#do you think he’d admit that in his studies the past few decades being dead he’d come across names of wartime martyrs he recognized as

[edwinisms]

seriously wondering why WW1 was never brought up at all throughout the show in regards to edwin and the life he was living before hell. I mean fuck we get a WW1 ghost in the FIRST EPISODE but edwin doesn’t say a single thing about his familiarity with the soldier’s garments and circumstances. you’d think that would come in handy in some way, or at least be an interesting thing to reference to emphasize edwin’s age (for lack of a better word) considering this was all during the expository section of the first episode.

1916 is directly in the middle of the Great War, and depending on how long edwin had been 16 by the time he died, he would’ve been somewhere between 1-2 years off from being conscripted and sent off to the trenches– ie; really not far, so it inevitably would be a huge weight on his mind at the time. since it was the middle of the war, he would’ve known decently well the horrors being faced out there– the mustard gas, the widespread illness, the shellshock– from newspapers and such, and I have to think that he’d feel like there was a clock ticking, counting down the days until he’d be sent to his inevitable death (considering he’s not the most athletic and physically resilient boy to say the least). and if he was exempted from conscription? it could very well be for “mental illness” and/or “moral indecency” if he didn’t hide his “effeminate” behavior well enough. all-around, it’d have to be an incredibly stressful time period for more reasons than just being bullied, alienated, and repressed at school– and yet we never hear about the elephant in the room. will they do something with it later? will it play into his family background in some way? for gods sake I need to KNOW

[tuanhood]

hypnotic | part one

paring: vampire!im jaebeom x reader

genre: angst, eventual smut (part two), vampire au

warnings: language, cringey vampire cliches i’m sure

word count: 9,800+

summary: jaebeom has been waiting 200 years to find his mate - the one who can break his trance and isn’t affected by his hypnotic abilities. You don’t seem to be that person, but he just can’t seem to get you out of his mind… why? 

a/n: hello guys! so i originally had this planned to post tomorrow (the 30th) but it was so long i decided to split it up and post one part today and the other part on the 31st! This first part is mostly Jaebeom and not a lot of Y/N but SO BE IT. This is also my first time writing in the genre of vampire/fantasy loL so please forgive me because it’ll probably be cringe and not make sense. if that’s the case lol drop me a message!! also vampire jaebeom was requested FOREVER ago. so here it is practically 3 decades later. and i attempted to make a banner. if someone can make me a better one it’s v much WELCOME.

part two

Knock Knock Knock 

He wished he could just pretend like he was asleep. He wished he could use that as an excuse to not answer the door, but based on the very strong feeling he was getting from who was behind it – that wouldn’t work. 

“I know you’re in there! Just answer the damn door Jaebeom!”

Jaebeom rolled his eyes, leave it to Bambam to be at his front door before the day even had a chance to truly begin. Before letting him in, he went through all the possible things or excuses he could use to get out of whatever his younger friend had in mind.

“Is your vintage YSL here or is it still at the dry cleaners?” Bambam asked, pushing past Jaebeom as soon as he has the door partway open.

Gruffly, Jaebeom turned back into his apartment to Bambam already halfway to his bedroom – no doubt to look through his closet, “What are you doing here Bam?” 

“What does it look like? I’m here for the vintage YSL asshole!” 

He’s learned by now that it’s better to let him do his thing – whatever that may mean. So instead of following Bambam, he plopped down onto the same couch he’s had for nearly 15 years. “You know when I first bought that shirt it wasn’t considered vintage!”

Jaebeom waited for a response, but instead, he was met with silence. After a few moments – many of them thinking about how maybe it was time to replace the couch – he felt his “vintage” YSL button-down hit him in the face. 

He groaned; the impact was surely going to create wrinkles in the material he tried to keep in pristine condition. It was ironic since he was often heard making fun of how much Bambam cared about clothes, but Jaebeom liked to keep his things nice. “Bam I just got it back from getting cleaned a couple of days ago.”

“Put it on.” 

The tone of his friend’s voice seemed rather impatient. If he had closed his eyes, Jaebeom would have thought he was talking to Jinyoung or even himself. 

“Why do I need to put it on? It’s 8 in the morning; where are we going?”

“Um excuse me? Did you forget what day it was? Now come on, we’re meeting Jinyoung at that new café down the street in fifteen.”

He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, trying to picture the café on the mental map he keeps in his mind, “the one that used to be a video store in the 90s?”

Bambam made his way into the living room, picking up a few glasses that rested on the coffee table Jaebeom’s feet were on top of, and marched over to the small kitchen. Jaebeom has lived in this apartment more years than he’d like to admit, especially because enough time had passed that the neighbors he had were clearly aging and he just stayed 26. The thought of moving somewhere new often enters his mind, but with this place, he just can’t bring it in himself to go quite yet. It’s almost as though something is tying him to this city, this place – like he’s waiting for something.

“Yes, and a speakeasy in the 20s both of which are not important right now because we live in the 21st century Jaebeom. Now come on, Jinyoung’s waiting – that asshole is always early.” 

He heard Bambam mumble something along the lines of known him 100 years, would it kill him to just be on time for once, as he furiously dropped the glasses on the kitchen counter.

“Do I have to go?” 

Bambam paused his motions of putting Jaebeom’s dirty dishes into the sink to stare the older vampire down, “Jaebeom you only turn 200 once.” 

He scoffed in response, “Jesus don’t remind me.”

“We have to make a whole day of it! So please just put the shirt on, because I want you looking presentable,” he stopped in the middle of his sentence, suddenly wiggling his eyebrows, “you never know what could happen.” The final word is drawn out, almost sing-song like and it drives Jaebeom up the wall because he knows exactly what Bambam is referencing.

For Jaebeom and those like Jaebeom, they didn’t consider the day they were born as their birthday, but instead as the day they turned. There was no point in celebrating their birth anymore as they were no longer alive. However, at this point after 200 birthdays, – alive and dead combined - Jaebeom was beginning to believe that there was no point to those either. He always knew being immortal was a curse but day by day that idea was only solidifying itself in his mind.  

Jaebeom let out a gruff breath which only made Bambam look up from the fork he was scrubbing, “Bam I don’t know what you think is going to happen today… but it certainly isn’t that.” 

The “that” he was referencing was one of the main factors that as of late had made him feel like living forever was indeed a waste. It was the thing that was supposed to make him feel “complete.” According to old texts and traditional vampire folklore, he was now walking around half full, but once he met his mate, he would become whole. At first, he didn’t believe the tale. He had gotten by so far without a mate that the idea of him not being complete made him laugh. But watching both Bambam and Jinyoung find their mates – Bambam 70 years ago and Jinyoung 16 years ago – made him finally acknowledge and reflect on the piece of himself he was missing. 

And fuck he was lonely. 

Bambam chuckled at him as if being in on his own personal joke. His friend was strange like that sometimes, “just put the shirt on Jaebeom.” 

By the time he’s had the shirt on and Bambam has somehow convinced him to let him wear his Rolex he got as a gift from his friend Jackson in 1920, Jaebeom feels mentally prepared to leave the house and embark on this dreadful day. The reminder that he has now been around for 200 years and still is not whole.

“Finally,” Jinyoung sighed when Jaebeom and Bambam finally reached the café down the street, “I’ve been waiting 20 minutes.” 

A disgruntled Bambam checks his watch, “well if you don’t want to wait every single time, don’t be so fucking early,” he promptly turned to Jaebeom to share his grief regarding their friend, “you think he would learn after all this time.” 

“Let’s just go order,” Jaebeom shrugged, not caring to be in another disagreement between his longer than life friends.

“Be honest you’re early on purpose just so it gives you something to complain about and a reason to make us feel bad!” 

Jinyoung ignored Bambam’s theory, replying to the oldest, “no need. I already ordered for the three of us. It’s a special day, the birthday boy doesn’t need to pay,” he glanced at Bambam, “you on the other hand…” 

The two new arrivals, flop down into the sofa chairs on either side of Jinyoung, along of them situated to make a half-circle in front of a low coffee table. The three of them had somehow stuck into this… pattern. Years of friendship that contained years of Bambam/Jinyoung squabbles that Jaebeom would often have to mediate. Patterns were nice, but sometimes they would get old – especially after so long. 

As the two of them argue over whether or not Bambam should pay Jinyoung back for a simple iced Americano because Bam swears he got the drinks the last two times, Jaebeom looks over to the counter where the baristas work on – no doubt – the plethora of orders they have. The factor of the café being new has certainly been the cause of the popularity and amount of people in the shop. He can’t help but feel bad for the individuals working on the drinks – three years ago he had been one of them for roughly 18 months and knew that it wasn’t as easy as it appeared to be. 

In retrospect, Jaebeom didn’t have to work. He had so much time to learn and understand what it meant to be financially responsible. Not only that, but he’s literally had hundreds of years to save. Plus, his early investments in companies ended up landing him some pretty substantial and valuable shares. Jaebeom was sitting on quite the pretty penny. 

“Wow your portfolio is remarkable… I’ve never seen one like it,” his latest financial advisor had said to him in complete awe, “I mean an early investor in Amazon? Apple? Mastercard?” 

Jaebeom had laughed nervously, “What can I say? My grandpa had good intuition, I guess.” 

Money aside, he had wanted something to do with his time – hence his barista job. It was fun, but like most things, Jaebeom just grew tired of it and as he watched the girl working the espresso machine let out an exhausted breath, he realized that he wasn’t missing it. 

Jaebeom has become good at studying people. It was something he still wasn’t sure of whether it was a vampire thing or just something he had picked up over time. Watching the girl at the machine, her hair is in a low bun, a few strands falling in front of her face. It’s clear with the way the hair tie is situated, that the hairstyle was once a bit neater, tighter, and sat at the middle or even top of her head. However, the now fallen placement and slight disarray signal how busy she’s been working and how fried she must be feeling. 

He looks to the string bracelet on her wrist, visible from far away enough for Jaebeom to conclude that she must have someone in her life deemed important to wear one of those “friendship” bracelets. He never saw the point, but humans were strange creatures, despite him once being one. 

Jaebeom’s breath hitches when he catches sight of the delicately drawn tattoo on her wrist near the bracelet. It’s of lavender and it immediately reminds him of his mother who had loved exploring the lavender field that had been near his home when he was a child. Despite all the time that has passed since he lost his mother, the pain that aches inside of Jaebeom when he thinks of her isn’t any less. 

His thoughts are interrupted by the call at the coffee bar, “Order for Jinyoung.” 

The call comes from the overworked girl he had been studying and Jaebeom wants more than anything to stand up and retrieve their orders. He finds a weird want to hear what her laugh sounds like. Maybe he could say something or strike up a conversation that would-

“What are you doing?” It takes Jaebeom a moment to notice that he has partially stood up from his chair as if he’s about to go somewhere. Cluelessly, he replied, “going to get the drinks.”

The youngest shook his head, “No way! Birthday boys don’t get their drinks, they don’t lift a finger.” 

He knew Bambam was one to take birthdays seriously, but this was beginning to feel like it was going the extra mile too many. 

“I’ll get it.” 

Jaebeom watched Bambam get up to retrieve the drinks. He expects him to just grab the drinks and return to the table, but instead, Bambam says something to the girl. Arching his neck to the side, he tries to make a clear path to eavesdrop on what’s being said, hearing being one of the benefits of turning. Unfortunately, the café is too loud for him to focus on the conversation and he’s defeated by the fact that he’ll have to stay in the dark.

The girl laughs loudly at something Bambam said and Jaebeom can’t help but feel mixed about it. On one hand, he got his wish – hearing her laugh – but on the other hand, he wasn’t the cause of it. For some reason it makes him bring his clench and unclench his fists which rest on the arms of the sofa chair. Jinyoung takes notice.

Jaebeom quickly looks down at his lap when he senses that Bambam is returning to where they’re sat, not wanting to give away that he had been staring. First, he places Jinyoung’s and his drink on the table, soon turning back around to go back and fetch the last drink – Jaebeom’s. 

When he comes back, Jaebeom looks up to see a large grin spread across the youngest’s face. He has that look again – the one as if he knows a joke Jaebeom doesn’t. 

The latter nodded his head in thanks for getting the drinks as he inspects his green tea on the table. Just as he’s about to pick up the mug, he’s stopped in his tracks by an announcement coming from the coffee bar. 

“Hello everyone! Sorry for the interruption, but I’ve been told that we have a birthday here today,” you said. Giving announcements wasn’t your strong suit, but you figured now that you were an actual owner of something, you were going to get over your shyness. But you didn’t think it was going to be that often that a tall, skinny and pale boy with a Rolex on his wrist would be asking you to get your coffee shop to sing happy birthday for his friend. Even when you were a barista working for someone else no one had made such a request. This was a café after all, not an Applebee’s.

Jaebeom wished more than anything that he could sink into his seat and just disappear. If only that cliché that vampires turned into bats were true, then he could just fly away at a moment’s notice. Leave it to Bambam to torture him like this. It wasn’t intentional of course, but it certainly felt like it to Jaebeom. 

It was especially tragic to him because the girl he had been studying was the one leading the entire café in singing “Happy Birthday.” He did his best to avoid looking at her, feeling like his entire body was heating up in embarrassment even though he couldn't heat up. 

You on the other hand felt a little insulted by the birthday boy’s lack of eye contact. You hadn’t even managed to get a good look at him before you started singing and now it was not possible with the way that he was looking down at the ground, his long hair falling in front of his face, concealing itself to you. It wasn’t difficult to conclude that he felt awkward about a bunch of strangers he had never met singing him happy birthday, you had felt the same whenever your friends tried to ambush you on your birthday… but you at least looked up and acknowledged the presence of the people singing. A tight smile from this guy would even be happily accepted. 

When the song is over and the claps that follow finally subside, he looks up to see the café back at its previous state of normalcy, not a single person looking at him anymore. Jaebeom lets out a sigh of relief. 

“You could at least act like you liked it,” Bambam huffed in annoyance. He wished Jaebeom could appreciate the idea of birthdays like he did. 

“I really didn’t need to be the center of attention today Bam.” 

“But it’s your bir-” Bambam begins to explain, but Jaebeom abruptly cuts him off, not wanting to hear his reasoning for today’s antics, yet again. The day hadn’t even started.

“My birthday, I know. Thanks for reminding me.” 

Jinyoung clears his throat and plays with the spoon that came with his Flat White. Just as Jaebeom is the mediator for Bambam and Jinyoung, sometimes Jinyoung has to be the mediator for Jaebeom and Bambam. Essentially the commonality in the disagreements of their trio friendship is Bambam and currently, Jinyoung feels as though he should route the conversation elsewhere.

“What else is in the cards for tonight then boys?” 

It’s then based on the look on Jaebeom’s face, that Jinyoung thinks that maybe talking about the plans for tonight – on Jaebeom’s birthday – isn’t re-routing the conversation. Especially since it’s Bambam’s whose eyes light up and is the one to reply to him.

“Obviously we’re going out tonight,” Bambam paused and turned to Jaebeom, wagging his finger in the latter’s face, “there’s no way you’re getting out of this. I’m not taking no for an answer this time.”

Jaebeom rolled his eyes and didn’t respond as he knew he didn’t have a choice in the matter. He had rejected Bambam’s invitations to go out consistently for the last 6 months and on his birthday of all days, Bam was going to force him out of the house just as he had done this morning to come to the café.

He looks back to the front counter, his eyes searching for the barista who has now suddenly disappeared. A frown begins to make itself known on his face, feeling a bit disappointed by the fact that she may have left already or gone elsewhere, but soon she’s popping up from behind the counter, no doubt getting something from the cabinets below. Jaebeom feels relief. 

“What did you say to her?” he asked suddenly looking back at Bambam.

He cocked his head to the side, confused, “What did I say to who?” 

“The barista behind the counter.” 

His friend nodded his head slowly, suddenly realizing what Jaebeom means. A smirk appears on his face, “nothing much… Just how it was your birthday and it would be really good if we could all embarrass you by singing about it. She’s not a barista, by the way, she owns the place. Kinda backward thinking there Jae. It’s the 21st century, women can own things now, they can vote.” 

“I know that,” Jaebeom hissed. 

Bambam puts up his hands in defeat, “I’m just making sure.” 

“Don’t you know her?” Jinyoung asked, ��isn’t that why we came here?” 

Jaebeom’s interests are perked. It’s not often that the three of them meet new people. It’s not like there’s a huge point to it. The last new person the three of them met was Mark – also a vampire – a bartender at their favorite club in the city, but that was in 2007. 

He waits for Bambam’s explanation as to how he knows this girl and why they came here specifically beside it just being near Jaebeom’s apartment. 

Waving his hand nonchalantly, the Thai boy gives his answer, “I don’t really know her. Minji does. Met her in some kind of class, I think. SoulCycle? Pilates? Zumba? I don’t know. I can’t keep up with her and her activities these days.” 

Minji is Bambam’s mate. He had turned her only a month after they met. 

Jaebeom’s not sure what he would do if he met his mate. He doesn’t know if he would want to subject them to turning and living the same kind of life as him, but he also doesn’t know if he could continue life alone after meeting his mate. If he ever meets them.

“Why the curiosity?” Jinyoung asked, for once finding it hard to remain stone-faced. Even his usual chill, non-revealing demeanor seems to fade away when it appears that his older friend might be attracted to someone. 

Jaebeom simply shrugged, “it’s nothing…” 

“What do you think? Could she be the one?” Bambam asked teasingly, pointing to the girl behind the counter. 

Jinyoung rolled his eyes almost immediately at the younger boy, “if you’re going to keep bothering him about it, don’t make it so obvious idiot.” 

Jaebeom had been alive – or more like undead – for 200 years and more than half of that time he had to listen to this same conversation from his friends over and over again. His patience was wearing thin and 180 years later, he was tired of their pestering. 

He leaned forward slowly and grabbed his green tea off the table, making sure to visibly flinch at the heat of the drink, Bambam, and Jinyoung chuckling at his reaction. Out of the three of them, Jaebeom certainly had the most practice when it came to “putting on a show” for the humans and “acting” the most human. Taking a sip, he looked back at the girl behind the counter. 

The youngest vampire had spent many of their outings and conversations hypothesizing who Jaebeom’s mate could be. Despite being the oldest of the three, Jaebeom was the only one left who still hadn’t found his mate and he was beginning to feel hopeless. Typically, Bambam pointed out any human girl as a candidate – all of them of course ended up not being his mate. Therefore, Jaebeom didn’t pay attention to his picks anymore, but he had to admit… He did get a strange feeling from the girl behind the counter. 

Jaebeom looked to you, hoping to catch your gaze as you quickly made the coffee orders for the few people waiting to the side of the cash register. Just when he was about to give up and focus his attention back on his friends, you tore your concentration away from the drink in your hand and looked up at him from across the cafe. 

Jaebeom focused his gaze deep onto you with his eyes – testing, checking, and trialing your focus. You didn’t look away, instead, you trained your eyes deeply into his and stared at him until finally, it was Jaebeom who broke the contact. 

He shook his head at his friends, disappointed by your inability to break the trance and ultimately confused at the feeling he still got from you despite that. 

Jaebeom took another sip of the tea, “it’s not her.” 

“Did you have to debate that Uber driver on the Twilight franchise?” Jinyoung groaned at Bambam as soon as they’re out of the car. 

The entire twenty-minute ride, he had got into a heated discussion with their driver on how Twilight was not “true” or realistic to most actual vampire folklore. It had been an excruciating thing to listen to. 

“Got to stand up for our kind dude.” 

“Okay, but what happens when she starts asking how you know all these things or why you’re so interested in vampire stuff?” Jinyoung tended to always be right. This wasn’t an exception.

Brushing off his pants, Bambam gives him a nonchalant wave, “chill out man. Everyone loves vampire stuff.” 

“Maybe in 2008,” Jaebeom said just barely loud enough for his friends to hear them. The two of them laughed, Bambam shoving him playfully on the shoulder, “Birthday boy getting funny on us.” 

“I was always funny,” Jaebeom deadpanned. 

“Funny and looking good tonight. Let’s get you laid, shall we?” 

After a day that was jampacked full of various activities planned by his youngest friend, the last thing Jaebeom wanted to do was spend extra energy on trying to get some girl to come home with him tonight. Besides, he wasn’t that guy anymore. 

Jinyoung scoffed, “he doesn’t need to get laid tonight.”

“Yes, he does! Jaebeom how long has it been?” 

This time it’s Jinyoung that shoves Bambam’s shoulder – except it’s not all that playful. 

“Fine don’t answer that, but I’m just saying there will be quite a few girls here that you can have your pick of, despite your plain outfit.” 

Jaebeom looked at the clothes he had changed into when Bambam spared him a sliver of time to go back home to digress and feed his cats. The latter had wanted him to borrow clothes of his, but instead, Jaebeom decided on pulling pieces from his closet that felt more like him, less like Bambam. A plain pair of ripped jeans, an oversized black shirt that he had bought at a shop from his trip to London last year, and his mother’s necklace that often wasn’t missing from its spot around his neck.

Bambam’s earlier critique was that he was dressed too basic and that no girls would bat an eye at him. Girls don’t like plain guys, he had said. The comment makes Jaebeom wonder about you and whether you’d fall under the category of not liking “plain” guys. 

He bites the inside of his cheek. It was probably the eighth time he had made himself do it today. Jaebeom had found his mind often drifting to you throughout the day for some unexplainable reason. During their walk in the park, he wondered if you would take strolls during your breaks from the café or when Bambam forced him to go paint pottery for an hour and a half he thought about what you would paint. It frustrated him because he hadn’t even spoken to you – not a word and yet you were clearly on his mind for one reason or another. It wasn’t even like you were his mate. He had tried to see if you were unaffected by his trance, his hypnotic capabilities, but you had just stared at him completely fixated just as everyone else was. 

Jaebeom was not going to think about you any longer. He was already planning on avoiding your café. 

“We’re on the list,” Bambam tells the bouncer when they arrive at the entrance of the club. He scans the list and motions his head towards the direction of the door to signal to the three of them to go on ahead. There’s a bit of a whine coming from the people waiting in line which admittedly so makes Jaebeom feel a little guilty, but Bambam ensures him it’s fine, “why have a friend who works at a club if we can’t use him for the perks?” 

“Why does he keep bartending again?” As soon as the question is out of Jaebeom’s mouth he realizes it was a stupid thing to ask since the answer is apparent. 

Bambam laughed at him, giving his long – irreplaceable he’d like to remind everyone – leather coat to the person at the front of the club. Jaebeom swears he hears him tell the coat check guy the “proper” way to put it on a hanger. 

“Obviously for the girls Jaebeom.” 

Mark’s mate – Hana had passed on a long time ago. Jaebeom had never got the chance to meet her, only hears about her in passing from some stories that Mark has told the three of them. He hadn’t turned her. Jaebeom’s never asked why. 

“Girls… of course.” 

He can’t help but think about how Mark must feel inside. Although Jaebeom doesn’t know him as well as he knows Bambam and Jinyoung, whenever he’s with the older boy he’s always got a smile on his face. Often quiet, but he’s always got certain energy bouncing off of him that would indeed make him popular with women. However, if what they say about mates is true, would that mean that a piece of Mark was now missing? Did he feel like he was less of a person? Jaebeom felt like that sometimes and he hadn’t even met his mate yet. Mark had his, but now he didn’t. 

“Drinks?” Jinyoung asked the two of them and Jaebeom is partly surprised. Out of the three of them, Bambam was the one who was the most comfortable in a club or even bar setting. He figures that Jinyoung must be using his birthday as an excuse to cut loose and become someone else for the night.

Bambam instantly nodded his head at Jinyoung’s suggestion and Jaebeom finds himself trailing behind the two of them as they make their way over to Mark at the bar who is throwing his head back at something the girl across the bar is saying. Judging on Jaebeom’s intuition – it’s a bit fake and overplayed, but you got to do what you got to do.

“My man!” Bambam yelled over the music, leaning against the counter in a way to make sure he doesn’t get the elbows of his long sleeve turtleneck wet. Mark in response, turned to them and smiled, then routing his attention back to the girl, giving her an apologetic smile. Her half-smile says everything Jaebeom could need to know – this girl would not be going home with Mark after his shift tonight. 

“What can I get you guys tonight,” Mark turned to Jaebeom and the latter can barely make out his sharp canines in the dark club, “birthday boy you want anything special?” 

Before Jaebeom can reply that he wants to be at home, Bambam answers for him.

“Could we maybe get something that’s off the menu?” He wiggled his eyebrows at Mark who gave him a shit-eating grin, knowing immediately what he was talking about. 

“Off the menu” meant Mark’s secret stash of O negative underneath the counter. While alcohol had the same effect on them that it had on the average humans, adding a bit of blood just made a little bit better. Okay… it made it a lot better. 

“Three negronis coming right up,” Mark winked to give a little signal that these would most likely not be as well composed or put together as a negroni, but due to them being in public, he couldn’t necessarily announce a shit ton of alcohol mixed with human blood was going to be served up to them. 

“How has your birthday been Jae?” Mark asked as he was in the middle of placing three glasses onto the countertop in between them.

It was difficult to explain since to Jaebeom it had just been another day except for a little bit more excruciating. The celebration of another year “older” filled him with thoughts of how much time has passed, whether he’s done anything truly important and why he still hasn’t found the person who is meant to complete him… but like he said only a little more excruciating than any other day. 

Jaebeom shrugged in response, “Bam planned a lot and for the most part, it was…” he paused for a moment, wondering if he should say how he felt – numb, lost, and wishing the day would come to an end as if tomorrow won’t bring the same thoughts or problems. But as he looked at his friends who had tried so hard today to make him happy and celebrate, he decided to guard them against the ultimate truth, “for the most part it was fun – really good. I mean besides the singing at the café of course.” He throws in the last part to at least have some kind of believability to his story. 

He notices Mark’s eyebrows lift out of curiosity as his concentration focuses on measuring out each part of the drinks, “An entire café sang you happy birthday? Damn, I don’t think I could ever get through that, so I can only imagine how you feel.” 

“That was Bam’s idea,” Jinyoung muttered. 

Once again, Bambam does his nonchalant waving of the hand, “it wasn’t that bad. I mean okay, maybe it was… But Jaebeom was obsessed with the girl who led it.” 

Jaebeom suddenly feels like he wants to put duct tape over his friend’s mouth. 

“I was not obsessed with her! I don’t even know her!” Jaebeom for some reason felt the need to defend himself, which was probably the worst option. Him getting defensive was usually a tell-tale sign for his friends being right on whatever they were confronting him with. 

Bambam scoffed, bringing gliding his drink across the bar to be directly in front of him once Mark has poured it neatly into the short glass, “I noticed you staring at her before I went to get the drinks. That’s why I asked her to do it in the first place.” 

“So, she doesn’t know Minji?” Jinyoung questioned. 

The youngest takes his first sip and immediately lets out a hissing noise, signaling to Mark that it’s both strong and good. “No, she does, but Jaebeom’s weird staring only made it that much better.” 

Mark pushed the other two glasses towards Jinyoung and Jaebeom, “Was she your…” he drifted off, almost as though he was finding it physically difficult to get the word out. Jaebeom can’t help but feel the want to reach his hand out towards Mark and place it comfortingly on his shoulder, but his group of friends don’t do that. Instead, he saves him the trouble by answering back right away, not forcing him to say it.

“No, she wasn’t.” 

The bartender nodded slowly, suddenly avoiding his gaze from the three familiar boys across the bar from him, “That’s uh… too bad that she wasn’t able to break the trance. Sorry, Jaebeom.” 

He knows that Mark is just trying to be nice, especially when they’re on a subject that he clearly can’t and doesn’t want to talk about, but the attempt to be comforting makes Jaebeom nauseous. 

“Well maybe he’ll find her here tonight,” Jinyoung quipped, placing a hand on Jaebeom’s back. Sometimes the latter swore that his friends treated him he had just found out he had a terminal illness. 

“I sincerely doubt it,” Jaebeom commented gruffly. 

There’s a sound from the other side of the bar from a customer who seems fed up with the conversation being had between the four of them – distracting Mark from serving anyone else. He gives a signal to them to notify them that he’ll be there in a second. “Well… come to me if you guys need more drinks.  It’s on me tonight.” 

“Thanks, man,” Jaebeom tells him honestly because he might need a couple more drinks before he gets to the state of wanting to be in this room.

Mark said a final word of “see you guys later” and heads to the other end of the bar to help customers who have been waiting. Grabbing their drinks, Jaebeom, Jinyoung, and Bambam turn around to depart the bar, to find somewhere to sit for a bit before the drinks truly begin to hit them.  

With his drink in hand, Jaebeom took a sip and reveled in the perfect balance of alcohol to burn his throat and blood to soothe it. The drink was probably the most relaxing part of his day thus far and as he looked out at the crowd, he could already tell that maybe the mixture was going to his head due to his sudden thinking that this place wasn’t all that bad.

Despite not being a club guy, if he were to go out, Jaebeom would always choose this club that Mark works out. To put it simply – it was vampire friendly. With Mark behind the counter and his “secret” supply free-flowing, it became a notoriously known place for vampires in town. If he had to guess, the attendance on an average night was probably evenly split 50/50, humans and vampires.

The humans weren’t aware of the vampires of course – for the most part.

Jaebeom cleared his throat once they’ve found a booth to sit in, “so… Bam what do you know about that girl?” 

Both Jinyoung and Bambam exchange glances before looking back at the birthday boy. The latter tried his best to conceal the smile on his face, “not much… just that she owns the café, knows Minji, and is very single.” 

For some reason, Jaebeom’s stomach does a little flip, but he wishes it wouldn’t. “S-So?” Through his stutter, he tries to remain as confident as possible, but his friends see right through his façade.

Jinyoung leaned forward until his elbows rest on the top of his thighs, “Jaebeom you can be honest with us… Why the sudden fascination with this girl? Are you sure she didn’t break the trance? Just with the way that you’re acting…” Jinyoung drifted off, not bothering to finish his final sentence, but once again looking at Bambam. It makes Jaebeom lean forward in his seat as well. 

“With the way, I’m acting? I’m completely normal. I’m fine. She didn’t break the trance and now I’m just curious about her as curious as anyone would be about someone they meet.” 

There’s the silence between the three of them until Bambam speaks up, “You didn’t meet her though.” 

It dawns on Jaebeom that he didn’t even speak to you and he wonders why does it feel like he did. Why did it feel like he knew you but didn’t at the same time? Why haven’t his mind and body been cooperating with him since this morning at the café? 

Just with the way that you’re acting…

The way he was acting? What did that mean? Was the way he was acting mean something specific? 

He feels like he blinks and thirty minutes go by. And in that past thirty minutes, Jaebeom had somehow managed to drink 6 of Mark’s “negronis.” He felt like his head was beginning to get dizzy. It wasn’t often that Jaebeom found himself drunk on the verge of drunkenness due to alcohol not affecting him as much as humans. To even remotely get to that state, he had to drink a lot and it had to be strong. 

“You feeling it Jaebeom?” Through the darkness and the haze of the alcohol, Jaebeom could barely make out the hint of the smile playing on Jinyoung’s face. He had switched to a glass of wine at some point while Jaebeom was binge drinking which had to be the most Jinyoung thing ever. Who drinks a glass of wine in a dark, sweaty club? 

He’s afraid to answer him verbally which would give his friend an obvious sign of how he was feeling. So instead he just shrugged – as usual. 

“Dude let’s get out there!” The youngest shouted, motioning his hands to the middle of the club, “dance… maybe find you a girl?” 

Jaebeom watched the people pressing up against each other on the dancefloor, moving their bodies, and drinking like their lives depended on it. He wondered if he wanted to be a part of that. Everyone out there was so full of life and vigor… he just wasn’t. He also didn’t know if he was that drunk, but bless Bambam because he didn’t need alcohol to be out there. 

For what feels like the millionth time, his mind drifted to you. Was this your kind of place? Would you come here? If you did would you come alone? With friends? Someone else? You didn’t seem like the type of person who would like this place. You seemed more like him – the observant, calm, inquisitive type who would much rather be at home with a book than at a party. 

Then for a moment, he can picture it. It’s almost like he’s in a trance – an image of you curled up on a couch – his couch – under a large white cable knit blanket fills his mind. Rather than reading, your painting with watercolors – the kind that seems to be in every elementary school classroom – and he hears a voice out of view. His voice.

“Painting really?”  

Jaebeom sees you glance up from your painting to look at him, smiling.

“Looks like I’m gonna have a lot of time on my hands so… might as well get good at something.” 

Jaebeom hears himself laugh, “Okay but watercolors?” 

He feels like he’s going to pass out when he finally hears it – your laugh. 

“Let the artist work Im Jaebeom! She needs to get good enough to live off auction house money once her paintings get sold! Shh!” Despite your words, you smiled and suddenly moved the tools away from you onto the coffee table. You lifted half the blanket off of you and patted the space of the couch beside you, “you know I can’t say no when you give me that face. Come here.”

And just like that, the vision is gone. Jaebeom feels confused because it didn’t feel like a dream or fantasy, but it felt real… it felt like a memory. 

“Hello, Earth to Jaebeom?” 

Right… dancing. Maybe dancing would help him forget whatever game his mind was playing on him.

“Yeah let’s fucking go.” 

Another instance occurs where Jaebeom blinks and everything moves so fast. Suddenly he’s no longer sat at the table with Bambam and Jinyoung, but instead in the middle of that mess on the dancefloor with everyone else. He almost feels like one of them. He almost feels human again. But as soon as that feeling washes over him, it quickly dissipates. 

He knows it must be the drinks doing all the work, because otherwise, he would have never found himself in the middle of all these people, thinking that dancing is a good idea. Dancing had never done anything remotely good for him before, so why now? To help forget? Was it going to help him do that? 

“I swear it’s like he’s not even here.” 

Jaebeom tuned back into the moment, and it’s when he realizes that Jinyoung and Bambam have been trying to get his attention this entire time.

“Sorry I was just- the alcohol you know…” He says it so quietly that he knows his friends won’t be able to hear him over the music and the millions of conversations happening around them. But he thinks that maybe it’s better that way and that it truly doesn’t matter what he says.

Jinyoung comes closer to Jaebeom, until his mouth is right next to his ear, “we were just asking if there’s anyone that you’re interested in.” 

They’re still on this idea? Jaebeom asked himself. 

Even in his drunken state, he didn’t think that finding some random girl to fuck was going to help with the emptiness he’s been feeling lately, but for the first time since getting up and onto the dance floor he takes in the people around him. As depressing as it was to observe, most people were here with someone else. 

It’s then his gaze falls onto a couple that stands far on the left side of the floor, behind where Jinyoung is standing. The two of them have their fronts pressed up against each other, dancing so closely with arms exploring one another’s bodies. The female has her head resting on the male’s shoulder as if she’s too exhausted to keep going, but can’t dare to part with him. It’s like they’re part of each other and any distance would cause them to lose all sense of themselves.

The girl lifts her head off the male’s shoulder and gives him this look that makes Jaebeom’s heart – if it was still beating – ache. She says something to him and he nodded happily in response. Even through the dim lights and large crowd, Jaebeom could see the sharp teeth inside her mouth.

She placed her head back against his shoulder, this time, however, the male had his head angled back, stretching out his neck. The girl moves in closer until her mouth just ghosts over the skin, breathing on it until the boy shuts his eyes awaiting the sting and pleasure that will come next.

Biting down against his flesh, breaking skin, the girl drinks from her partner. Even though he’s at a distance from them, Jaebeom can tell by the look on the man’s face that he’s enjoying being fed on and that it certainly isn’t his first time. 

He feels like his eyes are frozen on the couple. It’s been so long since he fed off someone instead of the stuff that he gets from his connection at the hospital. Jaebeom tries not to think about the way his fingertips tingle and his throat dries up at the thought of drinking from a warm body. The alcohol has only dehydrated him and made him feel even more thirsty – he’s afraid that going back to the bar and asking Mark for a glass of O negative exclusively isn’t going to make that go away. 

After a moment or two, the girl removes her mouth from the boy’s neck and drags her tongue over the spot where she had drawn blood from, ultimately covering the wound and signaling that she was done drinking. 

He thinks of how risky it is to do that at a place like this. Although half of the people around them also take part in the activity of drinking blooding and granted most of them aren’t paying attention to those around them – there are still unsuspecting humans everywhere. If one wrong person were to see then that could be it for this club being a haven for the vampire community in the city and that would probably be… it for vampires in this city in general. 

But who was he kidding? He was being a hypocrite because he’s for sure done the same thing. 

You’ve once again entered his mind. However, this time it isn’t an image, picture, or vision that occupies his thoughts, but instead just the idea of how you would react to who he is, what he really is. Throughout his time that he’s been undead he’s only done the “reveal” to a handful of people and even then, it took him a long time to get there. Well except for one person who ultimately was a mistake and his friends hadn’t hesitated to let him know.

With you, Jaebeom felt that you wouldn’t be the kind of person to judge him instantly based on what he was. You would be shocked of course, maybe even scared, but you wouldn’t let that cloud your judgment. You wouldn’t let yourself reject something just because it was unfamiliar. 

What the fuck was he on about? 

It must be the alcohol doing this to him. He would have to thank Mark for making them strong this time around, but also make a mental note to never let this happen again. Jaebeom was already a deeper thinker, but this was getting out of hand.

There’s a sudden grasp of Jaebeom’s elbow and he feels himself jump at the sudden touch. His eyebrows furrowed when he realized it wasn’t one of his friends considering Bambam and Jinyoung were both dancing over to his right side. 

When he turned around to greet the person who had grabbed him, he was disappointed, surprised, and annoyed all in one. It was the last person he had expected to see her, except not really because it made perfect sense. 

“Jaebeom… hi.” Ara smiled shyly at him, tucking a string of hair behind her ear and slightly looking down at the ground. He wants to groan because he knows she’s doing this because he had once mentioned that he thought it was hot when she looked innocent. He shouldn’t have ever said that.

He’s not sure what to say, because what are you supposed to say to someone you’ve been trying to avoid for the past year and a half? Jaebeom had said everything he had wanted to say to her. 

At one point in his life, he had been stupid. He had been stupid and he had abused the power that had been bestowed upon him since the day he had been turned. Perhaps one would assume that he’d been foolish with his ability just at the start – 100, maybe even 150 years ago. Instead, Jaebeom had gone through a rough patch about a year or two ago. 

The overwhelming pressure of finding his mate had started to get to him again. All he needed was someone, anyone to break the hypnotic trance and that was it. A task that seemed so simple, yet never came. So, Jaebeom had used hypnotism to his advantage, getting as many girls as he could in his bed in the shortest amount of time possible. He wasn’t proud of it and it was something he would constantly regret as long as he was ali- around. 

One of those girls… had been Ara. 

Jaebeom felt relieved when she didn’t wait for him to answer back at her greeting, “How are you? I-It’s your birthday, right? How old are you turning again? 27?” She winked immediately after her question and he wants to roll his eyes.

She was the mistake by the way. The mistake that knew about who he was. 

He doesn’t even remember how it happened, how his secret slipped, or what the circumstances of her finding out was. Part of him thinks he was just horny, thirsty, and weak, but she found out and she… loved it. 

Weirdly enough, Ara loved the idea of him being a vampire and his “lifestyle” which at first Jaebeom didn’t think too much about. He thought okay she’s taking this extremely well… better than anyone else I’ve ever told, but whatever, but then it became strange. 

She was what those in the vampire community call a “vampire fetishizer.”

He coughed awkwardly, his gaze wandering over to Jinyoung and Bambam, hoping they would catch sight of him stuck with Ara and come rescue him. Jaebeom wasn’t that lucky though, not even on his birthday, “Yeah… 27.” 

Jaebeom can’t help but look at her neck. It’s fully on display and it was clear that Ara had come here to find someone to feed on her. He had been the one to show Ara this place before he had been clued into her little… vampire obsession. 

“Well did the birthday boy get everything he wants today?” She smiled and gave Jaebeom those eyes. He feels his cock twitch in his pants and he realizes he has to keep himself in check because he’s not that weak tonight… right? 

His eyes flash to her neck again and Jaebeom feels his throat get even drier. He was so thirsty and he knows Ara would be so willing. 

No Jaebeom… No. 

“I-I uh yeah… you know got- yeah today’s been good,” he stuttered awkwardly, bringing his tongue out to wet his dry lips. Judging on the look on Ara’s face, she’s taken the action the wrong way. 

“You look thirsty Jaebeom… do you want a drink?” 

He knows what she means and Jaebeom swallows hard in an attempt to distract himself, to remind himself that he’s not that thirsty. He doesn’t need it that bad.

“I-I think I am.” 

The words come out faster than his brain can process to stop them and the part of Jaebeom that’s coherent, sharp, and aware wants to punch the weak and drunk Jaebeom in the face. 

Without a word, Ara turned from Jaebeom and began walking to one of the exits at the side of the club. He feels like he’s the one in a trance, mindlessly following her through the people, not even hearing Jinyoung and Bambam calling out to him. The only thing that Jaebeom makes note of as he follows her is Mark’s face behind the bar, giving him a tight smile. It almost stops Jaebeom. Almost. 

When they finally get outside through the exit door, they find themselves in a small alley between the club and a dry cleaner. 

Jaebeom doesn’t even get a moment to think before Ara is pushing him against the wall of the dry cleaner, her hands roaming up and down his body, her lips going to his own. They’re pressed up against each other so closely that he recalls the couple he had watched earlier. He feels sick comparing this moment now to the two of them. 

“Fuck I missed you so much,” Ara sighed seductively into this ear, making Jaebeom’s stomach churn further at her clear longing for him. Well not him, but the vampire part of him.

“Please, I need it,” she mewled. At her words, he almost puts a stop to this whole thing and has to question whether this is the right thing to do. Jaebeom wonders if this is old Jaebeom behavior – the one that just used women and threw them away later like toys, but then he remembers that this is Ara. She’s using him as well. 

It’s almost as though that old, cocky, snide Jaebeom appears out of nowhere as he says his next words and brings himself closer to her neck, “do you really need it?” 

“Yes, Jaebeom I do, please.” Ara already sounds so desperate and he’s barely done anything. He can’t help but smirk at her reaction.

“Then I guess I better give it to you then.” 

He’s about to do it. He’s about to bite down and finally relieve his thirst, his craving, but then he looks to the side of the alley – towards the street. He feels like he’s seeing things again like he’s in the middle of a hallucination or mirage. That thought is pushed away when he locks eyes with you. 

“Don’t mind me,” you placed your hands up in front of yourself, to show him you’re not eavesdropping. Your action frustrated you because it would have been much better to say nothing, but you felt yourself panic. The prolonged eye contact with him while he’s just seconds away from pressing down – bitting down? – on the girl’s next for some reason pushed you into defensive mode. Not to mention his eyes… his eyes were – red? 

The girl hadn’t noticed you; you aren’t even sure if she heard you, but she certainly noticed Jaebeom’s stare fixated on you. When she faces you, she wears an unpleasant sneer, clearly annoyed by your interruption of whatever this was. 

“Can you go?” She said, the agitation in her voice more than apparent. 

Rather than immediately leave the scene, you continued to stare at Jaebeom. It’s difficult to say why you decided to walk this specific way home despite it being so late and dark out, but for some reason, you couldn’t help but be pulled in this direction. You weren’t someone who believed in signs or fate, but it felt so wrong to go any other way tonight. That was another thing, you felt this kink in your neck that practically forced you or taunted you into looking down the alley between this dry cleaners and club. It was yet another thing about today that felt unexplainable to you as you certainly weren’t expecting the birthday boy from the café today to be in a compromising position with some girl. 

After a moment of more uncomfortable staring – something else that had happened at the café today with him – Jaebeom breaks your gaze and looks down at his feet. The eye roll and acrid look on the girl’s face don’t go unnoticed by you. 

You shouldn’t be here. 

“S-Sorry. I’ll just get going then,” you concluded, unsure why you felt an uncomfortable sickness spread throughout the entirety of your body. 

You barely knew this guy – all you really knew was that today was his birthday and that he was friends with Minji’s boyfriend. Basically nothing. Yet now and even earlier back at the café you had felt this weird sensation within yourself. Not even when you looked at him, but just being in the same presence. It had been so hard to focus on making coffee today when he was seated across the room. Every part of your body just wanted to get closer, gravitate towards him. It was fucking weird… and scary. 

The girl nodded as if to signal “yeah about time,” at the announcement of your departure. Jaebeom on the other hand, still had his eyes glued to the ground as if looking at you once again will cause him some kind of pain.

Just as you’re about to continue your trip back home, you stop yourself and look back at the couple in the alley. 

“Happy birthday by the way…” you paused wondering if it would be weird to say his name considering he doesn’t even know yours, but you shove the thought out of your mind, “Jaebeom…”    

Hearing you say his name causes that tingling feeling in his fingertips to come back and his entire mind is sent into a frenzy. He feels too awkward, too shy to look at you again, but a sudden thought washed over him. What if earlier was a mistake? What if you are his mate? With the way he was currently feeling just at you saying his name, the visions he had in the club and the nonstop place you know had in his mind, it was difficult to believe that you weren’t his mate. 

Bambam and Jinyoung had found it difficult to explain to him what it felt like to find your mate, but surely what he felt right now wasn’t normal behavior or feelings. Unless he was a psychopath. 

Tightly shutting his eyes and drawing together all his strength, Jaebeom aims to try once again to see if you can break the hypnotic trance, unaffected by his abilities. However, as soon as he’s finally ready, head turned up to face you – you’re gone. You didn’t wait for him to respond to the happy birthday message. Instead, you simply left not wanting to be a burden or troublesome to whatever it was those two were doing in that alley. 

“Thank fucking god, let’s get back to it,” Ara concluded with a final roll of her eyes, gripping Jaebeom’s shoulders to get him close to her once again. He stares at her neck, but this time he doesn’t feel anything. He no longer feels thirsty and his appetite is gone. 

Jaebeom shrugs her off slightly. The encounter with you has caused him to wake up and realize what a bad idea it would be to do this right now. He hopes that Ara won’t put up a fight – he doesn’t want to have to hypnotize her if he doesn’t need to. 

At his actions, Ara takes a step away in disbelief, as if she actually can’t believe that Jaebeom is changing his mind and no longer wants her, “are you serious?” 

He doesn’t say anything but instead avoids eye contact with her just as he had done for you. 

Snorting, she glared at him, “Fine. Whatever. I don’t fucking care. I can find someone else to feed off of me. Yours never felt that good anyway. Asshole.”

Just like that, she’s out of his life once again and Jaebeom can’t help but feel thankful. He should have never been weak enough to be dragged out by here anyway. He had just been consumed by thoughts of you, alcohol, and the couple on the dancefloor. Then again, not coming out here would have robbed him of the opportunity of seeing you again and finding out that you actually knew his name. 

That’s when it dawned on him. 

Fuck… how much had you seen? What did you see? 

Jaebeom realized that he might have some explaining to do

[hyunjilicious]

Kaer Morhen. Geralt of Rivia imagine

A/n: This contains 0 spoilers for the TV shows. However, it contains mentions of smut and violence. Also a tad bit of angst.

Summary: Geralt and y/n and a few others prepare for a battle. Losing Yn is one of his biggest fears, and tried to do everything in his power to make sure that won’t happen. 3.7k

Warning: i was too lazy to edit. i will tho, soon. Tell me what you thought please!!! I loved writing it and i love hearing your opinions!

-

"And what happens if the shield falls?" Triss asked, roaming around the room with her arms crossed, carefully studying you up and down.

"The shield won't fall unless I do" you spoke with confidence, dead set on doing everything in your power to keep the castle, Ciri and everyone else involved, safe.

"Then, no" Geralt commanded, pushing himself off the wall, "No way we're doing it this way"

"It's already settled" you countered, knowing that was the only way you could help. Even as one of the most powerful sorceress the Continent has ever seen, with elven blood running through your veins, in combat, you were still a weak link. You needed space, and safety to recover your stamina, so standing on top of an isolated tower and casting spells from there was the best option.

"Nothing's settled" Geralt huffed, "There's no telling how long the fight will last or how strong their army will be, you can't keep that shield up on your own"

"I can" you said with confidence, "And I will"

With that you stormed off. After years of going through this on again off again wannabe relationship, Geralt knew better than to bug you when you clearly wanted to be left alone. The night was done, yet he decided he'd get a head start of the roof work that was scheduled for the next morning, as something about your attitude was obviously making him rather uncomfortable. You stood in front of your bedroom window, projecting his image on the glass in front of you. Dangerously close to the edge, he made his way tile by tile across the roof, and despite noticeably giving his best, he failed at giving the structure the stability it needed. You chuckled, a silent sigh also escaping your lips - you wished he was inside the castle, in the same room as you - yet your pride didn't let you admit it, even to yourself. His raspy grunt reached your ears, and it wasn't from your projection - he had realized on his own that he did a piss poor job, and shouldn't have even tried to being with. Seeing as he would soon be making his way inside, you killed the spell and moved to your bed.

When Geralt passed through the door, you looked up from a book you had just opened, "Nice of you to finally join me"

"Y/n" he sighed, unbuttoning his black shirt and sliding it off his shoulders, "I-"

"Yes, yes" you cut him off, "You're mad at me, but to be completely honest with you-"

"I'm not mad!" he yelled, voice all hoarse, proving his words wrong. He walked to the foot of the bed and leaned on one of his legs, "I'm not mad" he corrected himself, this time on a much more reasonable tone, "It's just that I get the feeling this is a sacrifice"

"If it means it will keep Ciri alive and far away from The Wild Hunt, then call it whatever you want"

"You love her, don't you?" he asked, for the first time in days, avoiding your stare. However, he did it for you. He knew how much it would take for you to admit such a thing, even to him. He kept looking away, willingly giving you the upper hand and allowing you to believe you were strong enough to face him. After all these years, you still came first, no matter what.

"Geralt-" you sighed, the pain in the pit of your stomach making your voice sound weaker, "I-"

"Decades ago-" he cut you off, "When we first met, everyone said you were power driven and ruthless, when all you wanted was a child. All this time-" he said, shaking his head in disbelief, "I thought you gave that up"

"I never give up" you said, clearing your throat. Tears were coating your eyes, but no matter how much a weakness sign you considered it, you didn't turn away, "Let alone on a child. Especially Ciri"

"Y/n" Geralt said softly, grabbing your elbow, "We can still find other ways"

Not at him, but you were angry. The situation, and especially the wait, the calm before the storm, were driving you crazy, and with controlling your emotions, you never had a good history. "I don't care who comes, however many mages they may have, how big their army is or how revolutionary their weapons are, if they can do it, so can I. I'm not gonna grab a sword and try my luck, or cast spells in the middle of the field, it's a sure way for me to die. I will do everything I can to keep this castle and everyone inside it safe, and no one can stop me"

With that you walked past him, and opened the door, "Now come, Lambert and Eskel promised us some extravagant Toussaint wine and they're waiting downstairs"

Geralt followed you without fighting back this time. You were all expecting to have at least two days until the fight, so whether he did actually give up and accepted the fact that you were going to have your way, or if he just decided to post pone the argument, was above you, and to be fair, at that hour, you didn't even care. You all drank, and had a good time, well, as good as the times allowed. There was a strange atmosphere in the air, giving the impression that you all sat down to make sure no one would be taken away without a proper goodbye. None of you would have admitted it, but you were all thinking it. Crach an craite turned out to be the soul of the gathering, Dijkstra's never ending stories seemed much more appealing after a few glasses of wine, and at about 5am, almost everyone was back in their rooms, sleeping or making up for lost time.

Earlier that evening, you had no intention of joining the others in drinking, you wanted Geralt all to yourself but after the talk you had, you needed some space. However, the alcohol washed out the bad taste his words left in your mouth, and now, as you two found yourselves all alone in your shared bedroom, your initial intentions were starting to show again. He welcomed your lips against his with longing desire, holding onto your waist harder than you would have normally accepted. Your weight was as none in his hold, and he carried you effortlessly to bed, laying you down gently before climbing on top of you. His muscular body towered over your fragile frame, and as always, having him wrapped around your finger aroused you to no end. There wasn't time to waste on foreplay, even if you were sure he enjoyed it as much you did. Geralt lewdly hurried to explore the skin your black leather attire showed, dragging his lips along your collarbones, before biting down into your shoulder, for the sole purpose of hearing your moans.

"Geralt" you sighed, grabbing the sides of his face so you could look into his eyes.

His teeth sank deeper, making your cry out his name again.

You felt his chuckle tickle the skin at the base of you neck, just before he looked up, "You're so beautiful" he said in awe.

Wanting to keep your composure, you controlled your facial expression, but your cheeks still reddened. The smile that materialized onto his lips proved that he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on you. When your lips connected, it felt more electrifying than ever. Unlike times before, you allowed him to take full control. Geralt didn't question it at all, but you knew he sensed something.

Everytime it was you on top of him, riding his cock into the depths of the night as his longing stare burned your skin. It was always you the one who pushed his buttons and never allowed him to finish whenever he needed. You always had to push him, even just the tiniest bit. You rarely ever did what he asked you without making him beg for it. You saw him on his knees in front of you, calling your name in what was probably the most needy tone he was capable of. The sight of him squirming under you, with his eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back, fists clenched and thighs convulsing, was your favourite of them all. However tonight it was quite the opposite. He had you on all fours, crying out his name. He kissed away the tears of pleasure that ran down your temple, and smiled proudly when you, for the first time begged him to let you finish. Three times. That night was all about what he wanted; he loved you in all the right ways, sending you on pleasure spirals with every chance he got. After ruining the sheets while he went down on you, lapping away at your core, you clenched your thighs on each side of his head in some pathetic attempt to control yourself. With a smirk, Geralt's lips moved from your clit to the skin of your left inner thigh, leaving inflamed purple marks all over your warm skin. When it came to the second orgasm, he had you panting on all fours as he clutched a fistful of your hair into his hand, pulling your head back. His lips treated the your shoulders and neck in all the right ways as he pounded deeply into you from behind. Your moans decorated the night, and it ended with another round, this one slower and more passionate than anything before. He was laying on top of you, moving every so gently against your now sensitive body. When his lips weren't longingly loving yours, his cheek was pressed against yours, his breath fanning onto your ear.

After that, after you both came down from the heights of pleasure he worked so hard for, you just collapsed into each other, and tried to get some sleep, "I love you, Y/n" Geralt said, right before dozing off.

"And I love you" you answered, with deep honesty.

You would have never admitted it to him, but as you both laid in bed, you realised this sudden change of character was coming from your hidden fear of not ever seeing him again after the battle that was to come. As he feel alseep with his face tucked deeply into your neck, you knew he was thinking just the same. Your mind didn't allow you to rest without taking a quick peek at his thoughts, and the taste of blood engulfed your senses as you bit your lower lip in order to stop yourself from crying. A small cottage, quite poor and mostly empty, with a strong fire lighting up the main room was what you saw first. Then you saw yourself. And him. Snuggled into each other in a dark corner, sleeping, and with definetly less worried looks on your faces than you had now. You couldn't pull away from his thoughts just yet, you kept watching as Ciri with Vesemir came moments later. The four of you sat down at a table, eating ridiculously festive food. Geralt's left hand was on your thigh, and when he kissed you, even if it was just a dream, he imagined you tasted like garlic. That thought alone watered your eyes. Back when you two had just met, in unknown circumstances, you mentioned to him that you couldn't expect people to take you seriously if you smelled like garlic, despite it being one of your biggest pleasures. At that time, he laughed it off, kissed your lips and with a shake of his head, continued the conversation. Never again had you two talked about this, or had you eaten garlic, yet this was on his mind right now. Damn him. You didn't want to die. You lived a long life and achieved more than most people could even dream of, but for Geralt and Ciri, you wanted to live.

-

You stormed down the stairs of the castle, screaming at the top of your lungs, "They're coming! Everyone wake up!"

In a matter of seconds everyone rushed downstairs, strapping their swords and getting ready for a fight you were most likely destined to lose. Ciri's life was at stake, and none of you was willing to back down. Previously, you had pondered, and came up with the best defence strategy.

"Remember," you said, facing each of your allies in turn "Aldair albeeh mirva. Anything happens and you need help, chant this"

Shortly after revising the plan, everyone went to their spots, waiting for the attack, while you rushed to the tower. Knowing the Wild Hunt wouldn't come rushing towards you from a distance, you counted on a locating spell, that even though couldn't pin point their exact location, was able to let you know how close they were. When crystals of ice appeared in the air around you and you were able to see your breath due to the drop in temperature, you put up the first shield. This was the easy part, keeping the frost away. Now, you gathered all your power, and worked on locking a second shield, one that was designed to force the armies to come in in waves, giving your people time to fight them off without getting surrounded.

Struggling with this task, there wasn't anything more that you could do. It was draining your powers at an alarming rate, but you were dead set on keeping the shields up until you could no more. The fight went on for almost two exhausting hours, there was no way for you to know if everyone was alright and no way to stop and check. Everything around you was a blur, the sound of the fight going on below you was muffled as you concentrated every inch in your body to make sure your defence wasn't cracking. Despite being all in, body and soul, you still heard it.

"Aldair albeeh mirva"

Fuck. It was Eskel's voice. As you tried to figure out his exact location, you heard it again.

"Aldair albeeh mirva"

And again. And again and again. Muffled. Unclear, and screamed by different voices. Triss, Keira, Dijkstra, Geralt. They were all losing their battles.

-

"Um, Geralt?" Lambert huffed as the two of them fought side by side, "Is Y/n ok?"

"Why?" Geralt called with exasperation, turning to his fellow witcher, "What happened?"

"Look around you, man" he wailed, pointing to the sky, "The force shield is down. We're surrounded"

They retracted to a more isolated corner, speaking to each other just above a whisper, "We called for her, she knows what she's doing!" Geralt said and despite not showing much emotion, he said it more to convince himself than his friend.

"Brother, she didn't answer" Lambert spoke dramatically, breathing heavily. Silence settled as he didn't want to say anything more, afraid he'd set Geralt off. He was too late. In a fit of manic rage, Geralt sprung forward, rushing straight into the battle.

"Cover my back" he yelled over his shoulder, "I'm heading to the tower"

Eskel sighed knowing how bad of an idea it was, but after shaking his head, he drew his sword, ready to jump back into the action. They were surrounded, casting signs after signs, their stamina running out and muscles starting to cave. With every passing moment and with each of the wild hunt's knights killed, they were closer and closer to caving. Their blows weren't as precise anymore, not as strong, and nowhere near efficient enough to keep up with the enemy's army. Following a heavy blow into the small of his back, Geralt fell to the ground, sword slipping out of his hand and landing meters away. Before he managed to regain his composure, Eskel threw himself on top of him, and generated a shield, held in place by the sign of Quen, strong enough to keep them alive for just about 30 more short seconds. Each blow received weakened their defence, and once Eskel couldn't hold the shield anymore, it exploded with a blast, throwing the knights and their hounds just a few steps behind. It was no where near enough. All this stunt did was buy them about a minute more, as before they knew it, their throats were surrounded by countless of sharp sword tips. Incapable of feeling emotions, Geralt's eyes still watered, Ciri's and Y/n's faces being the only thing on his mind. Realizing there was no way out, he gritted his teeth, and the last thing he saw before he closed his eyes were the merciless fangs of a ghostly hound, jumping towards his jugular at full speed.

Then nothing.

Nothing happened. Nothing bit him. No blade pierced his body, and filled with confusion, he creaked his eyes open only for his jaw to drop. The hundreds of fighters that were surrounding them were now hanging in the air, slowly rising to the sky.

"What the fuck-" Eskel muttered, turning from side to side.

Geralt paid no attention to him, and in the distance, between the floating bodies of his enemies, he spotted Y/n, high up in the air. With her head thrown back and arms raised horizontally, she levitated about 10 meters above the sea of still warm corpses. Her fingers moved slowly within a ball of purple gas. Geralt was too far away to see, but her veins pumped rage and chaos forming little sparks of fire all around her frame - her lifting the soldiers off the battlefield being just the beginning. Looking to the side, it wasn't hard for him to spot his allies.

Keira was in a trance, on top of the castle's wall. Before Geralt got a chance to rush to her, Triss came running, ushering everyone inside, "Shelter, now!!" she screamed, voice cracking.

"Y/n?" Dijkstra who had just joined them asked.

"Yes" approved Geralt, "And Keira. We can't leave them"

Triss was in no way in the mood for their antics, "She's gonna burn them to ashes and we're gonna fucking die too if we don't move! And now!"

Somewhat relieved, Geralt, along with every other still standing member of their group, ran into the castle. "Are we even safe here? And Keira?" he asked.

After catching her breath, Triss looked at everyone in turn and explained, "Keira is keeping the frost away so y/n's spell won't be as difficult to cast. And yes.." she sighed, "We're safe here, y/n will redirect the flames upwards"

He didn't like this. Not one freaking bit. Rushing to the window, he saw y/n now fully surrounded by that violet gas. Every piece of glass in the castle was trembling, the floor shaking as bits of cement and stone were falling from each of the corners of the room. He wanted to object but he knew going out there was not an option. After a few difficult breaths, everything before his eyes went white. Everyone was thrown off their feet as a loud explosion pushed them meters back, all slamming into the walls behind them. Nothing was audible except for a loud plain ringing deep inside his ears. Geralt found himself literally paralyzed for what he thought were a few seconds, but as soon as he found himself able to stand, he rushed outside. It was now way past dusk, meaning he'd been out for at least a few hours. Once again, and harder this time, panic enveloped him tightly.

Outside, grass was no more. The walls were black with ashes, with Keira standing in front of them, her back towards the castle.

Geralt stepped over burnt corpses, making his way to her. As the sorceress heard him approach, she turned to him, face white and a few too many layers of unshed tears covering her eyes.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it. "She's gone"

-

Heavily bleeding, your feet trembled one in front of the other, carrying your weight the last thousand of feet before reaching the nearest location you could only hope was safe. Around you, laid a deserted village at the foot of the Baarg mountain. At this point you couldn't afford being wrong, so you trusted your gut and walked through a gap in a fence, circled around the cemetery, and followed a path that led you to an empty cave. You sighed with relief, and felt a tear roll down your cheek as you pushed through the darkness, using the last bits of magic left in your body to light up a torch you found laying around. Tens of years ago, this cave used to belong to an elven mage, the only one in history to ever manage to control not only space, but also time. His legacy was so infamous and controversial, that his names was banned from use. This however, didn't stop tens of hopeful magic creatures from trying to learn his ways. It relieved you to no end to see that no one had actually reached this point. Having a story this famous; errors and fake facts were destined to be spread. If not for Geralt and his many connections, you wouldn't have known about this place either.

The entrance to the deeper levels of the cave was guarded by a pack of rock trolls, which took very little magical effort to convince to obey you.

"If any one comes looking for the elf's cave, this isn't the right one. If any one comes looking for me, I'm not here unless Geralt of Rivia asks. Geralt of Rivia, in flesh and bones, not anyone else" 

“Trolly knows, this cave not good”, the creature groaned, "Geralt of Rivia good. Everyone else bad. Trolly likes not if you not Geralt are"

"Perfect" you sighed, and walked further into the cave. Seconds later, you had made it. All the knowledge you ever needed was inside there. Every potion, herb, recipe, crystal or spell book, everything was at arm's length. As soon as the door slammed behind you, you fell to your knees and crashed onto the floor. After 13 days of walking through dangerous unknown woods on the exact other side of the continent, you were happy to finally close your eyes within safety.

[hargrove-mayfields]

A Stake of Holly In Her Heart Pt. 7

Pt. 1   Pt. 2   Pt. 3   Pt. 4   Pt. 5   Pt. 6 

The first morning of the New Year, Max is spending her day in the cemetery.

She doesn’t really know what she believes about death, doesn’t have a clue where in the universe her brother might be now, be it of divinity or the supernatural, or maybe nowhere at all. All she knows is that she thinks the graveyard is creepy.

Right now, she’s sat cross-legged on the plot where her brother is buried, a space which is by now mostly grown over, her back against his headstone, wearing his jacket and using his Walkman.

There’s melting snow on the ground, the splotchy patches of ice soaking through her jeans and sending a nasty chill through her bones.

Her fingertips are numb, her nose and her cheeks are bright red from the whipping wind, her teeth chatter and her body shakes.

She hates the weather here, the dreariness and the bitter cold she never had to deal with back home, but she’s getting better at appreciating it for what it is.

Hawkins was supposed to be a new start, a way for her to sort of step away from how things used to be, when she still trusted her step-dad and when her and her brother fought all the time, so she could grow as a person.

She never expected it to be a permanent stop. Before Susan remarried, her and her mother used to move from city to city constantly, and she thought this would be like that in a way, where they’d move right on to the next place once they were done in the dinky little town.

But then they lost Billy, had to bury him in middle-of-nowhere Indiana, thousands of miles away from his home where he belonged, and Hawkins became a symbol of everything Max hated.

From optimism for where they could go from here, to the depressing reminder of confinement, of not being in control of her own life, her circumstances had done a complete 180.

She thinks that, for the most part, she’s getting better though. For one thing, it’s a pretty good sign that she’s not crying from just being here in the gloomy graveyard, but she’s still got a long ways to go.

Not that the hurt from her brothers death is ever going away, that’s a lifetime deal, but she’s at a place where she’s beginning to realize that the world is bigger than what she's lost.

Because, while Susan might not have been coming from the right place when she told her daughter that she needed to appreciate what she did have, Max thinks she can get behind it.

So what if her friends couldn’t feel her pain exactly, they were willing to help, and their help was exactly what she needed. That alone meant the world to her, no matter how pushy they could be, or how unhelpful their advice was.

And why did Hawkins have to lose its significance just because of the bad things that happened there? What was keeping her from remaining optimistic in the face of her suffering?

There was no good reason at all for why she couldn’t still be happy surrounded by her friends, or look forward to her future just because her brother couldn’t. If anything, she should do all of those things for him.

He never did much like anyone making a fuss over him, so Max likes to think that’s what Billy would’ve wanted her to believe too.

That’s why she’s out there now, mostly unprotected from weather cold enough to freeze her Winnebago, because she had made a promise to herself that she was going to be better at appreciating life for what it was, and that’s exactly what she would do.

In the moment, that meant becoming a human popsicle in the cemetery.

Any day now Maria Hargrove would be arriving in Hawkins to visit Billy, and Max wanted to be there when she did.

There was no telling exactly when she’d actually get in town, given the day and a half drive from Modesto to Hawkins, so for the past few days, Max had been camping out in the cemetery during the day as she awaited her arrival.

She’s starting to get bored waiting. Thrice she’s listened through the one mixtape of her brother’s that was still in the Walkman when she found it, and she’s considering just going home for the day.

Breaking curfew too many times meant the creation of new a rule that she be home before dark anyways, and considering she’s probably minutes away from becoming hypothermic, she decides she’s going to start heading back now.

As she stands and tries to brush off some of the ice clinging to her pants, though, she notices a woman a little ways away walking on the path, nervously checking every name on every headstone.

There’s not a glimmer of doubt in Max’s mind that this woman is Maria Hargrove.

The resemblance between mother and son is unmistakable, from the way their curls, dirty blonde and loose, laid flat in the winter, the curve of their button noses and the spatter of freckles across it, the deep blue of their eyes. Just seeing her and how much she looked like Billy, Max feels a twinge of sadness in her heart.

It’s when those eyes, in all of their dark intensity, meet hers that Max offers up a sympathetic smile, and slips her headphones off of her ears.

Maria’s gaze meets hers, and her face goes pale as she stops dead in her tracks. There’s a moment where it looks like she might bail, but she takes a deep breath, and steps forward.

“Are you Billy’s step-sister?”

“Yes ma'am”

Nervously, Maria goes for the formalities, deliberately standing so she can keep the headstone behind Max out of her line of sight.

Wrapping her arms around herself against the cold, or maybe for comfort, the nervous woman says “Thank you for reaching out, dear.”

Max shrugs her shoulders, keeping her freezing hands deep in her pockets. It’s an awful nonchalant gesture for how overwhelmed she’s feeling in the presence of Billy’s mom. “Thought you needed to know.”

Neither of them knows what to do for a moment, Maria still clearly not ready to actually address the reason she’s here, so Max tries to break the ice again.

“I have a picture here. You can have it.” She thought it would be a nice thing to do, bringing Maria a picture of Billy, since she probably hadn’t seen any of him that weren’t almost a decade old.

She chose one of the defects from last summer when they were trying to get his headshot for the lifeguard board. It’s a little blurry and washed out from the sun, but it’s one of the last few pictures ever to be taken of him, and the most Billy picture she had of him by far.

Probably because he’d been in his element, far away from the fake smiles and the even faker family bonding that most pictures of him included, just goofing off with his sister in the backyard and trying to get a good shot, it was definitely one of her favorites.

Taking the little Polaroid from Max’s hand, Maria gasps softly as she studies her estranged son's face. Tears bubble up in her throat as she remarks, mostly to herself, “My handsome boy…”

With what looked to be a tremendous effort, Maria looked up and took another few steps forward, now at the foot of her son's grave.

There’s a quiver in her voice as she asks Max softly, “Could you tell me what happened?”

“There was a fire at the mall. He tried to help some people out but the ceiling, it collapsed because it was glass and, he-he didn’t make it.” It’s a practiced story, she wonders if she’s a little too dull in her delivery, because it’s not really the whole truth.

The impaled by falling debris story just happened to be government approved, and tended to work a lot better than telling people he’d been killed by an inter dimensional monster from a parallel universe.

“My baby.” Her thumb caresses absentmindedly over the glossy photo. “Went out a hero.”

She smiles for nobody but herself. “He was always like that. Even when he was just a little thing, he thought he could protect me from Neil.”

“I- Neil, did he ever…?” Max can tell what she’s implying, if he ever abused Billy like he had his mother, and, not knowing how to be any less blunt about it, Max simply tells her, “Yeah. A lot, actually.”

With a shaky hand, Maria covers her mouth in something like shock, disappointment, regret. There’s a tightness in her voice when she speaks again, an unreadable mix between anger and heartbreak, “He swore to me he wouldn’t ever lay a hand on our boy.”

“God, I don’t know why I believed him.” Pushing her hair back, a nervous tick Max had seen her son do a thousand times as well, she barely manages to choke out, “He said he would change. I can’t-.”

She stews in that for a moment, teary eyes locked on the stone in front of her, and when she speaks again, her voice is full of something very different from the sadness she’d been letting through before. “I need to see him.”

There’s a dangerous look in her eye as she turns to look to Max, “Where can I find Neil Hargrove?”

Maria drives her back home in her ‘74 Karmann Ghia, and, while Max appreciates being spared the long walk home in the cold, she’s got to admit she’s nervous.

There’s no telling how exactly Neil is going to react to finding out that Maria’s in town thanks to Max, and she’s equally unsure about what Maria is going to do seeing her abuser for the first time in eight years. It’s more than stressful.

The truck is pulled up out front, confirming much to Max’s dismay that there’s no avoiding this confrontation. She just hopes things don’t get too far out of control.

Her parents must have been waiting up for her, because, as soon as they park, Neil is on the porch, arms crossed and looking stern, ready to chew out whichever of Max’s friends is behind the wheel this time, but that attitude is dropped completely when he sees Maria.

Mostly because, as soon as she steps out of the car, she makes him drop it, marching right across their lawn just to smack him as hard as she could.

Max quickly sneaks past them, running up to the porch and allowing her own mother to place a concerned hand on her shoulder and steer her inside away from the fighting. She continues watching from the living room window.

“How could you?” Even from inside, Max can hear her shrieking voice clearly. “I am his mother!”

Neil, a man typically known for the disturbingly calm way he fought, actually shows his anger, flushing red as a beet and telling her in a voice that’s shaking with hatred. “You lost your right to that boy the moment you walked out the door.”

“You know that’s not fair! You left me with no choice!” She puts both hands on his chest and shoves him hard, tears on her cheeks. “You lied to me!”

“I parented him as I saw fit!” He raises his voice, and Max swears see can physically see the restraint it’s taking him not to hit Maria back. She’s glad they hadn’t brought this inside.

“What right do you have to question me, when you,” he points a finger into her face, “you left us behind.” he says, turning it around on himself, “I was there for that boy, while you were what, trying to live out your fantasy? Run away so you could show me how independent you were?”

Maria screams back at him, “It doesn’t matter what you think of me! I still deserved to know that my baby was dead!”

Just watching the two of them go at it really explains a lot about Billy.

The temper, the terrible coping mechanisms, the anger issues, all of it can be boiled down to the display currently happening in her front yard.

Max finds herself wishing he had more time to work on it, the behavior that was so deeply ingrained in him, but seeing firsthand the way his parents conducted themselves, she felt proud of him that he could even do as much as he had before his life was cut short.

Though it only makes the sting of his last words, a broken apology past the blood bubbling up in his throat, all the worse, knowing that he’d been trying so hard to be different, but all she could do for him now was make sure she didn’t veer down the same path. To try to use all that her friends had taught her to keep from following in his footsteps, and repeating his same mistakes.

Billy’s parents, however, seem to have shut out any thoughts like that, letting their hostility and their aggression out right in the front yard, no doubt by now drawing a crowd of nose neighbors peeking through their blinds.

Maria slaps Neil again, for what exactly Max didn’t quite catch that time, and storms back to her car.

Neil follows her, standing at her drivers side door and continuing his tirade of profanities even as Maria’s drives away.

Watching Neil fuming in the street now that Maria is gone, Max thinks it’d be in her best interest to be as far away from the aftershock of the fight as possible.

She cautiously hides out in her room, listening to Neil stomping his way back into the house, to him slamming doors and saying nasty things to Susan until that’s all replaced with the sound of keys being dug out of a pocket, and the truck roaring to life out front.

Sometimes Neil would do that, just up and leave to go out drinking at the bar if he didn’t want to face something that made him particularly angry. Max’d take that any day over a beating.

The whole thing still leaves Max shaken to her core, so, using what she’s been trying to teach herself since deciding she didn’t have to do everything on her own, she decides she’s going to reach out.

It takes her forever to finally turn the dial on her walkie, and even longer to actually say anything into it. “Guys?”

There are no initial responses, so she tries again. “Anybody read me?”

The first to respond is Lucas with a “Loud and clear, MadMax.” and the rest follow suit with various confirmations of their own.

Eleven asks her, “Everything is alright?”

“Yeah, totally, I just,“ She sighs, trying to find the right words. Opening up was definitely something she needed more practice with. “Billy’s mom came into town today and it made my step dad really mad and-“

“Hold the phone.” It’s Steve interrupting her despite having been expressly told by Dustin that he was only allowed to snoop if he never bothered them. “ You’re telling me that the Maria Hargrove is here? In Hawkins?”

“Yeah, I- she’ll be in town for the next few days,” Max says, a little thrown off guard, “but that’s not my point, I was saying that-“

“This is major. I mean, where is she? What’s she doing here?” Steve’s talking fast, his tone sounding like a cross between frantic and pissed off. “I need some more to work with here, Max.”

“Well she’s here for Billy, obviously, and I think she mentioned the Motel 6.” Max explains quickly, trying to get back to the point at hand, “But really I-“

“How long is she here for?”

“Steve!” At least three of the kids yell at him at once, not only for breaking literally the only rule he was given when they let him have a walkie, but also for cutting Max off.

“Sorry, sorry. I’ll butt out.” He says, seemingly chastened, but then he tries to add, “First can you tell me if-“

“Goodbye, Steve.” Dustin cuts in before the older boy can add a condition.

They wait until they’re sure he’s done before Will asks, “What was his problem?”

Now, Max knows why it concerns Steve, but she keeps her mouth shut. She’d just sit back and let the rest of the kids come up with whatever explanation they saw fit, and maybe talk to Steve about Maria later.

Mike snickers into his end, “Maybe he likes older women?”

Lucas scoffs, “That’s gross, man.”

After that, the conversation doesn’t linger for too long on Max’s problems beyond them making sure she’s okay and moving along to their usual topics of discussion, but just that little bit of concern is enough for her. Her friends were by no means professional therapists, but, thinking over the newest gossip and campaign ideas leaves her mind occupied with something other than dwelling on the negative, and that’s enough.

One of the hardest things she’d been dealing, was fear that if she allowed herself to be happy, to focus or to think about anything other than her sadness over her brother, she was going to forget him.

But spending the night talking with her friends about games and teenager drama, she can’t help but feel that it’s just overall better to focus on the good things in life rather than to keep reopening the wound by dwelling on everything miserable.

Two days, a reportedly passive aggressive introduction to Steve Harrington, and many hours spent at her son's graveside later, Maria calls from her room at the Motel 6 to tell Max she’s leaving for California.

She says she feels she’s overstayed her welcome, and that she’s had enough time to made her peace. There’s nothing left for her in Hawkins, so it’s time to go back home.

Max asks her, “Will you be back soon?”

The question basically answers itself; if Maria could leave her behind ten year old when he was begging her to stay, it only made sense that she could leave him behind with ease, now that he’s eighteen and six feet under. The only reason Max really feels the need to ask is in case it might change her mind.

“If I can make it.” It’s an ambiguous enough answer that she knows it means no, but she supposes she can live with that. Just knowing that she got Maria to come back to Billy at all is what mattered.

What a shame though, that it took her son dying young, killed at the cusp of his adulthood, to bring her back around. What a shame that she couldn’t face the consequences of her actions before it was too late.

But it was never really about Maria anyways, Max couldn’t have cared less if she got her closure, or made her peace, as she had put it. It was all for Billy.

It would seem anyways, that these days, most things Max did were.

Because no matter where it was that his soul had ended up, she knows she can do better, can keep growing knowing that she did right by him, and continues to do so every day.

It is for this reason, in honor of her big brother Billy, as well as for her own sake, that Max made it her goal to do her best to honour Christmas in her heart, and try to keep it all the year.

Read also on ao3!

[jadekitty777]

Brewing the Storm

Here we go folks! Those of you familiar with me know I tend to have a “favorite” whenever I do a ship week... and this small piece is it! I hope you’ll all enjoy it too.

Day 5: Last Kiss @taiqrowweek

Rating: K

Words: 3,000

Summary: With Beacon in ruins and the fallout creeping over the horizon, Taiyang's only goal is to keep his family safe. Even if it means lying to them. [Takes place Post-Volume 3]

Ao3 Link: Brewing the Storm

~

He’d read once in an article found in one of the many throwaway magazines doctors and dentists always set out to preoccupy their patients with, that it was considered ‘healthy’ for there to be conflict in a relationship. The column had laid out bullet points on how fighting could communicate feelings, build trust and even increase intimacy. At the time, young and recently divorced, he’d scoffed at it, certain he’d never read something more ridiculous.

Now, two marriages and two decades later, Tai still scoffed at it as he angrily whisked the egg whites. His scowl only grew more pronounced as he heard the telltale footsteps of his husband entering the kitchen. He had to resist the urge to just turn around and snap at him to get out of his ‘room’, childish as it was. The kitchen door was pulled shut, offering a pretense of privacy before they got started.

“You can’t protect her forever you know.”

And there it was.

“Really? That’s how you’re going to start?” Tai snapped, setting the bowl down with enough force it nearly cracked.

Qrow gauged him as he rounded the dining table, resting himself back against the open end of it. Enough distance to not encroach onto either of their personal spaces, but not so much it felt like they had to shout at one another. Neither had ever been shy about getting into each other’s faces during an argument – but time and experience had taught them that level of aggression tended to drive them into poor directions afterwards. It was never pleasant to have to attend a bar at 2 AM to drag an absolutely smashed Qrow home; just as he knew it wasn’t any more a joy to deal with him locked in their bedroom and unable to come out.

So, they’d long ago made a pact to keep a divide between one another whenever they were angry with each other. It usually made Tai feel a little better, whenever Qrow remembered.

“I’m not going to apologize, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

Today, he was too furious to even notice. “No, of course you wouldn’t. Because then you’d have to admit you were wrong.”

Qrow scowled, crossing his arms. “Wrong about what Tai? That Ruby should know the eyes that she just accidentally happened to use is going to catch the attention of an enemy she isn’t even aware exists?”

“She’s not ready!”

“Well shit, you’re right.” His tone was mockingly affronted. “Why don’t we get a little care package together for Salem with a little note attached.” He raised a hand, punctuating the air in front of him as if he were pressing the words onto paper, “‘Please don’t attack until Ruby is a full-fledged Huntress. Thanks.’”

He breathed out through his nose. “Quit being an asshole.”

“Once you stop being unreasonable.”

“Unreasonable?!” He bellowed. “Hundreds are dead Qrow! Students older than Ruby! Some of them were students of ours!”

“And their experience didn’t save them either!” He shouted right over him. “Face it Tai, this isn’t about doing the best thing for her, it’s about you trying to rule over something you can’t control!”

“I don’t want to put another grave next to Summer’s!”

In the wake of his scream, there was emptiness. Nothing in the air left except their harsh breathes and regret.

The first one to move was Qrow – but his destination was disheartening as he yanked open one of the cabinets, pulling out a bottle of rum. He didn’t bother with a glass. “I know, but you don’t get to make that choice. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you’ll let those kids live their fucking lives.”

With those parting words, he left the room.

Tai never felt so alone.

~

A week later, the first snow of the season hit. The storm had blown in overnight, bringing down fat, drifting flakes that coated the ground within the hour and continued on throughout the evening. By morning, mounds of it covered every inch of the yard. The leafless trees bent with the weight and the pine trees in the surrounding forest looked festive with their speckles of green bursting through the ice.

In years past, the first sign of winter had always been met with a level of unrestrained energy. Yang and Ruby would race down the stairs, cheering over the lack of school as Signal would close for the day to allow the students one chance to play. When the girls were young, they’d take them out, where there would be snowball fights and built up forts and, if the storm was really good like this one, they’d go up into the surrounding hills to do some sledding.

As they grew older, neither of the girls wanted to ‘hang out’ with their dorky dads and met up with friends instead. It left the house to Tai and Qrow. Typically, they’d make some homemade hot chocolate, get a nice fire going in the hearth, and bundle up together on the couch and watch old movies until it was dark. It was a relaxing, comfortable way of spending it together. That tradition eventually faded away, as Qrow’s missions took more and more of his time away, until he was almost never back in time for the Snow Day.

It was clear that, despite having everyone there, from the gloomy atmosphere that permeated every nook and cranny of their home, it would be the quietest year yet.

Tai wandered down the eerily silent halls, feeling like a stranger in his own house. Both the girls’ doors were open. With them still gaining back their strength, he wanted them to have a way to call for him if they needed anything. A quick glance into Yang’s room proved she was still asleep – but Ruby was already up. Her back was to the window, eyes intent on something on her phone.

He paused in the threshold, catching her attention. “Good morning. How ‘bout some breakfast?”

“Sure dad.” She smiled feebly. Her eyes looked red around the edges, making him think she’d been up for awhile.

His chest hurt, seeing it, so he smiled twice as big right back, “Alright, it’ll be up soon.” And continued on his way, thinking the world was more unfair then it ought to be.

Getting downstairs only amplified the feeling, realizing Qrow was neither in the living room or the kitchen. He had been spending less and less time home since their argument and they’d barely spoken to one another even when he was around. Not that a conversation was often possible, since when he did bother to return, he was smelling worse than a brewery and acting like his motor functions had been inversed like a bad video game mechanic.

Tai tried not to feel guilty, knowing it would eat at his resolve faster than acid. The rampant increase to Qrow’s addiction had little to do with him and more to do with the sudden chaotic state of the world and the loss of a friend. He was probably feeling confused and uncertain of his way forward without Oz to guide him and-

Focus, Tai. Take one day at a time. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Ruby first, then he’d check in on Yang and then finally text his wayward husband after he was mostly certain he’d awoken from whatever stupor he’d drunken himself into. With that battle plan in mind, he started up his playlist on his scroll, pulled out the dough that had been chilling overnight, and got to work.

~

It was nearly an hour later he was sprinkling the last of the powdered sugar atop the freshly made chocolate chip scones. He set a few of them onto a plate, then decorated it further with some strawberries before placing it on the serving tray. He poured a cup of Jasmine tea from the still warm kettle before adding it and an apple and finally surveyed his work. Light, flavorful, and full of his youngest’s favorites that might just be enough to put a real smile back on her face.

With a satisfied nod, he picked up the whole thing and started his way upstairs. As he passed by, he took note Yang was finally up. She was staring intently at a red-eyed blackbird outside her window that caused him to pause. After studying it and making sure it didn’t have a little feather crown, he moved on, knowing it wasn’t Qrow.

He didn’t want to think of who else it might be.

Instead, he stepped into the adjacent room, his daughter’s name already on his tongue.

The tray crashed loudly on the ground as he stared into the empty room, some drawers still open to indicate hastily put together gear and a single note resting on the rumpled bedsheets. He didn’t bother to read it, the horrible, sudden realization hitting him harder than an Ursa’s palm strike. Ears suddenly rushing as panic overwhelmed him, he sprinted back down the hall, leaping over the railing without a second thought.

He hardly felt the way the landing jarred his bones nor the way the cold of the frigid morning clung to his skin as he made his way outside, yelling at the top of his lungs, “RUBY!!”

The silence that replied felt like it might crush him.

Tai clutched at his shirt, certain his sternum was about to snap. No. Nononono. This wasn’t, she hadn’t…

Yet as his gaze fell upon the ground, spotting four sets of footprints heading down the front yard path, rapidly disappearing under the blanket of snow, he knew there was nothing left to doubt.

“God damn it Sums, why is she so much like you?” He cursed lowly, racing after the trail.

The docks weren’t far, just a few miles east. There would be delays, surely. Ruby was certainly still there, waiting for the next ferry. What a rude awakening she would get, when she finds out all she’d been waiting for was him grounding her into next century!

But just in case…

He pulled out his scroll, dialing a number by heart. “Pick up… come on, pick up!”

A click as the line finally opened. “This is Qrow.”

“Qrow-!”

“Unless this is important, buzz off.” Then the voicemail ended with a long-toned beep.

Tai could have screamed. “Qrow, it’s Tai. Call me when you get this. Ruby’s run off.”

He ended the call, only to immediately call again. Each ring seemed to drill at his eardrums until the message picked up again. He cut the call, frustration nearly making him fumble the device out of his hand. Just as he was about to try again, a sharp alert had him pulling it back.

Following after her.

He almost ran himself into a tree staring at that message, the three words saying almost nothing and way too much at the same time. He slammed his thumb into the call button – but predictably, Qrow didn’t bother to pick up this time either. That, or he had already shifted, leaving him unable to answer.

He tried texting anyways. Where are you? I’ll meet you there.

The lack of response stretched on. He tried not to focus on it, pocketing it so he could double his pace, the snow doing little to slow him.

He made it to the moor in record time, but even as he crossed the pier, he knew he was too late. There weren’t many people out and the few that were certainly weren’t wearing a prominent red hood. The Olympia wasn’t in its port either, and as he peered out across the water, couldn’t even spot a speck of it on the horizon.

What did catch his eyes was a little higher, a small form coasting underneath the cloud-line. His heart jumped, and he ran to the very edge of the pier. “QROW! COME BACK!”

His yell was as futile as the last, for the bird did not wheel around nor even seemed to hear him at all. As he watched him get further until he too became too hard to see, a terrifying thought hit him. What… What if that was the last time he ever saw him?

The guilt he’d been pushing down finally clawed its way free. Ravaged up his throat. Stung at his eyes. What a damn fool he was.

He took a breath, but his second attempt was nothing more than a weak, cracking, “Qrow…”

He didn’t expect an answer.

“Yeah?”

He spun almost immediately, his cascading emotions catching onto the ledge and holding tight as he caught sight of the worn and weary huntsman who stood only a few feet away.

He must have looked like quite the sight himself, because Qrow regarded him cautiously, saying quickly, “She’s only got a bit of a lead. I should be able to – Tai? What are you-?”

He crossed the distance between them with a crazed fervor, not letting him duck away as he grabbed onto an arm. Before the other man could even think to fight it, Tai was pulling him into a tight embrace. He buried his face into the side of his neck, breathing in the distinct scent of pine and whiskey that was Qrow.

It was several long moments before the tension trickled away, and long fingers found their way into his hair. Soothing. Familiar. “Hey, what’s all this about?”

“I just,” He tried to say. Like he had tried to keep things together. Like he had tried to lift his daughters’ wounded spirits. Like he had tried to hold onto hope. Everything within him shook. “I didn’t want to last thing between us to be a fight.”

The fingers in his hair froze. Qrow dropped his forehead to his hair, breathing out a frail, “Oh.”

Under the days that had been long and horrible, his emotions finally let go and Tai broke.

He was never one to cry, at least not the way most people did. There was no heaving sobs or hiccups, no wailing in pain. Rather, it tended to come forth with as little preamble as an early spring drizzle, light and almost soundless, but still there wetting the ground. He knew Qrow felt the slide of tears along his neck when another arm wound around his shoulders, his lean body melding against his. He spoke to him in soft, dulcet notes, but Tai didn’t so much pay attention to the words as much as the tone, letting it eventually calm the shivers and the tears.

Until he could find the strength to pull away, just enough to look up at him. “Do you know how terrifying it was, seeing the broadcast get hijacked? Having to go out to protect anyone I could when the panic set in, the entire time not knowing if you guys were alright? I’ve never felt more helpless.”

“I know.” Qrow murmured, the stony mask he’d been trying to keep up since everything went down finally crumbling, revealing the uncertainty and fear underneath. “I’m scared too, Tai. But trying to shelter Ruby and Yang like those four walls are enough to protect them from… whatever’s coming is foolish. And I know you know that, ‘cause you’re the same guy who did everything he could to give them the tools to survive this world.” His hand cupped his jaw, a thumb brushing over his cheek. “So what’s really going on, huh?”

He lowered his head, shame creeping up on him. “It’s just me. You two leaving, putting yourselves in danger – I can’t handle that. I’m not strong enough anymore. Or maybe I never was.”

“Bullshit.”

He blinked. Looked up. “What?”

“Bullshit.” Qrow repeated. “Tai, I’ve seen you get kicked down over and over again, and every time you get back up and ask for more. You take chances, put yourself on the line to hurt, in ways I wish I could. You may be a lot of things, but weak is not one of them.”

“Oh yeah?” Tai sniffled, wiped the rest of his tears away on the sleeve of his shirt. “Then what would you call me?”

“Mm… Handsome. Gentle. Kind.” A smirk quirked the edge of his lips. “A little stupid.”

He made an affronted sound, pushing his face away. “You jerk!”

“Heh, not an adjective, but I’ll take it.”

Tai rolled his eyes, but his gaze softened as Qrow nuzzled against his hand. He shifted so he could cup his face, tracing his features, ran a thumb through his scruff. “You’ll watch over her?”

“Always.” Qrow vowed.

“And… you’ll try and take care of yourself too?”

He dropped his chin, kissing his fingers. “Yeah.”

There were a thousand more things he wanted to make him promise – but he knew he was just delaying the inevitable. Trying to stall him, so he didn’t have to say goodbye. Never had to feel or wonder if this might be the last time.

He swallowed down another rush of emotion. “And you know I love you?”

Qrow replies, just as he had a thousand times before, “As sure as the sun rises.” before dipping his head, catching his mouth in a kiss.

Tai held him there as long as he could, until he had no choice but to let him go.

Watching the bird take to the wind only hurt a little less this time around. He stayed there on the pier, even long after Qrow had disappeared on the horizon, frozen like the ice around him. Whispered prayers to the Gods above that he’d see his daughter and husband again. Prayed that that kiss would not be their last. By the time he found the strength to move, a scatter of snow fell off him. A miniature storm he could finally let go of.

[duskowithapen]

Day Two: Quarantine

Writer’s Month 2020

Fandom: Merlin

Pairing: Merlin x Arthur

Cramped Quarters

Tensions and tempers rise when Arthur and Merlin are quarantined during the COVID-19 pandemic. Writer’s Month 2020 Day Two: Quarantine. Modern AU

Read on AO3

Read on Fanfiction

Arthur didn’t know how they’d gotten to this point – standing over each other, seconds away from resorting to blows, without the possibility from walking away from the confrontation. Merlin was staring up at him with angry eyes, hurt eyes, and Lord knows what Arthur looked like. They both breathed out.

The evening had been so calm. The ending credits of Supernatural played on the screen – Arthur had taken advantage of the enforced isolation after he tested positive for COVID to catch up on his favourite tv show. Dinner had been a simple but delicious spaghetti – he had taken Merlin his plate, his partner still doing his course work. After a can of bourbon cola to wash it all down, he’d suggested to Merlin that they go to bed – maybe sleep in a little, have some breakfast in bed and watch some Doctor Who. He had been hogging the tv a little over the past week and a half, so Merlin should get a chance to watch his nerdy show (that Arthur refused to admit to enjoying, if only because Merlin could get so animated and engrossed in the twisted storylines).

It had just been a suggestion.

Merlin had said no. “I can’t go to bed yet Arthur, I’ve still got work to do.”

Arthur should have let it go. But as Merlin likes to constantly remind him, a dollop head can never take no for an answer. “C’mon Merlin, nothing can be so important that it needs to be down right now.” Alright, so maybe he was feeling a little neglected. They’d been home together for days yet had barely exchanged a handful of words. He had wanted to go to sleep with Merlin wrapped in his arms, wake up with a bony elbow digging into his stomach, or back, or wherever the impossible idiot managed to catch him.

“I can’t Arthur. I need to finish this assignment.” The lack of a nickname should have clued him in. No prat. No dollop head. No pompous arse.  

But Arthur had to be a complete bonehead and push on. “Surely you can’t take a break for one night Merlin. Don’t you have an extension anyway, because of COVID?”

The glare Merlin had sent him – finally looking up from his laptop – was a horrid mix of exhaustion and fury. “The extension was for my other class Arthur. This essay is for my class on differential diagnosis in the neurosciences, that they had to expand from a normal reflective analysis due to COVID. It’s due next week. So no, I’m not going to take a break.”

Some concern had broken through Arthur’s exasperation here. “You need to take a break anyway Merlin. I don’t think I’ve seen you move away from your computer since…” Since I don’t know when, he thought. He’d been so caught up in his tv show, so concerned with his own mini holiday that he hadn’t even…

“I can’t sleep!” Merlin had shot to his feet. Away from the glare of the computer screen, Arthur could see the deep circles under his eyes.

“It’s easy Merlin. You just lay down and close your eyes. Maybe try to relax if you’re not too uptight.” That was where everything went wrong, Arthur thought. This is where I screwed up.

Merlin had thrown his hands up. “Oh, you’d know all about relaxing Arthur. You haven’t done anything but since this quarantine started! If you’d actually pull your weight around here, maybe I would have the time to sleep!”

“Pull my weight?” He’d spluttered. “Who do you think cooked you dinner tonight!?” A dinner that had long since gone cold, untouched, on Merlin’s desk.

“Who do you think made dinner every other night this week?” Merlin had shot back. “Certainly not you! You’ve been attached to the tv the second you came home!”

“That’s rich, coming from someone who’s been attached to his computer for months!” Alright, so maybe this had been building for longer than just these few days.

“I. Have. Been. Studying! Trying to become a doctor! You know, that endeavour you said you’d support me in? Haven’t seen you doing much supporting!”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have supported it if I knew it would take you away from me!”

Silence.

That is where they were now. Two men, standing across from each other in a cramped room, in a cramped apartment they couldn’t leave.

“Arthur…” Merlin’s voice was so quiet.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” Arthur immediately felt guilt like a rock in his stomach. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it?” That fire was back in his eyes now. “C’mon, don’t hold back now.”

“Merlin, I…” How do can he put into words the way an empty bed feels, an empty couch or empty kitchen bench, the feeling of air at your side that’s meant to be filled with a person. How can he describe the loneliness of having someone there but so far away? Of having Merlin so close but never talking to him. “I miss you Merlin.”

“Arthur, you know how much this degree means to me.” He did, he really did. Arthur was the one to hold Merlin, barely eighteen, when he broke down at his mother’s bedside after she lost her battle with cancer. Arthur was the one to push Merlin into going to university when he was directionless. Arthur was at every open day. Arthur was there when Merlin chose which degree, which courses, which days. He knew.

“I know, I know, I just… you might be here, Merlin, but you’re not here.”

“This – this quarantine has been hard on both of us,” Merlin hedged as he looked away. “Maybe it’s just cabin fever.”

“Maybe,” Arthur suggested as he took a step forward, “It’s you overworking and overstressing yourself. I know you don’t want to sleep, but you have to. You’re going to collapse at this rate.”

“I can’t sleep Arthur!”

This was more than just a deadline, Arthur thought with sudden clarity. He didn’t know how long Merlin had been spiralling, but now it was obvious.

“You can’t or won’t?”

Merlin’s eyes gained a wild quality. There was a shine to them, like he was holding back tears. “It’s… I can’t…” He shivered. Took a step forward. Collapsed into Arthur’s arms. Shaking hands grabbed at Arthurs shirt even as his shoulder became damp. Despite this, Merlin didn’t make a sound.

Arthur squeezed Merlin tightly, arms wrapped around shoulder and waist. “It’s okay Merlin. It’s gonna be okay.”

“Not it’s not!” Merlin’s voice was muffled but the desperation in it wasn’t. “He’s not gonna be okay!”

“Who’s not going to be okay?” His mind whirled. Was it Gwaine? His police partner (or as Gwaine liked to call it, his work wife) had been spat on by the same COVID positive bastard and was safely quarantined with his roommate Percy. Lance was still working, trying to stay safe despite his job as a paramedic. Maybe something had happened to him? Arthur hadn’t heard anything… Maybe it was one of the others – Elyan, or Leon, or Kay, or –

“Gaius!”

Arthur closed his eyes. “Shit…” He murmured. Gaius. The closest thing Merlin had to a father, and part of the inspiration for Merlin’s choice of degree. He was a diagnostician after decades of experience in the emergency room. Despite his age putting him at risk, the ornery doctor refused to stay home, and instead used every precaution he could to not get sick and still do his job. “Has something happened?”

Merlin shook his head silently, and Arthur breathed out a sigh of relief. At least there was that. “So… have you just been worrying?”

Pushing away with a scowl, Merlin growled out, “Don’t say that like I’m an idiot. I know he’s being careful; I know he’s not going to stay home, but I’m not going to stop worrying!”

“I know Merlin.” Arthur pulled him back in. “I just mean that you haven’t heard any bad news. Of course you’re going to worry – you should have told me instead of bottling it all up. I can’t help you if I don’t know you need help.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Maybe you should take your own advice, dollop head.”

That pulled a laugh from Arthur. “Oh don’t be such a girls’ blouse, Merlin. Don’t you know that real men don’t talk about their feelings?”

“Hmmm…” Merlin looked around for a moment before snuggling deeper into Arthur’s embrace. “I don’t see Lance around, so I’m not sure what ‘real man’ you’re talking about.”

“Alright! For that, I’m making you sleep!” Arthur lifted Merlin over his shoulder, ignoring his startled cries and bony elbows, and carried him to their bedroom. When Merlin hit the bed, he didn’t look impressed.

“I don’t like being manhandled prat. And I still have work to do!”

Arthur didn’t give him a chance to escape, laying on the bed and pulling Merlin down with him. Both arms were wrapped around Merlin’s chest now, and a leg was tossed over his thigh, so that Merlin was pinned to Arthur’s chest. Glancing down, he grinned. Merlin was doing his best to try and glare him into submission, but it was ruined by the jaw-cracking yawn and exhausted fluttering of his eyes.

“Work can wait till tomorrow. Cuddle now.”

“Humph, what a man…” Merlin drawled, rubbing his face against Arthur’s shirt. “Were you missing your cuddle time Arthur?”

“Very much so,” he whispered.

They still needed to talk about everything. Arthur would have to give Gaius a call, maybe convince him to take some time off if only for his pseudo-son’s health. Merlin still had classes to complete. There were new episodes of Doctor Who to watch.

But for now, there were two men, in a cramped bedroom, in an even more cramped apartment, completely dead to the world, and comfortable in each other’s arms.

[straight-into-the-animus]

We Might Blame The Gods (Or Ourselves) (Thalexios)

More Thalexios! But with angst, so please be warned with this one! It has very little in the way of comfort and very much hurt! This was requested by @kaliandra so thank you for the patience! I got really carried away but I loved the prompt and I hope you enjoy it! 

Read on Ao3!

Every Spartan boy, from the time he was old enough to hold a spear, trained in the agoge. Every boy knew it was to make Sparta stronger. Your body was meant to be perfect. Your mind was always meant to be sharp, hungry, focused on the next battle. You would come home with your shield, or on it. You fought honorably, yes, but on the battlefield you were ruthless, uncaring, cold.

While Alexios wasn’t a Spartan anymore, hadn’t been since his ‘execution’ nearly two decades ago, for as long as he could remember the battlefield had welcomed him. Perhaps it truly was something left over in him from his time in Sparta. It was dull but still very much there.

He had no problem with Athenians, personally; they were generous with payment, after all. They trusted him, they paid him, and the mercenary Sparta had chosen to side with was part of the Cult. Cutting off one head of that snake? That would simply make his day among all other things.

The weather was fair and unforgiving, even though the terrain was hard and unforgiving as Alexios fell onto it more time than he would like care to admit. The cultist had a brutal bludgeon with blunted, short points. It had hit Alexios square in his stomach in a way that had him nearly doubling over, and again on his left arm, but Alexios was able to kill him with more than a bit of agility that winded him just slightly. 

He heard the rocks shift behind him just behind him, more like pebbles, and without even thinking he raised his freshly bloodied sword to face his would-be assailant. Adrenaline was still fresh as it sped through his veins, but he felt a chill as he took in the man in front of him, a chill that had nothing to do with a change in wind.

“Thaletas.”

“Eagle-Bearer.” Thaletas’ voice was… He couldn’t say it was soft, because how could a voice be soft where they were? When two people were doing what they were doing? He stood across from Alexios, a sword in one hand and a painted Spartan shield in the other, a general’s shield. ‘It suited him’, Alexios allowed himself to think, before he forced himself to go blank.

“You’re the polemarch.”

“And you’re the Athenian mercenary.” Thaletas responded instead of answering. “I’m sorry.”

And oh, Alexios had only been truly sorry a few times in his life. He had been sorry for leaving Phoibe. He had been sorry for not being able to save his sister from falling off that mountain and into the hands of the Cult. But now? Now he was sorry for having thought he could just leave Mykonos and Thaletas, for taking those steps to bring himself here. But he didn’t say that.

“Bruised, bloody, or broken.” The meaning was clear as Alexios crouched into a fighting stance, something not feeling completely right in his body as he did. But Thaletas understood. He gave a barely there nod and mirrored the position.

“Never hold back.”

---------------

The last time they had fought at those ruins felt like ages ago. But back then, it had been in some weird, fantastic fun. Some warriors courtship they both acknowledged and agreed to. There had been no goal there to hurt for real, to kill. But now? Thaletas had no words. 

Back and forth it went, with clashes of steel and sparks flying where metal connected. The battle raged around them both but Thaletas paid it no mind, too concerned with the firebrand of a misthios in front of him. Those deep brown eyes, which once used to look at him with a sort of smug pride and soft adoration, now burned with an intensity from Ares himself. His mouth was hardened into a sort of sneer. There was determination etched into every line on his face. He looked every inch the demigod that the stories had said. And yet… Thaletas couldn’t help but wish they were still side by side.

It was one move that he saw, one misstep in Alexios’ footwork that Thaletas took his chance. Fatigue hung on both of their bones, but the mercenary they had hired had gotten to Alexios first. Thaletas sidestepped as Alexios moved and sent him sprawling into the ground. Alexios tried to turn around onto his back to get up but Thaletas’ sword was pointed straight at his face.

“It’s over, Alexios.” Thaletas spoke as confidently as he could, even if it was more so than he felt. Their chests heaved and he watched the blood and mud stained face of his opponent hide how much it was starting to sink in. Defiant until the end. This was the man who had defeated an Athenian blockade, had won over islands and killed leaders in their own household, seemingly by himself. You didn’t get that far by surrender. But he had no choice in this manner.

“Spartans don’t take prisoners.” Alexios finally made it out. “You know that as well as I do.”

“Exceptions can always be made.” As the surroundings came back, Thaletas realized that even as they spoke, the battle was almost over. Athenians were beginning the retreat, or they were being slaughtered on spears and swords. They had failed to take the land, but they would come back, of course. There was little doubt about that. But Thaletas would likely be gone by then. His concerns were of the here and now; and, against his better judgement, he needed to do something with the misthios at his feet.

“Polemarch!” A soldier came running up as if he could read Thaletas’ mind. “What must be done now?”

“Assess the living, their conditions. Those who are dead of our army, I want them and their equipment brought back to camp with us. And…” He trailed off and put his attention back on Alexios, who had gone uncharacteristically silent. Thaletas quickly saw why in the way he tried to hide how he cradled his stomach, even as he held onto defiance the way a man trying not to fall holds onto a fraying rope. “Take this one back to the camp as well. He was employed by the Athenians. Perform aid on him and bring him and everything he owns to my tent when finished.”

“Yes, polemarch.” There was a question that thankfully that did not make it past the soldiers lips as he turned on heel and left.

“All of Sparta would weep at how soft you’ve turned.” Alexios murmured, but there was no real malice or bitterness directed at anyone that Thaletas could tell.

“Perhaps.” Thaletas said, and nothing more was said before eventually more soldiers came and picked Alexios up, dragging him to his feet. Thaletas walked away. Overhead, in the clouds, an eagle with golden feathers was starting to cry out.

---------------

Spartans were nothing if not efficient, Alexios quickly learned as he was handed over from soldier to soldier through the march and through the camp for his wounds to be tended. As soon as everything from the fight had begun to wear off, he could feel the bruises and pain set in up and down his body, extending even towards the outside of his spear arm where he’d been hit. It wasn’t broken, but even if it was they likely wouldn’t have cared. 

They took his weapons and grandfather’s spear and quickly bound his hands in front of him before marching him over to Thaletas’ tent. It was larger on the inside, but spare, with a place for his armor, a makeshift desk with a map in the center of the tent, and a single bed in the corner. Nothing fancy, nothing more than what he needed. Very Spartan, and very much what Alexios remembered of Thaletas and his life on Mykonos.

They were left alone as Thaletas dismissed the soldiers, and soon it was just them in the candle lit tent. Thaletas sat at his desk, Alexios barely able to hold on as he stood in front of him. He was stripped bare and defenseless despite his armor, knowing very well that there was a chance that if he left this tent, it would be as a corpse. Their eyes met and their gazes held each other. It was finally Alexios who broke the silence.

“Why did you bring me here? You could have, you should have, left me on that field.”

“You had been working with the Athenians. Any information you have would be useful.” The reply was smooth, immediate, and practiced.

“You know as well as I do the Athenians wouldn’t tell me anything. And you can’t hold me as a prisoner of war. Luxuries such as that don’t apply to those of my trade.”

“And your ‘trade’,” Thaletas’ voice was quiet, but seemed to hold an air of almost… disgust at the word, “has led you here to a Spartan general’s tent as a captive, bound and injured.”

“Sometimes these things happen.”

“How can you stand to be so calm at a time like this?” Thaletas finally stood up from his desk. “Alexios, do you realize how much it pains me to be here? For us to be where we are? After everything we shared…” Gods, the pain in his chest was greater than any spear or sword that could pierce him.

“You chose Sparta. You chose Kyra. A Spartan general, are you not? You made a choice as much as I did.”

“And I have lived in regret of that choice everyday. Ever since I have just kept thinking that there was something I could say differently to bring you back to Sparta with me.”

“Don’t do this now, Thaletas, I’m begging you.” Alexios shut his eyes and had to will his breathing to slow down. His hands clenched and he felt the strain of the rope around his wrists, trying to remind himself where he was, that this wasn’t that night. He couldn’t fall for these sweet words again, couldn’t reach out to pull Thaletas closer and destroy any semblance of where they each began and ended like he wanted to.

“I can grant you leniency, Alexios. You can say you have defected. And once we are free to leave these shores, I will take you back to Sparta, work for you to be under me.”

“You don’t even know the whole story.”

“Then tell it to me. We never… We never spoke as we said we would.”

“It’s a long story. Not one I can just give freely.”

Thaletas went quiet again. He studied Alexios’ face before leaving and going for his armor. Alexios didn’t realize what it was until Thaletas began cutting at the ropes with a dagger. He was free quickly but didn’t know what to do with himself, somehow.

“I have time.”

Alexios knew he likely didn’t have a choice. But this time, he didn’t want to refuse.

---------------

They sat on the bed, hunched over the edge, and Thaletas stared at Alexios as the other stared resolutely at the ground and told his story. The general had never forgotten Alexios’ face, nor its subtleties. The scars decorating it, the beginnings of a beard that Alexios never let grow into anything else. The way his nose curved to the side, crooked from where it had been broken a few too many times. Now he learned things he never thought he would learn, or need to learn.

He learned that when Alexios was nervous, he clenched his hands together and interlocked the fingers. 

He learned that when Alexios was in pain, he paled and became a smaller version of himself, a way to not be so much of a target; like an animal in the wild.

Most importantly, Thaletas learned Alexios’ life. Learned about Mount Taygetos. About his execution. His legacy and the search for family. And he learned just how strong Alexios truly was.

The moon was well in the the sky when Alexios finally ceased, having run out of story to tell.

“I don’t know what to say.” Thaletas finally made out, quietly.

“You don’t need to say anything.” Alexios spoke with the same volume. “Just understand. I can’t go back to Sparta, Thaletas. Not now, if ever.”

“You said that on Mykonos. I thought… I thought it was a lust for adventure that had been put into your heart through a curse. Something to take you and keep you from me.” He found a humorless chuckle springing forth from his lips. “Had I known instead…”

A smirk barely twitched the corner of Alexios’ lips upward before he went stone faced again, still staring at the ground. “My mother is out there, Thaletas. As is my sister. Maybe… Perhaps one day, truly one day, I will step foot on Spartan shores. Perhaps you will be there as well. But until that time…”

Thaletas knew what was coming next. But his mind had been made up from the start about what he was to do. He stood from his bed, striding over to the other end of his tent, and picked up the sack of Alexios’ belongings and weapons. The misthios looked confused, with nervousness just barely there in his eyes even as he stood and accepted the items.

“The back of the tent is unstrung and loose. Leave through there. I will make an excuse for your escape. Your bird is likely nearby waiting for you anyway.”

“It’s not too late. Come with me. You will be safe on my ship, with my crew.” Alexios spoke, but both they knew it was in vain. He had given this offer once, it would not be taken the second time. 

“I have my men to look after. And you… You have your family to find. Take care, Alexios. Truly. May the Gods bless every step you take, my…” There were no words to complete that sentence. But he didn’t need them. The meaning was clear. Alexios nodded his understanding and his thanks.

“I’m sorry about earlier. On the battlefield, it was a rush, I thought you-”

“I felt it too. But you had it right. Bruised, bloody, broken.”

“Never hold back.” Alexios whispered and nodded once more, moving to brush past Thaletas. He paused in his tracks and turned, meeting Thaletas’ eyes for the briefest of seconds before leaning in and brushing their lips together. There was promise there, Thaletas felt it in his bones. A small, quiet promise that they would meet again, whether in this life or in the next. It was something gentle in a life and a world where they weren’t guaranteed such things.

“Stay safe.” Thaletas whispered, and Alexios nodded once before turning and hurrying away out the back of his tent as best as he could. Thaletas knew there would be explaining. Some of his men might have known who Alexios was from Mykonos. Some might even have a thought of their time together. But he would take care of that in the morning. But now, for the night… his bed looked cold and empty. As it had for what felt like ages now. 

Dear Gods, Alexios. Return safely. Return to me. Thaletas prayed to the only thing he cared to pray to at this point before putting out the candles in his tent.

-----------

Taglist: (ppl who liked this post get tagged, I don’t make the rules sorry but the pigeons might have to wait a bit)

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[seasonofthegeek]

An Anchor in the Dark, Part 13

A big thanks to everyone who voted on an update!

Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13:

Marinette kissed the black ring on her finger. “Don’t be mad but I’m going to do this again without you,” she whispered and then dropped her hand back to her side and entered the building she’d visited transformed by the ring only a week before. 

She knocked on the door and tried to ignore the way her mouth dried out with anxiety. The short older man she’d met before answered her knock and Marinette pasted on her friendliest smile. “Hello, there. You probably don’t recognize me but we spoke last week. i was hoping that I could ask you a few more questions.” She saw his eyes flick to the ring on her finger before he nodded and opened the door wider.

“I thought you might be back, Black Cat. Please come in.”

She walked through the door and waited until he motioned to the small table before she sat. “Why did you call me Black Cat?”

“That’s the Miraculous you wear.” He gestured at her hand. “Though I believe it must be damaged from the looks of it.”

She frowned down at the ring. “That’s why I’m here actually. Do you know who held this ring before it came to me?”

The older man smiled. “Perhaps we could take a moment for pleasantries before we delve into all of that.” He extended his hand. “I am Wang Fu.”

She shook his hand with the one without the ring and saw him notice the gesture. “Marinette.”

“Would you like some tea, Marinette?”

“I’d really just like to talk about the ring, thanks.” She glanced around the small studio. She’d felt much more confident in the cat suit with Adrien whispering in her ear, but he’d called this a dead end and she didn’t want to believe it.

“Very well.” Fu moved around and began worrying with a small hot plate and kettle. “You asked if I remember the holder of that ring. May I first ask how it came to you?”

“He gave it to me.”

Fu’s eyes sharpened as he turned to look at her. “Who did?”

“The former holder.” She knew she was being vague but she also knew that Fu knew more than he was letting on and she wasn’t going to give up this time. 

“That’s not possible.”

“I believe it’s a very unique situation.”

Fu made his tea with no comment and didn’t speak again until he sat down at the table with Marinette. “I have been the guardian of the Miraculous for many decades now, but there was a time when I believed it safer to stay hidden, even from my charges. During that time, the last Black Cat holder was chosen by one of the other wielders.”

“Chat Noir.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “There was a team formed to take down a rogue Miraculous holder but the final battle boasted great loss on both sides. Chat Noir was pronounced dead, as well as another team member and his Miraculous was never recovered.” He eyed the ring. “Until now.”

Marinette dropped her hand out of sight to rest on her lap. “Was the final battle in the old Agreste mansion?”

He frowned. “No. Is that where you found the ring?” When she didn’t answer, he nodded to himself. “He must’ve taken it then. Perhaps he still had hope that he could fix things.”

“Who?”

“Gabriel Agreste, Adrien’s father.” Fu watched her closely. “Then you know who I’m speaking of.”

“He was the rouge holder, wasn’t he?” Marinette asked as the pieces fell together in her head.

“He was. He left after the battle and wasn’t heard from again until his death. The other Miraculous were brought back to me but the Black Cat and Butterfly have been missing.”

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this when I came to visit you before?”

“Because I couldn’t be sure you could be trusted,” he replied calmly. “It was and is quite possible you are only seeking out the other Miraculous for your own gain and while it is my duty to retrieve and protect each one, the fate of the many is greater than the one.” 

Marinette took a deep breath. “I did come here hoping to find a Miraculous,” she admitted. “But not to keep. In fact, if it is something that could really work, I’d be happy to use it right here in front of you and then return it.”

Fu eyed her warily. “Would you also return the ring to me?”

She covered it with her other hand. “It’s not mine to give back, but I can talk to him once he’s here.”

“Who is that you speak of?”

Marinette ran her thumb along the warm surface of the ring. “Adrien Agreste, the former Chat Noir. He’s...his ghost is trapped in the ring, along with Plagg.” She wasn’t sure if she was making the right move but she had the feeling she was never going to get her hands on the Ladybug Miraculous if she didn’t give a little more information.

“A few months ago, I started sneaking into the old Agreste mansion to do homework and look for inspiration for my art. I met Chat and found out he’s been stuck there since his death but he couldn’t remember anything. He didn’t even know he was Adrien for a long time.” She paused and gave the ring another comforting rub. “When the house was sold, he took me down to the basement where the ring was and said he thought it was what was keeping him there so I put it on and left and thankfully, he came with it.”

Fu glanced around the room. “Is he here with us now?”

“Not exactly. That’s the issue. When I took the ring away from the house, he got stuck in it. The only time I can talk to him is when I’m transformed.”

“Which is why you appeared to me in that form first. I think I’m beginning to understand.”

“Plagg thinks that if I could wield the Ladybug Miraculous while wearing the ring, I could free them both.”

Fu sat back with a deep frown. “Doing so would require great strength and a steadfast will to only free the Black Cat. Using both can create a surplus of power that can be very tempting to any holder.”

“I just want to help him,” Marinette said softly. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“It’s possible that freeing him will set his spirit free to leave this plane of existence. Are you prepared for that?”

The thought of losing Adrien sent a lance of pain through her heart but she nodded. “He deserves to rest after all this time. I want him to be here with me but I can’t be selfish if this is what should happen for him.”

Fu studied her for a long moment before he nodded. “I will help you then.”

Buy me a cherry coke?

[sosthemortalcoil]

KoFi Request: Family Holiday

Another one for the amazing @lychee-days​! Family Holiday Trip! F!Gabriel (Rielle) and Daniel ready to leave for a holiday to Venice~ ft. Uncle Israfel, who is joining, and Lucifer, who uh...decided to tag along

Total wordcount is 2,271. Hope you enjoy! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It would have been far easier to simply slip between planes to get to Venice. Instead you’re stuck in this seemingly endless line, bouncing up and down on your toes. Daniel looks a tad pale, mumbling to himself. Heights had never bothered him, but apparently his first time on an airplane is causing anxiety.

It’s your first time too, and Israfel’s, but telling Daniel that hadn’t helped. All he had said in response is that flying when you can fly under your own power is entirely different from flying when you have no ability to fly.

Finally, the line moves, and you watch as Daniel takes stuff out of your bags. Israfel doesn’t have anything apart from his boarding pass and a fake id you had to beg Sabriel for. She had pointed out that he was perfectly capable of meeting you in Venice, but you had continued to plead until she caved. Not that you were nervous, but having Israfel around always made new experiences feel less frightening.

You bounce through the metal frame, following Daniel and collecting your bags. He had insisted on packing after watching you try the first time. In your defense, packing isn’t a skill angels are taught, and there are a great many rules to follow about what you can and cannot bring.

Your smile dims as you reach the gate and realize that you have yet more waiting to do. It would be so easy to slip planes, you think, narrowing your eyes. Sure, you aren’t supposed to while in your mortal shell, but sitting around and waiting is boring.

Someone calls your name, and you look around in confusion. “Rielle Santos, please report to the flight attendant at the gate.” You twist your hands in front of your chest, wondering what you had done now as you slink up to the attendant. She beams a smile and holds out three tickets.

“Ms. Santos, here are your upgraded tickets.” You blink. Upgraded? You hadn’t—

“We get to fly first-class?” Daniel’s wide-eyed enthusiasm as he pops up over the back of the seat to look at you make you decide that it’s not worth questioning this turn of good-fortune. Maybe Sabriel pulled some strings.

                            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Not too much later, despite how much Daniel complained about the flight being long—even after a decade on earth, most human periods of time feel like little more than blinks of the eye—the plane touches down. It’s not nearly as smooth as your own landings, but you imagine how excited Da Vinci would be to hear that you had flown in a machine at all. He would have loved it, you know.

From the airport, you make your way onto a train that takes you directly into Venice. As you get closer you tune out more of Daniel and Israfel’s banter, lost in old memories. Venice couldn’t have possibly changed that much over the centuries. It should be easy to take Daniel to Leonardo’s old workshop, maybe even the villa where you two had attended a party courtesy of Mona Lisa, though that hadn’t been the name she’d used at the time.

The train station is busy, but with Israfel’s lanky frame leading the way, neither you nor Daniel have problems with the crowd, and with Stephanie’s traveling charms, you’re not worried about pick-pockets or the like.

The three of you emerge into the sunshine, a series of stairs down leading to a canal full of water-taxis and boats. It’s similar in some ways to what you remember—crowds of people crossing canals, boats moving their cargo through the city—and different. But now there’s the noise of electric motors, and the air smells fresher than your remember.

“We’ll go to the hotel and then I’m thinking walk around, tomorrow we’ll go out to Murano and Burano and Torcel—”

You stop mid-sentence, distracted by a spectacle you probably should have noticed first. Dead center of the crowd, perched on a ridiculous amount of luggage, is Lucifer, dressed in a frilled burgundy shirt and black slacks, legs crossed at the ankles, arms thrown wide in welcome, silver hair coiffed in a style that would have been more at home a few centuries ago.

“Welcome to Venice!” he proclaims.

People are congregating around him, taking pictures with their phones. It doesn’t help that all his luggage looks like it came from the same time-period as his hairstyle, heavy wooden trunks covered in delicate carving and paintings, leather straps helping hold them closed. It looks like he’s moving here with the mountain of baggage he’s enthroned on.

“You didn’t say Lucifer was coming along,” Israfel states mildly, arching an eyebrow at you.

“I didn’t know he was,” you reply. Lucifer hops to his feet, claps his hands, and a few burly porters step forward and collect his luggage. One of them approaches you and relieves Daniel and you of your luggage as well, all while you stare at your father.

“Close your mouth dear. Venice hasn’t changed that much and you’ll catch flies standing about gaping like that,” he tells you, drawing you in and kissing each of your cheeks. He repeats the process with Daniel and then Israfel.

“You could have told me!” you exclaim, coming to your senses and throwing your arms around him in a hug.

“It wouldn’t have been much of a surprise if I did,” he points out, sweeping around in a gesture that says he is accustomed to having capes that flair dramatically behind him while doing so. You can practically picture it now.

“Come on, I thought we’d start with a gondola ride.”

“What about our luggage?”

“It’s being taken care of.” Good enough for you. You step into the wooden gondola after Lucifer, turning and offering your hand to Daniel. Daniel stares down at it.

“You’ve been on boats before,” you coax.

“I know. I don’t want to tip it though,” he says, cautiously extending a foot. When he makes contact with the bottom of the boat he grabs your hand and uses it to hop into the boat, causing it to rock slightly.

“See? Not bad at all,” you tell him with a fond smile, mussing his dark curls. You turn to offer help to Israfel, but he’s already in the gondola and folding his long frame onto a wooden bench seat.

“You cheat, Uncle Israfel,” Daniel grumbles, his legs shaking as he attempts to follow suit. It’s more of a controlled collapse, but he makes it onto the seat and not over the side of the boat which you count as a victory. You’d ended up in a canal once; it isn’t an experience you want to repeat even if the water seems cleaner now.

“Hardly. I’ve had lots of practice. Now your grandfather? He cheats,” Israfel points out. You join them sitting down, not looking at your father.

“I use my God-given gifts,” Lucifer proclaims. “I fail to see how that qualifies as cheating.”

Daniel rolls his eyes. “So what are we doing, Grandpa?” he asks, his head turning to and fro, trying to take in everything there is to see, from the flowerpots handing in the windows over the canals to the shops and relics of days past. If he wasn’t as worried about the boat rocking, you’re certain he’d be rushing from side-to-side to get a better look at your surroundings.

“It’s not… cheating,” you say diplomatically. “But you do show-off a lot. Like the first-class tickets and whatever else you have planned.”

“I am an old man. It gives me great happiness to take my daughter and grandchild on vacation and spoil them rotten. And, of course, Israfel. Though I admit I’m surprised there’s no Michael.”

“You know how he is about human stuff,” you say with a small shrug, trying not to look guilty. You had offered, but were relieved when he declined. He’s been better since you started letting him sleep over, but better isn’t good, and this trip is about family, preferably without family squabbles.

“I do,” Lucifer agrees. “And to start with tonight, we can walk around Piazzo San Marco and admire the Basilica’s statues from outside. We can go in tomorrow if you like, or take a private water taxi out to the islands. Those are a must see. Burano is known for lace, and while I don’t use it much in my wardrobe any more, the process of making lace is incredible, as are the different designs. Not to mention the houses there are beautiful, painted a wide variety of vivid colors. It’s quite famous. Now, Murano is home to glass blowing, and the different studios have their own unique sands that they’ve been using for centuries. Now Torcello, that’s…”

You continue to listen with one ear as try to locate where you are. The Rialto bridge makes one landmark, crowded with tourists and vendors hawking their wares. “It’s a pity there’s not a carnival happening. I used to love attending those,” Lucifer continues in the background.

Daniel taps your knee. “What are you thinking about?” he asks softly.

“That it’s been a long time since I’ve walked these streets. Leonardo used to like to get up early, get to the market as people were setting up. He loved to sketch the different people. One time he even bought a bird in a cage to study. He was always doing that; studying. He always had hundreds of questions racing through his mind, and he would hop from one thing to another, trying to answer them all.”

“Are we going to visit where he lived?” he asks, leaning forward in his eagerness.

“If it’s still standing, and not submerged. I—oh, well, this brings back memories.” The gondola pulls into a gated entrance, a palatial estate that you had been to a few times back in the days. There had been guards, then, and banners of the noble family living there, not insignias of the hotel. Lucifer hops dramatically out of the boat, Israfel somehow already on the dock.

Daniel and you exchange a glance. “I fully believe in your capability to get up there without falling in the water,” you tell him with a solemn nod.

“And I believe that I can do better than you, mom,” he says and with a jaunty salute, scrambles up to the dock, sending the gondola rocking before the gondolier steadies it. You follow with more trepidation, but you don’t have any mishaps.

“Check-in and meet back here in twenty minutes?” Lucifer suggests, sweeping through the doors, anticipating their movement. He is a king, making his dramatic entry into his palace.

“Well, this is going to be entertaining,” Israfel comments at your shoulder. You wish he would make noise when he moves. Humans are fragile beings and you’re certain that every time he startles you it shortens the lifespan of your shell.

“It won’t be that bad.”

“True. It’s not like we’re taking the king of Hell into the Vatican or something,” he says, flashing a smile as you wait your turn at the counter.

“Would that be bad for me?”

Daniel’s voice is soft at your side.

Both you and Israfel startle, having thought he was still off peeking at the rich dressings of the lobby from the marble floors to the gold gilded ceiling, with murals and tapestries and statues aplenty between. Ostentatious seemed an inadequate description for the kind of casual display of art and wealth visible here.

“No, honey, oh no,” you rush to assure him. “You’re not evil, Daniel. And consecrated ground really only affects demons and not very well at the higher power levels to be honest. Not unless god or an angel has reinforced the blessings, and while yes, the Vatican is one of the strongest holy sites, it’s not going to affect you.”

“It’s a bit gauche anyways,” Israfel demurs. “And a tragedy to see the statues. I remember when they had color and now they’re bleached white like bones.”

“That’s a bit dark,” Daniel comments, side-eyeing Israfel.

“Such is life,” Israfel responds with a shrug. He stops at his room. “I’d get running shoes on. We are going out with Lucifer.”

“Good point,” you murmur, opening the door to Daniel and yours room. Your father can put small children to shame with his chaotic energy.

Daniel gasps when he sees the large canopy bed, racing ahead and throwing himself onto it with a giggle of pure joy.

“Your bed is in the other room!” You tell him. He gets to his feet, bouncing on them. “Come on, mom. You know you want to jump too!”           

Your resolve lasts a second before you join Daniel, the two of you bouncing around the bed until you collapse, breathless.

Daniel grimaces, and pulls out a scroll from behind him. He tosses it at you. “I guess they’re really into the whole over the top fancy schmancy stuff,” he says.

You cant your head. There’s something about the wax seal that seems familiar to you, but it’s not until you open it and find a familiar scrawl that you feel all the hairs on your body stand up.

Welcome back, Gabriel.

Sincerely,

A friend.  

“Wow!” Daniel takes it from you. “This is legit calligraphy! And it’s—backwards? Wasn’t that da Vinci’s thing?”

“Yes, it was. Backwards and forwards, both hands; he was special. This, however, would be Lisa’s. And yes, I mean the model for Mona Lisa. She says welcome back to Venice.”

“She wasn’t, er, isn’t human?”

“Not in the least.”

You know the look in his eyes, and you laugh. “Let’s go meet your grandfather, and I’ll tell you all about it. Some of the old haunts are probably still kicking around, though we’ll skip any of the water folk.”

Eyes sparkling, Daniel trails after you to the lobby while you start talking about your time as a muse. Israfel chimes in, and when you meet up with Lucifer, he’s quick to add his own tangential anecdotes.  

[the--sad--hatter]

Name Changing (3)

FANDOM - MARVEL MCU, X-MEN, DEADPOOL

PAIRING - BUCKY X READER (female reader, no physical descriptions)

WARNINGS - ALL OF THEM, SMUT, VIOLENCE ANGST

DESCRIPTION -  Sequel to Name Calling

After merging with your bloodthirsty alternate personality things start getting a little dicey. You’ve got two decades worth of anger to sort through, a feral mutation to figure out how to live with, a biological father who you hate trying to teach you control and if your wedding planner suggests teal for the bridesmaids again you might just eat her liver.

Luckily you have Bucky Barnes by your side, helping you figure things out. What Bucky doesn’t know is that you have found an outlet for the uncontrollable rage, one that absolutely nobody can know about. If your friends and family knew that you were out slaughtering people in the dead of night while they slept, they might be a little annoyed. Wade Wilson is happy to keep your secret though, so long as you keep bribing him with Mexican food.

For as long as you could remember, all you had wanted was to be good. Now you’re seeing the temptation in the darkness.

Chapter Three - The Firing Line

“Do you want to bite down on this for me?”

You obliged him, biting down on the leather strap.

“Are you sure about this?” Bruce asked, yet again.

He did this every time, checked you weren’t going to change your mind. You wanted the chaotic disease gone, you’d endure whatever you had to. Even this. You nodded confidently to Banner.

“We’re taking tissue samples from the liver today, Dr. McCoy has a theory about the proteins...”

“gerf onwis hit.” You mumbled.

“Alright, making the first incision now.” He said and carefully sliced your abdomen open with the scalpel.

Ever since you merged with Vernichtung you had finally gained full access to your mutant abilities, including your accelerated healing. That allowed Bruce and Hank to have unlimited access to fresh samples. Bruce would word it a bit nicer but essentially he was loping bits off of you to study and experiment on.

You bit down on the leather strap and tried not to scream or be sick. Accelerated healing from the mutation and the super soldier serum meant knocking you out for the procedures was out of the question but at least he hadn’t decided to cut your heart out today. That had been a ridiculously unpleasant experience. Growing a new one had been worse.

The pain was easy to deal with, pain wasn’t a new experience for you, it was the strange tugging sensation that was making you nauseated. You closed your eyes and went to your happy place in your mind to get through it.

“Do you, James Buchanan Barnes take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do.”

“And do you,...

“I’m finished.” Bruce interrupted your daydream and unstrapped your arms and legs from the table.

Your curiosity got the better of you like it did every time and you peered at the samples he’d taken.

“Wade would lose his mind if he saw this.” You groaned.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Steve stood in the middle of the room, the most horrified expression on his face. You looked up at him innocently.

“We didn't have any plates big enough.” You told him.

“So you used my shield?”

“He can’t eat off of the floor Steve!”

“So you used my shield?”

“I’ll clean it afterward, besides it’s basically a big metal bowl.” You said, shrugging.

Steve couldn’t stop watching in horror as Erlo tore at the raw beef you’d served him in the upturned shield.

“Cap I once saw you use that to bash a mans skull in, quit bitching.” Sam told him.

After the initial fear, Sam had decided that a pet lion was pretty cool and while he still wouldn’t get too close he was being supportive of Erlo’s presence.

“Is that good? Do you want some more?” You asked Erlo.

A wave of satisfaction washed over you from him and you patted him on the head before heading over to get your own breakfast off of Sam.

Sam shoved a piled plate of bacon and pancakes (there were at least 15 pancakes) at you and started the inquisition.

“So he understands English, he responds when you talk to him. But he doesn’t talk back?”

“No, he just sort of lets me feel how he feels.” You explained.

“How did that even happen? What did they do to him?” Sam said with a frown as Steve eventually dragged himself away from the horror show and sat next to you, helping you eat the mountain of food mama Sam had given you.

“Friday’s decrypting the files as we speak, hopefully we’ll find out something useful.” You said.

“Alright. Well on to better subjects... As your best man, I have made a decision.” Sam informed you.

You paused with a forkful of bacon halfway to your mouth and looked at him. He was grinning proudly and Steve squeezed your elbow comfortingly.

“I conferred with your maid of honor and she agreed that she would take the day before the wedding to throw you some sort of girly spa day and I get the hen do!” Sam announced happily.

“Don’t say it.” You warned.

“He’s going to say it.” Steve sighed.

“VEGAS BABY!”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“Miss Stark? The quarterly reports for you.”

“Thanks, put them in that little box over there.” You said dismissively.

“Miss? That’s the paper shredder.”

“Yup.”

The assistant looked utterly perplexed and torn. You took pity on him.

“Alternatively leave them on the desk and go get yourself a coffee, if anyone asks tell them it’s for me.” You told him.

He looked instantly relieved.

“Thanks Miss Stark!” He gushed, dropping the papers on your desk and rushing out before you could change your mind.

You sighed and text Peter.

You: Quarterly reports are a finance thing right?

You: Actually I don’t care, look over them for me?

You: Or alternatively lets blow this popsicle stand and go get a milkshake?

NOT Spiderman: I’m at school???

You: Ok.

You: I’ll pick you up.

NOT Spiderman: NO! I’ll come get a milkshake with you after school. Scan the reports and have Friday check them.

You: I’d be lost without you. You get an extra large milkshake.

NOT Spiderman: Ned’s making me ask if you’ll go to prom with him.

You: Sorry, bad signal. Can’t hear you.

You took Peters advice and scanned the reports.

“Friday, look these over for me?”

“Sure thing, and what exactly am I looking for?” She responded.

You narrowed your eyes at the ceiling.

“I don’t know.” You growled unhappily.

“I’ll check over and discrepancies with past reports and compare them to track the company’s growth and draw up a projection for future reports.” She told you with what you were 100% sure was a sigh.

“Have I told you lately I love you?” You asked.

“Not nearly as often as I deserve.” She deadpanned.

“Set up a daily reminder for me to tell you. Is Erlo doing ok?”

“He is currently in your bedroom eating Sargent Barnes’s shoes.”

“Aww, that’s my passive aggressive boy.” You cooed.

“Your father is asking if you would like to go get pizza for lunch with him.” She passed along.

You looked around at the pile of paperwork you had to get through.

“Absolutely.”  

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“So how’s work?” Tony asked as you bit into your third pizza.

“I’m learning a lot, like for example did you know that flying a quinjet to Chicago to get pizza is increasing our carbon footprint?” You said.

Tony snapped his fingers at you like you’d just come up with a genius idea.

“You are absolutely right, we should invent a cleaner way to power the quinjets.”

“Not what I meant but ok.” You said, laughing at him.

“That’s exactly what you meant. If someone thinks you said something smart, never correct them.” He told you seriously.

“Can I ask you something?” You prodded.

“You just did.”

“Alright, enough with the dad jokes.” You said, chucking a scrunched up napkin at him which he batted away.

“Alright, ask away.” He said.

“Are you trying to groom me to take over the company?”

You’d overheard some people gossiping about it in the office earlier that day and it was weighing on your mind.

“Would it be a bad thing is I was?” He asked.

“I don’t know that I’m a businesswoman, dad. Even if I wanted it, I don’t think I’d be any good at it.” You admitted.

“I’m not trying to get you to take over, no. If I thought you wanted that, that it would make you happy then I would but I can tell it’s not your calling. But you need something. All you do is save people. You don’t even have any hobbies really.”

“That’s not true.” You insisted.

“Your fiancée is a fellow Avenger, your friends are all hero’s or vigilante’s or connected to that life in some way. You need a life Kit Kat, you need something else. You can’t let being an Avenger consume you.” He told you.

You tried to think of something in your life that didn’t come back to the Avengers but you couldn’t. Even your secret hobby of killing people with Wade was about killing bad guys, with a vigilante.

“I don’t know if I can ever do something normal.” You said sadly.

“You can’t. Nothing you do could ever be anything less than extraordinary. But it has to be yours, and just yours. Go traveling, take up painting, go to college, open a book shop. Whatever you want sweetheart, but try and find something. Please?”

“Wait... Is this your way of firing me?”

“I love you but you are literally the worst intern we have ever had. Yes, you’re fired.”

You made a strangled noise of offense.

“Well since I am jobless, I guess lunch is on you.” You said, sulking.

“Leech.”  Tony rolled his eyes at you.

“Hurry up, I have to pick Peter up from school.” You told, getting up and rubbing your full stomach.

“Bossy leech.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“How did your history paper go?” You asked Peter as he slid into the passenger seat.

“I got an A! Thanks for getting Mr Bucky to help me out.” He said, showing you the paper with the big red A on it proudly.

“He just talked your ear off for a few hours, you actually made it into a coherent paper. You earned that A.” You told him seriously.

He looked embarrassed but proud as you pulled out of the school parking lot.

“So I got fired.” You told him casually.

“What? They can’t do that, you’re a Stark. Did you tell your dad? Do you want me to tell him?” Peter asked in a rash, incensed that someone would dare fire you.

“He knows, he was the one who did it. Took me out for a nice lunch, like a last meal.” You sniggered.

Peter looked outraged on your behalf.

“It’s alright Spiderboy, I didn’t fit in there and he knew it. He wants me to go and figure out what I want to do with my life.” You said, sighing.

“Oh. Well, what do you want to do with your life?” Peter asked.

“I’m not sure. I sort of accidentally stumbled into having one at all and I’m not sure what I want to do except save people.”  

“There are other ways to save people that don’t involve punching Nazi’s. There are nurses, firefighters, police officers, caretakers, therapists. Even people like musicians or authors can help people. If you wanna help others you can find ways to do it.” Peter told you.

“Huh.” You hadn’t thought of it like that.

“Just figure out what you’re good at, what you can do well and enjoy.” He said wisely.

You smiled gratefully at him for his advice. He had given you a lot to think about and you mulled it over as you pulled up and parked outside the diner and got out of the car.

“Come on oh wise one, I’ll even get you some fries with your milkshake.” You said, ruffling his hair as he joined you on the sidewalk.

He playfully shoved you and you stumbled and glared at him. He choked back a snort of laughter at your expression.

“Oh you better run.” You snarled.

He took your advice and bolted, laughing loudly as he sprinted down the sidewalk. You grinned and gave him a head start before stalking after your prey.

How hard could it be to catch a spider?

You were too low down on the street to catch sight of the man stood on the roof upwind, watching you with narrowed eyes. He was always careful to make sure you never noticed him, you would never see him coming until he decided it was time and by then it would be far too late. He would stick to the shadows until it was time to rip your life apart.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Peter Parker is one of the characters who gets more of a spotlight in the sequel. What do you think about Tony and Peter's advice?

Weirdish question, remember when Baby Stark was interviewed for a magazine last chapter? What questions would you like to ask her? She might just answer and you could get a mention in the chapter. 

@nerdandproud-86 @harrison-shot-first@thejourneyneverendsx @thelostallycat @inquisitor-selvala@the-corruptor @iovher @kendrawr-kitkat @phoenix-whiskey-tears @the--real--wombat @buckitybarnes@fairislesheets@angieptt @meganjonezzzz @dugan365@fluffeh-kitty@memanda17 @krystallynx @theonelittleone@piscesbarnes@free-as-fishes @tarastudiesalot@captainamericasbeard@dropthepizza346 @jaynnanadrews@likes-to-smell-books@drdorkus @life-wanderer@metalarmlover @animegirlgeeky@jsmith509 @chipilerendi@nerdy-bookworm-1998@ericasabe @gravedollie666@madlykpopfan @l0kisbitch@mywinterwolf@sassysweetstories @life-wanderer @jessieray98@littledeadrottinghood

[nothingeverlost]

Fic: Out of the Ordinary (Penny for your thoughts verse)

I’ve been doing a lot of rereading of fics, and it’s made me want to go back and fill in holes in the timelines.  I thought this was a piece fo the story that I needed to tell.  Timeline wise this is before Belle leaves.

II “Closing time, Gabe.  You’re coming over for dinner tonight and the roast is already in the oven.”  David leaned in the doorway of the office.  

“I don’t remember making dinner plans.”  In fact he’d made the opposite of plans.  Belle was spending the evening with Archie; they’d missed their weekly Doctor Who viewing twice now and planned for a marathon night of pizza and British tv.  There was no reason for him to head home for hours; he could read through his old notes and if he was hungry there was a sandwich in the fridge.

“That’s because Mary Margaret is the one that made the dinner plans.  I’m just the messenger.”  David sat on the corner of the desk, reaching over to close the file folder on top of the pile.  “She says she’s worried we’re working too hard, which is probably true, but really I think it’s the cabin fever talking.  She’s glad to have this time off with Neal but she also misses teaching.”

“Don’t you want to have time just with your wife?  We see each other enough.”  Too much, lately, considering the hours they had been working.

“This is about my wife wanting to see other people.  Not like that,” David admonished before Gabe could made a sarcastic comment.  “If you’re really my friend you’ll come and talk about something other than diapers and whether it’s a real smile or gas.”

“I was going to…”

“Obsess over the case some more, like we haven’t been for weeks now?”  They’d been living the case for weeks now.  It was ugly enough to know what was happening without adding on the fact that the man they’d dubbed Hook had already escaped from them once.  It had taken seven years before he’d reamurged, and already another three women were dead.  They couldn’t let him escape again.  They were close enough that they’d saved his last intended target.  They needed to figure out his next move.  The last body they’d found had belonged to a girl that was barely nineteen.  Gabe couldn’t stop remembering the look in Ursula’s father’s eyes when he learned that she had been found, but too late.

“I don’t suppose your wife would believe that I’m coming down with something and don’t dare see the child, would she?”

“Nope.  Besides it’s your job to hold your godkid once in a while.  And change a diaper, if the timing is right.  Come on, Gold.  Don’t make me pull rank on you.”  David stood as if the decision was already made.  Gabe sighed, knowing there wasn’t anything to be gained from arguing.  David wouldn’t let him stay at work; he was devious, and might even resort to calling Belle.

“Any seniority you have is in name only, Nolan.”  He reached for his jacket, though, and settled for taking a handful of files in his briefcase for later.  He should have time after dinner for some studying, before Belle came home.  Or she might decide to stay at her apartment for the night if she was tired, though that didn’t happen often anymore.

He had to admit, an hour later, that leaving work wasn’t the worst idea.  The smell of pot roast greated him when he arrived just a few minutes before David.  Mary Margaret welcomed him with her usual pleasantness and a hint of relief, and was happy to hand over her burbling son.  In the last five months Gabe had held baby Neal more than he’d held any infant in more than a decade combined.  It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling.  In an unusual show of good timing Neal had decided to sleep through dinner, and the three adults had discussed anything they thought of that didn’t involve murder, rape, or kidnappings.  It was a much more pleasant evening than the one he’d originally planned.

Until the phone call.

“It’s Archie,” Gabe said when Mary Margaret looked like she wanted to say something about ignoring it.  Taking some time away from work was an entirely different than from ignoring a team member’s call, especially when said team member was spending time with his girlfriend.  “If you’re calling for a tiebreaker again I don’t know or care which Master is the best one.”

“I was calling to see if Belle was with you.”  At Archie’s response Gabe’s grin faded.

“I haven’t seen Belle since she left work.  She’s supposed to be with you.”  It had been over two hours since she’d poked her head into his office and teasingly invited him to join her marathon.  She’d known he would say no, just like he knew that it was important for her and Archie to have time on their own to relax and bond.  Two hours; even with traffic and stopping for pizza she should have been home almost an hour ago.  “Are you just now getting there?”

“I knocked a little more than twenty minutes ago but she didn’t answer so I waited in my car.  I called but she’s not picking up.  And I think…”

Gabe took a breath before asking, not sure he wanted the answer.  “What do you think?”

“I think I hear her phone ringing from inside when I call her.  She’s not answering, Gold, and there’s no lights on inside.  She had her phone with her at work today.”  He sounded stressed, which wasn’t uncommon but it also wasn’t usually unfounded.

“I need you to lock the doors of your car.  If you’re not in your car you need to get in it and lock the doors.  I’m at David’s; we’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”  Fifteen minutes was too long.  Five minutes was too long, but there was nothing he could do about it except try and make sure Archie was safe.  “I have to go.”

“Archie’s in trouble?”  David was already pushing back from the table, pausing only long enough to kiss his wife’s head as he paused next to her chair.  

“Belle isn’t home and she’s not answering her phone.”  He didn’t even have to look at his phone to hit the speed-dial button that connected him to her.  Four rings and he was listening to her cheerful voice asking him to leave a message.

“Maybe she stopped at a bookstore on her way home.  You know how she gets when she’s in one of those places.”  David didn’t sound confident, but it was a pretty story that he wished he believed.  “We’re taking my car.”

“I drive faster.”  He had more than a few speeding tickets to his name.  The faster they got to Belle’s the sooner they would know something.  There were too many ideas already in his head of what could have happened. Too many images from past cases.

“And I’m more likely to get us there in one piece.  You can call Graham and Emma.”  David wouldn’t accept an argument and after a moment’s hesitation Gold wasn’t about to offer one.

“Call me when you know anything.  I’ll be awake.”  Neal started fussing, and Mary Margaret scooped up her son as they headed for the door.  “Please be careful.  All of you.”

II

The street was lit up with sirens when they arrived, everything glowing in a familiar but unsettling red and blue.  Two police cars blocked off the road in front of Belle’s apartment. Graham had already arrived, talking to a distraught looking Archie.

“Emma’s inside.”  Graham nodded at the open apartment door.  “No signs of Belle but her phone is here.”

Under other circumstances Gabe might have raised an eyebrow over the fact that both Emma and Graham had arrived when Graham lived over half an hour away.  It didn’t even register that Graham hadn’t been at home when the call had come.  Gabe headed straight for the apartment, where all the lights were blazing now.  He tried not to think that their crime scene was being trampled by the local LEOs.  he tried not to think that it could be a crime scene.  

“Emma, tell us what we know so far.”  The moment they entered the living room David took charge, ignoring the cops for his teammate.

“Her phone was in the kitchen.  Her car is in the underground lot.  She’s been home tonight.  Maybe there’s a chance she went out for a run, or took a Lyft somewhere.”  Emma looked every inch the professional despite the fact that she’d changed into jeans and thrown a blazer over a t-shirt.  It was only when you looked at her eyes that you could see how worried she was.  “We haven’t found her keys yet.”

“She and Archie had plans.  She wouldn’t do that without calling him.”  He hadn’t read many of the books on the bookcases that lined one of the walls of the room, but he’d touched them.  Teased her about finding a few of his own titles there, next to Jane Austen as the organization system made no sense to anyone but Belle.  He’d sat on that couch, napped on it, made love with Belle on it.  The room was intimately familiar and yet it felt alien.  Gabe couldn’t seem to focus on what might be different, what might be a clue.  Without Belle it was all different.

For the first time one of the officers spoke up.  “Is she seeing anyone?  Perhaps she’s with…”

“No.”  The cop was wise enough not to push any further.

“Officer, would you all please canvas the neighbors?  We’ll look inside; Agent French is one of ours.”  David, thankfully, was able to clear the room in just a few minutes.  Gabe walked toward the kitchen.  The phone was still on the counter.  Belle’s phone, standard issue except for the bright blue case that she’d found with a rose on the back.  She’d been home.  There was a u-bake pizza in the fridge; she’d stopped on her way home.  There was no reason for her to leave.  Not unless she wasn’t given a choice.

“Gold?”  Emma was close.  Too close, for him not to notice that she’d approached him.

“All I can see is that she’s not here.”  Not where she belonged.  He gripped the edge of the counter as if it was all that was holding him up.

“No, it’s not.  Look, Gold.  No one but Belle knows this space better than you.   There’s something.  Anything out of the ordinary could help us find her.  And we will find her, I swear we will.”  They both knew it could be a lie.  No one was safe from the monsters, but that was why fairy tales existed.

Gold took a breath and closed his eyes for a moment.  He needed to be better than his best.  He needed to use everything he knew.  He needed to find her.  

“She comes through the back door when she parks in the garage.  Only uses the front when there’s street parking.  The pizza is new, and the wine.  We can use that to work a timeline.”  Everything was so neat, no sign of a struggle.  Of anyone else.  It was just as it should be, except there was no Belle.  “I don’t see her purse, that brown leather one.  You said her keys are missing.”

“I did.  The phone was the only thing that told me she’d been home.  That and the food you said wasn’t here earlier.  There’s not much in the fridge.  No milk or creamer, no leftovers.”  Emma opened the fridge again.  The pizza, wine, and a couple of sodas were the only thing on the top shelf.

“She doesn’t eat here much.”  He’d been working up to asking her to make it permanent.  There was no reason for her to pay rent when all her time not spent on the road was spent at his house.

“Any chance she’s at your place now?  You weren’t there tonight, were you?”  

“Mary Margaret made a roast.  She was about to serve dessert.”  For a moment he let himself believe, but it didn’t make any sense.  “Graham can go check, he knows the security code.”

“David’s sending Archie back to the office.  He can do a check on Belle’s credit cards, trace any calls.  Everyone’s working on this, Gold.  The whole team.”  The touch on his shoulder was light, and rare.  They didn’t touch often, the two of them.  

“Not the whole team.”  Gabe wasn’t even sure that Emma was around to hear him.  It didn’t matter; they were all aware of the void.

“She came through the back door,” he muttered to himself.  He’d come in the front, and hadn’t seen anything.  Reaching into a pocket for one of the gloves he always kept handy he slipped it on and reached for the back door’s handle.  It wasn’t locked.  The porch light, however, was not only off but broken.  Unlike the neighbors and their dim yellow bulbs Belle’s light had been a bright white.  And her lock was difficult for even an expert lockpick.  She was a single woman living alone that was far too aware of what could happen to single women living alone.  She was careful.

The light on his phone wouldn’t be enough to search too far, but it at least lit up her back porch.  There was little to see.  Most of the shattered glass had been kicked aside.  There were no keys, no purse, no Belle.  There was something wet on the middle step.  Not rain, as it was a clear night.  Not from the sprinklers, too far away.  Gabe crouched down and touched the dampness, holding it up to his nose.  The smell of cheap rum was distinct.  His knee gave out and he fell back, his head hitting the wall.  He didn’t notice any pain, and wasn’t granted the temporary reprieve of unconsciousness.

“No.”  Please no, it couldn’t be true.

“Gabe?”  David stood on the porch, the lights from inside the kitchen illuminating half his face.  

“He has her.  Killian Jones has Belle.”  He knew without question that Graham would find his house dark.  That Belle was somewhere darker, colder, farther away.  That she was at the mercy of a man that already had seven dead women to his name.  Archie wouldn’t find anything on her credit cards.  They had stopped Jones from taking a victim, so he had taken one of theirs.

[fyrewrites]

The Fall of the Magic Elves

A Tragedy in one part

Sinmiaran was a Magic Elf. Specifically, he was a high ambassador. He went to other lands with his two faithful guards, Erianwe and Alanwen, but many of the human cities he’d visited had proven risky. Lots of humans wanted him dead for some reason, but he’d never sustained more than a few scrapes when he left. Healing magic was Alanwen’s specialty.

Today was the last day of War Month, so all throughout the land (with the exception of the Magic Isle, of course) humans, dwarves, and Wood Elves were celebrating the coming of Harvest Month.

High Ambassador Sinmiaran and his two guards had just entered the Mountain Kingdom of the Dwarves and were being shown around. It was a very large place indeed. Eventually they reached the place that he would be staying, and the guide dwarf bid him and his guards farewell, and to remember the welcome feast happening in a few hours.

Erianwe and Alanwen kept watch as Sinmiaran inspected the place, and eventually it was time for the welcome feast.

The dwarves kept a good table, and apparently there were other ambassadors here—seven human ambassadors from the seven largest human cities. And all of them had unfortunate history with Sinmiaran.

The dwarves built their kingdom from dark blue stone, carved into various designs. Sinmiaran had been placed in a room decorated with carvings of flowers, which any Wood Elf would be gushing over. Magic Elves were not so brought to tears by such stonework, but Sinmiaran found himself running his fingers over the carvings all the same. How delicate these were, delicate yet strong.

The halls were held up by pillars, and the ceilings were high, even considering that Magic Elves were the tallest of the beings (each one stood at a height of at least six feet and six inches). Impressive wrought iron candle holders hung on silver chains from the vaulted ceilings. It was magnificent… but Sinmiaran wasn’t here to give a report on architecture.

No, Sinmiaran was here to negotiate with the dwarf King. The humans had grown to conquering smaller nations, removing history, culture, and tradition—it was time to put an end to it. The Magic Elves’ Council of Twelve had met with the dwarves’ Twenty High Paragons, and both peoples had agreed on one thing: the humans must be stopped. Sinmiaran was here to make certain that the Magic Elves and the dwarves both gained from the removal of the humans’ conquering abilities, and his mind was one sharpened from years of negotiating, exchanging, and studying. Thus, it was clear that as long as the dwarven king was similar-minded, these negotiations would go well, and both parties would find the outcomes favorable.

Of course, there were matters that needed discussion that did not relate to the human problem, but these were best left for afterward.

Sinmiaran returned his thoughts to the welcome breakfast. Here the dwarves expected him to enjoy himself, and yet he’d let his mind go where it will. As the feast drew to a close, he kept a watchful eye on the human ambassadors. He knew no names, but he knew what cities they served: Silverport, Fenwood, Regis, Milea (taken from the Wood Elves), Ironstone (taken from the dwarves), Goldenhome, and E’asingsong (taken from the faerie folk, which were almost extinct). The E’asingsong ambassador, strangely, seemed to be only half-human.

None of the ambassadors followed him back to the guest quarters, but to make sure they could not enter anyway, he locked the doors with magic. The guards Erianwe and Alanwen had busied themselves while he’d been away, and now the rooms looked quite like home. Instead of dwarf-stone, now stood crystal walls and marble floors, glimmering in the light of lifesalt lamps, orbs of lifesalt rock suspended on adamantine chains. A gold-framed mirror was positioned along one wall of the main room, in front of which rested a dwarf-rock lectern carved with designs of elves. This room also housed bookshelves, dwarf-stone carved and similarly designed. There were two rooms that came off this one: Sinmiaran’s bedchamber, and the guards’. Both possessed a similar design scheme, but in Sinmiaran’s chamber there was an elegant dreamwood desk, on which was a neat stack of reed paper and a crystal pen. The guards’ room was equipped with a place to spar; Erianwe and Alanwen were using it now.

When the guards saw their lord return, Erianwe said, “I’ve observed that dwarf-stone is very easy to mold. It is not so easy to break.”

“Dwarf-stone is a wonderful material,” Sinmiaran agreed. “Now, Erianwe, Alanwen. I trust you remember the seven human ambassadors we spoke with a decade past? They are here, all of them. They seek to weaken the dwarves, no doubt. We must ensure that does not happen.”

“The dwarves have already decided whose side they’re on: ours,” Alanwen said.

“Not so,” Sinmiaran pointed out. “The dwarves merely agree with us. They are not our allies yet, and if we allow the humans to perform their duties, they never shall be.”

“You’re suggesting we… stir the cauldron, so to speak?” Alanwen asked. Sinmiaran nodded. Erianwe wondered, “How are we to do that when we aren’t even sure of the humans’ plan? We must figure that out before we stir this hypothetical cauldron.”

“Indeed,” Sinmiaran said. “And we must stir correctly; with the wrong ingredients, we are bound to create more harm than good.”

Night fell on the world. In the night, a darkness entered the chamber of Sinmiaran, and awaited an opportunity. One was swiftly found. The darkness smiled as it raised its weapon, landing a blow…

Or so it thought.

In truth, Sinmiaran had ten levels of shielding spells covering his body, and three of these shields were broken with this strike. No harm came to the elf, for the damage had been turned back onto the attacker, who cursed their misfortune.

“Damn these elves,” the assailant hissed, then realized their mistake. The glimmering crystal-lamp on the nightstand came aglow, washing the room in a blue light. Sinmiaran examined the intruder.

“Regis, I presume?” Sinmiaran asked at length, once he had identified the mysterious guest. “You attempted to end my days. You could not have simply started a war against my people? War seems to be the only concept you understand.”

“You elves think we are a disgrace,” the ambassador of Regis spat. “I think that your people need to be extinct. You think you’ve stopped me from ruining you, but trust me; you are not where you think you are. Tell me, now, why haven’t your beautiful guards caught me?”

“They must be—” The ambassador stopped him.

“They’re dead, elf,” the human said. “The other ambassadors dealt with them. My job is to deal with you. Think for a moment—is there anything off about this place to you?”

Sinmiaran looked around. The immaculateness, the elven purity. Glass, marble, crystal. But the layout of the room was not like the dwarven one. No, this was—

“How did you obtain the key to this place?” Sinmiaran asked. “How were you able to get past the guardians?”

“During your time away from this little island of yours,” the ambassador said, “I spoke with the war commander. Almost all of your people are imprisoned or dead. You don’t scare us anymore. Now admit it: we have defeated you.”

“What… what have you done to the queen?” Sinmiaran managed to ask. If she had been killed, then there was little hope, as the crystal crown would fall to her son. If he was dead, then the crown would go to….

“Do you want to see her head?” the ambassador asked. He presented the head of the queen of the Magic Elves, Aylwen, and there, atop her head, the crystal crown gleamed, covered in her blood. Sinmiaran took the head, stared into his mother’s dead eyes. He remembered the last words she had said to him before he had set out on his ambassadorial mission: “Keep our people alive, and never falter.” She always had said that. He hadn’t given her any farewells.

“And… the prince?” Sinmiaran queried, cradling the queen’s head in his arms.

“We burned him alive,” the ambassador said. “The only one of your people left alive is you. I thought I could kill you myself, but this is much better. Seeing you at your wits end, on the verge of breaking down. It is better than seeing you die.”

Sinmiaran reached for the crystal crown, hands trembling. As he placed it upon his head, he sniffed. “I—you killed my family, and my people. We… were never prepared for war; you knew this. That is why you attacked, isn’t it, because you knew—you knew that we would not be able to survive it.” He knew not if it was the crown or himself, but he felt… stronger.

“Now, elf,” the ambassador said. “You guessed correctly. But we aren’t done. I will change this elven city into a palace, and you’ll be forced to sit in a cage, watching your precious nation be torn down. I know—”

“No,” Sinmiaran said, grasping a crystal dagger hidden under a pillow. “No. I never once thought I would have to wear this crown, but now it has come to this. You seek an end to my civilization? I am the king of the Magic Elves now, and I will not let you.”

The ambassador shook his head. “How sad. You think you’re a king. And you think I’m alone. Well….” The other six ambassadors charged into the room, but the E’asingsong ambassador had to be dragged in. She seemed reluctant—and she looked strange. Almost as if she was hiding her true self in illusions.

“I thought I’d torture you first, but I see that you have to be killed now,” the Regis ambassador said. “Kill him.”

The ambassadors drew their weapons, turned to face Sinmiaran. But the E’asingsong ambassador did something unusual. She turned her fellows against each other with a spell, grabbed Sinmiaran, and ran through the crystal palace, locking them together in the arch-sapiarch’s chambers.

“I can’t believe I got away with that,” the ambassador gasped, dispelling the illusion spells. She was a Magic Elf—the arch-sapiarch, to be exact. “My king, I apologize for the direct intervention, but there was no other way.”

“I know,” Sinmiaran said. “The question is: how did you?”

“The sapiarchs listened in on the humans’ plans,” arch-sapiarch Cylenn said. “Before the humans could deal with them, they used illusion magic to look like the human soldiers. It was a clever ploy and one I regret not thinking of first. The honor there goes to your mother the queen, may she find peace in the afterlife.”

“Are there any other Magic Elves that yet live?” Sinmiaran asked. Cylenn shook her head.

“When the sapiarchs return, we will clear out the palace. For now, we must wait.”

Hours passed before the sapiarchs appeared, and when they did, Sinmiaran knew that there were few of his people left. Including himself, there were only thirty two.

They planned, and soon they struck at the humans silently and magically, ending their short lived dominance over the Isle.

The sapiarchs put themselves in charge of fixing the population issue, using experimental methods to magically procreate, and the first of the newborns reached maturity in ten days. In a few months, the citizen count was in the hundreds.

King Sinmiaran chose to close the Isle to visitors, traders, and outsiders, and began the arduous process of learning the laws and the ways of ruling. Humans tried to wage war on them many times, and with each conflict, tensions worsened. Sinmiaran had few comforts, but one of them was always nearby: the observatory/arboretum/library, situated at the very top of the palace. Another comfort was Cylenn, whom Sinmiaran had been friends with for quite a while. Sinmiaran had the feeling that Cylenn wanted something more, however, and on the day she asked to be his queen, he accepted without question.

In half a year’s time, King Sinmiaran, Ambassador, and Queen Cylenn, Arch-sapiarch, stood on the grand balcony, overlooking the glimmering city of Crystalspire.

“The gaping wound the humans left in our land is healing well,” Cylenn said. “The sapiarchs report that we have at least five hundred new citizens this month. I’ve assigned them tasks. We still have no army, however.”

“The humans have not attacked in months,” Sinmiaran said. “There is no need for an army yet. The humans are working on conquering the Wood Elves and do not seem to want to continue whittling us down.”

“I pray to the glittering crystal heart that they survive,” Cylenn intoned. “The humans have already destroyed the faeries. If the Wood Elves fall, then the nature of things will be upset.”

“Let us not worry,” Sinmiaran said. “The dwarves are with them; the humans have never bested the dwarves in combat.”

“I would like to go inside,” Cylenn said. “There is a chill in the air.”

“Yes, there is,” Sinmiaran observed, tightening his silk cloak. In the distance, he glimpsed ships. Human ships. “Cylenn?” She looked where he was.

“Twenty ships,” Cylenn counted. “War galleons. This doesn’t bode well.”

A war horn sounded, and a loud voice carried over the water. “Magic Elves! We have arrived to tear your city down, brick by brick, crystal by crystal, elf by elf. We will not stop until you are all dead. Our siege begins at dawn—we give you until then to say goodbye to each other.”

“Sinmiaran,” Cylenn said as both went inside, “if I am to die tomorrow, I do not want to die without… you. If I die, I ask you to slay yourself so that we may be together, forever and always, in the afterlife.”

“We have not yet recited those vows,” Sinmiaran said, “but I will honor them any way. I ask that you do the same if I die; it is only right.”

“I… would like to recite the vows, even if by this point it is superfluous,” Cylenn said. “Meet me in your chambers in an hour. I must alert the sapiarchs.”

The Magic Elves assembled in the armories and took weapons and armor, and the sapiarchs planned out their strategy. Normally that duty would fall to the arch-sapiarch and the ruler, but at present, they were occupied.

By the time dawn came upon the land, Sinmiaran and Cylenn finally left each other’s arms and got ready for war. Cylenn’s face was streaked with tears; she was not ready to die, nor give up everything they had worked so hard to rebuild. But she knew, and Sinmiaran knew, that if they did not win, no one would.

It was a battle of ages. Many died, and overall, the humans were at an advantage—there were far more of them than there were elves.

Finally, Cylenn was killed and, with the last dregs of will in his body, Sinmiaran killed himself as well.

[incoherentbabblings]

Unspoken Promises

Sitting on the car roof waiting for Zatanna to show up, Stephanie became acutely aware of how their leaving home must have looked to the rest of the family, and makes her think about what want from the future, especially after everything had come crashing down in the aftermath of Brother Eye and the Batman of Tomorrow.  Tim for once isn’t thinking too deep about it.  

2,500 words on Tim and Steph cuddles from YJ #5. AO3 Link here!

So for all my doubt about Bendis (He also liked my tweet I sent him thanking him for making TimSteph so cute so like… that gave me a whump of validation right there) I was so over the moon with his interpretation of Tim and Stephanie’s relationship that it actually got me to write fanfiction for the first time in about a decade (ooft).  I am following in the grand DC tradition of what is continuity in that I am writing as if the Bat’s History is all in tact, but YJ and Teen Titans is just what had been established in the New 52.  How does that work? It doesn’t but never mind that I wanted to write mush

Anyway here is Tim I look at my girlfriend as if she hung the stars at night Drake and Stephanie We have 100% ran away from home which means we are 100% eloping which means yes I will marry you no you don’t even have to ask Brown.

There are like…so many references to past and current stories and dialogue in this, as well as my previous babblings on their relationship.  

Anyway, enjoy!!!

He had a habit, she’d noticed, ever since they’d been together, of holding her face. His fingers had always been cold, but dry, and his palm fit neatly along her jawline. He was always soft with her, and she wouldn’t dare have it otherwise.  When she isn’t talking, and he isn’t smiling and humming indulgently at her wittering on, he seemed to be nothing more than quite content to just hold and stare at her. Like the sun is infused in her hair. Like her and her alone is immune to the anti-life equation, like she is life’s meaning. Like she is so precious that she might be gone the next morning.

 Because that did happen once, when she was left to die without him. Does Tim hate me? She had asked Batman. No. Bruce had replied. He adores you. Always has.

Only now with them lying on the bonnet of Tim’s red car, his stare so openly reverent, Stephanie found herself trusting Bruce’s statement to the dying girl with a broken body (and heart).

He’d been taken from her too, violently and so suddenly that she had found herself talking to a clay program of his, so starved for his face and hungry for his advice… Then again Stephanie had heard from other sources that he’d considered throwing what he’d thought was her corpse into a Lazarus Pit, so maybe they were both reliant on the other to act as a guide.

Those Batmen she’d seen, first the one from a future where she was either dead or under what seemed like permanent house arrest (it wasn’t clear), and then one made of corrupt dreams and corrupt computer programs… They were ones she’d silently promised herself that she would reel in within Tim whenever they reared their ugly, twisted heads. She’d remind him, remind them why they wanted to help people. The two of them didn’t know any other way, not anymore.

How stubborn they were that they scraped their way back to each other.

Stephanie soon grew shy being gazed at by Tim and leaned forward.  One hand tightened in his sweater, whilst the other cupped the back of his head. He quickly got the idea and leaned forward, their lips touching briefly for a moment before she readjusted her position, straddling one his legs to get a firm pressure between her own.

Tim’s smile turned cheeky then, and he began to push up into a sitting position.  Stephanie gave a slight grunt, and forced him back down, hand slipping down his top to grip at his hip. She kissed him deeply.

A bird took off near the car, disturbing some fallen leaves on the ground.  It was still warm enough at sunset to not have to wear a coat, and both of them had opted for oversized sweaters, Steph in her customary purple, Tim in his usual green.  They had been travelling for a few weeks now, enough for the new school year to have started, and yet here they both were, several states down, in DC, nowhere near Ivy University in New England.  The thought made Stephanie giggle.

“Now you have to admit it!” She exclaimed, thumping her head down to rest on Tim’s chest, listening to his heart beat.  Solid.  Warm.

Tim meanwhile was looking awfully smug, one arm cradling her shoulders, pressing their already entangled bodies closer, the other arm thrown up behind his head.  His eyes were shut, and he was smirking.

“I don’t have to admit anything.” 

“Admit it!”

“I was raised by Batman, Stephanie,” – and right on que her eyes rolled up to her skull.  Batman Batman Batman – “I am a stubborn master.”

“Admit we ran from home!”

That got him to open his eyes and stare at her once more.  He was indulging her again, she knew, and she let him do so.

“A Batgirl and a Robin told everybody we were going off to college and then we drove the other way.”

“Because we’re in the middle of an investigation into the –”

She interrupted him, whispering the phrase “Nobody knows where we are!” conspiratorially, as if they weren’t sitting outside one of the most heavily monitored buildings in the county.  But sure, they were definitely back in New England, studying at one of the country’s most prestigious universities.

Not that they didn’t leave with the purest intentions, this investigation into timelines and universes…  However neither had the foggiest clue where to start.  Tim had recalled Dick and Bruce talking of Wally, the idea that something or someone been messing with time or memories. To avoid Bruce catching wind of what they were up to, they had asked Black Canary, and Dinah had suggested magic, which had led them to Zatanna.

Tim knew Bruce knew they weren’t at college.  He just didn’t want Bruce to know why.  This trip was partially for him and Steph to be alone.  Properly.  Without Bruce and his weird secrets and mind games. Without the pressure of fighting crime each night with all its mental and physical traumas.

Without Cassandra bursting through their window with takeout after a night of training, catching Steph in her nightshirt and Tim with his pyjama bottoms halfway up his legs. 

It had been going well, as well as could be expected of two seventeen-year olds going on a targetless road trip.  Tim had enough money to his name to keep them going for more than enough time, and Stephanie didn’t want for much regardless. 

Still, this trip had a purpose, and they both hoped that speaking with Zatanna would orient them in the right direction. 

“I’m just saying,” Stephanie continued, now grinning back at Tim’s softening smile “The only thing missing is the circus for us to join.”

It was almost funny how their conversations always came back to their future together.  They were still so young but they always spoke of what their lives would be, could be, five, ten, fifteen years down the line. 

Not that the circus was a serious suggestion, but it made her point all the same.  They had split off from the family back home, deliberately gaining some distance.  They’d not spoken to Bruce since he’d waved them off, hearing that they’d get the official wedding invite ‘any day now’ (any day now had been going on for weeks at this point, both were afraid to enquire for an update).  They’d not heard from Dick in even more time (something was going on with the Titans, on and off the field, but Tim hadn’t chased it).  Damian and Jason were enigmas as usual to them (coming and going as they pleased).  They’d get the odd photo and message sent from Cass and Duke and Barbara, the three of them seemed to be forming a little huddle, but for the most part, it was radio silence.  Maybe Bruce had encouraged it for once.  Leave them alone.  Let them be teenagers.  They can figure it out if they want to do the superhero gig on their own.

Or maybe that was too forgiving of an assumption of Bruce.

The other day Stephanie had been filming Tim being a dweeb, and she had muttered about making their (hypothetical) children watch this so they could be assured that their (hypothetical) father was never once cool ever.  Tim had just laughed and argued that she was just as bad as he, she was only better at covering it up.  He didn’t flush at the mention of children, and he didn’t call out at her statement at all.  It was a quiet assumption between them, the idea of children (plural.  Both had been so lonely growing up they couldn’t bear the thought of repeating their parents’ mistakes).  An unspoken promise never confirmed aloud.

Seventeen years old and they were already thinking of when they’d be thirty five.  Maybe one near (actual?) death experience each made them grip to that future tightly.  They would have it all.  They would help people until there was no longer a need for them to do so anymore, upon which they could bow out, ready to drop the double-faced world they occupied.

It had been temporary for Tim, initially.  He didn’t so much as want to be Robin as he was at the only one who could be Robin. 

It had been temporary for Stephanie, initially.  She couldn’t let her father go on hurting people, and she was at first the only one who knew what weird, over the top schemes he’d managed to cobble together. 

It was supposed to be temporary, for both of them. 

I can make it all work.  I can make a system that can sustain itself… After all that, I can take care of myself.  Take care of us.  I promise.

 And yet that promise he’d made aloud, mere hours before everything had blown up in their faces – literally – had been a rude awakening that their line of work didn’t allow easy early retirements, not truly. 

That was okay though, not today didn’t mean not ever, or at least, that’s what they had both told themselves at night sleeping in assorted cheap hotels.  The receptionists had always given them funny looks, no doubt Tim and Stephanie probably did look like young eloping teenagers.  Tim had surprised Stephanie in his reaction to their expressions, putting his foot down when affirming yes we want a double bed no not twin singles.  When checking out in the morning Tim defiantly left the bed an unmade mess, as if they were a pair of rabbits who couldn’t get enough of each other, as if trying to earn that slightly disapproving look from across the counter. 

She thought maybe he was tired of people giving their opinion on the two of them being together. 

And ultimately, that is what they were wasn’t it?  Teenage sweethearts running away from home.

And to the circus, if that’s what it came down to.

Stephanie’s buzzing phone and Zatanna’s arrival had brought an end to the feeling of joviality.  Stephanie’s thoughts were being torn in two directions.  She couldn’t stand the thought of her father running around doing as he pleased, and she had a sudden sharp stab of fear for her mother, but she had just reaffirmed that she was staying with Tim come hell or high water.  Tim made the decision for her.  He knew she wouldn’t be focused going forward unless she chased down her father, so gave the both of them a three day deadline. 

“You’ll be focused and I’ll have a start.” He stated.  He was dressed in his uniform, looking somehow both dashing and fragile at once.  What he thought he knew had been shaken again, except for the blonde girl standing in front of him.  The one who was looking at him with a slightly befuddled but still endeared smile. 

“I love you Tim Drake.” She said, ignoring for a moment where they were and what he was dressed as. 

There was a beat of silence.  Enough to make Stephanie uncomfortable.  He had usually always been the first to declare it to her.  Now that she had uttered it first, he seemed at a loss on how to respond.  She decided to prompt him, trying not to sound too desperate when she asked:

“Did you hear –?”

“I’m madly in love with you, Steph.”  He blurted out.  His smile widened until he looked overjoyed.  “I was just about to tell you that.  I was going to tell you I was so happy you were in my repressed memories, too, because I didn’t want – ”

A life without you was how he was going to finish his declaration before she threw herself at him, smacking a kiss on his lips, and Tim saw his world go pink for a moment.

He had been relieved that she’d been in those memories.  She had to have been.  She was the only one, for so long, who knew him as both Robin and Tim.  The Teen Titans had asked and asked but he’d always been so reluctant to cave in, whilst part of his fear of leaving the title of Robin would mean losing Bruce and Dick and Barbara, for what possible reason could Tim Drake have to associate with them?  It was different now, he was Bruce’s adopted son, so their connection could not be severed regardless of him wearing a mask or not, and he had opened up to his friends, slowly but surely. 

She was still the person he wanted to be with him every step of the way.  She’s never cared what title he’d held, she’d cared more about the way he held her.  This was his chance though.  She had always been stuck on the fringes of their generation, not having many close friends outside of Gotham.  If his friends and family could become hers… he just wanted her with him every step of the way.  It was selfish of him he knew, but she deserved a better family than the one she’d been born into, and he had the opportunity to give it to her.

She was gripping the front of his uniform tightly, and he was holding her shoulders.  Leaning forward, he put their foreheads together with a gentle thunk.  Still smiling, he reminded her of the three day deadline.

“Two days.” She pushed.

“Promise?” He looked at her, and she smiled guiltily.  How many broken promises had they made to each other?  How many had they kept?  How many had remained unspoken, for fear of them never coming true? 

“I can’t.” Stephanie exhaled unsteadily, her eyes tearing up. 

He didn’t sound disappointed when he responded, “I know.”  He understood.  Better than anyone he understood the danger of promises and oaths. 

For a brief moment she longed for them to forget responsibilities and be utterly selfish.  Run away to the circus like she’s joked.  Confirm every suspicious look those receptionists had given them for the past four weeks.  Leave behind broken families who didn’t know what good communication meant between the lot of them and start a newer better family in its place.  It was a whim that would remain in her head, but she answered the question she would sit and wait for over the next twenty years if need be out loud, as both a promise to Tim and to herself.

“…But I do.”

Tim didn’t say anything more in response, but looked up at her, his forehead still pressed to hers, and breathed a laugh.  He knew what she’d meant when she’s said I do, of course he figured it out, but he also knew to let it remain out of context.  Another unspoken promise. 

They’d be fine.  More than fine.  He would find his friends and he would take care of them.  They’d scraped their way back to each other for a reason. He couldn’t let her, or Conner or Cassie or Bart or any of the others, slide by any longer.

Another unspoken promise. 

[swhurtcomfort]

Fall Apart, Fall Together--- Chapter 6

Beginning   ---  Previous Chapter   ---   A03

------

Naboo is warm in the early spring. The sun rises early and Padmé opens a window to breathe in the smell of warm rain.

The babies are sleeping through the night now—at least, most of the time. Presently Luke had fussed and cried until at least two in the morning, when Anakin had gotten up to take over and sent Padmé to bed. She notices Leia is awake, and still alone in the crib.

“Well, good morning, birthday girl,” Padmé trills, scooping the baby up and twirling around as Leia giggles. Together they make their way to the living room, where Anakin is dead asleep in an armchair with Luke sprawled out on top of him.

Padmé ruffles Anakin’s hair a bit as they walk past into the kitchen. “Daddy’s sleepy,” she says to Leia.

“Dada,” Leia agrees.

Padmé cringes when she sees how many messages are waiting on her work comm, but she’s taking the day off today. Soon they’ll have to talk about her splitting her time between Naboo and Coruscant, but working from home has been alright in the interim.

While Padmé is fixing Leia a bottle, they hear Luke waking up in the living room, followed by an adult-sized groan.

Anakin enters the kitchen with Luke on his hip.

“Good morning, my favorite ladies” he says, giving them each a kiss before setting Luke down on the kitchen floor so he can crawl after a plush toy. “Here, I’ll do that. Do you want to comm Sola, and make sure they’re still coming over later?”

Leia whines to be put down too, and Padmé obliges. They aren’t walking yet, but Leia is getting quite good at shuffling along when she has a low piece of furniture to lean on. Luke’s taking a little longer to get the hang of it, but there’s no hurry. By all accounts, the twins are thriving. A stranger might mistake them for younger than a year, but otherwise no one would be able to tell they’d been preemies.

“When did he fall asleep?” Padmé asks.

“Sometime after me, I think,” Anakin admits.

“Maybe we can get him to nap before the family gets here.”

Anakin snorts skeptically.

It’s to be a quiet gathering – it’s not as if the twins even know what a birthday is anyway. As they get the house ready, Anakin blows up a few balloons (which Leia greatly enjoys) and puts Leia’s hair up in two matching clips (which she absolutely hates, and an hour later he finds one of them stuffed between the couch cushions). Luke is visibly exhausted, and gets cranky whenever he’s not in Padmé’s arms.

After midmorning, Padmé puts Luke to bed, hoping that he will get some rest, but within twenty minutes they hear him start to cry.

Anakin gets there first. “What’s wrong, little man?” he asks. The Force around Luke pulsates not with pain, but frustration.

“Moo,” cries Luke.

“Mommy?” Anakin guesses.

“Moo!” He sounds utterly devastated.

The doorbell rings. He glances at the clock—Sola and the girls shouldn’t be arriving yet, but he hears Padmé moving to answer it so he returns to the crisis at hand.

“C’mere,” Anakin tuts, lifting Luke out of the crib, but the baby pushes back against his chest and demands ‘moo’ again. “It’s alright, sweetheart,” Anakin paces up and down the room once, bouncing a little.

“Anakin,” calls Padmé in a bit of an odd voice.

“Busy,” he calls back, now trying to console Luke with the plush Loth-cat he’d been playing with earlier.

“Moo,” Luke breaks into a fresh peal of sobs.

Neither baby is really communicating with the Force yet, but sometimes Anakin tries. All he gets from the little storm in Luke’s Force signature is a despondent sense of lost, missing.

“Anakin—”

“Padmé, what’s ‘moo’?” he asks down the hall, interrupting. “Have you heard him say that before?”

Padmé appears in the doorway and nearly steps on a beanbag toy on the floor. She picks it up and starts to put it back in the crib, but Luke shoots out a hand towards her.

“Moo!”

Padmé and Anakin both look at the toy, then at each other. Luke whines and reaches further.

“It’s a bantha. Moo,” says Anakin, face splitting into a wide smile.

“What a clever little man,” says Padmé, reuniting the bantha with Luke, who immediately puts its horn into his mouth. “Here, I’ll take him Ani. You should go see who’s here.”

Standing awkwardly by the bannister in the toy-strewn sitting room is the last person Anakin expects.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan clears his throat a little bit.

Anakin doesn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry to turn up unannounced. I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

There’s no judgement in his gaze - as far as Anakin can tell his curiosity is genuine. Anakin doesn’t know how to feel about that. There’s a sense of loss for the life he’d left behind, as well as a dull anger swirling up in him.

“We’re all healthy and happy,” he finally replies.

“I’m glad,” says Obi-Wan quietly.

Padmé shifts Luke on her hip and herds them all to the armchairs in the living room.

“I’ve missed you,” Obi-Wan confesses.

Three responses avail themselves to Anakin’s mind, the first a desperate I miss you too. The more bitter side of him, Oh go kriff yourself with that. The last, which he says out loud as he takes a seat, “I can’t go back.”

Obi-Wan nods his acceptance of that fact. They awkwardly meet each other’s gaze. Anakin still hasn’t decided whether he is angry. Obi-Wan’s shields are a blank wall, but he knows the man well enough to tell that he is conflicted too.

Leia crawls over and tugs on Anakin’s pant leg until he puts her on his lap. Obi-Wan studies them both, a pensive look lingering on his face.

Luke makes eye contact with Obi-Wan and laughs, still clutching Moo to his chest.

“Would you like to hold him?” Padmé offers.

“Ah, no thank you, I don’t exactly…” Obi-Wan shifts uncomfortably in his chair at the thought.

“Come on, Obi-Wan. Say hello.” Anakin’s voice holds a note of teasing.

Obi-Wan looks panicked as Padmé passes Luke over. He supports the baby stiffly as Luke squirms around to get comfortable. With the look on Obi-Wan’s face, you’d think he’d never seen a baby before.

“You’re doing it right,” Padmé assures him with a smile.

“You’re getting so big,” Obi-Wan says to Luke. “It’s someone’s birthday today, is it not?”

“Two someones,” Anakin croons, brushing the hair out of Leia’s face.

Obi-Wan pats Luke’s back a bit awkwardly as the conversation lapses again.

“I resigned from the High Council,” Obi-Wan finally reveals.

“Why?” Padmé asks.

“Depa has been reinstated in my place. The Mind-Healers are quite pleasantly surprised with her recovery.”

“That wasn’t my question,” she presses.

Obi-Wan sighs. “The fall of the Sith raised a lot of uncomfortable questions,” he says. “I wanted time to devote myself to meditating on the war and its consequences, and seek some answers of my own.”

That sounds like a perfectly Obi-Wan thing to do. Padmé glances at Anakin, who’s smiling a little.

“The Jedi were naïve, and vulnerable. Anakin, we ought to have been able to spot Sidious’s influence over you before it all went so wrong.”

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about that part, Obi-Wan,” says Anakin. “But look, when I tipped Master Windu off, it wasn’t because I thought it was my duty or my job or the will of the Force. I was scared of what might happen to you and Padmé if the Sith came to power. I was attached, and I had something to protect.”

“I know,” says Obi-Wan. “The world is changing, and many feel that our Order needs to change with it. There has been a lot of talk about the prevalent analysis of the Jedi Code over past centuries decades, and whether it is…appropriate.”

Padmé and Anakin both try to hide their surprise.

“I only wish we could have had these discussions sooner,” says Obi-Wan slowly. “Perhaps…”

Perhaps you could have stayed.

Anakin shakes his head. He slips his hand into Padmé’s, their fingers intertwining with a supportive squeeze. Padmé knows that Anakin’s decision was a difficult one, but it’s been made. Neither of them want to think about what might have been.

Padmé hopes that Obi-Wan will see what she sees. Anakin loved being a Jedi, loved the idea of saving the galaxy, but the galaxy was always too large and too broken, and he didn’t know how to handle it. Anakin is thriving here, where he can need just a few other people and be needed by them in return.

Leia is getting restless. Anakin brushes the hair out of her face again and smooches the top of her head before he lets her clamber off of his lap.

“I wish my mom could have met them,” he says suddenly. “I just know she would have loved being a grandma.”

Padmé rubs his shoulder supportively.

Luke starts yawning again and snuggles into Obi-Wan’s cloak. Obi-Wan gives his parents a helpless look. “He’s exhausted,” Padmé whispers.

“Is it finally naptime, Luke?” Anakin tuts, and the baby reaches out both arms towards him. Anakin scoops him up.

Obi-Wan follows them down the hall to the bedroom and watches Anakin put Luke down for a nap.

He turns around and sees Obi-Wan smiling. “I never imagined that this would be the path that you chose,” his old master says suddenly. “Maybe I just got Qui-Gon’s plan for you stuck through my head, and if that’s true, I’m sorry. But you seem happy here.”

“I am,” Anakin affirms.

Obi-Wan nods. “You both seem happy.”

A year has gone by with hurt feelings weighing heavily on them both. Some things, it’s too late to change, but perhaps not others.

Obi-Wan retrieves his cloak and starts to put it on.

“Padmé’s sister and her two girls are coming over for cake later,” says Anakin. “Why don’t you stay?”

Obi-Wan shakes his head sadly. “I have business in Jan-gwa this evening, I’m afraid.”

Anakin initiates the embrace, but Obi-Wan returns it wholeheartedly. When they break apart, he leans over to give Padmé a one-armed hug as well.

“It was good to see you, Obi-Wan,” says Padmé.

A year has gone by since Anakin described their lives as being on the edge of a knife—caught between personal crises and a war of deception that scarred the galaxy. But what has been broken is not beyond repair. Anakin was never made to fight the whole galaxy, but his world now revolves around two twin suns. Padmé’s fight has only paused—with her own health recovered, she will soon return to the front lines of the reorganization of the Senate. But whatever that challenge brings, she knows deep in her gut that they are standing now on stable ground.

----

Fin.

[xerxia31]

Not Real

All Katniss Everdeen wanted was to see the one who got away one last time...

My contribution to the Fall 2018 edition of More Stories to Save Lives, in support of Hope for Caroline. Rated T.  Also cross posted to AO3. 

Commander Katniss Everdeen stood in front of Trident Hyperrealism Industries, housed in a glossy candy-coloured glass building that stretched up to the sky, and wondered for the hundredth time what she was doing. This was definitely not her district, not her scene at all. But she’d made a promise, and Katniss always kept her word. Clenching her jaw, she pushed through the doors. Her perfectly polished uniform boots clicked on the slick marble flooring, echoing through the massive, opulent lobby. Vases of tropical blooms perfumed the carefully climate-controlled air, contributing to the feeling of decadence. Everything about the space, the building, the whole damned city, was an affront to Katniss. It was all too shiny, too gaudy, too fake.

Though she was on Earth, her planet, the Capitol was as different from her home in District Twelve as any of the outer rim planets she’d visited in her two plus years in command of the starship Mockingjay had been. Foreign and loud and filled with people who had more in common with exotic birds than with Katniss herself, the Capitol might as well be in the delta quadrant instead of nestled in the Rockies only a fifteen second teleport from home.

Katniss shook her head. She had to stop thinking that way. The Capitol was her home now. District Twelve was no more than a memory. She made her way to the reception desk, gave her name, and was directed to an elevator bank, a charmingly old school feature of an otherwise thoroughly modern building. The four-floor ascent in a mirrored box took longer than transporting to the building from her quarters on the outskirts of the Capitol. It reminded her of - no. She wouldn’t think of that place or that time. Not now. Not yet, anyway. A man of extraordinary beauty stood to greet her as soon as the elevator doors opened. Tall, athletic, with golden skin, bronze-colored hair, his incredible sea-green eyes twinkled as he reached out to shake her hand. He couldn’t be real, she thought. He must be one of the simulations that Trident Industries was famous for. The reason she was there, though she wouldn’t have admitted that to anyone else. “Welcome, Commander,” the man said, his voice deep and rich, flowing like melted chocolate. She couldn’t help but be impressed. The simulations she’d encountered in her years of training at the academy had been jerky, somewhat robotic, obviously fake. This, on the other hand, was incredibly convincing. He reached out to shake Katniss’s hand and she was startled by how solid he felt. As if reading her mind, he chuckled. “Finnick Odair,” he said. “Owner of Trident Hyperrealism Industries, at your service.” “You’re real?” she blurted, years of studying diplomacy forgotten in an instant. But he merely smiled, unaffected, perhaps unsurprised by her question. “I am indeed, and I’m here to make all of your fantasies come true.” It was that comment, delivered in a slightly smarmy way, that broke the spell for Katniss. She couldn’t argue that Finnick wasn't one of the most stunning, sensuous people on the planet. But she could honestly say he wasn’t attractive to her. Maybe he was too pretty. Maybe he was too easy to get, or maybe it was really that he'd just be too easy to lose. Katniss was somewhat of a specialist in losing people. “Mr. Odair,” she said, pulling her hand from his grip. “Your assistant told me you’d be able to design a package to suit my requirements.” “Of course,” he said, gesturing towards a small red loveseat, then settling himself across from her. “Trident Hyperrealism Industries is known across the galaxy for our fully immersive simulations that allow you to visit anywhere in the universe and have the perfect vacation experience. No transport ships, no bad weather, no bad service, nothing but pleasure at any of our four hundred and seventy-six thousand pre-programmed destinations.” He glanced at Katniss’s Star Alliance uniform. “Though perhaps it isn’t travel you’re looking for?” “No,” she admitted. “I’ve been to all of the planets I care to visit and then some.” When Katniss signed up to captain a two-year diplomatic tour, she’d anticipated seeing strange new worlds and meeting fascinating new beings. Instead, she did nothing but work and sleep for twenty-eight long months. Her small crew was hardly sufficient to keep the ship running and she’d pulled double, sometimes triple shifts to ensure that everything got done and that her people were sufficiently rested and taken care of. Every minute of each highly anticipated planetary landing was filled with duty and obligation. Though she’d been to Rigel Seven, she’d never gotten to see its twin moons. On Juno, she’d only glimpsed the legendary Tower of Inysis from the window of a transport. During her last excursion, to tiny Bacchus Minor, she hadn’t even set foot on the ground, her meetings and resupply mission having taken place on a satellite orbiting the pretty jewel-green planet. Adrift in the cosmos, Katniss struggled with the isolation of life on a starship, the exhaustion, the loneliness.There was no glamour, no adventure. And while there was definitely satisfaction in a job well done, it was hollow when she had no one to share it with. Her few hours not occupied with work she had spent alone in her bunk, staring at the ceiling, remembering. Regretting. So after her tour, she’d resigned her commission and accepted a teaching position at the Alliance Academy. She was due to begin work in just two weeks time. And though it would undoubtedly make more sense to be spending her first week back on Earth exploring or setting up her new quarters, she was sitting on a candy-coloured couch in a candy-coloured office, chatting with a candy-sweet man who made her teeth hurt and her skin crawl. “Ah,” Finnick said, and a wide smile showed every perfect, sparkling tooth. “So you are looking for a more personal experience.” “I was told that you could arrange for me to see someone. Or, to see a simulation of someone,” she mumbled, and Finnick nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, yes. We have simulations of a wide variety of the most popular beings from history, all impeccably programmed with perfectly rendered with historically accurate voice and speech patterns, reactions and abilities. You absolutely will not be able to tell that the person you’re speaking with isn’t the real deal, guaranteed! You can spend time with Elvis Presley, Alabaster Harrington or Henry Cavill,” Finnick said, listing several sex symbols of the past two centuries. Katniss frowned. “Or,” he hedged, “Maybe you’re looking for a more intellectual experience? Maybe Stephen Hawking or Albert Einstein is more your speed?” “No,” she said. “I want to see someone contemporary. Someone who is, uh, still alive.” “Of course,” he said. “Caesar Flickerman is a popular choice.” Katniss recoiled. Caesar Flickerman had to be over a hundred years old. He had been performing on entertainment broadcasts for as long as anyone could remember; his appearance - white face paint, blue lips, and brightly dyed wigs - virtually unchanged in all of that time. “I didn’t know he was even still around,” Katniss mumbled, suppressing another shudder. “But no. The person I’d like to see isn’t famous.” “I see,” Finnick smirked. “A custom simulation.” “Yes. Will that be a problem?” “No, no of course not. We are quite capable of fulfilling all of our customers’ special requirements. As long as he has a digital record, I can produce a simulation so perfect, it would convince his mother.” The slick grin was back in place. “How did you know he’s a he?” Katniss asked. “I’ve been doing this a long time, Commander. And I can assure you that all of our simulations are fully functional, solid, firm, and programmed with a full library of skills.” It took Katniss two, perhaps three beats to understand the subtext of Finnick’s words. Fire raced up her throat, painted her cheeks. “Mr. Odair,” she said tightly, “I am in no way looking for some sick sexual fantasy.” “Of course not,” he soothed, but his lecherous expression was unchanged. “But what happens in the simulators is none of my business, so long as your expectations are fulfilled.” Katniss’s attention drifted as Finnick outlined the specifications of the program, the cost, the amount of time she would have in the simulator, and what she could expect in terms of realism. Her mind wandered, as it often did, to the man she had spent two and a half years missing with every fibre of her being, to the things she’d said the last time she’d seen him. To the things she wanted, needed, so desperately to tell him now, even if it was only pretend. “And where would you like this encounter to be?” Finnick asked, the smarmy tone creeping back into his voice, catching her attention again. “Your quarters?” “It doesn’t matter,” she sighed. “Your lobby, the sidewalk out front, the virtual location won’t make any difference.” “Surely you’d like something comfortable and private. A hotel? A Turkludiaan den, perhaps?” He was all but sneering; clearly he’d made up his mind that she was some sort of sexual pervert looking to get busy with a stranger on whom she had a crush. But he was dead wrong. Not about the crush part, but about the rest. She wasn’t looking to screw a make-believe stranger. She wanted to see the love of her life. To tell him she was sorry. “It’s not like that,” she snapped, half-rising, and his eyes widened, hands lifting in supplication. She deflated, sinking back into her seat and dropping her head into her hands. Katniss sighed. Every rational thought screamed at her to simply leave. She’d known all along that this was a bad idea. But after twenty-eight months of what was essentially a self-imposed exile, twenty-eight months of not having taken a single shore leave, a single vacation, even a single day off, she was at a breaking point. And it was obvious to everyone around her. Even her cousin, Gale, had noted Katniss’s sadness during their weekly video chats. She was tired and worn out, and Gale was worried enough that he’d threatened to come home from school on planet Spectra to take care of her. Katniss couldn’t allow that. Gale was settled on Spectra and was a model student, hardworking, brilliant. Allowing her own heartbreak and stupidity to compromise his future was unacceptable.

So when Gale, who was frugal to the point of being cheap, sent her a Trident Industries gift card two days ago, just before she’d disembarked from the Mockingjay and walked away from her life on the starship, Katniss had promised to actually use it. “Take a virtual vacation,” he’d insisted. She’d tried to tell him she was fine, needed nothing, but Gale knew her too well. “Live a little,” he’d begged, silver eyes shining in the video relay. “You deserve this, after everything.”

“I just want to see someone I used to know,” she murmured to Finnick, staring at her shiny boots. “One last time.” “Someone you can’t speak with in person.” It wasn’t a question, not really, and the soft tone caught Katniss off guard. She glanced up. The leering, lecherous salesman was gone. In his place was just Finnick Odair, still incredibly gorgeous, but with a kind, compassionate expression instead of a dazzling smile. It made him seem more human somehow. More real. “Right.” “I can do that. I’ll need to access his public records, to ensure the simulation reacts as closely to how he would really act as possible.” “I don’t know where he is now,” she admitted. “He was a student at the Alliance Academy, up until a few years ago. Last I heard, he was teaching at the Panem School of Fine Arts.” Finnick nodded. “That will help. There should be plenty of biometrics available. What’s his name?” o-o-o Katniss talked herself into and out of showing up at Trident a dozen times, but in the end her frugal nature won out. Fifty-five hundred credits was a terrible amount to waste, even if they weren’t her credits to begin with. She berated herself as she got ready, brushing out her long black hair and agonizing over what to wear. It was a simulation. It wasn’t going to care what she looked like! She could have - should have - shown up wearing anything; her uniform, her old hunting clothes, even pyjamas. And yet she pulled from her closet a dress that she hadn’t worn for more than two years, a pretty orange frock patterned with autumn leaves. It had been his favourite, another lifetime ago. The building was just as garish as it had been her first visit, but this time Finnick Odair wasn’t there to greet her. A beautiful young woman with an ethereal calmness led Katniss down a long white corridor to a set of imposing silver doors. “Everything has been programmed to your specifications,” she said softly. “The simulation is completely self-sustaining, you don’t have to do anything. But if for any reason you need to exit before the completion of the program, the computer will respond to your commands.” Katniss nodded. She’d studied engineering at the academy before being hand picked for the command program. And while this simulator was leagues ahead of the simple holodecks she was accustomed to, she understood the fundamentals. “Thank you,” she said, but remained motionless outside the closed doors long after the young woman had walked away. Finally she shook aside the lethargy and doubt and entered the simulator. And then gasped. Katniss knew this place, knew every bench, every rock, every flower. She’d spent the past two years seeing this place every time she closed her eyes. The gardens on the rooftop of the academy training centre. Out of every possible place in the universe, how had Finnick Odair chosen this? There was no way he could he possibly have guessed how much this place had meant to her. Had meant to them. It was almost enough to send her running back out of the simulator, down the corridor, back to her spartan grey quarters at the academy. Back to her spartan grey life. But Katniss Everdeen was done running. She stepped cautiously forward, barely hearing the soft snick of the simulator doors closing behind her, immersing her completely in the illusion. She wandered the garden paths slowly, reverently, mouth agape. It was incredible, every detail exactly as she remembered it. She reached out to stroke the glossy green leaves of a hanging vine where it twisted around a pergola. It felt exactly like the vines she’d practiced tying into knots during one of her last visits to the real rooftop gardens. Apple trees perfumed the air. Their gnarled branches just like the ones they’d climbed with abandon during their academy years, playing catch with the sweet fruit. Even the wind chimes tinkling above a lush flower garden were exactly as she remembered them, their gentle chords the soundtrack by which a quiet young woman and a kind young man had made love all those years ago. “Katniss?” She turned slowly at the voice she knew better than her own, the voice of her heart. He was standing perhaps a dozen steps away, an old-fashioned wicker picnic basket in hand, the artificial sun filtering through his ashy curls, crowning him in gold. Peeta Mellark. He was smiling softly, the smile that had always made her feel like the most important person in the universe. As if she could have forgotten how gorgeous he was, how strong and broad and solid. He set the basket down and took a few steps towards her, his grin unwavering. She marvelled at how life-like he was, every detail utterly perfect from his golden eyelashes, so long they brushed his cheeks with each blink, all the way down to the double knots that secured his shoes. It was as if she’d been transported back in time, to those days more than two years ago when life had been perfect, when she’d been happy and loved. All of her pent-up longing overflowed, and she let herself just for the moment forget that it wasn’t real, that it wasn’t really Peeta standing before her, and with a little laugh jumped into his arms. He caught her and spun her around, the arms encircling her just as warm and strong as she remembered. A thousand moments surged through her, all the times those arms were her only refuge from the world. Perhaps not fully appreciated then, but so sweet in memory, and now gone forever. As if reading her mind, he pulled her in close and buried his face in her hair. Warmth radiated from the spot where his lips just touched her neck, slowly spreading through the rest of her body, enveloping her in comfort. It felt so good, so impossibly good, that she knew she would not be the first to let go. “Still the most beautiful woman in the galaxy,” he murmured, and Katniss laughed, a pained little sound stained with longing and regret. The real Peeta wouldn’t be so kind, she thought. He’d still be angry, and he should be. She’d hurt him terribly. But when the simulated Peeta pulled back, he was smiling at her as if she were more radiant than the sun. “Peeta,” she started, but he laid a gentle finger across her lips, halting the apologies that yearned to trip from her tongue. “Shhh,” he said. “We have time. Let’s relax first. Have a bite to eat.” Peeta led her down one of the sun-dappled paths to a patch of grass right at the edge of the rooftop. She wrapped her hands around the railing and looked out over the edge, where the sun hit the glossy buildings spread before them, making them twinkle like a vast field of fireflies stretching to the horizon. He moved to stand behind her, his warmth against her back. “I’d almost forgotten how pretty it is up here,” she murmured. His puff of laughter teased the shell of her ear, made her shiver. “That’s my line,” he said, amusement colouring his voice. “And you always insisted that it’s not as pretty as our woods.” He wrapped an arm around her collar bones, pulling her back against his broad chest. She smiled, leaning into him, letting herself truly live in the memory made real. Eventually, he led them away from the railing, to where he’d lain a blanket over the soft artificial grass. When he opened the basket and started to pull out the food it held, she laughed with true delight and his grin widened. Inside was a feast — fresh rolls, goat cheese, apples, reminiscent of all of the picnics they’d shared in these gardens over their years together. “And the pièce de resistance,” he said almost shyly, lifting a tureen that she was certain contained lamb stew on wild rice. The very dish she had always said was the most impressive thing the Capitol had to offer. She sobered. “You have a remarkable memory,” she said haltingly, regret again flaring in her gut. “I remember everything about you,” Peeta said, tucking a loose strand of soft ebony hair behind her ear. “You’re the one who wasn’t paying attention.” “I am now,” she whispered. “Well, I don’t have much competition here,” he chuckled, self-effacing as always. He never had any competition anywhere, she wanted to say. But she didn’t, because it wasn’t true. He’d always been in competition with her drive, her ambition. It’s why she’d lost him. They sat together in the computer-generated sunshine of an unnaturally perfect day. Peeta fed her bites of bread, slathered in goat cheese and topped with apple slices and they reminisced; about their childhood in District Twelve where they knew each other only by sight, about the friendship that bloomed between them when they found themselves the only two children reaped from their district to join the Star Alliance academy, plucked from their impoverished obscurity and dropped into the garish Capitol to train for the elite star force. A friendship that grew so much deeper when only a couple of years into training, a rogue asteroid destroyed their home district in a hail of fire, leaving them both orphaned and alone with only each other to count on. When the food had been consumed, and the remnants tucked away, Katniss took a deep breath. She’d arranged this simulation for a purpose, there were things she needed to say. “I’m sorry,” she said, and his soft smile fell. “No,” he started, but she wouldn’t let him finish. She knew he’d simply absolve her, the simulation was behaving exactly as Peeta had before she’d left him, kind and forgiving and always putting her needs before his own. “It’s not okay, Peeta,” she said, her voice low but steady. “It never was. I was wrong. I shouldn’t have left. Not without fixing things between us.” She thought back to when she’d been offered the command of her own starship, years ahead of when most young officers were picked to head up missions. It was so unexpected, had flown completely in the face of their plans. They’d always intended on being commissioned together. She would cut her teeth serving under whatever commander headed up Peeta’s first intergalactic diplomatic mission. His talented silver tongue, his ability to paint pictures with words were abilities that made him a star at the academy. They both knew he would ascend the ranks fastest. But he didn’t. She did. And flush with pride, she’d gone to him, excitement about her accomplishment colouring her every word, every thought. He’d been calm, rational, reminding her of their plans, their future. She’d been angry defensive, afraid to listen to anything that could have jeopardized her independence. Unforgivably, she’d accused him of not supporting her dreams. Peeta, who had been her biggest supporter forever. Even as she’d said the words, she’d known they were untrue. But each one flew from her lips like arrows, each hitting her target, piercing him deeply.

The fight had been awful. She’d said so many terrible things, and he’d responded with stony silence. Angry, frustrated, overwhelmed, she’d run. Left him standing on the lawn of the academy stooped in defeat, the waning sun glowing against his dress whites. That image was burned into her retinas, into her heart, and had haunted her for the past two and a half years. She hadn’t seen or spoken to him since. The anger she’d clung to like a shield only lasted so long, replaced quickly by regret. She’d tried looking him up in the database, but he’d left the academy almost as soon as she’d boarded that damned ship, moved on to a new life that didn’t include her. So she moved on too, threw herself into her work, tried not to think about him, about what he might be doing, who he might be loving. Peeta listened, the slight breeze tossing his curls as he sat on the blanket, their knees just touching, the warmth of his presence giving her the strength to say everything she needed to say. He never once interrupted as she poured out her heart in a way she couldn’t have with the real Peeta, the one who had been so angry he’d blocked her access to his communicator, who probably hated her. This Peeta listened attentively as she told him about her years in space. As she confessed to having thought about him every single day. “I knew I could survive without you,” she said. “But it’s a terrible, lonely life.” “Enough,” he said finally, pulling her into his arms, kissing the top of her head. “I’m to blame too. I shut down, cut you out of my life. If I had stopped being so wounded I would have remembered that our relationship was so much more important than my hurt and jealousy.” Katniss whimpered, burying her face in his shirt, enveloped in his scent. She’d loved him, had always loved him, and yet when she’d walked away that awful day, he’d let her go. When he hadn’t contacted her even once those months before her ship left, she’d simply sealed off her heart. Years of friendship, of passion, of love, were walled up, destroyed, and tossed aside like so much trash. Commander Everdeen needed no one. But she’d been lying to herself. That’s why she was here, on a rooftop, tucked into the embrace of a fake version of the only man she’d ever truly loved instead of virtually touring the lavender sand beaches of Astrazaria. She knew she’d never be able to move on without saying it out loud, without telling at least some version of Peeta she was sorry for all of it, even if he’d never actually hear the words. “Do you forgive me?” she whispered, more for herself than for the illusion of him. His arms tightened. “Yes,” he said. “Can you forgive me?” She nodded against his collar. She’d forgiven the real Peeta’s tiny part in their break up years ago. The sun slid lower in the sky as they clung to each other, soft sighs and gentle caresses speaking of regret, but also contentment. Streaks of pink and gold kissed the horizon, reminding her that their time was almost done. That all too soon, she’d be alone again. The dream, her fantasy, would be over. But she’d accomplished what she’d set out to do. She’d told him, and in doing so had freed him from where she’d caged up all of her happy memories. Now maybe she could start to heal. “Ah Kitten,” he murmured, and she froze. Kitten was the pet name Peeta had used when they were intimate, never any other time, and certainly never where anyone else could ever have heard him. How on earth had that gotten into the simulation? It was their secret, something that was only for them. She could feel his soft exhale against her temple. “I miss you so much.” His voice cracked, just a little, and her heart shattered. It was too much, his arms, his voice, his words. It hurt too much. This wasn’t going to help her get over him. “I can’t do this,” she mumbled, tears stinging. She wouldn’t let them fall though, she’d never once cried in front of the real Peeta, not even when she’d left him behind two years ago. She sure as hell wasn’t going to cry in front of this simulation, however real he might feel. His expression when she pulled away and scrambled to her feet nearly gutted her, the confusion, the fear. She turned away, couldn't bear to watch. “Computer,” she barked, listening for the acknowledging beep. Behind her, Peeta gasped. “Katniss?” he rasped. She couldn’t do this anymore, she missed him too much. She was a fool to think that anything could ever heal the Peeta-shaped hole in her heart. This had only made things worse, only made her confront how badly she’d screwed up. How much she still loved him. “End simulation,” she whispered. In the blink of an eye, it all vanished. The rooftop, the gardens, the tinkling wind chimes, all of it disappeared, leaving behind just the bare grey walls. “What the--” a voice from behind her. Katniss whirled. Inexplicably, the simulation of Peeta was still there, staring at her, wide-eyed. “Oh my god,” he whispered. “End simulation!” she yelled, but he didn't so much as flicker. “Shit,” she hissed. What the hell was wrong with this computer? She spun and marched towards the sleek panel on the wall. She'd have to override it herself. Behind her, he kept murmuring her name. And she tried, desperately, to ignore the pleading, disbelieving tone of his voice. He sounded like he had when she'd told him she was leaving. When she had broken both of their hearts. She was trying to manually key in a set of commands when his hands fell on her shoulders, so warm and solid that it made her tremble. This was not supposed to be happening. Finnick promised she could end this at any time. Was it her own desperate need for him holding his avatar there, manifesting him with the force of her desire? “Katniss,” he whispered again, and she felt his warm breath caress her ear. Then he was turning her to face him, and she didn’t resist. Blue eyes roamed her face, as if searching for something crucial. His hands, those hands, so perfectly rendered, long-fingered and elegant, rubbed up and down her arms, shoulders to elbows. Then he smiled, a confused, bewildered little half smile. “You’re real,” he whispered. “Holy shit.” Katniss rolled her eyes, she couldn’t help it. Of course she was real, and this simulation was a little too sentient, it was starting to alarm her. But then he was laughing, he was laughing and pulling her into a tight embrace. “It’s really you,” he choked, laughter mixing with something much more poignant. “I don't know what kind of sick game you're playing, Odair,” she mumbled, voice muffled against Peeta’s shoulder. She knew she needed to push away from the simulation, but surrounded by his warmth, by his clean, spicy scent, his big hand cupping the back of her head in that familiar way he always had, she just couldn't. His chest shook as another bout of rich laughter rumbled from his chest. “I thought you were a simulation,” he said once his laughter had calmed. “But it’s really you. You’re really here.” He pulled back enough to see her face, his eyes twinkling with excitement. Her brows furrowed. “You thought…” Katniss trailed off as finally the pieces clicked into place in her mind. “You bought a fantasy from Trident?” Was that possible, that he’d been thinking the same way she had, feeling the same regrets, the same need to set things right, however pretend the setting? Or had Finnick Odair somehow arranged this, convinced him to show up, to pretend to be a simulation? Her head spun.

But Peeta nodded. “I paid 6 000 credits to relive the best day of my life,” he said, and his words made her stomach flutter, a tide of hope rising. “You did too.” It wasn’t a question, exactly, but there was a hopeful lilt to his voice. She shrugged helplessly. “You’re really here.” He cupped her cheek in one huge hand, his thumb stroking her cheek. “I just got back to Earth six days ago,” she whispered “I thought I’d never see you again,” he admitted. “Are you disappointed? That it’s really me?” She squirmed with embarrassment; It had been one thing to bare her soul to an empty room. Knowing it had really been Peeta, her Peeta, was horrifying. She fought with her emotions, elation at seeing him again when she’d thought it would never happen and terror that he hadn’t meant the things he’d said, had only been playing a role. “You were so angry when I left.” “God no,” he said, pulling her against him again, his joy palpable. She didn’t resist in the least, wrapping her arms around his waist, her heart overwhelmed by the knowledge that he was here, flesh and blood and Peeta. He was here and he was holding her, like he once had. Like he did in her dreams. Her smile was so wide, he must have been able to feel it against his shirt, but she didn’t care. “I was hurt, and scared, and more than a little selfish,” he admitted. “But I meant every word I said in here, Kitten. I’ve missed you so much. I wanted to see you again so bad.”

“Me too,” she whispered. His soft lips brushed across her temple and he sighed, a contented little sound that she had missed so much. “How long are you staying?” he asked. “For good.” She tipped her head up to meet his confused gaze. “I’m home. I resigned my command and took a job teaching at the academy.” The joy that split his handsome face was almost heartbreaking in its beauty, before he schooled his features into a more cautious optimism. “What does that mean? For… for us?” There was no ‘us’ as far as Katniss knew. She’d come here to get over Peeta, to finally be able to move on after years stuck in limbo. But she finally realized that was the fantasy, that was the ‘not real’. She could never get over him. And she didn’t want to. “That depends on what you want, I guess.” She had been so busy spilling the contents of her soul that she hadn’t asked him about his own life. For all she knew, he had a wife and a dozen gorgeous blond babies waiting at home. The very idea was a like a spear through her heart. “I want you,” he said, serious and solemn. “I’ve wanted you since we were five years old, back in Twelve. I’ve never stopped. And I never will.” He leaned in to kiss her, to really kiss her, and the tears she’d spent forever holding back trickled down her cheeks.

“I love you,” she murmured, the words maybe too soon and yet also far too late. He picked her up and spun her again, laughing as he kissed his own loving declarations into her skin, every word and every caress a healing balm. “Let’s get out of here,” she said when they broke apart, breathless and flushed. “Are you sure?” He waggled his eyebrows, voice brimming with mirth. “We could relaunch the simulator to one of Finnick’s fantasy programs. How about a Pfflachlin coital suite?” Katniss laughed, really laughed, her joy overflowing. “No,” she said between giggles. “No more fantasies. I want real.”

[welcometothepenumbra]

JUNO STEEL AND THE TRAIN FROM NOWHERE (PART ONE)

SOUND: DOOR OPENS, BELL RINGS, RAIN.

MUSIC: STARTS.

CONCIERGE: Ah, good evening, Traveler! Welcome to The Penumbra.

SOUND: KEYS JINGLING.

Detective Steel’s been known to keep odd company, but even by his standards his guest this week is… unexpected. On this job he’s agreed to work with Peter Nureyev, the master thief who’s betrayed him once in the past, and about whom Detective Steel holds very, let us say, volatile feelings.

But our detective has no choice, I’m afraid. There’s an even more dangerous criminal on the prowl, a woman with her eye on a very special train, and the ancient weapon that lies within it.

SOUND: THREE KNOCKS. CARDS SHUFFLING, BELL RINGING.

What luck! It sounds like he’s in. Come, Traveler. Come with me into room J-16.

SOUND: DOOR CREAKING OPEN.

Juno Steel and the Train From Nowhere.

ALL SOUNDS: FADE OUT.

***

SOUND: WIND BLOWING.

JUNO: We don’t have time for this, Nureyev.

NUREYEV: Hm.

JUNO: You said yourself we’re under the gun. As soon as your boss finds out what we’re up to, we’re sunk.

NUREYEV: Correct.

JUNO: Mind explaining why we’ve been parked in the desert for half an hour, then?

NUREYEV: We’re early.

JUNO: Early for what?

…Ahh, I should’ve known better.

NUREYEV: Than?

JUNO: To trust you. Walking into the same trap twice.

I wouldn’t be here if I had any other options, you get me?

NUREYEV: Oh, I get you, Juno.

JUNO: That’s what scares me.

How about telling me about that thing you just put in the sand over there, then? You starting a little garden out here or something?

NUREYEV: Well, telling you that would ruin the surprise, wouldn’t it?

JUNO: Surprise?! Oh, no. Not this time. I’ve had all the surprises I’m willing to take from you. You think you can show up in my apartment in the middle of the goddamn night and expect me to follow along like nothing happened? I don’t think so. You might’ve gotten your hooks in me once, Nureyev, but if you’re gonna pull this again you take your surprise and shove it right up your—

SOUND: SONIC BOOM.

…Whoa.

NUREYEV: Whoa indeed.

JUNO: What the hell was that? It went by so fast, it- it was like the sky just… blinked.

NUREYEV: That, my dear detective, was a train; and you and I are going to catch it.

MUSIC: STARTS.

JUNO (NARRATOR): The Martian desert is a cold, lonely place. You can look around for miles in every direction and never see a human footprint – never see a single sign that anyone has ever lived on this dusty rock.

My name’s Juno Steel. I’m a private eye, which means people and the footprints they leave are my element. Places like this, empty for miles around… they give me the creeps.

NUREYEV: I do apologize for the theatricality, Juno, but you have to admit, the Utgard Express delivers quite a show.

JUNO (NARRATOR): He wasn’t reassuring me any. Peter Nureyev was his name – one of them, anyway. Back when we met he’d gone by Rex Glass, and within two days he’d stolen a lotta junk from me. A key, a mask, a kiss, and…

Eh, forget it. Not this time. I wasn’t gonna fall for it this time.

NUREYEV: As I think you’ve guessed, the recent thefts of ancient Martian artifacts can all be traced back to one individual. She wants what’s on that train, and she’s paid me to procure it for her – but I am of the opinion that we’re all better off if she never receives it. We must board that train, take the artifact, and destroy it – all before she realizes I’ve left her employ.

JUNO: How long do we have?

NUREYEV: Oh, until… tomorrow, at least.

JUNO: So we plan and execute the heist of the century in one day. Sure, alright. I don’t have any plans.

MUSIC: ENDS.

SOUND: CAR ENGINE STARTS.

NUREYEV: The train runs on a very specific cycle. I know that it slows down once a week, and that is our only opportunity to board it… but why it slows and how we are to approach it even then, I’m uncertain.

JUNO: So if we don’t board it tomorrow, we’ll have to wait a week, and by then your employer will be onto us. Got it. Who is she, anyway?

NUREYEV: You wouldn’t have heard of her.

JUNO: Try me.

NUREYEV: Her name is… Miasma. She has no history in crime before these thefts, and those only began four years ago. She’s really an accomplished—

JUNO: Xenoanthropologist. Taught at Olympus U for fifty years; three lifetime achievement awards for her studies on Ancient Martian culture.

NUREYEV: I see you’ve done your homework.

JUNO: Did some research on the ancient Martians when I got into this mess. You tend to notice a name when it’s on half the articles you read. Big name in a small field, it seems like. When I saw she’d stopped publishing I assumed she was dead, but I guess she picked up a few new hobbies.

NUREYEV: I hear theft and murder are very popular these days. The new golf, they say.

JUNO: So what’s she want on the Utgard Express so badly? If this artifact is that important, wouldn’t they keep it in a vault or something?

NUREYEV: The Utgard Express is a vault – the single most secure vault on Mars. The honest fact is that with enough time and planning there isn’t a vault in the galaxy that a master thief can’t enter, which raises a challenge: how to keep the thief from ever getting to it in the first place.

JUNO: So they put the lockbox on a train and shoot it across Mars at a thousand miles an hour.

NUREYEV: Indeed. Inside that vault are some of the most precious items Mars has ever seen. The most dangerous, too.

JUNO: Dangerous?

NUREYEV: We’re not contending with Martian clothing or furniture anymore, not the junk left out on the curbside of history.

A weapon, detective. The weapon. I know very little about it other than the fact that it was the last weapon the Martians ever made… before they disappeared.

JUNO: The weapon that killed off the Martians… and Miasma wants it. The hell could she want a thing like that for?

NUREYEV: Weapons with that much destructive force are good for one thing only: power. It may masquerade as something else – money, or politics, or ideals – but power of that scope only seems justified if it rests in your hands.

JUNO: Power, maybe; but that doesn’t answer the rest of it… the mask, the key, the throne, the pill…

NUREYEV: (CHUCKLES)

JUNO: What?

NUREYEV: It’s just nice to see you gathering clues again. We make an excellent team, I think.

JUNO: (CLEARS THROAT) That’s all a fun story, Nureyev. But how do I know any of it’s true?

NUREYEV: Oh, you can’t.

JUNO: …Seriously? That’s it?

NUREYEV: There’s no point in dancing around it. I’m your only source; in my industry one is more likely to destroy evidence than to keep it on hand. You’ll just have to trust me.

JUNO: Trust you? That’s a good one.

NUREYEV: It’s not so difficult. As far as you’ve seen, I act solely in my own self-interest. Your only choice is to take my word that working with you is my interest.

JUNO (NARRATOR): I couldn’t tell if he was leaning in or if my tight little car had finally gotten the best of me, but that smell… suddenly I was wrapped up in the smell of his cologne all over again, a smell like the spices of some faraway planet. He had that same smirk on, too, like he’d just thought of some private joke that he didn’t feel the need to share…

Damn it, Steel. Not again. Not this time.

NUREYEV: Regardless, we’ve bigger business to deal with at present – and not much time in which to do it. Tell me, detective: do you like to gamble?

JUNO: I got in the car with you, didn’t I?

NUREYEV: (LAUGHS) Well, I hope you’re willing to push the stakes higher than that. We’re headed to the Oasis Casino Resort – my treat.

JUNO (NARRATOR): By the time we pulled into the Oasis, Nureyev’s plan had already been set in motion. He pointed me towards the parking garage and told me to stop the car.

NUREYEV: We’re pressed for time, so I’m going to ask you to park. I’ll check in and start looking for Engstrom.

JUNO: Engstrom? Like… Brock Engstrom? The jewel thief?!

NUREYEV: Please! Retired jewel thief. These days the only crime Engstrom’s guilty of is charging for his ridiculous “seminars in motivation.”

JUNO: The idea of hanging around at a pickpocket convention doesn’t exactly reassure me, Nureyev.

NUREYEV: I wouldn’t even give Engstrom the honor of calling him a pickpocket anymore. He did all of his best work decades ago, and now that the statute of limitations has run out he’s milked the story for every cred it’s worth… and all while being insufferably smug about it. As though he isn’t the thousandth half-rate cutpurse to think of that.

JUNO: But—

NUREYEV: Oh, and you’ll need these.

SOUND: PAPER RUSTLING.

JUNO: Registration? ID? But I already have my… Hang on, the hell kind of name is ‘Dahlia Rose’?!

NUREYEV: Yours, now. Oh, don’t make that face. Not every name can be as pretty as Juno.

SOUND: CAR DOOR OPENS.

Ta, Dahlia dearest. I’ll see you in room one-one-thirteen.

SOUND: CAR DOOR CLOSES.

JUNO (NARRATOR): The rest of it went just like Nureyev said it would. The paperwork all checked out; even the fake driver’s license he gave me went through their systems without complaint.

SOUND: CROWD CHATTER.

The Oasis was gigantic, a huge green tower in the red, red sands. It took me nearly a half an hour of dodging bookies and drunk tourists to find the room.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS, DOOR OPENS.

JUNO: Hello? …Nureyev? Glass? Whoever the hell you are today?

SOUND: DOOR CLOSES, FOOTSTEPS.

The hell is… (SIGHS) Great. Of course.

SOUND: PAPER RUSTLING.

JUNO (NARRATOR): There was a note by the phone. It read, ‘Off to find Engstrom. Will call. Miss you already. —Duke Rose.’

I knew Nureyev had written it. I’d received a note from him once before which I’d read a few… hundred times. Threw it out the window one day and nearly fell out scrambling to get it back.

The vents coughed up a breeze and a shadow rustled in the corner. I jumped, reached for a gun I didn’t have. Then I saw it was just a coat.

Nureyev’s coat.

SOUND: RUSTLING, CLINKING.

I started through the pockets. a knife; some nuts from the bar; a matchbook from the front desk. Even in the arctic air conditioning, I was sweating. Rex Glass had peeled his skin away to reveal Peter Nureyev, so how did I know Nureyev wouldn’t peel his off to reveal… who?

Christ, he kept a lot of junk in his pockets. A lockpick in a hand mirror. A camera hidden in the button. Bottomless. Endless. Hints of the man, or the mask?

Then, tucked in a hidden pocket inside the left breast, I found them.

SOUND: CRUMPLING PAPER.

Notes. Dozens of them. Crumpled into tiny little balls, diagrams and swirling scripts I’d never seen before. A code. From who?

His boss wanted me dead. How did I know they weren’t still working together? How did I know these weren’t… instructions?

SOUND: PHONE RINGS.

JUNO: (GASPS)

SOUND: BEEP.

What?

NUREYEV (FROM PHONE): Ah, Dahlia, so you found the room after all. Marvelous, marvelous!

JUNO: Yeah, sure. Marvelous.

NUREYEV (FROM PHONE): Well, dear, you can always take a few of the pills the doctor gave you if you’re feeling bloated. I told you about Mr. Engstrom? Well, he says a game has just opened up and I’ll need you down here immediately.

JUNO: You sound like you’ve got it under control. What makes this so important that I’ve got to be there?

NUREYEV (FROM PHONE): You’re my good luck charm, Dahlia. If I could do this without you, I would have left you at home.

JUNO: (GROWLS) Fine. I’m on my way. What room?

NUREYEV (FROM PHONE): Oh, one of Mr. Engstrom’s friends will be by to help you any moment now.

SOUND: KNOCKING.

Ah, that must be her. Don’t keep her waiting. Oh, and do wear that suit I love so much, will you? I hung it in the closet for you.

JUNO: You bought me clothes?!

NUREYEV (FROM PHONE): Don’t say I never get you anything. See you soon!

JUNO: Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’.

SOUND: BEEP. ALL SOUNDS: FADE OUT.

***

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS. MUFFLED VOICES.

VOICE: Mr. Engstrom’s private room is just at the end of this hall.

JUNO: Would you mind not smoking? I got sensitive lungs.

VOICE: Me too. They don’t do so well if I’m not smoking. You learn to live with it, hon.

SOUND: DOOR OPENS.

NUREYEV: Dahlia! There you are!

JUNO: Hi… honey.

ENGSTROM: Thank you, Valencia.

Dahlia Rose. Your husband’s told me so much about you.

SOUND: DOOR CLOSES.

Have a seat, please.

JUNO (NARRATOR): It looked like Engstrom could buy quite the operation. The rings on his wrinkled, shaking fingers were weighed down by gems nearly as big as paperweights and the cigar he smoked must have cost a lot of money, because the stink was awful.

The most impressive part of the ensemble, though, was Engstrom’s ‘friend’ Valencia. She was exactly the kind of bodyguard I didn’t want to deal with because she didn’t look like a bodyguard at all. She looked like a lounge singer, all snaky neck and eyes too far apart.

And she didn’t look armed. That worried me.

ENGSTROM: Valencia, if you would.

VOICE [VALENCIA]: Yes, Mr. Engstrom.

SOUND: CARDS SHUFFLING.

ENGSTROM: The game your husband and I have agreed upon takes some time to prepare, so let’s get to know each other a bit, shall we? Drink?

JUNO: Heavily.

SOUND: LIQUID POURING.

ENGSTROM: Duke was just telling me, Dahlia, that you two lifted the Coveter’s Jewel during its museum tour in the Outer Rim.

JUNO: Sounds like Duke.

NUREYEV: I’m surprised word about the Jewel hasn’t made it to Mars. It was a very big job on the Outer Rim.

ENGSTROM: The Outer Rim is a very small pond, Rose. Your whales hardly rank for minnows here.

NUREYEV: Well, that’s just how we were feeling, Mr. Engstrom! That’s why we thought we ought to sell that rock and use the cash to go after something really exciting. And that’s when we stumbled upon… you know.

ENGSTROM: Plans to stop the Utgard Express. If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Rose: if you can stop that train, what are you doing here? You should be out there, looting to your heart’s content.

JUNO: I was just wondering the same thing.

NUREYEV: Well, there’s the Utgard security team, isn’t there? If there’s any sign the train has stopped, within sixty seconds we’d be drowning in guards, and that’s not nearly enough time to get what we need.

But you, Mr. Engstrom – I hear you know how to get on that train without alerting security.

ENGSTROM: And so here we are. You can stop the train, but not board it; I can board the train, but can’t leave once I’ve done so. Each of us has information the other needs, but cannot allow the other to learn. This would be an impasse, were it not for our game. The most complicated game in the galaxy, they say.

JUNO: Sounds… fun?

ENGSTROM: A game of wagers where the stakes don’t come in creds, but rather… questions. Information. We call it: Rangian Street Poker.

SOUND: BELL DINGS.

VALENCIA: The game is ready, Mr. Engstrom.

JUNO: That’s the game? There’s got to be a hundred decks on this table!

NUREYEV: Could we talk our way through the first hand? Dahlia gets a little cranky when he feels left out.

ENGSTROM: If you insist.

Your Ask, Rose.

NUREYEV: Very generous of you!

So, Dahlia, one of us asks a question to start the round. Let’s start with. um… How do we get aboard the Utgard Express?

ENGSTROM: (SIGHS) The game’s not ending that quickly.

NUREYEV: Now Mr. Engstrom counters with his own question, and if I agree to it, we play a hand to see which of us gets his question answered. The counter-asker can’t refuse the question; only the asker can turn down the round.

ENGSTROM: Like so: how do I stop the Utgard Express?

NUREYEV: (CHUCKLING) I’ll pass, of course.

JUNO: So if he doesn’t like your question, he has to ask something you don’t want to answer.

ENGSTROM: Just so.

Ah, I nearly forgot. One last matter of business: in a game where each player stakes the truth, we must, of course, address the punishment for lying. And so, let us discuss your… collateral.

NUREYEV: We’re just going by Standard Variation rules, aren’t we? If I lie, you kill me; if you lie, I kill you. (LAUGHS) That’s a rule as old as human civilization, Mr. Engstrom. I think I can follow it.

ENGSTROM: How good to know I’m playing with an honest man.

Detective Steel, would you mind passing me my drink?

JUNO: Get it yours– …what did you just call me?

ENGSTROM: Oh, did I let something slip? (CHUCKLES)

NUREYEV: …Hm. I take it the game has changed, then.

ENGSTROM: Not if you’re as honest as you claim to be.

Did you really think I’d clear out my afternoon for a couple of yokels claiming they can stop the Utgard Express? These streets runneth over with people who think they’ve solved that train. Hobbyists and lunatics and liars, the Utgard Express draws them all… and usually to my doorstep.

NUREYEV: Yet you’ve made time for me.

ENGSTROM: Before I play with anyone, I have their name and address on file – the surveillance system in the front lobby takes care of that for me. Thus, should the terms of honesty within our game be violated, I know exactly where to collect my collateral. But you, Rose… we couldn’t find you anywhere. No address, no name; it’s as if you don’t exist. That interests me. I fully believe you know how to stop the Utgard Express, and what’s more, I believe that isn’t even the most valuable secret you hold. But that does still raise the question of your collateral. If I can’t find you when your lies reveal themselves, you’re hardly motivated to tell the truth.

NUREYEV: So you’ll need a life you can take. Someone you can find.

SOUND: SHIFTING IN SEATS.

JUNO: What?

Why’re you two looking at- me…

(UNDER HIS BREATH) Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.

NUREYEV: If I lie you’re going to kill him.

ENGSTROM: We know where to find him. Detective Steel could not be more visible if he were aflame.

NUREYEV: He does know how to get into trouble, doesn’t he. I’ll accept your terms.

JUNO: Anyone gonna check if I’m okay with this? Like, anybody?

ENGSTROM: Well, now that that’s settled, let’s play. It is my turn to ask.

What planet were you born on?

JUNO: Every time. Every goddamn time.

NUREYEV: I’ll counter: how do you have access to the Oasis’s security footage?

ENGSTROM: I accept. Let’s play.

SOUND: BELL DINGS, CARDS SHUFFLING.

JUNO (NARRATOR): I tried to follow the game. I didn’t stand a chance. Their hands shot across the table, flipping cards and shuffling decks. They had a lot to say about—

ENGSTROM: Rapids?

NUREYEV: Concourse.

ENGSTROM: North or South?

NUREYEV: West.

JUNO (NARRATOR): —but it was all gibberish to me until the dust settled, and Nureyev and Engstrom each had a hand of two cards.

ENGSTROM: Reveal.

JUNO (NARRATOR): Engstrom had a pair of aces. Nureyev had a two of clubs and a picture of a goat.

SOUND: BELL DINGS.

NUREYEV: There we are, then.

SOUND: PAPER RIPPING.

JUNO: Didn’t know you were such a sore loser, Rose.

NUREYEV: Nothing to be sore about. The winner always tears his hand, and the Twin Wargoats is one of the best hands in the game. I won.

JUNO: I… I give up.

ENGSTROM: My answer: I pay the Oasis generously for these private rooms. I’m retired; this is the only sport that still entertains me; they want to keep their star customer. So as long as I bring them publicity, the Casino doesn’t care how I choose my opponents.

NUREYEV: Well, ask a boring question, get a boring answer. Your Ask, Engstrom.

ENGSTROM: My Ask… hmm… What is your real name?

JUNO (NARRATOR): If Nureyev was worried, his face didn’t show it. Most of the time he just looked bored, with a half-smile like he was humoring the world, waiting for it to do something worth his attention again.

NUREYEV: How do we get on board the Utgard Express?

ENGSTROM: Very interesting. (CHUCKLES) Pass, of course.

NUREYEV: Of course. Shall we speed things up a bit, Engstrom?

ENGSTROM: I thought you would never ask.

SOUND: BELL DINGS.

JUNO (NARRATOR): Then they really started moving – cards and questions flying across the table. I tried to follow the game. The hands never made sense to me, but there was one thing I could follow well enough:

SOUND: BELL DINGS. PAPER TEARING.

NUREYEV: Your win. I’m Outer Rim, originally. Brahma.

SOUND: BELL DINGS. PAPER TEARING.

NUREYEV: Your win. No military experience.

SOUND: PAPER TEARING, BELL DINGING SEVERAL TIMES.

NUREYEV: Your win. Your win. Your win.

JUNO (NARRATOR): Nureyev was losing. Bad.

He didn’t give in, though. He’d ask his questions; he’d lose; and over and over again they’d return to the same old battleground:

NUREYEV: How do we get onto the Utgard Express?

ENGSTROM: What is your name?

NUREYEV: Pass.

JUNO (NARRATOR): The message was clear and cold as the ice in their drinks: as soon as either of those questions was answered, the game would be over. But what the hell did Engstrom expect to get out of Nureyev’s name?

Valencia stood behind us. Something about her made me nervous. Her boss was winning but her movements were jittery, impatient: she was smoking a cigarette out of one of those long, fancy holders, but she’d chewed the hell out of her end of it.

NUREYEV: I’ll hit the corners.

ENGSTROM: East to West.

JUNO: It’s Valencia, right? Mind getting me something to drink?

VALENCIA: Do I look like a waiter to you, tough guy?

JUNO: I placed an order and you looked like you wanted me to die, so yeah. Scotch, double.

VALENCIA: You can get your own drink. I’m watching the game.

JUNO (NARRATOR): She was watching pretty intently, too, her eyes flicking from card to card, deck to deck. She looked like an expert – which made it funny that she didn’t know the first goddamn thing about it.

SOUND: STRANGE HUM.

It took a second for that thought to sink in. I didn’t know how it got there, and it barely made sense. She’d set the cards up; she was watching like a hawk. But the actual rules? She knew as much about Rangian Street Poker as I did.

SOUND: STRANGE HUM STOPS.

I was sure of it. I just wasn’t sure how I was sure of it.

She bit her cigarette holder hard and glared at me.

VALENCIA: A picture would last longer, you know.

JUNO: Why don’t you sit at the table, anyway? Better view.

VALENCIA: The view is fine from back here.

JUNO: You don’t say? Maybe I’ll join you.

VALENCIA: Mr. Rose, would you mind telling your date to behave himself?

NUREYEV: Yes.

ENGSTROM: Then I’ll do it for you. Mr. Steel, you will leave my assistant alone, or you will wait outside.

JUNO: She started it.

NUREYEV: (LAUGHS) What can I say? Good luck charms come in all forms. Mine came out “petulant detective.”

ENGSTROM: (THUMPS TABLE) He cannot stand back there!

VALENCIA: Move.

JUNO: You move. I like this spot. Right behind my good pal Rose – how you feelin’, Rosey?

NUREYEV: Thoroughly entertained.

JUNO: And besides, your spot isn’t even so special, Valencia. The one thing you’ve got a really good view of is, well, Rose’s hand.

ENGSTROM: (CLEARS THROAT, COUGHS)

NUREYEV: (LAUGHS)

JUNO: Just saying, it’d be too bad if we found out your boss had an unfair edge.

ENGSTROM: Just what are you trying to imply?

JUNO: Oh, did it seem like I was implying something? Then I’ll be blunt: you are cheating. For a card shark you’ve got a pretty bad poker face, Engstrom. The second I stepped between Valencia and Rose here, you looked like you were gonna be sick.

NUREYEV: Very impressive, detective. So, Engstrom? Are you cheating?

ENGSTROM: Is- is that your question?

JUNO: Oh, no. No. No, no more questions. No more cards. And definitely no more of this dumb, dumb, stupid dumb game, either!

ENGSTROM: You’ll never know how to get on board the Utgard Express.

JUNO: Empty threat, Engstrom. We’d never learn a thing about that train playing against a cheater anyway! Let’s go, Rose.

ENGSTROM: I am not cheating!

SOUND: DULL THUMP. PAPERS FLUTTERING.

Valencia! Clean this up!

VALENCIA: Yes, sir.

NUREYEV: Not cheating, you say.

JUNO: You… liar! Y- you said if Rose lies you get to track me down and kill me! Then you just come out with that?!

ENGSTROM: I will not tolerate this, do you hear me? You have no evidence!

JUNO: Evidence?!

NUREYEV: (SIGHS) He’s right, Juno. Have a seat.

JUNO: Have you lost your goddamn mind?

NUREYEV: No, but you appear to have misplaced yours.

JUNO: Alright, that’s it. I’m callin’ a time out!

ENGSTROM: Time out? What sort of game do you think this is?

JUNO: Fine, halftime, seventh-inning stretch, whatever you want to call it. Rose, you’re comin’ with me.

NUREYEV: Excuse me, Engstrom. My private eye is acting up.

ENGSTROM: Put some drops in him, then. He’d better behave himself when you come back!

JUNO: Don’t count on it!

ALL SOUNDS: FADE OUT.

***

SOUND: DOOR CLOSES.

NUREYEV: Juno, this display is entirely unprofessional, even for—

JUNO: You want to tell me what the hell all of that was about?

NUREYEV: Well, you see, there’s a weapon, on a train—!

JUNO: You know what I mean! I- I bailed you out ten times in there and you just keep digging yourself deeper!

NUREYEV: I’m having some difficulty following this metaphor, Juno. Am I a sailor or a ditch-digger?

JUNO: Oh, quit joking around.

NUREYEV: Fine. Engstrom has backed himself into a corner, and we are in position to take advantage of that. Or we would be, if we were in there right now.

JUNO: He just admitted to cheating and you want to keep playing Go Fish?

NUREYEV: There are several games being played at that table, Juno, but I’m afraid Go Fish isn’t one of them. I am playing Rangian Street Poker as a distraction from the real game at hand. Your game.

JUNO: I’m playing a game? Didn’t you think I’d need to know about it?

NUREYEV: You do know. You’ve already made the first move.

JUNO: But—

NUREYEV: Engstrom has lied to us, Juno – and after making the punishment for lying absolutely clear!

JUNO: But you said we didn’t have any– evidence…

Ohhhhhhhhhh. You want me to find the evidence.

NUREYEV: Glad you’ve caught up. May we go back now?

JUNO: So that’s it? You play a game while I stop a con artist and save the world.

NUREYEV: I said I needed you.

JUNO: To be your stooge, maybe. It’s not like you’ve got anything on the line. Worst case scenario for you is that this game goes belly-up, and a few days from now I go belly-up, too.

NUREYEV: You’re not still whining about the collateral, are you? My God, you’re a sensitive little thing.

JUNO: You’re betting my life!

NUREYEV: I would never bet your life.

JUNO: Come on, do you seriously think I’m that much of an idiot? If you lose, you’ll make up some other name and it’ll all fall on me. You’re throwing me under again, just like you did with the Kanagawas.

NUREYEV: Like the Kanagawas? Really? You have no idea how much I did to keep the Kanagawas off you, Juno. You have no idea how much I’ve risked already. For you.

If I lose this hand… I’m telling him my name. Do you understand what that means for me?

JUNO: Just because the name’s on your birth certificate doesn’t mean it’s worth anything. You pick up a new name with your groceries every week.

SOUND: FAUCET TURNS, WATER RUNNING.

NUREYEV: A word of advice to the crass detective: it’s not kind to tell someone their gift means nothing to you.

JUNO: Hey, I, I didn’t—

NUREYEV: Of course my name is worth something. I cycle those other names out, but by now I’m skilled enough not to leave a trace with them. But my birth name… links me to things it would be best if everyone forgot.

That name is very nearly my only weakness, and I’m risking it all, here. On you.

JUNO: …First off, I don’t believe you.

NUREYEV: Your denial knows no bounds!

JUNO: I’d call it skepticism, but we’ll agree to disagree. Second, if you are telling the truth, you’re an idiot. You bet your life on me? You barely know me!

NUREYEV: This isn’t about knowing you. It’s about trust. I trusted you, didn’t I? In return for that, I only ask that you trust me. So why not? Just let go, Juno. We could do anything in arms together.

JUNO: Fine. Do I want to trust you? Sure. Hell, I want to trust Engstrom, too, and Valencia, and this whole sorry planet. I want to gather us all up in a big group hug, and kiss, and slobber, and talk about how nice it is that we can all be so honest with each other. It sounds great, sure, whatever. And it also sounds like a good way to get dead.

NUREYEV: Is it? I’m still alive, aren’t I? And I trust you.

JUNO: (SIGHS) I have no idea why you do.

NUREYEV: Oh, I have my reasons. Your eyes—

JUNO: My what?

NUREYEV: Sharpshooter’s eyes, of course. And I trust your mind: a master detective’s. And most of all because I trust your will: stubborn as a child in a supermarket.

JUNO: That all sounds nice, but is it really enough reason to trust someone you barely—

NUREYEV: And, of course, I trust you because I have researched you. Extensively.

JUNO: What?

NUREYEV: Just… an incredible amount of research.

JUNO: Quit it!

NUREYEV: (LAUGHING) That’s the cranky detective I know and… tolerate.

SOUND: KNOCKING.

VALENCIA: (THROUGH THE DOOR) Mr. Engstrom wants you all to know that he’s getting bored. Are you two done kissing in there, or should we call this game right now?

NUREYEV: Thank you, Valencia! Tell Mr. Engstrom we’ll be there in just a moment.

So, detective. Are there any other insecurities I can massage before we return to the game?

JUNO (NARRATOR): I still had the notes I’d taken from his jacket. I felt them burning in my pocket. Just one question, and I’d know. All I had to do was pull them out and ask.

JUNO: No. I’m all set.

NUREYEV: Good. I’m counting on you, you know.

JUNO: If you are, you’re an idiot. A real idiot.

NUREYEV: Well, it’s up to you to prove that either way, isn’t it? Come along. Engstrom is waiting.

ENGSTROM: It’s about time. Is everything under control?

NUREYEV: As controlled as he’ll ever be. My detective gets restless if he isn’t taken for a walk every few hours.

ENGSTROM: While you were away I received an invitation I don’t intend to decline. I can give you twenty minutes more. Enough time for a few hands; a last chance at a few big questions.

NUREYEV: Why do I get the sense you only have one question in mind?

ENGSTROM: Sit. Let’s play.

Now: what is your name?

NUREYEV: (QUIETLY) Juno. I can only hold him off for so long. This is your only opening. Are you ready?

JUNO: (QUIETLY) I’m looking, alright.

NUREYEV: (QUIETLY) Good.

(LOUDER) What is the access code to your personal bank account?

ENGSTROM: (LAUGHING) I see! Quite a defensive maneuver, Rose!

NUREYEV: Pass or play, Engstrom?

ENGSTROM: Pass, of course. I wouldn’t risk my retirement on you. And besides, you know how this game has to end.

JUNO (NARRATOR): I checked Valencia for the usual tells. Nothing. No hand motions; Engstrom wasn’t even looking at her. Whatever they were using, it was nothing I’d ever seen before.

NUREYEV: How do we board the Utgard Express?

ENGSTROM: What is your name?

NUREYEV: Pass.

JUNO (NARRATOR): We were running out of time, and Engstrom wasn’t willing to budge anymore.

ENGSTROM: What is your name?

NUREYEV: Pass.

JUNO (NARRATOR): Not a single hand was played. We were going nowhere, and I couldn’t find anything.

NUREYEV: Juno.

JUNO: I know, I know!

ENGSTROM: What is your name?

NUREYEV: Pass.

JUNO (NARRATOR): The moron had staked his entire life on me. He was about to find out just how big a mistake he’d made.

ENGSTROM: What is your name? Your name, Rose! What is your name!

JUNO (NARRATOR): Until, finally…

ENGSTROM: That’s enough, Rose. I was under the impression that you had either the courage to play or the decency to admit your cowardice. I was wrong on both accounts.

JUNO: Courage? You’re cheating.

ENGSTROM: If you levy these false accusations against me one more time, Mr. Steel!

NUREYEV: I apologize for the detective’s outburst, Mr. Engstrom. Tensions run high in a game like this.

ENGSTROM: Were the game played properly, they might. I’ve taken naps tenser than this travesty. I will give you one final chance, Rose. One last hand. After that, I’m afraid I have other obligations to which I must attend.

NUREYEV: Alright, then.

How do we board the Utgard Express?

JUNO: You’re joking. He’s cheating! He’s gonna cream you!

ENGSTROM: What is your name?

NUREYEV: Play.

SOUND: BELL DINGS.

JUNO: (QUIETLY) You’re pulling this too early! I am not ready!

NUREYEV: (QUIETLY) Our time has run out, I’m afraid. What do you have so far?

JUNO: (QUIETLY) They’re not communicating directly. Best guess is she’s got something on her.

ENGSTROM: Care to share your conversation with the rest of the table?

NUREYEV: Corners!

(QUIETLY) Is it a camera?

JUNO: (QUIETLY) No. No lenses, and both their eyes are organic. No way for the feed to get through.

NUREYEV: (QUIETLY) I don’t want to know what it isn’t, Juno.

JUNO: (QUIETLY) I know, but—

ENGSTROM: And that, my friend, is the game.

NUREYEV: Don’t be ridic– Well.

JUNO (NARRATOR): I had to look at the hands twice to shake the déjà vu. Nureyev had a pair of aces. Engstrom had a two of clubs and a picture of a goat.

ENGSTROM: Heh. I win. A fitting end, I’d say. Now, Rose. Your name.

NUREYEV: Last chance, Juno.

JUNO (NARRATOR): Valencia was clearing the table. I knew she must have the key to Engstrom’s method somewhere on her, but I didn’t know where.

My eyes met hers, and then… I saw it.

SOUND: STRANGE HUM.

It hit me all at once, a picture clearer than thought: her cigarette.

In my head, a diagram. A cutaway of her cigarette: a hidden button by her teeth, shortwave transmitter, Morse Code translation drive. I knew how it was powered, what parts it took to build it. I even heard a few words of an argument they’d had about how it needed to make smoke, about how the chips couldn’t take that kind of heat, about how they’d have to find a way to make it work.

I saw it all. I had no time to think about how I’d seen it.

SOUND: STRANGE HUM STOPS.

VALENCIA: Feeling emotional, Detective? Your nose is bleeding.

JUNO: (SNIFFS) Huh. Thanks for the tip. Mind if I bum a smoke?

VALENCIA: For the last time, hon, I– oof!

SOUND: PUNCH.

ENGSTROM: What the hell do you think you’re doing!

JUNO: Something really, really satisfying.

ENGSTROM: Put down that cigarette!

JUNO: Gladly.

SOUND: SMASH. FEEDBACK WHINE.

ENGSTROM: Ah! Damned feedback!

JUNO: Well, well. Funny blend of tobacco Valencia’s into – you ever heard of a cigarette with a wireless transmitter tucked away inside of it, Rose?

SOUND: FEEDBACK STOPS.

NUREYEV: I’m going to guess that earphone you’ve just pulled out isn’t for listening to the radio, Engstrom.

ENGSTROM: So you caught me in a lie. So what? You still don’t know how to board the Utgard Express.

NUREYEV: No, but you were very, very clear on the consequences for lying, weren’t you.

SOUND: BLADE UNSHEATHING.

Juno, turn away, please. I’m going to stab Mr. Engstrom to death now.

ENGSTROM: Kill me? You’re a fool, Rose. I told you: the Oasis rests on my notoriety. If you kill me, if you hurt their bottom line, you’ll wish you died here.

NUREYEV: Well, Juno? He raises a valid point.

JUNO: He does. But there are worse things we can do than kill him. Said so himself.

ENGSTROM: I’ve been in this business too long for empty threats to faze me.

JUNO: Don’t worry, this one’s full to bursting. I’m betting the Oasis wouldn’t like it if word gets out that their big celebrity’s a cheater. Bad publicity.

NUREYEV: And bad publicity means bad business. How did you put it, Engstrom? “If you hurt their bottom line, you’ll wish you died here?”

ENGSTROM: (GROWLS)

NUREYEV: There is an out, of course.

ENGSTROM: I’ve been after that train for half a century, Rose, and you’re going to rob it out from under me?

NUREYEV: That is the plan, yes.

ENGSTROM: This new generation of thieves hasn’t a scrap of honor. What has crime come to?

NUREYEV: Bigger and better things. Now talk.

ENGSTROM: (SIGHS) As you know, that train moves too quickly to be approached. But a lockbox is useless if one can’t put anything in it or take anything out.

JUNO: So it has to slow down to take any cargo.

ENGSTROM: It slows down once a week to intercept shipments. There’s a site out in the desert. They launch high-speed transport drones which intercept the train and drop their payloads. The next shipment is… tomorrow morning. Five o’clock.

NUREYEV: And where is that launch site?

SOUND: WRITING.

ENGSTROM: Here. The coordinates.

NUREYEV: They had most certainly better be. Wouldn’t want anyone to start asking where you get your cigarettes. Come along, Juno.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

ENGSTROM: You’ll regret crossing me, Rose. Do you hear me? You’ll remember this mistake as long as you live.

SOUND: DOOR OPENS.

NUREYEV: I doubt that. You’ve proven yourself eminently forgettable already. Ta-ta… whoever you are.

SOUND: DOOR CLOSES.

JUNO (NARRATOR): My head was swimming after that game – a panicked little one-armed doggy-paddle, going around and around, sinking with every stroke. We won. I’d created the opening, and Nureyev delivered the killing blow. We won – and we’d even done it with style. But I didn’t feel like a winner. Looking at Nureyev, thinking about those notes in his pocket, thinking about how I still had no idea who he really was… I felt like I’d just traded one con artist for another.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

NUREYEV: Why the long face, detective? We beat him!

JUNO: Don’t remind me.

NUREYEV: Oh, cheer up. You’re alive! That’s better than most people!

JUNO: Most people who work with you?

NUREYEV: No, just most people. What’s gotten into you?

JUNO: Sitting down to a death threat isn’t exactly my idea of a nice afternoon.

NUREYEV: I told you, Juno, that I was never going to let that happen.

JUNO: Because a master criminal is the poster boy for honesty, right.

SOUND: DOOR OPENS, CLOSES.

NUREYEV: If this working relationship is to be at all effective, detective, you’re going to need to at least make an attempt to trust me.

JUNO: Trust you! Why the hell should I?

NUREYEV: I’ve saved your life at least once today.

JUNO: I figured out the cigarette!

NUREYEV: Ah, yes. I’ve been meaning to ask, how did you do that, exactly?

JUNO: Look, I’ve got no reason to trust you, alright? You lied to me. You stole Grim’s Mask from me. Then you swing in out of nowhere on a beam of goddamn starlight and you expect me to just forget everything and not think it’s a little convenient?

NUREYEV: Convenient? Juno, you called me. Through Valles Vicky.

JUNO: I—! You—!

NUREYEV: If it was convenient for anyone, it was me. I have very few allies on Mars and had presented myself with a remarkably risky, not to mention extremely deadly, two-man job. I was running out of time rapidly. And then I get a call about a certain detective, who – what was your phrase? Ah: “swung in on a beam of starlight.” Convenient, certainly. But not all convenience is conspiracy.

JUNO: If you honestly believed that, Nureyev, you’d be dead.

NUREYEV: Think what you like. I have neither the time nor energy to make you believe me.

SOUND: RUSTLING, CLINKING.

JUNO: What are you doing?!

NUREYEV: Ah, this? An ancient maneuver, practiced by all the galaxy’s most powerful men and women. It’s known as ‘getting ready for sleep.’ You should try it. Immediately.

JUNO: I’m not done with you!

NUREYEV: I certainly hope not. Good night.

JUNO: I’m not going to let you gut me in my sleep!

Listen to me, damn it! Let’s see you try to explain these!

SOUND: CRUMPLING PAPER.

NUREYEV: What in the world…?

You took these from my coat pocket, didn’t you?

JUNO: I did. What do they say?

NUREYEV: Juno…

JUNO: Goddammit, what the hell do they say!

NUREYEV: These… are doodles.

JUNO: What?

NUREYEV: Even a master criminal has slow moments where he isn’t plotting to kill innocent private eyes in their sleep. So I doodle. Sometimes they end up in my pockets.

JUNO: Like I buy that!

NUREYEV: This one is a cat.

SOUND: PAPER RUSTLING.

Note the ears, the tail, the six compound eyes. And this…

SOUND: PAPER RUSTLING.

A party. Balloons, dancers, music.

SOUND: PAPER RUSTLING.

This is a star hauler… a design for a more secure safe… a zoo I once saw… a—

JUNO: Yeah, yeah. I got it.

NUREYEV: I put my livelihood in your hands, you know. My invisibility is the most precious thing I have, and I trusted you with it. Why? Because in our work, trust is not optional. I have done the labor of trusting you, and now I ask that you return the same professional courtesy.

JUNO: You must go after some pretty easy marks if you think that’s gonna work on me, Nureyev.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

NUREYEV: Where are you going?

SOUND: DOOR OPENS.

JUNO: Making a damn call. What’s it to you?

NUREYEV: Goodnight, Detective Steel.

SOUND: DOOR CLOSES. FOOTSTEPS. COMMS BEEP.

JUNO: Come on, Rita, pick up, pick up…

RITA (FROM COMMS): Hiiiiiiii!!

JUNO: Rita, I need you to—

RITA (RECORDING): This is the office of the Steel Detective Agency, soon to be called Hard-as-Steel Investigations, or maybe Mista Steel Investigations: The Best Ones There Is, or OOH, OOH, maybe Steel and Rita Detective– NO! Rita and Steel Detective Agency! YES, that’s the one, I GOT IT!

JUNO: Damn it, Rita.

RITA (RECORDING): Aaaaaanyway, the boss ain’t here right now and neither am I, so you should probably call back during our normal business hours, which are– uh-oh.

JUNO (RECORDING): Rita! You’re not messing with the answering machine again, are you?

RITA (RECORDING): Nuh-uh, boss, I wasn’t, I swear!

JUNO (RECORDING): You better not be! I told you I liked that message the way it was!

RITA (RECORDING): But Bosssss, it was sooooo boooooooring, and I just—

SOUND: BEEP.

MUSIC: STARTS.

JUNO: (SIGHS) Rita… Rita, this is Juno. I… I have no idea why I’m calling.

You want to know the truth? I’m not even sure how much I can tell you – or how much trouble I’m gonna get the both of us in trying to tell it.

The stakes are high this time, Rita. This isn’t some argument over stream timetables or cheating wives anymore. This is… everything. Giving this to me, Jesus, what was he thinking?

A guy does that for you, Rita, do you have to trust him back? Even if you aren’t sure you know who he is, even if you aren’t sure you know his real face, his real name… or what he’s really capable of doing to you?

And with this much on the line do I really have a choice?

I want you to close up the office. Take a week off. Take a month, hell. And if you don’t hear from me by then, there’s a safe underneath my desk. I want you to take—

SOUND: BEEP.

COMPUTER VOICE: End of message.

SOUND: COMMS BEEP.

JUNO: She’ll figure it out.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS. DOOR OPENS.

MUSIC: ENDS.

***

SOUND: RAIN & MUSIC.

CONCIERGE: If you’ve enjoyed this tale, please consider supporting The Penumbra on Patreon. You could receive episodes early, read our scripts, and hear commentary by our cast and crew for only a few dollars per episode. Please consider supporting the artists who make this possible. Every dollar helps. You can find that page at patreon.com/thepenumbrapodcast.

We would like to give special thanks to all who support us on Patreon, but especially to Hannah Tsim for her incredibly generous contribution per episode. Thank you, Hannah.

You can also support The Penumbra by liking us on Facebook, following us on Twitter @thepenumbrapod, following us on Tumblr @thepenumbrapodcast, telling your friends about us, telling your friends to tell their friends about us, and especially by rating and reviewing our podcast on iTunes. Every rating, comment, and kind word spreads our stories farther and inspires us to keep creating more and better tales to come.

This tale, Juno Steel and the Train From Nowhere, was told by the following people: Joshua Ilon as Juno Steel, Noah Simes as Peter Nureyev, Emery Westlake as Brock Engstrom, Kristie Norris as Valencia, and Kate Jones as Rita.

On staff at The Penumbra: Kevin Vibert is our lead writer and recording engineer. Sophie Kaner is our director and sound designer. Grahame Turner is our script editor. Original music by Ryan Vibert.

The Penumbra is created and produced by Sophie Kaner and Kevin Vibert.

I’m so sorry you’ve been called away, dear Traveler. We eagerly await your return.

ALL SOUNDS: FADE OUT.