#detached from her character that people hardly take that as genuinely being apart of her character

[supahstarrr]

as a dr fan we need to acknowledge that some of the danganronpa characters suffer through chronic liners for bad humor by out-of-touch old guy writers syndrome

[valle-de-sombra-de-muerte]

Homestuck Reread: Act 4, Part 3/4 (p. 1669-1864)

Read the previous post here.

The second half of Act 4 starts here. And oh fuck no, it's the introduction of Hussie's self-insert.

Yes, it is a terrible idea. This whole bit should've died right here.

Hussie proceeds to recap the entire first year of Homestuck which really is just a big waste of time to read. If you're really lost about what's going on, you should just read all my reread posts up to this point instead! Which... actually isn't ideal because I'm not really writing a comprehensive plot summary here. This series of posts is mostly aimed toward people who are already familiar with Homestuck and have read it before. If you tried showing these to someone who has never read the comic before, they'll likely be confused. Err, fuck it, let's move on!

John is rightfully reluctant to listen to Terezi again. He typically shows resistance to commands only when they might put him in life-threatening danger. And since he finally decides to believe Dave's warnings, this counts as one of those situations.

I forgot to mention this in the last post, but Davesprite and Terezi's conversation was the first time "jegus" is used. Some people seem to think that this is the name of a troll analogue to Jesus, but really it's an in-joke between Dave and Terezi that gradually disseminates through their respective friend groups.

John's adversity shatters and he decides to start listening to Terezi again. It really didn't take much for her to convince him to do this. This is hardly portraying Terezi as some kind of "master manipulator." It's just another instance of John being a gullible moron.

Also, this will be the last conversation between John and Terezi until Act 6. Her conversations with the humans will be exclusively limited to Dave until that point. I guess she wasn't so serious about being John's "pal" after all.

Bro what do you mean you decide to name him? That's Rose's cat. You can't go into someone's house and rename their pets.

I do like that Davesprite immediately points out how dumb it was that John decided to listen to Terezi again.

John is such a massive fucking cunt. He's really going to disrespect the guy who saved his life like that? Even apart from that, that's his best friend, or at least supposedly.

Davesprite's reaction is entirely justified here. He's supplying John with useful info, only to be met with disinterested responses and being told to fuck off in favor of the other Dave. I really think "ok" is John's catchphrase, even moreso than Aradia's. Pretty much every time someone tries to talk to him about the game is met with him going "oh ok" or "wow ok" like some kind of spongehead.

This conversation is notable because Dave's entire persona is centered on being detached, aloof, and "cool" but here Davesprite sounds genuinely pissed. He doesn't even care about maintaining the facade because his "best friend" just revealed he doesn't even see him as a person worth talking to.

Dave thinks he can speak on Davesprite's behalf, which he's definitely not qualified to do. He spent four months living in a pointless reality offshoot with the full knowledge that everything in it is a mistake that needs to be rectified. Rose, the one person he had for company in that timeline, had to be essentially killed in order to fix the timeline. And even if there's still a Rose that currently exists, that single version of Rose he spent all those months together with was still destroyed by his actions. Her blood is on his hands.

All this is to say he's definitely not the same person as current Dave. They may share the same memories and past experiences, but everything Davesprite experienced past the point of divergence is uniquely his. He's his own individual.

That "yeah" right before signing off cuts deep. He is sick of John's shit. Not that I imagine John would notice at all.

Davesprite might be the most tragic character in this godforsaken story. Having Rose's death weighing on his conscious, being forced to mutate himself into a ghostly half-bird monstrosity, letting another version of himself live out the rest of "his" life. He did it all for the sake of making sure his friends have a future to live in, but said friends don't respect him or even like talking to him. To them, he's an extraneous copy of their existing friend. He isn't "real."

And the sad thing is that it's not just his friends who think that. Hussie didn't give a shit about him either. Wouldn't it have been crazy if this conflict was explored and Davesprite was a bigger presence in the story? If he was actually acknowledged as part of the team and the other kids had to learn to stop treating him as "the other Dave"

Well too bad because for one thing, Hussie cannot write convincing conflict. If two characters don't like each other, they simply ignore each other and don't speak. So instead of Davesprite being a ever-present source of awkward tension within the group, he's downgraded to an impotent background character. Tough shit, Orange Dave.

Oh yeah, the less said about Davesprite's ultimate end, the better. What a fucking travesty.

Dave really wants John to snoop around Rose's belongings. The little freak. At least he stops short of asking John to rummage through her underwear drawer.

Technically one of the journals does contain "important game stuff" but Dave doesn't know that. I bet he just wants to know if she wrote about him in her journal.

Dave is putting more effort into invading Rose's privacy than just about anything else prior to this point. Obsessed much?

My god, that "come hither" expression. Things are about to get steamy on Derse.

"Whipping Bugwinged Fuckall" is an amazing Kanaya quote.

Oh look, Sollux's first appearance. He and Kanaya should've talked more. It almost feels like they're co-workers and he's the guy she bugs for IT support. It's a fun dynamic.

Also, I guess Alternia has sex offender registries, which makes no sense. I feel like you'd get straight up killed by the drones for much less.

No I didn't leave this page open while the entirety of "Derse Dreamers" played. That would be silly. Also when I said things were gonna get "steamy" I obviously meant they'd get all sweaty from dancing. Jeez, what'd you think I meant? 😇

Cal is kicked out of the party for being a cockblock.

What are these "shenanigans" Davesprite engaged in to get the hammer from Hephaestus? Fuck if we'll ever find out.

Even though the two kingdoms are fated to fight each other and yadda yadda, there doesn't seem to be much enmity between them. WV is able to unify everyone with little effort.

[S] WV?: Rise Up is certainly a flash that exists. It serves as a follow-up to [S] Jack: Ascend, which I also wasn't really too enthused about. I didn't spend much time talking about it in the last post because I couldn't think of anything to comment about it. Which is strange, because you'd think the big flash to celebrate the comic's one year anniversary, as well as the one that introduces the story's main antagonist, would be a bigger spectacle.

But there's no action, no cool shots like in previous flashes, and ultimately Jack's "ascension" comes from the stupid bunny shit and not from any action on his part. The only real highlight of that flash is the killer tune that is "Black". Apart from that, it pales in comparison to previous flashes in the comic. Much of the same can be said about this one. At least "Skaian Skirmish" is a cool track.

When does this ever have a use? Just like with John, the only point of this whole alchemizing montage is to create a new outfit, computer, and weapon for Rose. The rest of these creations are useless junk.

I mention a new outfit, but the true irony is that the kids' best outfits (John's Vriska jacket, Rose's black dress, Dave's raglan shirt, and Jade's uhh... God Tier dress?) aren't even a part of these montages. For the first three, they're all acquired off-screen and we don't even know the recipes for them.

Trailing right behind Rose's montage, Dave gets his as well. Again, nothing of true value gets made here. These montages feel like Hussie padding out the page count. Seriously, who actually enjoys these parts of the comic?

The alchemiter can potentially create body parts, albeit at an exorbitant cost. Could you imagine if this was actually implemented? If one of the characters lost a limb or something and they got an alchemized replacement?

They could've done that with Vriska or Tavros so they wouldn't have had to use robotic prosthetics. Man, that would've been cool.

I like how this is essentially a "secret" SBaHJ page because it isn't available alongside the others and only appears in Homestuck.

The "most important thing"? My gosh, he really wants to get in her business.

Yes, Rose's story is overly florid, verbose slop, but it feels so similar to Hussie's usual prose when he's trying to be descriptive that I'm not even sure if this story is written to be intentionally pompous or not.

Has Hussie ever tried submitting something for the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, the contest to write the worst possible opening paragraph for a novel? I'd bet he'd win without trying. (If you've never heard of this before, look it up and go to the website to read the winning entries. They're hilarious.)

It is rather sweet that Dave likes the story enough to want to read more of it later, though.

Dave is able to figure out Mom Lalonde's intentions simply because he knows Rose well enough to tell when she's being dramatic. See, Dave doesn't even need to read Rose's journal to discover her true thoughts. He already sees through her well enough already (and she likewise sees through his act just as clearly).

The fact that Rose remembers "some things" about her previous self's existence sounds like something that should be investigated further, instead of being written off so abruptly.

Or is that "ok cool" a defense mechanism on Davesprite's part? Maybe talking to Rose is too painful for him, because she's not "his" Rose. Even if she retains all the memories from the future, she'll still never be the same Rose he left behind.

I really wish this was explored more. Davesprite and Rose never talk again after this conversation and it drives me insane. What if he actually tried pressing further about what she remembers about the timeline, trying to seek out remnants of "his" Rose? He could be trying in vain to reconnect with her, to apologize about leaving her to die, but all that ever happens is that he gets rebuffed.

And Rose might recall the moments she shared with another Dave in another timeline, but stamps them out as she continues to focus on the present and as she grows closer with Kanaya. Perhaps revisiting those memories of the doomed timeline, reliving the loneliness leading up to her demise, are too painful to recall. And Davesprite is a living reminder of them, so she pushes him away to make herself forget.

If only Hussie could write convincing and earnest tragedy. We were utterly robbed.

Dave makes it seem like Jade is the one who's going to freak out about the body. But somehow I doubt the girl who lives with the corpse of her grandfather, along with other taxidermied creatures, on permanent display is going to be fazed by another dead body. Yeah, I'm thinking Dave is the one who doesn't want to keep looking at his own corpse.

Also, I never noticed DD hanging out on the I-beam before. That's a neat detail.

This part of the Act is admittedly fun. Could it be because a lot of it had a healthy focus on Rose and Dave? It's amazing how much nicer the comic is to read when the focus is put on the stronger characters.

Unfortunately I already know that the next few upcoming pages are going to be one of my least favorite parts of the comic, so I'm not terribly looking forward to wrapping up this Act next week...

Read the next post here.

[mikaa-mina]

At Garden’s Edge- Chapter 5: In which bad days are had, assumptions are made, and sweets always taste better with good company

This is a very sweet and silly chapter, and also my longest chapter for this fic yet clocking in at just over 5k!

A small content warning, there are some descriptions of depression/feeling down and apathetic in this chapter. They are primarily right at the beginning and I promise there's a bunch of silly fun in this chapter and it ends on a happy note. (No seriously, these characters can be so silly sometimes!)

Nevertheless! Even though there is nothing heavy in this chapter, if you for any reason feel uncomfortable reading a chapter (any chapter in this fic) please don't hesitate to reach out to me. I will try to summarize the chapter without going into whatever the subject is that is an issue. <3

As always, this was beta'd by the lovely lovely Tarek_giverofcookies who has helped me multiple times when I was banging my head against writer's block.

At Garden’s Edge

Chapter 5- In which bad days are had, assumptions are made, and sweets always taste better with good company.

It had been a bad day. In fact, there had been rather more than seven of them so far. He hadn’t opened the shop in three of them and couldn’t honestly recall the last time he’d stepped out of the building at all. Living above the shop, or rather more in the antique armchair in the back room of the shop, tended to have it’s own perks and disadvantages. The perks being that he didn’t really have to leave home to work, was constantly surrounded by books, and he never had to leave the building unless he was out acquiring new books. Unfortunately, these same perks were also the disadvantages.

It made the days when the fog grew thick and oppressive that much more harder. It was difficult to convince oneself to leave the building when instead he could just stay in working on commissions. And what if he missed a customer while out and about?

When his head felt full of cotton, and fatigue lingered in all his limbs, the quiet thoughts would slip inside. What harm would it really do to close the shop early? For the day? Why move from this armchair at all, he deserved a day off. He’s in the middle of a chapter and it’s raining out, no sensible fool would bring an old antique book to be authenticated or repaired in the pouring rain.

Three days into this he realized he couldn’t recall what the last book he just finished reading had even been about at all. It was as if he was eating food and yet tasting none of it. Stale and unappealing. The horror that books had become that for him.

It was temporary, he knew. He had figured out with help how to help manage this, but knowing how to do so didn’t make the actual doing of it any easier. It took another day of bargaining with himself before he managed to call up a friend. Unfortunately she was out of town, but talking to her still helped. She stayed on the phone as long as she could and before ending the call she gently suggested taking a walk through town, just to be around other people without having to talk to anyone if he wasn’t up to that just yet.

“Or maybe dearie, you should go see that florist friend of yours,” Madame Tracey suggested with what was surely a twinkle in her eye.

Aziraphale himself didn’t really feel one way or the other about it, instead of insisting Crowley was just his florist and not his friend he just hummed non-noncommittally. (Who would want to be friends with a stuffy boring older man like him? He knew what he was like and was content with it but others hardly liked it.)

Failing to get the reaction she was hoping for made her stress again him getting out. Maybe visit that bakery he liked so much.

Instead he found himself wandering the city, and not too unsurprisingly, wandering into the flower shop and plant nursery, Garden’s Edge.

There was some sort of bee-bop playing in the shop, quietly at first and then increasing in volume as he wandered towards the back.

And then he heard it. Someone… singing. Not particularly badly but not especially well either. Though that may have been helped by the fact that the song they were singing to seemed to be more of a spoken song than the newer bee-bop Aziraphale’d heard in the shops downtown.

It got louder as he followed it all the way to the very back of the shop. When he reached the check out counter he could see the door to the back propped open as someone sang about… French novels and the absurd?

Aziraphale glanced around, but no one else was in the shop, so slowly he edged around the corner of the door to peek into the back room because surely the only person it could be was Crowley. As far as he was aware, Crowley was the only person who worked here. So it had to be him. But singing?

A quick glance in and all he saw was a flash of black and red. A pity he didn’t carry any mirrors on his person any more.

Steadying his breathing again he looked around the corner again through the door way. He had meant it to be a quick glance again but he found himself stopping at the sight he had caught. It was indeed Crowley. Crowley in his black leather jacket and absurd snake skin boots, eyes closed as he sang into the end of the broom in his hand. His hips were… doing something? Moving in some way, perhaps this was a new fangled form of dancing, and his arms were gesturing grandly as he sang and moved about the room.

“-And some kinds of love The possibilities are endless And for me to miss one Would seem to be groundle-EH?! Ah-AZIRAPHALE?!?”

Aziraphale startled, nearly fell from his precariously balanced position, but Crowley was worse, his eyes having opened as he turned about the back room mid spin, he faltered, eyes landing on Aziraphale and broom flinging from his hand. It crashed into a large iron shelving unit that rattled dangerously and sent Crowley lunging in that direction to catch some of the pots that had rattled right off the edge.

“Oh dear,” he rushed forward to give Crowley a hand, “terribly sorry to frighten you. What can I do to help?”

“Wah-gah- huh??”

Aziraphale bit back a smile, he was rather adorable when flustered. His face was turning red, his eyebrows high on his face in confusion and disbelief, his arms fluttering around in nervousness and nearly dropping the pots he had managed to catch.

“Here,” he dipped down and picked up some of the pots scattered on the ground. Thankfully most of the ones that fell seemed to be the cheaper plastic ones. Temporary pots for young plants or plastic pots made to look like stone.

Straightening back up, arms full of (thankfully clean) pots (just think of what would have happened to his coat) he smiled at Crowley. It was a bit more customer service polite smile than the genuine one he’d felt earlier as the fog settled back in, but he didn’t want Crowley to feel as if it was his fault. “Where shall I put them?”

After a string of unintelligible sounds, Crowley gestured towards a table slightly helplessly. He croaked out a thanks, plopped his own load down and stared at the table for a moment.

Just as Aziraphale was starting to sink back into that state where he felt rather detached from everything Crowley’s head snapped towards his.

“Uh… how.. how much of that did you hear?”

“I couldn’t really make it out until I got to the back somewhere around something to do with filthy french novels and the absurd?”

Crowley’s blush renewed itself, darkening in color and then spreading down his chest and up to his ears. It was adorable.

“Y-you can’t tell anyone!”

Aziraphale cocked a brow, slightly amused but mostly confused. Perhaps that was the fog again- maybe it had obscured something that would make this make sense.

“About what dear? You singing?”

“No! I mean yes, that too, but no the-uh...” Crowley gestured in an extremely un-illuminating way.

“...I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

The strange half starts to words and sentences falling apart in Crowley’s throat sounded off again before he finally settled from his wild gesticulating to stare rather firmly at something on the other side of the room from him. “Can’t tell anyone I like that kind of stuff.”

Aziraphale was hopelessly lost. “...Singing?”

Crowley’s mouth twisted. “No-yes, well, I don’t care so much about that. It’s the...”

“...the?”

“thesingingaboutlovegunk.”

He blinked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

“…. it’s the, whole, uh...” every word seemed to take effort, though for what reason Aziaphale had no idea, “it’s the love thing, okay?! I just- it doesn’t fit my image and people don’t need to know that I- that- people don’t need to know that!”

Oh.

A smile twitched at the edges of his lips again, not enough to force the smile through the fog, but enough to make him feel a bit warmer. He took in Crowley’s defensive posture, the hot blush upon his face and chest, his burning ears, and the steadfast way he wouldn’t look at Aziraphale.

A bit softer and sweeter than Aziraphale had originally pegged him as.

He turned the smile begging at his lips from something too soft and fond into something more benignly friendly. “Of course.”

A beat of silence and then Crowley finally turned his head back towards Aziraphale’s, shoulders hunched up by his red ears. “Yeah?”

“Of course.”

There was a beat of silence before Aziraphale found his mouth speaking quite without his permission. “So. A secret romantic then?”

Crowley just groaned in dismay.

“Did you come here just to mock me?”

The smile slid off his face. He’d meant to reply with something funny, or a bit teasing, but now that he was reminded of the real reason he’d stumbled across this scene, things didn’t seem as funny as they were a moment ago. Still, he knew wallowing in it wouldn’t help matters, so he tried to marshal himself back up to that trusty customer service smile and said, “oh, I was just out.”

He didn’t even realize he was avoiding eye contact with Crowley until the man side stepped back into his vision, leaning down a bit to try and catch his eyes.

Crowley hummed, rocked back on his heels, bit his lip, seemed to cast around for some words and finally offered up a, “wanna talk about it or not talk about it?”

Aziraphale’s eyes rose to meet his. He hesitated.

Crowley gave him a wry sort of smile, dusted his hands on his jeans, then clapped them together to make a loud sound that startled Aziraphale. “Right! Let’s go then.”

Aziraphale blinked, watching Crowley sway right out the door and into the main shop. Following him a bit bewilderingly he echoed, “go?”

“Yup. Going!”

Crowley stopped by the front door, pulled Aziraphale’s still wet umbrella out of the stand, handed it to him, then fished out another umbrella from the stand for himself. It was still raining outside.

Crowley opened the door with a flourish, keys jangling from his pinky finger as he popped open the umbrella with his free hand and gestured to outside. “Out.”

Well. Alight then. ‘Out’ it was.

Aziraphale slid open his umbrella, stepped out, and watched in a sort of detached curiosity as Crowley flipped the sign to closed and locked up the shop. Then he turned with a grin and said, “not too far.”

Well. That explained one thing and nothing else. Still. Aziraphale followed him, noting distractedly that Crowley’s umbrella seemed to have ducks faintly patterned on it. The slick shine of rain highlighting the faded ink as the textures ran different than the rest of the unmarked umbrella.

A few blocks, some turns down some alleys, and they arrived at the shop front of a lovely little cafe bakery. Aziraphale stared at it before Crowley marched right up, ducks swimming in the rain above his head, and opened the door. He made a dramatic sweeping ‘after you’ gesture and Aziraphale was surprised by his own quiet snort of laughter.

Walking in, the air hit warm and dry against his face, and the light was brighter than outside’s overcast weather, but dimmer than some of the more mainstream restaurants liked to have. He shook off his umbrella and left it in the umbrella stand by the door and took his first good look around the place.

The best way to describe it was that it was charming.

It had the standard bakery wide windows in the front of the establishment but instead of just slatted blinds, there were also soft gauzy curtains pulled to the sides and secured with a soft tasseled rope. Aziraphale’s eyes gravitated to the back corner of the cafe where there were two bookcases set against each other creating a corner, filled with mismatched books, and sat in front of it was a squishy looking couch, armchair set, and low coffee table.

The shop had a few other tables set with soft seating of the like, while the rest scattered about the shop were the more standard fair cafe chairs and tables. There was music playing quietly in the background, the colors of the cafe were soft and easy on his eyes, and there was the biggest set of two bakery display cases he’d ever seen in a shop so small. He could hear Crowley’s quiet chuckle as he gravitated towards the counter.

How he’d missed this place he’d never know. (Spoiler: it’s because he never leaves his shop unless it’s to go to Crowley’s shop or to go buy new books)

He was looking down at the most scrumptious looking assortment of pastries when a young woman popped up from behind a strange chrome contraption that Aziraphale could only assume was used to make fancy coffees.

“Oh! Hi, welcome to Knead to Know, how can I- Oh AJ!”

Her eyes flickered between the two of them before a smile began to spread across her face wide enough to cause some alarm to Aziraphale. She propped an elbow up on the counter, set her chin in her hand, and grinned properly at Crowley. She had pink bangs.

“I assume you’re not here for your usual? Or are you and you just brought him with you today?”

Crowley, completely oblivious it seemed to the teasing just shook his head and said, “Nah, I’ll come tomorrow for the usual. Today’s different.”

“I’ll say,” she agreed, raised her eyebrows and flicked her eyes towards Aziraphale who was finally starting to feel a bit of nervousness or embarrassment filter through the fog. It was hard to tell which was which.

“Yup,” Completely Clueless said, “so I just want my usual drink but get whatever he wants.” He gestured to Aziraphale with a tilt of his head before turning to look at him proper. “From what I’ve heard, the Brittney things are good and anything chocolate’s pretty popular.”

Behind Crowley’s head the young cashier rolled her eyes dramatically, mouthed ‘totally clueless’, winked at Aziraphale and then said, “chocolate’s only the most popular because of who you bring them to.” She faced Aziraphale again, smiled, and said “The Cheese Brittney is good, and our baker has recently got on a kick of sponge cakes so personally I’d recommend the Tres Leche Cake.”

She pointed to each in turn. Both looked scrumptious but which would taste better right now? The moistness of the Tres Leche might be what he needed to chase his dry and crumbly feelings away but at the same time a Cheese Brittney with it’s flakey and crunchy pillow might be just the soft landing place he needs.

As he debated internally, he tried to shove away any distressing thoughts of if it would be as bland as his books have been, while Crowley chatted with the barista.

“Find anything your heart settled on? Or your taste-buds?”

At the barista’s question Aziraphale startled, he’d lost track of time while dawdling and had probably spent far too long trying to decide. “Oh! I, well, you see they both seem so scrumptious that it’s just so difficult to choose.”

Crowley hummed for a second then tipped his head to the side and asked, “why don’t you just get them both then?”

“Oh, oh wouldn’t that be too much?” Too greedy, too gluttonous, too excessive. How often had he been taught that pleasure had to be earned? What had he done to earn either of them, let alone two pastries? He’s only been stuck in his head, shop not even open, for days and-

Crowley shrugged, completely unbothered, and said “eh, one of life’s pleasures, issn’t?”

Aziraphale stared at him, derailed from his negative self-talk suddenly and jarred by it.

Crowley must have mistook it as an objection to what he had said because then he defended it with a “Wut? Don’t give me that look. Life’s about living for the good stuff, yeah? So get ‘em both. Enjoy them.”

A moment to process that and then Aziraphale gave a quiet acquiesce, “alright.”

“Yeah?”

Aziraphale mustered a small smile in return for Crowley’s crooked grin, “yes.” Turning to the barista, who suspiciously looked like she was trying to smother a too wide grin, he said “I’ll take them both, please.”

She let the grin out in full force, “yes sir, right away sir!”

“Ah... thank you. Er, how much will they be?”

“Oh, AJ already covered it,” she winked at him but he was too busy turning to Crowley and protesting to see it.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets and gave a sort of shrug with his shoulders, “eh, we’re friends, ‘s what friends do.”

There was a growing warmness in Aziraphale’s chest heating up, something fond and soft, starting to glow like a lighthouse in the sea fog. Friends. “Oh.”

Crowley flashed a small smile, a smile unlike the flashy smirks and cocky grins, before turning away towards the back of the shop. “C’mon, I know that book nook’s practically singing your name you big ol’ bookie.” And then he sauntered off, ears a bit pink at the vulnerability maybe, and Aziraphale was left, for just a moment, alone with that warm feeling. At being announced a friend where anyone could hear. Proudly, unashamed.

The warm feeling tentatively spread.

“I’ll bring y’all’s food and drinks in moment, go ahead and sit down.”

He startled a little, glanced at the barista to find her smiling and said, “thank you dear girl.”

She grinned a little then teased, “go on, he’s an impatient man if I’ve ever seen one though he doesn’t seem to mind waiting on you.”

Not quite sure what to make of that he made his way over to the table where Crowley seemed to have made lounging an art form. He was spilled all over the arm chair head turned to frown at the books on the shelves to his left.

Normally Aziraphale would be all over those books. Carefully going through the titles, trying to see what the people here liked. You could tell a lot about a person from the books they chose to keep. Though the rules tended to vary when it came to shops, you weren’t catering to just one person’s taste after all, but many. But even then, he found it an enjoyable little game to see if there were any hidden gems in restaurants like this. Sometimes places you didn’t expect to, would have a valuable or rare book without even realizing it. Even rarer still, they might have a book Aziraphale wanted to get his hands on.

But his stomach rolled a little when he glanced at the books, remembering the morning and his apathy for reading. He did not want to try again so soon. He didn’t want to pick up a book, expecting to enjoy it, or even hoping to enjoy it, and find it as bland and unenjoyable as before. No, it was simply best to wait. He didn’t want to be turned off of books for any longer than he probably already was going to be.

So he sat in the surprisingly comfy armchair, looked up at Crowley, and realized he had no idea what to say.

Thankfully, Crowley seemed quite reluctant to let an uncomfortable silence descend and instead jerked his head towards the bookcase and said, “would’ve thought you’d be all over these.”

Well. Not the conversation he wanted but, beggars and all that.

“Ah, perhaps later.” A thought hit him, “do you have a favorite?” even if he couldn’t get enjoyment from reading right now, perhaps he could still get some enjoyment from talking book tastes and just getting to learn more about Crowley. Crowley who abruptly closed up shop without warning in the middle of the work day and brought him here.

“Oh dear, was it really alright to close up shop? I hadn’t realized earlier...”

“Yeah. ‘S fine. Wanted to take you here.”

“But...”

“Eh, it’s raining. Had only one customer all day, so who cares if I take a long lunch break? Hell I could probably take the rest of the day off what with the downpour scheduled for all day. Was only cleaning when you came by.”

The warm feeling spread a bit. Heated up a bit more.

“Ah, I don’t think that’s quite true, dear.”

“What? No, you saw-”

A small smile bloomed on his lips, “I saw you dancing and-”

“Nrk- nuh, yuh- you said you wouldn’t!-”

Aziraphale chuckled lightly, feeling a bit lighter, a bit less bogged down, “and I shan’t. Alright, tell me about what you like to read.”

The barista came by, delivering a tall drink to Crowley, the pastries and a plastic cup of water to Aziraphale. She bid them a good meal and left, turning to reveal a pony tail that ended with pink tips to match her bangs.

Crowley took a long sip of his drink, leaned back, and announced, “don’t read.”

Aziraphale, about to take a bite of the Tres Leche Cake paused, fork hovering mid-air, and stared horrified at Crowley.

“Pardon, can you repeat that?”

“I don’t read.”

“Wh-How- How can you not read? No, that’s not true- I’ve seen you read the labels of the plants and soil bags!”

Crowley’s head tipped back with a loud guffaw.

“Crowley! Don’t laugh at me, you were the one trying to pass off that you’re illiterate.”

A grin spread like wildfire across Crowley’s face as he tilted it back towards Aziraphale. He shifted in the chair, flinging one leg over the arm of it in a truly improper way, and dangling the other off the side. Honestly it was like the man couldn’t sit proper in any chair. “Saying I don’t read doesn’t mean I’m illiterate Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Well, you sure took great pleasure in making me jump to that conclusion.”

“Naaah, honestly didn’t think you’d jump there. Just wanted to see what you’d do when I said I don’t read. And I don’t. Read, that is. I listen to audiobooks though.”

“Audiobooks?”

“Yeah. Letters can’t jump in front of each other in audiobooks.”

Ah. “Well, that’s still reading.”

“Is it? Could never tell. Everyone’s got a different answer.”

“Well, I consider it still reading. What’s your favorite book?”

Without hesitation, “the James Bond series.”

Aziraphale blinked, then a soft chuckle bloomed. “Yes, I can see that. Rather does fit you, doesn’t it? Flash, action packed, crafty, and full of gadgets.”

Crowley flashed him a grin, “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Oh, not at all.”

“Alright. Your turn. What’s your favorite book?”

“Oh... Well... Hm...”

A few moments of thinking apparently gave Crowley his answer.

“Too many to choose from?”

“Rather. It’s like trying to pick a favorite food.” Aziraphale left enough time for Crowley to interrupt before saying, “I admit, I was expecting you to jump right in and announce your favorite food just to contradict me.”

A hand wave and a sip of his drink, “ehh, not so much a food person, me.”

“No?”

“Nah. Do you have a favorite?”

“Oh dear, well, if we’re talking desserts then it’s... hm, well, no, if we’re talking pastries then it’s- but wait, no... drat. Is it still considered a favorite if you have five favorites?”

Crowley chuckled. “Same problem as with your books.”

Aziraphale hummed an agreement, finally biting into his nearly forgotten Tres Leche Cake. The cake was as moist as he had hoped, melting almost against his tongue, softly sweet.

He hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes until Crowley inquired about how it was.

“It’s good. Very good.”

And Crowley had smiled at that.

They talked quietly for a while after that. About light things, small things, interests and hobbies. Aziraphale found that Crowley liked to play online games with a friend called Anathema, that he enjoyed star gazing late at night (“gotta be out of the city though- too much light pollution here.”), and that as fond as he was of cats, that he was allergic to them.

“Been thinkin’ about getting a snake though.” He’d added as if that wasn’t one of the most unusual pet choices Aziraphale had ever heard of.

“A snake?”

“Yeah. They’re great animals really. Strong, elegant, some of them have the most brilliant color patterns too. I dunno, there’s just something about them that I really like.”

And after some thought on it, Aziraphale had smiled. “I think I might be able to see that. Perhaps if you do get one, you can introduce me.”

Crowley blinked at him, surprised as if he wasn’t expecting that and as if, maybe, he was a bit flattered and flustered by it. “Uh- okay.”

They talked about Aziraphale’s favorite plays, how he collects the playbills from them as his own sort of scrapbooking (“When I go back later and look at them, I can recall the play better, remember how it made me feel, reminisce... I’m sorry, that must sound terribly boring.” “No, not at all.”), and how he’s been searching to find another hobby to enjoy other than reading.

“Not that I’ll give it up at all! It’s just, I’d like another enjoyable activity to participate in, I think.”

“Makes sense to me. I’ve got plants and star gazing and video games.”

“It’s just, I haven’t been able to find one. I’ve tried pottery, which was far more messy than I anticipated, cooking, knitting, and bowling.”

“Bowling, really?”

At Crowley’s surprise he admitted, “a friend talked me into it. I wasn’t bad at it, it just wasn’t as... enjoyable as I had hoped. I’d have rather sat at home reading than gone bowling.”

“How long did you do it for?”

It was strange in a way, having someone be as curious about him and his hobbies as Crowley was. It was strange having what seemed to be a genuine friend. One who cared and was interested in him, one that had silly conversations over plays and quiet conversations in the back of a cafe over everything and anything.

“A season. She’d signed me up for the team and neglected to tell me until the first match. I didn’t want to leave them a person short so I finished the season with them while making sure they knew to find a replacement for the following season.”

Crowley tilted his head back with a thoughtful hum, the man was reclined the wrong way across the armchair. Head falling off of one arm, both his legs thrown over the other, cup held at a precarious angle.

“Maybe you could teach me some tricks for it.”

“For bowling?”

“Yeah.” Crowley scowled up at the ceiling, “don’t tell anyone but just about every damn time I go I land on my arse at least once.”

And now Aziraphale couldn’t help but picture it. And he was probably picturing it perfectly. Crowley was so tall and gangly and he didn’t seem to know how to use his hips or legs like everyone else so he could only see him going up to the line, trying to throw the ball while sweeping one leg behind the other like you always see the professionals or people in films do. And sweet Crowley with his swaying hips and long limbs, would probably overshoot and go sliding.

Aziraphale rose a hand to cover his grin. Yes, he could see how he’d go down.

“Oi. I can hear that.”

“Hear what dear boy? I haven’t said a word.”

“I can hear you grinning. Stoppit.”

Aziraphale nearly laughed. “You’re staring at the ceiling, and how would you ‘hear’ a grin anyhow?”

Crowley turned his head towards Aziraphale’s and brandished a bright grin. “Y’learn.”

The barista chose that moment to return with a refill for Aziraphale’s water and to ask if they needed anything else. After they declined she turned to go before stopping and turning back to Crowley.

“Are you still coming to pick up your order tomorrow?”

“It’s the 3rd Monday, ain’t it?”

“Just checking.”

Crowley pursed his lips, suspicious but unsure of why, “sure.”

After she had bounced off Aziraphale turned back to him and, because he was ever so lovely when flustered, teased “coming back tomorrow without me?”

Crowley blinked at him before spluttering, incoherent for a few moments before Aziraphale gave a small chuckle. “Relax, I’m just teasing.”

“Nuh-no, it’s- uh, guh...” He raked a hand through his hair, which was apparently a bad idea because he got it stuck in a knot halfway through and he started quietly cursing while trying to free his hand. Hand free and cheeks pink he crossed his arms with a huff and, not looking at Aziraphale, asked, “you doing anything tomorrow?”

Probably not. The fog was receding but he wasn’t sure he was up to customers just yet. “No, I don’t think so, why?”

“Uh, it’s, hm, easier to show you? Would you meet me here at 11 tomorrow?”

“Sure, but are we eating here for lunch or-”

“No. I mean, not that I’d say no to having lunch with you- just that- that’s not the purpose. Of tomorrow I mean. I- I get an order from here and take it to somewhere else.”

“Alright. And this somewhere else is...?”

Crowley had his head hanging off one arm of the chair and both legs slung over the other but just for this he twisted himself up, bracing his weight on one forearm planted in the seat to look straight at Aziraphale from behind those dark shades. And then he exaggerated the most dramatic wink Aziraphale had ever seen so that it was obvious even behind those dark sunglasses that he was winking. “It’s a secret.”

Aziraphale chuckled, “you wily thing. Alright, have it your way. We’ll meet here tomorrow at 11.”

Crowley smiled back. “Great.”

[bestofmyimmortal]

My Immortal Chapter 39

Or, a look at the most interesting chapter and how it challenges my own opinion on the validity of the infamous fanfic

Since my first encounter with My Immortal in 2012, I’ve been a huge believer that the story is genuine. As someone who used to write (both genuine and parody) fanfiction, I like to believe that I know the difference between a bad writer trying to tell a “real” story, and someone creating a parody of bad fanfic. There are several reasons I believe the story is genuine. When I read the story, I was a young teenager, and though my writing was of a much higher quality than My Immortal, I connected with the themes of the story as things I would emulate in my own writing. One thing that always deterred me (and still does) from writing fanfiction is the fear of being unable to write the characters as similar to the original source work as possible. Tara, who readily admitted that she wasn’t exactly the world’s biggest Potterhead, didn’t care about writing the characters as they were in the books or movies. She created her own characters loosely based on the original, and using the already Gothic setting to build her own, bizarre world. This was something I frequently did in my own works. I was never so obsessively into one thing that I knew every detail about every character. I would get too in my own head when I worried about whether the real characters would act the way my story required them to, so I frequently wrote characters that hardly resembled their canon counterparts. Instead, I wrote the kind of characters I’d wish to meet in the real world, something I’d argue is vital to Tara and the way she writes her fanfiction. We obviously are still in the dark about who Tara really is, despite all the numerous claims over the years, but while reading the story I’ve always thought that Tara was a very young teenager, perhaps 12 or 13, who felt isolated for her interests and wished there were more people like her. Ebony is the kind of person she wanted to be: beautiful, bold, unafraid of what the world thought of her. At her core, Ebony is someone who doesn’t care what other people think about her. She’s horrendously written, but when I was young and wanted to be goth, she’s kind of the teenager I pictured I could be. 

In my experience with writing parody/troll fanfic, on the other hand, I can see why people think this fanfic is fake. It’s written the exact way I wrote my troll fanfiction, but that isn’t exactly a fair point, as I purposely wrote my troll fics in the style of My Immortal. I wasn’t active in the fanfiction scene when My Immortal was written. I can’t speak to what troll fic was like back then. But I never tried to create characters with depth when I wrote troll fic. I was so detached from what I was writing beyond trying to create something ridiculous that I didn’t really care about the characters. I only really enjoyed writing troll fic about shows I hated at the time, so often the characters were hardly more than what I gathered about them from the first episode and the wikipedia article. I can’t say much about writing troll fic for something that I’m more familiar with, but I just can’t imagine writing so much with so much dedication as just a joke. I’m sure others have done it, so it’s completely possible, but I’ve always made the Professor Sinister argument when considering if My Immortal is a troll fic. Professor Sinister is based (extremely loosely) on  Professor Trelawney, but she is nothing like the character besides the class they both teach. Sinister is rude to her students, openly uses “voldermortserum” around them, and swears constantly. She antagonizes the prepz in the story and favors Ebony and her friends. She would be an absolutely horrible role model and teacher, and it is for these reasons that Ebony idolizes her. She’s the kind of cool teacher that middle schoolers wish they had, the kind of person Ebony (and Tara) would want to be when she grows up. Sinister represents an adult that real life Tara could have wanted to know, someone she could trust to be herself around. The other professors in the story are controlling. They either constantly punish Ebony for the trouble she gets up to, or they are actually pedophiles who try to film her naked. They aren’t adults that Ebony could trust or feel safe around. Sinister represent the kind of adult I wished I had when I was younger, someone “cool” who broke the rules and acted like a teenager instead of someone who would tell me what to do, someone who represented the kind of subculture I wanted to be a part of. 

I’ve already written way more than I wanted to before I get to my point about the one thing that always holds me back from saying that I 100% fully believe that My Immortal was genuine. That thing is Chapter 39. Chapter 39, for those who don’t know, is one of the last chapters of My Immortal. It’s also the one where Tara gets “hacked” and the hacker posts her own chapter, when Ebony goes to hell and is punished with endless Hollister clothes that she can never take off. Of all the things to happen in the story, this is by far the most bizarre. For one, Tara never mentions the hack in the author’s notes in the following chapters. She just carries on with the last couple of chapters like nothing happened. If someone knows where to find if Tara wrote anything about the hack somewhere else, please let me know. As far as I can tell, she never said anything about it. It’s just too weird that her account would be hacked and the hacker would write an entire chapter and post it, along with two chapters Tara had sitting in the doc manager. It’s also just a strange thing to do in the first place. Someone had the thought to hack into Tara’s account, claiming it was easy, just to post a fake chapter? It’s certainly not unrealistic to think someone would get bored and do this, it’s just a strange thing to do. It doesn’t feel genuine. It seems, to me, like a break from writing terrible fanfiction and an attempt to get more attention to the fic. In the first half of the story, there are so many author’s notes about “flames” and all the negative comments Tara was receiving about the fic. By the end, where the fic is practically falling apart, there are chapters where “fuk u preps” seems like a side note to talking about the new book or the fact that she was going on vacation. What better way to get people back to your story than faking a hack to give people the Ebony death scene they so clearly desired? However, there is always a chance it was a real hack by a very bored person who apparently didn’t read or care about the story since their author’s note let’s us know they’ve only skimmed chapter 38.

We’ll probably (hopefully) never know more about My Immortal than we already do. We’ll never know for sure if it’s a troll or not. I want to believe that it’s a genuine story being told by someone who I, at one time, really related to and understood. Every time I analyze a different part of this story I see new details I didn’t notice before that build the argument for both sides, which always brings me more into the story and why it holds a special place in my heart. 

[littleshebear]

Destiny fanfiction; A Killing Thing pt. 2.

Part 2 of 2. Jolder’s POV on what happened in the last chapter. far more sweet and fluffy this time. 

Lord Saladin | Lady Jolder | Saladin/Jolder | Iron Lords | The Dark Age | Canon Typical Violence | cw: Assisted suicide | cw: Character death (but they got better | Romance | Fluff |

Part One. 

AO3 Links: Chapter One. | Chapter two. 

The farmers have lit a bonfire in the centre of the village, and set up tables around it laden with food. Those with the talent for it play instruments and sing, while the remainder eat, drink and dance. The settlement isn’t completely safe, not yet but the local Warlord will think twice before attempting another attack and that is cause for celebration.

Jolder makes her way through the crowd, fielding heartfelt thank-yous, offers of food and drink, and the occasional marriage proposal from villagers who have over-indulged on alcohol. She smiles indulgently and says that were she not an Iron Lord, she’d definitely consider it. She scans the gathering and picks out her brothers and sisters from among the villagers. Skorri has joined the musicians, improvising along with their songs as best she can. Silimar is attempting to learn one of the villager’s dances, under the tutelage of Gheleon, who’s having limited success. Silimar is ungainly, he has no sense of timing but he won’t give up. Radegast is speaking with the village elders, always serious, always strategising. Felwinter walks circuits of the courtyard, observing the gathered people with a detached curiosity, as though they were subjects of a scientific experiment.

She finds the only one she was really looking for seated on a log that’s being used as a makeshift bench, on the periphery of the festivities. Saladin sits alone, his elbows resting on his knees, his shoulders hunched. He glances around periodically but refuses to make eye-contact with anyone. It’s as if he’s checking to make sure that his closed-off demeanour is doing its job. It is. No one approaches him, there’s none of the easy camaraderie Jolder experienced when she arrived at the gathering. Saladin may as well be screaming, ‘leave me alone,’ at the top of his lungs.

Jolder just watches him for a while, suddenly reminded of how he was when Radegast had first found him. He’d been so wary, so slow to trust, a wolf unsure if he’d truly found his new pack. She had made it her personal mission to break down his walls. It was a game at first, trying out different strategies to get a reaction out of him. Later, it became a serious challenge to herself, she genuinely wanted to know him, so she sought out every possible chink in his emotional armour. Today, he had finally let down the last of his defences and she found she didn’t know what to do about it. A simple “thank you,” would have been unforgivably trite and she wouldn’t dream of trying to laugh off what they had shared; how that would hurt his easily-bruised heart. She eventually sat up and pulled him into a wordless embrace that she suspected neither of them wanted to end. They knelt together in the blood-stained snow, until Jolder’s comm had crackled into life, with Radegast calling for an update. They hardly spoke on the journey back to the village, their only significant communication being Saladin offering her his arm for support when phantom pain flared up in her.

Jolder’s attention is diverted by the sound of approaching footsteps. She smiles as Perun draws level with her.

“Good work out there today,” Perun nods respectfully. “The Lightbearer give you any trouble?”

“No,” Jolder shakes her head. “No match for the Iron Grump over there. Poor guy didn’t know what hit him.”

“And he’s looking particularly grumpy just now,” Perun observes with a soft chuckle. She then regards Jolder with a searching look. “Everything alright with you and him?”

“Yes,” Jolder answers a little too quickly. “Why?”

“You’re normally joined at the hip but you’ve barely said two words to each other tonight. Something happen between you two?”

Jolder isn’t sure how to answer. It was certainly Something. Something violent, yet tender. Something sublime, yet intimate. How does she explain those contradictions? How does she put into words the way his voice soothed and took away her pain? How does she make Perun understand that if Jolder were to die her final death, and Saladin were the last thing she saw, it probably wouldn’t be a bad way to go?

She opts for a shrug and some misdirection. “The violence gets to him. He’s emotional. You know how he is.”

“You should speak to him. You can usually talk him out his moods.”

Jolder nods and looks back over to Saladin. While she was distracted by Perun, Saladin had been approached by two villagers, a man and a woman, both middle aged. Jolder can’t hear what they’re saying but they’re speaking earnestly to him, they obviously didn’t get the message that his body language was sending out. That, or they chose to ignore it because what they have to say is too important. The woman is clutching Saladin’s hand and looks ready to burst into tears. The man proffers a bottle of something or other to Saladin, who extricates his hand from the woman’s and steps backwards. He shakes his head, holding his hands up. He’s trying to refuse whatever gift they’re giving him but they’re insistent. Saladin eventually accepts the bottle and says an awkward thank you. The couple retreat backwards, scraping and bowing as they go, while Saladin nods his acknowledgement. He remains standing for a moment, clutching the bottle in front of him like a shield. He glances back and forth furtively, then sits back down. He resumes his hunched posture, rolling the bottle between his palms.

“What was that all about?” asks Perun..

“I have no idea,” responds Jolder.

“Go talk to him.” Perun says this as request from a mutual friend but it could almost be an order from their field commander. “He looks like he needs it.”

“Yeah,” Jolder sighs. “I will.” She ambles over towards Saladin with as much nonchalance as she can muster. She doesn’t wait for an invitation to sit, she just plants herself beside him before he can object. She’s gratified when she sees a slight relaxation in Saladin’s posture.

“How are you doing?” he asks. “Does it still hurt?”

Jolder gives a lopsided shrug. “It’s getting better. Twinges a little now and then. I think my brain is finally starting to accept that I don’t have a hole in my side anymore. I’m okay.” She tips her head towards the retreating couple who had accosted him. “What did they want?”

“While you were…” He pauses to search for the right word, “... down , I came across this raider. He swore it was his first raid, he swore he hadn’t fired a shot. I believed him.” His features cloud with what could be anger, sadness or both. “He was just a kid. I let him go.”

“Were they his family?”

Saladin nods. “His parents.”

“The Warlord sent that boy to raid his home village?”

Saladin sighs, “Some sick loyalty test maybe? I don’t know.”

“And the bottle?” A note of amusement creeps into Jolder’s tone.

“The local brew. I don’t think have much of value to offer by way of thanks. They insisted.” He takes a breath and continues before she can interrupt, “I know what you’re going to say, I’m a bleeding heart , it was a risk but I believed him and I was right, he made it home this morning.”

“That’s not what I was going to say.” She keeps her voice as gentle as she can, so that nothing she says can sound like admonishment. “I was going to say that you’re a good man.”

He snorts softly and lets his gaze drop to the ground.

“What’s wrong?” She lays her hand on his arm, “And please don’t say ‘nothing.’ I know you’re upset.”

“Fine.” Saladin places the bottle at his feet and speaks in a monotone. “We killed eleven people today. And we’re having a party.”

“We did. Twelve if you count me.”

“That was different,” Saladin shakes his head. “I did that to help you. You were suffering.”

“ Is it different? Yes, we killed eleven people but how many did we save ? How many would have died if they had made it here?  And you gave those people back their son. I’d say that justifies a party.”

“We’re dead people, brought back to kill. That's all we do. Can we honestly say we’re better than the people we fight?”

“You are nothing like them. Don’t ever think that. You're a protector, not a killer.” Jolder places her hand over Saladin’s and gives it a gentle squeeze. “And it won’t always be like this. We’re making a better world. The Risen who come after will be what they were meant to be; guardians, not conquerors. They’ll be like you.”

He threads his fingers through hers and leans in towards her, while Jolder cups his face with her free hand and pulls him closer until their foreheads touch.

“You’re a good man, Saladin Forge,” she whispers, tracing her thumb across his lower lip. They remain like this for a few moments, just leaning against each other, breathing the same air.

Saladin swallows hard and begins, “Jolder, I-”

“So are you two going to get a room, or what?” Saladin and Jolder pull apart, both glaring towards the interloper. Efrideet stands in front of them, hands on hips, with a mischievous smirk on her face. “Seriously. Do you have any idea how long the pool on you guys has been running now? So is this it? Is it happening? Can I cash out?”

“I don’t know, Efrideet,” Jolder says with mock-brightness, “See, someone just interrupted us.” Saladin just sets his lips in a thin line and growls deep in his chest.

Before Efrideet can respond, Radegast stalks up behind her and grabs her by the collar.

“Come along child,” he intones, steering her away, “Let the grown-ups talk.”

Saladin shakes his head, glowering as he watches Radegast manhandle Efrideet back to the main gathering despite her protests. Jolder tries to maintain her composure for a second or two before collapsing into laughter.

“It’s not funny,” Saladin grumbles. “That girl’s got no manners.”

“Come on, it’s a little bit funny.” She nudges him, jostling him. “They’re running a pool on us.”

“Hmm, and when I find out who’s in on that…” He sighs, picks up the bottle and pulls out the stopper. “I need a drink”.

“What are we drinking to?”

“How about a better world?” He raises the bottle in a toast before taking a swig. He passes it to Jolder who takes a draught. The liquid is warm and the flavour is an odd mix of sweet, sour and smoke.

She looks at the bottle in confusion, “What is that?”

“Kefir,” he answers, taking back the bottle and helping himself to another swig. “It’s made from fermented mare’s milk.”

“You’re telling me I just drank horse milk vodka?”

“Essentially,” he replies with a smirk.

“You know all that stuff I said about you being a good man? I take it back.” She wrinkles her nose and makes a staged retching sound.

Saladin laughs; a low, rumbling sound that makes Jolder’s stomach feel like it’s flipping over. She rests her head against his shoulder and the sit in companionable silence for a while.

It’s Jolder who finally speaks first. “So should we?”

“Should we what?”

“Get a room.” She feels him tense up. She slips her hand back into his. “Do you want to? I thought you did. After what happened today and, well,” she lets out a short, quiet laugh, “I’ve seen the way you look at me sometimes.”

“Everyone looks at you that way.”

She places a gentle hand on his cheek and turns him to face her. “You’re the only one I ever look back at.” She feels his hand begin to tremble beneath hers. She holds his gaze with her own and strokes his face with a feather light touch.

“Do you want me?”

“Yes,” he breathes.

“Do you trust me?”

She sees something break within him when she asks that question. His brows knot together and he exhales sharply. He swiftly closes the gap between them presses his lips against hers. Jolder whimpers softly against his mouth and puts her arms around his neck while Saladin takes her by the waist and pulls her to him. She presses into him as much as she can, she wants to be closer but their armour keeps them separate. It’ll have to go. She breaks away, panting slightly. She takes her hand in his and pulls him to his feet without any resistance. They make their way out of the village, walking faster and faster until they reach the edge of village when they break into a run, and don’t stop until they reach their ship.

They sprint up the gang plank and tumble into Jolder’s quarters. Saladin tangles his fingers in Joldler’s hair and kisses her feverishly, working his way from her lips, to her jaw and down her throat. Jolder does battle with the many (far too many) buckles and clasps on his armour, collapsing into giggles when one proves too stubborn for her shaking hands to undo.

When they finally shed their armour and clothing, when they are finally naked and entwined on her bed, she thinks back to what he'd said in the village. When she feels him move inside her and his heart beating next to hers, she knows he's wrong. They are not dead things. They are not killing things. They are alive, they are so alive.

A/N: I shamelessly stole, “Iron Grump” from @dngrs-untld-hrshps-unnmbrd because it is perfect.

[alcoholicseraphim]

The Year Before Tomorrow

Chapter Sixteen- Year III- Foster Locum

The holding cell was at least clean and warm, which was a vast improvement over her cell in Azkaban. The lack of Dementors and the regular meals were pluses as well. Hermione hardly felt she could ask for more.

The books were the most important thing, though. The "library" that Midgeon had spoken about was more of a catalogue. Hermione decided that she hated this method of researching. How was she supposed to gauge how helpful any book would be if she couldn't hold it, check the table of contents, skim through it? She was glad that she was researching genealogy, a heavily-documented and very general subject.

She scribbled the titles down on a bit of parchment and showed it to her babysitter. "Would it be too much trouble to order me these?" she'd say, looking down at her feet.

At first, she wasn't allowed to take the books into her holding cell, but a chat with Midgeon cleared that up rather quickly. A bit of logic, deference, and sad eyes made him see her point of view. "I'm trying to find my family," she said, voice quivering just a little. "And there are so many families. I'd like to reunite with them as soon as possible."

Her next move was to convince him to allow her access to newspapers. As soon as he caved, Hermione could see why he'd hesitated. She was all over the front page for the first few days, and there were articles published nearly every day. Some painted her as a demon child, while others allowed some sympathy to slip through. Most were suspicious. All were curious.

Would it be a break in character to ignore these articles? She shouldn't lay it on too thick, though. Caricatures people may be, but they rarely liked to think of themselves that way.

"Could I possibly start looking through some foreign newspapers, sir? I don't think my family lives here; otherwise, I would be in the system and found already. Right?"

Midgeon hesitated but allowed it. "Just in Europe, understand?"

"Yes, sir! Thank you!"

It took weeks for her to find an opening. There was an article on the fourth page of La Voyante, which as far as Hermione could tell reported the murders of a nuclear family which belonged to a minor branch of the Selwyn clan. 36-year-old Ygraine and 42-year-old Uther were found burnt alive in their homes, while the body of their daughter, 15-year-old Genevieve, affectionately called Veva, was missing. Another hour or two of flipping through the Selwyn family tree revealed that not only was this branch so far removed as to barely respond to Selwyn blood magic, Genevieve also had brown hair and eyes. No portrait was provided and no details beyond that very basic description.

The story was beginning to come together.

Veva's family was visited by unknown ruffians (she would probably imply that they were Death Eaters, for the sake of simplicity) and Veva watched them be tortured and killed. When they turned to her, her fear overwhelmed her and her magic exploded, sending her to Azkaban for unknown reasons. Her clothes were probably already separated from her body, which would explain why she'd arrived completely nude. Her mind had short-circuited and wiped her memory, and her magic became entirely unstable.

All she had to do was fake a slow recovery of her mental faculties. Well, that and pretend to continue researching.

She shuffled that issue of La Voyante into her "to be read" pile.

The whole night Hermione struggled to create a false memory. It had been some time since she'd done it, and she feared her skills may be rusty. It wouldn't matter too much, she consoled herself, if the memory was fuzzy or if some details were misplaced. Trauma did that, sometimes.

Hours, it took her. Hours. It was worth it, however; by the end, she'd manufactured emotions so genuine she could feel them resonate within her.

Her babysitter sat across the table from her and squinted at paperwork. He was a middle-aged man by the name of Twilling, and Hermione felt an odd mingling of kinship and disquiet. Perhaps he reminded her of her father.

Hermione picked up the next issue of La Voyante and spent several minutes scanning each article and flipping pages. She reached the fourth, read the headline, and stared at one word: Veva. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking.

She lay under the covers in the dark, listening to the front door creak open. Was Maman putting the cat outside? No, she would have heard the stairs creaking. And there, they were- that could only mean someone had come in.

A sense of acute dread flooded her body, and she slid out of bed. She would need to hide, that much was certain. Being careful not to disturb anything on the floor or make any sound at all, she shuffled to the closet and stepped inside before shutting it. The bolt clicked into place, and she winced at even that tiny noise.

Time stood out in sharp relief as she listened intently. She could feel her heartbeat in her veins.

Footsteps in the hallway grew closer, passing by her bedroom and approaching her parents' room. There was silence for several moments, and then Maman's scream split the air apart. It was cut off abruptly, which she found even more unsettling. She could do nothing but listen to the thud of two bodies hitting the floor, and the smaller thuds caused by what she assumed were thrashing limbs.

She wished her closet didn't share a wall with her parents' bedroom. She wished she had her wand. She wished jumping out of her window wouldn't kill her.

Most of all, she wished she couldn't hear the intruders taunts and laughter.

"Veva, you say?" said a man, his voice raspy and cruel. "Your little girl? Don't worry about her. She'll be next."

Renewed thrashing, more snickers. "You won't have to see it. You won't live that long." And then, the unmistakable, "Avada Kedavra."

"Are you all right, miss?" Twilling asked, clearly alarmed. He even set down his quill.

Hermione blinked and looked up at him. "I'm- I don't know," she whispered. "I saw something. I mean, I, I, I remember."

"A memory?"

"Yes, a memory." Hermione let her gaze soften more, giving the impression even though she was staring right at him that she was looking behind Twilling. "My name is Veva, I think."

"What exactly was this memory?" Twilling asked, all business now. He rummaged around in the pocket of his robes for a moment before pulling out a Quick Quotes Quill.

"My parents are dead," she said after a moment, her voice toneless and detached. "I really am an orphan." Before Twilling could motion her to elaborate, Hermione continued. "I never saw them. I was hiding in my closet and I heard the whole thing. They- they said I would be next."

Twilling looked disappointed that she was being so vague, but he had the tact not to press her for more. Perhaps it was the fact that she was on the verge of tears that convinced him not to. He stowed the Quill away in his pocket and looked at her gravely through bushy white eyebrows. "Would you like to be called Veva from now on?"

Hermione nodded and added for good measure, "I would like that, yes."

*|II8II|*

From then on Hermione wasn't the only one actively searching for her "family". It wasn't a priority by any means, and as far as Hermione knew no one was specifically assigned to the task. Her various babysitters did periodically comfort her with their progress, however.

As emotionally and mentally taxing as it was to construct new memories for a separate traumatized girl, it was a necessary task. She'd already compiled a list of facts that must be included in these memories in some way, a list which was already rapidly growing. For example, Veva mostly spoke French in her family, and had been home-schooled. Beauxbatons taught girls how to use their feminine wiles, according to Veva's mother, and both of her parents were very much opposed to the idea. While they were not pureblood supremacists, they did believe in a heavily patriarchal society and religion. Veva was to remain sheltered from the world until such time as suitors were to petition for her hand.

Never before had all of her research into pureblood culture been so useful.

It was July 31st when Hermione lost patience. She'd been dropping hint after hint, even going so far as to "accidentally" drop the La Voyante article onto the table right next to her supervisor. It was more of a character test than an actual bid for freedom, so Hermione wasn't too frustrated, but Hermione had never been patient.

"It's this one," she said, minute traces of a French accent slipping into her usual received pronunciation. "I'm in this one."

She'd picked Twilling on purpose, as the one she'd judged to have the most concern for her. He had two daughters, she'd learned. He looked up immediately, proof that he was a good choice. "What does it say?" he asked, even while holding out his hand to receive the paper himself. Hermione passed it to him without answering, and waited for his eyes to finish skimming the article. "Selwyn?" he murmured aloud, stroking the stubble where before he'd had a full beard. "From France?" He looked up from the newspaper and straight at her, assessing her.

"Do I pass muster, sir?" she quipped, adding a lip tremble and a bubble of tears in both eyes. She brought out the French accent just a bit more.

"I'll speak with the Minister," he said, and stood. "You'd better follow me." He took a moment to scribble a warning and send it with his pygmy owl, Dowry. As soon as the owl took flight, Twilling grasped her shoulder and steered her out into the hallway.

Hermione could hardly speak; the excitement choked her words before they could even form. About halfway up the lift to Midgeon's office, Hermione realized she had to compose herself. Veva would be excited, but that joy would be tempered by grief. She did her best to cobble together an altered version of the memory of finding the article as well. She was putting the finishing touches on it when Midgeon allowed them in.

"I think you'd better read this, sir," Twilling said, holding out the newspaper. Hermione waited for Midgeon to read, then read again, and then again, with as much tolerance as she could muster. Eagerness made it hard to stand still.

Midgeon said nothing for several moments while he too examined Hermione. "Selwyn, you say?" he said.

"That's me," whispered Hermione. "That's me."

"So it appears to be," said Midgeon. He glanced skyward. "The patriarchal branch is within the UK, conveniently enough. I'll have to convince them to meet with me. I suggest," he looked at Hermione again, "you do as much research as you can."

"I will, sir," Hermione said, keeping her scorn nailed to her throat.

Midgeon dismissed them both, and Hermione returned to the "library" to peruse the catalogue once more.

*|II8II|*

The Selwyns had no problems with meeting her, to Hermione's delight. "If all goes well, we can have you home by tomorrow," Midgeon said. "The only thing that would keep them from taking you in now is any major flaw on your part, which I find unlikely." Hermione thought that that was a little too optimistic, but she didn't argue.

On August 3rd, Morfan and Rhea Selwyn Flooed into the Atrium shortly after nine in the morning. Hermione knew about it immediately, being perched in Midgeon's office waiting anxiously for them to show up. Midgeon looked up from his paperwork and smiled at her. "Just a few more minutes," he said.

Keeping up appearances was, in this instance, no problem at all. She really was eager to meet with the Selwyns. She was even more eager to stop wasting time and get out of the Ministry and into the real world.

Hermione heard their footsteps sounding down the hallway from the moment they stepped out of the lift, thanks to the sound-enhancing charm on the Minister's office. There were only the two pairs, so either one of them decided not to come or they had no escort. It was entirely possible that it was a show of trust on the Ministry's part. Clever, she thought.

The rap on the door was decisive- Rhea Selwyn, she supposed. Midgeon waved his wand and the door opened. The Selwyns showed no hesitation in stepping through, as if they consorted with the highest-ranking government official every few days. It was, perhaps, close enough to the truth.

"Good morning, Minister Midgeon," Rhea said with perfect grace. Morfan mumbled an echo of his wife's greeting, looking down at his feet.

Hermione, making sure to keep her face hopeful and somewhat fearful, took the opportunity to examine her possible new guardians. Rhea Selwyn was, according to the genealogy books, in her late twenties, and she looked it. She was a strong, if somewhat plain, woman, with soft mother's eyes and a steely matron's voice. Her dark brown hair was plaited in a circlet around her head with a perfection that could only have been accomplished by a house elf. Her robes were elegant but simple, a sweeping black cloak down to her feet.

Morfan Selwyn was far, far older than his wife. To look at him, he was well past his centennial, but in truth he was only in his nineties. His posture was awful and he kept rigid at Rhea's side, tucked in thick wool robes despite it being late summer. For as weak as he appeared to be, he trained sharp, intelligent eyes on first Midgeon and then on her, studying them as she was studying him. She smiled shyly, a test, but his face remained entirely neutral.

"So you're Genevieve," Rhea remarked. It wasn't a question. Her gaze scanned Hermione from her bushy hair to her Transfigured trainers, and then back up to her dark skin. "Very distant relation, I assume."

"Yes ma'am," Hermione said, keeping her tone light and deferential even as her skin burned where Rhea scrutinized it. "My mother's mother was foreign."

"I see," said Rhea. "And just where are you from?"

"Lyon, ma'am," Hermione said. "At least, that's what the newspapers say." She glanced down at the ground, pretending to be properly cowed, and Rhea smiled.

"What do you think, my love?" the Selwyn matriarch asked, turning to Morfan. "We have no children yet."

"I have no objections," Morfan muttered.

Midgeon, who had been watching quietly through this exchange, pushed a piece of parchment forward. "So you agree to take her in, at least temporarily? You'll receive a stipend from the Ministry, naturally, if you do."

Rhea grabbed the quill he held out to her and scribbled her name on the line, then handed it to her husband. He didn't sign right away, instead taking a few moments to read through it. "You really want her off your hands, don't you?" he said to himself, and signed.

Hermione felt energy trickle through her veins like wet sand and then it was over.

"I'd hoped she would look more native," Rhea said. "I don't believe she's changed at all."

That's not always how it works, she wanted to say. This isn't a magical adoption, but a ward agreement. Like foster care. But she said nothing.

Rhea opened her mouth to speak more, and while she chattered away to Midgeon Morfan jerked his head for Hermione to stand. She obeyed without delay.

We'll speak more at home, his eyes said. Hermione nodded back, just a tiny shake so as to not attract Rhea's attention.

Midgeon said his goodbyes and dismissed them all with the reminder that he had paperwork to fill out, and Rhea placed one hand on Hermione's shoulder and propelled her forward. It was all Hermione could do not to throw herself across the room. She could not abide touch. Could not. She shrugged out of Rhea's grasp and sent her an apologetic smile, walking forward on her own down to the lift.

Hermione kept to the other side of Morfan, away from her new matriarch's tendency to be grabby. They stood in the lift in silence, listening to the cool female voice announcing the floors as they passed them. When the lift doors opened again, Rhea swept out into the Atrium and with single-minded purpose toward the Floo. Most employees had already arrived and so they didn't have to wait long. They all crammed into the fireplace and Rhea threw down the green powder from a pouch at her side.

"Selwyn Estate!" Rhea cried, and they were off.

Hermione hated the Floo. Always had, probably always would. She did her best to streamline her body to avoid unnecessary bumps, but she scraped her elbows more than once and she knew from experience that her hair was collecting massive amounts of soot. She didn't dare open her eyes.

It was only a few seconds before they were spat out into the fireplace at the Selwyn home. Rhea twitched her skirt and stepped out as flawless as before, and Morfan didn't appear to have been dirtied in the slightest. Hermione hovered in the hearth, her face burning.

"I wouldn't want to ruin your rug," she explained, beating at her own plain robes. Entire mountains of soot and ash fell to the floor of the fireplace. Her hair was a lost cause; it would take several washes to get it clean again.

"Vici!" Rhea snapped, and a house elf appeared.

This house elf wore a clean green tea towel, and her- Hermione wasn't sure how she knew, but it was definitely a her- ears stood straight up like a fox's. Together they were bigger than her shriveled head. "Right away, Mistress," she said, prim as could be, and snapped her fingers. Hermione felt her curls stretch down to their full length and shiver, shaking the dirt off. It didn't hurt, exactly, but she was hyper-aware of the roots of her hair, as if she'd tried to part it somewhere new.

Vici disappeared as suddenly as she'd come, and Hermione put a hand up to her hair. Her hair was no longer curly, but straight as straw. An irrational anger made her feel light and tall, but she reined it back. "I was fond of the way it was," she said evenly.

"What, filthy?" Rhea snorted, and spun around and left.

Hermione stared after her, furious and impotent, until Morfan coughed.

"I'll show you to your room," he grumbled.

Hermione was not oblivious to the kindness displayed in his offer. Clearly they had at least one house elf, and she'd known many pureblood families. Especially with his age, to offer to escort her was indicative of his concern.

"Thank you, sir," she said, awkwardly putting her hand through his offered elbow. She supported him even as he escorted her, shouldering his meagre weight on her left side.

They turned nine times. Nine! Hermione was quite sure they were deep within the manor, and it would take her weeks to find her way through these hallways. At last Morfan stopped in front of a door identical to all the others in a hallways that was just the same as each one they'd passed. With a quick glance at Morfan, Hermione reached out one hand and pushed down on the curved handle.

Her bedroom was a storm of soft pastel colors. The carpet was baby blue, plush, and thick. Hermione stepped out of her trainers and sank her sock-clad feet in the ocean of soft fibers, observing as it hugged the side of her feet. It was magical, she realized, and the carpet stroked her toes, confirming her thought. Each wall was a gradient of purple to pink, with twinkling stars on the dark ceiling.

It was a child's room, and she looked askance at Morfan.

"My wife has been expecting a son of her own," Morfan explained, expression just as impassive as before. "We have had the furniture enlarged to fit you."

The implications were unmistakable. Had they given up on birthing a child, and instead planned to adopt one? Hermione couldn't imagine any other reason such a well-loved room would be given to her. "How long has it been this way?" Hermione wondered aloud.

"Six years," said Morfan. Hermione blinked, startled. Morfan shuffled away, wobbling just a bit. "I'll leave you to explore on your own."

You do that, Hermione thought, but said nothing. She was already moving forward to feel the walls. They were perfectly smooth to her touch but gave way to even a gentle push. The walls were almost as soft as the floor. Without noticing, tears came to her eyes and flowed down her cheeks. She could feel the sorrow pooling in this room. She could feel the presence of a child who had never existed at all. She could feel the sustained hope.

Hermione went to the bed and curled up on top of the covers, and immediately, inexplicably, she was asleep.