#did i just spend an hour on this web weave only to now lay down and writhe in pain as i listen to this song. the answer is yes

[altarcup]

i've been watching him for my entire life / i hate the air he breathes, his foolish decrees / his words so contrived / and i hate the way the townspeople gather outside / they hang on every breath, cling to his chest / home to his heart full of pride

the oracle told him to beware the ides / and i'd be lying if i said i wasn't wishing / for untimely death or demise / or am i just wishing i could be like you? / that the people would see me too as a poet / and not just the muse

oh, it's not true, i don't wish harm upon you / from birth we've been like brothers of different mothers / within the spirit of the same womb / may the gods strike me down if i forsake you / frater meus, you're beautifully made / and to you i'm forever grateful

i'll never forget that you showed me to make art / and i know the love you showed me came / from a pure and noble heart / i love you, and if you want, i'll call you king / but why do i lie awake each night thinking / instead of you, it should be me ?

something wicked this way comes / and as i set to face it, i'm unsure / should i embrace it, should i run? / what motivates me? hatred? is it love? / what's more wrong; that i too wish to be great / or my mother wished she'd had a son?

and even if i can't be the one / maybe i could at least help make way for him / until the day that he comes / maybe my name could also be known / that i helped return good to the people / and restored greatness to rome

my name is brutus and my name means heavy / so with a heavy heart / i'll guide this dagger into the heart of my enemy / my whole life, you were a teacher and friend to me / please know my actions are not motivated only by envy / i, too, have a destiny / this death will be art / the people will speak of this day from near and afar / this event will be history, and i'll be great too / i don't want what you have, i want to be you

i always knew i could be the one / though i feel the endless pain of being / and i am scorched by the sun / of humble origins and born of the cursed sex / my name is brutus, but the people will call me rex.

[fireinmoonshot]

SPIDER | BUCKY BARNES x READER | PART ONE

CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR TFATWS EPISODE 3 ONWARDS.

PART ONE OF ? Summary: Bucky doesn’t know what to make of you when he meets you. You’re friends with Sharon, and you seem pretty easy to read on the surface. But the more time he spends with you, the more he seems to uncover, and the more he becomes tangled in the web you unwittingly weave.  Pairing: female!Reader x Bucky Barnes Fandom: Marvel / The Falcon and the Winter Soldier Word Count: 1,138 Warnings: SPOILERS FOR THE FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER EPISODE 3 ONWARDS A/N: Title is taken from the song Spider by Hoshi! The lyrics really inspired me for the dynamic between reader x Bucky in this one. This does contain spoilers for Episode 3 of The Falcon and the Winter Soldier and it will probably contain more as the parts go on. I’m not sure how many parts there will be at this point, I’ll just see how I go! Please let me know how you enjoy it and I’ll try and get the second part up relatively soon!

Bucky specifically makes sure he doesn’t look at you for too long just so he can avoid the teasing from Sam – because he knows Sam will tease him. Sam always teases him. He also avoids looking at you for too long because he’s worried you’ll catch him and he’ll have to explain himself. He’s not good at explaining himself.

From where you’re sat across from him in your and Sharon’s apartment, you cross your legs and take a long sip of your drink. Zemo has made himself at home, Sam and Sharon are having a conversation by the wardrobe and Bucky is sat on the couch looking more uncomfortable than you’ve ever seen anyone sit before.

“We don’t bite, you know?” You say.

He looks at you for a second. “You’re funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be. I’m telling the truth. Sharon and I – we genuinely don’t bite. And that couch doesn’t either, it’s actually rather comfortable.”

Bucky narrows his eyes at you. You smile.

He doesn’t know what to make of you and it bothers him.

When Sharon had found them in Madripoor and essentially saved their lives, Bucky hadn’t expected to see her, let-alone see her with someone else. In the time it’d taken you to get back to your apartment Sharon had explained the basics. You’d met accidentally one night when you were both on the run from different people. A friendship had been struck and you’d been by each others sides ever since, saving each others asses on a nearly daily basis. The blip had taken the both of you, but when you came back things were just the same, if not stronger.

Sharon crosses the room and sits down rather comfortably on the couch next to Bucky. You smirk at the difference in their posture and Bucky flashes a glance at you once more, and thankfully you don’t catch him.

“Karli Morgenthau and at least seven others have taken the serum,” Sam sits down on the chair beside you, ignores Bucky’s comment about your best friend and instead, focuses on the situation at hand.

“You guys really should steer clear of all of this… for your own safety.”

Sam shakes his head. You’ve only known him personally for a matter of hours, but it’s clear to you that he’s the type of man who never backs down. You find it easy to trust people like him. “We know it’s a risk but we’re not gonna leave until we find the person who cracked the code.”

Bucky speaks up. “We got a name. Wilfred Nagel.”

You recognise the name. Sharon meets your eyes and you can see the apprehension in her face. “Nagel works for the Power Broker.” She stands up and goes to get her drink. The protective instincts you feel for her nearly make you stand up and order the three men out of your apartment, though you truly doubt they’d listen. You and Sharon have been through too much to get yourselves tangled up in more, right?

“We need your help, Sharon,” Sam starts again. “I can get your name cleared.”

Unintentionally, you suck in a harsh breath. Bucky looks at you, the only one in the room who seems to have noticed your intake of breath. He notices that you’re tense now, no longer comfortably slumped in your chair. He also notices that the grip you have on your glass is much tighter.

Sharon raises an eyebrow. “You haggling with my life?”

“Not like that.”

“I don’t buy that. You pretending like you can clear my name.”

“Okay, maybe it is hypocrisy. Maybe you’re right. What happened to you. But I’m willing to try if you are,” Sam stood up and walked over to Sharon. “They cleared the bionic staring machine, and he killed almost everybody he’s met.”

“I heard that.” He speaks without looking away from you, not caring that he’s living up to Sam’s nickname. You don’t notice.

“I don’t trust charity.”

“Okay, a deal, then. You help us out and I get your name cleared.”

Your grip on the glass tightens as you watch Sharon sigh and reach out a hand to shake Sam’s extended one. Bucky, at this point, is surprised that the glass hasn’t shattered, but then again – you’re not a super soldier, and the glass is pretty thick.

Sharon lets go of Sam’s hand. “Well, I sell to some pretty connected people. Lay low, enjoy the party. Try to stay out of trouble. I’ll see what I can find.”

You’re on your feet in seconds, putting your glass down a little too heavily on the table and walking out of the room after her. Bucky is smart enough to put two and two together as Sam comes and sits back down.

“Only Sharon’s name?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

“What? I don’t know her friend. She’s barely said a word. We know Sharon. Her friend could be anyone. We’re not in the business of trusting people we don’t know. Not when this much is at stake.”

Bucky looks across at the glass you’d left on the table. “You’re judging people based off of first impressions now?”

“Don’t you?”

Bucky can’t bring himself to reply to that. He stands and wanders over to one of the windows that overlooks the city and the streets below. He pretends he’s looking out at the view, but he doesn’t see anything except for his reflection staring back at him darkly. He does. He did. He judged you, and then he judged Sam for doing the same thing. He shakes his head and turns back around.

“Let’s just get this damn party over with and find Nagel. I want to get out of here.”

He’s about to walk back over to Sam when you come downstairs. You grab your coat from the coat rack by the door and tug it on, pulling the hood up over your head. Sharon is nowhere to be seen and Bucky has a bad feeling your conversation hadn’t ended well.

“If anything the three of you are doing is going to end up hurting her, I’d rethink your plans.” You take a moment to look around the room and Bucky could have sworn your gaze lingered a little longer on him.

And then you’re gone, disappearing out the door without another word. Bucky ignores the tug deep in his stomach that pulls him to follow you and stays firmly rooted to the spot.

Sam frowns. “See? I knew something weird was up with her.”

***

Bucky doesn’t see you at the party that night. He looks, though. He spends too long looking. He sees Sharon talking to several people, he sees Zemo dancing and wishes he could erase the sight from his mind. But he doesn’t see the one person he doesn’t realise he wants to see. You.

[authenticcadence18]

Butterfly pt. 1

Here’s the pre-Battle For Mewni canon-divergent Starco fic I wrote in 2017!!!

Have a note from my younger self to give context to the story:

“I'm not quite sure what events lead up to this or what happens afterward...this story is just a piece of what I imagine could happen during Toffee's eventual attack on Mewni. This scene takes place on Mewni, and Marco obviously used his dimensional scissors to get there.....duh 😜.”

(Also I wrote this four years ago, when my writing style wasn’t nearly as developed/polished as it is now. I could spend hours editing it, but I‘d feel kinda bad doing that to my younger self��.)

...

AO3

...

"STAR!!!!!!!!!"

Marco struggled relentlessly against the green chains of energy that prohibited him from moving, but there was nothing he could do but watch, horrified, as Toffee drained the life out of his best friend

"STOP!!!! YOU'RE HURTING HER!!!!!"

Piercing green magic gushed from the severed crystal imbedded in the villain's hand and swirled furiously around Star, whose electric blue eyes were growing dimmer by the second. The princess lunged at Toffee, wand-in-hand, in one final attempt to subdue him, but his magical assault had weakened her body beyond repair. With a shrill moan, Star collapsed to the ground and lay motionless, the light in her pupils now almost completely extinguished.

A sob tore through Marco's throat as he struggled against the magical shackles binding him for the umpteenth time, only to discover that he was now able to move freely. He scrambled to his best friend's side and frantically began checking for a pulse, for breath, for anything that indicated she was alright. All the while, he continued to assure her, "It's okay, Star, you're fine, it's going to be fine, please be fine, you'll be just fine, Star, PLEASE be fine!!!!"

But he felt nothing.

Star Butterfly—crown princess, heir to the throne of Mewni, and Marco's best friend—was no more.

"......you killed her......" Marco uttered blankly, staring into the sunken black eyes of the girl who'd radically changed his life in such a short amount of time. Trembling, partially from despair and partially from fury, he inclined his head to meet Toffee's watchful gaze and repeated, "....you KILLED her...!!"

Toffee chuckled, the chilling timbre of his voice not quite clicking with the spindly bird form he still had possession of. "Well, not technically," the former Ludo corrected Marco smoothly, hovering above him with a smile that could have been perceived as understanding, had he not already revealed his hand. "I've merely drained her magical life force. It would be possible to restore it and revive her if you had any healers around, but..."

He smirked.

"I believe the Chancellor is still...out of commission."

Marco's eyes narrowed. "Alright, fine! You've got Star! What about me? Are you going to suck the life out of me too before I karate-chop you into the next multiverse???"

Toffee tisked, an almost fatherly expression appearing on his face. "Oh Marco," he crooned gently, as if gently chiding a disobedient child. "There's no point in that. Without her?" He gestured to Star's broken form. "You're nothing."

With this, the villain cackled menacingly and snatched up Star's wand before zooming out of the cave and slamming a rock in front of the entrance with a wave of his hand, leaving Marco alone with the shell of the coolest girl he'd ever known.

With Toffee gone, the reality of the situation slowly began to sink in....

Star was gone.

And it was his fault.

"....STAR!!!!" Marco wailed, tears blurring his vision. "THIS WASN'T SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN!!! I—it's all my fault..... If it weren't for me, you wouldn't have had any reason to cleave your wand in the first place!! You...you'd be alive..."

He took one of Star’s cold hands in his, despair weighing him down so heavily that he doubted he'd ever be able to stand again.

"You trusted me with your friendship, and I hurt you. You trusted me with your life, and I let you die....

"...you trusted me with your heart...." he managed to choke, the final lyrics of Ruberiot's song reverberating within his skull, "...and all I did was push it aside......"

He knelt near Star in silence for a few minutes, grasping desperately for answers within his head. How could this have happened? How could he have let this happen??

"You know," Marco murmured weakly, "Jackie and I decided to stop dating pretty soon after you left Earth. I knew finding my best friend and being there to support her was more important than focusing on a girlfriend, and Jackie agreed....but I also think she was convinced that I'd fallen for you..."

He winced.

“...but I guess none of that really matters now, huh?"

Marco gazed down at the princess's fallen form, wishing beyond belief that he'd done things differently in Star's time on Earth, wishing he knew what he could have done to prevent her from ending up like this, wishing he'd been able to see the truth before it had been too late to act upon it.

"I'll finish what you started, Star," he vowed, determination seeping into his voice. "I promise, I'll do everything I can to protect the citizens of Mewni and defeat Toffee. And I promise that I'll never stop looking for a way to bring you back and that you'll always be the best, most amazing friend I could've ever hoped to have, and that..."

His voice cracked.

"...and that I'll always love you."

Gently, Marco brushed a rebellious strand of blonde hair off of Star's forehead and planted a soft kiss on her brow.

"Goodbye, Star."

With this, Marco's resolve shattered, and he broke down in gut-wrenching sobs, shoulders quaking and chest burning.

So it made sense that he didn't notice when the two hearts stamped on Star's cheeks began glowing faintly.

Slowly, translucent webs of purple began weaving themselves around the princess's form, lifting her up bit by bit as they did so. Star herself did not stir, but something within her most certainly was stirring.

When Marco felt Star's fingers shift away from his, his eyes shot wide open. Out of instinct, he jerked back upon observing her continue to rise off of the ground, still unconscious. As the webs grew thicker and thicker, encasing the princess's entire body, the rosy glow emanating from them only grew as well. Marco watched in awe as the chrysalis began to vibrate when it rose to around five feet off of the ground. Faster and stronger it writhed, until at last, with a searing flash of light so bright and pink that Marco lost his vision for a couple of seconds, the figure within burst free.

"......am I dead? ..... Marco, is that you?? Are we both dead???"

Marco, unfortunately, was currently incapable of offering any sort of response. He simply stood, gaping, with his eyes set upon the girl hovering a few yards away from him.

Star waved her hands in Marco's direction, only to recoil when she found more than eight fingers—and purple ones, no less!—at her disposal. "Yikes!!" she shrieked, recoiling.

Her eyes narrowed as she examined her two newly-formed sets of limbs. "....wait a minute."

Tentatively, she craned her head back--and gasped with joy at what she discovered.

"MY MEWBERTY WINGS!!!!!!!" Star giggled gleefully, twirling circles in the air on a pair of intricately-patterned lavender wings. "THEY'RE ALL GROWN UP!!!!!!"

And indeed they were. Star Butterfly had at last unlocked the full heritage of the Butterfly dynasty coded deep within her DNA. Unfolding from her back were two massive butterfly wings adorned with shimmering hearts. Six arms extended from her torso now, and a pair of dainty antennae bobbled above her head. Her hair, now also a shade of dark violet, had shortened significantly as well, so as not to get caught in her wings.

"This is so cool...!" Star breathed. "Marco, what do you think??"

The sound of Star repeating his name finally snapped Marco out of his stupor.

"....STAR!!!!!!" he proclaimed elatedly, hastily rushing over to her with a luminescent grin on his face. "You're okay!!!!! Well—more than okay, actually!"

Beaming, Star scooped Marco up in a six-armed hug and spun him around in the air a few times, the two of them laughing and celebrating as if the events of the past month or so had never occurred.

But just as quickly as Star's mood spiraled upward, reality set back in as she began recalling where she was. Quickly, the princess set Marco down before planting her own feet on the floor.

"Wait a minute..." she voiced with uncertainty, cocking her head at her best friend. "Didn't Toffee, like, drain my powers and more or less leave me for dead? That's the last thing I remember..."

Marco nodded with a little shiver. “…yup.”

"So...how am I prancing about on newly-grown mewberty wings now?"

Marco shrugged. He had to keep blinking to assure himself that Star’s transformation wasn’t just a cruel trick of his heartache-addled mind.

Star stared at him for a moment, perplexed. Then, without quite knowing why she was led to do so, she tentatively raised a hand to her forehead and touched it—in the very spot where Marco had kissed her only minutes before.

Instantly, a wave of understanding pummeled Star, and she staggered back.

"...it was you!" she gasped.

But before she had the chance to elaborate on this, the stone guarding the entrance to the cave groaned and started shifting to the side.

“You know something, Marco?” Toffee called out as he pushed the stone away. “I’ve been thinking...maybe you have some potential after all! You see, I’ve been meaning to find a new—erm, shall we say, host? And what better person to destroy Mewni as than the former princess’s best fri—“

Toffee took pride in having mastered a distinctly precise ability to mask his emotions. It was one of the qualities that kept him on his toes after centuries of plotting against the Butterfly family. But even he, the immortal monster of legends and tapestries, could not contain his bewilderment at the sight awaiting him.

Star Butterfly was fine. More than fine, actually. She had never appeared more powerful. And Marco Diaz, the seemingly-useless karate boy, was standing right beside her.

Heroes and villain stared wide-eyed at each other, each wondering how to gain the upper hand. After matter of seconds that consisted of Toffee darting his gaze between the princess and her prince, understanding suddenly dawned upon him. He chuckled, quickly regaining his composure.

“Well well…” the monster crooned with a smirk, directing his gaze towards Marco. “Looks like you aren’t as much of a disappointment as I thought.

“And Star! Why, you look just like your mom did the last time we fought. It's a shame to think of her discovering that her dear little princess finally earned her wings but tragically had the life re-drained out of her before she really got to use them…I’ll be sure to dispose of her before she has to find out." With these words, Toffee fired a blast of green magic at the currently-wandless Star, smiling wickedly.

Star, however, wasn't going to give herself up so easily this time. Eyes and hearts igniting, she thrust her hands forward as searing pink magic gushed out of them like a waterfall and formed a bubble around her. Toffee's blast fizzled and sputtered away as soon as it touched the force-field.

Toffee's eyes widened in shock and then narrowed in disdain. He fired another shot at Star, and then another, and then another, but the warrior princess deflected every blast as effortlessly as if she'd been doing it for her whole life. When Toffee realized that he'd lost his chance to defeat her, he made a last-ditch attempt to gain the upper hand by manifesting a giant, luminescent green limb and snatching Marco—who'd been soaking up every second of the battle from the sidelines, awestruck—with it....not realizing his action would have the opposite effect of what he intended.

"NO."

The next thing Toffee knew, he was lying flat on his back with the wind knocked out of his host's puny lungs. He could vaguely make out the hazy form of Star Butterfly hovering over him with a venomous glint in her eyes.

"You can try and kill me all you want, but touch Marco....and I'll destroy you," she declared in a razor-sharp whisper.

For the first time since he'd lost his finger to Moon, all those years ago, Toffee's stomach--though, technically it was still Ludo's stomach--lurched as an unpleasant chill seized his body.

He was afraid.

With the last of his energy, the villain rose from the ground and frantically fled the cave, leaving Star's wand behind in his haste.

Star remained hovering in the air, glaring after him with the same stone-hard expression on her face.

".....Star?"

Tentatively, Marco approached the princess and grabbed the hand that was nearest to him.

"You can calm down now. He's gone."

Star's shoulders relaxed, and she gently sank to the ground, her wings and extra arms folding up and disappearing as she did so. Marco immediately knelt beside his best friend and helped her to stand, supporting her weight while she re-adjusted to her normal form.

Star winced, holding one of two hands to her now-pale forehead

"Ugh....Mom didn't tell me how draining it is to earn your wings...." she grumbled.

Marco, on the other hand, had never felt more alive. "Star, that was amazing!!!!" he exclaimed. "You just took down Toffee, the same guy who managed to defeat the entire magic high commission and drain their powers in less than two minutes!!! And after he'd drained your power, too!!!!! You still managed to beat him!!!!!!"

Star stared at the ground for a bit, the gears in her head whirring. Finally, she raised her gaze to Marco, hand still poised at the top of her head.

"But I couldn't have done it if it weren't for you.”

"....what do you mean?" Marco asked—though deep down he suspected he understood what Star was getting at.

"I--I'm not sure..." Star replied sheepishly, shrugging her shoulders with a meager chuckle. "It's just...it's like....you replenished my power source. I can feel it was you. But I can't figure out how!!"

Marco bit his lip, uncertain as to how he could be more anxious in this moment than he'd been when Toffee was about to possess him.

Then, he spotted the royal wand, which was still strewn on the floor. Swiftly, he scooped up the heirloom and held it out to Star, who seemed to snap back into focus upon seeing it.

"You're right, Marco," the princess decreed, reclaiming her wand from her best friend. "We'll talk through this later."

Grinning mischievously, Star sprang into the air and raised her arms, and suddenly she was a butterfly again!

"Right now, we have a kingdom to save!"

...

Thanks for reading!! I actually wrote part of a continuation to this back in the day but I never quite finished it...soooo I’m going to try to finish it and then post the conclusion sometime!

(And AGAIN there’s a lot of canon-divergent stuff in this fic, I know Star isn’t ACTUALLY biologically a Butterfly😅. But I didn’t know that four years ago, lol!)

[sockablock]

(start) - (previous) - (next)

Chapter 4: Just a Parlor Trick

“—and this is your room! Or it will be, soon, once we get your stuff moved in.”

A blur of curls flew past Nott and dove headfirst onto the bare mattress. Two-feet-two of little halfling boy sprung up, danced around in a circle, and surveyed his new kingdom by bouncing on the bed.

It was—as Nott would be the first to admit—pretty bare at the moment. Caleb had already taken all of his belongings, but there hadn’t been that much to begin with. Aside from the bed-now-turned-trampoline, there was just an oak wardrobe, and a rug. The only other fixture of note was the window, framed by thin blue drapes, currently open and letting in the sea breeze.

“What do you think, Luc?” Yeza grinned from the doorframe. “How do you like it?”

“The ocean is so cool!” Luc’s hair flew around in a storm as he jumped. “And the people—there’s so many people, Dad! That big turtle at the restaurant—his back had a pipe in it!”

Nott felt the ghost of a touch on her arm. When she caught Yeza’s tentative expression, she forced herself to relax into it.

The illusion had held so far, hadn’t it? And besides, her husband already knew the truth.

“It’s okay,” she said quietly. “It’s okay. I’m okay.” Then she gave her son a smile. “And what do you think about the house, sweetie? Do you like your room?”

Luc, mid-air, gave this some thought.

“It’s smaller than my old room,” he said. “The window is bigger. Can I put my pictures up?”

There was a box of posters somewhere in the moving van. Apparently, some time in the last three years, Luc had gotten incredibly invested in a semi-popular cartoon series featuring a team of adventurers who solved mysteries in the Marrow Valley. Yeza had told her during one of their rare reunions that the clerk at the store was all but giving them away; something about increasing promotional awareness.

“Of course you can put your pictures up, Luc.”

He beamed a freckled, toothy smile.

“I like it, Mom! Can I put them up now?”

— — —

Jester hummed cheerfully to herself as she made her way through the streets of Nicodranas.

The novelty of such an act was not lost on her, and not just because she’d spent most of her life indoors—the last time she’d hurried down a road like this, it’d been under much less enjoyable circumstances.

But Jester had more tricks up her sleeves these days, and skipping between street merchants and bustling crowds, weaving through the Opal Archways in the middle of rush hour, she was certain she could hide from any watching eyes.

She squeezed the picnic basket in her arms, packed tight with the best pastries money could buy. She’d keep an eye out, too, for that little sidewalk café that did the strawberry-mango drinks Momma liked, though Jester suspected that her mother was just feigning enthusiasm to get her to eat more fruit.

The stoplight above flickered twice, then turned green. She looked both ways, then skipped across the street.

Maybe she should make a stop for sandwiches. And flowers, while she was at it—and over there, a book sale! Now that Jester was finally back home, with the Chateau such an easy walk from her apartment, every weekend she did her best to bring the whole city to her mother’s boudoir.  

Not that—and here she giggled at the thought—Momma needed any help there.

The Ruby of the Sea was busy, after all. Just not too busy for her little sapphire.

— — —

The thing was, Essek’s mother was busy.

She was always busy, and with good reason at that; for longer than Essek had even been alive—and how much longer before that, gods knew—Deirta Thelyss had been the Umavi of Den Thelyss, and therefore a permanent and immovable fixture in the intricate political dance of the Kryn Dynasty.

In another life, perhaps, Essek might have followed in her footsteps and joined her in running the country—though, if she got her way, there was a good chance that he ultimately would. But, as the Dynasty and Empire so far had managed to maintain a tenuous hold on peace, currently there was little need for a person of Essek’s particular talents.

The irony of that statement occasionally made him want to laugh, though he didn’t much feel like laughing now. It had taken a considerable amount of willpower to even drag him over to his desk, and there he sat with his forehead to the surface, lamenting that going back to bed hadn’t solved his problems.

Why was Mother bothering to attend the upcoming Clovis Concord Gala? Not a single one of these coastal cities was closely allied with the Dynasty, and the sheer geographical distance between them made the two nations vaguely aware of each other at best. In fact, Essek had chosen Nicodranas specifically because of how little the Bright Queen cared about it.

Which meant the unavoidable fact of the matter was that Mother was coming just for him.

The wood of his desk was cold on his head. If she were here now, she’d tell him to sit up.  

Actually, she’d probably say much more than that. If Verin was telling the truth—and his brother had always been on his side when it came to Mother— fending off another round of her attempts to force him home would only be half the struggle.

He kicked his chair back and listened to the way his wheels slid across the floor. Distantly, he could just make out some muted shuffling coming from the kitchen, and he had to remind himself that it was probably not a burglar, but Caleb.

Today was his second day in the apartment, and the man would probably need a few days to settle in. Though, Essek noted with a hint of satisfaction, Caleb seemed like a very efficient person. He’d actually…quite enjoyed their negotiation last night, despite how long it ended up being. For just a few hours his fear of an impending maternal maelstrom had been staved off by the way Widogast sometimes quirked his eyebrow while he was reading, or by the way he’d gently tap the clip of his borrowed pen with his thumb…

Essek had let him keep it, afterwards. He hadn’t even considered doing otherwise.

And as that thought crossed his mind, his restful silence was shattered by a crash.

— — —

“Knock-knock, Momma!”

“Ah, Jester! Come in! Close the door behind—oh, bother.”

This was immediately followed with the sound of air snapping to fill a void, then another minor explosion accented by four scrabbling paws.

“Nugget! Oh, Nuggy, I’ve missed you so much—”

Marion Lavore hiked up her skirts and gently side-stepped the slobber on the floor. She made her way back to her chaise lounge just a moment after Jester peeled herself from the dog.

“He’s getting quite big,” her mother said, artfully removing the exhaustion from her tone. But two decades of living under Momma’s roof gave Jester all the hint that she needed.

“Oh, I want to take him back, I really do, but the apartment doesn’t let us have dogs.” Jester sank into a plush sofa with Nugget wagging his tail at her heels. He put his head in her lap and drooled.

“And…your luck with finding a…a new apartment?”

“We’ve all been busy, Momma,” Jester sighed. “Beau is working all day long to set up a new library by the Quay, and Yasha disappears all the time even though she’s…feeling better now. I think it’ll be a while until everything’s calmed down and we can look.”

Marion pointedly did not think about the many curtains that Nugget had already eaten in three months.

“Ah, well. I understand. And how are you doing, my sweet?”

Jester giggled. “I’m doing good! I’ve been drawing and painting a lot by the sea, and keeping busy with other arts and crafts. Did you know people on the Internet will buy dozens of tiny clay dick statues? The Traveler thought it was very funny.”

Her mother’s expression was an ocean of calm. “Oh, is that…is that so? Well, I’m glad to hear you’re finding ways to…spend your day.”

“I brought some to show you!”

“Oh, how...lovely…”

“Some paintings, Momma.” Jester set aside the picnic basket and fished around in her knapsack. The bag was a horrifically pink mess of burlap and loud, jangly pins. Jester had to shove aside quite a few rolls of brushes and capped paints as she searched.

Marion watched her work with interest. “Well, even if you had brought a…the statue, I would—oh, Jester. It’s beautiful!”

Jester beamed as her mother took the canvas, gingerly like it was—and it was—fine art.

In her hands, a stunning landscape of the sea beside Nicodranas at dawn, pale pink light glancing off the tide and a thin breath of sun just above the water.

“It’s for you, Momma!”

“Oh, Jester, I couldn’t possibly—”

“Take it.” She laughed. “I have lots more at home, but this one’s my favorite so you should have it.”

Decades of living with a burgeoning artist had taught Marion not to hug the piece to her chest, though she quite wanted to.

“I’ll hang it up, then. In a place of honor,” she said seriously. “Maybe heading up the stairs? The light there is lovely, and that way I know the most important people will get to see it.”

Jester’s smile could have swallowed up the world. “Thanks, Momma.”

“No, thank you, my sweet. Now, come. What else have you been doing? What’s new and exciting with your…what did you call yourselves? The Mighty Nein?”

Jester helped her mother lay out a feast’s worth of pastries across the coffee table. Nugget eyed the bounty like a lit fuse until Jester also produced a chewing bone, which he gleefully snapped up and began to gnaw.

“I wanted to make sure we didn’t have a repeat of last time, so I stopped by a pet store,” she explained, munching on a strawberry tart. “And we’re all doing good! Caleb’s move went well, and Nott’s family just landed.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” her mother said. “You know, it would not have been a problem for them to stay with me. At least while they got settled.”

“I know, I know, but I think since she already had a place, she wanted them there, you know? And anyway, she said she didn’t want to impose.”

“Of course,” Marion nodded. “And perhaps the Chateau is…it would be a bit unconventional for a family to stay here, hm?”

“We did it!”

“We did, but we are an unconventional family.”

Jester laughed, then brushed a few crumbs off her skirt. “What have you been doing lately, Momma? Any news? Any interesting clients?” She waggled her eyebrows for emphasis.

“Well,” her mother smiled faintly, “actually, I…might have something interesting to tell you. I was, ah…well, I was invited to a party. To sing, but also as a guest.”

“What?!” Jester threw her hands in the air. “Oh, Momma, that’s amazing!”

“I, ah…might decline.”

Jester’s elation vanished instantly. “Oh, Momma. Is it…the outside…?”

Marion shrugged. It was a decidedly unrefined gesture, and left a little crinkle in her robe. “I’m just…well, you know I’ve made a little progress since you got back, but…I don’t know. I’m not sure I’d feel so comfortable being in a place like that alone.”

Jester reached across the table to pat her mother on the hand. “I understand. It’s probably just a dumb party anyway, I’m sure you won’t be missing much!”

“It’s…well, it’s the 400th Anniversary Gala of the Clovis Concord.”

“Oh, man.”

“Tell me about it, dear,” Marion sighed.

There was a moment’s pause, filled with the sound of thoughtful chewing.

And then:

“What if we went with you?”

Marion blinked twice.

“I beg your pardon?”

— — —

They left Luc in his new bedroom happily slapping tape to the wall. Yeza had been worried that this would damage the paint when they’d eventually have to take down his posters, but Nott reassured him that getting back the safety deposit for this apartment was already a lost cause.

“There was a…small incident,” she said, as he poured her tea, “involving electricity. And…a mild fire.”

“Oh, man. Did you guys blow the fuse box or something?”

Nott debated whether or not exploding a microwave with voltaic bolts fell under that category.

“Mm, yeah, it was something like that.” She watched him sink into the chair across the table, paying special attention to the way his glasses bounced on his nose.

He hadn’t needed glasses three years ago. He hadn’t been quite so pale, either.

“So, how is your friend Caleb?” Yeza asked, tilting his head slightly at her silence. “Is he alright? Settled in and everything?”

Nott quickly scrounged up her smile. “He is! Actually, his place is really nice. Cheap, too, from what I’ve heard.”

“Oh, that’s great,” Yeza sipped his tea, leaving a little half-crescent above his lip. “I was worried about him. You told him for me, right? How much I appreciate this?”

“Of course I did. And I told him plenty that he didn’t have to, but he really insisted, and…well. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t happy that he did.”

Yeza put a biscuit in her hands. “We’ll send him a fruit basket, then. With pineapples! Heck, I should send one to all of your friends, for pitching in for the plane tickets. They’re really kind.”

“They are pretty great, aren’t they?” Nott took a bite, coating her tongue with chalky crumbs. “They’ll probably be around at some point—they want to see you and the boy again.”

“Is the tall one still around? With the pink hair? I liked him.”

Nott gave a laugh. “I’ll tell him you said that. It’s been quiet these last few days, you know, so it’ll really be great to have the company back. Not that—oh, gods, not that you and Luc aren’t—”

“I get it, I get it,” Yeza shook his head. “Don’t worry. Like we said over the phone, right? It’ll take…there’ll be an adjustment period.”

Nott set her mug down on the table. Her smile was a little less firm now.

“You and Luc are here,” she said again, quietly. “You’re here, but I…I’m talking about my friends, I shouldn’t be saying those things, should I? I…should focus on you two—”

“Hey, no, Veth. Not at all.”

“But it is unfair,” she sighed. “I…sweetie, I’m so happy to see you, and the boy, but now that…Caleb’s gone, and the two of you have moved in, a…a part of me, an awful part of me, already misses—”

“Veth, it’s okay—"

“It’s not, I mean we’re married—gods, wait, I’d never betray—”

“Veth.”

A hand touched her shoulder. Yeza’s voice was low and soft. “Honey, it’s okay. It really is okay, and I…I know. It’s complicated. I know. We haven’t been a family for a while—and none of that is your fault, it just isn’t. It’s just…been a tough few years, for us, but also especially for you. I doubt I could’ve survived what you’ve been through, after all. And things have changed—I’ve changed, I mean—I snore again, and I’ve gotten used to Edith helping around our house, and…I guess what I’m trying to say, is that it’s only natural…it’s only fair, that you’re allowed to change too. It’s okay. We talked about this, right?”

“Right,” Nott murmured.

“So it’ll be okay. We’ll make it work. And it’s still you, right? You still love me, right?”

She felt herself nod. Then, gently, “I didn’t stop loving you.”

“Well, that’s good. Neither did I.”

This time, she risked a glance up, and saw his smile. Yeza’s smiles were always a little lop-sided, smushing his freckles, and crinkling one eye. She’d made fun of that when they were younger, and let go of a breath when she saw that hadn’t changed.

As she exhaled, she gave a nod. Then a chuckle.

“Right. Right. Of course we will. We’re…probably going to have to enroll Luc in school. It—it’s summer now, but when autumn swings around…what is he? In first grade? In second?”

Yeza laughed. “This fall will be his first year of school.” Then his eyes widened. “Oh, gods, it’s his first year of school. He…I don’t even know if he’s ready, if he’s…wait, is it different in Nicodranas? Are there tests? Is this a good school district, I—I didn’t even check—”

This time, it was Veth who stopped him. “Relax,” she said, and poked Yeza’s nose. “His dad is the most brilliant chemist in the world. We can look up all that other stuff.”

She brushed his cheek with her other thumb. “Like you said. We’ve got this. We’ll make it work.”

— — —

It had started with a recipe for blueberry muffins.

It had ended, more or less, somewhere around the time that Caleb realized neither he nor Essek owned measuring cups—and anyway, the blueberries were looking a little mushy so maybe he should wait until next week to surprise the Brenattos, that way he’d have a chance to get better ones, even though their move-in day was technically today—

And at that point, Frumpkin had jumped into the cabinet, dislodging what sounded like years’ worth of unused pots, knocking down an avalanche of dusty pans.

The last skillet clanged like thunder as it spun to a stop on the floor.

“Mist. Frumpkin—”

Ever the cat, Frumpkin deftly wove out of Caleb’s grasp and darted for the counter. He perched himself unblinking at the edge of the sink and licked his paw, as if for emphasis.

Caleb sighed. He crouched down to reach for the nearest displaced kitchen implement, a stock pot.

“You know,” he began, exasperated, “you could at least help me out with this mess.”

“Is that so?”

He whipped around so quickly that his head hit the handle of a drawer. One hand flew up, he startled, “Miste—Essek?”

His landlord raised a curved eyebrow. With the mid-afternoon light streaming in through the windows, the purplish tint to Essek’s complexion was something akin to a dusting of twilight. His hair was half-tousled, like it’d been mussed by something, and his hand lingered on the doorknob.

“I…my cat,” Caleb managed. “That is, er. I apologize. Deeply. For the commotion.”

Essek looked him over. “I thought we had agreed on silence last night, no?”

Caleb hung his head, and he could feel disappointment coming, undoubtedly with despair on its coattails.

“I have broken the terms,” he said mutely. “I…I am sorry. I understand what that means.”

His gaze clung to the polished floor. Which was why he missed it when the heavy stock pot took on a faint, shimmering, blueish glow. And then the saucepan began to shine. And then a wok, a spatula, a bowl—

All of the fallen cookware slowly began to rise through the air. As they moved, a parade past Caleb’s amazed expression, slipping by Frumpkin’s outstretched paw, each individual pot righted itself, formed into lines, then were quickly and neatly whisked away into the cabinet above.

The doors clicked as they shut.

“I…but that—what spell was that?”

Mentally, Caleb kicked himself. He should’ve apologized.

But Essek only chuckled. “Oh, that was just a parlor trick. An idle curiosity about the…shall we say, limits of gravity. Particularly regarding how easy they are to break.”

Caleb scrambled up to his feet. “But I have never seen control like that on such a grand scale before. Your spell, it—Telekinesis only controls one object at once.”

“Well,” Essek allowed himself a smirk. “Telekinesis is a watered-down version of what true dunamancy can accomplish. I will say, even getting that far was impressive. I have seen your documentation.”

“Gods,” though, Caleb noticed, there was not a trace of resentment in his tone. “Here I thought our transmutative literature was the most advanced there was.”

Essek shrugged. “Please, do not misunderstand me. It is good, for Empire wizards, especially. Until then, I had been under the impression that your lot only excelled at evocation.”

“We are a dab hand at necromancy too,” Caleb said dryly, “if the stories from twenty years ago are believed.”

This actually won a laugh. “Maybe I am the one being too cruel. It was your people who pioneered the earliest manipulations of air elemental magic, no? It is truly an interesting method for conquering gravity.”

“Yours is better,” Caleb said, before he could stop himself. “If you think that a parlor trick, my friend, I hesitate to ask else you could accomplish.”

“Why hesitate?”

And then, Caleb blinked. Somewhere in the distance, Frumpkin nudged his shoulder, but in that moment, all he could focus on was Essek.

“I…excuse me?”

And with that, the spell was broken. Essek slid into a kitchen chair.

“Nevermind, nevermind,” he waved his hand. “And please. Do not worry about that mess. I am not so unreasonable to think that accidents can never happen. Just, ah…you have been a wonderful roommate so far. In the future…?”

“You have my word,” Caleb said. He slipped the carton of slightly-mushy blueberries behind him.

“Excellent,” Essek nodded. “Well. If that is settled, I might sit here and, ah…get some work done?”

Caleb, dense as he was, got the message. “I just—of course, I will be gone in a moment, I’ll just put these things away—”

“No rush at all. I am not in any hurry.”

And indeed, whether or not Essek was just being polite, it did seem like the man was…a bit distracted. Caleb had no right to poke into his business, which was a violation of Section II, Subsection IV anyway, but he couldn’t help but ask Frumpkin to take the tiniest peek at Essek’s face.

Something was bothering his landlord. And for once, still basking in the afterglow of powerful magic, Caleb was almost sure it wasn’t him.

He found out just as he was heading to his room.

“Might I, ah, ask you a question?”

Caleb had enough composure to turn around at a normal person’s pace.

“Yes?”

Essek ran a hand through his hair. “Actually, it…it is more of a favor.”

“Oh,” said Caleb. And when more was required, “Yes?”

“Yes already?” He blinked. “But I did not say what it was.”

“I meant,” Caleb amended, leaning against his doorframe, “please describe this favor to me.”

“Ah,” said Essek. “Right. I, er…”

How in the gods’ names was he supposed to phrase something ridiculous as this?

“I wonder…” he tried, “that is…if you might…would it be…are you perhaps…are you busy this weekend?”

Whatever he was expecting, this absolutely was not it.

“I—no?” Caleb said, out of pure shock. Then he shook his head and added, “I do not think so, no.”

“Ah,” said Essek. Somehow he seemed even more uncomfortable now. “That is…excellent.” It did not sound excellent. “If…well, if that is the case, then…do you think you could…help me with something?”

Caleb waited patiently. “With something?”

“A date.”

“A what?”

“No—not—oh, gods, I am doing this wrong.” Essek actually put his head in his hands, and Caleb once again had to throttle his own surprise.

Then, in a move made by a part of him so bold he didn’t even know he still had it, Caleb re-entered the kitchen and down in the seat across from Essek.

“I think, perhaps you should start from the beginning.”

Essek nodded miserably. He breathed in.

“You are right, Caleb.”

He breathed out.

“So. It’s like this…”

— — —

✨ Ko-Fi Link in Bio! ✨ | Requests are OPEN

[cali-holland]

Golden Bullets, Ch 4: Moonlight Trail

Harrison Osterfield X Reader, James Bond!AU

Harrison Osterfield, Agent 007, was once the best MI6 agent around with the astounding reputation as a womanizer. Between illegal gold smuggling and black market trading of weapons, he finds himself deeper in his latest mission than intended, weaving himself into a web of the criminal organization, S.P.E.C.T.R.E.. At the center of it all is the one woman who’s never fallen for his charms- you, Agent 006, the best MI6 agent, the new assistant director of the program, and his new partner.

Word Count: 2700

Gif is not mine

Golden Bullets Masterlist

Masterlist   Harrison Osterfield Masterlist

Let me know if you want to be added to the series tag list

Warnings: discussion of violence/drugs, swearing

Featured Song: All Time High by Rita Coolidge from Octopussy (1983)

 ~ “We´re an all time high, we´ll change all that´s gone before, doing so much more than falling in love.”

+ “Where are you? Why do you hide? Where is that moonlight trail that leads to your side?” from Moonraker by Shirley Bassey from Moonraker (1979)

A/N: not much action in this chapter, but i’m saving that for chapter five and i’m very very excited about that chapter haha

~~~

You let out a groggy groan, your eyes fluttering open, just to be met with a dull pain in your head from the drugs last night, making you close your eyes again immediately. You tried clearing your mind, focusing on the sound of the DB10’s tires moving with the road, but the sound of Harrison’s music was too distracting. Somehow the normally soothing voice of Sam Smith just made your headache worse- and that’s when it hit you.

“You listen to Sam Smith?” You questioned quietly, opening your eyes just enough to peak over at your partner. The car’s interior lights as well as the streetlights outside were the only things illuminating Harrison’s face.

“I’m surprised you know an artist from this decade.” He chuckled lightly, his thumbs drumming against the steering wheel as he continued his drive down the nearly empty highway.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You asked as you shifted in your seat, stretching to get more comfortable.

“All you seemed to listen to going to Monaco was Nancy Sinatra.” Harrison stated and you felt a twinge of embarrassment strike you, you’d never have someone so blatantly call out your music taste, but yet again you didn’t exactly spend quality time with many perceptive agents.

“Well, I don’t only listen to Nancy Sinatra. I listen to other artists,” You trailed off, trying to come up with names, “I listen to Carly Simon.”

“As in “You’re So Vain” from the ‘70’s?” He laughed and you let out a groan.

“Alicia Keys.”

“Hardly counts.”

“She still counts.” You insisted, “You were listening to Duran Duran earlier. That’s not from this decade.”

“But I still,” He paused to let out a large yawn, “I still listen to more modern music. Sam Smith is very modern.”

“Where are we?” You asked, wanting to just drop the subject.

“We’ve got about half an hour until we get to Venice.” Harrison replied, glancing over at the clock. You took a moment to study him as he kept his eyes on the road. His hair was the most disheveled you’d ever seen it, and you’d dare to say he had bags under his eyes.

“Let me drive for a while.” You offered, and he glanced over at you like you were crazy. You could tell he was holding back from scoffing in response.

“A few hours ago, you were spilling your darkest secrets to me and then spilling your guts in the toilet. I’m not letting you drive.”

“Then pull over so we can get a hotel. You need to sleep.” You stated. Just as he was about to open his mouth to respond, you added, “As assistant director of MI6 and the lead on this case, I’m telling you to get a hotel.”

Harrison let out a laugh of disbelief, shaking his head at you, “I was just going to say, I’ll stop when we get to Venice. No need to pull the assistant director card.”

“I might as well pull it while I can.” You said, and he raised his eyebrows at you, making you elaborate, “M doesn’t want us to kill Le Chiffre, but if I see him, I will. I doubt I’ll keep my position if that happens.”

The rest of the ride into Venice was silent between the two of you. You didn’t particularly want to talk about last night’s revelations or the upcoming task of having to not kill Le Chiffre; meanwhile, Harrison had his own inner turmoil between trying to empathize with you, allowing you to take out the private banker, or following M’s directions of simply tracking him. By the time the two of you arrived in Venice and got a hotel, it was nearly 3 AM, and, with a six hour car ride behind you and an eleven hour car ride ahead of you, you two were beyond exhausted.

“This bed better be softer than the last one.” Harrison mumbled as the two of you stepped into the elevator. With one hand on your suitcase, you leaned against the elevator wall as he stood in the center, holding onto his own luggage.

“Surprisingly, Monaco had the worst hotel bed I’ve ever slept on.” You stated. The elevator came to a stop on your floor for the next few hours. The doors opened, and the two of you stepped off it.

“Really? I think the worst hotel bed I’ve ever had was actually in New York.” He replied, inserting the key card into the door. He pushed it open, holding it for you to go inside first. You paused once you’d stepped into the room.

“Scratch that. This might be the worst.” You said, eyeing the single king size bed in the room. Harrison blinked, stepping in the room behind you.

“Am I so sleep deprived that I’m only seeing one bed or is there actually only one bed?” He asked.

“There’s only one bed.” You sighed, setting your suitcase down near the dresser and opening it. You started to gather your clothes for the night. “But you’re still sleep deprived, and I’m too tired to even attempt to get a room change, so this’ll have to do.”

“Well, I guess I’ll take the floor, but, for now, while you get ready,” He trailed off, flopping down on the bed with a small sigh of his own. “God damn, this is comfortable.”

With your pajamas in hand, you turned back to face the bed. Seeing your partner so exhausted and sprung out on the large bed, you felt your heart twist a little. “Sleep on the bed, then.”

“What?” Harrison mumbled, sitting up to look at you. “No, you take the bed. I’m a man of chivalry, I can’t let you sleep on the floor.”

“A man of chivalry. Is that what you call yourself when you sleep with all those women?” You questioned, sarcasm dripping in your tone. For a split second, he pouted, before it grew into a smirk.

“If gets the women into the bed, then yes.” He replied, cockily. You turned, making your way to the bathroom as you shook your head at his words. He hopped off the bed to follow after you, “Look, it’s big enough for both of us. Besides, I wouldn’t mind sleeping with you.” 

“How lovely.” You rolled your eyes, and he shook his head.

“That’s,” He sighed as you shut the bathroom door, locking it to ensure privacy away from him. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. We can share the bed and sleep next to each other, nothing sexual about it.”

“Agent 007 not wanting to sexualize sharing a bed with a woman? That’s a surprise.” You scoffed through the door, beginning to change in the privacy of the spare room.

“You’re one to talk.” Harrison bit back, “You know we’re really not that different. We both sleep with the enemy.”

“Except you sleep with women for sport and you’re called a womanizer, whereas I sleep with men for strictly professional purposes and get called a whore.” Now changed into your comfortable clothes, you threw open the door, jaw clenched angrily at the double-standard that cursed your ‘profession’. Pushing past Harrison, you sarcastically remarked, “Sexism- isn’t it wonderful?”

“You’re not a whore.” He said, quietly, a new softness in his tone, making you look at him curiously. You could see the genuineness in his blue eyes, “You’re intimidating and, quite honestly, scare the shit out of me sometimes, but you’re not a whore. Anyone who calls you that obviously doesn’t realize they should be less concerned with how you handle your body and more concerned with how well you handle a gun. You use your assets like I do, like any spy would.” He paused, “You don’t like to be known as the maneater, but I don’t like to be known as a womanizer. For us being MI6’s top agents, neither of us are winning in the reputation department.”

You swallowed an uncertain lump in your throat, not sure how to respond to his unusual yet kind words. Turning away from him to put away your clothes, you replied, “Let’s just get some sleep.” 

Harrison wordlessly entered the bathroom to get ready to sleep himself, and you quietly climbed into the bed. You laid on your side, facing away from the bathroom and the other side of the bed, keeping to one edge of the mattress. A few moments later, he emerged from the bathroom, turning off the bedroom light as he did so.

“Do you- do you mind if I sleep without a shirt?” He asked.

“I don’t care.” You answered quietly, despite the odd feeling in your gut at his question. Momentarily, you thought it could be leftover from last night, but as you heard him discard his shirt and climb into his side of the bed, you knew it was something much worse- butterflies.

You lay on your side of the bed, waiting for sleep to overcome you, but it seemed to be taking its dear time. Meanwhile, it only took a matter of moments for Harrison to fall asleep. Your poor partner passed out almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, and you were left to listen to his soft snoring, little noises that you hadn’t noticed while sharing a room with him in the past. Yet again, the past few nights, you two were plenty far from each other and tonight, well, there wasn’t much space, especially when you heard and felt him shift closer to you in his sleep. You just about put Harrison in a choke hold, feeling his arm sling around your waist, but as you flipped over to look at him, your fight reflexes dropped. He was still asleep and, god, he was a cuddler. You considered shoving him away or even just getting up and sleeping on the ground, but then he let out a soft murmur of incoherent words, light puffs escaping his lips. Finally feeling a sense of peace overcome you, you let yourself lean into his embrace.

The next morning, you woke up to the sound of the laptop ringing with an incoming call from M, or at least you recognized the ringtone as that; your arms were currently trapped under the tight cuddles of Harrison, who was still peacefully asleep. With how heavy of a sleeper he was, you were surprised no one had murdered him in his sleep yet, considering how annoyingly loud the laptop was.

“Wake up, Osterfield.” You grumbled, kicking your legs harshly against his. He mumbled something, tightening his grip around your arms and torso, pressing you further into his bare chest, before his eyes fluttered open. His arms dropped from around you immediately as he processed his position, cheeks flaring red a little in embarrassment of his cuddly nature. You shot up from the bed, grabbing the laptop from the coffee table and sitting down on the couch. You open it, answering the call without a second thought. The screen flashed to M in her office, and you bit back a groan at how obvious it was that you just rolled out of bed- it didn’t help that Harrison was in the background, getting out of the bed and tugging on a shirt. Talk about the professionalism between the two of you for not only stopping Venice for some sleep, but also sharing a damn bed.

“Sorry, was I interrupting your beauty sleep?” She questioned with no actual apology laced in her words as Harrison sat beside you on the couch.

“Good morning, M.” You greeted, professionally.

“I must say I was surprised to hear from Moneypenny about Monaco last night. How did Britain’s finest agents get drugged so easily?” While her question was directed at both of you, you couldn’t help, but feel like she meant it more towards you than your partner. You were meant to be the one calling the shots for this mission and you were the one that drank the suspicious champagne.

“It was a mistake, and it won’t happen again.” Harrison replied definitively. Sensing how you tensed beside him at M’s words, he placed a reassuring hand on your knee, hidden from the laptop’s view; he felt almost protective of you for your actions last night, and, having been so vulnerable yourself, you were hesitant to lean into the security.

“It damn well shouldn’t have happened in the first place.” She let out a small sigh, “I know your next target was intended to be Le Chiffre in Montenegro, but there has been a slight change of plans.”

“Are we no longer going to Montenegro?” You asked, trying your best to not sound hopeful about never going back there.

“You’ll still be going there, 006. Le Chiffre has decided to host a charity gala tonight; and, seeing as it’s currently 11 in the morning in Venice,” She spat out the city’s name in distaste as if to question why you two had stopped there for so unintentionally long, “You’ll be taking a private jet to Montenegro straight out of Venice’s airport. Leave the DB10 behind, Agent 003 will be there shortly to retrieve it.”

“How is this different than our prior mission of interrogating Le Chiffe?” Harrison voiced.

“I believe you’re familiar with this woman.” M stated, and a photograph of Pussy Galore appeared on the screen. Harrison dropped his hand from your knee as he recognized the blonde, “Pussy Galore has been identified as Goldfinger’s personal pilot, and she has been spotted in every location the sniper has struck in.”

“She’s the sniper?” You questioned. You already thought the woman was a joke just because of her name, but now, she was the bitch that shot you, and you weren’t about to let that go.

“We believe so. Q traced her to Montenegro this morning. Your new mission is to keep an eye on Le Chiffre and try to keep him alive- he could prove useful as an asset to take down Goldfinger or he could be the perfect bait to get the bullion smuggler.” She sent you a pointed look, catching how you clenched your jaw as a picture of the private banker flashed onto the screen, “As for Pussy Galore, bring her in alive. If she’s Goldfinger’s personal pilot and favorite sniper, she’s valuable to him.”

“Is that all?” You asked, and she shook her head.

“I need to speak with 007 alone.” She said, making you and Harrison look at each other in confusion. You nodded before getting up and leaving for the bathroom, deciding to get ready while they had their private discussion.

“M, the champagne wasn’t Y/N’s fault-” Harrison started, immediately believing that M’s private conversation was about your mistake from last night- that or she was going to strongly suggest Harrison take a leave of absence again.

“Last night happened, and I am not going to fret it any longer. I’m far more concerned with Montenegro.” She spoke, and Harrison’s face fell, giving it away to her that he knew already, “Agent 006 is my best agent, but by now, I assume you can tell she lets her emotions get to her. Four years ago, once she was healed, she went rogue for a few weeks. My only way of finding her and bringing her back to MI6 was a trail of dead bodies- all of which were connected to Le Chiffre.” Harrison gulped at the new information, his eyes flicking nervously to the bathroom door. Le Chiffre really did a number on you and you had the physical scar to prove it. “She will kill him at the first opportunity. You accused me of hiring her as your nanny for this mission, but now I need you to take care of her. Don’t let her kill Le Chiffre; he needs to be alive. Don’t let her kill Galore either. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” He nodded with a heavy head.

“And, for the love of God, no more champagne between the two of you.”

“Got it.” He nodded again, “When will Q be in Montenegro?”

“He had to finish a new prototype for 005, but he will be there tonight.” She explained. “Now, you two get to Venice airport as soon as possible; you have a gala to attend.”

Before Harrison could reply, M ended the call. Shutting off the laptop, he stood from the couch, already feeling anxious about tonight. The only reason he had a partner for this entire mission was his own mistake, and M didn’t trust him, but, now, it seemed like the tables had turned- M didn’t trust you in Montenegro. With each new piece of information, this was transforming into so much more than it was just days ago in London, and, without Q to crack the flash drive, all Harrison could do was keep you from killing the two people that could lead back to Goldfinger.

~~~

Let me know if the tags aren’t working or if you want to be tagged :)

General Tag List: @viagracex​​ @theamazingtomholland​ @Hellomoveonby @heyitsshrez @harrisonosterfieldhazmyheart​ @joyleenl​ @t-o-m-holland​ @lonikje​ @sleepybesson​ @sunkisseddreamer​

Harrison Tag List: @Calhtlland @tomkindholland​ @where-art-thau-romeo​

Series Tag List: @quinjetboi @baby-haz @kickingn-ames @rougese7en @hollandsosterfield @nj01​ @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @spencerreidxoxo @duskholland​

[98prilla]

Hidden Shapes

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AO3

...

He runs.

 He runs past Patton, he shoves open his door, locks it behind him, then lunges through the portal hidden under his bed that Remus had installed years ago, when he’d first moved to the light side, a shortcut to his imagination, to the dark side. He pulls the trapdoor shut behind him, landing on the forest floor with barely a sound.

 Colors are brighter, stranger, he’s pretty sure in this form he can actually see colors others can’t, see at a spectrum impossible for humans, since he isn’t, not really. That thought chokes a sob out of him, though it comes out as more of a growling hiss, and he throws himself back into movement, speeding across the ground, jumping up, into the trees, when they become too dense, seeing the cliff approaching, but not slowing, he braces himself, springs, his stomach flip flopping as he drops-

 Then he shoots his web and latches onto the trees on the other side, swinging across the canyon. If he were in a better mood, he’d be laughing right now, at the feel of the wind, at moving so fast, at letting himself go, more than he has in years, letting himself go feral, but he isn’t, his heart is pounding and his breath is speeding and he’s moving, faster and faster, and faster-

 Then, suddenly, there’s no more trees.

 He doesn’t have time to stop his momentum. He manages to web the ground, before he crashes onto it, letting his shoulder impact first, easily slipping into a barrel roll, before losing control and tumbling across the earth, head spinning as he finally comes to a stop, hissing through clenched teeth as he sits up, taking in the damage.

His shoulder is bruised to hell, and scraped raw and bloody, and so are his legs, his hands, though his appendages are intact. There’s a gash on his forehead, and he curses, pulling his sleeve over his hand, pressing it against the wound to try and staunch the bleeding, letting out another hissing breath at the ache in his chest, a bruised or cracked rib.

 He’s crying. He doesn’t know when it started, he feels too numb to cry, but he is, a steady, endless flow of tears that wash down his face, and he squeezes his eyes closed, doubling over, legs closing in around him, hiding him from view.

 “Hello, little one.” He nearly jumps, at the sudden low and sonorous voice, but he doesn’t care, he simply curls tighter, trying to suppress the pathetic whimper trying to escape his lips. “You aren’t one of the usual resident monstrosities of Remus’s design. Are you new?” He flinches hard, this time, realizing what he’s being mistaken for, because he must truly look horrendous, and Patton, god, Patton, not to mention Roman, once he hears, and Logan will just want to study him, dissect him, like some specimen, he doesn’t want to be the monster, he isn’t, he isn’t, he isn’theisn’theisn’t- “Let me take a look at you, darling. I can help make it better.” He pulls his legs in tighter, shaking, forcing words to his lips.

 “N-no. G-g-go away.” He hisses, and he hears a sharp inhale.

 “Anxiety. You… aren’t supposed to be here.” He laughs, at that, a cold, hard, bitter laugh.

 “look at me. Where else could I go?” He bares his fangs, eyes flashing and shadows growing as he feels hands pushing aside his legs, gently tipping his chin up, meeting the orange cat’s eyes of the dragon witch.

 “I remember a time when you wore this form more often than not. You and Remus were feral little things, more beast than man, some days, all shadowy blobs of too many teeth and limbs and claws, with your venomous bites and poison laced scratches, I remember when you’d spend hours, weaving the most wonderous tapestries, that sparkled so brilliantly, in the morning dew. Or ones near invisible, that would trip up Remus, as he tried to invade your lair. Once you wouldn’t have consolidated monstrous, with evil, they are different. Plenty of monstrous things are still beautiful, after all. Plenty of monstrous things are still smart, and kind, and sweet, little one. I would have hoped that to be a lesson you remembered, still.” Her words are soft and gentle as she caresses his cheek, a tender smile on her lips. “I haven’t forgotten, my tiny terror.” He folds, falling into her open arms and sobbing, letting it all go, as her near black wings enfold them both, her tail gently coiling around his feet. She doesn’t say anything, simply holds him, rocks him as he cries, promising safety with her steady presence, her slightly hotter than normal warmth. “I gather from your state you don’t want to go back to the world?” He shakes his head frantically, not moving from his place in her arms. “alright, darling. Hold on tight, for a moment.” He feels a slight vertigo, the world running like a watercolor painting, before resettling to a homey looking cottage, a fire lit and providing gentle warmth, the floors covered in soft rugs, the smell of cinnamon and something else, something warm and fizzing and popping in the air. Magic.

 “If you want tea, you’ll have to let go.” He does with a slightly rueful smile, one she adores, and she brushes back his hair, before moving to put the kettle on, getting her favorite teacup from the cupboard, along with a black and white chipped jack Skellington mug.

 “you still have that?” He says, voice coming out hoarse, as he pulls himself into one of the surprisingly comfy wooden chairs surrounding the small table in the kitchen, watching as she bustles about.

 “Of course. I hoped I’d have occasion to use it again. Though I admit I hoped it would be under better circumstances.” He winces, looking away.

 “sorry. For not visiting. I… I should have. Me and Ree hadn’t been on the best terms, for… well, for a while. I didn’t want to chance being caught here by myself.”

 “Yes. I heard all about it, believe me. He fluctuated between grief, despair, and unmitigated rage, before settling on a scarily distant disdain. Any mention of you and he just… shut down.”

 “sorry.” He whispers again, to her soft huff.

 “Stop apologizing, darling. I’m not placing blame or accusing. I know you had your reasons. Now, let me have a look at you, we can’t have those getting infected, and you know they will.” He groans, wincing as he pulls his sleeve away from his forehead.

 “But it stings!” He whines, making her laugh, as she gathers the warm water and soft hand towel.

 “You’ve had worse, Anxiety. And unless you want me to summon Remus to instant heal you, we’ll have to do it the old fashioned way.” Her voice is slightly stern now, the same tone Patton always takes, when scolding them or breaking up a fight, and he smiles slightly, glancing up at her.

 “alright. It’s, um, Virgil, now, by the way.” She smiles, coming around the table and gently dabbing away the dried blood from the gash, wincing in sympathy as he grits his teeth, before patting it dry and securing gauze. “Ah. It suits you, I think." He pulls up his pants to reveal his skinned knees, his shins peppered with scrapes, though nothing there is hurt too badly, though it still stings like a son of a gun. They’re just finishing looking at his shoulder, her turning away to get an icepack for it, when he hears the tell tale swing of the doggy door, small scratching against the mat in the entryway.

 “Oh, god-“ He manages to just barely brace himself, as a ball of icy silvery blue barrels into his chest, knocking his chair over backwards, sending his arms pinwheeling before he collides with the floor, his fall slowed slightly by a quick spell, that lowers him gently the last inch to avoid concussing him. He doesn’t have time to thank her, however, as his face is getting destroyed by licks, and he can’t get a word out edgewise, between his pleas to stop, and his gasping laughter.

 “Nilas, stop, down girl, NiNi!” He laughs, finally managing to get the large cat sized dragon under control, though her tail still whipped wildly, and when he rolled out of the chair to sit up on the floor, she instantly climbed his shirt, draping herself around his shoulders, tail hanging off one, curling around his upper bicep to keep herself steady, her head resting on her paws on his other. He laughs again at her low, contented chuffing, the equivalent of a dragon purr, as he scratches her head. “Happy to see me, huh?” She buts her head against his cheek in response, before giving it one more lick, before laying back down on her paws, though her head stays tucked up against his face.

 “Yeah. I missed you too, Nilas.” He mumbles, pain forgotten in the face of a happy dragon snuggling against him, a soothing, perfect weight that grounds him, helps him breathe a little easier against the stress slowly fading away. He rights the chair and slips back into it, taking the mug that she sets in front of him.

 “Roman still giving you trouble?” He asks, after a few moments in comfortable silence, taking a sip of the tea, which is deep and herbal, just a hint of sweetness from the honey. She scowls, and he can hear her tail sweeping across the floor.

 “Don’t get me started. I enjoy playing his games, but that boy has not given me a moments peace. Do you know how hard it is, to swap into evil enchantress mode, when your nemesis has showed up in the middle of you baking? I had a pie in the oven and I couldn’t stop worrying it was going to burn.”

 “did it?” he asks, grinning.

 “No. I told him he’d better stop wasting his time with me, and worry about my agents infiltrating the castle, and he took off. There weren’t any, of course, from what I understand he had a lovely game of whodunnit about the royal crown, though it turned out he’d simply misplaced it.” Virgil laughed, imagining Roman frantically running around, accusing random townspeople, making one of those red string conspiracy cork boards, only to find it under his bed.

 “Oh, that’s amazing.” He finally wheezes through his giggling, taking another long sip of his tea, before yawning hugely.

 “alright, enough catching up. To bed with you.”

 “but-"

 “uh, uh, uh, you know the drill. You’ll be falling out of the chair soon, anyway.” She teases gently, helping support him as he stands, a bit wobbly on his feet, another yawn impossible to stifle sneaking through.

 “Curse my traitorous body.” He mutters, making her laugh, as he lays down on the cot in the dark corner of the living room, pulling all the fluffy blankets up so high they nearly cover his head, Nilas circling a few times, before curling up snuggled against his chest, kneading her paws contentedly.

 “sweet dreams, tiny terror.” She murmurs, kissing his forehead fondly, as his eyes flutter shut. “sleep well. You could use it.”

 “mhm. Thanks, Tabitha. Love you.” He mumbles, drifting off, a small smile on his lips as he rests his head against Nilas.

 She smiles, stroking his hair a few more times before pulling away, a low sigh slipping from her lips.

 Well. No doubt Remus would appear soon, and he could explain what had sent Virgil into such a tizzy, though no doubt it was something to do with the others. He wouldn’t have been so scared of himself, otherwise. He was never scared of himself, until he started hanging around them. He used to revel in causing mayhem, tearing through the imagination, scrapping with Remus, winning, more often than not, on his own merit. He was such a small little shadow, but so fierce, with those eyes of his, peeking guardedly through his mop of hair, an almost perpetual frown on his face, always braced for the worst.

 But he was kind, too. The first day she'd come across him alone, he’d glared at her, hissed, baring his fangs and scuttling backwards, ready to bite.

 She’d knelt down, almost as surprised to see him as he clearly was to see her.

 “hello, little one. What are you doing, out here alone?” He hadn’t answered, merely continued to glare, tensed to spring or run. She’d hummed, looking around, the field was full of knee high grass, his head barely poking above the stalks, wildflowers filling the space, butterflies (both literal and figurative) drifting through the air. A distant shout rang through the imagination, an echo of whatever turmoil was occurring up in the rest of the mind, and he flinched, curling in on himself, breath catching.

 “ah. Trying to find some quiet, until the storm blows over.” The little shadow nodded, watching a bee struggle to stay atop a flower blowing in the breeze, before reaching out and holding it steady, a small smile crossing his face as he leaned in, watching the bee burry its head in the pollen. “Well, don’t mind me, then. Is it alright, if I stay here to read? I won’t bother you.” A moment passed, but he nodded solemnly, watching the bee flit away, before fixing his gaze on her, which she studiously ignored, studying her book while watching out of the corner of her eye.

 Another echoing shout, almost like a thunder crash, and he let out a little shriek. Before she could ask if he was okay, the little shadow had scuttled closer, throwing himself onto her lap and curled in a shivering ball, hiding himself under her cloak.

 “Oh, darling, it’s alright. They won’t hurt you here, I promise.” He hadn’t uncurled, and she’d hesitantly wrapped an arm around him, brushing through his hair with her other hand, humming softly, until she felt him slowly start to uncurl, realizing finally he’d fallen asleep, tiny hands clutching at her shirt, impossible to pry off even if she’d wanted to.

 When Creativity and Deceit panicked later, realizing Anxiety had been missing all day, they were surprised to find him happily coloring on the floor of the witch’s cottage, dark aura dispersed enough they could actually see his body, a dragon curled around him protectively.

 The next day he’d shown back up on her doorstep, a bit shyer, but no less brave, holding out a flower crown, painstakingly woven with colorful flowers, and it may have been the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her. From then on, Anxiety, or Virgil, now, was as good as hers, under her protection, always welcome, always at home in her home. Her baby, her shadow, her tiny terror.

[irrfahrer]

It was late but Poe had no reservations about waking Ziv up even at this hour of the night as he loudly knocked on her door, cradling his son in his arms. The little toddler was half asleep, his flushed cheek against Poe's shoulder. "I'm sorry for waking you." Poe said right away when Ziv opened the door. "It's Finch, he has a fever and I couldn't knock it down. He's burning up and..." The boy coughed, dry and loud, and whimpered miserably. "And he's coughing." Poe finished worriedly.

Ziv was already by the door one second before Poe had knocked, not because she had heard him but because she had- (-known, on her chest in the small Vovaarium-Pendant the Orchid twitched like a child stirred in their sleep) -guessed that he would be there. The woman was a bad sleeper and the light in her house by her couch where towers of Holobooks piled up like the mountains of a old ancient mountain-chain, was still burning when she dragged herself over to the door and opned it. “No need to be sorry.”, the woman harrumphed without greeting and reached out with her short arms. After nights she had spend reading instead of sleeping she looked like hell, with her nose and the inside of her ear instead of bright pink almost grey, the skin under her eyes shimmering from beenath her pelt violet like fresh bruises and her shoulders slumped down like under the weight of a heavy of steel weaved mantle that were (not her nightmares) -her dreams that digged with claws into her mind the second she closed her eyes:  “Give him to me, yes?”, Carefully the Tynnan took the small boy out of Poes arms and propped him on her hip, the boy made a quiet sound and promptly pressed his small face into the fluffy, soft pelt on the Tynnans neck and chest like his father had done since he had been a child laying beside her in a cradle in the Temples créche. When Finch had been born Ziv had been the Medic who had looked after him, cleaned him, measured him, weighted him, checked him for any illnesses until he had fallen asleep cuddled in her soft fur like in a pillow and  she had put him back in his mothers arms. She had been looking after his health every since, yet now Ziv noticed that the small boy was almost too tall for her to carry around and the realisation left a sour taste in her mouth as if she had bitten in a bitter fruit. One arm under the boy, Ziv gestured with her free paw towards the couch where the walls of Holobooks rose like the walls of a old castle: “And sit down Poe, thats a kriffing Order. If you start pacing, I will personally knock you down.” The house was small- by the walls plant-beds had been set up and the ranks of the plants had crawled up the walls and to the ceiling, covering it like a thick green carpet scattered with blue flowers. Between the leafs it rustled, they accompanied every little movement in the room with quiet noises like a attentive audience. Ziv leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss on the small boys forehead, testing how high the fever was. The boys forehead seemed as hot as fire beneath her lips, but his sweat was smelling only mildy sour  and mostly consisted of the sharp scent almost like pepper, caused by the stress,worry and fear of a small child who did not knew what was going on. Bobbing the boy on her arm the Tynnan ran a paw down to his small foot that had been in her mind just yesterday small enough to fit completly in her paw but was now almost bigger than her paw and felt as cold as a iceblock against her small fingers.

“..icecold.”, Ziv mumbled to herself, her ears flicking up and down thoughtfully as she turned back to the boy who had burried his small face in the as soft as velvet pelt of her neck. “Open your mouth for me, yes Baby? Ahhhhhhh-” Ziv opned her mouth wide to show the toddler how its done and, turning his head to the side with his eyes half closed and one hand clinging to her soft fur like to a plushie,the little boy opned his mouth just enough for Ziv to take a look: “..ahhh...” Taking a deep sniff Ziv squinted her eyes to see better and looked in the boy mouth, before she ended up nodding to herself: “Eh, as I thought, a new tooth. A kriffing acute viral rhinopharyngitis caused by his immunesystem weaken from a burst of growth of his kriffing babyteeth.” Already Ziv turned to the kitchen whichs doorless, round entrance was framed by the ranks of a sweetblossom with adorable pink flowers growing between the fragile leafs. Not stopping the woman called over her shoulder: “Calm down, Padawan Poe. Its normal, one of the reasons why you humanoids are so dependent on your parents in that stage of life.” The kitchen was orderly, but the light from the living room did not shined into the room. Yet Zivs movements were without failure as she opned packs, leaned to shelfs to take down flasks, took down pots on the counter - she had a horrible eyesight and did not saw a single thing beside the little movement of Finch cuddling tieredly against her fur, but she knew this place as well as the hairs of her own fur. “Come Baby, you are not feeling well, yes?  I will give you something to drink. Yes,yes,I know that kriffing hurts at the moment but it will make you feel better,I promise.”, Nimbly one paw filled pulvers into bags, spooned a oinment into another bowl, before she poured a handful of dried berries, a spoon of honey and dried petals in a cup. Then, always quietly humming to Finch, she took the pot of hot water she always had ready on her stove and poured the hot steaming water into the cup which made the steam drew pale lines like chalk into the air.  The boy mumbled something and Ziv craned her neck to breath a small kiss on his temple: “I will put extra honey in it just for you, does that sounds like a deal?”, then she added a little louder for Poe to hear: “And then your Papa will get a cup too, I think he needs something to calm down himself. You see how kriffing tensed he is? Eh, we better give him something to drink too.” The packs stacked under her free elbow, the cup in her small paw, Ziv walked back into the living room and the warm circle of light of the lamp beside the towers of holobooks. Carefully Ziv breathed over the cup to make it cool down faster while she bobbed the boy gently up and down. “Then I will tuck you in in your bed I always have for you, right under the tree growing in that room you like so much, and we give you something to warm you feet and you can sweat out your kriffing fever,does that sound good, yes? All comfy with a extra sweet tea,hm?”, the woman continued and smiled a little when she felt how Finch slowly and weakly nodded in her pelt, not daring to get too far away from her to tell her a answer. The “bed” she would prepare for Finch everytime she would babysit him was nothing but two sleepingmats, a pillow and a few blankets yet she had pulled this bed under the young branches of a small  Baffor-tree whichs crystaline bark would glow like blue ice in the little light falling through the windows and who, for alone it was almost sentient, the boy could with his young mind reach out to like to a best friend, growing and learning along the mind that was just as his young and curious. When Finch slept a night at Zivs house, it was always as if he was visiting her and a old friend to whichs quiet rustling of branches he could listen to like to a lullaby. Above her head the ranks of leafs whispered quietly by every little movement. Carefully Ziv put down the packs and the teacup down on a table by the couch in the living-room, pointing her free paw on the packs, the bowl with oinment and the tea: “He will stay the night here, come tomorrow to fetch him.”, her sharp claw pointed on a pack:” This is the tea he will need every morning, noon and evening, and every morning and evening you will rub the oinment- “, she pointed to the bowl:”-on his chest to sooth the coughing. Give him a week and he will be as good as new, maybe a little tiered.” Then, still bobbing the small boy on one arm, Ziv pointed to two other packs filled with dried herbs that smelled as sweet as a parfume even through the package: “And this is for numbing the pain of a coming teeth, because believe me, next week it will start. And this is a calming tea for you and your wife, because kriff off if you even think of saying you two have not worried yourself sleepless.”, she said sternly, almost like an order. Without batting a eye she shoved a mountain of Holobooks to the side with one webbed hindpaw to sat down Finch on the couch to boundle him up in one of the blankets laying there. Then she already turned around back to the kitchen to cook another cup of tea- this time for Poe: “Now relax until I have your tea ready, or I will knock you out, Poe.”, the leafs above her head rustled wildly like caugh in a wind when Ziv suddenly freezed in her movement. A frown drew a line as deep as a scar between her eyes before she turned around with a wave of her paw:  “Eh, kriff it,I will get a extra pillow and blanket, then I can tuck you both in together.”

[ @poewingsdameron ]

[garden-ghoul]

here read my gertrude fanfiction (also on ao3), includes fraught soul-searching and tarot

After they disembark Gertrude leaves Gerard to his own devices. He takes this to mean that he should secure dinner for them both while Gertrude checks into the hotel. He’s too good at teamwork for what he is, and certainly for what Gertrude is. She rather wishes he’d been able to beat it out of himself. She doesn’t like to think of him running errands for Mary. At least he manages stoicism where none of her assistants ever did; where neither of his parents could.

Gerard is so late finding the hotel that she considers going to a convenience store for food, but at nearly midnight he does knock on the door. “Sorry about this,” he says, a little breathless. “I had a hell of a time finding the place.”

He’s lying. Gertrude isn’t sure why.

They eat in silence, and immediately afterward Gerard disappears into the bathroom for a shower that lasts nearly an hour and ends with a gout of steam that rolls out into the room, waking her from her half-sleep. She gives no sign, but only listens to him tiptoeing around the room and sighing.

She wakes up early to have a miserable ‘continental’ breakfast in the hotel lobby, then leaves for the Institute without bothering to wake Gerard. He knows what his task is, and he’s showed good initiative and decision-making in the past. Gertrude needs to put in an appearance, if only to prove that she is still the Archivist, that she is not yet replaceable. She finds a totally unfamiliar set of assistants who look so shocked to see her that it’s quite possible they’ve only heard of her by reputation. She does not go to see Elias. It would be redundant. Rather, she fills her bag with relevant statements compiled by one or another of the assistants and leaves again for Soho. As she’s walking out the door Rosie asks timidly if she’ll be in to work tomorrow; “Perhaps,” says Gertrude.

At the occult shop off Dean Street she finds a young woman who must be an employee talking animatedly with Gerard about tarot. She barely glances up when Gertrude comes in, but Gerard straightens with a vaguely guilty air. She doesn’t even need to do anything to encourage his guilt—he spent over twenty years trying to understand how to please the impossible Mary Keay, and he was quick to attune himself to Gertrude in the same way. It irritates her for no reason she can fathom, despite how useful it makes him. No—for no reason she wants to fathom. Self-deception is an idiot’s tool, and yet Gertrude sometimes finds herself making use of it for the sake of expediency.

“Dekker’s in the back,” Gerard says. “Didn’t want to start without you. I can go and get him if you want.”

“No need. There’s no reason for you to be there. Continue with your games.”

She can feel his sullen irritation burning on the back of her neck as she opens the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY and slips through. Good. If only he could bring himself to trust her a little bit less: he still thinks he’s somehow different from the assistants she has sacrificed to the hungry mouth of necessity. It always sickens her a bit to betray trust, but when she has to betray him it’s going to be—worse.

Dekker is taking notes on something he’s reading in the storage room. He looks up and smiles at her, and stands to clasp her hand. “Good to see you made it back in one piece.”

“Yes, well, for however long it lasts.”

His smile turns sardonic as he sits again. “Right. That’s exactly what I wanted to talk about.” He slides a piece of blank paper and a pen across the table toward her. She only has to wonder why for a moment before he picks up his own pen and starts drawing a chaotic fractal (spiraling, angular) with no obvious algorithmic origin. Gertrude follows suit with one of her own. She’s now forgotten the name but the thing itself is strikingly memorable, rising and falling, weaving and unweaving itself until every part of it meets in a hungry plexus. She’s drawn it so many times that she sometimes dreams it making itself step by step, a netting in front of the monstrous eye that always watches her.

“This is what I’ve found so far,” says Dekker, gesturing to an open folder in front of him. “Does the Archive in fact have nothing?”

Gertrude doesn’t yet look up from her drawing, because he has paused. “It does, in fact. I have come to believe that any statements taken on it were destroyed immediately. I myself have only taken two, which may mean that witnesses are systematically eliminated.”

“Systematically, but not completely. I’ll draw, you look.”

She puts her pen down to look over what’s in the folder. Three new statements concerning preparation and one concerning the substance of the Rite of the Watcher’s Crown. She skims them intently and nods. “Thank you, Adelard. I should mark the folder as well, while we’re here. Do you have any other news?”

“Hmm,” says Dekker, as Gertrude begins to draw her fractal web on the folder. “No supernatural news. And I’m sure you don’t want to see pictures of my sister’s kids. Very cute, though. Sometimes she brings them in to visit, Paulina dotes on them. I think Gina’s afraid they’ll grow up into witches, though, if they keep playing with cards and crystals.”

Gertrude doesn’t speak or look up. She has nothing to say on the subject. It’s been decades since she had anything she could call a family. This is intentional.

“So I tell her she doesn’t have to bring them here, but she says they love the shop. Spoiled kids.”

Dekker lapses into silence, idly continuing his sharp spirals. She thinks of warning him not to get comfortable drawing fractals without thinking, but he’s a grown man. And in any case she doesn’t need associates who can’t take care of themselves. Getting rid of Michael was practically a public service—

She stops for a moment, caught between human decency and practiced cruelty. In any reasonable value scheme, Michael was worth nothing as a person, less than nothing as a research assistant, and his only value was his ability to get in the way. But a very long time ago Gertrude was taught a different value scheme. Her parents insisted that humans have some kind of inherent worth, and she has been unlearning it ever since. Sometimes she wonders in her father’s voice why she should bother rescuing humanity from its collective fears if all of them are worthless, and she has never found a satisfactory answer. Only that it is something she needs to do.

She finishes the net and stands up, tucking the folder into her bag. “Thank you,” she says again. “Be careful.”

To her relief he puts his pen down as he smiles wryly up at her. “You need that advice more than me, Gertrude. Get on with you.”

He accompanies her out into the shop and looks over the girl’s shoulder where she’s leaning over one of the display cases. “Making friends, Paulina?”

“Shit!” she says, jumping slightly. “Hey, Mr. Dekker. I was just showing Gerry how to read tarot.”

Gerry?

Gertrude raises one eyebrow at him, but he is industriously tapping the deck on the table to align all the edges of the cards. She does not point out that Gerard has known how to read tarot since he was very young. Heaven forbid she should interfere with his flirting.

“I’d like to do a reading for you,” Gerard says. He looks up and makes eye contact, which seems to indicate that this request is important.

“I won’t stop you,” she says.

He shuffles seven times, flamboyantly, and then holds out the deck. She cuts it and he squares the edges on the table again.

When he draws the first card she realizes that the deck is not the Rider-Waite-Smith deck she was expecting. The angel in the sky of Judgment is not a winged humanoid but a wheel of eyes, an ophan. “This is your major concern,” says Gerard. “I don’t have to tell you what that means, do I.”

“No.”

“Your challenges,” says Gerard, flipping the next card. “Eight of cups. Detachment, abandonment of connections. G-d, this is a lot more embarrassing than I was expecting. Er, also symbolizes escapism. So, moving on. Something you need to know. Four of coins, reversed. Normally that means… huh. Material wealth…” For her the card appears upright, and it’s impossible to deny the subject’s striking resemblance to Elias Bouchard. “The crown is… literal. So maybe look for that. And don’t be shy about spending resources to go after it, I guess.”

Gertrude leans forward intently. “Where is it?” she asks. Although as far as she knows tarot is complete nonsense based in apophenia and confirmation bias, she is willing to believe that if anyone can use it for genuine divination it is Gerard.

“Right, this one’s ‘a thing you need in order to progress’.” He pushes the next card into place. “Hah! Oh, I like this deck. I’m sure you’re aware the Devil is usually a metaphor for imprisonment, but in this case he’s also a person.”

“Elias has the crown?”

“No,” says Paulina. Gerard looks around at her in surprise. “Not yet. It’s going to become his, or become real. That’s why it’s reversed. It doesn’t just show who has it, it shows how he has it. And he’s got to do something first.”

“Oh,” says Gerard. “Right, yeah, that makes sense. Pity, though, that we can’t steal it.” Gertrude gestures for him to continue, and he sighs. “Final card. What you’ve got to do.” He places it below the second card. “Four of cups. Play it safe. Wait.”

“No,” says Gertrude, and she flips the next card off the top of the deck, laying it sideways across the four of cups.

He sighs again, longer. “What you’re going to do anyway. Ace of swords. Reveal secrets at any cost.”

“That is a card for how to fail,” says Paulina.

“I have everything I needed,” says Gertrude. “Good-bye, Adelard.” She strides toward the door. Behind her Gerard hastily says goodbye to Paulina, muttering that she should text him, and hurries after Gertrude. Briefly, and for no reason at all, she hates him for assuming that he is required to leave with her.

Gerard catches up to her quickly, but as he often does he walks half a step behind. “She actually did teach me,” he says. “M… Mary never worked out how to use it for anything, she just liked the look of it. Apparently it gives you awful dreams, though. So, looking forward to that.”

“How unfortunate,” says Gertrude. “Especially as I suspect you’ll be using it a lot in the near future.”

[judeonthemove]

One Hundred And Nine Beds

We loved Ecuador so much we stayed an extra day. Although that's not strictly true, it sounds much better than: despite having a bulletproof plan for getting to the airport, arriving there four hours ahead of our flight, and sitting for two hours at what was initially promoted as the correct gate, we somehow conspired to miss our flight. We still have no idea when they changed the gate, why we didn't notice, or what on earth happened to their customer service announcements. Tiredness, relaxation and misplaced trust lulled us into false sense of security and we were rewarded with a monumental fuck up and no hint of an apology. There are few things you want to experience less at a foreign airport than the icicle stab in your guts of realising you are stuck in a territorial no-man's land, on the wrong side of a continent, facing a temporal and financial haemorrhage that you have to resolve in another language. There are the immediate practical problems to deal with of course, but also the wave of humiliation and self-recrimination. How on earth did we manage to make their mess into our problem? Staff members trooped us off around the airport getting our exit stamps annulled, and down to the basement where our rucksacks lay unceremoniously dumped by a door next to the tarmac. Just to underline our misdemeanours the narcotics police then proceeded to dismantle our bags. It was surreal and strangely violating to see your sorry pile of belongings through a stranger's eyes; that the backbone of your life for ten months is nothing but crap. Given that we weren't drug smugglers, we were allowed to proceed with our walk of shame back through security and baggage reclaim before facing the inevitable at the airline ticket desk. Mercifully the woman on duty had fluent English and quickly reassured us that for the bargain price of a lost day and $198 we could still get to Rio de Janeiro. Painful, but nothing like as wounding as I'd feared. There was nothing but a web address to consult about our complaints, and we were sent off into the night.

Reluctant to bankrupt ourselves further and urgently feeling in need of some control we found a nearby town on the map, jumped on a local bus, and hustled down a dark, desolate road in search of accommodation. Our hunch that anywhere that close to an airport would feature hostals was correct and we holed up for the night, spending our last few dollars on pizza and beer, and hurriedly trying to make contact with our hotel in Rio. It was a prime case of sod's law that having decided to blow the accommodation budget on our final lodgings (a whole £30 a night, woooooooh!), we wantonly discarded a night of our booking. So here we are, back at Quito airport, paranoidly sat below the departures board at our supposed gate. Three hours should do it today.

...

Shortly after dawn we were hurtling through the streets of Rio on a transfer bus, astonished at seeing a huge high rise city again. Rio was covered in simple black graffiti tags at street level and at impossible heights all over tower blocks, bridges, and industrial buildings. The city had the appearance of having been infected with a rash of kanji. Delivered just a block from our hotel, we weaved around encampments of rough sleepers. At six in the morning it was already hot, and the bracing smell of human waste and desperation competed with the tropical plants of the park. While we might have been late, at least we had a bed to sleep in and a home to go back to. The kindly night receptionist was waiting for us and pointed out that the breakfast buffet had just opened. A quality breakfast was one of our pre-requisites when deciding where to stay so there was quite a weight of expectation upon it. Still wired from the events of the previous thirty-six hours, and suffering from no sleep and another two hour forward time jump, we were a bit over-excitable. There was a lift, carpeted hallways, key-cards, and a great room with a massive bed and powerful, hot shower. It could have been the Ritz and not felt like a better treat. We fell on the breakfast buffet like vultures then passed out until the late afternoon.

Other than for references to the quality night life, ‘sketchy' was the main adjective we’d seen used in relation our new neighbourhood of Lapa. We divested ourselves of valuables and ventured out on a quest for orientation, dinner and some good old Brazilian beer. Finding ourselves in a sports bar we utilised our best pointing and smiling technique in the acquisition of some tea. Portuguese might look like Spanish, but it sounds like Hungarian and we were utterly clueless once more. After fuelling up, some more beer was in order and it just so happens that Rio is full of actual bars, not cafes that might serve beer, but beer emporia that might serve snacks. Yes the area was a bit moody in places, but not to the extent that you'd hide in your hotel, and there was more than a hint of promise for the weekend. We soaked it up for a while then headed back, detouring by the hotel roof to survey the scene. We were surprised to find the view dominated by a terrifying Mayan temple-style ziggurat in brutalist concrete. Behind the local aqueduct-cum-tourist tramline it lurked, gigantic and awful. A swift search revealed it was a cathedral, possibly the most dystopian fantasy cathedral ever.

Rio being a big city, we had to be modest with our expectations of what was achievable in a few days. We stayed local on the first morning, visiting the bohemian hillside neighbourhood of Santa Theresa via the tram. At the top was a theatre in a ruined colonial villa and an art gallery with marmosets in the garden. The views towards Sugar Loaf Mountain and Christ the Redeemer helped shape our itinerary for the remainder of the week. We picked around the twisty cobbled streets and managed not to punch the army of selfie-takers on the Selarón Stairs. The artist burned himself to death at the foot of his meticulously tiled staircase but this grisly fact seemed to be lost on the crowd as they posed and obstructed on the same spot. Once in possession of the right kind of ticket, we zipped off on the metro to check out Ipanema beach. James is very much a mogwai when it comes to beaches and should never be made wet or sandy, but once installed on a rented chair even he admitted it was an excellent place and suggested we should do some more beachiness. In my imagination, the beaches of Rio are full of impossibly beautiful people so it was encouraging to find all sorts present and enjoying themselves. Beach life is serious business, involving lots of team sports, sexy casual style, and alcohol. Enterprising stalls set up each day supplying chairs, parasols and drinks, and disappear again at sunset spirited away in VW campervans. Despite the breaking waves I managed a bit of a swim in the Atlantic and we chilled out as the sun went down. It was time to get formally acquainted with the caipirinha, Brazil's national drink. I suspect that caipirinha is viewed as some sort of human right in Brazil. It is ubiquitous, and invariably both the cheapest drink available and blindingly strong. It's also delicious of course, which set the tone for the remainder of the week.

Thursday saw us on the cable car up to Sugarloaf Mountain, for a spectacular view of the city and the incoming weather. On the way there we'd walked past the very swanky yacht club and therefore had a second chance to be envious, admiring the miniature yachts from above as they flew across the bay. The irony is there is no ‘January River' as Rio de Janeiro translates, the first Europeans to discover the place were mistaken. Guanabara Bay certainly looked like a mighty fine sailing ground though. We followed the short nature walk at the top and soon became enveloped in increasingly thick cloud. With the wind picking up and Rio now largely invisible, we descended once more. We pursued our plan to visit Copacabana but remained beach adjacent, supping caipirinhas and attempting to understand the rules of the foot/volley-ball hybrid game everyone plays. The sea did not look too safe for swimming, and as the sun went down it started to rain with a vengeance. Lightning pounded the sky above the mountains and ocean. Eventually we had to acknowledge it wasn't going to stop and had to make a run for it. Drenched, but still warm and cheerful we grabbed some food and called it a night. Across the road from our hotel, a mysterious festival was being set up.

We have breakfasted incrementally later as the week has progressed, which may or may not relate to the exponential increase in our alcohol consumption. Getting mobilised eventually on Friday morning, we went to investigate the intimidating cathedral. Like a reverse tardis it somehow seemed smaller on the inside. Smaller but still a vast open space with stained glass streaming down the walls from a glass cross in the roof. It was calm, cool and bold. Arriving at the modern art gallery by a rather leisurely midday was not a problem, as it emerged they only opened at midday, thus giving our tardiness the appearance of planning. Fully arted up we went for a wander round the waterfront and ran into what might have been some sort of naval graduation ceremony. Military bands in full uniform greeted dignitaries while bodyguards watched over the proceedings. We admired the architecture of one of Rio's newest museums but chose Coke and churros outside over going in. Our diabetes-baiting was rewarded with more rain so we trotted back to base for a disco nap as Rio geared up for Friday night.

When we re-emerged, Lapa had transformed itself into party central with innumerable samba bars featuring live bands. Off-licences doubled as bars, with crowds ranged across the pavements or sitting on the city's shared bicycles. Bar stalls crowded in the central reservation, and people with modified bikes and hand carts sold booze on the move. This was not the place for sobriety. While our ruined clothes made us look a bit down at heel inside the hotel, we fitted right in on the street. Urine, drains and cigarette smoke competed with frying snack food and the ever present zing of lime wedges. Groups of friends sang and danced in and around the bars, dodging traffic as the crowds swelled into the road. The mystery festival turned out to be a Christian music weekender. One couldn't help but feel they were fighting a losing battle. We lined our stomachs and got into the spirit of things at a restaurant before going on to a bar. The early hours found us under the aqueduct arches, clutching mind-bendingly strong, half-litre, 90p caipirinhas, and swaying to Christian rock in the rain.

Saturday was a slow start, followed by a restorative breakfast and post-breakfast sleep. We eventually hauled ourselves back up to Santa Theresa for a longer look around and a nice walk in the sunshine. After my ordering error in Baños I finally got stroganoff for my tea, and hoped this wouldn't be an ill-advised choice ahead of another night on the beers. We'd noticed protesters gathering earlier in the day, and many of them were partying in Lapa. Clearly it was something to do with next week's general election. The reported front-runner, representing the hard right, is currently recovering from being stabbed. These cheerful revellers were altogether more peaceful in their opposition to him, choosing stickers, glitter and dancing in the street as their weapons of choice. We steered clear of the cocktails but still made a poor attempt at getting a slightly earlier night. We looked up the hashtag of the campaign stickers and chanting, and discovered that #elenão meant #nothim, a cry of protest against misogyny, homophobia and racism.

Sunday, appropriately enough, involved a visit to Giant Jesus, or Christ the Redeemer as the statue is known to all but me. The figure watches over the city from high above and, while prominent, had seemed smaller than expected from the vantage points we'd had up to then. A Swiss-style train took us from the base of the mountain, up the steep, forested slopes to the undeniably enormous statue. All around the main platform, people lay prostrate at the feet of Christ. They weren't praying, or indeed even looking at the statue, but rather were all busily taking photos of each other; lying on the ground to get the same crucial shot from below. Arms outstretched, their backs to the statue, superimposing themselves over one of the modern wonders of the world. While the sights on the viewing decks were plain annoying, the views from them were superb, taking in the bay, mountains, city and beaches in 360°. We could have happily stayed up there for hours, but we'd promised ourselves a second crack at Copacabana and daylight hours were running short. Arriving on the bus, it was immediately apparent that some huge party was in full swing. The dual carriageway next to the beach was closed to traffic and full of floats and thousands of people. It was a powerful cross between a Pride parade and political rally. The tide was up and the sea so rough that lifeguards were patrolling on jet-skis and preventing people from swimming. My swim kit stayed in my bag and rather than sit on the beach as planned, we grabbed a drink and joined in. While it might not have been our election, it was a great opportunity to show solidarity. We picked a sound system we liked and danced alongside the slow moving lorry down the full length of Copacabana. We arrived several hours later hammered, starving and covered in glitter. Ending as we began in Santiago, our final dinner in this continent involved meat on chips, a South American staple. Clearly we couldn't just leave it there, as Sunday night samba was in full swing back in Lapa. Street-stall caipirinhas in hand we stood on the pavement admiring other people's dance moves and looking back on our trip. Our livers are quietly glad we are not staying longer.

We believe we have slept in one hundred and nine beds over the past ten months. This includes a bamboo stretcher in the forests of Laos, a tent in Thailand, wild campsites in an Australian van, and a boat down the Amazon. It does not account for all the overnight planes, trains and buses that we have variously enjoyed and endured. Thinking of it like this it seems incredible, yet here we are; it's the first of October and we're about to go home. Many of my clothes are about to go in the bin, together with the owl-patterned bag that has been slung across my body almost every day and is a veteran of our Japan our India trips before that. It's like discarding faithful friends. I have no idea what's coming next and am merrily avoiding thinking about it until we're home and the dust settles. As I lie here in Rio thinking of what a wonder, challenge and privilege it has been to do this, our tiny, huge earth rotates beneath me. We will soon be racing back across the Atlantic to the lovely Peels who will await us at Heathrow. For those of you who have managed to read this far, you’ve got through eighteen of these missives and who knows how many tens of thousands of words. Thank you for your interest, it's been lovely to have someone else to talk to.

[fireinmoonshot]

SPIDER | BUCKY BARNES x READER | PART FOUR

CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR THE FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER.

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE Summary: Bucky doesn’t know what to make of you when he meets you. You’re friends with Sharon, and you seem pretty easy to read on the surface. But the more time he spends with you, the more he seems to uncover, and the more he becomes tangled in the web you unwittingly weave. Pairing: female!Reader x Bucky Barnes Fandom: Marvel / The Falcon and the Winter Soldier Word Count: 2,769 Warnings: SPOILERS FOR THE FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER. A/N: Thank you all for the lovely response yet again! I really appreciate it. We're getting into Episode 4 now, so if you've not seen it yet make sure you don't read this chapter or you'll spoil yourself! Please let me know your thoughts, though. I really liked how this chapter turned out and I tried to make it so it didn't read like I was just writing the episode out word for word so I hope it's okay!

Zemo’s apartment was, at least, comfortable. As soon as you’d arrived Sam had settled in and gotten himself a drink and Zemo had excused himself to shower. You’d gone for a wander around the place, trying to get your bearings. It’d been a while since you’d been out of Madripoor and it felt a little like the ground had just been ripped up from underneath your feet. It was undoubtedly going to take some getting used to. Then, with what Bucky had said in the street. You were overthinking and you knew it, but he’d been right. You hated that he’d been right.

A change of clothes and freshening up in one of the bathrooms the place had done at least some of the job in helping you feel settled in, and by the time you re-enter the living room Bucky’s back, the Dora Milaje is after Zemo and the news that Karli bombed a GRC supply depot has broken.

You settle on one of the seats beside Sam with a glass of water and a heavy heart. Zemo is talking about how he personally believes Karli is a supremacist, but you can’t get your mind off of how three people had died and eleven more had been injured at the GRC supply depot bombing. You have a feeling that more people are going to end up dead if you don’t act soon, and fast.

“She will not stop,” Zemo says. “She will escalate until you kill her.”

You zone back into the conversation, taking a long sip of your drink.

“Or she kills you.”

“How unbelievably morbid of you,” you mutter.

Bucky glances at you and Sam even huffs out what you think could be a laugh.

“Maybe you’re wrong, Zemo. The serum never corrupted Steve,” Bucky says.

“Touché. But there has never been another Steve Rogers, has there?”

You can’t disagree with him. These people – Karli, her super soldiers. You know that they’re not trying to be Steve Rogers. They’re anything but. But you also know that John Walker, where-ever he is, whoever he is, isn’t qualified for the job either.

Bucky sighs and makes to walk away from the three of you and head toward the couch, looking for a well deserved seat. “Well, maybe we should give him to the Wakandans right now.”

“And you’ll give up your tour guide?” Zemo replies, staring into a cabinet and not even bothering to give Bucky a glance.

“Yes.” Bucky doesn’t hesitate.

Sam rolls his eyes, clearly irritated by the both of them. He says something, you vaguely hear something about his ‘TT’, though you don’t listen to the words. Instead, you stare into your drink, swirling the water around in the cup.

It’s not the first time you wonder if you’ve made a mistake my coming along with Sam, Bucky and Zemo. It’s not like Sharon gave you a choice, but you know that you could have insisted that you not come along. But now you’re wondering even more as you sit in Zemo’s living room, listening to the three men concoct a plan without even needing to consult you. Three men – a criminal, one that doesn’t trust you and one that you just don’t understand at all. You feel out of place among them.

You push yourself up and out of your chair, leaving your water behind on the table, and head towards the hallway that’ll lead you to the room Zemo told you that you could use. Bucky watches as you go, wondering if he should call out and ask you where you’re going, though he hesitates for too long and by that time, you’re out of sight. Sam watches him with furrowed eyebrows.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” Bucky looks at him.

“You, staring at her like that. Are you in cahoots or something? I saw you talking on the street. Hell, you stopped to talk to her. What’s that about?”

Bucky scoffs. “In cahoots? Are you being serious right now?”

“Deadly.”

“Yeah, you know what else is deadly?”

“What?”

“Karli if we don’t hurry up and get some information on Donya Madani.” Bucky stands up and heads towards the bathroom. “As soon as I’m done, we’re heading out.”

Sam shakes his head and mutters “Who made you boss?” under his breath.

Bucky hears him. “I did!”

***

You’re not quite sure what you expect to find, but it’s certainly more than you’re leaving with. Bucky is standing and staring at Zemo and a group of children when you and Sam rejoin him. You’d gone upstairs with him, having decided on the journey there to at least try with him, and if he still refused to trust you, you’d give up. Or perhaps you wouldn’t. You hadn’t quite decided yet.

Bucky looks at you as you stand beside him, hands tucked firmly into the pockets of your jacket to shield them from the cool breeze. You hadn’t said much to him since he’d joined you at Zemo’s apartment after your talk on the street, and honestly he didn’t expect you to. He didn’t even really know what to say to you, so he’d figured he’d not even bother breaching the topic. If you wanted to talk about it, you would.

You stare ahead at Zemo, eyes narrowed. He’d been a little anxious about you going upstairs with Sam alone, even though he knew deep down that Sam wasn’t going to do anything, especially to Sharon’s friend.

“Someone needs to teach those children not to talk to strangers,” you mutter.

Sam snorts.

“No, seriously. If I was their age and someone that looked and acted like Zemo came up and started talking to me like that, I’d probably want to punch him and run.” You pause and then spot the Turkish delight. “On second thoughts…” You make to walk towards him, suddenly feeling rather protective over the children unknowingly speaking to a criminal like Zemo.

Before you can even make it two steps, a hand closes around your wrist and pulls you to a stop. You look back, irritated, to find Bucky shaking his head at you.

“Don’t. He’s not going to hurt them. They’re giving him information.”

“They’re children and he’s a criminal.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, tugging you back to his side and letting go of your wrist once you’re there. “And I’ll punch him in the face if I have to.”

Sam chuckles. “Don’t tempt him, or me, for that matter.”

“Now you’ve just made me want to watch him get punched in the face.”

Bucky and Sam share a look.

“I will if you will,” Sam shrugs.

Zemo finishes speaking to the children and walks back towards the three of you. “Cute kids,” he says, smiling a smile that makes your skin crawl. He walks straight past you.

“Yeah, I hate that man,” you mutter.

***

The journey back to Zemo’s apartment is quiet and uncomfortable. You feel worried for the children and are contemplating various different ways you could physically injure and maim Zemo. Whatever Sam and Bucky are thinking, you don’t know or particularly care.

What you do know is that you didn’t find what you came for

You close the door of the apartment behind you.

“Well, I got nothing,” Bucky says, heading straight to the couch. “No one’s talking about Donya.”

“Yeah, it’s because Karli is the only one fighting for them,” Sam replies, settling down on the couch opposite Bucky. “And she’s not wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

You find a spot on the couch by Bucky and kick off your shoes so you can put your feet up. All of the travelling around was certainly taking its toll and honestly, you were beyond exhausted. If you had the time to sleep for more than a few broken hours, you’d take it. You rest your head on your arm, laying your head down on the top of the couch, and look between Sam and Bucky.

Sam sighs and elaborates. “For five years, people have been welcomed into countries that have kept them out using barbwire. There were houses and jobs. Folks were happy to have people around to help them rebuild. It wasn’t just one community coming together, it was the entire world coming together. And then, boom. Just like that, it goes right back to the way it used to be. To them, at least Karli’s doing something.”

“You really think her ends justify her means?” Bucky says. “Then, she’s no different than him,” he motions to Zemo, “or anybody else we’ve fought.”

“She’s different. She’s not motivated by the same things.”

You find the courage to speak. “Just because she’s not motivated by the same things as Zemo or the people you’ve fought, it doesn’t mean she’s not unlike them,” you sit up a little straighter as they look at you. “I haven’t fought people like you have, but I’ve fought. I’ve seen what regular people can do with a following. Karli is different, but she’s the same, too. She’s making change, but at what cost?”

Bucky looks at you, eyes narrowed. “I like you,” he says. “You get me.”

Sam rolls his eyes and looks like he’s about to reply when Zemo comes over holding a tray with tea and several tea cups. It almost makes you laugh, the sight of him with the smallest, daintiest pieces of China, but you hold it back, knowing that all eyes in the room would fall on you if you did laugh.

“That little girl. What’d she tell you?” Bucky’s amusement over you is long gone.

Zemo looks at the three of you for several moments before finally giving up the information he’d been holding hostage. “The funeral is this afternoon.”

Beside you, Bucky huffs in annoyance. “You know the Dora’s coming for you at any minute? In fact, they’re probably lurking outside right now. Keep talking.”

“Leaving you to turn on me once we get to Karli. Hmm. I prefer to keep my leverage.”

You watch as Bucky stands up from the couch and walks towards him. Something tells you that he’s not just standing up to talk, but before you can so much as think of anything else, Bucky grabs a tea cup and throws it against the wall behind Zemo. It shatters with a surprisingly loud crack.

“You wanna see what someone can do with leverage?”

Both you and Sam are on your feet in seconds, stepping in-between them. You press a hand against Bucky’s shoulder and try to move him away from Zemo, but it does nothing. He doesn’t move and instead keeps shooting daggers at Zemo over your shoulder.

“Take it easy. Don’t engage him. He’s just gonna extort you and do that stupid head tilt thing,” Sam says, warning Bucky off. “Let me make a call.” He leaves the room, but not before tapping on Bucky’s other shoulder in an attempt to snap him out of it.

Zemo gets on your nerves by asking “You want some cherry blossom tea?”

“No, you go ahead.” Bucky is seething.

You push on his shoulder again and finally he steps back.

“What, you think we can afford to start fighting amongst each other now?” You ask, directing Bucky out of the living room and down the hall, figuring it’s probably for the best if he and Zemo aren’t in the same room right now. Zemo can enjoy his cherry blossom tea all on his own.

Bucky lets out a long, shaky breath. “Told you I wanted to punch him.”

“When I said I wanted to see it, I didn’t mean today.”

You tug him out of the hall and into your room, closing the door behind you. It’s the first time the two of you have been alone since the street where he’d called you out for contradicting yourself all the time. Strangely, he’s the person out of the three of them that you’re the most comfortable around, yet you also know he’s definitely the one that’s the most rash in his decision making. Hence the broken cup.

Bucky sits down on the edge of the bed and runs his hands over his hair.

“I know that helping him get out was for the best considering everything with Karli and the Flag Smashers, but I’m really regretting my decision right about now,” he admits, eyes focused firmly on the floor.

You walk over and settle down beside him on the bed.

“He has his uses, but just because he’s useful doesn’t mean he’s any less of an ass.”

He laughs briefly and the sound makes you smile.

“We all have regrets, okay?” You continue. “I have plenty of them, you have them, Sam has them, I bet even Zemo has some. Buried deep down. I try not to focus on mine. Maybe you should try the same with the Zemo thing.”

Bucky lifts his head and looks at you. “Yeah, it’s that easy, is it?”

For some reason, you want him to trust you even more now. Having felt disconnected from them all day, but also having felt the thrill when one of them laughs at your joke, or even Bucky just telling you that he likes you… the part of you that wants trust wins out, so you decide to tell Bucky one of your regrets.

“I regret leaving Madripoor and Sharon,” you admit. “She’s the only home I’ve known for the longest time. Madripoor – however messed up it is there – felt like some kind of home because of her. It’s the first time we’ve been apart since the blip, I suppose. Part of me wishes I was still there with her. But the other part of me focuses on the fact that she thinks I’m of more use here, with you guys. So I’m trying to be of use to you guys. I’m trying not to shut myself off. I’m pushing down my regret in favour of trying to be helpful.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Well, I haven’t contradicted myself yet, have I?”

Bucky smiles properly for the first time since you’ve met him.

“And listen, if it makes you feel any better, you entirely have my permission to punch Zemo before we finish all of this. I don’t know Sam well, but I have a feeling he’d be on board, too.”

He chuckles and leans back until he’s laying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

“I meant what I said in there before,” he points in the direction of the living room. “That I like you. That you get me. I don’t know how, but you do.” He looks up at you, sitting up and watching him. “You’re making it annoyingly easy for me to trust you right now, you know that? I feel like I shouldn’t trust you because of the contradictions you make about yourself. But now you’re sitting here, being open and honest with me. Making sure I don’t punch people. And now I feel like I could trust you.”

You’re smiling. “Maybe that was all part of my grand plan.”

Bucky furrows his eyebrows. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m joking. It was a joke,” you huff out a laugh. “Learn to take a joke, James.”

He pushes himself up, sitting straight again. “James?”

“That’s your name, is it not? Or do you not like being called James?”

“No, it’s… it’s fine.” He blinks. Lets your words settle with him for a moment.  “Bucky, James. I don’t care what you call me. Unless it’s offensive.”

“Well, you’re safe there,” you laugh. “I’m not mad at you, by the way. About what you said earlier. You were right. I do contradict myself, and I do it to protect myself.”

Bucky frowns. “You don’t have to protect yourself from me.”

“Then I’ll try not to,” you say honestly. “Now, have you cooled off enough to go back and see who Sam was calling, or do you wanna stay here for a few more minutes?”

Bucky thinks over your question for a few moments, thinking ever so briefly about staying here with you for a little bit longer simply because he thinks he likes being around you, before nodding. “I think I’m good.”

You nod and stand up, intending to head to the door, but Bucky reaches out a hand to stop you. He means to grab your wrist, but unintentionally ends up grabbing your hand. You whirl, eyes a little wider than you realise, and look at him.

He doesn’t let go.

“Thank you,” he says. “For getting me out of there. For calming me down.”

You smile. “Anytime, Bucky.”

***

Tag List: (to be added, just reply to this post or message me!) @rexorangecouny @mischiefmanaged71​ @rebelspykim @johnmurphys-sass @americaswritings @toribentleyva @purplewcrld @zozebo @ren-ni @felicityofbakerstreet @stealapizzamyheart @okayline @lilacs-lavender @andievgs @mvpluv @themaddies-obx @shawnartmendes @my-little-writer @vvipgot7be

[greyias]

FIC: Blindsided (3/3)

Title: Blindsided Fandom: SWTOR Pairing: Theron Shan/f!Jedi Knight Genre: Missing Scene, Angst, H/C Synopsis: Theron isn’t the most patient man normally, but this kind of waiting is a whole new level of torture. (Missing Scenes for the Iokath storyline) Beta: None! We die (one last time) like menw.

Part 1 | Part 2 |  Crossposted to AO3

After finally getting back to the Alliance basecamp, and reluctantly letting the medics take her from his arms, he’d had to wait.

Theron hated waiting normally—but this kind of waiting? Was the worst.

He’d had to wait on the medics, who’d taken her from his arms, as they made their examination. Wait as he overheard the muttered prognosis of third degree burns and severe nerve damage. Wait as she drifted through unconsciousness, first in a kolto tank, and then later on a medical bed. Wait hour after hour staring at her unmoving form, holding her hand, listening to her nightmare mutterings until he had to move away before his rising anger made him do something crazy and drastic.

So while he waited, he did the only thing that he could do. He worked. Taking apart every bit of evidence he could find. Checking every millimeter of the overload charge with a trained eye, trying to find some clue to who had done this.

The carefully disassembled shards of the charge lay discarded on the work table he’d claimed, as he’d moved on to trying to decrypt the transmission that Lana had discovered. The algorithm was one of the most complex pieces of coding he had ever seen. He would have been impressed if it hadn’t been used in an attempt to murder the woman he loved.

“Theron—son—maybe you should get some rest.”

He had missed when Jace had made his appearance, bent over a data terminal as he picked apart every single piece of evidence. Theron didn’t bother looking up from his station. “Go away, Malcom.”

“I understand it’s been a trying few days, but you—”

“What are you trying to do?” He finally snapped, taking a moment to swap out programs so that the older man couldn’t see what he was looking at. “What’s your angle here, Malcom?”

“Theron, I’ve got no angle, I’m just concerned about you—”

“Oh, you’re concerned now?” Theron let every ounce of anger he’d been trying to shove away boil to the surface. Not all of it stemmed from the other man, but at the moment he just didn’t care anymore. “Because I seem to remember a certain holocall where you all but called me a terrorist and traitor.”

“I was just angry. You were throwing away your career, turning your back on the Republic for this—”

The moment Jace’s gaze had cut away from Theron to the unconscious Jedi, something in him snapped. “You leave her out of this!”

“Will you let me finish talking?”

“We were done talking when you disowned me for doing the right thing!”

“I did not disown you. You are still my son—”

“Oh, so good standing with the grand old Republic is a requirement for that? Good to know.”

“Damn it, Theron, I’m trying here.”

“Don’t bother. The only father I had died years ago. In the Vesla system.”

The imposing figure of the Republic’s Supreme Commander seemed to wilt for a second, like he had been punched in the gut. No more words were exchanged—none were needed—and they silently picked opposite sides of the large room to occupy. A familiar spark of guilt began to rise up, but Theron ignored it. There were more important things than half-hearted reunions that were too little and too late.

So he went back to working. To try and keep his mind off the waiting.

By the time the Alliance’s Commander had finally stirred, Theron had finished as much digging as he could into the sabotage from where they were. He was going to need the full resources of the base on Odessen to really get to the bottom of this. Lana had kept an eye on the Alliance Commander during her fitful sleep, and it was only when he heard her talking softly did he realize that the Jedi was finally waking up.

There was a part of him that had wanted to pull the damn woman back into his arms and tell her to never do that to him again, but it was neither the time nor the place. So again he waited, as they cut straight into the business of what had brought them to Iokath. Of who had tried to use her as some sort of sacrificial lamb to their metal god of death. As she defied all common sense and started making preparations to go take on the Apocalypse Machine again. Because of course nearly dying once wasn’t enough for her.

He waited as Jace came over to congratulate her, and watched the older man like a hawk. Theron didn’t really think that he was the one who had set them up—subterfuge and manipulation weren’t really his father’s style. He was more the blunt instrument of someone else’s political machinations. If he wanted someone dead, the Supreme Commander would just order for them to be blown away from orbit rather than weave some complicated web of intrigue.

He even waited as they planned and discussed next steps — both on disabling the superweapon for good and on Theron and Lana’s investigation (that would not include dragging every raw recruit through the mud, thank you Lord-of-Paranoia Beniko). But as she and Lana started to leave to make contact with the Scions, he finally had reached the end of his ability to wait.

Theron grabbed her by the overly ornate gauntlet—unable to completely ignore the char mark on it that set his gut roiling again—and dragged her over to a darkened corner. Lana seemed to take the unspoken hint and hastily made her departure. A gentle hand laid on his made him realize that perhaps he was holding on just a little too tightly.

“What’s wrong?”

He just looked at her, trying to figure out even where to begin. Her time immersed in the kolto tank had healed the worst of the burns, but the shiny new patches of skin still stood out in stark contrast. He tried to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat, instead glancing down to where she had taken both of his hands between hers.

“Theron,” she said gently, “what’s bothering you?”

The real words he wanted to say kept getting stuck behind that damn lump, and rather than try to choke them out he just asked tersely. “You’re going to be careful, right?”

“Of course I am,” she said quietly. “When am I not?”

He speared her with a look then, as if unable to believe she had actually managed to say that with a straight face. He bit back on that response, because he had already waited long enough, he wasn’t about to get derailed now by a pointless argument. “Look, I can’t stop you, I know that, and I know that if anyone has a chance at beating this thing it’s you.”

“But…?”

“I…” the words got stuck again and he dropped his eyes, unable to look past all of the burn and scorch marks left by the explosion that had nearly killed her. Just as soon as they got off this mechanized death trap of a world he’d spend the next week buffing that armor clean. So he’d never have to look at a physical reminder of this again.

One of her hands gently cupped his jaw, tilting his head back up so that he would look at her. She didn’t bother to hide her concern, brow wrinkled and lips pursed together. He hated seeing that look on her face, and he hated even more being the cause of it. He swallowed once more, managing to force the lump in his throat down enough to form the proper words, but it still came out as a harsh whisper.

“I almost lost you once today—I can’t… seeing you on the floor…”

Her anxious expression softened into something akin to regret as her thumb absently traced his jawline. “I’m sorry I put you through that. You know that wasn’t my intention.”

“I’m going to find whoever did that,” he promised, voice rough, “they’re not going to get a second chance.”

“Theron—”

“You almost died because someone out there is trying to play war games—like the galaxy is some giant game of dejarik! Someone we know! And I didn’t—”

“Theron,” she said more firmly this time, cutting him off as his voice started to rise in volume, “we’re going to find them. Together. We’ll find justice for the lives that were lost because of this.”

“You were almost one of them.”

“But I wasn’t,” she said quietly, “I’m still here.”

“I should have seen this coming,” he insisted, “you and Lana kept trying to point it out. If I had listened instead of—”

“You’re just one man, Theron,” she interrupted, “you can’t see everything.”

“I should have seen this.”

She squeezed his hand gently, pulling his focus back to her eyes. “Do you think that I hold you accountable for any of this?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why hold yourself up to an impossible standard?”

Because it wasn’t about that. The unquenchable anger in his gut didn’t really stem from anything he did or didn’t do—it was about what he had almost lost today. Even though it was nearing the two year mark from her rescue from Arcann’s carbonite chamber, those five years without her still sometimes seemed like more than a bad memory. Like this was the dream, and that was still the reality. The close calls brought all of that back to the forefront, no matter how much he tried to push them away.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, “you know I’m no good at this sort of thing.”

Her eyes crinkled up with a smile that was a mix of both fondness and a hint of wistful reproach before she pulled him into an embrace. He wrapped his arms around her as she leaned in, head tucked under his chin so her hair tickled at his neck. For just a small moment, he let it all fade away—his anger at being manipulated into this situation, his guilt for not seeing it coming, the super weapon that still threatened everyone, even the traitor who had all led them here in the first place—and he just let the feeling of her wash over him. Her warmth and calm had a way of sweeping over him and carrying everything away.

He hated to have the moment end, but when his eye caught the large imposing figure standing at the large window, he realized he couldn’t let himself get carried away. Reluctantly he pulled away, hating that just the sight of his father had chased away that elusive, fleeting calm that she brought with her wherever she went.

“You still have to save the galaxy,” he said roughly, “don’t let me keep you.”

Perhaps had this been earlier on in their relationship, she might have taken the invitation to leave. But after all they had been through, she had gotten as good at reading between the lines at him. “I’m sensing there’s something else you haven’t mentioned.”

In his long career as an intelligence agent, Theron had taken particular care to keep as many people at arms length as possible. Some had slipped through the cracks, that was inevitable, but as a general rule someone being able to know him well enough to get a read on him was bad business (not to mention dangerous for his health). He’d only begun to appreciate her flair for it after the whole mess with the Revanites — although generally it was quieter moments, like being pulled away from a data terminal if he lost track of time, or having a muffin shoved in his hand when he forgot to eat.

This was not one of those moments, and he felt a flare of irritation at her reading his tension as plainly as she would a book.

“It’s nothing,” he said quietly, carefully choosing a spot behind her to stare at. With her it was easier to mask the truth if he didn’t have to look her in the eye. But apparently she had gotten wise to that particular tactic, because she tilted her head to the side and caught his gaze square-on.

“Theron.” Her voice dropped another level, almost as if she was trying to calm a spooked animal. It might have been insulting if it wasn’t so damn effective. “What is it?”

No matter what they did behind closed doors, some things were still inappropriate for him to ask in front of others. The darkened corner offered the semblance of privacy, but the last thing they needed after everything that happened was someone overhearing him questioning the possibly galaxy altering decision she had made earlier. Still, even such propriety seemed to hold less sway over him under the weight of her concerned gaze.

“I shouldn’t ask,” he whispered so quietly, she probably had to strain to hear, “but I can’t help but wonder… why…”

He trailed off, acutely aware of the absurdity of him asking such a personal question so openly. His gaze slipped from hers, briefly catching the tall silhouette of his father by the window before he returned to look at her. It was a small slip, but telling enough in itself. Her eyes widened ever-so-slightly in understanding, and it was her who looked away this time.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, “I shouldn’t have said anything. You don’t need to—“

“No,” her voice was still quiet, but she grabbed his hand, fingers slightly curling around his, “I want everyone to be able to express themselves.”

“That’s not how the chain of command works,” he reminded her quietly.

“This is not a dictatorship,” she said with a little more conviction, “everyone is allowed to and should have their own opinions.”

He gave her fingers a soft squeeze. “That’s not what I mean. Sometimes the illusion of an undivided front is better, especially with…”

His thoughts immediately returned to the traitor that had put them all in this situation. Her fingers twitched against his, pulling him back before he started to dwell on those dark thoughts. He looked up to her searching expression and he let out a long breath.

“Ask me,” she prompted quietly. “Please.”

“Why’d you choose the Republic?” His voice was barely a whisper, hardly audible to even her ears.

“I didn’t want to,” she said, and when he narrowed an eyebrow, she added, “I didn’t want to choose.”

“But you did.”

“Yes,” she swallowed, glancing away, “but it seemed to go against what we were trying to build with the Alliance. Maybe it was arrogant to think we’d be able to bridge the differences between the Empire and Republic and finally find peace when so many had already failed.”

“Do you really think that?”

“I don’t know,” she said quietly, “everything happened so quickly. I haven’t had much time to reflect on my decision.”

Theron noticed that she hadn’t actually answered his question, and instead had deflected with a different answer. He knew exactly where she had learned up that sort of tactic, and wondered exactly what other bad habits she had picked up from him. “I always thought you were the more forward thinker out of the two of us.”

“That’s because you shortchange yourself too much.” Her brow furrowed at him ever so slightly in consternation. “But in this case, you are correct. I’m afraid I didn’t weigh both sides as carefully as I should have.”

“It’s obviously not something I’m familiar with, but if you looked to the Force for guidance—“

“Maybe I should have. But I didn’t.” She pursed her lips together, head shaking ever so slightly as her eyes dropped down to their lightly intertwined fingers. It wasn’t often that she was more at a loss for words than him. Her fingers curled around his palm, and slowly she guided it up until his hand rested lightly over her heart. When she lifted her gaze back to look at him, there was a slight shimmer behind her eyes. “I was guided by this.”

“You did serve the Republic for—“

“No, I didn’t choose them.” She pressed his hand to her chest for emphasis, as if willing him to understand.

He sucked in a breath, finding it hard to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat. “You… you didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did.” She sounded like she had never been more sure of anything in her life. “I don’t know Malcom as well as you, but… when I did work with him, he didn’t always seem very reasonable when it came to the Empire.”

Theron nodded mutely.

“I know I should have tried harder to find a way to make peace. Make them find common ground instead of choosing, but…” Her eyes dropped to his hand still held against her beating heart. “I couldn’t think. I just kept imagining you being forced into a situation where you’d have to fight him. Where you’d be forced to choose between your father or m…”

She trailed off, not able to finish the sentence. Her fingers loosened from his palm, dropping back down to her side. Instead of letting his hand fall as well, he gently grasped her chin and gave it a soft nudge so she would look back at him. The shimmer in her eyes was still there, and he felt something inside of him break just a little.

“I know that’s no way to run anything,” she whispered. “A proper Jedi wouldn’t make selfish decisions like that.”

“That’s not the definition of selfish.” He forced his suddenly thick tongue to form words.

“I don’t think Lana would agree.”

“She’ll get past it.” He threaded his fingers with hers. “We’re all in this for the long haul.”

“A few years ago, I never thought I’d hear you say that,” she admitted quietly.

“Time has a way of changing things.”

“It does.” An emotion flashed across her expression. Something akin to regret, but more nuanced than that. He couldn’t quite put his finger on the right word. “I would like to say that a few years ago I would have thought more, reacted less.”

“But?”

“Were I in the same position, I think I would have made the same decision,” she said softly, “for the same reason. He’s your father, Theron.”

“I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do,” she gave his fingers a squeeze, “or you wouldn’t be so angry with him.”

His jaw shut with a click and he looked away, glaring silently at the ground. Damn if she wasn’t right about that.

“Whatever happened between you two, he’s still your family.”

He snorted derisively at that, but looked up at her, surprised to see that she was still looking at him with the same soft expression and watery eyes instead of a disapproving gaze at his dismissal of the supposed familial bond between him and Jace.

“It’d be wrong to make you choose between that or me,” she said with conviction. “I would never ask that of you.”

“You never have to ask.” His voice cracked, and he used their intertwined fingers to raise her hand, mimicking her action from before and guiding it to rest on his chest. “I’d follow you to the edge of the galaxy and beyond.”

The shimmer finally broke into a trickle down her cheek, but before he could reach up to wipe it away, she crossed the small distance, pressing herself against him and trapping their hands where they lay against his heart. Her lips found his, and the rest of the world faded away as he kissed her like a man dying of thirst who had finally found an oasis.

Had Theron looked up, he might have noticed that the attention of the tall figure at the window had drifted from the expanse of Iokath over to the darkened corner. Just from observing, it would be impossible to tell what lay behind Jace’s conflicted, wistful expression. It could have just been due to the strained and nearly broken relationship with his son. Or perhaps he was glimpsing a bit of his own history replaying before his eyes, except with different decisions made this time around.

But Theron didn’t notice.

He had already chosen his path in life, and was going to follow it wherever it led.

[keywestlou]

MORNING STEW #22

A lot of material this morning. Too much to organize. I will lay things out as they come up in my notes.

Enjoy!

Haircut yesterday with Lori. I have not seen her in a month. She was sick when my last haircut was scheduled. In the meantime, I began growing a beard. The last time I had one was about 12 years ago.

The beard is entering its fifth week. Coming in well. I have trimmed it twice. Past the wild stage. Chin and moustache gaining body. Sides of face still not much. Apparently grows slower.

Lori and I had a conference. Should I try letting my hair grow. I have kept my head bald for at least 15 years. Half my head is naturally bald.

We decided to try. She cleaned my head up a bit. Very minimally.

Whether to grow hair is one of the heavy decisions one has to make at my age. So it should be!

Watched Syracuse/North Carolina State football last night. Not going to be a good season for Syracuse. We lost 16-10.

North Carolina played well. As the game progressed, I thought they were really going to kill us. They have a freshman quarterback. Seasoned already.

Syracuse’s De Vito is a redshirted sophomore. He needs seasoning. A lot to learn. He spiked the ball 3 times for example. Even once would have been too much.

This is De Vito’s year to learn. Means Syracuse will not shine till next year. Hopefully!

Caught pieces of Trump’s Minneapolis rally during the night when I woke and could not get back to sleep.

Typical Trump.

People who live in glass houses should not throw stones. I occasionally use swear words in the blog to describe my feelings or what I think about another person. Fortunately, I do not use profanity or less than acceptable language as much as Trump.

Last night, he said Biden was only good while he was Vice President because he would “kiss Obama’s ass.”

Made me think. The guy most certainly is not a role model for the youth of America. Not just because of “ass.” He has used rougher language in the past. In fact, frequently.

Kids deserve better.

Clinton was not much of a role model either. His was  sex. The children understood. Someone someday will write a book re the impact Clinton had on the children of America.

The news before the rally was Trump was in a war with Minneapolis Mayor Jacob Frey. Over money.

It cost Minneapolis $530,000 for extra police protection services, etc. The Mayor said the President should pay. Trump said no way, he never pays. Which is true. Everywhere he has had a rally, he has left the city holding the bag.

Trump believes it is a city’s legal obligation to pay. He claims the Constitution guarantees freedom of speech. He as President is speaking. He should not have to pay.

No question Trump is el cheapo. He took in $125 million the first quarter this year to help with the campaign. A rally is part and parcel of a campaign. The President should pay. Especially since he is rolling in campaign money. Recall he is paying Facebook $1.6 million a week for political advertising. Most of which is going towards negative Biden ads which are coming up as lies.

The GM/UAW strike is in its 25th day. No resolution in sight as yet.

One of the biggest issues, if not the biggest, is the union’s demand that GM move work back from plants in Mexico to plants in the U.S. GM had announced pre strike that it was closing 4 U.S. plants. Three of the 4 have already halted production.

A difficult issue to resolve. Labor costs much cheaper in Mexico. Makes cost of the car to the consumer cheaper, also.

A huge chasm to cross in resolving the issue.

Woe the web we weave when first we seek to deceive. This Ukraine thing is growing. More persons being drawn into it. I suspect it will be the problem that brings Trump down in the final analysis.

The U.S. Attorney’s Office for the Southern District of New York arrested 2 former Ukrainians who are now U.S. citizens. They make money for themselves and others by doing deals that may be less than proper involving the Ukraine.

The 2 were arrested at Dulles Airport wednesday as they were getting on a plane to fly to Venice. One way tickets. The two charged with campaign-finance law violations.

The 2 are “clients” of Rudy Giuliani.

A photo appeared in the newspapers yesterday showing the 2 at lunch with a third man and Donald Trump Jr.

It is claimed Trump has 119 business interests in the Ukraine.

Recall Trump’s cries that he was going to clean the swamp that Washington had become. His performance leaves much to be desired. In fact, the swamp has gotten swampier.

The U.S. has been at war in Afghanistan for 18 years. The U.S. has reached the point where many of the U.S. military serving in Afghanistan are 18 years old. Fifteen thousand three hundred sixty four.

Afghanistan is the place we should get out of. Not the Ukraine as Trump has done.

Interestingly, the U.S. is not the first nation/group that spent years in the Afghanistan region without success. The following failed: Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, the British Empire, and Russia.

A study was recently released listing the “most miserable” cities in the U.S. Gary, Indiana was #1.

Gary used to be a hub for manufacturing. Its jobs have gone elsewhere. When jobs go, the people do also. Of those remaining, only 50 percent are employed, 36 percent live under the poverty line.

Even “crimes” have left.

Gary used to be the murder capital of the U.S. Hardly anyone left to kill. Gary also used to be the drug capital of the U.S. No more. For drugs you need money. There is no money. There are not sufficient jobs nor things to steal.

Key West still in hurricane season. Till November 31.

Key West has had its share of hurricanes. Part of the Key West living experience.

There was the Great Hurricane of 1846. High winds and a 7 foot surge. All buildings damaged or destroyed. The hurricane considered the “most severe” till that time. Difficult to be certain. Fewer formal records kept. Those that were kept did not survive the hurricane.

Then there was the October 10, 1909 hurricane. A category 3. Winds over 100 mph. Twelve inches of rain in 5 hours.

Most of Key West destroyed. Leveled. KONK E-Blast ran a pic of the Ruy Lopez Cigar Factory. A huge 2 story building. Long. Ninety percent leveled. Not a pleasant sight.

This weekend the ROAR. Loud it will be. The 46th annual Florida Keys Poker Run. A fundraiser for charities and non-profits.

Hundreds of motorcycles will roar down U.S. 1 today to party in Key West through sunday. Then roar out with the same noise level. None of the bikes seem to have mufflers.

They drive U.S. 1 30-40 at a time in group formation.

The drivers and riders look like bad people. Black leather, Nazi type helmets, etc. Many with their women riding behind them. Similarly attired. All with tight blouses and shorts/jeans.

Men and women alike look like bums and dangerous people. Actually, not. They are doctors, lawyers, accountants, etc. with their wives and girl friends. Coming to Key West for a fun filled weekend.

The merchants will be happy. The restaurants and bars will do a big business. The bikers spend money! The bikes cost as much as a good car. Beautiful vehicles.

The bikers come from all over the U.S. Unless Florida residents, they have their bikes shipped to Miami. Pick them up there and then ride U.S. 1 to Key West.

A few years ago, some biker groups joined the event. Not good guys. Bad ones. Came to start fights, etc. Key West wanted the event no more. The problem was resolved and last year the doctors, lawyers, accountants, etc. were the only ones partying in Key West.

Enjoy your day!

  MORNING STEW #22 was originally published on Key West Lou