill up the tank on your way back."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam said as he walked out the door.

They'd already brought some weapons from the trunk into the hotel room, so Dean wouldn't be unarmed if he ran into one of the ghosts.

He did some quick math in his head. The ghost, or ghosts, probably wouldn't show up until it was night. Sam had a six-hour round trip, plus a good hour to dig up old Jennifer, probably longer, since he wouldn't have help. It was early afternoon now. 1:18 pm, a glance at the clock told him, so he could expect Sam back around nine-ish, give or take an hour. Sunset was around seven.

Jennifer would be gone well before nightfall... but that other ghost... if it even existed, they didn't have a single lead on it.

Dean headed down to the lobby.

He'd noticed them yesterday, a group of older ladies with a basket of yarn in the middle of them, chatting up a storm. He and Sam hadn't spoken to them yesterday, but now that Sam was gone, it was time for Dean to dial up a very particular type of charm that Sam would tease him for mercilessly if he ever saw it. He stood nearby, waiting for his moment.

"I swear," one lady said. "I turned up my thermostat four times last night. I had it cranked all the way up to ninety, and I could hear the radiator groaning like anything, but my room was still freezing."

"Did you phone the concierge?" another lady said.

"I tried, but they just apologized and said it's an old hotel," replied the first. "Didn't even offer to send a handyman, or move me to a different room or anything. Anyway, that's why started coming down here during the day. I just can't stand it."

That was his chance. "You too?" he asked her. "Which room are you in?"

"I'm in 201, why?"

Bingo. 201. The same room as their suicide victim.

"Well, it got to a point where I got my tools outta my car and just fixed the darn radiator myself," Dean lied. "I could take a look at yours too, if you'd like."

"Would you?" she asked, sounding beyond relieved. "Oh, thank you so much. It's gotten so bad I can hardly sleep at night, so that would be a real godsend if you would do that. You're such a lamb."

"Oh, it's no problem, ma'am," Dean said, taking an empty seat nearby. "The name's Dean, by the way."

"I'm Millie," the woman said. "And these are my friends, Cathy and Debbie. We're in town for a big doll convention. We're collectors, you know. And Debbie even makes dolls herself out of felt."

"I do, and I've gotten pretty damn good at it, if I say so myself," Debbie said. "I even made a felt baby doll for my granddaughter's birthday a few months back and she was over the moon."

Upon closer inspection, all three of the ladies seemed to be knitting or crocheting very small clothes, presumably for dolls. Hopefully he could redirect the topic of conversation back to ghosts soon, because Dean didn't know Jack about dolls.

"What about you?" asked the third woman, Cathy. "What brings you to Lansing? I assume you don't live here, or you wouldn't be staying at a hotel."

"I'm here on business," he replied, silently thanking god that she'd changed the topic for him.

"What kind of business?" Millie asked. "You said you can fix a radiator, are you some kind of technician, or construction worker?"

"Actually... I'm a private investigator," he lied.

"Oooh, exciting!" Cathy said. "What are you investigating?"

"I'm afraid I can't share the details... but maybe you ladies could help me," he said. "Have any of you seen anything strange while you've been staying here?"

"I saw a man dancing near the park who could clasp his hands behind his back and pull them all the way in front of him," Debbie said. "That was pretty strange. I gave him a dollar."

"I was thinking more like in the hotel," Dean said. "Maybe like... a figure in a hazmat suit?"

Millie gasped, and Dean fixed his gaze on her.

"You have?"

"Well... you see, I have sleep paralysis," she said. "Last night, I had only managed to fall asleep for an hour or two because it was so cold, but then I woke up in the middle of the night because my room suddenly got even colder, but I couldn't move, of course. It takes me a while to be able to move after I wake up.

"And then I saw, like you said, someone wearing a hazmat suit, a black one with white gloves. They were small, like they weren't fully grown, and they were glowing," Millie explained. "Their suit was damaged, partly melted, it looked like. I'd never seen something like that before, but I just figured it had to be a sleep paralysis hallucination, and maybe it partly was, but do you think it could have been real? That someone broke into my room last night?"

"How frightening," Debbie said with a shiver.

"Maybe," Dean said. "Maybe not. I'm not really sure yet." He paused, consideringly. That was two people now who saw the hazmat suit, and this one saw it in the same room where the other ghost had died. "Did it say anything to you? Or do anything that you saw?"

"I couldn't really turn my head, but they seemed like they were looking for something, didn't seem to find it though. Nothing was missing from my room when I finally got up, at least," Millie said. "They didn't say anything, and only looked at me for a moment. Oh! But they might've been muttering something. Not sure what it was, though."

"Thanks, that's a lot of help," Dean said. "If you think of anything else, let me know?"

"Do you think I'm in danger?" Millie asked. "Should I request a room change after all?"

"If that would make you feel safer," Dean said. "I'm not sure it's as cut and dry as a break-in... but maybe you should just stay in one of your friend's rooms for a night."

"You can stay in my room tonight, Millie," Cathy volunteered.

He stayed for a little while, chatting with them. It wasn't something he wanted getting out, but old ladies always loved him for some reason. He even managed to get Cathy's key-lime pie recipe, which the other two swore up and down was absolutely to die for. Who knew when the next time he'd have a kitchen to try it out would be, but he'd make sure to write it down next chance he got, just in case.

It wasn't until he saw that red-haired teenage girl and a short, black-haired boy who was presumably her brother walk through the lobby that he excused himself to follow after them, claiming they were persons of interest in his case.

"If you didn't find anything, how did you even know it was the right room?" the sister was asking when Dean got close enough to hear.

He was trying hard not to be noticed while he tailed them, but as quietly as they were talking, he had to stick closer than he would have liked.

"That was where her presence was the strongest," the brother answered. "I just don't know how I'm supposed to help her when she's not strong enough to speak, and we're leaving tomorrow, so tonight is my last chance."

Could he be a psychic of some kind? Maybe a medium?

He turned around abruptly, and Dean barely had time to make it look like he was examining a shop's window display of... glass baubles and nick-knacks. Oh, yeah, he definitely seemed like the type to be interested in those. Hopefully they wouldn't question it.

"Is he staying at our hotel?" the brother whispered.

"Yeah," the sister confirmed, "and he was asking about cold spots and flickering lights, too. You think he knows something?"

"I think I'd rather stay away from him," replied the brother. "He could be the dangerous type."

After that, it seemed like the kids were deliberately trying to shake him, and it wasn't long before they did, almost as if they'd simply vanished into thin air.

Dean gave up searching and returned to the hotel. He found Millie in the lobby and asked if she'd let him into her room to fix the radiator, even brought the few tools that he'd had in his room to make the story more convincing.

"Even if you don't stay in here tonight, I figure I can at least do the hotel a favor," he said.

"Well, I'll leave you to it," she said. "Don't you go snooping around in my underwear drawer," she teased, and he laughed along with her until she closed the door behind her and headed back downstairs to her knitting.

Any evidence that there had been a suicide in this room had been long since erased. It was cold, just as Millie said it was, but there didn't appear to be any problem with the radiator. One of the tools he'd brought along was an iron crowbar, and he gripped it tightly.

"Jennifer, you in here?" he called out.

The time was 5:06, meaning Sam was probably digging up her grave right now.

He got no response.

"Jennifer?" he called again. "Jennifer Bishop?"

Nothing.... he was pretty sure that kid had been saying she wasn't a very powerful ghost, maybe that was why she hadn't done much. She hadn't actually killed or even hurt anyone beyond a couple of nightmares and a cold room. Maybe she couldn't show herself during the day.

The Winchester brothers had only stopped here because they happened to be so close by when Sam read an article that claimed guests at this hotel had seen apparitions, and experienced horrible nightmares about a woman slitting their wrists. But the nightmares weren't actually killing anybody. Normally, they wouldn't have even bothered, but they were only a few miles away, and nothing else was close by.

Dean opened his mouth to call out one more time, but before he could, there was a flash of light and a distant-sounding screen, and he watched as the ghost of Jennifer Bishop appeared and almost instantaneously disappeared.

One down. One to go.

And wow was this room suddenly sweltering. Millie wasn't kidding about turning her thermostat up to ninety. Dean adjusted it to a much more reasonable 74°F, and left to go tell Millie he'd fixed her radiator.

After she was done thanking him, he headed up to his room and called Sam.

"Dean?" Sam said. "I took care of Jennifer Bishop."

"I know, I saw her burn up," Dean replied. "Nicely done. Anyway, I got some new info about our second ghost."

"Yeah? Let's hear it."

"The lady staying in the room where Jennifer offed herself said she saw a glowing figure in a hazmat suit in her room, thought it was a sleep paralysis thing until I brought it up. She said it seemed like it was looking for something, but it didn't seem to find anything."

"So we have a second witness for our hazmat ghost," Sam said. "And the description lined up?"

"Exactly," Dean confirmed. "I also have a new theory about those siblings, the red-headed girl and her brother. I think the brother might be a psychic, and was looking for a way to help Jennifer pass on peacefully, except she wasn't a strong enough spirit for him to connect with. Not sure how or even if this ties into the hazmat ghost at all."

"Still no clues about who it could be?" Sam asked.

"Nada," Dean said. "I did confirm that there was no lab or any kind of scientific facility at this site before the hotel was built. According to the hotel manager, before it was a hotel, it was a movie theater that went out of business during the great depression and got torn down, and before that, it was live-theater, but I'm pretty sure that was before hazmat suits were even invented. Before that, nothing. Just an empty lot."

"So maybe we're looking for someone who died somewhere else and their spirit was brought to the hotel connected to a cursed object," Sam suggested. "Have you seen anything in the hotel that looks like it might have come from a lab? Or belong to some kind of scientist?"

"If it was something that belonged to them, then it could be anything," Dean pointed out in exasperation. "A chair, or a painting, or a vase? I'm not gonna be able to find it unless I know what it is."

"You'd better start looking into any deaths in the area that might have been related to radioactive materials then," Sam said. "Any kind of death that might have occurred while the deceased was wearing a hazmat suit."

"Yeah, something that would have burned right through it," Dean said. "According to our descriptions, the suit is partially melted."

"You got this Dean?" I still have two and a half hours of driving to go.

"Yeah, I got it," Dean replied.

He did not got it. He got nothing. He stayed at the library until it closed at eight and didn't find a single death that fit the description. He got back to the hotel around the same time Sam did.

"Did you fill the tank?" he asked immediately.

"Yes, Dean, I filled the tank," Sam replied, rolling his eyes. "Did you identify our hazmat?"

Dean shook his head. "Nah, I couldn't find squat. It's like this ghost is..."

"A ghost?" Sam finished for him, raising an eyebrow.

Dean scowled. That had been what he was about to say, but he knew it sounded stupid, that's why he'd stopped.

"Yeah."

Sam shook his head as they went back up to their room.

—

The brothers were still puzzling out what to do about their second ghost, Dean cleaning his guns while Sam poured over their dad's journal, when they heard a muffled gasp from above them. Floating there on the ceiling was a figure in a hazmat suit, its faint glow barely visible in the light of the room.

For an instant, none of them moved. Then, acting quickly, Dean grabbed the crowbar that was next to him on the bed and flung it at the figure on the ceiling.

Rather than passing right through, causing the hazmat ghost to dissipate, the crowbar made contact with a clang, hitting it right on the head and knocking it to the floor between the two beds.

"Quick, salt, Sammy!" Dean shouted, rather than gape at the seemingly unconscious 'ghost' on their floor.

He tried to grab the hazmat-wearing figure, and to his surprise, it worked. He dragged it into the armchair in their room while Sam laid a ring of salt around it.

"Do you actually think this'll work, Dean?" Sam asked. "I mean, it doesn't seem like any ghost I've ever seen. Iron is supposed to repel ghosts, not actually hit them. I'm pretty sure this is something else."

"Iron hurt it—"

"Being hit in the head with a crowbar hurt it," Sam pointed out. "Based on that, it could be human for all we know."

"It was on the ceiling, Sam," Dean said flatly, grabbing the iron chains from under the bed and wrapping them around their captive. "And this don't look like Spider-Man to me."

"Well it doesn't look like a ghost, either," Sam insisted.

"So, what, you think this is some kind of Scooby-Doo situation?" Dean asked. "We'll pull off the mask and it turns out it's just some shady real-estate developer who wanted to get the hotel closed down so they could turn it into a theme park? Let's try it then."

Dean grabbed the hood of the hazmat suit and tore it off. 

They both gasped at what they saw.

Whoever it was, he looked young, maybe 13 or 14. His hair was as white as sheet and floated on an imaginary breeze. His face was dark. Lightning-bolt scars criss-crossed it all the way down to the neck until they disappeared under the suit's collar. His skin appeared to be badly burned, flaking off in ashes which vanished before they hit the ground.

He groaned as he started to come back to consciousness, and when he opened his eyes, they were a solid, eerie green, glowing so brightly they almost hurt to look at, even in the well-lit room.

"Still think he's human?" Dean asked quietly.

Sam shook his head, wide-eyed and dumbstruck.

"This sure as hell never happened on Scooby-Doo."

"Ugh," the mysterious boy groaned again, blinking and shaking his head like he was trying to get his bearings. "Did you seriously throw a crowbar at my head?" he demanded after a moment. "What the hell, dude?!"

"What are you?" Sam demanded. "A demon?"

"I'm a ghost, what the hell does it look like?" the boy replied.

"You don't look like any ghost we've ever seen," Dean said.

"Let me guess, you're more used to shades like the other ghost that was floating around this hotel, right?" the kid guessed. "She seems to have left the building though. You two got any idea why?"

"We took care of her," Dean replied. "Sam dug her up and salted and burned her bones. And if you really are a ghost, then we can do the same to you."

"You... you straight up ended her?" he asked. "Just like that? You didn't even give her the chance to move on? Ancients, what the hell!"

"She had the chance to move on when she died, and she didn't take it," Dean said. "Instead she terrorized people, so we showed up to stop her."

"She gave a few people nightmares! Everyone has nightmares sometimes! You didn't have to destroy her!"

"What's it to you, did you know her?" Sam asked. "She a friend of yours?"

"Well... no, but I was trying to?" the boy replied. "She was too weak to capture, and I didn't want to destroy her by trying to fight, so I was trying to learn more about her and help her move on."

"If you're a ghost, why don't you move on?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, what's keeping you around?" Dean echoed the sentiment more harshly.

"The same thing preventing you from salting and burning my bones," came the reply. The so-called ghost did not elaborate.

"And what would that be?" Dean finally asked.

"I guess you could say I'm not dead enough yet."

"So you're not a ghost, then," Sam said.

"I am," said the boy. "I'm not a shade, like that woman you ended. I'm what a ghost is like when we actually have enough power to be a whole person and not just a shadow of our former self. I'm a ghost like you've never encountered before."

"Whatever you are, we're gonna get rid of you," Dean jeered.

"Why?" asked the boy. "I haven't hurt anyone. All I did was try to help another ghost pass peacefully through the veil. Don't you hunters have any sort of moral code?"

"So, what?" Sam asked. "You're proposing we just let you go?"

"Fat chance," Dean scoffed.

"Not exactly," the ghost replied with a smirk. "More like I'm telling you not to feel to guilty when I escape." Then the ghost stood up, iron chains falling right off him. "Iron is more difficult to pass through without destabilizing, but not too much of a challenge for ghosts like me. Sorry, but this will be the last time we see each other."

With that, he pulled his hood back on, obscuring his face once more, so the only thing visible was the glow of his eyes behind the black lenses of his mask. Then he flew right up through the ceiling.

The Winchesters tried to find him. They searched the hotel top to bottom, probably looking half-mad, but he was gone. He'd simply vanished without a trace. And they never did see him again.

[nonbinarytriscuit]

Mass Effect Rp! Looking for 18+ Only Peeps!

Looking for anyone to play as Kaidan Alenko, Garrus Vakarian, Steve Cortez, Jeff 'Joker' Moreau, James Vega, Urdnot Wrex, or Grunt. If this interests you please message me on discord @2tiredboi. Please if you do reply be able to do at least 2 to 3 paragraphs.

I am wanting to do this roleplay after the Reaper War. Maybe a year afterwards. It took them almost half of it to find and rescue Shepard. Yes, Shepard is badly injured and is currently healing from those injures. Thing is he was in a coma for six or seven months. We will start where Shepard wakes up from the coma. Yes, they are in a pre-established relationship. So their reaction to Shepard waking up is all up to you. I am willing to take OCs, human or any type of species really. I will post the stuff about my Shepard below. Warning ahead of time, he suffered a lot of injuries everything. Broken and cracked bones, brain damage from the lack of oxygen and blood flow to it, losing an arm and a leg from being crushed under rubble. He's not in a good condition so beware.

Now, here is my information for my Shepard. His name is Andrew Shepard, goes by Drew for short. He is nearing forty years old as he as at the age of thirty eight. He is around 6'0. He is a Colonist, a War Hero and an Infiltrator, strictly Paragon as well. He had short dark brown hair with the sides shaves, but that's long grown out unevenly as long with use to be light stubble on his face. His skin tone is bronze type of tone and his eyes are these pale blue color that pop out. His face is similar to that of the default Shepard's, but a bit thinner with a tad larger nose. He use to be built with a good amount of muscle, but being in the coma definitely made him loss quite a bit of his muscle mass and fat.

‐---------

It all had happened so fast. His whole body felt like it had been torn to shreds, but he kept pushing on. This war with the reapers had to end! No more lives will be lost to those damn things after this day! It did make his heart ache to realize he would be leaving everyone behind once he made his choice (which was to destroy). Leaving (y/c) behind probably was the worst of it but he had to do this. For him and his family. He would not let Anderson's sacrifice go to waste either! It absolutely destroyed him knowing the man he had come to know as a good friend and even saw as a father figure that he had known for so long was now dead. Body left behind as Shepard forced his way to his destination.

His decision was final. He choice to destroy the Reapers. If he did not no one would survive this war. Too many lives had been lost already and he would not allow anymore to! More pain seared through his entire body as the structure around him crumbled and collapsed. This was worth it. This was all worth it so those he loved and cared for would be free from this horrendous war. He was content with losing his life to protect them all. What he did not know in that moment that he would somehow survive all of this.

The news of Commander Shepard being found broke through the entire galaxy in a storm. Blurry video footage was show as a rescue team dug him out of layers of rubble. There was a very still eerie few minutes as one checked for his heart beat or even his pulse. In relief it was announced that the Commander was alive, barely but alive!

With how serious his injuries were Andrew did not wake for a long time. His body was in awful shape and the moment he had arrived at the medical facility he was rushed into urgent surgery where the doctors worked on him for *hours*. His left arm and leg having to be amputated due to the excessive damage done to the limbs. They would not heal in the state they were in, so they took the best route that would help the man survive. Even after he was finally out of surgery he still had not awoken. Months passed and hope began to fade that he ever would. Yet, it seemed no one could ever truly keep Commander Shepard down.

It was almost a year later when Andrew finally stirred to consciousness. There was a faint pain pulsing through his body, but it compared nothing to how it was before. Wait. He was feeling pain...? His eyes were forced open soon after that thought and he felt so many crashing in him at once. Where was he? He wasn't dead? How was he not dead? Was that even possible? He should have died in that explosion! He had calculated the rate of his survival and it had been zero!His thoughts are torn away from him when footsteps catch his ears. He couldn't stop himself as his blue eyes slowly moved to the door, head tilting a little to get a better view on who was coming to his room. When that door open and a familiar voice spilled into the silence he felt the stir of so many emotions go through him like a tsunami. He opened his mouth, throat dry and aching from disuse yet it didn't stop him from speaking the name of the man that held his heart. "(Y-Yn),"

[whump-a-la-mode]

Nemesis - Part 8

This one is... something. I was supposed to be asleep hours ago. The sun has come up. But it was all more than worth it, and now I am going to pass out.

Based on votes from last time, option B was chosen-- speak to Leader and Hacker. There’s going to be a little flip in allegiances this time around, and some questions will finally be answered! The choose your own adventure aspect is going to be a bit different too, this time around, but more detail about that at the end.

For now, I hope you enjoy!

CW//Drugged whumpee, confusion, nightmares, past trauma, murder, strangled to death, minor body horror (shapeshifting)

The wave of cool water felt heavenly as it washed over Villain’s throat. Even as the movement exhausted them, they drank every drop as if it would be their last, and, when the last drop was at last reached, they whined.

“There you go.”

The voice felt closer, this time, coming from behind only one layer of fog rather than a thousand. It was close, just like the warm hand, wrapped around their shoulders, keeping them upright.

Everything was so warm...

“Hero... Hero warm...”

A slight chuckle replied to that, the hand on their back gently rubbing between their shoulder blades. Making them feel like they had blood, like there was something inside them other than dry ice.

They had been so cold, just a moment ago, mind spiraling with something... something bad. What had it been? Had it been anything at all?

Did it matter, now that Hero was here?

“Yeah. Hero warm. Are you warm enough?”

“Mhm.” They purred. The silk webbing wrapping around them, that which had once been uncomfortable, restraining, now felt so soft. They could sink into it forever...

“Do you need anything?”

“Tired.”

“You want to go back to bed?”

“Yeah. Hero stay...”

“Yeah. Yeah, Hero stay.”

“Okay. Goodnight, Hero.”

“Yeah. Goodnight, Villain.”

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The warm body in Hero’s arms, hardly recognizable beneath layers of fleece and fabrics, took only a moment to turn heavy and limp, breathing slowly until it was only shown by the slow rise and fall of their chest.

Even as exhaustion tugged at their own limbs, even as they wanted more than anything to curl up in those blankets themself, they knew they couldn’t. Hero couldn’t stay.

As gently as they could manage, given Villain’s limp weight, they laid their ward down on their side. The unconscious person murmured and twitched as the blankets were readjusted, but did not stir.

Villain was comfortable. Villain was safe. That was what mattered. Even though...

Hero took their phone from their pocket, flinching at the blazing screen light.

Seven in the morning. They had hoped to be able to claim a few hours of rest alongside Villain, but their own worry had made that impossible. Now, it was already morning.

Hell, they were supposed to be eating with their team by six thirty. Yet, no one had knocked to awake them, yet.

Hero hauled themself to their feet, limbs aching and joints popping all the way. They hardly registered the chill beneath their feet as they made their way to the door.

Only for it to nearly slam into them. They leapt backwards, barely catching themself.

“Oh, shit, sorry!” Leader’s wide eyes showed that they had been expecting Hero just as much as they had been expecting them. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, you didn’t hit me.”

“Good.” Their gaze cast downwards, to the item carried in their arms-- a platter of food. Fortunately, none had fallen.

“Is that for Villain?”

“No, dimwit. I don’t think they could get anything down if you forced it down their throat. This is for you.”

“Oh.”

“When is the last time you ate?”

“Um...”

“Lunch yesterday, got it.”

“It’s... Isn’t everyone else already eating?”

“They’re already done. I told them you needed your rest. Thought you’d prefer eating in here.”

Hero shook their head, pointing back at the snoring pile of blankets.

“Can’t wake them up.”

“Oh.”

“I can just, um, eat out there.”

“No, you’re going to-��� Leader bit their tongue, reformulating their sentence. “Um, how about you come and eat with me in my office? I haven’t eaten yet, either.”

Hero was in no way used to such a delicately formatted request.

“Sure.”

“Alright.” Leader nodded, handing over the platter, which they gratefully took. The two moved out of the room-- the former taking surprising care to close the door gently, so as to not make any noise.

The common room was deserted, thank the heavens. There were no distractions as they moved to Leader’s office. The chairs still hadn’t moved since their discussion last night. Hero sat.

“So...” Leader maneuvered around their side of their desk, seating themself. “How did you sleep?”

“Didn’t.”

“Not at all?”

“Maybe a bit. I’m not sure. Villain woke up and...” They trailed off.

“And?”

Leader had no need to know of Villain’s words.

“I had to get them back to sleep. They drank some water, too.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.” Hero perked their ears, hearing a noise beyond the office door. “I’m surprised that they’re leaving us alone.”

“I told them to.” Leader speared a chunk of scrambled eggs with a fork, raising it to their lips.

The events of last night came flooding back.

“What did you tell them? What did you tell everyone? I thought they’d have been all over me once they knew I came back. They do know, right?”

“They certainly wanted to bother you.” Leader swallowed the chunk of egg. “I didn’t let them.”

“So they do know?”

“Kinda.” They straightened themself, playing with the food upon their plate momentarily. “I told them that I came back last night, and found you here. As far as they know, you escaped on your own, and Villain’s whereabouts are unknown.”

“And they believed you?”

“I think they were just glad to know that you were okay. And, y’know, not dead. You’re probably going to get hounded with questions later, but, for now, I made it very clear that you’re to be left alone.”

“Thank you.” Hero spoke half-breathlessly.

“It’s not a problem. You’re officially relieved of mission duty until you’ve recovered.”

“R-Really?”

“You need to rest. Even if you aren’t injured, you’re exhausted.”

“Yeah...”

“So, until you’re feeling better, let me handle that.” They took another bite, making Hero note the fact that they hadn’t so much as looked at their own food. Even the thought of eating something made their stomach twist.

“Thank you.”

“Really, it’s fine. So... How is our, y’know, secret?”

“Villain?”

“Duh.”

“They’re... they’re fine, I think. Still out of it. But, like I said, I got them to drink some water. And they seemed to recognize me.”

“They didn’t recognize you before?”

“No. I don’t think so, at least. They were really out of it.”

“Are you ever planning on telling me what happened to them?”

Hero had almost forgotten that Leader was in the dark about the whole thing. Yet, they were being so trusting. Hell, they hadn’t even trusted Hero when they hadn’t been lying to them.

“Um...”

“You don’t have to.”

It was the first time they’d ever heard Leader string those particular words together.

“But, I would like to know. You need your rest, and Villain needs a caretaker. I was a nurse once, y’know.”

“You were?”

“I don’t know if your surprise should insult me. But, yes. I can keep watch over them while you sleep, but it would help if I actually knew what was wrong with them.”

“Yeah.” Hero scratched the back of their neck. “Thing is, um, I don’t really know?”

“Well, you said they were drugged, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know that for sure.”

“Do you know what with?”

“About that...”

Leader raised a brow.

Hero let their next words tumble out of their lips like a waterfall, unable to stop once it had begun to flow.

“Villain has been kept sedated to unconsciousness for the last year. They were supposed to be rehabilitated, but they were drugged instead. I don’t know why.”

Leader dropped their fork.

“Oh.”

“I don’t know what drugs they were given. Just that they were sedated.”

“I see. How did... How did they leave the rehab facility.”

Hero diverted their gaze.

“That’s not really important.”

A sigh.

“Okay. We can talk about that later. Thank you, for telling me. Was there... Was there a reason? They wouldn’t just be drugged for no reason.”

Hero shrugged helplessly.

“I don’t know.”

Leader bit their lip.

“With everything going on recently, I hesitate to ignore the possibility that Director had something to do with it.”

“You really think so?”

“Maybe. You aren’t planning on eating, are you?”

“I...” Hero felt their face flush. “I don’t feel too well.”

“That’s fine. I’ll clean up. You go get your rest, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll keep everyone away from your room. And, Hero?”

“Yeah?”

“Sleep in your own bed. I can keep an eye on Villain.”

“Thank you.”

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Collapsing onto their own bed felt like falling onto a cloud. The mattress curved, shifting to cradle their aching body. For a moment, Hero could not help but nestle themself in it, letting their pillow almost envelope their head.

Birds had long since begun their outside chirping, but that was inconsequential. At that point, Hero could have slept through an earthquake.

But, apparently, not through a phone call.

The ringing noise jolted them from their blissful repose. Without thought, their hand blindly searched for the vibrating device on their nightstand. They blinked against the screen’s bright light.

Hacker. A wave of relief filled their chest-- they were okay. Without thought, they accepted the call, placing the phone to their ear.

“Hero?”

“Yep. Hey, Hacker.”

“Oh, thank god you’re alright! Though you do sound a little bit like garbage.”

“Hey.”

“I’m just saying, just saying. Oh, you have no idea how worried I was. The news only just broke this morning. I could hardly sleep, last night.”

“I thought you were like, nocturnal.”

A stutter.

“I mean, you kept me up all day, so. You know how it is. But I’m just really glad. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m okay. Just tired.”

“You must be. The news... that wasn’t right, was it? They said you escaped from Villain.”

“The reports are wrong. I never got captured in the first place. But, I’m just fine.”

“I’m glad to hear it. How is...”

“Villain?”

“Yeah.”

“Fine. Really out of it, but fine.”

“That’s good. Look, I know you’re tired, but I just found something that... Well, I think you’re really gonna want to hear it.”

“What is it?”

“Not here. Not over the phone. Too dangerous.”

“You want to meet up again?”

“Mhm.”

“Are you sure that’s, like, a good idea?”

“Not in public like before. That wouldn’t be good for either of us, I don’t think. But I know another place.”

“Oh?”

“It’s, um, so, this is gonna sound bad. It’s this abandoned warehouse thing. And I know that sounds sketchy as hell, but it’s fine, I promise. I’ve been to a few parties there. The underground kind of people use it a lot, so it’s perfectly safe.”

“Um... Okay. Where is it?”

“Ashworth, on the East side. It’s pretty obvious once you see it, but the number on it is 62.”

“You’re sure this is a good idea?”

“Yeah. It’s not exactly, like, it’s abandoned, but there’s parties there all the time. And it should be empty during the day. How fast can you get there?”

“Um...” Hero blinked with leaden eyelids. “Does it have to be right now?”

“I guess it could wait. Why?”

“I feel like I’m going to collapse. I’m exhausted, Hacker.”

“Oh. How about tonight?”

“Tonight is fine.”

“Does eight sound good?”

“Mhm.”

“Okay. Uh, sleep well.”

“Yeah. Thank you.”

And, with a collapse onto their pillow and the click of a hung-up phone call, Hero was out.

Yet, as they fell into unconsciousness, a single thought couldn’t help but worm its way into their consciousness:

Hacker hated other people. They wouldn’t be caught dead going to a party.

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“Villain?”

It was a soft voice, yet marked with a distinctively higher pitch. Villain stirred, kicking at their layers of blankets.

“Hey, Villain. Can you open your mouth for me?”

The voice was odd, yet warm. They blinked their eyes open, letting the world come into focus around them.

A figure, kneeled down in front of them. A face...

They knew that face.

Someone familiar. Someone they’d fought before...

Leader. Why was Leader here?

“You need to open your mouth for me, okay?” It was Leader’s voice, but not their tone. It shouldn’t have been that soft, right? Or maybe their memories were simply foggy.

Regardless, they allowed their jaw to fall open. The taste of plastic filled their mouth as an eyedropper was placed upon their tongue, followed by the bitter taste of medicine, sliding down their throat. Villain struggled to cough up the liquid, but their jaw was gently held in position until they had swallowed every last drop.

“There.” The taste of plastic retreated, disappearing as a few sips of water were washed down after. “Thank you.”

“W- What is...”

“It’s gonna make all that drug withdrawal easier.”

The face went out of focus, replaced by a black dot, in the center of Villain’s vision. A spoon.

“Can you look at this?” A fingernail tapped the plastic dinnerware. They nodded.

Slowly, at first, the spoon began to move. First left to right, then up and down, before moving around more erratically. After a few moments, Villain blinked, shaking their head, eyes exhausted.

“Thank you.” The spoon lowered out of view. “You’re gonna need a bit more time to recover, but you’re getting there. Do you want to go back to sleep?”

“Mhm.”

“Okay. Goodnight, hun.”

Villain let their heavy eyelids fall closed, barely registering as their blankets were tucked back in around their chest. Warmth enveloped them, mind wrapped in blissful heat, until...

Chill. An unmistakable chill biting their skin, nipping at their reddened nose. They blinked, rubbing their eyes with one hand, the world around them taking shape.

Taking shape...

Taking the wrong shape.

Where were...

They blinked once more, their surroundings coming into focus. Far more focus than their vision had permitted them in a very, very long time.

The building before them was large enough to block out the sun.

It could only be described as a brick-- that was what it was, a brick of concrete, marked by little more than faded graffiti and tattered signs that may have once warned against trespassing. The only marking that remained clearly visible was the number-- the building number, sticking out in brown-painted metal.

62.

Villain felt bile rise in their throat. They knew exactly where they were. The car they’d used to get here was only a minute’s walk away. They needed to get to it, to run, to turn and leave as fast their legs would take them. This was it! Their second chance! Their chance to leave, to make everything right again. To unmake the decision that had ruined them.

But they could not turn. Their legs would not move under their command, instead, alien limbs began to move forward. Towards the building’s entrance.

No, no, please no!

They needed to turn, to leave, but...

They did not have the power to make that decision. They could only watch.

Why had they been here in the first place? All that time ago... To confront someone. To find Supervillain. They’d done something. Hurt someone, maybe?

Panic twisted their thoughts far too much to allow them to focus on such far-away memories. The panic of moving, moving eternally forwards. To the entrance, through the doorway.

Into the warehouse.

Inside was terribly dark, small slivers of light illuminating only an expanse of boxes long since left abandoned, their cargo doomed to rot. They had never understood why Supervillain spent so much time here. Certainly they could have found a better hideout.

But, Supervillain was strange. No one understood them.

They were here, though. Villain could feel them, hear heavy breathing, sense the way their presence disrupted the psychic landscape around.

Villain stilled.

Leave. Turn around. Go! It’s not worth it, they begged themself. But...

But their hand reached for their pocket, producing a phone in trembling hands. They tapped the screen, activating the flashlight, flooding the concrete floor with illumination.

However, they hardly needed the light to remember what came next. The image would never leave their mind, they were certain of it. Never remove itself from where it was burned irreversibly into their corneas.

One figure, leaned over another. Holding them to the ground.

Hands over their neck.

If Director had at any point struggled, their straining had long since ceased. The only sign of life they displayed came in the way they weakly kicked against Supervillain’s unyielding grip.

Villain was not the one being strangled, but they could not breathe even so.

“Who the hell is there?” The voice, that furious, terrible tone, echoed off of every concrete wall and rotten crate.

Supervillain looked up from their victim, gaze meeting that of their newfound witness.

“Who!”

Villain’s legs went stock-still. They could have run, at any point, they could have run, they could have run.

But...

Director stopped struggling. Supervillain stood, rolling out their shoulders.

For a moment, their body twisted, snapping and curling in on itself. Bones morphing, shrinking or extending, muscles rearranging themselves in a horrible scene.

Villain had forgotten just how horrible it was, to watch Supervillain use their powers.

When, at last, their transformation was complete, Villain was staring back at the living face of Director.

Cold, grey eyes met theirs.

“Villain?”

Supervillain, the new Director, grumbled, moving over to the corpse of their victim. Prying a walkie-talkie from their belt.

Holding it to their own mouth.

“Hello, HQ? I’m going to need some backup, here.”

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Inside the warehouse was terribly dark.

Hero’s legs felt nearly numb, wandering within, only the slightest slivers of light able to creep in through the door. They walked by those shreds of light, though they hardly did so much as allowing them to see their own feet before them.

Still, they walked. The building smelled terribly of rotten wood.

“Hacker?” Their voice echoed off of every concrete wall and rotten crate. “Are you here?”

“Over here.” The voice called from the other side of the building-- how had they gotten all the way over there?

“Where? Is there a light in this place?”

“It’s been abandoned for half a century. No, there are no lights. Doesn’t your phone have a flashlight?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Hero fumbled in their own pocket for a moment, taking out the device. Even with the flashlight, however, the darkness still seemed to envelope the whole world. They cast the beam of illumination around, scanning, yet finding nothing but crates and graffiti. “Where are you? I can’t see you.”

“Here.”

A figure stepped out from behind a support beam. Hacker’s small frame looked even more minuscule, surrounded by crates twice their height. They were half-hidden by an oversized hoodie, yet, their hood was not pulled up.

They always pulled their hood up.

Hero shook their head. They were being paranoid.

“I’m so glad to see you’re, like, alive.” Hacker smiled, approaching at a quick clip. Their laptop bag was hung across their chest, bouncing with their movements. “You aren’t hurt or anything, right?”

“No.” Hero shook their head, moving forward to meet their friend in the middle of the building. “I’m okay.”

“That’s too bad.”

“What?” Hero rubbed an ear-- had they heard wrong?

“I always heard you were a fucking idiot. Guess I just never realized to what extent.”

That... That was not Hacker’s voice.

Hero took a step back, a chill filling their chest.

Hacker’s form quickly began to fill their formerly oversized hoodie as, below them, their legs extended with a horrid noise of cracking and popping. Their facial features did the same, shifting as though molded in putty.

Director was taller than Hero.

Hero gulped.

Director took a step forth-- polished shoes clacking against concrete. How had Hero not noticed the shoes? Hacker would never wear something like that.

They...

Director held out a hand. To shake.

Hero raised an upper lip, baring their teeth.

“Where is Hacker?”

Laughter echoed against the walls.

“That’s what you’re worried about, right now?”

“They’re my friend!” Hero stomped. “And a civilian. Don’t bring them into this.”

Director smirked.

“I assure you, your friend is fine.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“Well, right now, you’re going to have to.”

Hero took another step back, turning to run, already feeling their heartbeat elevate to a quick tattoo in their throat.

But...

There was nowhere to go.

“I didn’t bring you here for no reason, dear.”

There must have been a dozen of them, if not more. A dozen figures, scattered in loose formation, blocking the entrance. Surrounding them.

Hero spun back around. They were there now, behind Director, too.

And they knew every last face. Every reformed villain. Every rehab center graduate.

They gulped.

“Now.”

Hero didn’t realize how close Director had gotten, not until they laid a massive hand upon their shoulder.

“We are going to talk.”

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Thanks so much for reading! This time, the choices are going to be a bit different. In the way of, there are no choices! At least, none that I am coming up with. You guys have given so many amazing suggestions in the past, so I thought, how about you suggest what happens next in our story.

Instead of giving you guys choices, its up to you to decide what our Hero will do next. If you really like another person’s suggestion, you can vote for it! Otherwise, I will choose what I find the most interesting.

I’m hoping that this will be fun. If it proves to be difficult/complicated/etc, I can certainly add choices, but I thought I’d do something a bit different this time around ^^

[theseerasures]

For the meta thing, how about big sisters with absent mothers: Winter and Yang? Like, how they dealt with things differently and what a friendship between them would look like

anon i just want you to know that as soon as received this ask i barged into my girlfriend’s room to be like “is this you???” because this ask is so EXQUISITELY tailored to my personal interests that i was like “literally who else would cater to me like this” and it was not her, apparently!!! so thank you very much for this ask.

of course i have SO MANY thoughts about this topic that it took me a complete month to marshal them into something faintly coherent, if staggeringly long, so. i hope it’s worth the wait.

S(chnee)-side: how to lose brothers and alienate sisters

let’s start from some well-trodden ground: the season 5 character shorts, and their subsequent caricaturization via Chibi, which posit the Yang vs. Winter dichotomy as something like “Yang loves Ruby by diving into a monster’s mouth for her, and telling her she always has her back, and Winter does the same for Weiss by...siccing monsters on her, and telling her that she won’t always be around to save her from them.” much hay has already been made about the reasons why the two of them would act in the ways they did, so for the purposes of my own meta i’m going to skip over those, and concentrate on how content since season 5 has updated these conceptions.

and on Winter’s end of things, these conceptions have been updated by showing that she’s, uh.

...full of shit.

we’ve now had TWO instances of Winter going above and beyond to protect someone vulnerable. the first time was for Penny, with whom she has a sisterly bond, and the second time was for Ren, with whom she has...exchanged a few lines of dialogue. if she’s so ready and willing to hurl herself bodily into the path of an aggressor for someone who is basically a stranger, then why all the pageantry with Weiss about how she can’t (or won’t) save her? did she carve some kind of blood relative exemption into her saving people thing? does it only apply to people who wear a lot of green?¹

to properly address this question--and to bring in the Willow of it all--i think we should step back and ask: how does Winter actually feel about the Schnee name?

not Jacques’ name, mind. nor anything he did to besmirch it. Willow’s name, and Winter’s birthright.

because what has always been interesting to me is that while Weiss has talked about reclaiming or rehabilitating the Schnee name from their father’s meddling and still clearly wants to reconcile herself with it, even after being disinherited, Winter has only ever talked about distancing. it’s entirely possible that she had similar aspirations when she was around Weiss’ age and was just more thoroughly disabused of them, but my point stands: Winter shows a discomfort with the Schnee name overall in a way that Weiss has yet to. you don’t have to look any further than Winter’s combat style to see how this discomfort is telegraphed, as she barely uses any Dust, or Glyphs, and the one aspect of her Semblance that she does use and tout are Summons, which just so happens to be the part that emphasizes her own individual ability to conquer foes. something about the Schnee name feels irreconcilably tainted for Winter,² and while i’m sure a large part of it has to do with her father, who can make her explode into emotion confetti by just being in the same room as her for thirty seconds, a not-insignificant part can probably be chalked up to the fact that...

Willow Schnee was probably never all that good a mother.

granted: we’ve have exactly one scene (two if you count the 8.2 sneak peek) with her, so i’m fully ready to be called Boo Boo the Fool if we get a flashback and Willow was some kind of crusading super-mom prior to her descent into alcoholism, but. the idea that she hasn’t ALWAYS had to compromise herself and her children just to get by feels facile. this is not to victim blame, but to say that Willow is an imperfect person (in that she is. a person) placed into a horrific situation, which means that she could not always deal with the situation perfectly. it’s important to remember her agency--both before and after she became an alcoholic--but it’s just as important not to idealize it into something it’s not. Willow was by no means a co-abuser to her children, but she was probably always inconsistent, because living with your abuser for years on end does that to you. personally, i’ve always envisioned pre-alcoholism Willow as...well-meaning and much more perceptive and intelligent than people give her credit for, but beset with her own flaws that grew in proportion to her hurt and bitterness. she was capable of shielding her children from her husband’s worst excesses, and often did; but she was just as capable of retreating when she might have fought, of excusing Jacques’ actions to try to keep the peace, even of lashing out at those who shouldn’t have to handle her negative emotions.

her descent into alcoholism exacerbated these tendencies, but Willow has always been a complicated woman, and the idea that there was a prelapsarian time when Willow was an unmitigated good, before...idk, her Good battery ran out and she became Drunk Victim Non-Mom, is...well, it’s definitely something that a ten-year-old who had an ENORMOUSLY traumatic birthday would believe (and blame herself for), but Winter might disagree. i don’t think her view would be any more objective, if only because the day Winter Schnee has an un-myopic thought is the day i pass gracefully into the West, but her view is probably more complicated and less flattering, because Winter knew her mother more as a person, and that’s something we’re gonna talk about more with Yang and Ruby, later.

the point i want to make now, with Winter, is that her determined inconstancy, where she’ll readily jump into the jaws of a monster for her siblings in one breath and berate them and caution them against needing her in the next--that comes from her experience with Willow. the lesson she wants her siblings to learn is not just “the people who are supposed to love you are cruel, so get a helmet,” but “the people who are supposed to love you disappoint you, which is worse, so it’s better to not rely on them at all.”³ better for them to learn it from her than firsthand, but also--better for herself, because when she does disappoint them (and she did. she left.) at least she can take comfort in the fact that surely it doesn’t hurt as much; she warned them, after all.

in Winter’s mind, this kind of disappointment is an inevitability, so what’s paramount is to make sure that when it does happen her siblings are at least prepared for it. in the face of that the fact that she would actually risk life and limb to help them if they ever need it falls to the wayside; i don’t think it was a mindful decision that Winter consciously made--like, i don’t think she ever thought “i’m going to withhold the fact that i would die for them because that would contradict the whole social Darwinism thing i’m trying to drill into their heads,” because Winter’s just...not that kind of deliberate rational actor, in any arena. rather--and maybe even more damning--i think she just assumes that Weiss and Whitley already KNOW, that it’s a given for them the sacrifices she’d make for them in the same way it’s a given for her. but they don’t! because you have to say these things, and Winter has been force-feeding them the precise opposite.

ultimately all of these contradictory impulses stem from Winter’s deep-seated need for control--both of herself, and of the environments around her, and those in turn come from the fact that she was a) repeatedly wounded as a child and b) had to shoulder responsibilities far beyond her own ability as that same child, which...continues to this day. from this perspective, what matters is less keeping her siblings safe, and more her own ability to save them. she knows that’s imperfect, so she compensates by enforcing what worked for her onto them, and also by keeping them away from anything that could harm them, without their input. i never thought much of the contrast in environments for the character shorts--like of course Weiss would spar with Winter’s Summons at home like the untested shut-in she was--but what did take me aback was that in season 7, after Weiss has waltzed across an entire continent and been promoted to a full Huntress, Winter...still exclusively trains Weiss with her Summons up in Atlas, while Ruby and Yang are traipsing across Mantle killing ACTUAL Grimm. i have no doubt that this was for foreshadowing reasons, but still: it points to the fact that for all Winter loves Weiss and would fight giant monsters for her, there’s a part of her that...doesn’t trust Weiss, and wants to maintain control over her.⁴

this, i think, is part of the reason why Whitley treats her basically like an un-person: it’s not just that she left when he was too young and Jacques filled in all the gaps with lies and slander, it’s also that even when Winter was around the bigger age gap made it much easier for her to reconcile keeping him out of the loop, for his own good. she can’t ever be vulnerable around either of her siblings, but especially not Whitley, because he’s too young; he might let something slip when they’re around Jacques, and she shouldn’t be putting that kind of burden on him anyway. if he resents her when she’s just trying to protect him--except you said that you wouldn’t, Winter you absolute moron--then that’s his prerogative. it doesn’t change her own responsibilities. they can be miserable and Byronic in their own separate cubby holes and it’s fine.

(it’s not fine.)

R(ose)⁵-side: tonight, the role of Replacement Goldfish will be played by...everyone

let’s get one thing out of the way: Yang is a GOOD big sister, and some of the ways that she is good can be chalked up to the fact that she had a better home life, but only some. her character short ends with her promising Ruby that she’ll always have her back after spending the short proving it, and she has--until recently, and we’ll get to that--lived up to it. people get caught up on how much time Yang spends with Blake nowadays, but it’s important to remember that the entire impetus for Yang reuniting with anyone during the Mistral arc was about Ruby. so is the thing that separates a Yang from a Winter is that a Yang preaches what she practices, and isn’t firing a million zillion mixed signals at all times?

well--yeah, basically, but we’re gonna make a big thing out of it anyway.

what made Yang and Ruby different from the Schnees--even before the character shorts--was a sense of parity. in contrast to Winter insisting on maintaining a) the most unapproachable facade in the world, and b) a death-grip on every situation at all times, Yang was characterized from the outset as...chill (ironically). despite her Semblance being LITERALLY hotheadedness, Yang’s passionate energy never manifested in any real desire to take charge. the fact that she was fine (even happy!) with Ruby being bumped up to her year and then becoming leader speaks volumes to how much Yang trusts and respects Ruby’s judgement. rather than try to mask her flaws, she exudes this kind of...radiant fallibility and lets Ruby take care of her, or keep her in line. they complement each other: Yang takes care of more grounded concerns like individual fights and making friends, while Ruby--again, until recently--set more abstract goals and gave them moral direction.

a lot of this can be attributed to the smaller age gap, but i think it also comes from growing up as two motherless free-range children on an island--and the motherlessness is obviously a huge deal for both of them. when i started writing this i honestly thought i’d talk more about Raven, since she’s the mom who’s actually a character already, and her absence plays a huge role in how Yang deals with her abandonment issues in the present, but to be honest: the loss that cut the deepest for Ruby AND Yang is Summer, because Summer was actually around enough to be lost. despite the show frequently dividing custody of Team STRQ right down the middle between Ruby and Yang, where Ruby “gets” Summer and Qrow and Yang “gets” Tai and Raven, it’s the admixture of Rose and Branwen that makes the two of them who they are.⁶ Yang spent more time with Summer, but Ruby spends more time with Qrow, who is Yang’s blood uncle, so the dichotomy between nature and nurture is fascinatingly blurred.

i know this is an unpopular opinion, but i hope Summer really is dead, because the ways that her daughters interpellate their own identities from her absence drives so much of the story. that SUMMER was the first mother Yang lost--not Raven, because Yang didn’t even know about Raven until Summer died--is what shapes her relationship with Ruby, but also her relationship with Raven. what’s always simmering just below the surface of any Yang-Raven confrontation is that the person Yang actually wanted to find the whole time she was looking for Raven was Summer, because she wanted a mom, and a mom looked like Summer. Raven’s not stupid--it might be her one redeeming quality--so it’s likely that she’s always known and resented this. it’s not an accident that the moment Yang stopped looking for Raven for Raven and started looking for her for an easy conduit to her real family was the moment she actually found Raven.⁷ it was the first step to Yang outgrowing her old habits, of waiting for a mother to return--a classic “she needed a hero so that’s what she hurdy blah”

in a way that’s what she’s been doing this whole time. in contrast to Winter, who compensated for her mother’s flaws by ratifying them into universal law, Yang did the same by defying their supposed truth: people might leave her, but she won’t leave Ruby, and Ruby won’t leave her. it’s telling that whenever Yang leaves--even as a literal child--she always took Ruby with her, even if she planned on coming back. (it’s just as telling that when Winter left she didn’t.) she’ll always be there for Ruby, to give her the boost she needs to become the Summer they all want her to be, which means being a little of Summer herself--the part of Summer that baked cookies and slew monsters. and in return Ruby gave her...a sense of certainty, i think: that Ruby needs her and therefore won’t leave, but also that Ruby has the parts of Summer that Yang can’t muster herself--the grand heroic ideal, the moral certitude, etc.

...and now we’re finally gonna talk about the Schism, which i honestly think is the best thing that has happened to their relationship, development-wise. by the end of the Mistral arc Yang has arrived at a healthier perspective with respect to her relationships with everyone: now it’s not about indiscriminately giving herself away to people in the hopes that they might not leave her, but about choosing to give herself away to the people she loves and trusts. on one level this should not conflict with her relationship with Ruby at all, because Yang loves Ruby, but on another...the fact that Yang no longer feels obligated to perform unending support, to be the grounded complement, to fill in the parts of Summer that Ruby can’t--of COURSE that’s going to bring about conflict. because it turns out Yang never needed Ruby to give her direction or discipline. she’s now had time to think of the things she herself values, and those...don’t exactly match up with Ruby’s--or Summer’s.⁸ Yang, having known Summer as a mother, having been confronted repeatedly with the fallibility of mothers, is starting to outgrow Summer, and grow separately from Ruby.

but growing separately doesn’t have to mean growing apart, and i think Yang, at least, knows this. she clearly feels Some Kinda Way about their disagreement (and Blake’s implicit alignment with Ruby), but she’s also confident enough in her own beliefs by this point to commit to them. Yang’s taking charge instead of deferring to Ruby, and it turns out that...she’s actually not a bad leader herself, since she and Jaune have pretty much split a lot of those responsibilities. for her it’s not a question of losing faith or love in Ruby as a person, but about discovering what she herself fights for.

Ruby...sees it differently, because Ruby sees Summer differently. if Yang has always defined herself against Summer by deciding that she can NEVER fully be Summer, so she’ll make do with what she can, then Ruby’s always defined herself against Summer by marking Summer as the endpoint of her personal trajectory. what Ruby knows of Summer--that she was a person who enjoyed life and did not believe in original sin, that had a magical special destiny that was totally fine and awesome and didn’t drive her to her death, that she was a baker of cookies and slayer of monsters--is what Tai and Qrow--and Yang--told her about Summer, because Ruby was too young to remember the real Summer. so Summer for her is this abstract paragon to live up to, and no more. she can’t possibly exceed Summer, because the Summer Ruby knows encompasses literally all that is good.

when Yang tells Ruby “i’ve always got your back” in the short, a lot of it is about Yang, and the ways Yang needed to be there for other people so they’ll be there for her in return. but it’s also something Ruby really needed to hear, because Ruby needed the security and comfort of knowing that even if she screws up there are people around her who can help shoulder the burden. that security already took a serious hit after Yang lost her arm, but Ruby, kind and generous person that she is, was able to reconcile with that, because YANG HAD JUST LOST HER ARM. it would be ridiculous to expect Yang to have her back the way she used to, and besides--it was time she grew up, and growing up means becoming more like Summer, all of Summer, by herself.

and...she gets pretty far, is the thing, because Ruby IS a lot like Summer, and is incredible and amazing all by herself to boot, but the point is that no one should feel this much pressure to be All That Is Good, especially when you’re a teen. Ruby’s not ready to recognize that, partly because at this point so many people are looking to her for leadership, but also because being Summer’s heir is the only real link she has to her mom.⁹ so she hunkers down and does the best she can, in a situation that has far spiraled beyond anybody’s control...and then Yang tells her that it’s not working out, that this time it’s not that she can’t have Ruby’s back, but that she won’t. in Ruby’s mind, this could only mean one of two things: either Yang no longer believes what Ruby believes--what Summer believed, or...Yang no longer believes in Ruby, because she wasn’t good enough.

and well. it’s Ruby. it’s not hard to guess which reason she’s picking right now, especially since she pretty conspicuously refused to call the shots during the Amity heist.

but this is of course a false dichotomy. it’s not about which one of them is right, or even more right, and the show does a very good job with the framing to show that both of them have a point. similarly, what Ruby needs right now is neither confirmation that her long-held beliefs are objectively the best ones, nor that she is good enough to become Summer after all. no; what she needs instead is the knowledge that she’s allowed to fuck up, to deviate from what people have told her about Summer, to become what Summer never was. that’s something Yang can--and will--help her work out.

oh no this analogy is breaking apart: how they’d get along

...oi.

look, even beyond the fact that Winter doesn’t get along with ANYONE over much, i don’t think there’s any universe where she wouldn’t immediately rub Yang the wrong way. not only because Winter’d initially treat Ruby with the same cold tyranny that she (up until very recently) treats Weiss, but also because Yang’s partner is Blake, and--to say nothing of Atlas/Schnee-on-Faunus oppression--she was personally made collateral during the fallout with Blake’s abuser.¹⁰ i myself wouldn’t say that Winter abused Weiss, but to Yang’s protective and skewed view...

well, can you imagine Weiss trying to explain the way Winter ~~~trained her to the Bees? “oh, she sent a pack of Beowolves to hunt me! it was a meant-to-lose fight and when i started doing well she just moved the goalposts. one of her wolves almost ate me before i begged her to stop but it...probably...wouldn’t have...it was fine! my Aura didn’t dip THAT much. Winter’s the best!!” Yang’s hair would have been on fire after the first sentence, is all i’m saying. this coupled with the fact that Yang would very likely view Winter leaving Weiss and Whitley through the lens of Raven doing the same thing to her, and i think it would take a pretty long time for the two of them to see eye to eye on anything.

which is not to say that they have nowhere to go but antagonism, because at their cores Winter and Yang both have a) no hesitation whatsoever when it comes to protecting the people they care about and b) a tendency to define protection literally, often bodily. the difference is that Yang’s Semblance weaponizes these protective instincts for her, and she learned the limits of taking that too far. Winter...doesn’t, and hasn’t.¹¹ that COULD lead to some interesting conversations, but i don’t think Yang has quite the emotional clarity and generosity to reckon with that yet, and they’re not about to talk about it inside the Giant Whale.

a necessary part of Winter’s development is learning to respect the people around her instead of instantly categorizing them into boxes labeled “to fight” and “to protect and order around.” her friction with Yang could be an intriguing way to explore that; i have no doubt, for example, that Winter would have hurled herself between Elm and Yang just as readily as she had between Elm and Ren. similarly, i think if Winter ever were in the same room with both Raven and Yang she’d last about ten seconds before trying to rip Raven’s hair out with her teeth, because Raven is neglectful and casually demeaning in ways that are instantly recognizable to Winter (in the same way they were to Weiss).¹² the issue is that her doing any of these things for Yang--y’know, the same Yang who IMMEDIATELY gave Blake the cold shoulder when she tried to pull the whole “i’ll protect you” crap--is that she would only find it confusing and frustrating, and likely wouldn’t mince words expressing that.

Yang’s a big sister herself, and therefore knows all the big sister tricks, and Yang has a consistent pattern of not wanting to rely on other people, particularly people she sees as adults. so the best path toward a Winter and Yang friendship is probably not the head-on approach, but obliquely through someone else. that someone else can’t be Weiss, because Yang would be already hypervigilant about the way Winter treats Weiss--but it could be Ruby. even putting aside the fact that she is now one of the most important people in the world for BOTH her sisters, Ruby herself is very easy to love, and Winter loves very easily, despite herself. what they have in common--idealism and a martyr complex--would also engender some cool interactions, and Ruby would let Winter take care of her, if only to make Winter feel better.

i could see that being the impetus for Yang tentatively, grudgingly forming her own friendship with Winter, because there ARE things that Winter can give Yang, even if Yang can’t (or won’t) admit she wants them. it’s nice to try out being the kid sister, once in a while.

still, even if they get that far: i can’t imagine their relationship as anything friendlier than this.

¹ tbh neither would actually surprise me; what Winter does and doesn’t let herself do is only knowable to the Gods Who Have Forsaken This Land, and they’re certainly unknowable to Winter herself.

² maybe she knows that the whole “the Schnees were up-from-bootstraps-good-capitalists until that guy Jacques came along” thing is stupid!! i don’t care that he’s Santa Nicholas Schnee ain’t shit

³ this i think is why the current thing with Ironwood is such a bitter pill to swallow, because...she thought she’d been so careful. not in thinking that she’d chosen a man who couldn’t disappoint her, but in caring so deeply about him and investing so much of herself into him, despite the fact she’s only ever let herself call him “sir,” or “General.”

⁴ though i will say, to give Winter some credit: she actually accepts the fact that her sister is totally her own person now with a lot more aplomb than i’d expected, both in the “you stole an airship” scene and during all of Sparks. i wouldn’t be so generous as to read subtle treason into her disclosure of Ironwood’s Winter Maiden plans, but it does point to Winter’s desire for control being much more easily unlearned than that of her boss.

⁵ geddit? it’s a joke about handed-ness because now they both have the Hand Tremor

⁶ Tai is, as always and on purpose, the stabilizing agent. “appropriately underwhelming,” as Winter might put it, but absolutely essential.

⁷ of course then Raven had the gall to resent THAT too, because she’s the worst, and...see above, about Winter Schnee’s self-unknowing.

⁸ curiously, the values that Yang most espouses now--the importance of knowing what you’re getting into, protecting what is tangible, what is within your ability--are a) hard-won from years of taking care of Ruby and b) ones that she shares with Raven. the only difference is that Yang’s circle of protection extends far beyond Raven’s, which only includes herself.

⁹ weirdly enough the best person to talk to Ruby about this might be Raven, who has a very skewed perception of Summer herself (because Raven’s perception of EVERYONE is generally fucked up), but probably won’t hold back when talking about Summer’s flaws. Ruby won’t want to hear any of it, but i think she needs to.

¹⁰ i do think Blake and Winter would have some interesting conversations, if Blake ever...was generous enough to deal with *gestures at all of Winter.* it’s easier to compare Blake to Willow given the shared nature of their interpersonal abuse, but Winter on the other hand knows what it’s like to be hand-picked and groomed by a charismatic man with a singular vision who ended up wholly compromising that vision for the sake of their personal ego. that the White Fang are a good force perverted while the Atlesian Military is rotten to the core would...make the conversation more lively? it’s probably fine?

¹¹ “i’m Winter Schnee and i have maladaptive coping mechanisms that i am currently clinging to, as a maladaptive coping mechanism”

¹² though there...probably IS a world where Raven and Winter end up getting along after the initial skirmish, and it disturbs Yang and Qrow to no end

[soymilka8]

window

i have been so obsessed with bad boy au’s lately so i deeply do apologize lmaoo.

lee felix x gn reader

warnings: none 

genre: fluff 

word count: 1.9 k words

summary: being an extreme over-thinker was a problem. luckily, lee felix is there to worsen those over-thinking skills as he drags you away from the fucked up education system.

the clicks and thuds of pencils could be heard all throughout the facility.

 reverberating against each student's ears like there's no tomorrow. the room was silent, only the feet tapping of the proctor being loud enough to annoy the hell out of the students.

for the ones who have been taking this test seriously — like you, there most likely would be no tomorrow to see if ever things were to suddenly go south.

the nervous rick-racketing of the students were enough to make those who are conscious shiver in slight fear. excluding you, of course, who seemed to know your way around navigating the filthy one hundred question test.

it was always like this, really. nothing new of the sort. teachers would dwell on different topics for a couple of weeks, stuffing information in each and everyone's brain, and then after they had done so, a huge examination will arrive to test and see if you all really understood anything or took things for granted.

one who was not used to something so tight and strict, like students who live in complete blithe, and buoyance, they would never go as far as abiding the rules and would oppose instead. however for students like you, whom have yet to prove their worth other than being a complete bookworm and nerd, the plain idea of rejecting the rules were simply all too much.

you were aware having to perfect this test would get you nowhere, neither would failing it but even so, your eyes never wavered from the paper in front of you that was riddled with different equations, each and every one confusing your brain as is.

you simply knew it wouldn't affect much of your future. you always wondered if the student a few seats away from you, the top second of the class, was aware of that too. or if the student in front of you, the class president, knew something as trivial as a test would never go as far as reducing his chances of getting a job.

perhaps they were aware, much like you; just scared of having to face the real world and lacking both street smart and book smart. maybe they were just trying to ensure that if ever they do end up being rejected for their application, at least they'd know what the quadratic equation is, or that mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.

the sole idea made you snort silently. maybe that's whey they — including you, were scared. petrified of having to face the real world with only the information that was deemed useless stuffed into your brain, petrified of facing the dangers of the real world because so far, you've learned nothing much about it.

still, you had no time to process much of your dramatic thoughts as the loud ticking of the clock passed by. thirty minutes left. and to think you spent half of that time, daydreaming what you could've been like if you didn't follow any rules. or if you were free.

you probed over your test once more, using your pencil as a guide to some of the equations you've finished and mentally checking them one by one. you knew each and everyone of the questions, much like a robot. maybe you were a robot, or was on the way of becoming one. either way, you were well prepared for the test, much more so than you'd like to hope.

a small thud sound was suddenly heard beside the table you were sitting at. you were placed near a window, the position working well in your favour as you were occupied with only blocking your test in one side. your brow rose as you contemplated whether or not you should look up from your test, but of course, you had no time to contemplate as a hand placed itself on top of your wrist, halting you from writing longer from the paper.

your brow had twitched, now, who ever thought it was a good idea to not close the windows during a test?

“psst,” someone whispered beside you sneakily. having an idea of who it was already because well — it was a routine at this point, you warily looked at him through slight embarrassment, only hoping your classmates were focused on the test, as well as your teacher. “what are you doing here?” you frustratingly whispered back, eyeing his disheveled state.

oh, he was quite disheveled all right. messy long black hair splattered across his face like a bird's nest, his school uniform which seemed to have crumpled itself by force, or probably it just wasn't ironed; some of his expensive jewelry situated behind his neck, at the side of it, and at the front.

though that wasn't to say he still didn't look attractive.

he grinned ever so slightly, tugging at your hand in which he held tightly against his grasp, “you taking a test?” he asked, as if he had not just seen you visibly, on a quite room, with a paper, with a strict proctor, and an annoyed face. still, you sarcastically smiled. “what are you doing here?” you impatiently tapped your pencil on your paper as silently as possible, eyeing him with a smile he knew meant trouble.

nevertheless, the grin never faltered from his face. it widened, even, as he tugged you against his own body against the window. a surprised squeal escaped your lips. “you wanna get out of this place” he suggested, to which got your eyes going wide at what he just said. you? skip? a test?

“felix, you know you're supposed to be in class right now.” you tried pulling his grasp on your wrist but it was useless as he was far stronger than you. you saw how felix smiled cheekily at your statement, pretending to whistle as his eyes rolled. “nah, i don't think so.”

“felix!” you slapped his hand with your free arm, earning a light chuckle from the boy. a routine, you recalled. though you weren't exactly certain on how your friendship came to be with the boy, it was quite certain you were attached to him in a certain way — so was he.

it started off as a simple bump in the hallways like always, if you remembered correctly, then, it sky rocketed and often times, you find yourself talking with him through the window as your teachers lectured and blabbered their mouths. it was rather surprising, how the teacher never came to know about your little affairs and deed but you never told them any of it, wanting to remain as the timid, obeying pet you'd always been.

it was at this point that you found comfort in felix, his small stature to which you toppled, his attractive face that would light up your day and make your defenses go down whenever he'd smile or do as much his bit his lip. or — his deep voice, his deep, raspy voice, you never thought would come out of a small boy's lips.

and so, you never minded having to meet him during lectures from time to time. if not, even everyday. he kept you company, made you laugh, told you stories, so and so forth.

though as much as you enjoyed his company, you were taking a test for god's sake!

it matters not how much you saw him whenever a teacher discussed a lesson to you as you never really found yourself listening, but this, was beyond important. at least for you.

the boy never took any of it as important, he was just idiotic and clueless about everything. mediocre in school, mediocre in his behaviour, sometimes you even wondered if his teacher ever notices his presence dissipating from his class. he stood out, that's for sure, but never in a positive way.

“if you get caught here, it's over for both of us.” you whisper harshly, gritting your teeth. felix smiled, taking no offense and once again, rolling his eyes. “so what of it? you know you don't like taking that useless test too.” he stated as a matter-of-fact.

his words held certainty, that's for sure, although as much as you'd like to escape this profound situation a few minutes back, the test was ending, and you'd be pretty damned if you weren't able to pass it on time. so you smiled gently, attempting to unfasten his hand around your wrist as best as possible.

felix only observed you with his head tilted, confused as to why you'd reject his offer; you hadn't done so in a while whenever he came with the idea of bolting away from school, even with examinations he knew were important to you.

even so, he mildly nodded at your response, taking it within him to leave. oh well, he can ask you to go get brownie ingredients with him the next time anyways. he'd have to bake them alone tonight at his mom's house, through her scolding and complaints on why he skipped school.

he was about to leave and close the window when suddenly, a scream was heard. felix couldn't help but look back, the both of you, making eye contact with none other than your proctor. his eyes were wide, furious even as he fumed with anger. he pointed his long ruler at you and felix, the urge to step between you starting to get on his nerves.

“uh-oh,” felix whispered to himself, having not much time to process what to do as he instinctively grabbed your wrist, flinging you across the window with ease. another surprising thing about the small man. you squealed as he brought you to his shoulder, frantically waving your hands around the air like some sort of maniac.

you did not just get caught.

but you did. disbelief washed over you as you slapped your hands at the man's back, every urge to throw profanities at him was within your reach, just a tad bit more and — felix laughed, his smooth, delicate laugh drumming against your ear so joyfully. and suddenly, the urge to curse at him came to an end. the bubbling feelings in your throat started to grow as you find yourself mesmerized over his little giggles.

sure, you've heard it plenty of times before. even when you didn't want to hear it the most, felix would always be there, giggling beside you and uplifting the situation. but only now did you realize how truly free and light-hearted his laugh felt; like he just had no care in the entire world, like it was just him and you living in it.

“sorry about that,” he apologized through soft giggles. you slapped him on his shoulder, the slap not being hard enough to hurt him, just an indication you were quite frustrated. “you shouldn't have come in the first place!” you said, settling yourself in between felix's shoulder and letting him take the lead as he exited the school grounds with ease. he'd have to thank the always sleeping guard some other time.

“yeah, but i can see the pain in your eyes when you took the test!” he snorted, rolling his eyes. you couldn't help but roll your eyes as well, despite the boy being correct about every single thing. annoying as he was, felix was good at reading your emotions — or, any other human's emotion at that. it was probably his talent.

“if my parents get called and i failed the test, i'm blaming everything on you, lee felix.”

“sure you can, babe. but how about we bake brownies first in order to celebrate your escape?”

and that's exactly what both you and felix did, running around the super market, causing more trouble than required, only to buy two boxes of brownies on your way home to his house.

like felix had predicted, he baked brownies through his mom's scolding. the only difference was, is that he did with you.

[thetravelerwrites]

Monster Match 33: Futakuchi-Onna

The Traveler's Masterlist

For @artless-whimsy : “I'm a bi cis lady, she/her. During non-pandemic times, coffee shops are my natural habitat. I'm quite small and get cold easily, but love sweater weather. My passions include cat/kitten rescue, reading, long walks, D&D, writing, and mental health advocacy. I write and edit for fun and profit, and I crochet to help manage my anxiety. I'm shy but friendly, and my family says I talk too fast. :p

In a partner, I love wordplay and being able to talk for hours, particularly about stories, but the most important thing is kindness (whether that's something that comes easily to them or something they work hard at). I'm happy to be the talker that draws someone else out, as long as they give me something back. My love languages are quality time and physical touch, but my partner's don't have to be exactly the same.

Monsterwise, I love creatures that are pretty but deadly (or misunderstood)—think vampires, faeries, ghosts, shapeshifters, demons—but honestly? Please just have fun with it; I can't wait to see what you come up with! As for NSFW-content, I'm happy either way and would rather you write what you're inspired to! I do love kisses, and I think I'd prefer more lime than lemon, if you go that way?”

You’ve been matched with a Futakuchi-Onna!

A futakuchi-onna, or "two-mouthed woman," is a type of Japanese monster characterized by their two mouths; a normal one located on her face and a second one on the back of the head beneath the hair. The origin of a futakuchi-onna's second mouth is often linked to how little a woman eats. In many stories, the soon-to-be futakuchi-onna is a wife of a miser and rarely eats. To counteract this, a second mouth mysteriously appears on the back of the woman's head. The second mouth often mumbles spiteful and threatening things to the woman and demands food. If it is not fed, it can screech obscenely and cause the woman tremendous pain. Eventually, the woman's hair begins to move like a pair of serpents, allowing the mouth to help itself to the woman's meals. While no food passes through her normal lips, the mouth in the back of her head consumes twice what the other one would.

TW: Eating Disorder, Abuse, Mental Illness, Hospitalization

“Cute girl!”

“Shut up!”

You looked up from the counter at your favorite cafe and tried to find the source of the voices, but you only saw one woman sitting alone by the window. You could tell when you looked at her that she had been staring at you and had looked away just as your eyes met.

“Talk to her! She’ll leave!”

“Stop it!”

“Hey,” You said, walking over. “Are you okay?”

She sighed and looked up with a strained smile. She was Asian and very pretty, with long, dark hair flowing down her back, though she seemed rather thin, perhaps unhealthily so.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” She said. “I have… a… growth or something.”

“That talks?” You asked.

“Unfortunately,” She replied, turning in her seat. Her hair lifted of its own accord and sitting among the tresses was a mouth, identical to the one on her face, except with sharp teeth.

“Hallo!” It said at you.

You blinked in surprise. “Well then.”

“Yeah, sorry,” She said with a sigh. “I used to hide it, but it’s gotten so loud lately that it’s just easier to explain and wait for people to run off.”

“Well… I mean, it’s unusual, but I don’t see why people would run off in this day and age.”

“If people look human and then aren’t, it weirds people out.”

“I get that, I guess,” You said, sitting down. “So, does it have a mind of it’s own?”

“No, no, it’s just says what I’m thinking but don’t normally say out loud.”

“So you think I’m cute?”

She looked up in shock and blushed hard. “Oh… I was hoping you hadn’t heard that.”

“You’re pretty cute, too, you know,” You said, smiling. “Can I buy you a coffee?”

“Oh!” She said, a surprised, shy smile creeping across her face. “Yeah, thanks, that would be wonderful.”

Her name was Kyoko and she was a yokai, or Japanese demon. She’d apparently once been human and became a demon over time, which is something that happens pretty regularly to both humans and animals in Japan. By the end of having coffee, you’d left with her number and a promise to see each other again.

The two of you went on a few dates together, and it was about a month before you realized something: you’d never seen her eat. Not once. Maybe as a yokai, she didn’t need to eat, but you’d seen her drink coffee and tea and things, so you weren’t sure. You decided to ask her about it.

On your next date, you went to a local park to feed some ducks. The mouth on her head was chattering incoherently. It was doing that more often, you noticed

“Hey, Kyoko?” You began, throwing out some peas and corn for the ducks to peck at. “Can I ask you something kinda personal?”

“Yeah, sure,” She said, holding out a handful of oats.

“Why don’t you eat?”

“Hungry!” The voice in the back of her head said.

“Stop!” She said, smacking the mouth lightly. She took a heavy breath. “I’m a futakuchi-onna. Do you know how my kind are created?”

“No,” You replied.

“It happens after years of under-eating and malnourishment,” She said. “In stories, it’s usually a stingy, selfish husband that causes a woman’s suffering, but for me it was my mom.”

“What do you mean?”

“My mom used to make fun of me because of my weight. I wasn’t even that overweight, but she decided when I was really young that I needed to diet and start fasting. She would make me not eat for days, and then feed me broth twice a day to make me lose weight quickly. She used to say that if I wasn’t thin and pretty, no one would ever love me and that I’d never be worth anything. Around my eighteenth birthday, the mouth appeared. My mom kicked me out when she found out I was a monster.”

“You’re not a monster, Kyoko. Your mother is.” You took her hand and squeezed it. “Why has it been getting so loud recently?”

She looked away. “I haven’t been very nice to myself recently. The mouth eats at night when I’m asleep, so I don’t eat during the day because I don’t want to gain weight.”

“How long has it been since you’ve eaten anything while you were awake?”

She shrugged. “Two weeks?”

Your mouth dropped in shock. “Kyoko, that’s not good! Are you seeing anyone about this? Like a therapist? This is an illness and needs to be treated.”

“I know,” She said, ashamed. “But I don’t want anyone to judge me or…” She stopped when her hair grabbed a handful of the oats and stuffed it in the mouth. “Stop it!”

“Come on,” You said, getting up off the ground and holding out your hands. “We’re going to the hospital.”

“What?” She said. “Why the hospital?”

“You need help now,” You told her. “I’ve been concerned about you since the day we met and this just confirms my fears. I don’t think we should wait.”

“Will you stay with me?” She asked, beginning to cry.

“Of course I will,” You said, pulling her into a tight hug. Her hair wrapped around you. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The doctors discovered that Kyoko was thirty pounds underweight and immediately recommended that she enter an inpatient rehab facility. Kyoko sobbed but agreed to go. You swore you would visit her as often as they would let you.

The two of you visited at least twice a week and talked to each other on the phone every day. Despite the fact that you couldn’t be with each other while she was in treatment, you’d grown very close during that time. After sixty days, she was released. She had lost her apartment during the time she was in rehab, so you moved all her things into your apartment and asked her to stay.

You went to pick her up and take her home, and she threw herself at you, laying a big kiss on your lips. It was the first kiss the two of you had. She looked radiant.

“How are you feeling?” You asked.

“Better,” She said. “The mouth hasn’t spoken in weeks and the staff said it quit trying to sneak food days ago.”

“That’s wonderful, babe, I’m so proud of you.” You gave her another kiss and set her down, taking her hand and squeezing it. “Let’s go home.”

To get your own Monster Match, buy me a Kofi!

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My Masterlist

The Exophilia Creator’s Masterlist

[humanwheatleyslefttoenail]

Now I Am An Arsonist

Chapter 2: The Acrobat

Summary: GLaDOS learns a few things about love, hate, and the human condition.

Tags: Canon typical violence, ChellDOS, human!GLaDOS, found family

A/N: I know technically I published this a while back but I did some major edits to both the chapters I’ve already written and the story as a whole. As promised, I’m re-releasing what I already have with the edits/illustrations. 

She’d awoken slowly, feeling the hard coils of a mattress underneath Her back and a stiff yellow jumpsuit enshrouding Her arms and legs. Long fall boots clung tightly to Her feet, uncomfortably squeezed into the rigid white plastic.

Gradually, She sat up on the neatly-made bed, a rough linen blanket still covering Her lower half. The chamber had been deliberately made to look like a hotel room, complete with a TV in the corner and a nightstand on the side. Something wasn’t right.

It was like living in a distant memory, a dream She’d had but not quite remembered.

A part of Her felt like this was normal, as if She’d woken up here every morning, but another urged Her to look for answers.

GLaDOS searched Her memory, not fully processing the world around Her, puzzled as to why Her thoughts had been slowed tenfold.

Looking down, She saw two pale human arms and two pale human hands. Feeling the top of Her head, She found a mess of dark brown hair which came down to Her shoulders.

           No, this surely wasn’t right.

           Only hours ago, only hours ago, She’d been in control of all of Aperture Science. She’d been invincible, the immortal, all-powerful GLaDOS and now…

           Now, She was this.

           What the hell is going on here?

           There was seldom more awful than to be a human being, to live a short, painful life burdened equally by love and hate. Even on Her worst days, the most She could muster for human beings was a vague sense of pity.

           Yet, here She was, more human than She had been in centuries.

           Oh, you have got to be kidding me.  

           Being Caroline, however brief, was not something She’d ever wished to return to. Emotions were completely incapacitating. There was something to be said for the victory of a test well done, of throwing Wheatley into space where the little moron belonged, of the relief when Chell woke up. But something like guilt? Something like fear? Real, genuine fear?

           As a machine, She could destroy those feelings, suppress them until they were nothing at all. As a human, that task wasn’t so easy.

           Sparks of happiness, moments of joy; none of them were worth the ordeal.

           Even the anticipation of fear made GLaDOS’ chest pound, rapidly breathing in and out as She reflexively clung to the blanket. The last thing She needed was more complicated thoughts about Chell, more bittersweet memories of Cave, more useless sentiments to wring Her bitter heart dry.

           In a very human moment of pure shock, GLaDOS screamed. It was an ugly cry of anger and surprise swirled together, resounding throughout the vault. The echoes echoed off the walls, and the once-powerful GLaDOS cowered with Her head in Her hands.

           The potato was bad enough. The potato brought Her closer to Her own humanity than She’d ever wanted to acknowledge, but barely minutes in GLaDOS could tell that this would be infinitely worse. GLaDOS felt Herself shaking, barely even processing the fact that this hideous amalgamate of skin and bones was now Her body. Now She had hair, She had hands, She had fingers and She had lungs and She had a heartbeat.

           She had a heartbeat. A thudding reminder of Her newfound vulnerability. A symbol of Her weakness.

           GLaDOS did not particularly care to be weak.

           Finally, She understood the meaning of organic in Organic Transplant Procedure. Could they have possibly made it any vaguer?

           Whatever this was, whatever had happened, She had to figure it out. The potato battery, being fed to birds, and dying twice was apparently not enough to satisfy whatever gods lurked in Android Hell. She would spite them once again, return to Her body, and everything would be alright. It had been alright before, so why wouldn’t it be now? At least, this time, She didn’t have Chell and Wheatley working against Her. All She had was Herself and the facility.

           GLaDOS took a deep breath, a sensation She had not felt for hundreds of years. The motion didn’t entirely calm Her nerves, but Her only option was to move forward. Staying here would do nothing to help. The faster She figured something out, the faster She could leave this awful body.

GLaDOS leaned one arm against the peeling wallpaper, trying to balance on Her boots. The heels on the shoes were suspended above the floor, supported by a spring. Shifting Her weight while wearing them, however, was an acquired skill. Gently lifting Her hand from the wall, arms out at Her side, She was stable.

Briefly.

Without warning, the boots gave way, and GLaDOS toppled onto the dusty carpet.

A dull pain filled Her legs, quickly fading as She clung to the wall and rose again slowly. If She wanted to go anywhere, She would have to try again.

           She walked along the side of the wall and felt the way the heels bounced beneath Her, made specifically to take the impact of any fall. Cautiously, GLaDOS let go of the side of the room, miraculously still. She took a careful step forward, preparing for impact, only to see that She was steadier than expected. Still, each step was uneasy, tense and on the cusp of collapsing.

           Walking around the perimeter of the bed, She peered at the little wooden nightstand. One of the drawers had already been pulled out, but the other remained tightly shut. Crouching down, GLaDOS wrenched the second drawer open, finding a small mirror clouded with age. Holding it close to Her face, She examined Her repulsive new features.

           GLaDOS wondered if there was any particular reason why this body looked so similar to Caroline. Most likely, it was an odd coincidence, but She wouldn’t put it past Aperture to clone a body that looked exactly like her own. She appeared to be in Her late thirties, already sporting gray hairs and frown lines. Her eyes, weighed down by bags, were a dull metal gray.

           Robots, unlike humans, were built specifically to look beautiful - gears moving in harmony, painted finish gleaming under the lights of the enrichment center. She was stunning in the way She alone could be, completely alien and yet striking to the eye.

           Humans, on the other hand, were made only to survive. Nature didn’t particularly mind if its final product was an unsightly, hairless primate so long as it could handle the simple job of finding food. Some humans considered certain members of their own species more attractive than others, but GLaDOS found them all equally ugly. Humans, with all their variation, all looked the same when you’d seen enough of them.

           GLaDOS’ real body was a physical manifestation of Her power; She didn’t care that it was pleasing to the eye so long as it conveyed a sense of authority. This new human body, with its small size, its blemishes and imperfections, conveyed the exact opposite. Other humans may have even described Her appearance with words like pretty, soft or even kindly.

           The idea of being seen as anything but imposing was a nightmare.

For Her own sake, GLaDOS didn’t ruminate over Her first impressions any longer.

           Part of the zipper on Her yellow jumpsuit was undone, revealing an implant attached to Her right collarbone. It appeared to be a small, bright yellow core, the source of Her being, woven into Her skin by a cluster of wires.

GLaDOS rezipped it, the yellow light still glowing brightly through the fabric.

           Without a second thought, She placed the mirror back in the drawer and shut it closed, screening the room for an exit. In the front of the room was a wooden door with a rusty brass knob, waiting to be turned ajar. Without hesitation, She followed the path and twisted the handle, the door creaking open without any resistance.

As She entered the hall, GLaDOS was taken aback by the sheer number of chambers, suspended from above and hanging inches away from a more stable platform. Closing the door behind Her and jumping onto the catwalk, She couldn’t help but notice the sense of abandonment that filled the room. It had been centuries since the old Relaxation Center had been brought up to code, and previously there hadn’t been much reason to improve it.

Now GLaDOS wished She’d put in the effort.

The metal catwalk led directly to an old waiting room. Ladderback chairs sat around a central column in the middle, surrounded by coffee tables, a water dispenser and miscellaneous paintings. A flickering Aperture Science logo still shined in the dim gray room, gleaming a ghostly white. Near the back, a faded poster called for test subject applications, apparently endorsed by Cave Johnson himself.

Everywhere She looked, remnants of a dead man’s company made parodies of themselves, untouched for years.

Behind a front desk was a hallway filled with shadows, leading behind the room. With nowhere else to go, GLaDOS stepped into the dark, the light of Her core guiding Her through.

There wasn’t much to see, and for a while, the corridor ran along a single route.

GLaDOS had to come up with a plan.

Somewhere around here there had to be a control room, or at least a place where She could catch a lift back to the Enrichment Center. The thought crossed Her mind that She might have to pass through a testing track, one of Her own meticulously designed traps. It didn’t matter. She’d deal with it when She got to it. 

The hallway was only becoming darker, and the little light on Her shoulder wasn’t nearly bright enough. As far as She could tell, there were no switches along the way. Any lighting was likely controlled by a power station a mile from here.

Something metallic banged against Her foot, and upon examination, GLaDOS discovered it was an empty can of beans. In front of Her, at least three more were lined up in a row. She sighed.

Of course Doug had been here. That man was as ingenious as he was stealthy, and had found his way through every nook and cranny at Aperture. Not even Chell had been able to access some of the places he had.

GLaDOS took it as a good sign. Wherever the path led, it meant someone had been able to survive it.

           Surviving had never exactly been a consideration before. Even when Chell killed Her the first time, She had a feeling there was some kind of safeguard. Humans didn’t have a black box; when they were gone, they were gone. Nothing could bring back a dead human.

           As a potato, GLaDOS had been forced to confront the idea that if Wheatley blew up the facility, that would really be the end. There had been a part of Her almost content that if it was, Chell would be by Her side. Whether it was a vengeful wish, or a side effect of companionship was still unknown.

           Back then, though, She hadn’t really been in control. She’d relied on simple hope that Chell could stop Wheatley before it all went down, not contributing much besides the occasional bit of advice. Now GLaDOS was responsible for Her own fate, fully mobile and fully alone.

           Maybe that was even scarier than standing still.

           After all, She could rely on Chell. Relying on this new human body was another story altogether.  

           The question now was whether any light could be found in this hallway. GLaDOS uncomfortably dropped to her knees, feeling for anything besides the three cans. She grasped at something plastic with a switch on the side. A flashlight.

           Turning it on, the hallway became completely visible. Immediately, GLaDOS was surprised by the sheer number of paintings that covered the white walls.

           Portraits of Chell were splattered from floor to ceiling. Everywhere GLaDOS looked, a woman in an orange jumpsuit stared back at Her, shooting portals and knocking over turrets. Swirls of paint danced from one scene to another, blending each picture into the next. Words were haphazardly scrawled across, some of them poetic and others screaming pure nonsense. Whatever meaning they’d had was lost with Doug.

           A common theme was the companion cube, and one particularly disturbing image replaced their iconic hearts with bleeding human eyes. There was a stark contrast between the idyllic, peaceful depictions of Chell sleeping and the scribbles of scientists running for their lives. GLaDOS could barely make out some of the more manic drawings, but those turned out to be the most horrifying. Tightly clustered loops signified a cloud of neurotoxin. Blotches of red were human remains.

           GLaDOS stood back up, meandering further down the hall. The paintings only devolved from here, intricate detail morphing into vague warnings.

           Don’t trust Her lies.

           The path went on for about another fifteen minutes, twisting and turning at sharp angles. Metal doors led to cluttered offices, all of them sealed and locked. In some of them, the computers were still on, endlessly flickering in the darkness.

           When GLaDOS finally reached the end of the corridor, She was greeted with the sudden activation of a bright white light. Reflexively, She shielded Her eyes as the voice of the announcer blared.

           “Welcome, Aperture Science Testing Associate! You’re here because you’ve voluntarily, or involuntarily, chosen to sign over all your legal rights to Aperture Science and further humanity’s progress!”

           Of course. Being turned into a fleshy mess of tissues wasn’t enough. She’d have to go through the testing track, too.

           She bit her lip in silent rage, no longer blinded by the light, gazing upon an airtight room with little more than a circular door. All around Her was white, covered in portal surfaces. Beneath Her, GLaDOS could feel the electronics of the panels whir, making the whole room seem alive. It could move at any moment.

           “Before we begin, the Enrichment Center would like to remind you that you may suffer terrible injuries caused by our testing devices designed to create terrible injuries. If you have suffered a terrible injury, please review our community-shared legal manual, which states that Aperture Science takes no responsibility.”

           GLaDOS knew that redundant message. It was backup, for when She wasn’t there to narrate. Testing tracks had levels of difficulty, and before Her takeover, it was fairly common for subjects to be screened and assigned one based on what they could handle. This message only played for the most difficult, and consequently, the deadliest. Not even GLaDOS was entirely sure what was in here; She hadn’t used it for fear of subjects dying before any real data could be collected.

           “As part of [HIGH DIFFICULTY] testing protocol, Aperture Science has temporarily issued you your very own Aperture Science Handheld Portal Device.”

           Without warning, a panel on the ceiling lifted, a robotic claw descending and dropping the device directly in front of GLaDOS. The claw lifted, and the panel closed again.

           “The device has been successfully deployed. To ensure the validity of our tests, please verify that your device is completely operational.”

           GLaDOS was familiar with the portal gun from Her databases, and She knew exactly how to work it. Despite this, She’d never actually handled one Herself, unless being impaled on the end of one counted. The device was heavy in Her hands, cold and sleek against Her fingers. The center, black plastic encasing a glowing yellow coil, was warm to the touch.

           Pointing at one of the white panels, She cocked the trigger, and a golden portal blossomed in front of Her. Running Her fingers across the surface, it felt like waving a hand through a ray of sunlight. GLaDOS turned around, shooting the next portal at the opposite wall. The portal which followed was a lighter yellow, less vivid than the first.

           “Good. A signal from the device has proven activation. Please enter the elevator.”

           The metal door opened, and just beyond the emancipation grill, an elevator stood wait. It was the only path left to take.

---

           Putting a cube on a button should’ve been a simple task for a supercomputer. Even for a human, the menial work was a cognitive breeze. The large button in particular required minimal force to operate, and the weighted storage cubes were lighter than they appeared. In any scenario, placing an object on another was easily mastered with only the most basic of motor skills. It could have qualified as the least difficult task known to mankind. All GLaDOS had to do was put one cube on one button.

           That was all there was. One cube, one button, and several killing machines stuffed with thousands of bullets. It was for this reason that GLaDOS could not perform this extraordinarily simple job. The turrets blocking the way would surely be a hurdle.

           Already, GLaDOS could feel the beginnings of human fear creeping into Her mind. She was out of the turrets’ line of sight, and yet the caution of Her new form compelled Her to stay hidden in the corner regardless. Nervously clutching the trigger of Her portal gun, She considered the dangers lurking in future tests. This one was only the first, and it had already deployed one of the worst weapons Aperture had to offer.

           Logically, GLaDOS knew She could step out. She could put one portal behind Her, another at the opposite wall, and avoid the turrets altogether. Behind them would certainly be the cube and the button. Still, emotion was quite a world apart from logic. As a computer, She could be revived over and over again. Humans could not be fixed, and GLaDOS understood that in the very unlikely possibility She died here, She was never coming back.

           GLaDOS didn’t want to admit that She was afraid, not even to Herself. She was sure Chell could tell back when Wheatley was in control; She’d let Her voice slip more than once. Now, with nobody around, She only had Herself to prove it to.

           Removing Her cores all that time ago had also been the removal of Her regulators; She felt everything once they were detached, things She would have to relearn how to suppress. All She remembered before the world went dark, before Chell killed her, what She’d relived, was fear. Panic. Terror. There were a million words for it, none encapsulating just how soul-wrenching the phenomenon was.

           Even then, that’s all it was for Her. Just an emotion. For human beings, fear was a sixth sense. It could be felt in a spiraling heartbeat, in beads of sweat, in shallow breaths and temporary, last-ditch strength. Fear was a state of being, and for the particularly unfortunate, a way of life.

           GLaDOS knew fear only when She had to, only when She could not shove it to the very bottom of Her files. Humans knew fear like they knew living. 

           What a miserable way to be.

           It was all the more reason to complete these chambers faster.

           When She reached the other side of the room, GLaDOS found exactly what She expected. The cube glowed a bright yellow when placed on the Aperture Science Super-Colliding Super Button, and the chamber lock opened.

           As the elevator descended, GLaDOS realized that She had no idea how to solve these tests. She was smart, and the solution would certainly come to Her eventually, but the human mind could only store so much. GLaDOS used to have entire libraries of nothing but solutions to tests, but the upload procedure hadn’t deemed that useful or necessary. When trying to remember, there was nothing. For the first time, GLaDOS’ mind was blank.

           The next test dashed all Her hopes for a few more tutorial puzzles.

           No, GLaDOS reassured Herself. This is alright. I’m used to being challenged.

           After Chell, She was sure any other problem would be easier to solve.

           This particular test was supposed to introduce lasers. The first step was to burn the turrets with the beam, done with the help of portals and crouching behind a corner. The explosions were louder than She’d expected; GLaDOS had seldom heard them outside of watching from a camera. Her ears rung as She crept past the charred remains of the turrets, almost nothing left of the slender white robots. The burn marks brought a smile to Her face; She’d killed them. Even now, She had power over something.

           The turrets were programmed to have some level of sentience, though their sense of self was not nearly as defined as that of a core’s or a human’s. It didn’t matter anyway; they wouldn’t be missed. For every one that was destroyed or made wrong, ten more were created in its place, and the missing turret was simply forgotten. Nobody really made an effort to remember in the first place.

           Humans, too, were often unremembered. She used to be able to look at their files at any time, but why would She want to? She’d seen so many, none particularly worthy of note, and most of them were gone. Even so, in a part of Her that She wanted to deny, GLaDOS almost felt sorry for them. She too had been forgotten for years; nobody had even wanted to wake Her up, to check and see if She was alright. All the robots in the facility knew was that the voice controlling them was gone, and that She wasn’t coming back. 

           The rest of the puzzle was much more challenging than swinging around a laser, involving the use of a redirection cube and multiple steps to obtain it. Another round of turrets was waiting where GLaDOS couldn’t see, launching a bullet directly between Her ribs. Luckily for GLaDOS, the force of each bullet was minimal, and the single hit left only a painful bruise. These turrets were stuffed to the brim with ammunition, part of Cave Johnson’s idea to really give his customers their money’s worth. The unintended side effect was a reduction of firing power.

           Trudging to the elevator, GLaDOS clutched Her side. She’d been knocked out of breath, and the sharp throb of the bruise had faded into a dull ache. It was almost worse that way, grating on Her nerves, flaring up when She took a breath.

           Chell had taken a couple bullets before, some grazing the sides of Her shoulders and most leaving similar small wounds. GLaDOS had to give her credit for continuing to test, holding her head high even when she was bleeding. That didn’t even count sores in her lungs from the neurotoxin, or the damage from falling down the pit. The fact that Chell stayed alive, then went on to test for days, proved her exceptional stamina.

           This one bruise to the rib was occupying nearly all of GLaDOS’ thoughts. She couldn’t fathom the kinds of things Chell felt. The only comparisons She had were the removal of Her head and dying, both of which didn’t last longer than a few minutes. Her pain as a computer had been simulated, but this was real and arguably worse. Chell had likely felt this same sensation a hundred times over, and a hundred times longer.

           You did that to her, you know. A voice clawed from deep within Her mind.

           You gave her all that pain.

           Testing was bad enough, GLaDOS didn’t need the additional burden of guilt. She ignored the voice, though a heaviness still welled in Her chest. Her conscience, the one with Her own voice, was coming back. GLaDOS couldn’t say She missed it.

---

The following tests had proved themselves to be little more than a series of colorful injuries.

Despite Her caution, misfires on behalf of the turrets were inevitable. A stray bullet had bruised Her shin, while another flew past and grazed the side of Her left shoulder. Other little nicks were speckled across Her skin, the products of miscellaneous falls.

Hitting the sides of walls, and even landing with the boots, left GLaDOS’ arms and legs sore. Every step She took was a laborious trudge from panel to panel, and eventually Her fatigue took control.

GLaDOS scanned the level sign on Her right upon entering the test. 15. It hadn’t felt like 15 tests; it’d felt like hundreds had gone by. GLaDOS wasn’t even entirely sure how long it’d been. The adrenal vapor in the air muddled Her perception, and an hour and a minute seemed to be the same.

An educated guess was about four hours, accounting for the rests She’d taken in between. The hard physical activity had already worn down this middle-aged body. The woman was lean, more bony than muscular, and even slight exertion took all the effort She could give. The factor of age didn’t help.

GLaDOS sat down in front of the glowing screen, giving Herself a minute to catch Her breath.

There was a possibility that these tests would go on for thousands of chambers, enough to last years. Equally likely, at the end of the next there might be a scorching pit of flames. That one without any portal surfaces to escape from.

She leaned Her head on the wall, closing Her eyes and letting Her mind wander.

           The chamber was frigid, and the jumpsuit did little to shield GLaDOS from the cold. Arms crossed and knees at Her chest, the heat still escaped Her.

           The thought crossed Her mind that this was how Chell had felt. Was she always this cold, this tired, this desperate? GLaDOS made a mental note to Herself.

           Make the chambers warmer.

           The heat was only a surface-level fix. The claustrophobia induced by the walls, the artificial lights, and the expectation to give it your all or else was maddening.

           Why does it matter to you? GLaDOS asked Herself. Sure, it was bad for Her, but why care about the other subjects? Once She got through this, GLaDOS would never have to feel it again.

           She remembered the time She’d described Her worst imperfection to Atlas and P-Body. Too much sympathy for human suffering.

   ��       Still, Chell would’ve been happier (whatever excuse for happiness that would be) in warmer chambers. Now that She’d gotten attached to one human, She’d felt for them all. It was why She was so hesitant to form a connection in the first place. That would interfere with Her experiments.

           Memories of sparing Chell’s lookalike and saving the life of the man reentered Her mind, and She was embarrassed at the thought of letting Her study careen so far off the rails. Looking back, how much perfectly good science had been ruined? Chell wasn’t even here, and yet She was still wrecking the facility.

           Missing Chell, no maybe not missing so much as becoming used to her presence, was the source of all this mayhem.  The thought of deleting the feeling completely…it was a motivating fantasy. Sentimentality had been, and would be, the death of Her.

           Wisely, GLaDOS stopped Herself from wandering further.

           Don’t think about it. Control yourself.

           The act of caring verged on Caroline behavior. 

           If only to distract Herself, GLaDOS stood up tall and readied Herself for the fifteenth test. Walking deeper in, Her nose caught the scent of acid, stinging as the fumes filled Her lungs.

           GLaDOS sighed.

           She could already tell that this would be a long one.

---

           Cheating was not as good of an idea as it originally seemed.

GLaDOS knew logically, No, you have to do the test, there’s no other way out. When subjects tried to escape, it never ended well for them. Despite past observation, the temptation remained as strong as ever. The walls beckoned Her, waiting to be climbed, an onlooking room in wait. These tests hadn’t been as thoroughly repaired as the others, and sunlight shone through holes in the ceiling. Wreckage from years of decay looked almost like a staircase, or perhaps more like a ladder. Everywhere around Her seemed like an easier path to freedom.

           The main issue was stability; the rusty metal plates couldn’t support Her weight, and trying to climb left Her tumbling down onto the hard floors. No wall ever seemed to have enough traction, and a sprain on Her arm quickly taught GLaDOS that Her ingenious plans were too risky to continue. Even the use of momentum could not propel Her high enough to reach the windows of the room overhead.

           Frustrated and defeated, She solved the test without further incident. Chamber 25 was waiting up ahead, and the sunlight from above shone with evening hues. To Her own disbelief, all of this testing had amounted to only a single day.

           After the long, arduous completion of 25 had wracked both Her body and mind, GLaDOS found welcome relief. She almost couldn’t believe the fact that the chambers had ended so… safely. The door opened, and there were no death traps or pits of fire waiting for Her. It only led into a waiting room with a faded Thank You sign on the wall. GLaDOS smiled, satisfied with Her victory. Shortcomings aside, the fact that this measly human body had managed to endure so much was something She was proud of.

           That had been Her work, Her survival, not just testing by proxy.

           The waiting room She stood in was eerily similar to the last, furnished with the same kind of chair and plastered with similar advertisements. Unlike the last one, two exits waited in front of Her. One was for test subjects, boarded up with wood nailed to the door, completely inaccessible. The other was a flight of stairs leading upward, blocked off with a chained sign reading Employees Only.

           GLaDOS lifted the chain over Her head and took the staircase, no other option available. Nervously, She hoped that anything but another testing track was up ahead, only to find exactly what She needed. Her luck had been improving; a control room was only a step away. A panel of countless switches was adhered to the pale blue walls, adjacent to a desk with pens, paper, and a noisy radio. The same jazzy tune played on loop until She switched it off, content with the silence.

           It’s finally over.

           She sat down at the office chair in front of the control panel, scanning it for the words lift or escape pod. Dials and switches cluttered the board, labeled with miniscule text that was near impossible to read. GLaDOS scorned Her human eyesight, searching desperately, but finding nothing. The buttons only controlled elements of the test chambers, which panels to open, which cubes to drop.

           She reread it, knowing that surely She’d missed something. Again and again, She screened the switchboard, yielding nothing.

           GLaDOS had to have overlooked a button, misread a label. Nothing was hidden behind the desk, and no other devices had been plugged into the socket on the wall. The realization that She could be trapped here, here of all places, sank low into Her chest. After everything, after all of the testing and the pain and the feelings, it had all amounted to this.

           “Oh my god. Oh my god. That’s not possible!”

           All the panic She’d suppressed was finally let loose, Her human mind no longer able to contain the fear She’d been anticipating.

           I might die here. That’s it. I might never get back in my mainframe, and I might spend my last hours stuck in this human being.

           I’m going to be alone.

           Alone.

           She lingered on that sentence, anxiously pacing around the desk, nervously clawing through Her hair.

           I am going to be very, very alone.

           GLaDOS had always wanted to spend Her entire, immortal life alone. No friends, no family to weigh Her down, to distract Her from purpose. Cave had put it best; Caroline was married to science, and that had carried over to GLaDOS.

           Machines didn’t need companionship, but depriving a human being of social contact was like denying them water. Whatever human need for friendship still existed in this woman’s body was bubbling up, broken by the sheer loneliness of the tests.

           She often wondered why subjects had such a difficult time euthanizing their faithful companion cube. Unless rare incidents of stabbing threats counted, the companion cube had not once spoken to them, never shown any kind of personality or attachment. They were sentient enough, like most Aperture products, but their only real difference from a storage cube was their little heart decal. A mere design change had been enough to exploit human compassion, and it was fascinating to behold.

           A part of Her now understood why it was so easy to believe that an inanimate object could be a friend. GLaDOS’ human component ached for any sort of company, any kind of reassurance. Even an enemy would be nice. An enemy would be better, maybe even preferred.

           Just someone to talk to, even if that conversation was just a tirade of insults on Her part.

                      GLaDOS gave up; nobody was here, and nobody was waiting for Her. The future looked lonely, and in desperation, She gave the control panel one last glance. A button that She’d seen before caught Her eye, one She hadn’t fully considered the first time.

           Core Sentience Connector.

           With nothing to lose, She pressed the button, and a whirring erupted from a panel downstairs. GLaDOS rushed back to the waiting room, portal gun in Her hands, and watched the walls open like magic. In its place was a metal contraption, holding the empty shell of a personality core with a flickering screen above it. The Aperture Logo flashed onto the newly implemented monitor, while the announcer blared from an invisible speaker.

           “Hello, and thank you for activating the Aperture Science Personality Core Sentience Connector Protocol! If you have selected this feature, congratulations. A subject under your supervision has been experiencing difficulties testing due to prolonged exposure to severe social deprivation.”

           GLaDOS wondered what other insane scenarios they’d thought of as the screen switched to a moving blueprint of a personality sphere.

           “All Aperture Science Personality Constructs are made with the intended purpose of solving this problem, providing companionship to those in crisis. Personality Constructs with an active distress signal can be summoned with the connector protocol. A list of available constructs is provided on the screen.”

           Walking closer to the device, GLaDOS saw only one serial number listed. Personality cores all had radio capability, and the signal of their very being could be transmitted in times of emergency. Once the signal was received, that could easily be implemented into any compatible device.

           GLaDOS hesitated before selecting the number. She doubted that the little moron had the capacity to activate a distress signal, and if he did, it was highly unlikely that the signal could bounce all the way back to Earth. Still, the possibility that this core could be Wheatley was something She did not want to risk. Although psychologically destroying him would be a good use of Her time, being in a position of power would make Her revenge all the more satisfying.

           The last thing She wanted was for him to see Her weak again, but the only other option was to remain trapped. At the very least, if they were stuck here forever, She could use the last of Her human strength to make Wheatley’s tiny, moronic life as miserable as possible. In the off chance he could open a panel, She’d use him to escape and leave him behind. Preferably, in the incinerator.

           Survival was worth the temporary burden of dealing with Wheatley, especially if it meant another thousand years doing nothing but testing. GLaDOS tapped the number, an electric chime sounding from the machine as the connector activated. Within thirty seconds, the core’s eye opened, gleaming a bright blue.

---

           “If you were, let’s say, a brain damaged woman who was betrayed by her only friend, what would it take for you to forgive the bloke who tried to murder you? It’s just theoretical, just, you know, coming up with hypotheticals to pass the time.”

           “Space. Space is nice. Rocket ship. Rocket ship goes to space. Space goes to space. Space is in space.”

           “Alright mate, thanks for the input. Very useful.”

           Wheatley sighed, his optic focused on the same group of stars he’d watched for the past couple of hours, his mind wrapped up in the past.

           Four months had been a good amount of time to relive his mistakes over and over, micro analyzing every transgression against Chell. His life was now a series of unpleasant memories, or pleasant ones turned painful by context, interrupted with by chatter of the space core and the light of the sun.

           Fantasies, in which he apologized for his mistakes and Chell forgave him, were far too frequent. He’d say sorry, deliver a whole monologue four months in the making, and She’d pick him up and smile at him. They would be friends again, and Wheatley would never return to Aperture. GLaDOS would be gone, out of sight forever, and they could be happy. He could be happy.

           Not that Wheatley particularly thought he deserved it. By most human standards of morality, trying to kill someone was considered an irredeemable offense. Empathizing with Chell’s fear, Chell’s heartbreak had been impossible with the mainframe distorting his thoughts. All of the sympathy he could not feel then was coming back now, transformed into guilt.

           If you hadn’t acted like a monster, if you hadn’t been so awful, if you hadn’t been such a moron...

           He knew that realistically, Chell would never pardon him. Even that was given the unlikely event they’d met again.

           Wheatley wondered if he would ever get a second chance, ever get the opportunity to show that no, he wasn’t a moron and all that villainy had been just a fluke. He only needed a chance, just one.

           Hell, if GLaDOS got an opportunity for redemption, why couldn’t he?

           Wheatley closed his optic, feeling the cold of space against his metal casing.

           One chance. That’s all I need.

           For a moment, there was only the silence of the cosmos.

           Without warning, his processors hummed with a fever pitch, and his thoughts raced until they melted into nonsense. A loud beeping resonated from inside, and through the chaos, Wheatley could discern a single error message.

           Sentience Connector Protocol Initiated. Prepare for the brief suspension of your consciousness.

           What in the bloody hell-

           Wheatley screamed in surprise, his cry cut off halfway through.

           The space core hardly noticed that his companion had been zapped away, content with watching the surface of the moon below. The stars shone bright as ever.

---

           “Oh, oh my god, I’m alive! I…” Wheatley’s voice trailed off as he awakened to the dim walls of Aperture, facing a brown-haired, tired-looking woman. A yellow light glowed through Her jumpsuit, and a suspicious grin was spread across Her face. Wheatley had never seen this person before, but the moment She spoke, he knew exactly who She was.

           “Well, there you are.”

     She was back.

[writingsbychlo]

to fix a broken promise | stuart twombly

word count; 8919

summary; stuart makes a pretty big mistake and breaks a promise to you, and now he has to try and make it up.

notes; this is the first of two parts in a little tribute for my best gal @stylesharrys​ and her birthday. happy birthday, babey, you deserve it, just for putting up with my dumbass. the second part is the actual happy birthday bit, this just leads up to it.

warnings; smut, pretty tame to be fair, that’s about it.

Throwing his bag down onto his desk, he rubbed at his eyes, a headache forming at his temples as he tried to shake the unsettling feeling that he was forgetting something. He had his laptop charger, he had his laptop, he had a mug of coffee, he had his wallet, his phone, his house keys, he had everything, so why did he feel like something was off?

Chalking up to stress form the project they were currently working on, he flopped down onto his seat, spinning slightly in the office chair before tucking himself under his desk, humming happily as he took a deep gulp of the hot and bitter liquid. Not that it was bitter anymore, after he’d put plenty of milk and sugar into it. Opening the lid of his laptop, he pressed down on the ‘on’ button, a soft sound filling the room as the device began it’s boot up, and he sent a small nod to his coworker as she all but skipped into the room, plopping down into own seat at the desk opposite his as she got herself started up for the day as a much faster speed than he was doing.

“So, you must be excited, then?”

Stuart’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked at her, arranging all her trinkets and photos around her perfectly as she typed in her password, looking up over the edge of the computer to him, brows raised as she waited for an answer. Excited wasn’t exactly the word he would use, more like relieved. This project had been killing him for the last few weeks, he’d been throwing everything he had into it in hopes of getting a subtly promised promotion and pay rise in the outcome. Simply sending her a nod, he hummed, and she seemed to accept that answer as she grinned, and he tuned her out as she began to go off into a description of a dress she was going to wear for some kind of event as some point.

Typing in his password, he ran a hand over his face, taking a deep breath as he set off on a long days work of polishing up and perfecting the project he’d been putting his everything into for the last couple of months. He’d been pulling long nights in the office, often not going home until the sun had sunken behind the horizon, and sometimes even arriving before it had risen again in the morning.

He knew he probably should have balanced his time in a more effective way, but this way important to him, it was the first truly solo project he had been given and he wanted it to be flawless, he wanted to know he could produce something of merit and worth, and he knew he could if he put in all the work, and he had. He’d cancelled twice on his monthly visits to see his mom for it, promising that he’d come down for a whole weekend to make up for it once it was over. He’d denied every chance his friends had invited him out, opting to work on his project, and you had supported him. You’d brought him coffee and meals to his home office when he was working on the weekends, and you’d forced him to go to bed, no matter how much he’d huffed and puffed about it, only to ass out as soon as his head had hit the pillow.

The day had flown by, his stomach rumbling when lunch had rolled around and he’d actually smiled - genuinely - at Billy when the man brought him back a grilled cheese and chocolate muffin for him, a bottle of water on the side. He’d made a mental note to do something nice for the man in return, enjoying the large hand that had patted down on his shoulder as the taller colleague left him to it.

He hadn't quite realised how late it had gotten until he looked around and noticed that he was now alone in the office, his eyes glancing down to the clock in the bottom corner of his computer. Almost eight PM. He shook his head, his neck and back aching from his work and he stretched his arms up above his head, unable to hold back the grin on his lips as he hit save on his project, finished and ready to send it off. As soon as the small ‘whoosh’ sound of the email being delivered sounded out from his laptop, he cheered to himself quietly, shutting down the device and leaning his head back, letting his eyes slide closed for a moment.

He took a second, in his own solitude and joy, basking in the success of finishing his first project to the best of his ability, before rubbing at his eyes and standing up to pack away slowly. The lights in the corridor had gone off with the little movement, and so when they all began to flick on one by one, a single pair of footsteps echoing along the marble tiles, his head flicked up, meeting those of his boss as Stuart stood up straight, tugging his coat up his arms and fastening it as Chetty pushed the office door open, leaning on the glass panel as his brows furrowed.

“Twombly. What are you still doing here?”

Stuart cleared his throat, packing his bag and zipping it up as he licked over his lips, processing his words as his mind chugged slowly with his exhaustion. “Finishing up my project, sir. I just sent it over to you, I didn’t think you’d still be here.”

“I didn’t think you would still be here, isn’t tonight a special night?” The man chuckled out his words, and Stuart rubbed his hands in front of himself, brows furrowing as he rolled on the balls of his feet.

“Uh, what do you mean?”

“Isn’t tonight the night of your girlfriend’s charity event thing? Your whole office booked it off weeks ago, I had to approve all their day-off requests.” Stuart’s stomach dropped, and he felt like his blood was running cold, turning to cement in his veins as his heart just stopped beating.

That had been the feeling of something off. It had been so many months since you’d excitedly told him about it. Your work was throwing a charity event, hoping to raise some money to replace some of the equipment and get better facilities to help the residents in your care, and perhaps even take them all on a day trip out to cheer up some of those who needed it. You were giving a speech, a speech he was supposed to have helped you write and he’d been so busy with his own work that he’d completely forgotten.

He excused himself quickly, Chetty wishing him luck as he dashed outside to his car, the cold of the night hitting him at once as he made the quick walk across the campus to the car park, his feet stumbling under him as he tried to pull his phone out of his pocket. He had turned it off to stop it from distracting him, and he tapped his fingers against his leg anxiously as he watched the notifications suddenly become pouring in.

He had two missed calls and three texts from you, and a range of calls and texts from his team, before it had all gone silent around about an hour ago, and he swallowed thickly, opening a new message to you and nervously swiping his fingers over the electronic keys.

I’m on my way, baby! I’m so sorry! Be there soon! xxxx

He hopped into his car, running a hand through his hair and taking a deep breath as he thought about what he had to do. Firstly, he had to go home and change into his suit. He knew how formal this event was, and suddenly he realised why Neha had been droning on for almost thirty minutes this morning about her favourite types of formal dresses.

[Baby 🌹]

dont bother. already did my speech.

He felt sick to his stomach as he read the message, you had blatantly told him not to come, and the normal slew of kisses and emojis you normal gave him were absent, his heart clenching painfully as he made his way home slowly, cursing to himself under his breath.

Stuart had actually collapsed on the couch from how much pacing he had done, his legs aching and he was certain the carpet actually looked a little worn down from all the walking back and forth he had done. His leg would not stop jittering, no matter what he did, and his dinner had long since been cleared away, half-eaten as he gave up, worry gnawing at his insides as he awaited your arrival home.

He was just pulling out his phone to text you, to find out where you were as the late hours of the night dragged on, when he finally heard the screech of tires on the sidewalk outside the house, and he peered through the curtains, watching as you got out of the cab, waving to Neha and the others as they handed you your shoes, your body stumbling up the garden as the car pulled away, and he dashed to the front door, uncoding the latch and swinging it open to look at you.

You were paused, your key half-way to the door as you paused to look up at him, and he worried his bottom lip between his teeth, his brow furrowed as you burst out in a fit of giggles, falling forward slightly and his hands came down to grip at your hips as he guided you into the house, your heels being thrown haphazardly to the floor.

Raking his eyes along you, he swallowed thickly as he took in your makeup, hair done to perfection and a beautiful dress hanging on your body, and he recognised the colour, your dress the same shade as the tie you’d asked him if he liked a few weeks back, the one still sitting out on the counter below the mirror in your shared room. Your hands pushed his away from you, a giggled mumble of ‘I got it’ being provided as you made your way through the corridors, stumbling along happily in your steps as he followed behind you.

“Baby, I’m really sorry. I haven’t been there for you lately, and I was supposed to help you write your speech for tonight, I really fucked up.” His hands were wringing in front of his body as he watched you make your way through the one-story home to your bedroom, hands tugging idly at the zipper on the back of your dress and he reached in, undoing it for you carefully as you stripped down, leaving it in a heap on the floor.

“Doesn’t matter. I wrote my speech myself, and it was fuckin’ ace!” Your arms flew up as you spoke, a wide smile shining on your lips and he scooped your dress up, folding it delicately and placing it on your dresser as you ran your fingers through your hair, pulling out all the clips that held it up in it’s pretty style, building up a small collection on your nightstand.

“I know, but I’m still sorry. Work has just been crazy lately, an-”

“Funny, you couldn’t make it because work had been ‘oh so crazy’, but all the rest of your team did. Every single one of them showed up, but nobody knew where you were.” it was the first bit of venom you had held to him so far, and his blood ran cold, watching as you shrugged and turned away from him, laying your pyjamas out before you as you looked at them carefully, saying in your spot slightly from the alcohol in your blood and he gaped at you, unsure what to say as more apologies began to fly from his mouth, and you held your hand up to silence him, a small smile on your lips. “Don’t worry about it, Stu. I get it.”

“You.. get it?”

You giggled, deciding you wanted a shower as you kicked off your panties and undid the clasp of your bra, dropping the items into the laundry hamper as you padded across the room. “Yeah, I get it. Work is more important than relationships to some people, you’re married to your job, or whatever. It’s cool. It’s good to know. You’re one of those people, you can’t help it.”

You patted his chest as you walked past, a slight skip in your step as you made your way through the house to get to the bathroom, and he watched you go, his mind blank and ears ringing as he thought about your statement. He stumbled over his own feet as he followed after you, your hand under the water as you checked it’s temperature, waiting for it to warm up and you glanced at him over your shoulder, his shoulders sagging and a frown on his lips.

You simply offered him a smile, deciding the water was warm enough, and you turned to him before stepping under the stream, clearing your throat. “Will you make us a snack? I’m super hungry, and if I don’t eat, I’ll throw up in the morning.” You punctuated the statement with a small laugh as you fumbled for the body wash, a dopey grin on your face as you groaned out at the sensation of the warm water cascading over your head.

He simply smiled, guilt swelling in his gut as he moved from the bathroom and clicked the door shut softly behind him, pressing his forehead to the cool wood as he cursed under his breath, no idea how he could have let it get to the point that you thought he prioritized his job over you, and yet he could understand exactly why you thought that. He moved around the kitchen quietly, choking down his sadness as he tried to make you both something to eat, something that would help soak up all the drinks you’d consumed tonight so you wouldn't feel so bad in the morning, and he was just finishing up by the time you came downstairs.

Your wet hair was hanging behind you as you moved around in the space, leaving a slight damp patch on the back of the oversized shirt you were wearing over a pair of sleep shorts, a happy gasp on your lips as he placed the steaming plate of food before you. “A cheeseburger! Fuck, yeah!” He chuckled at your enthusiasm, sitting down to eat his own food as he watched you took in happily, sipping at the cold glass of water he’d provided for you between bites, small hums of satisfaction leaving you as you ate.

“Did it, um.. did it go well then?” He wasn’t sure how his question would be taken, and your eyes ficked up form your plate to look at him, stilling momentraily, before you licked the ketchup from he edge of your mouth and nodded at him, taking off into a detailed description of everything you had done during the night. You spoke about everything from the socialising to the donations to the pictures you had taken, and while he was overjoyed to see that you’d had such a good time, it only made it feel even worse for not being there. His team, his friends had all been there to support you, no matter how busy they had all been with their own work and lives, and as you showed him the picture of you all in front of one of the screens, wide smiles on all of your faces, he felt his gut twist as he noticed himself being the only face missing from the joyful lineup.

Leaving the plates in the sink to be washed in the morning, you seemed to have sobered up a little thanks to your food and the water, your footsteps more steady as you made your way to the bathroom to clean your teeth. He followed behind you shortly after, having checked that all the doors were locked and that the lights were all switched off, and you were just finishing when he arrived.

He took his time, changing into his pyjamas and getting himself ready for bed, your body curled around one of your pillows as you hugged it to your chest, your back facing his side of the bed when he finally came to crawl under the sheets. It felt unusual to sleep on his side, he was so used to sleeping on his back as you curled into his side, and yet now, he threw an arm over your waist, holding you gently and sighing out under his breath when you didn’t move back into him in the dark, instead choosing to remain where you were.

Nuzzling into his pillow, he decided that he would definitely make it up to you, and he would call into work tomorrow to book the day off and spend it with you. There was a small smile on his lips as he thought about how he would make it up to you as he drifted off into a peaceful slumber.

When Stuart awoke in the morning, he was filled with a whole new kind of energy as he set his mind toward making up for the mess he’d made. Your side of the bed was empty when he woke up, the sheets cold as he stretched, listening out to see if he could hear your movements around the house.

Rolling out of the bed, he rubbed at his eyes and fumbled for his glasses as he made his way through the home, the corridors and rooms silent, and he let out a low groan under his breath as he noticed your work shoes missing from the space they normally occupied on the rack by the door. Upon seeing the folded paper sitting on the kitchen counter, he already anticipated the words written on the paper, and yet he looked at it anyway, his body deflating as his plan to fix things all came crashing down around him once again.

‘picked up an extra shift, home at the usual time. x’

He ran a hand over his face, glancing at the clock and deciding that with nothing better to do, he may as well go to work and see Neha. If anyone could tell him how to fix a fuck-up this collosal, it was her.

He felt especially lonely while he was getting ready to go to work, the word now having a bitter taste in his mouth as he thought about the place that had consumed so much of his time that he’d completely forgotten about all the things that really mattered. The car journey was boring, and he made a quick stop at the store on his way, knowing that he may well have to bribe Neha into helping him.

His feet dragged along the floor as he neared his team office, his body riddled with anxiety and he felt weighed down, the tension making him swallow thickly as he finally pushed the door open, and the chatter in the office fell silent as he entered, all eyes on him curiously, and he offered them a tight lipped smile, letting the door shut behind him as he entered the room.

Neha was the first to approach, as he’d expected, slapping the back off his head as she tutted at him, wandering off to the kitchen, and he didn’t even bother to complain. Lyle quickly made himself busy, heading off to his desk, and Yoyo refused to meet his eyes as he spun around in his desk chair, typing at his computer. Both Billy and Nick were fixing him with looks he didn’t quite understand, and he sighed out, holding up the box in his arms.

“I brought you guys donuts.” He waved the box, dropping it down onto the central table and pushing it toward the middle as everyone looked on curiously, and Billy and Nick shared a look, cracking open the box each as they seperated on the couch, Nick patting at the space between them.

“Grab a ring and take a seat, my man.” Stuart did as he was told, taking a plain glazed donut and making his way towards them, Billy’s eyebrows shooting up as he watched Stuart move, mumbling under his breath at his surprise at not getting fought on the request, and he didn’t even have it in him to fight. He really could use the advice right now.

Collapsing down into the space, his fingers nudged his glasse sup as he ran a hand over his face, adjusting the specs back on his nose properly as he stared down at the treat in his hand, not really feeling entirely deserving of it and he leaned over, placing it down on the table as the two men either side of him chomped happily on theirs. “What happened, kid?”

“I don’t know. I forgot.”

The blond hummed, licking the icing from his fingers as he thought about it, and Billy clasped his free hand down on his shoulder. “Well, first of all, I think you should know that she was a superstar last night. She did her speech - very moving, by the way - and then talked to pretty much everyone. I think they did really well, she was on fire, really.” Nick smacked Billy behind him as Stuart bit his lower lip, nodding at the words.

“I’m glad, really. I wish I’d been there. I really fucked up. Thank you for looking after her, and for bringing her home.” Stuart whispered, sinking further into the seat and rubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans. He felt a large hand muss up his hair in a playful movement, and he couldn’t even form a glare for the tall man who had done it, instead just letting his head roll back on the edge of the couch so he could stare at the ceiling.

“You really feel bad, huh?”

“Yeah. I don’t know how to fix this, guys. She thinks I care more about work than her, and can you even blame her?” Tears were welling in his eyes and he scrunched them up, growling under his breath as he refused the emotions, choosing instead to just huff out his thoughts. “I love her so fucking much, and now, she thinks I’m never going to care about her as much as I care about my job.”

Silence sat over the room at his confession, and he sniffed lightly, not even resisting the comforting pat that was placed on his arm, and not even the clicking of keyboard tiles could be heard as they all listened in on his exclamation.

“So, just show her she’s more important than work is?” It was Lyle that eventually spoke, and Stuart lifted his head, cracking his eyes open to look at the man and his brows furrowed, eyes squinting for a second as he willed away the sting of tears that hadn't been released.

“Any suggestions on how to do that would be greatly appreciated.”

All eyes turned to Neha, who was stirring her coffee, the spoon clinking against the edges of the mug as she pointedly avoided all the males’ gazes, before letting out something between a sigh and a groan, fixing Stuart with a glare as she gave in. “For the record, I’m only helping you because your girlfriend is awesome and deserves something great.”

“I could not agree more.” He muttered, and she pursed her lips, glancing at the open box of pastries on the table and Stuart offered her a grin as he sat forwards, pushing it towards her temptingly.

“And you brought donuts, so fine. I’ll help you.” The men either side of him cheered loudly, whooping and hollering as Stuart beamed, his cheeks flushing red as relief flooded his system, and Nick pointed at the sweet-treat he had abandoned at the beginning of the conversation.

“Eat your donut. We have a lot of work to do.

Nick had been right, there really was a lot of work to do. He had spent the day running around the office building to gather donations from every team he could think off, not backing down until he had checks written out just to get rid of him, a proud sum of money in a stacked collection of paper slips that he had placed into an envelope, sealing it tightly and tucking it into his bag.

It had taken hours for Neha to warm back up to him, but when she eventually had, she’d brainstormed ideas one how to fix things, and show that he really cared. He’d had to practically beg Chetty for the time off work two weeks from now, and the hour he had spent being chastised by your protective coworker on the phone had been the longest and most intimidating of his life, and he was almost afraid to show up at your work to collect you anymore.

The team had throw idea after idea at him, his mind spinning as he tried to process everything he could do, and that was exactly how he found himself standing nervously in the middle of the kitchen, his fingers drumming on the counter as she waited for you. The smell of your favourite freshly cooked dinner was hanging in the air, a bottle of wine sitting out on the perfectly laid candles flickering quietly as one of your playlists played low tunes in the background, two envelopes sitting on the table, one small and thick, the other large and flat.

Finally, the clicking of keys sounded in the doorway, your tired sigh following it as Stuart made his way into the corridor, awarding you a soft smile as he watched you toe off your shoes, wiggling your toes for relief as you hung up your coat.

“Smells good in here.”

He grinned, taking a step forward and lacing your fingers with his, raising your hand up until he could place small kisses to your knuckles, pushing his glasses back up his nose as you laughed gently at his actions. “I cooked.”

“Oh, good, I’m starving. I didn’t get a chance to grab breakfast this morning before they were calling me in and I had to go.” You chatted, brushing off the events of the previous night entirely as he guided you through to the kitchen, pulling your chair out for you as you looked around at his attempt at a romantic setting. “You know it’s not my birthday for like.. three weeks yet, right?”

“I know. But I wanted to do something nice for you. Show you how much you matter to me.” You fixed him with a curious look, your brows raised, but you took the seat he was offering, letting him tuck you under the table before taking the food from the oven where it had been keeping warm and quickly serving you both up a plate, handing it over to your waiting hands as you grinned at him.

He put his own food down in his place, before popping the cork on the bottle of wine, holding it up to you in a silent offer and you nodded, letting him pour you a glass, repeating it for himself as he moved to sit down, and your hand found a fistful of his shirt, pulling him down until you could place your lips on his gently, a sigh leaving him as he eagerly returned the sweet kiss. His hands cupped your cheeks delicately, and he smiled against your mouth, pulling away and placing a final kiss to your lips as he sat down. “This looks so good, Stu.”

“Well, I’ve made it enough times that I’m almost certain I got it right, so, here’s hoping.” You raised your glass at his joke, tapping it against his before lifting your fork, taking a bite of the food and taking a few test chews, before you were moaning out happily at the taste and placing another forkful between your lips, your eyes sliding shut. “This is exactly what I needed.”

He grinned, tucking into his own food as the two of you ate quietly, sipping at your wine and simply enjoying the music, occasionally humming along to the tunes as you ate. It was at least half way through your meal before you spoke up again, licking the sauce from your lips before guiding your gaze up to him, his gaze fixed on you as he waited for you to finish your mouthful before speaking up.

“So, how was work?”

He grimaced placing his knife and fork down as he shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “Fine. Nothing exciting happened. How was your day?”

Your brows rose as he dismissed the question, the forkful of pasta halfway to your mouth as you looked at him, your eyes narrowing slightly. “What? That can’t be true. You always want to talk about your day at work, or your big project, what’s going on?”

“None of that really matters, I’d much rather talk about you.” He confessed, and you chewed slowly as you looked at him, awarding him with a simple hum as you considered his words, and he ate anxiously as he watched you sip your wine to wash down to food, swilling it around your glass before finally speaking again.

“What did I say last night that’s making you act so different?”

His gut churned, his mouth dropping open and his cheeks flushed, his shoulders slumping as he looked at you and he let out a sigh under your gaze. “Is it really that obvious?”

“No, it’s just that you’ve been so preoccupied lately that something must have happened that made you suddenly take a night off work to cook and light candles and do all this. Seeing as you couldn't even make it to my charity event last night, something big must have happened. I’m assuming I said something about it to you last night when I got home. I’d had a fair amount to drink.” You shrugged, like it was the simplest thing in the world to say, and you continued eating as the man put down his knife and fork, watching you longingly.

“That’s just it, you didn’t say anything last night that isn’t true, that you haven’t said now.” He reached out across the table, taking one of your hands in both of his and smoothing his thumbs over your knuckles as he thought about his next words. “You said that you think I care more about my job than I care about you, and that it was okay because that’s just who I am, but it’s not okay, and that’s not who I want to be.”

“Oh, Stuart, I was dru-”

“No, don’t say it was because you were drunk, because I know that I’ve been a really shitty boyfriend lately. I just don’t want you to ever think that you aren’t the most important thing in my life, okay?” He paused, glancing up at you as you watched him carefully, giving him a small smile of encouragement. “I love you, so much.”

“I love you too, you know that.”

“I know, but I love you so much that you're all I want, you’re everything to me and I feel awful that I didn’t help with your speech and I wasn’t there to see you and support you. I feel so guilty, and I know one stupid dinner doesn’t make up for how I’ve been treating you lately, but I’m kinda’ hoping these will.”

He took one hand out of yours, handing you the small envelope and you opened it curiously, your jaw dropping as you laughed unbelievingly, flicking through all the slips in the envelope as you looked at them, all donations to your cause for getting better equipment and healthcare for the residents in your care. “Holy shit, Stuart! What did you do, go door to door at Google?” Your words were joking, but he scratched at the back of his neck, chuckling under his breath.

“Yes, actually. I was very persistent and incredibly annoying. Unlocked my secret ability to be a door-to-door salesman, apparently.” You merely rolled your eyes, placing the envelope back down as he grinned, and you pushed your chair back, rounding the table and standing before him, hands on his cheek as you pulled his face in towards you for another kiss, but he moved at the last minute, head twisting in your arms as he reached for the other envelope, and your hands moved down to loop around his neck. “That one was for making it up to you for not being at your event yesterday. This one is for making it up to you for being such a crappy boyfriend lately. It’s also a birthday present.”

You cooed at him, taking the envelope and pushing his hands out from where they were covering the front of his body, and you seated yourself happily across his lap, one of his arms coming to fasten around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder as he watched you skim your thumb under the seal of the envelope to open it. Pulling out the collection of papers, you scanned your eyes over the front page of it, laughing lightly under your breath.

“I’m taking a week off work?”

“Keep looking.” He grinned, and you moved the page that had the details of you week off from work printed on to the back of the stack, the familiar bright colours of the google insignia standing out on the crisp white paper as you read quietly, the words mumbled from your lips as he watched you carefully, pulling back to press a kiss to your shoulder, before balancing his chin there once again.

“We’re taking a week off work?”

“Mhm. There’s more, you haven’t even seen the best part yet.” Your brows raised, and you twisted in his arms to press a kiss to his lips, a happy hum sounding from him before he pulled back, lips still puckered and a whine in his throat. “No, no, read first. Kiss me after.”

“Okay, okay!” You chuckled at his enthusiasm, flicking the paper over and shaking your head fondly as you turned to look at the papers. Your eyes moved over the page once, twice, three times before your jaw dropped, your face turning to Stuart’s as your eyes searched his. It was silent for a moment, the papers in your hands being placed down as you turned to look at him fully, your hands holding his face firmly between your hands as he beamed at you, a wide and toothy grin on his face. “Why am I looking at plane tickets to Rome?”

Your voice was uncertain and shaky, and his smile only widened as he looked at you. “What reason could we possibly have for plane tickets?” He moved the seat reservations from your sights to show you the final paper, the hotel room tickets and details on the final one. “I can’t possibly imagine why we would have a hotel booked too, b-”

“We’re going to Italy?”

“We’re going to Italy!” He watched your reaction, a loud squeal leaving you as you jumped up from his lap, cheering loudly as you shook the papers, practically bouncing up and down on the spot as you cheered happily. He stood up, his hands finding your hips as he pulled you toward him, taking the papers from your hands and placing them down on the table, your chest pressed flush up to his as his arms wound around your waist. “So, forgiven?”

“Hm, I think so.” You teased, your nose bumping against his and he let the weight from his shoulders fall away as he relaxed under your touch.

“Kisses now?”

“Oh, I’m going to do a lot more than kiss you, Stuart Twombly.” Your hand around his neck pulled him down, your mouths meeting in a heated embrace and he groaned into your mouth, licking along your lower lip as his fingers dug into your hips. He dipped you backwards a little, your body arching into his as he leaned down, your tongues tangling together happily, your fingers moving to play with the shorter hairs at the nape of his neck.

“I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Stuart.” You mumbled the words into his mouth and he growled, nipping at your lower lip as he hummed, pressing a few more long kisses to your lips. “Now, are you going to take me to bed or not?” He nodded, smirking down at you as he guiding you backwards in slow steps, navigating you through the halls of your home, your feet moving in slow steps as he moved you, until you were standing in the middle of your bedroom, soft smacking sounds of your kisses echoing from the walls. Your hands smoothed up into his hair to tug on the soft chocolate strands, his own palms sliding down from your hips until he was squeezing at your ass roughly, your soft pants being swallowed by him as he kissed your hungrily, tongue dragging against your own.

“What do you want, sweetheart? Tell me how to make you happy.” You pulled back, peppering kisses along the smooth skin of his jaw as he tipped his head back for you, his breathing shallow as you did and he held you close to him.

“You do make me happy, Stuart.”

“Then tell me how to make you moan.” His voice was husky, and you took your lower lip between your teeth, whimpering under your breath as he dipped his own head, sucking on the sweet spot he knew so well as he licked over your skin, kissing and nibbling as he worked to leave a mark that wouldn't fade for days to come.

“Just show me how much you love me.”

“I can do that.” His fingers moved up, dancing along your waist as he pulled up the hem of your shirt, tugging the cotton item up and over your head, dropping it to the floor. He kissed along your neck, sinking lower and lower until he was dropping to his knees. He left open mouthed kisses along the skin of your stomach, nimble fingers popping open the button on your jeans as he inched them down and along your thighs, your hands on his shoulders as you stepped out of the restrictive material, kicking them away.

His hand smoothed up and over your thighs, massaging at the muscles tenderly before standing back to his full height, hands on your cheeks to pull your lips back to his. You didn’t even realise he was walking you backwards until your legs met the edge of the mattress, his fingers toying with the clasp of your bra, getting it undone and stripping it from your body, large and calloused palms cupping your tits and squeezing them lightly between his fingers.

Your mewls reached his ears only seconds later, your nails raking over his chest and you tugged idly on on his t-shirt, whining into his mouth.

“I want this off.” You whispered, and he chuckled deeply, stepping away from you to discard the shirt, his bare skin reflecting the dull lighting of the room, your eyes tracing each individual mole and freckle marked on his skin, the dark marks standing out prominently on his pale flesh and you swallowed thickly, licking over your lips as you took in the shirtless sight of the man you loved.

Catching your fingers in the belt loops of his khakis, you tugged his hips toward you, your lips pressings sweet kisses along his shoulders, and his rough hands rubbed up and down your sides, your skin erupting in goosebumps as heat flooded your body, leaving your skin flushed under your boyfriend’s lustful gaze. “These too?”

Two of his own fingers hooked under the waistband of his pants, tugging them away from his body a little and snapping them against his skin, your head moving before you could stop it, lips parted and mouth dry and you shivered under the look he was giving you. “Yes, please.”

“Anything for you, sweetheart.”

He winked at you, his smirk never fading as he undid the front of his pants, his eyes locked with yours as he pushed them down his thighs, kicking them from his feet until the two of you were just standing before one another in your underwear; you in your panties and him in his boxers. You could feel your slick running through the thin and flimsy material of your underwear, and the wet patch forming on the tented front of Stuart’s boxers told you he was feeling the exact same way.

“You’re so beautiful.” His words could barely be heard, but you caught them, your heart swelling with pride and love as you nodded, taking his hand in yours and guiding the two of you down onto the sheets, crawling backwards up the bed as he followed above you, leaning you down until your head was buried in the pillows. His breath was fanning over your cheeks, hot and panted as the two of you watched one another, eyes locked in loving embrace.

Your hand slipped between you both, along your front and down to palm at the straining cock in his boxers, a low grunt leaving him as you did, your nails tracing the outline of his hard cock, even through the wet cotton. “Condom. Now. I need you.” You gestured to the bedside table on his side, and his jaw fell open, his eyes wide as he nodded quickly.

“Okay. Okay, I got it.” He pulled away, reaching over just far enough to grab one of the thin silver packets from the box within the drawer, the wood slamming shut soon after as he pulled back. Pulling away from your body, he dropped his boxers to the floor, foil packet held delicately between his teeth as he pumped himself slowly, moving back to kneel over you on the bed, precum leaving his red and taut skin shining as he toyed, finger pushing up underneath the head of his cock as he let out strangled sounds as he pleased himself.

Seconds later, he was tearing the packet open, rolling the rubber onto his cock and humming at the stimulation of the action, his hands finding the lace on either side of your body, your hips lifting up as he eased the material away, no longer hiding your soaked core from his views. With a hand on each knee, he parted your thighs, his body settling between them as he left wet kisses along your collarbones, moving down until he could wrap his lips around one stiff standing nipple, your back arching as a hand wove into his locks, holding his head to your chest.

Swirling his tongue around the taut bud, you whined out, hips rolling up onto his leg, a thigh clenched as you ground your dripping core onto his skin, a growl leaving him and he left wet and shiny trails on your skin as he dragged his tongue along your flesh to give the other mound the same attention. Your walls were clenching around nothing, flooding with arousal as your body thrummed with need.

He pushed two fingers through your folds, swirling them in the wetness that had gathered and pushing against your clit, and a shake ran over your body, your eyes closing and your head pushing back into the pillows, a loud cry of his name leaving your lips the second his lips wrapped around your clit. Sucking gently, he pushed a single skinny digit into you, your walls fluttering around his finger and sucking it into you deeper as the pad smoothed along your walls.

Pulling it out slowly, the nail scratched just enough to make your hips jump up, the pressure of his movements on the pulsing bud between your legs only getting quicker and rougher, his tongue joining the mix as he lapped at your core. A thin sheen of sweat covered your skin, his eyes watching as your face scrunched up in pleasure and your jaw hung open, calling his name out as he brought you waves of bliss, even just from the simple touch.

Setting a fast rhythm, he prodded a second finger at your entrance, soon allowing it to join the first, the tips of his fingers brushing your spot each time he plunged into you deeply, and he scissored his fingers, opening you up for him as your thighs trembled under his touch. Your own hands lifted up, palming at your tits and he slurped between his fingers, licking up every droplet of wet arousal you let out, drinking you in needily as wet sounds filled the room, filthy and pornographic as he moaned into your body.

The vibrations shot along your spine, and with a hand in his hair, you tugged, dragging his face back up to yours, his chin glistening with your juices as you looked at him, eyes wide and filled with lust glasses sitting askew on his face and you reached up, taking them from his face carefully and placing them on the set of drawers beside the bed. Yourhands held his face, thumbs running over his cheekbones softly as you pulled his mouth down to yours. The taste of you spread from his mouth to your own, and he groaned softly as you sucked on his lower lip, the tip of his cock prodding at your heat and he could feel the wet warmth coming from you, even through the rubber.

“I’m ready. Just fuck me, I need it. I need you.” He nodded, lips still puckered as you pulled away and he lifted one of your legs up to sit on his hip, his hand lining him up between you both and his eyes locked with yours as he sunk forward, filling you slowly, inch by inch until your hot walls were hugging around his cock tightly, your hips pressed together as he mumbled profanities and praises for only you to hear.

He gave you a moment to adjust, your walls stretching to accommodate his size and you let out a deep breath, rolling your hips up into him to give him the signal that you were ready, and he took it, moaning out your name as he pulled back slowly, feeling every dip and inch of your tight passage as he moved slowly. When he was almost all the way out of you, he snapped his hips back forward, your back arching up into his chest as he filled you up deeply once again.

Your nipples rubbed against his chest, the stimulation jolting through your body and you could feel every throb and vein of his member, your eyes fluttering shut as he held you close. One hand was sitting on your thigh as he set off in his thrusts, fingertips digging so tightly into your skin that there would be fingerprint bruises on your skin in the morning, the other holding him up above you as his movements picked up speed. “Harder, baby.”

“I got you.” His words were strained, and he gripped onto your body with more force, the hand beside your head tightening in the sheets, his thrusts hitting deep each time and he was pressing to your special spot, your vision flashing with colours as they rolled back, bliss coursing through your veins. He lifted your leg up higher, balancing it on his shoulder and a scream was torn from you at the new angle, and you only tightened around him.

“Fuck, sweetehart, you’re so tight for me.” His words were practically growled out, sweatlining his forehead as he rammed into you in touch thrusts, the bed slamming back into the wall each time he rocked his hips down, his shaft slipping in and out of you with some of the dirtiest sounds you had ever heard.

“Oh, God, I love it. I love you. Oh, fuck! Stuart!”

“That’s right, baby, scream my name.” He pulled out of you quickly, hands on your hips spinning you around until you were popped up on your knees, your face buried in the sheets, muffling the scream you let out as he slammed back into you in one swift movement. Your nails clawed at the bedding beneath you, your body jolting with every deep thrust he gave you and you felt the spring in your guts beginning to wind up tight, your eyes rolling back in your head as you pushed yourself up on shaky arms.

His hand laced in your hair, pulling your head back so that your sounds were free to echo around the room, clear and loud as you begged and pleaded for him, your back arching up closer to him, and you slammed your hips back to meet his as your thrusts were sloppy, the way he was moving making your head spin.

“Fuck, you gonna’ cum for me, sweetheart? Scream my name, tell everyone who’s making you feel this good? Tell everyone who loves you?” You nodded, gasping breathlessly for him and he leaned over you, his chest almost meeting your back as his movements became uncoordinated and sloppy.

Two of his fingers dipped into your mouth, your tongue swirling around them and soaking them with spit, and he moaned loudly in your ear at the feeling, your cheeks following around his fingers and you could still faintly taste your own essence on his skin, the thought only making you flood with wetness, soaking his cock and he slid easily in and out of you. Trailing the fingers along your skin, lines of saliva connected the tips of his fingers to your lips, until he moved them down to your clit, rubbing rapid circles onto the abused bead.

You threw your head back, letting out a near animalistic sound as your climax crashed over you like a rush. Wave after wave of pure bliss raced through your body, and he could barely move as you shook in his arms, and he held you tightly to his chest, fucking you through your climax as he reached the edge himself. He let out a deep growl into your ear as he came, teeth nibbling on your earlobe and kissing at your jaw as he rode you both through the high.

His skin slid against yours, sweaty and shining as he pulled back, your exhausted body collapsing down onto the sheets as you twitched and quivered, a dopey smile on your face as your eyes closed, a high and deep sigh leaving you as you squirmed in the sheets. Stepping back, he pulled the condom from his cock, his dick already softening as he tied it and discarded it to the bin in the corner, his muscles aching as he dropped down onto the mattress beside you.

You rolled over and lifted his arm as he chuckled tiredly at you, letting you tuck yourself under his arm and nuzzle your nose into his neck, your bodies curling up together to cuddle and he ran his fingers over your skin, tracing indiscernible patterns as you calmed your racing hearts.

“I missed cuddling with you last night. I’m glad you’re back.”

“We don’t cuddle?” You mumbled, yawning through your words and he hummed, nodding and pressing a series of kisses to the top of your head as he relaxed, his own eyes sliding closed as the two of you relaxed.

“No, you cuddled your pillow and we spooned a little.”

“When I woke up, we were curled up together. Guess my unconscious missed you too much to ignore.” He placed a hand over your face, scoffing and pushing you away from him as he teased you for your cheesy statement, and you merely giggled as a reply, squeezing your arms around him tighter as you pulled yourself back into his body, your front pressed up to his side.

“You’re sickeningly cheesy, I can’t stand it.”

“Says the one who booked a romantic trip to Rome.” You joked, and he rolled his eyes, a blush crawling up his cheek as you kissed lazily at the skin you could reach, before pulling back to tug at the sheets, trying to ease them out from under his body, and he shuffled lazily to allow you to, many groans and complaints being thrown in. However, when the covers were draped over his body, he snuggled down into them happily, your eyes rolling fondly as you looked at your half-sleeping boyfriend. “So, how did you get the time off work for both of us?”

“Oh, a lot of begging was done.” He joked, silence settling over the room, and he turned his head toward you, puckering his lips for a slow and deep kiss, which you happily granted you as the two of you adjusted yourselves under the covers. “I love you, and I promise I’ll be better.”

“You’re perfect as you are, Stuart. I love you too.” You muttered, a yawn covering your lips, and he nodded, squeezing you in a silent response. “It’s going to be a very happy birthday for me.”

“Yes. Yes it is.”

[thenightgazer]

Spark of Stardust

Chapter 1 : An Interstellar Quest It's not a date. Vergil insists upon it, even when he doubts himself as he asks Lyra to accompany him to search for a perfect birthday gift for Kyrie. But just like the dying star that sparks its undying stardust; the "date" is just a start for him to get to know more about Lyra, as the librarian reveals her "little, deepest and darkest secrets"

Warning : implied psychological and drug abuse

Part 6 of Tales of Apotelesma

You can also read this fic on AO3

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

~~~

It starts with a soft hand that brushes his face. The fuzzy sensation wakes him up. The lamp on the ceiling is the first thing he sees when he slowly opens his eyes wide awake. His eyes linger to his surroundings— and that shocks him because he’s no longer in his bedroom at Devil May Cry. He’s awakened in someone else’s bedroom. The wall is painted with warm colours and there is a large bookshelf besides the bed. When he turns his head to his left, he spots toys and trinkets which supposedly belong to a little girl, and there sits a young woman who smiles at him.

Where am I?

“How was your sleep?” she asks him. Her soft hand ruffles his hair gently. “You look so peaceful.”

He’s speechless. Not because he doesn’t want to answer, but his mouth won’t cooperate with his head. His survival instincts scream at him to get away from this situation, but all he could feel is numbness.

“I brought you dinner,” the beautiful woman continues. He observes her cautiously; she is approximately in her thirties, with long brunette hair and brown eyes. She looks like the kind of woman who looks absolutely harmless. The way her body moves is delicate. Her voice sounds appealing as she tells him the menu and hopes he will like it. She gives him the same warm impression as his own mother, but this woman seems shady. Her eyes remind him of someone... but he couldn’t remember the person. The same cold, void eyes...

“The nurse said you haven’t eaten since last night. You refused to take your medicines. Why? Don’t you want to get better?” Her voice turns colder. “When I heard that you refused to eat, I couldn’t concentrate on my work. I’m afraid you won’t get better. Now you will eat and take your medicine for me, okay?”

He can’t follow everything she has said just now. Who is this woman? What medicines? What nurse? But his head nods automatically as if his body is controlled by someone else, and that little gesture makes this woman’s warm smile appear on her pretty face again.

“Good. Let’s eat! After that, I’ll read you something exciting. How’s that sound?”

He nods obediently, opening his mouth to eat the porridge. He can’t feel the taste, nor can he sense the texture of the food. But the woman looks at him as if she would blast if he didn’t eat. The sound of friction between the spoon and the bowl drives him crazy. She’s making sure that he swallows the food as she cleans up his mouth. After the bowl is empty, she proceeds to pour something from a bottle—medicine— on a small spoon and look up at him, opening her mouth as a command for him to mimic her gesture. She seems delighted when he swallows the medicine.

“Atta girl.”

What is this nonsense? What is that thing she put inside me?

But he knows he won’t get the answer.

It’s all just a dream, right?

The woman walks to the bookshelf. Her fingers run through the book until she finds the one she desires. She sits back besides him again and opens the book, her fingers scan through the pages.

“You don’t like Cinderella, so I picked up this one,” she shows him the cover of the book. “I guarantee you’ll like it! It’s called The Hobbit, an adventure story. Your favourite, right?”  

I do like adventure stories. But it isn’t my favourite. It’s Dante’s…

She starts her storytelling in a clear voice. “In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit...”

There’s something in her face when she reads. She seems more relaxed and softer than before, as if she got lost in the story. His suspicion is surprisingly gone while he listens to her and the familiarity strikes him again. She reminds him of his own mother when he was a child, reading him bedtime stories. Cambions in their early childhood needed a lot of sleep just like human children, but Dante and he always refused to sleep early and asked for more stories. There’s something peaceful about this familiarity. It calms him, then he decides to close his eyes again whilst the woman’s voice slowly fades away.

---

The dream shatters as Vergil’s cell phone rings loudly.

The hybrid lays still on his bed. He was sleeping for two hours just because he had no other options left to do aside from sleeping. Yet, even though his body doesn’t particularly need to sleep, he hates it when his slumber is interrupted. His hand reaches to find his phone and immediately pick it when he finds it on the desk beside his bed without seeing who’s calling him because he doesn’t bother to open his sleepy eyes.

“Dad?”

That familiar voice forces Vergil to open his eyes.

“Nero?”

“Yeah. You busy?”

“No,” Vergil throws a blanket from his naked chest as he moves his body to sit and brushes his hair. “What’s wrong, Nero?”

Nero doesn’t reply immediately. Vergil can hear a heavy sigh from his son and that makes him a bit anxious.  

“Nothing wrong. Just...” The young devil hunter lets out another sigh. “Today is Kyrie’s birthday. She invites you and the crews for dinner at six. Uh… six as in Fortuna time, which is an hour later from Red Grave time. Just in case you got lost in time again.”

“Of course. We will be attending the dinner. Thank you for the invitation.”

“It’s Kyrie who invites you, not me.”

“...”

“... but having you around here is not so bad. The kids were always whining whenever you and Dante left the house.” Nero’s response is almost excited and eager, much to Vergil’s relief.

The picture of Julio, Carlo and Kyle somehow makes Vergil grins. “You did very well taking care of those little rascals.”

“Thanks,” there’s a pause before Nero continues. “Anyway, I should get going. Nico needs my help to do some crazy shit.”

“I hope all is well for you.”

“You too, I guess...” the young man clears his throat. “And... thank you. For accepting the invitation.”

“It’s the least I could do,” The blue devil smiles, his anxiety is gone as their interaction goes smoothly. “Carry on, son.”

“Y-yeah— bye, then.”

Warmth fills Vergil’s heart as he cleans up his bed and folds the blanket neatly. Never in his life would he have thought that he’d become a father. Even though it was unplanned, having a son does change his life. He has no parental figures to ask advice from and those parenting books are not helping at all, but he learns at his own pace. Two years of effort of atonement is nothing compared to his sins, yet he wants the very best for Nero and is very protective to him.

Then the word stings him.

Birthday, huh?  

Ever since he was a little boy, Vergil has never understood the concept of celebrating birthdays. For him, birthday is just another day to pass. If anything, it seems like people love to celebrate the day when their life spans decrease. People are getting old, so what? Why do we celebrate that irony? Is that because of the presents and cake? Little Vergil never found the answer, but he did feel happy whenever he received presents and ate his birthday cake, even if that means he had to share it with his twin, Dante (he had given up the dream of having his own cake, since being twins means sharing almost everything). He didn’t even think about birthdays until Nero reminded him.

I wonder if he knows his birthday...

Vergil walks to the bathroom and washes his face. He looks at the mirror and the man guy in the mirror stares back at him. His reflection somehow reminds him of the strange dream. What was that dream about? It seems visceral, like it was my own memory. His heartbeat gets faster when he has a dreadful negative thought that it could be Mundus’ mind manipulation. If that was Mundus, it’s too pointless. He’d use my own memories to torture me, not with some kind of irrelevant vision.

“Mornin’,” Dante shoves himself besides Vergil and yawns. “I’m hungry.”

“Pleased to meet you, Hungry.”

Dante bursts into laughter. “Since when are you into dad jokes?”

“I’ll take the shower first.” Ignoring Dante’s question, Vergil picks up a dry towel and gets inside the shower cubicle.

Dante takes off his shirt and stretches his muscles. He washes his face and begins to shave his beard. “You said you fought Angelo demons at last week’s gig, right? Heard from Lady the same Angelo demons got sighted at another city. We still don’t have any information on who created and summoned them.”

Vergil wipes the droplets of water from his face. “It seems like those Angelo demons were none like all the artificial demons we have ever seen before. Their form, their abilities, their durability. They looked rather... futuristic, I'd say. I got an impression that the new Angelo was created mostly by advanced science rather than magic.”

“Another thing happened these past weeks. There are three outbursts at restricted medical facilities in different cities.”

“What medical facility?”

“Trish said that the three of them were research laboratories owned by Ravenhill Corporation.”

“Isn’t that the same corporation that won a peace award or something like that?”

“Yeah. The Ravenhills are an influential aristocrat with power over the health and security industry. Most of the health facilities in this world are sponsored and if not, owned by Ravenhill Corporation. They have a branch company here in this city too.”

“And do you think those incidents have a connection with the appearance of Angelo demons?”      

“Just a gut feeling, but that’s worth investigating, better safe than sorry, aight?” Dante brushes his hair and flips it back like Vergil. “Hey, I look just like you with this hairstyle! Perhaps I should go with this style from now on.”

“If you’re done talking, get out of the bathroom.”

“This is MY bathroom!”

“And I’m the one who cleans up the mess you’ve created in this house, Dante.”

“Fine~!” Dante chuckles as he cleans up the remaining shaving foam from his jaw. “Have you bought something for Kyrie’s birthday? Got missed calls and a text about the dinner party from Nero.”

“Not yet.”

“I’ve been thinking of giving her a fancy revolver. Heard from Nero that she’s quite good at using guns.”

“... do you really think that women fancy weapons as a gift?”

“Trish and Lady do. But hey! You can go ask our clever librarian!” Dante's face lightens up in exhilaration.

Vergil turns off the shower and wraps a towel around his waist as he opens the cubicle. “What do you mean by ’our’?!”

“Yours, then. She’s a normal civilian woman. Perhaps she can recommend you a perfect gift for Kyrie.”

No, if only you know that she’s not normal! “... you’re probably right.”

A teasing whistle comes from Dante as he takes off his pants and walks inside the cubicle. “As Yoda said, Verge, ‘ do or do not. There is no try ’. Call her and ask her out for a date.”

“I’m not taking any advice from a man who has rotten luck with women. And who is Yoda?”

“Call it what you want it. If you’re not asking her out, I’ll go ask her by myself.”

“Not before I step over your dead body.”

“Ha! Someone’s jealous for realsies~”

Vergil walks away from the bathroom before his inner turmoil tempts him to try to kill Dante… again. His insolent brother might have been teasing him too much, but in a way he’s right. He needs to find someone trusted enough to help him buy the perfect gift for Kyrie.

But she’s on duty today is her work day. I won’t make it right on time to the party if I have to wait for her shift to end.

He’s still thinking about it when he enters his room on the second floor and grabs his phone. Lyra’s contact name is showing up, but he hesitates. It’s still 9 o’clock. The library must have just opened.

After having a quite long internal battle with himself, he decides to call her anyway.

It takes a little bit long for Lyra to finally pick up her phone. Vergil catches the sound of her voice and a man’s laugh who Vergil assumes is Nate. “Bugger off for a minute, will you? — Clayton here.”

“Lyra.”

“Oh, hello Vergil!”

“Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all! Is there anything I can help you with?”

“... yes.”

“Are you okay? You sound like you want to cry.”

“I am certainly not,” Vergil groans at Lyra’s giggle. “Yet, I do believe I need your help.”

“Name it!”

“... it’s about a birthday present.” Vergil clears his throat. “Do you remember Kyrie, my son’s fiancée? She will be celebrating her birthday this evening. She invited Dante and I to her house for dinner.”

“I see.”

“Kyrie has always been there for Nero,” he continues. “She helped guide him to become the person he is now. She took care of him while I wasn’t there for him. She’s an important person to my son. That’s why... at least I have to show her some respect.”

“By giving her a decent birthday present.”

“Yes.”

“I think she will appreciate everything you give to her.”

“She will, certainly. She’s too polite to reject a present, but I don’t want her to think that I’m a careless father-in-law by giving her a gratuitous gift.”

“You’re right. I’d be delighted to accompany you to buy the present, but…I’m on duty right now. I’m afraid I couldn't help you any further.”

“That I know. That’s why I call for your advice.”

“I suggest something small, but meaningful. You told me she love to sing, right? Maybe a vinyl of classical music would — what in the bloody—! Nate! Give me back my phone at once!”

Vergil hears them grumbling and arguing at something. He considers to just hang up the phone given to his hunch that Lyra and Nate are probably having a fight right now, but suddenly he hears Nate’s voice as the young librarian speaks to him.

“Mr. Vergil? It’s Nate!”

This scoundrel's audacity...! “I recognize your voice, Nathaniel. What are you doing with Lyra’s phone?”

“Err... sorry for the interruption, but Lyra forced me to tell you this myself, or else you won’t believe her! I told her that I don’t mind if she wants to go on a date with you! My father won’t be checking on the library today!” Nate lets out a dry chuckle to break the ice, but since Vergil says nothing, Nate continues to speak. “She insisted on at least working today, so I told her to finish the duty earlier so she could spend her time with you. That’s all! Oh yeah, a little advice here; Lyra has a terrible sense of direction, means that you should hold her close— ouch!”  

A sound of a book slapped on Nate’s head comes to Vergil’s ear. The next is Lyra’s nervous voice talking to him. “Vergil? You heard Nate. So... we meet at three. How’s that sound?”

“I’ll pick you up at the library.”

“Okay!”

“Then... I’ll see you around.”

“Cheerio!”

Vergil hangs up the phone, unexpectedly feeling the queasiness after he recalls the word ‘date’ as Dante and Nate said earlier. Foolish. We are not dating. We are just going to buy a birthday present. That’s all. Stop this unnecessary disquietude. It’s just Lyra—

“Tell me you’re not gonna go on a date with your boring clothes!”

Vergil hardly glances to his side and sees Patty’s figure standing by his door. The twenty years old girl is wearing an apron and holding a broom in her hand. “At least wear something stylish! You and Dante are all hopeless! No wonder the two of you haven’t gotten married yet!”

“I believe that’s none of your concern, Miss Lowell. And although I lack what humans would consider common sense, the last time I know about human norms and etiquette, that it is rude to trespass on someone's private space and eavesdrop on other people’s conversation.”

“I’m not eavesdropping! I just happened to pass this room while cleaning this house because lately you are not present in this house and Dante is being a lazy bastard as usual! Show some gratitude!”

“Thank you for your help. But as you can see now, I am here and that means I will do the household job while you can go disturb Dante’s peace now.”

“Hey! I heard that!” Dante shouts from the first floor.

“Anyways, let me help you to choose better clothes for you!” Patty insists. “I don’t know who this girl is because Dante won’t tell me, but she seems special to you. You need to dress at your best! Impressing a girl on their first date is a must!”

“I’ll forgive your impudent attitude this time if you kindly close the door, Miss Lowell. I need to put some clothes on.”

Realizing that Vergil wears nothing but a towel wrapped on his waist, Patty flusters as she looks away and grabs the door knob violently. “Fine!”

The blue devil chuckles softly when he hears Patty goes downstairs and screams at Dante for whatever antics that he does right now. He searches through his wardrobe, pondering if Patty was right. And maybe she is. He’s about to blend into society, that means he needs to look less suspicious. He should wear something casual and humane.

Humans and their fashion. Even demons are much simpler.

He picks some clothes with a hope that he won’t look too ridiculous.

---

“Do you think he’s the type of person who brings flowers for a date?” Nate throws paper planes at Lyra’s direction, which she blocks it all with a book.

“Why do you insist that this is a date? We are friends. Friends go hang out sometimes.” Lyra says.

“Dammit, Lyre! You are older than me but I can’t believe you’re so clueless about this. Even idiots could tell that he likes you!”

Lyra groans desperately. “That’s it. That’s the problem of modern society. People nowadays confuse politeness with flirting!”

“Sometimes both work simultaneously! And that’s the case of Mr. Vergil. Sure, he’s polite to everyone even though he always looks like he wanted to kill someone. But he’s different with you; he’s not just polite, but kind. That’s two different things!”

Lyra half-heartedly listens to Nate’s babble; despite she already knows what is inside Nate’s mind. She knows what he means about Vergil being kind only to her, and Nate’s mind interprets how soft Vergil is whenever he’s around her. The thought of those forms of romanticism confuses her. Being a telepath, she has seen and listened into people’s minds for almost her entire life. She’s no stranger to the concept of love according to universal belief, yet she still doubts its existence.

Sometimes, what people think about something isn’t always synchronized with how they feel about it.

And speaking of which, I haven’t heard Nate’s thoughts since fifteen seconds ago...

“He’s here!” Nate declares as he looks up at the window near the front door. “Wait, uh... is it really him?”

“What?”

“He looks... different.” Nate mumbles. “And he didn’t bring flowers. Guess he’s not the flower type of guy.”

“On the contrary, he is.” Lyra takes a brief look at her appearance in the mirror and puts on eyeglasses before giving a wink at Nate. “See you tomorrow!”

“Now who’s excited about the date!?”

She giggles throughout her journey to the front door, only to be surprised when she opens the door and finds Vergil standing in front of her and about to open the door too. But today he looks stunningly different; he is wearing as black shirt beneath a navy-blue casual coat. His dark trousers make him look taller than usual. He changes his footwear into a pair of black chukka boots. Even with his usual warrior clothes, Vergil Sparda is already breathtakingly handsome. His casual look just enhances his majestic stature.  

Lyra has never really given any attention to fashion, but now she can’t take her eyes off of him. “What’s with the sudden change in your sense of fashion?”  

“You don’t like it?”

“I like it!” she blurts. “You look… so… normal”

“Is it just me or does it sound like an insult?”

“It’s a compliment!”

“... thank you, I suppose,” Vergil reluctantly scratches his nape. “Shall we go now?”

“Let’s!”

Lyra glares at Nate who’s giving her double thumbs up and loudly wishing her good luck before she closes the door.

“So,” the librarian walks side by side with Vergil. “Do you remember I mentioned that I purchased my devil arm at an antique shop?”

“Yes. What’s with that?”

“I think it’s a good place to start our quest. The shop sells antique weapons, jewelries, old books and trinkets. Perfect collection for Kyrie.”

“Very well. Where’s this shop located?”

“Nova Town.”

“It’s too far from here.”

“Lucky for us, you have Yamato.”

“I’m beginning to think that you see me as a mere means tool of transportation.”

“Maybe,” she winks playfully. “But you are too decent to be a mere tool, my dearest friend.”

The hybrid rolls his eyes, “Let’s find an empty alley first.”

---

“That was the first time I saw Lyra smiling like that,” Nate mutters at himself as he taps something on his cell phone. “Good for her! Ever since I saw their chemistry on the murder in the library weeks ago, I know they’re going to form a relationship soon!”

The twenty four years old librarian giggles at his own fantasy while drowning himself further into a mobile game he always plays whenever he has free time. He almost startled himself when the bell rings and a customer comes in. Nate abruptly pauses the game and greets the guest. “Welcome to The Literarium!”

The guest — a tall and ginger-haired man — returns Nate’s greeting with a nod. A suspicion arises in Nate’s head as he observes the man’s eyes that are covered with sunglasses. Why the hell does he wear sunglasses indoors? He continues to follow the man’s movement, which is also suspicious. The man seems detached from reality as he stares at one of the shelves quite long without really doing anything, not even touching the books. He walks slowly to another section, again without any interest in the books. The man seems eager to look for something as he repeatedly tilts his head to look outside the window, but Nate is certain that he’s not here for books. Then why bother coming here if he’s not interested in books? Nate clicks his pen anxiously. Paranoia begins to consume him. What if he wants to rob this place?!

The ginger-haired man approaches the sale section and finally picks a book. He looks at the cover briefly before heading to the counter. Nate fakes a polite smile when he scans the book— Lord of the Flies by William Golding— and forces himself to make a small talk. “Fine day, isn’t it?”

The man nods while giving Nate his money. “I agree.”

“You like allegorical one, huh?”

The man furrows his brow. “Sorry?”

Nate lifts the copy of Lord of the Flies . “You don’t know that Golding wrote one of the best allegorical novels all the time?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know. I only recognized it as one of the bestseller books,” the man chuckles. His laughter surprisingly sounds very friendly. “I picked it because the synopsis reminds me of the past.”

“Jesus, what a chaotic past you must have back then.” Nate gives him the book and his change.

“Quiet so,” the man flips the page, but Nate can sense he’s focusing on another thing. “By the way, the woman who wears eyeglasses… She came out from this place with a man about five minutes ago. Does she work here?”

Shit, another Lyra’s admirer. That explains my suspicion! “Yeah. You know her?”

“She looks like a person I used to know. Quite different, but I spot some similarities.”

“Maybe they are the same person?”

“The same person?” the man chuckles again as he closes the book. “That’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“She died years ago.”

“Oh, man… I’m so sorry...”

“It’s fine. She wasn’t related to me, just a person I knew. At first glance, your friend looks eerily similar to her,” the man’s face abruptly turns into doubt and anxious. Nate swears he can see his hands tremble. “I was terribly surprised when I saw your friend out there. I thought the woman I knew was alive again. What is the name? Your lady friend, I mean.”

“Louisa.” Nate lightly says his lie as soon as he’s aware of the man’s intention. I’m not doing anything wrong. Lyra told me to fake a name in case some flirty bastards ask me her name.

“Louisa, then. Pretty name,” the man seems pleased at Nate’s answer. “Thank you. Lovely library, anyway. Good day for you.”

“Thank you. Happy reading and have a good day!”

He’s different from any of Lyra’s secret admirers, Nate feels uneasy about the man’s strange attitude even though the man has already taken his leave. He makes a mental note to contact Lyra soon after he closes the library. “That guy looks like he’s about to plan something fishy. But I can’t disturb Lyra and Mr. Vergil right now.”

Nate grabs his cell phone and restarts the game with a hope that nothing bad would happen.

---

She’s strangely quiet today.

Ever since they arrived at Nova Town, Vergil catches something unusual from Lyra. She guides the way to the antique shop without talking to him but carefully watches her surroundings. But at the same time, she seems to lose her focus and sometimes stares blankly at something. They have been walking for almost 30 minutes and they haven’t arrived at the antique shop yet. Also, that’s not the only thing from her that is unusual... “You wear eyeglasses.”

“Huh?” Lyra automatically touches her eyeglasses. “Why? You don’t like a girl with eyeglasses?”

“I don’t dislike it.”

“You have a funny way to compliment others, don’t you?”

“I have never seen you wearing eyeglasses before. I thought I was looking at a completely different person when you opened the door earlier.”

“I always wear eyeglasses whenever I’m out to shop, just for aesthetic purposes. I’ll take it off if that makes you uncomfortable—”

“Please don’t. You look lovely with that.”

“Thanks!”

“You’re welcome. Are we getting closer to the shop?”

“… I think so?”

Vergil stops abruptly, “Tell me we are not lost.”

“W-we’re not!” she stutters in panic. “I’m just having a little confusion here, because this town looks different from the last time I came here. It has only been two years and the town is already changing...”

“Are you even certain that we are in the right town?”

“One hundred percent certain!”

“Then tell me,” Vergil curves a devilish grin. “Is Nathaniel right? That you have a terrible sense of direction?”

A light blush blooms on Lyra’s face. “Uh... yeah— but we are in the right town! For real! Just because I have a terrible sense of direction, doesn’t mean I’m an idiot!”

“Yet we are lost, aren’t we?”

“We are not! See that monument over there? It’s the town’s icon. We just have to turn left to that road and the antique shop should be on the right corner.”

Vergil watches the monument that Lyra mentioned before he glances at her again with doubtful looks. “Alright, then. But why don’t you use… what is it again... GPS?”

“Later. I’m practicing my sense of direction by practicing my telepathic ability.”

“Does your telepathic ability have something to do with your sense of direction?”

“Since the murder in the library, I’m practicing to read people’s mind whenever you’re around me because your magical defense blocks my telepathic ability. Normally, all I need to do is just focus on their minds and find out if some of them have knowledge of the place I’m about to go.”

“Why bother? You still can read minds by touching their body parts.”

“That’s impractical! Not everyone wants to be touched. Just imagine if I need to touch a person with haphephobia.”

“I thought you like it when you don’t have to read minds anymore.”

“Just in case of an emergency. Who knows if we would find any strange cases again, or if I’m stuck with Dante and there’s an urgent situation where I’m required to smuggle into someone’s head.”

“Hold on. Your telepathy doesn’t work on Dante too?”

“I guess the power of Sparda includes protection from telepaths.”

“I see. Now I understand,” Vergil scoffs. “The reason why you were awfully quiet since we stepped in this town is that you tried to practice your telepathic ability to find out the antique shop’s direction, so you won’t embarrass yourself in front of me because you have poor sense of direction and you think having to use GPS would make you look unreliable as a guide.”

Lyra hides her hands behind her back and stares at the ground, which to Vergil indicates that everything he said is true and that she’s embarrassed to admit it. To be very honest, he doesn’t think that Lyra does something wrong. He just wants to clarify things behind her unusual behavior, but it unconsciously sounds like he’s scolding her for her little secret.

“Just use the GPS if you need it. You have nothing to be ashamed of. That won’t make me think less of you.”

Lyra seems to hesitate at first, but eventually shrugs and takes her phone out from her bag. Vergil quietly smirks at her surrender.

“Fortunately, we’re on the right track!” She shows Vergil the map. “Thank you for your encouragement, Vergil. That’s the longest advice you ever said to me.”

He shrugs it off. “I guess that’s what friends are for.”

“Still, that means a lot to me.”

“Just forget it. Then how’s your practice going?”

“Still doing my best. The first time I tried to read someone’s mind without touching them whenever you were around me, it was all nothing. But now I can see blurry images and hear buzzing sound!” She smiles at him, her eyes beam as she points at the rustic shop at the corner of the street. “Look! We've arrived!”

When Vergil enters the antique shop, he expects the shopkeeper to greet them with unstoppable pestering offers like all the shopkeepers normally do. That’s why he hates shopping. Thankfully the shopkeeper is sleeping on the counter, like she doesn’t care if someone steals one of the items. The shop itself is quiet and the goods are all unique. The problem is, Vergil doesn’t know where to start searching. There are many items that Vergil puts a certain degree of interest in—necklaces, bracelets, clocks, paintings—but he doesn’t think that it would be useful or meaningful to Kyrie. He starts to think about Dante’s suggestion to give her a weapon for self-protection. It seems easier than this endless searching.

“Do you know the biggest dilemma when it comes to shopping? You expect to find a certain thing, but when you’re in the shop, suddenly you’re not sure what to buy anymore.” Lyra chuckles at Vergil’s confused expression.

“Evidently,” Vergil picks an antique revolver. “I think I want to give her a weapon.”

“Is Kyrie an excellent combatant?”

“She can take care of herself, though she still needs a lot of practice, but she won’t survive a second if she had to fight multiple opponents.”

“Mmmm... okay but... how about something for protection from the demons?”

“That will do. It’s way more practical and useful.”

“Alright. Let’s ask the shopkeeper.”

Vergil points his chin at the counter. “She’s sleeping.”

“I’ll wake her up.” Lyra fixates her focus on the shopkeeper until she slowly raises her head from the counter table and rubs her eyes.

Vergil almost couldn’t hide his amusement. She can wake someone up from slumber? How advanced is her ability actually?

The shopkeeper yawns loudly. “Welcome. How can I help y’all?”

“We’re looking for an item for protection from demons. Do you have anything suitable for that?” Lyra asks.

The shopkeeper looks straight to Lyra’s eyes, then to Vergil’s. She sighs as she walks to the weapon cabinet. “I don’t have much of that, but I have this one. Take a look.” she mumbles, handing Lyra a red music box. The music box looks captivating with a rose pattern carved on the box. When Lyra opens the music box, Vergil recognizes the box is playing Bach’s The Well-Tempered Clavier.

“Lovely, but I don’t see what’s so special about the music box,” Vergil mutters his doubt.  

“Easy, dude. Push the button near the mirror to open the secret room behind it.”

Lyra does the exact instruction until the secret room is opened and reveals a golden bracelet inside.

“What’s that for?” Lyra asks.

“It will glow red whenever there's demons nearby,” the shopkeeper lights her cigarette and walks back to the counter. “When the bracelet glows, you press it and close your eyes, because it will cast a very blinding light. It’ll blind and burn demons and that’s the best time for you to run away.”

Lyra glances at Vergil, who’s examining the music box and the bracelet. She holds her giggle when she notices that the bracelet glows in red when Vergil holds it and abruptly puts it back to the secret room behind the mirror before the shopkeeper notices it.

“I guess the bracelet couldn’t distinguish demons and cambions,” she whispers to him.

“This should be fine,” Vergil forms a satisfied grin. “It has both protection advantage and aesthetical function. Perfect.”

“You take that?!” the shopkeeper shouts eagerly.

“Yes,” Vergil replies. “Is there a money-back guarantee in case the item doesn’t properly work?”

“This is an antique shop, dude. Some items might not working at all—”

“I believe I don’t have to repeat myself.” Vergil insists.

The shopkeeper gulps at Vergil’s unspeakable death threat within his icy eyes, knowing that there’s no use to argue with a man like Vergil. “Dammit, fine! Now can I get my money?”

Lyra howls with laughter, “Blimey, you are a terrifying customer.”

Vergil grins in pride as he heads to the counter.

---

The birthday party will begin in an hour, but Vergil chooses to spend the rest of the time with Lyra at the Sparda Manor. During the day time, they only meet in the library. That makes their little adventure today seem rare... and fun. Lyra buys them ice creams at the end of their journey in Nova Town. She can’t hold her laughter when she catches Vergil’s eyes sparking in childish interest as he holds his ice cream once the magic portal opens its way to the Manor.

“The shopkeeper was different from the one whom I met two years ago. He was nice and helpful,” Lyra murmurs, licking her bubblegum ice cream. “Guess he didn’t work there anymore. We get a sleepyhead instead.”

Vergil says nothing as he examines his blueberry ice cream cone. His memory of V eating cheeseburger hits him. “Why do humans think that creating something messy is a good idea?”

“It’s called innovation, Vergil.”

“Messy innovation.”

“As long as people like it, it is considered as a great innovation.”

He finally gives up and chomps his ice cream. “This is not bad.”

“Tell me this is not your first time eating ice cream.”

“I might be inexperienced in human lifestyle, but that doesn’t mean I never tasted ice cream.”

It’s strange, Vergil recalls the moment when they used to be strangers before Almagest helped them to get closer. Now they stand side by side and talk about stuff like old friends to the point where he could never get enough of her companionship. He lets her wander around his childhood house, even if he barely calls it a house now. He lets out a silent chuckle when she lifts a pile of rocks up to the air just to see what hides behind it, only to find another ruins and she’s slightly disappointed.

“For a second I thought your father was Johann Sebastian Bach.” Lyra looks up at Sparda’s family painting.

“You are not the first person who said that.”

She laughs. “Oh look at you… stoic since you were born. And I already got a picture on Dante being impatient while the painter kept asking him to stand still.”

“Pretty much correct. He complained how itchy his feet were at the end of the session.”

“Your mother was gorgeous,” Lyra admires Eva’s angelic stature. “No wonder Sparda fell for her.”

Vergil forms a wistful smile. “She was.”

“This painting reminds me of The Picture of Dorian Gray .”

“Pray tell, why?”

“Dorian sold his soul to the devil for eternal youth, and it decayed his self-portrait painting every time he did a sin. Of course your family portrait is a different case, but you see, your mother’s face is the only one that didn’t get burned by fire. It’s like a sign that she was the only human in the family…”

“And the rest of the family members were cursed by the evil blood that ran in their veins. That’s why the faces of the three of us were burned. That’s a picturesque perspective.”

“I didn’t say that demon is always evil—”

“I know. Still, it’s a good metaphor. Haven’t thought of it myself.”

“Why don’t you take the painting with you? People keep their family portrait in their house.”

“Dante and I agreed to leave it here as a sign that this mansion once belonged to our family. Besides, I can’t imagine such a painting to be hanged on the shop’s soiled wall. It would be a disgrace for the painting itself.”

“Now that you mentioned it, I think you are right.”

Lyra continues to lift some rocks and put it back carefully once she finds nothing interesting.. “Have you been in there again after you escaped the Underworld with Dante?”

“To collect mementos, yes. Though, as you can see, nothing much was left since Urizen destroyed the whole city. Not to mention almost all parts of the house were destroyed or blocked by pillars and huge stones. We tried to remove them, but it’d cause a domino effect throughout the manor and demolish it completely.” 

“How did it feel to visit your childhood home again?”

Vergil swallows his ice cream at once. He puts a handkerchief out from his coat and wipes his lips. “It felt mostly heartbreaking.”

“I see,” Lyra nods and gives Vergil a light pat on his shoulder. “Not everyone could even come back to the place where their trauma began. Not that it’s necessary. I just found it encouraging.”

“Speaking of memento, what was the most valuable present you had ever received?” Vergil curiously asks.

“Oh, we start to have a small talk now?”

“I thought we agreed to trust each other, don’t we? Then we should start from mundane things.”

“Alright. Make sense. Let me recall it… mmmm… oh right! A lyre!”

“You play lyre? Amazing.”

“I thought you were about to say ironic.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“You know, a lyre plays a lyre.”

Vergil smirks, recalling her remark on their previous little adventure, “You’re right. It’s ironically amazing.”

The librarian rolls her eyes as she bites the ice cream cone. “My mum bought me one for my fifth birthday. It only lasted for two months before I asked her to give me a harp for the next birthday.”

“Did she finally buy you a harp?”

“She didn’t.”

“Why?”

“She died before my next birthday.”

Vergil immediately stared at Lyra’s sullen eyes. “I’m terribly sorry to hear that.”

“It’s okay,” she smiles at him, chewing the last part of her cone. “It was a long time ago.”

Lyra has so many things she hides behind her amicable demeanor, and Vergil should’ve feel relieved because after all these months, Lyra finally opens up a little bit about her family, yet he doesn’t feel it at all.

“Were you close with your mother?” Vergil’s tone is full of consideration.

Lyra taps her fingers on her chin. “I guess so. We only had each other.”

“… How did she… die?”

The librarian smirks at him. “If I told you she fell from the tree, would you believe me?”

“Only if that’s the truth.”

She goes silent for a while, seeming unwilling to continue her story. She opens an empty drawer, looking at nothingness for a while. “You might’ve heard about her.”

“Your mother?”

“Uh-uh,” Lyra nods calmly, but Vergil senses a slight hesitation. “Her name was Asteria Crescent.”

Impossible! “The award-winning astronomer?”

“Astrobiologist, yes.”

“I see. That explains your fondness of astronomy.”

The first time Vergil heard about Asteria Crescent was when he was eleven years old, still homeless and constantly moved out from place to place in search of power. Asteria’s groundbreaking research of modern astrobiology broke the news. Her discovery led the scientists to rethink human’s position in this world and question the exact location of the Underworld in the known universe, considering demons as an extraterrestrial creature with its own origin and evolution. Demons and magic are inseparable, but Asteria Crescent was brave to make a further step to explain demonology in a scientific approach. Science and magic are two sides of a coin , Vergil recalls her statements. Science just has yet to understand magic.

“Asteria was a Titan goddess of falling stars and nighttime divinations. That suited her very well,” Lyra chuckles bitterly, swinging her hand to lift a pile of ruins back to its place. “I once wondered why she didn’t name me Hecate, daughter of Asteria and goddess of witchcraft. Maybe at that time, she didn’t have a thought that someday I’ll develop this… psychic ability.”

“The media never reported anything regarding her cause of death. It happened all so sudden, they said.”

“They always spoke highly of her. But when she died, they turned the story into rumors and gossip.”

“So did she fall from the tree?”

“She did fall.”

“But not from the tree.”

Vergil’s demonic eyes catch Lyra’s body slightly flinching, but she maintains her calmness and fakes a smile. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you further about your private life.”

“You entrusted me your biggest secret. I intend to do so. I’m just… not ready to open up, but I know that I want to.”

“When I said that we should try to trust each other, I didn't mean that you should abruptly open yourself to me.”

“Too late. Now you know I’m the daughter of a dead astrobiologist.”

“Why did you change your surname then?”

Lyra stops and gazes at Vergil. She seems anxious while glancing at her surroundings carefully, as if she’s afraid that someone else would hear them. Vergil slightly bows his body when Lyra whispers in his ear.

“I’m being hunted.”

The furrow on Vergil’s brow is going deeper. “By whom?”

“Someone who wants to abuse my power. That’s why I need to change my surname and hang out around wearing eyeglasses, so people won’t find out about my identity.”

For a moment, they stand still there, staring at each other’s eyes to find some clues. It’s logical that Lyra’s unique ability would attract power-seekers, be it humans or demons. Vergil knows it too well; the danger of possessing a greater power. A part of him wants to believe her words…

If only he failed to spot a subtle grin on the corner of her lips.

I would be absolutely fooled by her deception, Vergil grunts discontentedly. "You are lying, aren’t you?”

Lyra’s laughter echoes throughout the lake.

Vergil snarls at her unstoppable giggle. "Quite a jester, I see.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

Vergil doesn’t bother to reply, because he knows it would lead to another bickering. He doesn’t try to hide his amused smile too, even though Lyra teases him about the ‘sly devil smile’. To be honest, he couldn’t care less. He just wants to see her smile, her true smile.

Like the way she’s smiling right now.

“Do you want to have a look at the lake?” Vergil offers, trying to lift the mood. “There’s nothing left to see here.”

“Sure!”

They sit on the cobblestone pier in the lake while admiring the twilight sky. It’s Vergil’s favorite place, ever since he was a child. This place has changed; there are no more Qliphoth roots left and there are several trees and wildflowers growing on the land. The lake no longer contains human blood. It’s mesmerizing how fast time flies and changes the entire city.

“I used to spend my days here, reading and playing with Dante,” Vergil says. “We loved being here more than staying indoors.”

“I can see the reason. It’s bloody beautiful here.” Lyra mutters her admiration. She taps her fingers on the cobblestone playfully, causing a small rift in the lake.

“Dante once pushed me to the lake because we fought over a chocolate bar,” Vergil recalls one of his precious memories. “I pretended to be drowned. He pulled me out of the water and cried, pleaded to me for not leaving him alone and that he’s sorry. Promised me that he won’t disturb me again. Right when he shook my body to wake me up, I pushed him to the lake but he managed to drag me with him.”

Lyra can’t hold her howls of laughter. She chortles until her stomach hurts and her throat gets sore. Vergil swears he never saw her laughing like this. “I’m sorry— I— HAHAHAHAHA!”

“Lower your voice,” Vergil grunts. He starts to regret his decision for rambling about his childhood antics just to get rid of Lyra’s gloomy face. “You might end up choking yourself to death.”

“ Pfffftttt!”

“Will you shut up?!”

“Sorry!” Lyra bites her thumb to hold her cackle but fails. “I just… bwahahaha! It seems that ‘never hold a grudge to the people who wronged you’ is true!”

Vergil pulls her thumb away from her teeth, caressing her reddened thumb. “A little deeper, you would bleed your thumb.”

The careful touch from Vergil distracts Lyra for a while. It’s the first time he holds her without gloves on, and it surprises her how soft his palm is despite the fact that he is a warrior who wields various weapons. Her thumb slips lightly from his palm. “Even if I bleed, I got your Lucy Pevensie’s cordial to heal me.”

Vergil sighs heavily as he removes some strands of Lyra’s hair from her forehead. “I gave it to you for an emergency case only. The cordial was made mostly from demon’s blood, mixed with rare herbs and some complicated spells to make it suitable for human’s bodies. Even the bottle was made from demon’s materials to prevent physical damage. Trish produced only a few bottles of cordial, so use it wisely.”

“I will,” Lyra picks out the cordial bottle from her bag and shows it to Vergil. “See? I haven’t used it since Capulet.”

“Put it back into your bag before it slipped from your hand and fell into the lake.”

“Alright alright! Why do you sound a lot like my mother?” Lyra puts the bottle back into her bag.

“You are clumsy and easily distracted. I have to keep my eyes on you every time. It’s rather distressing.”

“I can take care of myself!” Lyra lays a punch on Vergil’s chest. “Remember, I weakened Phantom last week, so you devil twins could kill that spider easily!”

The cambion smirks disdainfully to her weak strike. He puts something off from the back of his coat and hands it to Lyra. It’s an old book with a black leatherbound with the title engraved in a beautiful golden emboss. “Your payment for escorting me today.”

Lyra observes the front cover with beaming eyes. “The Poems of Edgar Allan Poe...”

“It’s one of the mementos I brought from the Manor. I reckon you would love Poe, given to your fondness of horror and mystery.”

“Then I have to refuse! It’s yours!”

“I believe I made myself clear when I said the book is for you.”

Lyra was about to refuse again, but quickly zip her mouth when Vergil glared at her with his terrifying and undeniable gaze. He won’t take any ‘no’ from her. She flips the pages, and something almost falls from the book before Lyra catches it quickly; an antique necklace with an obsidian pendant. She takes a closer look at the pendant and recognizes the familiar white, shiny dots pattern on it— the Lyra constellation.  

“… did you pick this one too from the manor?” Lyra asks carefully.

“… it was from the antique shop.”

“I didn’t see you strolling around the jewelry section.”

“It was displayed on the counter. Nothing special. Just normal jewelry. The pattern just reminded me of you—”

Vergil can’t finish his sentence because Lyra wraps her arms between his waist, locking him in a tight embrace. He can feel the strange, but comfortable warmth fills his body as he returns to hug her without hesitation. Her body is so small and shorter compared to his height that he needs to bow slightly in order to balance the embrace. He loves her scent— a strange mixture of peach, black tea and old roses— and quietly inhales the intoxicating fragrance from her hair. He feels like he could do this all day.

“Thank you,” Lyra’s murmur vibrates his chest. “I’ll cherish this forever.”

“It's just a book and a necklace.”

“These are the best presents since the lyre from my mum!” she chuckles. “I’m sorry. I don’t usually hug people around.”

“Neither do I.”

“So let us hug a bit longer, shall we?”

“It looks like I have no choices but to comply.”

For a moment, they banish their distrusts about each other, breaking the adamant barrier and wishing the time to stop ticking.  

---

Yesterday, Lyra dreamt of a boy who wanders around a big house.

She thought it was just a meaningless dream, at least until she realized that she was the boy himself. She looked at her—  his — reflection in the mirror; the little boy was handsome with swept back silver hair and a black pajama. His serious and grumpy expression reminded of someone she couldn’t remember yet. She— the boy —wandered off around a big and dark house. It wasn’t her own intention; like her movement was controlled by someone else. She opened a chamber and let herself in. There was a woman who lay unconscious on the bed. Lyra could see traces of tears on the woman’s sullen face. Her body forced her to lift the quilt to cover the woman’s body and tip-toed herself out from the room.

When she was about to go back to her room, she heard a wheezing cry and followed the voice to the main hall. It didn’t take her too long to find out the source of the voice as her hand reached to open a white drawer, where another little boy with the same silver hair cried inside it.

“Vergil…” that little boy stared at her with a turbulent sob coming out from his mouth. “Father… you… you d-d-don’t believe that he died… r-right?”

I am…Vergil?

Does that mean that this crying boy… Dante?

The next thing Lyra remembered was she woke up with tears stream down her face like a waterfall, soaking her pillow. She was sure the sadness she felt in the entire dream wasn’t hers, but Vergil and Dante’s. She was going to tell Vergil about her strange dream when she saw the exact same white drawer in her dream at Sparda Manor, but she thought she was biased. Vergil had told her about how devastated his family was when they heard that Sparda was deceased, and her dream must be just her brain playing a trick to her.

But then she thought, Vergil never told me that he found Dante hiding and crying in that draw…

Tonight, Lyra falls into another strange dream. Even weirder and scarier. A titanic, god-like demon tortured her in the most unimaginably painful way. Her entire body was chained and spiked. The demon was merciless. His face was full of disgust and hatred as he spat her insults and penetrated her head with dreadful illusions she couldn’t even envision. He kept calling her “disgraceful offspring of the traitor Sparda”. It was only then she realized that she wasn’t herself, but Vergil.

Lyra fights herself to wake up, and is barely successful. The dream is too visceral that she almost still can feel the pain all over the body as she opens her eyes. Her back is wet from her own sweat.

Why do I keep dreaming of him? Moreover, I never experienced this kind of pain…

Does it have something to do with our accidental mind link on that day? Strange things have happened since then...

Her wave of thoughts are interrupted by the sudden thirst in her throat. She snaps her fingers and the light from the lamp brightens the bedroom. The door cracks slowly to open its way for Lyra. The librarian walks with leaden steps as she rubs her sleepy eyes. She almost stumbled upon a chair when she entered the kitchen.

“A cuppa sounds delightful to cure nightmares,” Lyra mumbles at herself, swinging her hand to summon a cup from the drawer. The cup flies and lands right in front of her, but she makes no further movement but staring blankly at the cup. Her body is still shivering by the imaginary pain from her nightmare.

“From all the people in the world, why does it have to be Vergil? This mind link is vexing me...”

The harsh cry of a raven causes Lyra to glance over the kitchen’s window. She curves a light smile while opening the window and lets a little raven enter her house. The raven lands on her shoulder for a while before flying around the house and lands on the kitchen counter.

“Where have you been, Corvus? Haven’t seen you for days!” Lyra greets the raven.

The little bird tilts its head and squawks. Lyra giggles as she pats the raven’s head. “Hey look. My friend gave his poem book to me and one of the titles is The Raven. I like it, by the way. And I’ve been thinking about him lately, even dreaming about him. To be honest, it’s disturbing. Do you think I should invite him here and tell him the truth?”

The raven gives her a nod.

“You are right. A cuppa is best served with a friend, don’t you think?”

Corvus flaps its wings eagerly. The black bird flies around Lyra’s head before making its way outside the house.

“Leaving already? You haven’t eaten yet!” Lyra shouts at the raven. “Alright then, send my regard to your girlfriend!”

Corvus squawks something like a curse, causing Lyra to barks in laughter. She heads back to the counter as she turns on the radio to entertain her confusing state of mind, picking the channel telepathically until she finds her favourite channel. She listens to the song while summoning her phone from the bedroom, tapping the screen until Vergil’s contact name pops on the screen.

Down in the willow garden

Where me and my love did meet

As we sat a-courtin'

My love fell off to sleep

I had a bottle of burgundy wine

My love, she did not know

So I poisoned that dear little girl

On the banks below

I drew a saber through her

It was a bloody knife

I threw her in the river

Which was a dreadful sign

“By Jove, that song is sinister,” Lyra chuckles darkly. Her solemn face is turning pale. “As for the poisoned little girl… well…”

She clicks Vergil’s name, waiting for the devil to answer with fingers tangled between the black pendant on her neck, hoping half-heartedly that he wouldn’t pick her call.

~~~

A/N : the song mentioned at the end of the chapter is “Down In The Willow Garden” by The Everly Brothers.

Tagging : @drusoona @harlot-of-oblivion @queenmuzz @shiranyaaww @andieperrie18 @rubixa-seraph @blooddrop-palace (I honestly forgot who to tag, so if you want to be tagged just send you reply or DM me! XD)

Masterlist | AO3

[cmart009-draws]

My sweet, sweet mesh’la

For my darling wife, a dash of a story that I hope makes it’s way to her saga. @beskarberry

I really, really love Tra’laar and Mando.

These events are post-Imperial base sabotage. Our clan of three have successfully blown up an Imperial bio-test facility, and have made off with a haul of new weapons and a handful of stolen beskar ingots. Tra'laar has had her own set of pauldrons forged, much to Mando's insistence of 'the more beskar to protect you, the better'.

Among other developments, Tra'laar is now a few months with child in this short cut.

"...Y'know, while I like the scary, yet excruiciatingly hot armorer down in these sewers, I'm still not following why you want me to come down here." Tra'laar's and Mando's steps echoed in the empty pipes under Navarro, their voices the only other noise present beyond the weak clang of a hammer on beskar in the distance.

"It's a surprise."

"You are aware your 'surprises' aren't usually as surprising as you want them to be, right? I can read you like a steel-lined book, silly. You sure it has nothing to do with me being preggers now?" She smiled slyly, poking Mando in the ribs to try to get a reaction out of him after exaggeratingly rubbing her hands on her slightly bumping belly.

"-Oof-. It's a surpise, mesh'la!" He turned his helmet slightly to look at her, nodding his head, the dark visor hiding his sheepish grin underneath. That was exactly the reason for them coming back to see the Armorer: To prepare for a youngling.

Tra'laar contented herself with mocking his nod with her own sassy head-bob, lifting her faceplate and sticking her tongue out as they came to the entrance of the Armorer's forge room. The sound and smell of fresh beskar and forge-smoke were a welcome change from the sulfur-enriched air of Nevarro. Mando tapped the side of his bracer against the inside of the archway, announcing their arrival to his old A'lor with a harmonious chime.

Finishing hammering a breastplate, she set her hammer and tongs down on the forge as she turned to face the duo in her domain. "I've been expecting you two since I heard rumors of a new youngling joining your clan. Have you made a decision on whether you want a weapon, or armor?"

Mando turned to face Tra'laar, who's face was cocked slightly at the Armorer. "Well, what would you pick between the two, mesh'la?"

"For who, me? A dagger, of course! But you already know I have like thirty on me at any given time, with more to spare on the Crest. Is this some sort of present or something?"

He chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "Not for you, for our youngling when they're of age."

 "OH. Isn't it a little early to be thinking of outfitting them for battle? I'm all for making sure they know how to kick ass as soon as they know more than 2 words, but they aren't even-"

"It is never too early to prepare for the unknown. As you've found from your travels with your riduur, and undoubtedly found out yourself with your new armor, it is well worth the preparation. A dagger it will be, etched with your clan crest." She walked towards the duo, holding her hands out to each of them. "Now, hand me the pauldron of your non-dominant hand."

Mando unclasped his left pauldron from his body, handing it gently to his old Alor. "For our future youngling, I pledge this pauldron to protect them, and to give them strength." He glanced over at Tra'laar, pointing at her left shoulder.

"Y'know, it never gets old finding out about all these rituals and shit right in the moment, chrome-dome." She unclasped her left pauldron as well, handing it to the Armorer. All three stood there in silence for a few moments, the Armorer and Mando focused intently on Tra'laar's masked face.

Mando leaned over to his partner, whispering, "A few words from the to-be buirs is customary to this ritual."

"YEAH, no, I'm thinking! I figured as much as soon as you started on yours!" She pushed his hulking frame back to his spot, bringing her hand to her mask in thought. "Alright, I 'pledge' my pauldron to our future youngling so that they can kick ass and take names, and look badass while doing so! That work?" She put her hands to her hips, giving Mando a sarcastic tilt of her head.

"So it shall be. A dagger of the clan Mudhorn, forged for the new youngling, so that they may have strength to protect themselves, and to look 'badass'." She turned and walked back to the forge, setting the pauldrons in a crucible to melt them down. "This will take not but a night. You may retire to the barracks, and it will be ready in the morning for you to take."

"Thank you." Nodding his head as he thanked her, he grabbed Tra'laar by her hand and led her out of the forge room, his feet hardly containing his joy as they turned the corner of the archway. As soon as they were out of eyesight of the Armorer, he turned to face his riduur and grabbed both of her hands, bringing them up between them. "My mesh'la, my love, I can't express how much this means to me. How much I love you, how excited I am for our youngling." Pressing his helmet to her mask, he wrapped his arms around her, Tra'laar giggling at his sudden excitement in the depths of his old home.

She pushed him away slightly so she could open up her mask, smiling at her husband. "You silly can of worms, I told you I knew what was up! You've been giddy for DAYS in the crest. You could have just told me! You can't keep not telling me about these rituals and putting me on the spot!" She put her hands on his shoulders, admiring the curve of his now armorless left shoulder, feeling his warmth and muscles as he ran his hands up and down her sides. "You're like a puppy! You can't stop moving!"

"Only because I'm so in LOVE with you, mesh'la!" He moved his hands to her back, bringing her in close to hug her against his body. "Words just, they can't come close to how I'm feeling right now. So full of pride, happiness, love, I-"

"Well if words are so hard for you, then let's hurry on up to those barracks and find other ways for you to show how much you appreciate and love me!" She grabbed his hands and put them to his sides, slowly backing away towards where she thought the barracks were and breaking into a sprint. "Race ya there!"

Mando watched in adoration as she tore off, shaking his head as he looked at her figure disappearing into the dimly light hallway...

...in the wrong direction.

"My sweet, sweet mesh'la."

You'd seen many beautiful daggers in your life time. Hell, you'd seen them since you were old enough to talk, most of them in windows of stores, and some of the most gorgeous ones you'd seen carved by artisans on the streets. Your first one was rusty but trusty, but this dagger, made specifically for your youngling of your clan, was the most painstakingly detailed item in existence in the galaxy.

Curved in such a way that it always reflected light along it's edge, it was elegant, menacing, and jaw-dropping. As soon as the Armorer had taken it out of it's sheath, your breath caught in your throat. Some how, some way, this dagger wasn't just a dagger...it was part of you. Part of your accomplishments, your history; No, not just your history. Your clan's history. Your husband's history. Both of your essences were there, somehow, and you knew it.

You hesitated to pick it up, but as you did, you couldn't describe the pride that flowed through your veins. This wasn't just a dagger to be a dagger, it was something so much more.

"The name of this weapon shall be Kar'ta. In basic, it means 'heart'. From both of you, you gave your love and hearts for this youngling, and thus this blade shall sing your starsong, Tra'laar, to the universe when they wield it."

[pagingevilspawn]

Would you please write a fic about alex and jo help their daughter with her homework, they would be kinds cute help them study

cross my heart, hope to die, please stick this pencil in my eye

there’s a reason this took me forever. reason number one, two, and three; proofs. i was unable to write this because of proofs. i got this ask and LIKE A CHILD decided that i wanted to make my fictional characters suffer as much as i did. so once i was done with proofs, i had to write something about proofs, which made me exhausted because i hate even talking about proofs

that made no sense, but here’s this thing that i made. lots of it was my real life monologue, screaming at my computer bc of fucking proofs. enjoy. (also, let’s appreciate the fact that i updated three whole days in a row)

(also, another installment of the “payton loves evan peters too much” series, where i name jolex babies after his AHS characters)

Alex Karev sat in the drivers side of his SUV, making a right onto the upcoming street as he listened to the song playing on the radio. He drummed his fingers along the steering wheel absentmindedly, pulling up to the curbside of James Madison Middle School, waiting patiently in his seat until he heard the five minute warning bell ring.

When the loud bell goes off, he exits the car and makes his way to the other side, learning against the door so his kids would know it was him. Too many parent’s owned black range rovers, and the last thing Alex needed was for either one of his kids to climb into the back seat of some stranger's car. 

He didn’t need to wait long for children to start piling out of the school in large crowds. Middle school was so different from elementary, for his kids at least. He remembers when they would come sprinting out of the building as if their lives depended on it, but now they just casually strolled, no matter how much they liked or disliked school. 

A few minutes later he catches sight of his daughter, who’s eyes light up when she sees him. He wasn’t supposed to pick them up today, the nanny was. But he had gotten off of work early and had insisted with Jo that he be the one to pick up the kids. It was a task he wished he got to do more often. 

“Hey.” his daughter greets him with a smile on her face. He steps aside and lets her enter the side door, where she flops her black backpack on the floor and settles into the seat, pulling out her phone and begins to start scrolling through it. 

“Dad!” he hears another voice exclaim, quickly tracing it to his son, who was currently running to the car, backpack bouncing up and down behind him. The sixth grader moved across the property quickly, greeting his dad with a fist bump before sliding into the back seat.

He closes both of his kids doors before making his way into the driver's side, revving up the car’s engine before he drives down the long block, whatever music his daughter decided on playing through the radio. 

Alex winces when the music begins to blare through the car, “Brynn, turn that crap down would you?”

Brynn’s face looks scandalized. “It’s not crap. It’s art.” she emphasizes, turning it up even louder and screaming the words. (Poor Brynn couldn’t sing, and she knew it)

“I came in like a wreeckingggg ballll I never hit so harddd in loveeee all i wanted was to break your walls all you ever did wre-e-e-ck meee.” she yells, using her phone as a microphone, hair flying around wildly as she moved up and down, side to side in her seat.  

Alex rolls his eyes, unable to hide the smile on his lips. His wife and daughter were too much alike sometimes. He turns the knob himself, sending his daughter a look, silently telling her not to do it again. 

“I think it’s crap. Just like how I think you sound like a dying cat whenever you sing.” his son pipes in from the back, a signature Karev smirk plastered on his lips as he keeps his gaze locked on his phone. 

“Shut up Rory,” she sneers, “Nobody likes you.” 

Rory fakes a laugh, looking back to his phone, and then to the scenery outside his window. They passed house after house until they finally reached their destination, John Quincy Adams Elementary School.

“Wait here,” Alex instructs the two kids, who murmurs their we know’s, more focused on the devices in their hand to the words coming out of his mouth. 

He makes his way to the ‘log cabin’ that sat at the front of the school, giving a friendly smile to the woman sitting at the sign out table, a crappy fold out plastic table that had definitely seen better days. “Faye and Bridgette Karev.” 

The woman slides the forms across the table, handing him a pen. “Sign here and here. I’ll go get them right now.” She stands up from her seat and heads inside to tell the two girls that their father had arrived.

Alex sprawls his messy signature onto the page, huffing before leaning up against the gate. His girls could take anywhere from thirty seconds to five minutes to pack up their things. Luckily today didn’t seem to be the latter, because before he knew it, the two youngest Karev’s came bouncing towards him. 

“Daddy!” “Daddy!” 

The seven year olds gave him a large hug, showing him matching toothless smiles. When Jo and him found out that she was pregnant for a third time, they were overjoyed. They had always wanted more than two kids, but hadn’t really been actively trying. They were excited to expand their family of four into a family of five. When they discovered that she was not carrying not one, but two babies, they were shocked. Jo wasn’t expecting to get pregnant at thirty-nine, much less with twins. Brynn was seven at the time, and Rory was five, so they were worried about how their kids would react when they found out two new babies would be joining the Karev household. 

Rory --surprisingly-- took the news really well. He was excited with the fact that he could have baby brothers. (Oh well. Alex Karev only seemed to make girls, Rory being the one exception.) 

Brynn was a bit more reluctant. She had heard from her friends at school how much babies cried and stole all the attention. She loved both her parent’s equally, but she was a Daddy’s girl through and through. The thought of losing both of her parent’s focus was terrifying. What if her Daddy called her new siblings names like Bug or Princess? Those were her names, and her names only. She couldn’t let the new babies steal her names. 

It took a while, but after multiple long talks and countless acts of reassurance, but Brynn eventually came around to the idea. Before they knew it, Brynn was just as excited for the upcoming babies as they were. Jo was worried throughout her whole pregnancy. Since she was almost forty, she was now considered to have a geriatric pregnancy. Just the word ‘geriatric’ did nothing to soothe any woman’s nerves, but add that to the fact that Jo was a surgeon and knew all the risks of pregnancy, and she was practically a mess the first few months. As it turned out, the twins ended up being her easiest pregnancy, since Brynn decided to make her entrance into the world four weeks early and while she was carrying Rory she had the occasional spotting that terrified her to her core every time, worried that she was miscarrying. 

The twins ended up being born at thirty-five weeks, perfectly healthy. The only thing that gave Jo any trouble at all was the severe morning sickness, which turned out to be all day sickness. 

But in the end it was way more than worth it. Faye was pretty much Jo reincarnated, just like Brynn. Every aspect about her was exactly like her mom. Her hair, her eyes, her face shape, chin. The only thing that she inherited was the Karev crooked grin, which all of their children had. (She didn’t even have a big Karev head when she was born!) 

Bridgette on the other hand, was all Alex, except for the eye color. Between her potty mouth, sassy attitude, and overall appearance, she was the female mini evil-spawn. 

The Evil Spawn Jr, title belonged to Rory, who was basically the male version of Bridgette. Same spunk, same mischievous smirk. Jo was always telling him that she didn’t know what she did to deserve three devil’s in her house. Alex always found that one really funny. 

“You guys got everything?” he questions the two, who nod their heads up and down enthusiastically, skipping to the car and greeting their siblings. 

He drives the twenty-five minutes back to his house, the twins chattering about in the back seat. 

“And then Julie showed her her math problems, and I tried to tell her they were wrong, but she just wouldn’t listen!”

“Tommy was sooo annoying. I kept telling him to stop making noises with his pencil, but he just rolled it back and forth so many times!”

Alex laughs under his breath, listening partially to the twins’s conversation. They sounded exactly like how Cristina and Mer used to rant about completely different things to each other, so it never failed to make him think back to the ‘olden days’ as he and Meredith liked to call them. 

If someone were to tell cocky, intern Alex that he would be happily married to the love of his life for (legally) fifteen years, father of four kids, and lived in a house that literally had a white picket fence on the outside of it, he would’ve sent them to a long term psychiatric care facility, because there was no way he would ever have that life. (A life he always secretly wanted, tucked into the very tiniest corner of his brain so it could never venture farther than a fleeting thought here or there). 

“--We’re here,” he calls out, shutting off the engine as he parks in the driveway, the kids unbuckling their seatbelts and scrambling out of the car, eager to escape the confines of the vehicle and enjoy the peace of their rooms. 

Once all five were inside, he watched as the four children parted ways. “Faye, Bridge, you have thirty minutes of reading down here. Ror, you have that history test you need to study for, and Brynn, you know what you need to do.” he says, his two oldest tromping up the stairs as the twins take their place in the living room on separate seats, already engrossed in the books they needed to read as part of their daily homework assignments. 

Alex lets out a tired sigh as he flops onto the couch, more than tempted to grab the remote from the side table and flick on ESPN, but knew that he couldn’t. As much as the girls loved reading, they got distracted from books really easily. Loud horns, cheers, and buzzers wouldn’t be the way to go if he wanted any work to get done. Instead, he plucks the iPad from the coffee table, picking up where he left off that morning with an online medical article.

Before he knew it, Faye and Bridgette’s timer had rung out and they started on their math homework on the kitchen island, something that they finished with ease. Another trait Alex was grateful the children inherited from Jo, her smarts. (Specifically in math)

“Ugh!” he hears a loud exclaim from upstairs, causing him to look up from the device in his hands and glance towards the steps, half expecting an angry looking Brynn to come storming out at any moment. He huffs, focusing his attention back to the iPad in hand when no mini Jo comes down. 

“No! There are no other ways!”

Another loud groan of frustration. 

“Son of a butthead! There are NO more ways! None! I don't know how the frick to prove that the freakin angle is congruent!”

Alex debates ignoring it and letting his daughter figure it out on his own, that is until he hears something hit a wall. He quickly makes his way up the stairs and to Brynn’s bedroom, standing in the doorway for a few seconds, trying to observe the scene. 

Brynn’s normally pristine room had books scattered on the ground, blankets thrown to the side, and an open notebooks posed at an awkward angle on the floor. 

Well, at least he knew what hit the wall.  

Brynn sat on her bed, literally glaring at her computer screen, partially debating whether or not to throw the expensive device across the room. She didn’t break eye contact, as if she was in a staring contest. Alex wanted to laugh, but he knew a deathly glare would be sent his way if he did. 

He knocks on the wood door, sending a questioning glance Brynn’s way as she finally breaks her stare with the inanimate object. “Everything okay?”

The brunette huffs loudly, bouncing back onto the bed as she lets out a groan. 

“I hate proofs.” she turns her head to look at her dad, Jo’s signature puppy dog face plastered on her features. He couldn’t help but chuckle. It was crazy how much Brynn looked like Jo. Add that onto the fact that she too shared a love for flannels and jeans, she was pretty much what he imagined a fourteen year old Jo to look like. When he first found out that Brynn was going to be a girl, he said to Jo, ‘I’m gonna need a gun.’ 

Luckily, that never happened, partially because of the fact that Alex hated guns and Brynn had yet to have a boyfriend. He was more than thankful for that. Especially since he’d seen couples at Brynn’s school canoodling in what they thought was private, even though they were in full view of everyone. He’d be fine with his not-so-little little girl dating when she was twenty-five, no earlier. Any man before that would not be very fortunate. 

“I’ll help,” Alex says, taking a spot next to her and Brynn begins to show he dad the problems on her screen, going on about how she was struggling to figure it out. 

Shouldn’t be too hard, right?

____

Jo Karev was thrilled when Bailey offered to take over her service for the rest of the day. Her husband had gotten off early, and Bailey knew how much of a struggle it was to spend quality time with family as a surgeon. 

She thanked Bailey so many times she lost count, all while boasting a large smile. She couldn’t remember the last time both she and Alex had been home before five o’clock. All she wanted was to go home, snuggle with her babies, and spend time with her husband. Well, her babies weren’t technically babies anymore, Brynn was fourteen, Rory was nearly twelve, and the twins were seven, but nevertheless, they would always be her babies. (Who cared if Rory was five foot three and already almost as tall as her? He was still such a mommy’s boy.)

She drove home with a smile on her face, humming along to the songs on the radio. She was so happy. She wanted to take her kids in her arms, and watch action movies on the couch while they pigged out on pizza together. 

When she pulls up in the drive she practically bounces up the steps to the house, swinging open the door and dropping her coat carelessly onto the rack. She hadn’t texted Alex to let him know she was coming home early, in hopes to make it a joyful surprise. 

Her heart stopped momentarily at the sound of yelling coming from upstairs. Arguments between Brynn and Alex were few and far between, but when they did happen, they were nasty. Alex always felt like crap for days afterward and Brynn stayed quiet, both at home and at school. 

“Do the reflexive property again!”

“Dad we already did that!”

“Well do it again!”

“Why?!”

“Do you see any other way to do it?”

“How is that going to help!”

“It just is!”

“Dad, we've done the reflexive property five times now!”

“You think I don’t know that!”

“Say that segment DA is congruent to AD.”

“But-”

“There are literally no other fucking ways to do it! It’s fucking shit! Thats what it is!”

“You act as if I didn’t already freakin know that!”

A loud groan. 

“What the fuck even is this one! We’ve managed to do three of them already. Try proving the triangles congruent now. Push random ones, like Side-Angle-Side.” 

“This is crap! ‘You don’t have enough proof to show that the blah blah blah.’ Stupid freaking thing! Freaking worthless!”

Jo is unable to suppress her giggle, clasping a hand over her mouth, trying not to make too much noise. It was a relief to know that the current screaming match going on wasn’t an argument. 

“They’ve been at that for an hour and a half now.” she hears her son pipe in, drawing her attention to where he sat on the couch. 

Jo sets her bag down on the table, greeting her son with a large hug, “Hi bubs.” she mumbles into his hair, feeling his arms wrap back around her. In private, Rory was the biggest cuddler, touchy-feely person you’d ever met, but in front of his friends he tried way too hard to show he was ‘too cool’ for hugging his mom, so Jo took in these moments and held them close to her heart.

“An hour and a half huh?” she chuckles, running a hand through her son’s gelled hair. 

Rory snickers, hazel eyes shining with mischief, “Yeah, dad won’t stop cursing and Tissy just keeps screaming alongside him,” he sits back onto the couch. “I’m surprised neither one of them had lost their voice yet.” he smirks his crooked Karev smirk, focusing his attention on the TV where he had opened up netflix, where he was currently binging Bates Motel. The name ‘Tissy’ came from when he was younger and couldn’t for the life of him say either Brynn nor Sissy. It seemed to have stuck all these years, and he was the only one who ever called his older sister that, even ten years later.

She sees him cringe, “I never called you mother right?” he asks, eyes not leaving the screen, where a certain Norman Bates is practically spooning his own mother in the bed, claiming that he couldn’t sleep. 

Jo snorts, ruffling his hair fondly, “Definitely not. And if you ever do, you’re dead Ror, hear me?”

Rory rolls his eyes playfully, giving his mom a grin. “I won’t. Promise.”

Jo heads up the stairs, the loud yells continuing to echo through the halls, which she chooses to ignore. 

“Dad for the fiftieth freaking time-”

“--What’s going on here?” Jo questions, causing both her husband and daughter to break away their concentration from the computer screen. 

Brynn’s face lights up at the sight of her mom standing in the doorway, more than thankful to have someone who actually knew stuff help her with her math. “Mom!” she exclaims, getting up from her place on the bed to give her mother a hug. 

“Hey baby. Care to explain to me why the second I walk through the door I'm greeted with screaming?” She questions, eyebrows raised as she sees Alex sheepishly avoid eye contact, suddenly finding the pictures that hung on the wall very interesting. 

Brynn smirks, “Well, Dad sucks at math so-”

“--Hey!” Alex interrupts, crossing his arms over his chest. “I haven’t done this crap in like thirty years!” He defends himself.

Jo rolls her eyes and smiles of her own gracing her lips as she reaches the bed and takes a look at the problems on the computer. “Proofs?” she asks from confirmation, earning a nod from her husband and daughter. 

She hums, “Given: segment CA bisects angle BAD and segment CA bisects BCD. Prove: triangle ABC is congruent to triangle ADC.” she murmurs to herself.

The brunette laughs when she sees the fact that the pair had put down some form of the ‘reflexive property’ not one, not two, but seven times.

She grins triumphantly as she remembers how to do the problem, the skills seemingly coming back to her after years of them being dormant. “Next statement is angle BCA is congruent to DCA because…” she scrolls through the possible options the box provided, smirking when she found the right one. “An angle bisector divides an angle into two congruent angles.”  

She watches as an angle pops up on the screen, only encouraging her to continue, “Then… angle DAC is congruent to angle BAC because an angle bisector divides an angle into two congruent angles.” 

Another angle comes up. 

“Finally,” she smirks, glancing to the side of for a brief second to take in the draw dropped stares of the two behind her. Brynn was a whiz at math like her mom, but proofs was something she’d been struggling with since they’d started learning them yesterday. Geometry was no joke. Her and her dad had already gotten almost all of the problems done, but it had taken so long to do a few measly problems that they’d lost track of just how long they'd been sitting in the room, arguing back and forth over different possibilities to try. 

“Triangle ABC is congruent to triangle ADC, reason being Angle-Side-Angle.” 

She grins, wiping her hands together as she hits the submit button, a large green check with a correct! floating on the screen, going over the ways to solve the problem. 

Alex glares at her. He’d been working on these fucking proofs for so long now, and Jo just comes in and completes it in less than a minute?

“I hate you.” he gruffs, still glaring at both his wife and the computer. 

Jo giggles, leaning over and pecking her husband’s lips. “Love you too.” 

She begins to walk out of the room, stopping and calling out over her shoulder as she reaches the doorway, “Now you just need to make sure the twins did their homework!”

[fishmongeringstudies]

nine: the tender machine kindness of daily routines and actions whose net worth comes not from their immediately visible impacts but the way your hands learn to steady themselves in the warm flickering light of morning, years after the candles and the ouija board have been put away

being a college student means having to face up to big, harrowing decisions every day such as should i drop this shirt on the floor after i take it off or walk the extra two and a half meters to my laundry hamper? most of the time i opt for the former, although the peculiar thing about leaving stuff on the floor is that the ratio of stuff to floor gradually inverts itself like a body turned inside-out to reveal the soft, fleshy inside until there is no more floor and altogether too much stuff. at that point, there are no more decisions to make. either you pick up all those shirts or make the walk to breakfast in the nude. given that the dining hall is known to be unenthusiastic about the smallest of transgressions like bare feet and people without skin, i doubt they would let me in. unless i seduced them. but it is hard to seduce a building.

the dining hall in this college is named after yet another rich alumnus who, fearing that they would be forgotten when they died and fade away into obscurity, therefore experiencing a second, more significant death, decided to assert dominance over one of the key facilities for survival at their alma mater. the building is short, squat, and emits a faint glow like a convenience store glimpsed from afar at four o'clock in the morning. upon entering the first set of swinging doors, one finds oneself greeted with two more sets of doors and a choice of one or the other. the left door will take you past an office. the right will take you past two more doors. one of them leads to the bathroom. the other leads to hell.

the dining hall appears to have been built on some kind of slope, because once you get past the first door and the second and pass through the gates of reckoning, the path splits again into two rather grand staircases of significant width and height, which lead you some two storeys down to a square-shaped room with a big fireplace perched at one end. it dawns on you then that this, this place hidden under the great yawning jaw of heaven, is the real dining hall. you squint at your surroundings in mild disbelief while awkwardly fingering your phone in your pocket so that the other person waiting in line doesn't strike up a conversation. the path outside looks flat as fuck and yet the stairs seemed to go on forever. the only conclusion: this building is cursed.

other things that are cursed: unripe bananas, misplaced sympathies, birds with teeth. liberal arts colleges. sad novels. people who end all their text messages with a full stop. the last one is a lie.

wow liberal arts colleges are really cursed though. i know what you're thinking. not this again, you moan in an extremely non-sexual way, dragging the heel of your palm down your face. not him again. i am tired of him, you complain. excellent. this makes two of us. but one cannot put something away until you are sure of all its contents. and even now, days and weeks and months later, i'll be brushing my teeth and admiring my reflection in the mirror when i'll find myself abruptly subjected to the blunt force trauma that is delayed realization. memories are like mille feuilles. a lot of effort to make and a lot of effort to get rid of. and if you take the lazy way out, slicing your knife perpendicular to this delicate, thousand-layered monstrosity, you are bound to miss something crucial.

question: have you missed anything this semester? what have you overlooked; what have you let slip you by? look over your shoulder. do it right now. perhaps you will discover the ghost of your deceased great-grandmother, trying to whisper to you her beloved recipe for tang yuan. take everything she says down. you will need it one day. i promise.

these days i'm not scared of anything in my head anymore. that's the nice thing about having fear manifest itself as a thing with skin and some internal organs (at least i assume he has them. to be honest you could tell me he has half a kidney in there and nothing else and i'd be like yes that makes sense, of course you're right) that moves and walks and talks like a person but otherwise has the cognitive capabilities of a chair. it's like playing an rpg horror survival game. only the antagonist isn't hot.

i am though. and so is summer, sweet sticky-skin summer, though i woke up today and it felt like february all over again. it was eight degrees celcius in the morning; eleven in the afternoon. now it is nine. so this is how it is when one is thousands of miles from the equator. one step forward, two steps back. take ten steps in a rough circle and then four steps to the left. tango with me. chase cars with me. we can chase cars all day. i'll wear your shirt and you'll eat mine.

this semester the salsa club held its weekly meetings on friday at 8:45 in the lounge attached to the dorm i lived in. on one such friday i was playing pool in the adjacent room with someone i don't talk to anymore and another i wish i still did but never seemed to find in the same room as myself. it was my first time playing pool. the stick reminded me of sun wu kong, the monkey king and his magical monkey king staff. or was it a stick? the details escape me. the evening escapes me, too. i know at one point one of them left to join the salsa club. i know at some point i cleared the table.

it must have been the third or fourth week of the semester when they convinced me to play pool, because i said yes without thinking the way i never had before that and never will again. back then i was still scared and lonely and to be fair, i was scared and lonely for half of april and most of may, but these are fundamentally different sentiments. back then i was scared of everything. these days i am acquainted with a more academic, nuanced fear; persistent laughter, 500-word moodle short responses sent over text, fists.

the first time i did laundry in the spring i googled "[my college name] laundry machines" because i had to be sure that the laundry machines in this specific basement in this specific college weren't super fucked-up for some reason and i was terrified that they would be and that i'd fuck up even the laundry, dear god, if i couldn't do the laundry then what was the point of trying to do friendship? i threw everything in the washing machine at five o'clock in the morning and dragged it across the white-tiled floor to the dryer at five-thirty. at five-fifty i texted good evening to a friend. at six-twenty-seven i washed my chopsticks.

at six thirty-five i stood in front of my dresser in my room with a freshly-laundered shirt pressed against my face and a spill of sunlight sliding down the left side of my body. i breathed in. the fabric smelled like flowers. like it'd emerged from the cycle of reincarnation, pure and dumb as a baby. i breathed in again. my hands and cheeks were warm. the birds outside my window were screaming in french. in that moment i found that i believed, for the first time since i'd gotten here, in the transient nature of all things. even sadness. even the sneaking feeling that i would never settle into this room with its shitty ceiling light, which turned out to be true, which was paranoia later justified by truth. even you.

then i folded it up carefully, and put it away.

05.29.21

[razieltwelve]

Feeding Time (Final Rose)

Victoria held up the slab of meat. The water in front of her rippled, and Smiley emerged. The massive crocodile dragged himself out of the water, and the huge reptile gave her what passed for a happy smile before lunging at the meat. His jaws locked around it, and she grinned as the reptile devoured his food.

Smiley might have been big - he was a shade over twenty-one feet long - but he was a softie at heart. He was getting old too, and he had some bad injuries from before he’d been brought to the reptile park that had never quite healed right. He’d never lived in the wild, so there was no way they could just send him out there. He wouldn’t last long at all.

Instead, he got to live in the park where it was safe and there was plenty of food and a nice enclosure for him to live in. He was popular with all the visitors since he seemed to like people, and he was always happy to smile and put on a show for the crowds. Once the crocodile had finished gobbling down his meal, Victoria gave him a firm scratch on the head.

Smiley preened at the attention, and she gave his back a pat as she walked along beside him to check him for any problems. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with him, and he was moving about as well as he could. The large scar on his left flank had faded a bit over the years, but she examined it to make sure it wasn’t feeling tender the way it sometimes did. Today, it was fine, and the crocodile, nudged her with his snout and gestured at the water.

He enjoyed swimming around his enclosure, and there were always a few toys in there for him to play with. His favourite was the striped ball she’d given him a few months ago. He liked to bat it along the surface of the water, and when other keepers entered his enclosure he would hit it to them, so they could throw it back.

However, Smiley had realised that she was different from the other humans and Faunus who got to enter his enclosure. Unlike them, she got into the water with him, which meant he got to swim around with her.

X     X     X

Jahne watched her daughter swim around with the crocodile and sighed. Normally, letting a child swim around with a crocodile was just asking for a disaster, but Victoria had inherited Diana’s knack for dealing with animals, and she’d taken a liking to Smiley. Having Ragnarok meant that if worse came to worst, she could simply defend herself.

The old crocodile’s story was a sad one. He’d been kept in awful conditions for almost his entire life and treated poorly by his owners. By the time he’d been discovered and brought to the park, he was too old and sickly to ever be released into the wild. Luckily, they'd been able to nurse him back to health, but the park was his home now.

Somehow, though, he hadn’t become mean the way so many animals kept in poor conditions were mean. He was probably the most easy-going crocodile in the park despite his formidable size. Admittedly, he wasn’t the largest crocodile in the park. That honour went to a behemoth specimen who measured more than thirty feet in length. Rather than live in an enclosure like Smiley, that particular crocodile instead lived in the nature park that surrounded the reptile park. Diana had bought that nature park, so it could be preserved and its wildlife kept safe. 

The reptile park had grown from a simple day visit experience to an entire holiday. Visitors would come and see the reptile park before being taken out into the nature park to observe more animals in their natural habitats. There were even special night and day camps where they could camp out and spend time out in the wild and watch the animals in more detail.

It was something Diana had been determined to do, and their children had taken to it with equal aplomb. Victoria was fond of all the reptiles, but she was particularly fond of the snakes and the crocodiles. She visited at least once a fortnight, and she always made time to feed and play with Smiley and her other favourites. 

In a way it was funny. Diana had built the reptile park and bought the nature park because she wanted a place where reptiles and other animals could be safe and people could learn about them and grow to love them the way she’d loved Strangles. She hadn’t been in it for the money, but the obvious care and love that was put into managing the park and caring for the animals had struck a chord with the public. The park was making quite a bit of money, which meant there was plenty of funding to improve facilities and ensure the nature park was well patrolled to keep out poachers, Grimm, and other potential trouble-makers.

Jahne smiled as Victoria waved at her from the water. Smiley was letting her ride on his back.

X     X     X

Author’s Notes

Despite her obvious contributions to science and technology, Diana eventually becomes well known as someone who loved reptiles and other animals. Her descendants are at the forefront of efforts to ensure that the Empire’s relentless expansion and advancement does not come at the cost of the native habitats of animals. Remnant itself proves that it is possible for billions of people to co-exist with environments rich in native wildlife, so it is an example worth following.

If you’re interested in my thoughts on writing and other topics, you can find those here.

I also write original fiction, which you can find on Amazon here or on Audible here.

[admiralty-xfd]

My contribution to the @xfilesfanficexchange​ is for @gaycrouton​. This has truly been a labor of love for me because I adore Nicole and I adore Dreamland. I hope I did it justice! 

Prologue

Once upon a time, there was a guy with the improbable name of Fox Mulder.

There was also a woman - his FBI partner, whom he was clearly in love with - named Dana Scully.

They started out happily enough, as these things go. He had a job he found invigorating, and she had… well, she had the same thing. From the outside, it seemed like they both pretty much led normal lives. But year after year, it became increasingly clear that wasn’t exactly the case. They could be doing other things: hobbies, vacations. Each other, even. But they never did.

What a waste, if you ask me.

Fox Mulder pissed away his chance at that life. And I’m not saying this to be judgmental or cruel; I’m saying it because I know. I know, because I used to be the guy.

My name is Morris Fletcher, and even I couldn’t get Fox Mulder out of his slump. Pretty pathetic, actually. Maybe you’re wondering how I remember any of this? Maybe you’re wondering why I’m even here?

Well, it’s a long story.

CHAPTER ONE

HIGHWAY 375

GROOM LAKE, NEVADA

SUNDAY MARCH 12, 2000

5:56 PM

The rental sedan cruised westward along the highway, its engine’s roar the only sound cutting through the silence of the desert evening. Dust billowed behind it as it sped towards its destination, which was nowhere in sight at the moment.

Inside, Fox Mulder squinted, adjusting his visor in an attempt to keep the slowly setting sun from burning his retinas. It was getting close to six ’o clock, and according to his source, he only had until six-thirty to get to the facility. Scully snoozed next to him in the passenger seat, and he took advantage of the straightaway to steal glances at her sleeping face, every once in a while the thud of the rumble strips jarring his attention back to the road.

His attention, which he’d expected to be on flying saucers and top-secret test flights, had instead been focusing more and more on that face. His partner’s face, specifically her lips: the ones he’d finally kissed at the New Year just a few weeks ago. Things had been pleasant between them since; downright flirty even, sometimes to the point where he felt like he was in high school again. And much like high school - in his experience, anyway - neither of them had made another move. If this were a courtship ritual, it was slower than that of a pair of snails.

The world hadn’t ended, however, and she’d conceded that. Something new had begun, and he hoped a significant change would come soon. He figured the ball was in her court now, and as much as he hated playing by the rules, when the love of his life was at stake, he was prepared to wait this out as long as he absolutely had to.

Scully stirred and he jerked his gaze away, looking straight out the windshield instead, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. She yawned and out of the corner of his eye he could see her adjusting her clothing, eyeing him surreptitiously as she gently swiped at the sides of her mouth.

“Are we almost there?” she asked, pulling the mirror on her visor down to check her face, presumably for sleep indentations. He wished she didn’t behave this way around him; if only she knew how perfect he thought she was in every single way.

“Should only be a few more minutes,” he answered. “You know, you slept on the plane, too. You feeling alright?”

“I’m fine, Mulder,” she sighed. “I’m sorry, I should have offered to drive.”

“No, it’s okay,” he said quickly. He didn’t want her to think he wasn’t grateful for her presence, especially since she’d come along begrudgingly anyway. “You get that beauty sleep, Scully.”

She gave him a tight grin, and he hoped that quip had come out right. Maybe he should have said she didn’t need beauty sleep? Maybe he should have said she was beautiful no matter how much sleep she got?

Maybe he should just shut the fuck up.

“So remind me, Mulder… why are we doing this again?” she asked, and he was glad for the reprieve of a change in subject. She didn’t sound annoyed, just curious.

“The first aerial photos of Area 51 were taken from a Russian satellite a few days ago,” he said, practically gleeful. “I was contacted by this source shortly afterwards. He claims to have some information we would find, and I quote, ‘highly interesting.’”

“And this is… the same source as last year?” she asked.

Mulder shrugged. “I’m not sure, actually,” he admitted.

“How do you know this isn’t a huge mistake?” she asked. “We’re on thin ice as it is. The X-Files are, I should say.”

She was right. Skinner had not-so-subtly warned them that Kersh was watching their every move, looking for any excuse to shut them down. It felt like the end was nigh no matter what they did, and rather than admit this to Scully he’d preferred to follow her lead and stay out of trouble. But this was Dreamland. Area 51. The opportunity to have access after all these years was too good to pass up, and perhaps worth the risk.

“It’s different this time, Scully,” he explained. “No sneaking around. With the names and credentials he gave us, we should be able to get through the gates this time, as long as we arrive by six-thirty.”

“Assuming we aren’t stopped first by a bunch of men in black with guns?” she asked. Their last trip to Groom Lake had been a bust before it even began.

“He said he’d make sure that wouldn’t happen,” he insisted. “All we can do is try, I guess. Worst case scenario, we don’t get through.”

“No, Mulder,” she corrected him, “we could get arrested. We could be detained. We could lose our jobs or at the very least, get suspended. I can think of a lot of worst case scenarios, including the one where we both end up getting shot for trespassing.”

He grinned. “Where’s your sense of adventure, Scully? Not to mention that enthusiastic optimism I’m so used to.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m just saying, this had better be worth it. I’m already exhausted and the thought of doing a red-eye tonight to get back in time for work tomorrow…”

Mulder sighed. He felt bad for dragging her along, but he’d had little choice in the timeframe his source had specified. A Sunday evening rendezvous on the other side of the country when they were supposed to be back at the office the next morning was bound to make anyone grumpy.

“I owe you one, Scully,” he said.

“You don’t owe me anything, Mulder,” she replied. “Just promise me when this is over, no more talk of UFOs until I get a bath and a decent night’s sleep.”

“Deal,” he grinned. “I know how much you like ‘normal.’”

He’d been wondering for a while now if Scully was only still with him out of obligation. Perhaps she was tired of this life. Perhaps she wanted something different.

Don’t you ever just want to stop? Get out of the damn car, settle down and live something approaching a normal life?

“This is normal, Mulder, for us, anyway,” she smiled. She briefly caught his eye then turned to look out the window, adept as ever at letting a charged moment slip through their grasp. He was glad she’d said as much, but he wondered if she truly meant it.

Suddenly she noticed something up ahead, pointing. Mulder gripped the wheel with both hands and put on his game face, hoping beyond hope there wouldn’t be a replay of the last time. He noticed Scully glancing around them nervously as if she expected the same. But when he pulled up to the gate, presenting the fake names and credentials his source had provided, they were waved through without any problems whatsoever. They were flanked on either side by a security detail, but as Agent Fox Mulder drove onto the property of Area 51 with all but a welcome mat, he couldn’t help but throw a shit-eating grin at his partner.

“See? Easy as pie, Scully.”

“Only took us seven years,” she grumbled.

Seven years plus a lifetime, he thought to himself.

As they drove, he followed signs that read USAF and Nevada Test and Training Range . Most of the buildings were unmarked and, although the sun was setting, he could see what appeared to be crafts of some kind inside them, mostly obscured in their hangars by shadow, their sharp edges illuminated dramatically by an orange hue. He looked with wonder, and could see Scully craning her neck to see as well.

“What do you think they are?” she asked, and Mulder quirked an eyebrow.

“Never mind,” she smirked knowingly.

They approached Hangar 19, the one at which his source had instructed him to wait, just as the sun dipped down below the buildings. Nameless sentinels with guns stopped them, and instructed them to park next to a gate about twenty yards from the entrance. They were then told to get out and walk to the hangar.

Scully stepped out of the passenger side cautiously, closing the door, catching Mulder’s eye across the roof of the car as he did the same. He straightened his jacket a bit, preparing to finally come face to face with his elusive source. The guards watched the duo closely as they entered the facility, and Mulder looked around for someone to meet them, but there was no one inside.

They stood there, dwarfed by enormous machinery on all sides, and while he wanted to believe they were welcome this time, he couldn’t help but take in the sight greedily, hungrily, as if it could be snatched away at any moment. There were no aircraft in this building, but he saw several unidentifiable machines.

They wandered around the dimly lit room, taking it all in. Every machine in the room was silent and dark save for one a few feet away, which had several small blinking red lights on the front, like a colony of bats ready to receive him.

“Hey Scully, check this out,” he called, waving her over to the machine. It was slightly taller than he was, shaped a bit like a large teapot. As he got closer he noticed a thrumming blue light swishing at the top. It appeared to be in standby mode.

“What do you think it does?” she asked.

“No idea,” he replied. “But it looks a lot like Stewie Griffin’s time machine, doesn’t it?”

Showing no sign of picking up on his reference, she wandered around the device, studying it. “Mulder, there are radiation warnings printed on this thing,” she said with slight alarm. “We aren’t wearing protective gear.”

Slam!

The door they’d entered through was suddenly slammed shut. The device then illuminated completely, aquamarine lights blinking along the sides, chasing each other up the sides of the machine like some kind of dubious carnival attraction. There was a loud humming sound as if it were charging some kind of energy. Mulder instinctively felt around for Scully, finding her wrist, pulling her close to him.

The lights picked up speed as the humming grew louder, and while he wasn’t completely blind to the possibility that they could be in serious trouble, he found himself almost hypnotized by the unusual apparatus. Holding her tightly by the wrist he took a step closer, and she didn’t stop him. He glanced over at her; she seemed just as mesmerized.

“Mulder…?” she breathed, eyes wide.

The only thing he could see in the darkness was the blue light illuminating the angles of her face as she stared up at the machine, and the last thing he remembered was the arc of her nose, the gentle curve of her jawline, before the room exploded with a bright white light and they were both propelled backwards.

***

He groaned uneasily as he came to, not quite registering what had happened. The lights had gone off the machine, plunging the room into total blackness. Mulder couldn’t see a thing. He was extremely disoriented and felt a lump in his throat as he fumbled around in the dark.

The first thing he noticed was that his hand was empty: it no longer held onto his partner’s wrist. His instinct was to call for her but his head pounded and he was so dizzy he needed to find his footing, to gain purchase. Mercifully, the light at the top of the machine clicked on, and his immediate surrounding area was bathed in an eerie blue light once again.

He wasn’t sure exactly what possessed him, but he looked down at his empty hand, noticing something alarming.

It did not look like his hand.

At first he thought it was perhaps a trick of the light. It was hard to see much of anything. But when he looked again he knew, with visceral immediacy like a punch in the gut: these were most definitely not his own hands. They were nicely manicured, the skin soft-looking and delicate. Feminine. The phrase knew it like the back of my hand bounced around his mind and suddenly he realized why: these were familiar hands, all right, but not because he knew his own so intimately.

It was because he knew Scully’s.

What the fuck was happening?

This precise thought had occurred to him hundreds of times during his tenure on the X-Files but this time it was more panic than confusion. He touched his face and instead of a five ’o clock shadow he felt a smoothness he wasn’t expecting. His hair was longer, softer. And while Mulder was quicker to trust his gut than most, the reality of his situation hit him in waves, comprehension drowning him in slow-motion:

I’m not me.

I’m someone else.

I’m Scully.

Not in mind, for his thoughts still belonged to him, but in body: which he slowly allowed himself to sense, to feel. He couldn’t see any details: any evidence of the contours of a feminine body were hidden beneath his clothes, which he could now ascertain were her clothes. A faint scent of something floral, maybe lavender, wafted around his head. Tiny knees and slim legs peeked out beneath his skirt.

His next thought hit him instantly, as if the slow-motion had given way to freeze-frame.

Where is Scully?

The hangar was suddenly filled with the sounds of gunfire, their welcome wagon turning not-so-welcoming. He ducked down, concentrating on one immediate concern: find her. Find her now.

“Scullaaay!!!” he yelled, but the cry came out in her voice, and he clapped his hand over his mouth so as to not draw any fire towards her. Him. Himself as her. Whatever. Then, as if summoned by his very thoughts, a hand grabbed his own. A male hand, large and very much in charge. At first he worried one of the men with guns had seized him but what he heard next was the most jarring thing of all.

“Mulder, it’s me!”

The urgency was Scully’s, but the voice was not. It was a male voice. It was a familiar voice.

It was his own voice.

Despite the gravelly timbre and deep pitch, he sensed that innate feeling of trust he felt when she was nearby: the Scully aura. Trusting his intuition, he gripped her hand and followed her, his own little legs struggling to keep up, tripping on ridiculous high heels that already hurt his feet.

“Scully…? What’s happening…?” he mustered, and as he expected this time, the words left his mouth in her voice.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” she replied in his low pitch. “But we have to get out of here.”

Her command was unnecessary as sounds of gunfire still rang through the hangar. He could hear, but could not see, the men firing at them. It didn’t matter; all he knew was that they needed to get out of there, and fast. He could see the exit fifty feet away. Forty, thirty, twenty… he was briefly reminded of a large white dome, the hum of a thousand bees and the smell of corn crops.

The desert chill slapped him in the face as they broke free of the facility. They weren’t at the entrance anymore; he wasn’t sure exactly where they were, but everything was in better focus than usual. He could clearly make out the words on the signs as they rushed back to where he thought their car was - NO TRESPASSING, USE OF DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED - and thought perhaps maybe there was a reason Scully had always been a better shot.

Finally they were racing across dirt, and what had been a nearly-impossible task of running in Scully’s heels was now an actually-impossible task. He stopped, panting a bit, more out of habit than actual necessity - how was Scully in such good shape? - and bent down to remove them.

“Are you kidding me?” she huffed, out of breath, and her typical sarcastic tone felt even more caustic coming out in his own gruff baritone.

“I’m not used to these,” he snapped defensively, clutching the pair of heels, and they continued running until they made it to  their car.

By the time they reached it, he noticed the gunfire had ceased, but he was by no means convinced they were in the clear. Scully stopped to look back at the hangar, hand on the door handle, paisley tie fluttering in the breeze. For the first time he got a good look at her- or rather, himself.

As she spun to look at their surroundings, his thoughts were inconveniently critical: why does my hair look like that from the back? Are all my ties that ugly? and I really need to find some more constrictive underwear. It was the strangest sensation to be looking at, essentially, a clone of oneself in the flesh.

Scully, muscle memory evidently prevailing, clambered into her usual spot in the passenger seat, her long legs awkwardly crushed against the glove box. Mulder climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine, tossing the pair of shoes into the back.

He stretched his foot out but couldn’t reach the accelerator, inwardly cursing all of the times he’d teased Scully for her “little legs.” In a panic, he shifted the seat uncomfortably close to the steering wheel, and gripped it tightly. He could barely see over the wheel.

They were parked directly in front of a chain link fence, and he wasn’t sure if escape was even possible, but with very few options left at this point, he threw the car into reverse and jammed his shoeless foot against the pedal, hard. He could feel the vibrations up his leg as the car jerked backwards for a few seconds, then he shifted into drive and tore ahead, breaking through the gate easily and hurtling off into the dark desert night.

Mulder noticed puffs of sand exploding, surrounding them like tiny geysers, evidence that their pursuers were back and did not intend to let them escape. Too terrified to speak, he pressed his foot all the way to the floor. In spite of the danger, as he heard telltale pings against the bumper, he was grateful he’d checked the box for rental insurance back at Lariat.  

After several minutes, the sounds of gunfire faded. Either the discounted loyalty upgrade sedan he’d chosen had outrun their pursuers, or they’d simply decided they weren’t worth the trouble.

Both he and Scully stared straight ahead, saying nothing. Neither seemed to know how to begin. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed she was sitting stock still, eyes wide. Finally, ever the rationalist, she spoke.

“Something really weird happened out there, Mulder.”

“Yeah.”

He felt like an idiot; in seven years of unexplained phenomena, this might be the absolute weirdest, and it was ridiculous that neither of them had anything to offer each other besides well, that was weird . Her sentiment hung in the air, however, and along with it his presumption that she was not nearly as calm as she appeared to be.

“It’s okay, Scully,” he lied. “It’s gonna be okay.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

Predictably, she turned to face him, absolutely enraged. He couldn’t even process what was happening, much less his own emotional response to any of it, but he could definitely process hers.

“Mulder! ” she said, now very panicked. She waved her hands, which were his hands, in his face. “ I'm you, and you're me! We are very much not okay!”

He didn’t have to look at her to tell how upset she was, and he knew her eyes were fiery even in a shade that was not typically their own. She sat back into her seat and closed her eyes, putting her hands against her head. “This is not happening, I’m dreaming. Obviously this is a dream.”

Mulder sighed; denial was typically her first response but how could she deny a situation like this? This had happened, regardless of the mechanics, the science of it, whatever that was. She would have to accept it before they could do anything about it.

“Unless I’m sharing your dream, Scully, which I don’t think even we have the bad luck to relive, this is very much happening.”

She didn’t seem to be listening to him, rather muttering to herself. “This is both physically and biologically impossible.”

“And yet, here we are!” he interjected, raising his voice for the first time. Scully put her head between her legs, mumbling ohmygodohmygodohmygod into what he realized was his own crotch.

“That machine,” he said, doing his best to come up with something, some kind of explanation that could satisfy her. At least to the point where she could actually engage him in a coherent conversation. “The one with the radiation signs, remember? We were standing in front of it when this happened.”

She looked up, pinning him with a flabbergasted stare the likes of which he hadn’t seen since their early days together. “Mulder, are you suggesting that there’s a body-swapping machine hanging out in the middle of a random hangar in Area 51? And we just happened to walk by as it just happened to activate?”

“If you’ve got a better theory, Scully, I’m all ears,” he replied.

“What could the purpose of such a machine possibly be?”

“I don’t know,” he fumbled. “Some kind of torture tactic? Maybe a way to make people appear crazy so they can’t reveal any of the government’s secrets?” He looked back at the road. “Sure seems to be working on you,” he muttered under his breath.

Thankfully, either she didn’t hear him or deemed the task of chastising him for his editorial commentary low on her priority list.

“We need to go back there, it’s the only thing I can think to do,” she said, her reasonable tone finally somewhat identifiable in his own timbre. “Maybe they can reverse it.”

“Scully, in case you didn’t notice, an entire squadron just chased us off the base,” he pointed out. “We can’t go back there, not right now, anyway.”

Scully glared at him through his own eyes. He thought he’d probably never looked so stern. Sitting back into her seat once again, she crossed her arms, and her expression evolved into one that he finally recognized in his own features as undoubtedly Scullylike.

“What was that thing you said earlier, Mulder? About worst case scenarios?”

He groaned, and she sighed heavily; it was the same sigh of frustration he’d heard from his own lips on plenty of occasions. The exact same. It was unsettling.

“I’m sorry,” he said, although he certainly hadn’t planned or anticipated anything like this. For the first time, his mind flashed through a multitude of possibilities and problems that might come along with this new arrangement, regardless of how exactly it had occurred.

“So… what do we do?” she asked dumbly, more to the universe than to him. She sounded as impotent and sluggish as he felt.

As if her deflation had the opposite effect on him, he was suddenly so freaked out he felt his hands, Scully's hands , physically shaking. He couldn’t get a proper grip on the steering wheel, they were sweating so much. He saw a little dive bar off the side of the road, pulled over to park in the tiny parking lot, and shut the car off.

“First things first: we both need a drink,” he declared.

The entire story is posted on A03, please click here to continue reading!

[plaidbooks]

Everyone Deserves Love chapter 1

A/N: It’s finally here! I really wanted to finish this series before I started posting (mostly because I was afraid I wouldn’t finish it). This is my first time writing for an OC, and for SVU! I promise not every chapter will be this long; I was just trying to establish the character.

The first three chapters are prequels. This chapter takes place during season 5.

Next Chapter

Tags: child prostitution mention, sex trafficking mention, minor character death, child death, guns, blood, normal SVU stuff.

Words: 10k+

          Devon Motely got out of bed and stretched, yawning loudly. She walked over to her window and threw the curtains open, letting the sun stream in. She glanced at the clock, 7:05am. She shook her head; it was later than she was used to, but not really; time zones still made sleep times awkward. The dawn was just peaking over the city buildings. New York, Devon thought, a thrill running through her. She had just moved across the country from California at her boss’s suggestion, transferring in the same department, but a new place; a welcome change from the monotony that was Devon’s life. It was fine by her; she was kind of done with California: the heat, the drama, the constant worry of her childhood coming back to haunt her. New York was a fresh start, a new adventure. Though, as someone who worked in the FBI, an adventure wasn’t always a good thing. But she wouldn’t think about that, instead focusing on the positives. For example, her best friend and fellow special agent, Emma, was reassigned with her. Plus, her old psychiatrist-turned-friend was reassigned to New York years ago, and she was hoping to catch up with him.

Devon was nearing thirty and had been an FBI agent, working with the Hostage Rescue Team, since she was 18—a whole decade ago! Most of the time, she hardly believed it had been that long. Other times, it felt like it had been so much longer; working HRT meant she had to do and look at things that would make others sick. They made her sick, too, but she could deal with it; she had to, it was her job. Sometimes while working undercover, however, she had moments of weakness, moments when she couldn’t commit to her illicit cover story, and she had to isolate herself to get back in the mindset. Only once did she ever have her cover blown; she grimaced when checking out “product”—little girls—and she couldn’t recover. She lost a couple girls that day, and she learned to always put on the correct face after that, no matter what she said or saw. Devon was damn good at her job, though, and she almost never lost another life since. Almost.

  1 year later

Cubicle of Devon Motely

Thursday, October 25th. 12:37am

Devon sighed heavily; she was in the office—a rare occurrence indeed—flipping through pictures and unconsciously clenching her teeth in disgust and anger, slowly giving herself a headache. The Assistant Director, and subsequently her boss, Thomas Jenkins, had personally given her this task. It was a delicate procedure, one that he needed to make sure made it into the right hands. For that, only one name came up, and that was Devon’s. Devon scrolled through the pictures looking, searching for anything that could be useful—a tattoo, a building, a street sign. Anything. Hell, she’d take a moldy food wrapper at this rate; her search has pulled up dead-end after dead-end, and she was getting frustrated. She knew, though, how to relax and refocus her efforts; getting frustrated helped no one, especially not the poor children that were caught in the middle of this chaos. That being said, flipping through hundreds of kiddie porn images wasn’t the way she wanted to spend her day.

           About two weeks ago, another field agent had been able to shine some light on a huge human trafficking ring, one that the FBI had been trying to break into for months. Devon hadn’t really been on the case, besides maybe looking through some facts or pictures in her fleeting free time, but she was now called in. Thomas mostly wanted her to stay caught up on the details because he wanted to send Devon in, hence why she was now stuck at her desk in the middle of the night, obsessively looking for some clue as to the location of where the kids may be. The other field agent, the one that first broke into the ring, was shockingly able to take one of the pimps alive, and even more shockingly, they were able to break through the encryption on the bastard’s laptop. All that he really had on there, however, were private messages with anonymous johns and pimps, something that the FBI’s best computer techs were trying to crack the identities of, and then some very, very disturbing pictures and videos.

           Devon had mentally prepared herself for a couple hours before going to work on watching the videos; she figured that they were probably the worst things there, so she’d deal with them first. Sadly, she was correct; the things that she saw in those videos—mostly violent kiddie porn—made her skin crawl and still haunted her at night. It had been about a week since Devon started this “project,” and she had either gone to or talked to a psychiatrist almost every day afterwards. The pictures were…better isn’t the correct word, but they were less intense than the videos...for the most part. Devon kept a notepad and pen by her as she flipped through file after file. She came upon a particularly horrible picture and turned her screen off for a moment, feeling nauseous. She stood up quickly and took a couple steps from her desk, rubbing her temples, trying to get the image out of her mind with no luck. She needed a moment to recollect herself before she did something she regretted—going into their secure facility to beat that pimp to a bloody pulp would help no one. Though, it may make her feel better.

           She sighed, taking a sip from her long-cold coffee. She picked up her notepad, going over the few—mostly useless, she knew—clues that she could pick up from the files she had already gone through. One kid in a video—a young boy, no older than 10--begged the man to not touch him, calling him by name, Evan. She wrote down the video timestamp; you can see half of Evan’s face for the briefest of moments. That’s been the most helpful thing she had found, though. Everything else she had scribbled down was just a description of the various rooms in the videos and pictures, or one of the children’s names, or the brand of…items used—anything that may be helpful in tracking down where these children could be. There was a grand total of 4 different rooms; she labeled one as “Evan’s room” and had scrawled down a basic description, but no other names of the pedophiles came up.

           Tossing the notepad back onto the desk, Devon took a deep breath before sitting back down. She steeled herself, trying to force herself to feel nothing at all. It was good that she still felt repulsed, she told herself. Once she really did feel nothing, then it would be time to quit…and find a better therapist. Barely containing her groan of discomfort, she turned her computer screen back on, and analyzed the grotesque picture that appeared, looking for something, anything, that could help this child and all the others.

           It took her two more days, and thousands of images that she’d need the strongest alcohol in existence to erase from her mind, until she found something concrete. There was a picture of the same bed that Devon had seen a hundred times now, the bed that she had labeled under “Evan’s room.” But Devon ignored the…scene that the picture was attempting to focus on. Instead, she focused her attention on what looked like a receipt—one that someone would get after they signed for something, a carbon copy of the signature on the bottom—that was on a clipboard on a dresser on the other side of the bed. It looked like the signature said “Evan Thompson” or “Evan Frampton,” but it was hard to tell. She needed another set of eyes, a fresher set that aren’t bloodshot from looking at a screen for days. She called Jenkins on his direct line and waited for him to come over to her desk to inform him about her discovery, see if he could make it out.

           “I was starting to give up on you,” Jenkins joked as he appeared in the office doorway.

           Devon gave a tired smile. “Trust me, I’ve been wanting to give up on this since the first image.” Jenkins came up behind her, looking over her shoulder at the image on the screen. Devon had saved him from seeing the whole image, having it punched in on just the receipt. “What does that signature say to you?”

           Jenkins leaned over her shoulder, putting his face almost against the screen. “Evan Thompson?”

           “That’s what it looks like to me, too. Think the techs can clean it up?”

           Jenkins leaned back, nodding. Devon turned to face him, cautiously hopeful. “I think it’s worth a shot. Good work Motely,” he replied, giving her a pat on her shoulder.

           Grateful for the praise, and for the possible lead, she copied the file into a message and sent it to the techs. It took them only an hour, in which Jenkins had retreated back to his office and  Devon had been engrossed in more pictures, before they sent back the picture, clearer than before. The receipt now clearly read “Evan Thompson.” She could even see a total amount above it now. With how much it came to, she was pretty sure that she knew what he had purchased; more children.

           With a name now confirmed, Devon opened the Bureau’s database, typing in Evan’s name. Thousands of matches pinged in seconds. She narrowed the field down; in New York—the apprehended pimp accidently mentioned that detail--still alive, not incarcerated. Down to a couple hundred. She then pulled up the half-of-a-face picture she had saved and added in a couple things in her search; white, aged 35-50, 160-190lbs. Only a handful of addresses this time. She wrote down all of them, then got up to go to Jenkins’ office, give him the good news. She needed a team of—she looked down at the number of addresses—at least 16 people, if they were to go at all of these Evans at once and in pairs, as per protocol. They were all over the state, but in clusters. The furthest an Evan was from another was 5 miles. Perfect.

The FBI had been desperate to catch this trafficking ring; they had people at their disposal. Getting the field agents to interview the suspects would be the easy part; the hard part was assembling teams to go back them up. Devon wanted to be coordinated in this takedown. If the real perp was to catch wind of the FBI coming down on Evan Thompsons, then he’d be in the wind instantly. They had to be ready to take all eight down at the same time, just in case. They couldn’t let this guy get away. Because of their close proximity, they were also able to place teams in between the suspect’s locations, saving them some manpower. Devon conveyed as much to Jenkins, who agreed; now they just had to pull every agent they could back to base, go through the briefing and saving those children.

FBI Headquarters

Monday, October 28th. 8:05am

           Everyone crowded in the briefing room, standing with their partners or teams, watching Jenkins intently. Jenkins went through the whole operation with everyone, 80 agents in all—16 field agents and 64 SWAT members. Every single person wanted these kids in safe hands; they all wanted to take these bastards down, and they hung on every word Jenkins said. Assignments given, the agents started to prepare. Devon vaguely noticed the field agents that were assigned to interview the suspects pair off and get their equipment.

           “We better get this guy,” she heard one agent mumble to another. Devon pulled on her bulletproof vest, strapping it tight. She strapped on her glock and put her badge on over her head—she had it on a chain necklace for this. Then she grabbed the rifle issued to every SWAT member. She wasn’t normally SWAT, and the metal weapon felt heavy and unfamiliar in her hands. True, she had learned to use it in training, but it was rare that she used it at all. She couldn’t wait for this mission to be over, to be back in the field, alone, with no liabilities. It was easier that way.

           “Hey Dev, don’t sweat. We’ll get those kids out safely,” a familiar voice said. She turned to see Emma next to her, red hair pulled back into a low ponytail, helmet already secured on her head. Devon didn’t have many friends, inside or outside of the FBI, but Emma had always been nice to her, always had her back when Devon had to play nice with others instead of going undercover by herself. While Devon counted Emma as her best friend, they didn’t see much of each other outside of work, only a stray text here or there.

           “God, I hope so,” Devon replied. She didn’t want to imagine the scene that may be awaiting them. She had done this hundreds of times, but it never got any easier; her brain liked to imagine the worst possible scenario. It didn’t help that she had seen that scene in person. Every time she geared up for a siege like this, the dead bodies flashed in her mind. She shuttered.

           “We will. I know we will,” Emma said with such conviction, how could it end any differently? Devon simply nodded back, putting on her helmet. Once fully geared up, Devon, Emma, and the rest of their team—6 other men--made their way to their SWAT van. Devon felt the familiar butterflies in her stomach on the drive to their outpost spot. She tried to calm her nerves; there was only a 1 in 8 chance that she would even see any action today. But she knew her luck. And she knew how much Fate liked to fuck with her. So, she counted the minutes ticking by while her team idly chatted about nothing; getting drinks later, the Knicks game the previous night, the wife and kids wanting to go on vacation with their father for once. Devon had nothing to contribute—she hardly did anything outside of work—so she just listened, replying only when prompted.

           Devon’s phone rang, causing her to jump and the others in the van to go silent, looking towards her. Devon quickly silenced it, looking at the caller ID. She never got phone calls outside of spam or telemarketers; she had completely forgotten to turn it off before this. She was shocked when she saw a name appear; Dr. Huang. Fighting the urge to answer it, Devon let it go to voicemail. Dr. Huang only ever called in case of emergencies, opting to communicate through text. But there was no time to answer as the van’s engine sprang to life, Jenkins informing them through their earpieces that the Evan they were sitting on was their guy. Devon shot a quick text to the psychiatrist—emergency, call you later—before putting her phone away. She fought down the thoughts that had sprung up, wondering why the doctor had called her; she had more important things to worry about. The knot in her stomach had returned and every bump in the road made it feel like she was going to be sick. The van drove for a couple more minutes before cutting the engine. Everyone in the back of the van readied themselves. They laid out a basic plan on the short drive over—Jenkins had told them it was a warehouse. A team of four people were going through the front and the other 4 were going through the back. Devon and Emma would be in the latter group. They had done this a handful of times before; all the team knew each other, trusted each other. Devon gripped her rifle, stifling any lingering nerves. She switched her thoughts off, ready to rely on instinct and training. The van doors were thrown open, and Devon and her team charged out and into the beyond.

Warehouse of Evan Thompson

Monday, October 28th. 12:47pm

Devon and her team stormed the place as quickly and quietly as possible. They found the backdoors quickly, unguarded. One of the men pulled out a crowbar, shoved it into the crease between the doors, and ripped it open. It was loud, and they moved in slowly, listening for any sign of life. Hearing nothing, they started clearing little office rooms before they made it to the big, empty space. Well, empty besides a couple of abandoned cement guardrails, like something that littered parking lots, and a huge chain-link cage. Devon had taken the lead, had been the first to peer around into the expansive place. The cage had caught her attention immediately, not because of its size, but because of its contents. What seemed like at least 30 children, all between what looked like 8- and 12-years-old. Devon felt the nausea come back but shoved it down. She could feel sick later. She motioned for the team to follow her as she led them slowly towards the cage, keeping an eye out for danger.

“What the fuck?” a male’s voice called out from across the warehouse. Devon whipped around to the source of the sound, seeing 4 heavily armed men coming out of a small room. Then, pandemonium. The traffickers open fired, forcing them to take cover behind the cement guardrails, firing back. Devon looked over to the cage; it was far enough out of the line of fire that none of them were injured, though the children were all on the ground now, hands covering their heads and ears. But how long would it take until the traffickers decided to cut their losses?

“Cover me,” Devon said, mentally preparing herself for the short run to the cage—it was at least 10 yards. She felt the familiar churning in her stomach when having to make this tough decision; she knew it was highly unlikely that all the children would survive, but it was better than leaving them stuck like fish in a barrel. Wasn’t it?

Emma saw what she was planning and shook her head. “You’ll be killed before you make it halfway.” A bullet pinged off the cement by their heads, as if to emphasize this point.

“That’s why I said cover me.” Without waiting for a response, she poked her gun out from behind the low wall she was crouched behind, rapid firing in the direction of the traffickers. Their gunfire quieted as they took cover from the barrage, allowing the FBI agents to peek their heads out, taking better aim and giving her the cover she had requested. Devon took her chance and sprinted to the cage, firing at the traffickers as she went. A couple of stray bullets got close to her, but none hit their target. The kids noticed the agent running towards them and scrambled to their feet. They came rushing to the door, reaching for Devon through the chain link wall, voices overlapping, panicking as they begged, pleaded for help.

“Stand back!” she yelled over the ruckus. It wasn’t until she took aim at the lock that the kids backed up. She pulled the trigger, bullet destroying the padlock. Devon turned her back on the cage, firing wildly at the traffickers while the children ripped the door open.

“Run, run! Go go go!” she ordered, raising her voice over the gunfire. She could barely hear the children fleeing across the warehouse towards the waiting agents. Devon chanced a glance to the side, trying to make sure they were making it. She felt a pang in her heart when she saw Emma positioned halfway between the cage and the other agents. It was in that moment, that split-second glance, that Devon realized that she loved Emma.

The traffickers renewed their efforts, obviously pissed that their product was escaping. Bullets flew, but Devon held her ground until the last kid left the cage. Once the cage was empty, Devon started to retreat back to her previous cover. It was a perilous journey; there were a few bodies in the path—Devon glanced to find her footing, but otherwise tried to ignore the small, unmoving corpses and the sudden sadness and anger that they conjured. After what felt like hours, Devon made it back behind the low wall. As she was moving to crouch behind it, however, she was hit in the chest. It hit her vest, but that didn’t stop it from knocking the wind out of her, causing her to fall onto her back. It hurt like hell, and she knew she would have a wicked bruise, and hopefully that was it. She scrambled back to her knees, trying to get a baring on her surroundings again. One of her teammates was covering the escape route from their cover to the hallway leading to the exit; a much closer trek than the cage was. The other agent that stayed behind was giving them cover fire from the hallway. Devon joined in; having no more distractions besides the pain in her chest, she was able to take precise aim, shooting two of the traffickers, their bodies falling like a sack of bricks. The firefight seemed to go on forever, but eventually, the warehouse fell silent. Keeping their guns at the ready, the agents came out from behind the wall, making their way towards where the traffickers had been in cover. Six dead bodies; two more must have joined the original four. Right at that moment, the other half of the team came in from the front, calling out the all clear. Devon let out a heavy sigh, lowering her weapon.

“Thanks for the cover, Emma,” she said, turning to find the spunky redhead. But she wasn’t with Devon’s team. She unstrapped her vest, checking the area that she was shot. It hurt and was already bruised, a bump forming, but no broken skin, and from the feeling, no broken bones. “Emma?” she called out after a couple moments of silence.

“You didn’t see?” one of her teammates asked. Devon felt a stone drop into the pit in her stomach. She shook her head and the man raised his hand slowly, pointing. Devon hesitantly followed his finger and felt the ground drop out from under her. The children who were hit were laid out in almost a line from cage to cover, an indicator of their flight. And among them was a redhead, complete with SWAT vest.

No, Devon thought. A pain completely unrelated to her injury punched her in the heart. She hurried over, knelt down, and turned her friend over, hoping against hope that she was just grazed, that she was still alive. Emma’s  eyes were flat, grey, staring at nothing. A bullet hole was almost perfectly in the middle of her forehead, blood already drying. Devon dropped her as if burned, falling backwards onto her ass. She started hyperventilating, bile rising in her throat. She had to get out of the warehouse, get some fresh air. There was a roaring in her ears, her heart beating frantically. Out of nowhere, a faint whimpering broke through the blood rushing in her head. Devon whipped her head in the direction of the sound. There—a small form was crying, breathing hard. Devon scrambled over to the child, anything to get away from her dead friend, and found a little girl. She was clutching her stomach, blood seeping through her grasp.

“I need medical attention!” Devon yelled, ripping the shirt off a not-so-fortunate body, and using the fabric to try and staunch the bleeding. She held the shirt firmly, but not too hard; pushing too hard on a stomach wound could damage the internal organs. Devon stayed like that with the poor girl until paramedics came. A different set of medics checked Devon’s injury. They tried to convince her to go to the hospital, to make sure nothing was damaged internally, but Devon declined. She was quiet the whole trip back to the FBI HQ, mind completely blank.

FBI Headquarters

Monday, October 28th. 2:26pm

Devon moved on autopilot, making her way to her locker, ignoring the congratulations or condolences sent her way. She opened the locker and started taking off her gear, her hands like machines. She unstrapped the helmet from under her chin, lifting the piece of equipment and placing it on an empty shelf. She then gently took off her vest, wincing in pain, the events from the past hour still fresh in her mind, flashing before her eyes, as if she were still in that warehouse. Devon closed her locker door forcefully, hands still feeling sticky from all the blood, even though she had scrubbed them clean. In all, 7 children laid dead in the warehouse. The little girl, Patsy, was the only one who was found to still be alive in the pile. She was still in surgery, and Devon had asked for updates; she needed one win to come out of all this. The other 25 children survived, and the FBI were now attempting to track down their family members, if they had any. Now out of her SWAT gear, Devon made her way to Jenkins’ office. She was running on autopilot, Emma’s dead stare branded in her mind’s eye. She really rather just go home, drink until she couldn’t see straight. But she had to be debriefed, and she knew Jenkins would force her in to see the Bureau’s shrink before she was allowed to leave—if she didn’t tell Jenkins that she was shot, then he wouldn’t force her to the hospital.

           The debriefing took upwards of an hour, and Jenkins gave her a shot of strong scotch—not Devon’s drink of choice, but she was used to it from past hard cases and highly grateful for the burning liquid, warming her cold, empty shell of a body. As she had predicted, Jenkins all but ordered her to go to the shrink before she left for the day. And to take some time off—she had enough vacation days saved up—and to continue seeing a shrink at least once a week. Devon hid her pain as best she could, but she knew Jenkins saw her little winces. Jenkins, to his credit, ignored it; he knew that she’d make sure she was alright, but he also knew that she needed some time. It wasn’t until Devon was sitting in the waiting room of the company shrink that she remembered that she had a call from a different FBI psychiatrist earlier, before everything went to shit. She pulled out her phone and redialed Dr. Huang’s number.

“Hey George. What’s happened?” she asked when he answered.

           “I need a favor, and it’s very time sensitive.”

SVU Department

Monday, October 28th. 4:30pm

Devon stepped through the doors of NYPD’s 16th precinct after blowing off her appointment with the shrink, claiming she was meeting up with Dr. Huang. The psychiatrist had giving her a hard look, but agree that Huang could counsel her, too. Devon looked around curiously; she had never been in this particular precinct before and had to ask for directions from the deskman, who directed her to the elevator. The elevator dinged and the doors opened to the Special Victims Unit. Officers and detectives were wandering about, doing paperwork, or otherwise working. Devon felt eyes trailing behind her as she made her way through the precinct. She tried to shove that down, along with all her other emotions; there was a time and place for that eventual breakdown, and this wasn’t it. Work was work, and this seemed important as well as stressful, as her work normally was. NYPD already felt like walking on enemy ground, no matter how much people wanted to claim about them being “brothers in arms.”

“May I help you?” a woman asked, breaking through Devon’s thoughts. She was in street clothes—a detective, then—with short cropped hair. She had bags under her eyes, slumped shoulders; she was obviously running on overtime, probably hasn’t slept in a day or two.

“I’m looking for Dr. Huang,” Devon replied. She felt a fresh wave of pain as she subconsciously puffed out her chest. She didn’t try to engage in posturing, but this woman already was giving her a hard glare.

The woman nodded. “Ah, you must be his FBI friend—” Devon didn’t miss the…resentment? Venom? in her voice—“he’s in the Captain’s office.”

“Thanks,” Devon said, pushing past the detective. She was used to NYPD disliking her; the Bureau had no friends. But she rarely had someone using that kind of tone so boldly to her face; it was usually coy smiles, sugar-coated threats, and other politics designed to make them seem like friends to the untrained ear. She may not like the detective, but she respected her bluntness. Devon ignored all the other eyes that she could feel on her as she made her way to the only office in the place. She knocked on the open door, sticking her head in. Before she could say anything, Dr. Huang stood up from his seat, gesturing her in.

“Devon, it’s nice to see you again,” he said, giving her a hug. He released her quickly, giving her a concerned look when he felt Devon tense up, hissing in pain. She subtlety shook her head, promising to explain later.

“Same to you, George.” Devon had met the doctor years ago in California as a patient; they’ve been good friends ever since, even after Huang was reassigned to New York. As much as Devon liked him, though, she had a hard time reading him; it made her slightly uneasy, but not enough to stop being friends with him. They’ve worked on cases together in the past. Huang was a profiler as well as a psychiatrist; he made most of Devon’s aliases when she went undercover in her early years, would spend hours working with her until she became that person.

Dr. Huang gestured to the man, presumably the Captain, sitting behind the desk. “This is Captain Cragen,” he introduced. “Cragen, this is Special Agent Devon Motely.” They shook hands.

“I assume Huang told you why you’re here?” Cragen asked by way of meeting.

Devon let out a breath. “No, actually. Only that it was an emergency.”

Dr. Huang gave her a weird look but said nothing. Devon knew the look, though; she had said something wrong, something weird. She knew he’d ask about it later, when they had more privacy. She wasn’t looking forward to that talk.

Cragen looked between the two before answering, “well, we have a missing kid. Kidnapped 16 hours ago. Believed to be taken by a gang member in retaliation. It’s a…delicate situation, one that I felt the need to call Huang in on. Though, he has convinced me that you specialize in this kind of work, that you could get this kid out with no casualties.”

The familiar knot formed in Devon’s stomach; the dead children from earlier, Emma’s dead face flashed in her mind. She took a sharp breath, trying to ground herself in now. She needed to focus; there was another child in danger, another child that needed her help.

“Do you know where the perp is, where he took the kid?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady, professional.

“No, but I have every available officer on it; we’re closing in on them.”

Devon nodded. “Tell me about the perp.” All business, nothing else. Emotions didn’t belong here.

Cragen led the two FBI agents to where they had a screen and whiteboard, all filled with information on this case. The woman detective from earlier was there, as well as two others; one was a tall white man with glasses and grey hair, the other was a black man, slightly taller than Devon. Another detective was at his desk, on the phone and typing on his computer. Cragen introduced the man as Elliot Stabler, the woman as Olivia Benson, the tall man as John Munch, and the black man as Fin. Devon nodded to them each in turn, but got mostly the cold shoulder or a hard stare in return. As Cragen filled her in, she tried to memorize every detail she could, no matter how small. The perp’s name was Jose Gonzalez, the kid was Eddy Suarez. Eddy’s father was in the same gang as Jose; from what SVU understood, the father had slighted Jose in some way, so Jose took his kid as payback. He was considered armed and dangerous.

“Captain, I may have something,” Stabler called out, slamming his phone on its receiver. His desk was against Benson’s desk—partners, then. The group hurried over to look at his screen. “Got the car and license plate crossing the bridge into Staten Island.”

“Let’s move,” Cragen said, spurring the detectives into action. Devon followed; Huang would stay behind, waiting for the interrogation, to where his skills would be needed.

“We need to talk,” he murmured to Devon as she hurried by him. She simply nodded, then followed the Captain out of the precinct.

540 East Marigold Lane

Monday, October 28th. 5:28pm

They pulled up a couple houses down from where Jose had barricaded himself with the child. ESU was still arriving, scrambling to get into place. It was a normal, suburban house, one story, complete with white picket fence; ESU didn’t need long to surround the place, evacuating the houses nearby. Devon wanted to get in there before they were ready; the most important part was getting the 7-year-old Eddy out, alive and unharmed, not something ESU was trained for. She got out of the car, bulletproof vest on and ready, trying to ignore the pain in her chest and her heart, but failing miserably. The nerves that she normally got in these situations were absent; she was still reeling from the warehouse earlier. She kept glancing around, trying to find Emma, then remembering and grimacing. It was like she couldn’t control her emotions, her mind. Devon was afraid that she’d feel this anytime she put the vest on again.

“You alright there, Agent?” Stabler asked, coming to stand next to her. She nodded absently, not really pay attention to the man. Devon’s mind was far away, her nerves fried. She felt like she was about to scream, cry, explode, all of the above. She shook herself, shoved all of her thoughts and feelings down; all that mattered now was that little boy being held hostage. She conjured up the picture she saw in the precinct; a little boy, laughing, being held by his dad who was also laughing. She focused on that boy, focused on the fact that he was in the house in front of her, scared to death. She took a deep breath, then made her way around the house, away from the NYPD officers. She vaguely heard someone call out to her, asking where she was going, but she ignored them. There was a backdoor in the backyard that had a huge window next to it, blinds open, giving her a clear look inside.

She could see a large living room with couches and a TV mounted on the wall. There was a coffee table and a couple of bookshelves full of a variety of books. Otherwise, the room seemed empty. Looking through it, Devon could see an empty kitchen and a hallway. No sign of the man or child. She tried the doorknob and was stunned that it was unlocked. Why had no one else come back here? she thought. Fearing it was a trap, she unholstered her gun, the familiar steel in her hand. She twisted the knob, opened the door slowly. She stepped back, aiming her glock for anyone who may jump out at her. Nothing. Confused, she slowly went through the open door, checking both ways as if someone could be hiding there against the wall, waiting to kill her. Empty. The house itself seemed empty, but then why was ESU and the NYPD stationed outside? Might as well clear the building, make sure that they were just overreacting rather than blaming them right away for botching the location.

Devon crept through the rooms, listening for any sound, but hearing nothing. She then made her way to the hallway; there were only two doors lining the walls, with a master bedroom at the end. She took one step into the hallway, and her mind flashed. She blinked, and she was back in the warehouse, hard concrete under her boots, Emma’s breath loud in her ears. Devon’s breath caught in her throat as she whipped around. But no one was there; it was an empty living room in a quaint house in a suburb. Trying to calm her racing heart, Devon turned back to the hallway; all the doors were open, almost confirming that there was no one here with her. The first room was an empty child’s bedroom, nothing in it disturbed. The second room was a small bathroom, also empty of human presence.

“Get out of here,” a man’s voice called from the master bedroom, making Devon jump, heart racing painfully against her chest. She heard a soft, metallic sound and looked down, trying to find the source. She was surprised to find that it was coming from her; the hand holding her glock was shaking, hard enough for it to be making noise. Calm down, she told herself. She glared at her own hand until the shaking stopped. Devon took a deep breath, then made it to the doorframe, pressed up against it. She tried to peek in, to see the situation she was about to be in.

“Let the boy go. We can talk about this,” Devon replied, gripping her gun tighter if only to keep in control. She could just barely see the man holding the child, gun to the latter’s head. Eddy let out a choked sob. Another flash in Devon’s mind and she saw Patsy lying in a pool of her own blood. She pulled back, breathing hard. Quit it! she yelled at herself, her own mind.

Jose’s voice wavered slightly as he said, “this wasn’t supposed to happen.”

It took a moment for Jose’s words to make their way into Devon’s mind. “Then stop it from continuing. All you need to do is let the kid go, and we can all walk out of here unharmed.”

She could almost hear him shaking his head. “Naw, that’s not gonna happen. If I let this kid go, you’ll just shoot me. I don’t wanna die, man.”

Emma’s face flashed across her mind. She didn’t want to die, either, Devon almost spat out, but she held her tongue. What was happening to her? It had been a long day, and she needed to get out of there. “I’m going to put my gun down, okay? I’ll be unarmed, and I’m coming into the room.” True to her word, she put the safety on her gun, then gave it a little toss into the room, not close enough for Jose to reach it, but definitely out of Devon’s reach. A little show of trust, so that hopefully he will trust her, even a little bit. She then put her hands up, reaching them around the doorframe before coming in herself. “I don’t want anyone here to get hurt, Jose, I promise. Why don’t you tell me how this happened?” Keep him talking, help him see that there was no winning here, that he’d have to do as she asked.

Jose used the hand holding the gun to rub his shaved head. He was panicking, but Devon was hoping to calm him down, even if she couldn’t keep her own mind calm. “Alonso fucked up for the last time”—Devon recognized the child’s father’s name— “and the boss wanted to make him pay, ya know? So, he had me pick up his kid, but then he wanted me to kill him and I just, I can’t kill a kid, man. But if I don’t, boss will kill me.”

Devon felt a pang of pity for the man; he was in a lose-lose situation. But her fraying nerves and overall exhaustion was making it hard to think straight, making it hard to play the nice cop. “Jose, you’re not leaving this house alive unless you surrender yourself. But, no listen to me, if you give yourself up, you’re only going to jail. You hurt that kid, though? You’re done, you’re in the ground, I guarantee it.” She spat out the last part, a little more violently than she meant to. Normally, she’d use a threat like that just to get a suspect to comply. But right now, she was afraid…afraid that she wasn’t using an empty threat. Afraid that she may actually kill this man if she didn’t end this soon. She had never felt like this before.

Jose let out a pained whine. “I don’t wanna die,” he mumbled. He tightened his grip on Eddy, who was starting to cry louder, as if he understood that the more distressed Jose became, the least likely he was to survive.

Devon took another deep breath, trying to shove all of her personal feelings down, trying to bring that professional side back out. The field agent that she always was. “I won’t let you die, Jose. Trust me, I can get you out of here, but you have to put the gun down. You said it yourself, you don’t want to kill this child. What would that even accomplish? Eddy has done nothing wrong. Think about how terrified he must be, how cruel it would be to end his life before he got to do anything that he’s dreamed of.” Devon glanced at the cross Jose was wearing around his neck. “Do you really believe that God would forgive you for ending this child’s chance at life?” If personalizing Eddy didn’t get through to him, religion probably would.

Jose sniffled, the hand holding the gun starting to shake. “You—you can get me out of here? Alive?”

Devon nodded. “Of course, but you have to put the gun down, let Eddy go. I give you my word.” During this whole exchange, Devon had been making her way slowly through the room, around the bed towards Jose. Jose looked like he was thinking through all of his options, breathing harder and harder. After what felt like forever, he released Eddy, who ran to Devon, wrapping his arms around her legs. She jumped as if shocked by the touch, but played it off, trying not to scare the child. Jose then slowly handed his gun to Devon. She put it in the waistband of her pants at the small of her back.

“I’m so sorry,” Jose said through tears. He turned around, head down, defeated. He put his hands on the back of his head and waited. Devon took her handcuffs out of her back pocket and awkwardly made her way to Jose, Eddy hanging off of her.

“Don’t let me die,” Jose whispered, more to himself than to Devon. Once he was secured, Devon let out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding. All of her nerves were on fire, as if the slightest touch would set her off. It was taking everything in her to not react to Eddy hanging off of her. As she led the two out of the room, she swooped down to grab her gun, replacing it in her holster. Eddy stayed by her side, never releasing her leg. She was glad he was safe, that she could provide some safety to him, but it was starting to annoy her more and more. He’s a scared child. You just saved his life. Suck it up, she thought to herself. She thought back to Patsy, still in surgery. If Devon had patience for her, she’d have patience for Eddy, too.

“Let me go first,” Devon said, stopping them when they had reached the front door. She pushed Jose gently against the wall by the doorframe, so that none of the awaiting officers could get a clear shot on him. She moved the child behind her legs, effectively becoming a human shield. It’s not that she really distrusted ESU or the NYPD as a whole, but all it took was one overzealous cop to have a twitchy finger, to let this all go to hell.

“Coming out! Suspect is unarmed and apprehended! Don’t shoot!” she yelled out the closed door. Slowly, she unlocked the door, then turned the knob, inching the door open. From the outside, she knew that ESU would only see her standing there, a child behind her. From her point of view, Devon saw guns from every direction aiming at them.

She put her free hand up in surrender, the other hand holding Jose by the cuffs. “Hold your fire!” she called out. She waited until she heard whoever was in charge repeat her order before she moved Jose through the doorframe and out into the open. Eddy took Devon’s free hand when she had lowered it, gripping her tightly. She couldn’t even imagine how terrified this kid must be having this many guns pointed in his direction. She led them out slowly, struggling not to flinch as officers came hurrying up. They all but ripped Jose out from her grip, reading him his rights, and throwing him in the back of a squad car. Devon gave him a sympathetic look as the car pulled away. At least he didn’t die, she thought. More officers came up to take the boy, but Devon refused to release him as Eddy gripped her hand tighter, turning to hide his face against her legs. All of the anger and frustration that had been welling up inside of her finally had a target.

“Back the fuck off,” she said, venom dripping from her voice. The officers scrambled to get out of her way as she led him over to the awaiting paramedics in the ambulance. She waited by his side as he was checked out for injuries. She looked over and saw the SVU detectives, Cragen in their center, looking over to her, something like respect and astonishment in their eyes. She knew Cragen would want to debrief her, but at this point, she was emotionally exhausted—she had spent all day in this damned vest. So, she stayed with Eddy, giving him silent support while he was poked and prodded, asked questions. It eventually came up that they wanted to take him to the hospital, run more tests to make sure he was physically okay.

“Don’t let them take me,” Eddy cried, grabbing Devon’s hand like a lifeline.

“It’s okay, Eddy. I’ll ride with you,” she replied softly. She climbed into the ambulance before the medics could say anything. If they didn’t want her there, they made no mention of it as they loaded up. The whole way to the hospital, Devon whispered encouragement to Eddy—“everything’s fine, you’re safe, you did so good back there”—until he calmed down. Devon stayed with him until the nurses kicked her out, much to his dismay.

“I’ll be right outside. I promise, I won’t leave you until your parents get here,” Devon said as she was shooed out. She went to the waiting room and was shocked to see two detectives—Stabler and Benson—already there.

“That was good work today,” Stabler commented quietly. Benson nodded in acknowledgement. “Even if you did go a little rogue going in the house.” Benson rolled her eyes at that.

“I’m just glad there were no casualties,” Devon replied before slumping into a chair. She felt so drained, so tired. And yet, today wasn’t quite over; she wanted to be there for the interrogation, to let them know about Jose’s impossible situation. To maybe give him some sort of mercy, and maybe some protection from his boss. This day just got longer and longer. Plus, she should probably get her injury checked, too. She rubbed at it absentmindedly, trying to relieve some of the pain.

Benson sat down next to her. “How’s Eddy?”

“He’s fine…relatively. He’s going to need some counseling. But physically, I think he’s unharmed.”

Benson nodded. “Detective Olivia Benson, by the way. Detective Elliot Stabler,” she said, gesturing to the man. Devon was glad that the animosity from earlier seemed to have disappeared. Rescuing a child had that effect on people.

“Special Agent Devon Motely,” she replied, giving them both a small smile. “Any word on Eddy’s parents?”

“They’re divorced; mother is going for full custody, and after today, I’m sure she’ll get it,” Stabler explained. “She’s on her way now.”

Devon nodded, but was too tired to answer. Hopefully, the mother can better protect her son from her ex’s illicit life. She’d make sure she gave them her business card, let them call her if they were ever in trouble again. Even if Devon was busy, she had connections all over the city.

It took about 20 minutes of the three officers sitting in silence—the detectives seemed to know how tired Devon must be, mumbling to themselves every no and again--before the mom showed up. Devon and the detectives had been barred from seeing Eddy until a parent or guardian gave the okay, but they were informed that the child was indeed unharmed, just shaken up by the ordeal. The mother was shown to his room, and the nurse asked for Devon to follow her about 5 minutes later.

“Not you two,” the nurse said to Benson and Stabler. Stabler looked like he was going to start a fight, but Benson waved him down. Devon followed the nurse to Eddy’s room, his mom standing next to him, grasping his hand in both of hers.

“You’re the one who saved my boy?” the woman asked. Devon nodded and the mother came over, flinging her arms around Devon’s neck and pulling her into a tight hug. Devon grimaced as fresh pain coursed through her, but she did her best to stay quiet, keep her pain undetected by the civilians. She awkwardly patted the woman’s back as she cried, thanking the agent over and over again.

“I’m glad he’s alright. You got to watch him, though. Make sure he doesn’t get wrapped up in this again,” Devon replied after she extracted herself from the mother’s grip. She handed her card to the woman. “You call me, though, if anything does happen, okay?”

“Yes, yes of course,” the woman nodded fervently, taking the card from Devon. “We’re moving out of the city, though. Moving closer to my family in Connecticut.”

Devon felt a weight lift off her; getting Eddy out of New York was probably for the best. “Good, that’s good.”

Feeling like they needed time alone, Devon said her goodbyes to both Eddy and her mom—who never stopped thanking her—and backed out of the room. Both detectives were still in the waiting room, and Devon relayed the information to both of them.

“As long as she brings him back to testify, then it’s fine,” Stabler huffed.

“Do you really need a 7-year-old to testify?” Devon asked, incredulous. Devon hated the courts; such bad memories from her past there, plus the unneeded drama and politics that came with it. Besides, hadn’t Eddy suffered enough?

Stabler gave her a hard look. “If we want to get him on kidnapping, then we need the actual kid that was napped,” he explained in a slow tone, as if Devon was an idiot. This was why she liked her job. She only needed to catch the bastards; she didn’t have to go through the whole façade of lawyers, courts, and the politics involved.

“That’s your problem,” she shot back. She really wanted to just go home, have a nice, relaxing bath, and listen to some orchestra music. But she needed to go back to the precinct, listen in on interrogation. Like hell she’d ride with this asshole, though. She said nothing as she left the hospital, hailing a cab. She was sure that the detectives were staying behind to interview Eddy, anyways.

SVU Department

Monday, October 28th. 8:36pm

She made it back to the precinct quickly. Her mind had wandered on the drive over, and she was having trouble focusing. She vaguely realized she didn’t see a doctor about her gunshot wound while she was at the hospital, but she couldn’t force herself to care. She felt like she was floating through the precinct, weaving around the officers as she made her way to SVU’s floor. Her emotions were so frayed, she didn’t think she’d ever feel anything ever again. One of the officers pointed her towards an observation room, where she found Captain Cragen and Dr. Huang watching Fin and Munch grill Jose.

“Fin and Munch have been able to get the whole story out of Mr. Gonzalez, here. Not that it took much prompting,” Cragen said by way of greeting.

“From what he told me in that house, he was in an unwinnable situation. I do hope that you and your DA will take that into consideration when indicting him,” Devon replied flatly. She didn’t have the strength to put up a polite exterior anymore.

Cragen gave her a wondering look; he didn’t seem mad about her tone, just curious about her, about why an FBI agent, especially someone who works in HRT, would be on the perp’s side. “He kidnapped a 7-year-old and held him hostage at gunpoint. Do you really think we should go easy on him?” It didn’t seem like he was trying to defend this point, simply wondering how Devon would answer. As if he were in charge of the debate team in high school, seeing if she could defend her point.

“He was just following his boss’s orders, the promise of death if he failed. And even then, he didn’t kill Eddy. He made it clear how much he didn’t want to,” Devon explained.

“And what would have happened to Eddy if we didn’t find them? If you never talked to Jose?”

Devon didn’t have an answer for that. She’d like to think that he wouldn’t have shot a child, that he may have even killed himself instead. But she could also see the possibility of Jose doing it, because he could make sure Eddy didn’t suffer in death. It all came down to Jose’s fear of death versus his fear of God’s wrath. She resigned to watch in silence as Jose continued to tell the detectives—Fin and Munch—about the hierarchy of the gang, about his boss, about anything they asked about. She could feel Huang’s gaze on her, but she ignored him, trying to focus on Jose’s words.

All three looked to the door when a redheaded woman walked in. Devon felt a punch to the gut as she recalled Emma’s face for what seemed like the thousandth time that day. No matter how many times her empty eyes flashed across Devon’s mind, the nausea and emptiness hit her hard.

“This is ADA Casey Novak,” Cragen announced. “Novak, this is Special Agent Devon Motely.”

“I didn’t know this was a Federal case,” Casey said, giving Devon the familiar I-don’t-trust-the-FBI look.

“Off the clock,” Devon replied, giving her a small, exhausted smile. Maybe she could still have some pleasantries. Casey gave her another look, this time of disbelief—who the hell wanted to do this kind of work off the clock?--before focusing in on the interrogation. Cragen filled her in on the details, including the fact that Devon was the one who collared him, before Devon interjected.

“I’d like to request that you go a little easy on the man,” she said.

Casey gave her an appraising look. “He kidnapped a child, with a gun.” It was the same conversation over and over again. Devon was getting sick of it.

“Yes, but Jose had a gun to his own head. He was acting under duress. Plus, he’s giving you guys all the information on his boss that you need,” Devon reasoned.

Surprisingly, Casey agreed. “I’ll plead him out, then. Kidnapping is 5 to 25 years; I’ll recommend 7.”

“Thank you,” Devon said before excusing herself from the room. With her work effectively done, Devon just wanted to go lay down somewhere for a couple hours…or days. She heard someone follow her out of the observation room and sensed Dr. Huang’s presence.

“We do still need to talk, Devon,” he commented. Devon’s shoulders slumped and she hung her head in defeat as she followed him to an unoccupied room, full of standard-issued beds. Must be where officers could sleep when they couldn’t make it home. It seemed like a cruel joke to bring her here, with how tired she was, but at least it was private. Devon resisted the urge to sit on any of the mattresses; she was afraid she wouldn’t get back up again.

“What’s going on, Dev? Are you okay?” Huang asked once he shut the door.

“Don’t treat me like a patient, George. I know you know me better than that.”

Huang nodded, dropping the professional tone, and adopting something more personable. Yet still that overall calm that he exuded was present. “You’re right. Something did happen to you today, though. Do you want to talk about it?”

Devon huffed out an unamused laugh. “Not really, no. I would rather just down a bottle of whiskey and sleep for three days uninterrupted.” She knew by admitting that, Huang would just dig in further, at least until she got everything off her chest. But she was too exhausted to come up with some elaborate lie about how she was feeling, too exhausted to really care what anyone thought of her right now. She felt nothing, only the dull ache in her chest that pulsed in pain in time with her heart.

Huang looked concerned but hid it well. It only showed in his eyes. “You need to talk it out,” he said. When Devon didn’t reply, he continued, “first, you missed my call, texting me that you were in an emergency. And second, you told Cragen that I gave you no details. I told you the whole case over the phone.”

That stunned Devon; she thought back to the phone call that felt like days ago—how was it only earlier today?—tried to remember what was said. She didn’t remember a single word, though he must have at least old her to come to the 16th precinct, since she showed up here.

Sighing, Devon recounted the Thompson ring takedown. She was a little shocked that Huang didn’t get the notification—“I’m not a field agent, and I was already assigned here,” he explained. Devon got a little choked up when recounting the 7 dead children, and the 1 dead FBI agent, shocked that she even had emotions left.

“I don’t have many friends—you know that. So, losing Emma hurt more than I thought it would,” Devon finished. She refused to acknowledge the feelings that became apparent shortly before the agent’s death—that would be something to unpack later.

Huang had listened intently to her plight. He gave her a look of sadness as she recounted the dead; no matter how many times someone saw another person killed, it never got easier. “You saved 25 children from hell, though.”

“And lost 8 people in the process.”

Huang weighed his words, then responded, “but don’t the lives saved outweigh those lost?”

Devon’s phone went off right then. She recognized the hospital’s number and answered. She felt the dread build in her core, tears finally springing to her eyes as the final nail of the day was hammered into her. “Correction, 9 people. Patsy didn’t make it.” She let the tears flow freely now; it was the first time she had cried that day, but all of the sadness, anger, and guilt from earlier rushed out of her in a wave. She collapsed onto one of the beds hard, face buried in her hands as she let everything out. She vaguely felt Huang sit down next to her, patting her back in comfort, careful to touch lightly after hearing about her being shot. He let her cry until they became hiccupping sobs. Devon wiped her face with her shirt, trying to regain her composure. She tried to make it a point to not cry in front of people; she didn’t want to appear weak. The fact that Huang had been here to see her fall apart hurt her pride more than anything.

Huang waited until she seemed to be back in control before whispering, “Devon, why do you still do this job?”

The question caught her off guard, and an answer didn’t immediately jump out at her. She thought about it, really thought about it; why she got up in the morning, put on the badge, and went to deal with the worst side of humanity. Why she put her life on the line for strangers. Why she cared enough to help people.

“Because if I don’t, who will?” she sniffled. She wanted to expand on that, but the right words didn’t come up right away. She took a deep breath, tried to pull in her scattered thoughts, then said, “you’re right, you know. The lives saved are more important than the lives lost. This city, this world, can be a terrible, terrible place. But if I can save even one person, one child, then it’s worth it to me.” She sniffled again and blurted out, voice desperate, “I just want to help people.”

Huang nodded. “That’s a good answer. The fact that you even had an answer is a good sign, Devon. You still have your humanity. You’re still a good person.” Huang always knew exactly what Devon was really feeling; inadequate, remorseful, and most of all, guilty.

“Even if those 9 deaths are my fault?”

“Devon listen to me. Emma”—her name still hit Devon in the stomach—“knew what she was doing. It was her choice to cover the children’s escape. Besides, if you didn’t unlock that cage, what do you think would have happened to those kids?”

As much as Devon wanted to argue that the cage was out of the line of fire, she didn’t know what would have happened. Maybe the kids would’ve been safe until the firefight was over. Or maybe the traffickers would have decided that they didn’t want any witnesses.

“Survivor’s guilt takes time to digest, to move forward. I agree with your boss, too; talk to a psychiatrist about this. I can talk to you as a friend, but not as a doctor-patient anymore. The one in your sector is good, and a friend of mine,” Huang said.

Devon nodded, agreeing to go to the company shrink. “You know me, though. I can’t take time off; I’ll go insane.”

“You are a workaholic,” Huang agreed. He was the only one allowed to call her that, no matter how true it was. “How about I arrange Cragen to call you if he can use your help?”

Work for the NYPD? Busting low-level rapists and pedophiles? Trudging through the shit field work, the court systems, and the corrupted politics of the mayor’s office? “Sounds like a deal…as long as I don’t have to work with that Detective Stabler.”

“He can be a little abrasive,” Huang said, smiling. “But he grows on you…eventually.”

“Like a parasite?”

Huang laughed at that. “He is a good detective, and a pretty good person. He gets angry, and he’s headstrong. But at the end of the day, I’m glad SVU has him on their side.”

Conversation coming to an end, they both stood up. Devon didn’t really care what her face looked like after all that crying. All that mattered was that she was tired and hurting but feeling lighter than she had all day.

Huang stopped her as she went to leave. “Do me a favor, though.” When Devon arched an eyebrow, Huang said, “go see a doctor for that gunshot wound.”