#eil probably happen again

[autobahnmp3]

trying to find like... any fucking motivation or inspiration to work on my website and i've got none lmao

[toomuchracket]

black cat (dad!ross x reader fluff)

day 28 of promptober, the penultimate fic for me, and the return of dad!ross in fic form!! i like this one a lot. basically... you come home from work, and there's a cat in your gaff. cute! hope you enjoy <3

the first thing you see when you get home is your three year old son sat on the stairs by himself. keir is engrossed in one of the little thomas the tank engine picture books he loves so much, so engrossed that he doesn't even register the door opening, or the rush of cold air into the house that follows.

only when he hears the door close does keir look up. his little face lights up when he sees you, and he slowly sit-shuffles down, a stair at a time, before running to you and wrapping his entire little body around your leg. "hi mummy."

"hi baby," you lean down (with more difficulty than you'd care to admit) and kiss your son's head, shrugging your jacket off as you do. "how are you?"

"sleepy."

"me too, sweetheart," you hang your jacket on the coat stand. "you want up?"

keir nods, raising his arms. with a bit of effort, you scoop him up into your own - it's not that he's too heavy to lift, he's just so long-limbed (a trait he did not inherit from you) that manoeuvring him always takes a second. but it's worth it for the way he snuggles into you and faffs about with the string on your - well, ross's - hoodie.

speaking of ross - "where's dad, keir?"

"kitchen," comes the response, muffled by your jumper. "with eils."

"oh, ok. let's go and find them, yeah?"

keir nods sleepily into your neck, cuddling into you as you wander through the house. the incredibly tidy house, far neater than it was when you left this morning. there isn't a stray piece of lego anywhere, for once, and the carpets, you notice as you pad over them in your socks, have all been vacuumed to perfection. even the mess of blankets on the sofas have been folded - that never happens.

hmmmmm. interesting.

"what did you get up to today, then, baby? did you go to the park?" you nudge keir slightly when you see his eyelids fluttering closed. he's only just gotten past the napping phase, and you and ross are determined not to let him slip back into it.

your son brightens up immediately, and you know exactly what he's about to say. "yeah! me and dad played football. eilidh did cartwheels."

"who won the game?"

keir smiles smugly. "me."

"that's my boy!" you kiss his cheek.

he giggles. it makes your heart happy. "what did you do today, mummy? was your day good?"

oh, bless him. "it was, baby, thank you," you smile. "went to do some planning for when dad goes back to work. saw your auntie - she told me to give you a big hug from her, by the way - and cuddled lyla for a while."

"is the new baby here yet?"

"no, not yet. he will be soon, though."

(imminently, most likely - your friend is extremely, extremely pregnant. like, to the point that you were genuinely concerned about her leaving the house to hang out in a café with you. but she insisted, with an "i had to get out of there. matty's driving me up the fucking wall"; a statement you have also personally related to in life.)

keir hums. "and then he can play football with me."

"well, he won't be able to, for a while," you giggle, lightly poking your son's stomach. "he needs to learn how to walk first, remember."

"oh, yeah," he nods seriously. "maybe we can still get him a kit, though? just so he's ready?"

"i think your auntie and uncle will probably want to buy him his first one, but i'll ask them," you make a mental note to text after dinner. "sound good?"

keir nods again. he smiles, eyes crinkling really cutely, as you kiss his head and continue towards the kitchen. you can smell garlic and herbs and something rich that you can't quite name, wafting through the house quite deliciously; your stomach rumbles at the smell, but your eyes narrow. clean house, dinner on… ross is up to something.

as you near the kitchen, you can hear ross and eilidh whispering to each other through the half-open door. it's difficult to make out what exactly they're saying, over the sound of something bubbling on the stovetop, but they both sound fairly animated. 

their backs come into view when you slowly nudge the door open with your hip, and find the two of them standing in front of the sink, bunned heads looking down at something in the basin. that image only lasts a split second, mind you; as soon as they hear the creak of the door (ross didn't fix that today like he's been promising to do for a week, apparently), the two of them spin round to face you so quickly that eilidh nearly falls off her ikea kids stepstool.

her eyes are wide, but ross smiles sweetly at you. "hi, my love. didn't hear you come in. you must've been really quiet."

to the untrained eye and ear, ross would seem completely unfazed right now. but to you, the person who knows him best in the world, his smile is slightly too fixed to be natural, and there's a tiny tremor to his voice… he's freaking out about something. what?

before you can question, though, keir speaks. "yeah, dad, she was quiet. i didn't notice she was there. and then the door closed and i knew."

"keir!" eilidh wails. "you were meant to notice! that was your job! you were on mummy lookout, stupid!"

"eilidh macdonald! don't be so rude to your brother!" you say sternly, at the same time keir buries his head in your neck, and ross turns to your five year old and just raises his eyebrows. it's quite impressive how quickly he can shut anyone up with that look - even you aren't immune, and that's saying something.

your eldest looks at her dad, then you, then at keir and his quivering lip, then at the floor. "sorry. please don't cry, keir, i didn't really mean it."

too late. you can feel both hot tears hitting off your bare neck and your son's shoulders rising and falling as he sniffles. ross nudges eilidh forward, and you don't miss the way he steps to the side so the sink is blocked from your line of vision; she tentatively puts a hand on her brother's arm and speaks. "really didn't mean what i said, keir, i'm really really sorry. please can we be friends again?"

keir turns to look at her with an expression of complete and utter betrayal. "you promise you didn't mean it?"

eilidh nods sincerely.

"'kay," keir sniffles. "but i get to tell mum the secret."

"deal."

"tell mum what secret?" you question, eyes flicking to meet your husband's. "has it got something to do with the suddenly very tidy house, and the dinner you're currently making? which, off topic, smells incredible. but yes. i would like to know what's going on."

"oh, you noticed the living room. nice," ross says, his face indicating the opposite.

"ross, babe, why are you freaking out?"

"i'm not! well - ok, fine," your husband sighs. "kids, you need to take over. it's better if it comes from you. you're cuter."

"aha! you are trying to butter me up," you point at ross, who just shrugs, and then look at keir. "ok, baby, tell me the secret."

"know how i said we went to the park and me and dad played football and i won and eilidh did cartwheels?"

you bite back a laugh. god, your little boy really is just so adorable. "yeah…"

"and when we were walking back home there was a cat."

he stops there. you wait for a beat and then talk. "ok…?"

ross interjects, hands on eilidh's shoulders to stop her from jumping in. "and what did the cat do, mate?"

keir has to think for a second; he grins when the penny drops. "oh! it followed us home."

the penny is also beginning its descent to the ground for you, now. "a cat followed you home…"

"...and now it's in the sink," keir finishes the sentence for you.

for fuck's sake.

"ross, can i talk to you in the hall for a second?" with great effort, you keep your voice steady, despite the fact you're screaming on the inside.

your husband sees that, though, of course he does. gulping almost imperceptibly, he nods. "kids, keep an eye on our guest, yeah? hands off, though. and no touching the cooker either."

"ok, dad," eilidh kindly runs to get her brother's stepstool and put it next to her own. "keir, come and see!"

you put your son down, and he runs to join his sister. she wraps her arm around his shoulders, and you allow yourself a second of smiling at how cute they are before you pull ross through the doorway and let your anger take over.

as soon as he closes the door behind him, you let rip. "you let our children bring an alley cat into my house?! just picked up a random creature off the street and brought it in? what if it's feral? or it has fleas? the last thing we need right now is it scratching someone's eye out. or an infestation, my god. wait, what if it's already got a home, and you've just stolen someone's pet? jesus christ, we could be criminals! i can't believe this. i need to sit down."

"love…" ross begins, tugging you into him in lieu of you sliding down the wall onto the parquet floor. something about the familiarity of his arms and aftershave enveloping you makes you teary, and he patiently rubs your back.

"what are we going to tell the kids?" you sniffle into ross's chest, not unlike the way your son was sniffling into your neck a moment ago. "when it turns out we can't keep it because it needs to be sheltered or it already lives somewhere else? they'll be distraught, babe! i can't do that to our babies."

ross unwraps his arms from your waist. your lips start to tremble as soon as he lets go, but you're appeased when he cups your face in his big hands instead. "listen to me, my love. please," he says firmly, but not unkindly. "d'you really think i'm daft enough to let our kids bring home a cat that i thought would ever hurt them, or you, or me?"

"no, but-"

"and don't you think i've checked with the neighbours to see if anyone's missing a cat? because i have. even spoke to scary margaret."

you giggle. "is she as terrifying up close?"

"worse. don't wanna talk about it," ross smiles, and you get the sense that everything will be alright. "popped into the vet on the corner to get our new friend checked, too. no microchip, no fleas - and i gave it a bath, too, just in case, did the fairy liquid trick and everything…"

"how the fuck did you know about that trick?"

ross sighs. "tiktok, but, love, it's really alright," he strokes your cheeks with his thumbs. "it's just… a random nice cat, who really likes our kids."

"you're sure?" you ask, still giggling sporadically at the way he defeatedly admitted to watching cat care tiktoks.

"positive."

"alright," another thought crosses your mind; you squint suspiciously at ross. "and what about the tidying, and the dinner? were you genuinely trying to butter me up?"

ross's cheeks go pink. it's adorable. "a little bit…"

"i knew it!"

"...but we also thought that it would be nice for the cat to see its new home in the best circumstances."

you loop your arms around the back of your husband's neck, grinning. "you're so sure i'll approve of this new addition to the household?"

"once the two of you finally meet, yeah," ross pecks your lips. "come on, love. before the dinner gets burnt and the kids start crying again."

shaking your head as you huff out a laugh, you take ross's hand and lead him back into the kitchen. he immediately heads towards the cooker, while you lean against the doorframe for a moment to watch eilidh and keir watch their new friend, still obscured from your line of sight. in spite of your inhibitions towards the whole situation, your babies' joy is undeniable, and you feel a proper fuzzy sense of love looking at them.

keir looks over his shoulder, beaming; dear god, he really is just ross's mini-me. "mummy, come and meet him!"

"him?" you raise your eyebrows as you pad over slowly. "you know he's a him?"

"we saw when we were washing him," eilidh doesn't look up from the sink, too fixated on her new furry friend. "well, me and keir didn't. but dad says he's a boy."

you look briefly over at ross, who nods in confirmation, before patting your daughter's head. "well, i guess we're outnumbered, bean. you cool with that?"

eilidh nods. "he's so cute i don't care. look, mum!"

you do as requested, and your jaw drops. lying half-wrapped in a soft old baby towel you had no idea you still had, sat in the belfast sink, is the cutest little kitten you think you've ever seen; almost pure black, with a tiny little white patch of fur on the top of its head and the biggest green eyes you know you've ever seen on a cat. it looks fairly healthy, if slightly on the thinner side, and content to be in the warmth of your kitchen and be gawked at by your kids. 

experimentally, you rest your hand just so on the rim of the sink, so your fingers almost dangle down; the cat stretches and stands, then wanders over to you and gently nuzzles into the digits. he purrs as he does, and any and all reservations you had about keeping him dissipate completely.

"hi, darling," you coo, gently picking the cat up and cradling him. he lets you do so with absolutely no resistance, purring the whole time as you scratch at his stomach. "oh, you're just the loveliest, aren't you? would you like to stay here with us? yeah? we would like that too - wouldn't we, kids?"

eilidh and keir answer in hushed tones, taking it in turns to carefully pet their new friend. ross wanders over, smiling, and kisses your head. "guess we'll need to name him now, yeah?"

you nod. "what do you think, kids?"

"salem," eilidh answers immediately.

ross squints. "have you been watching sabrina the teenage witch?"

"yeah."

"i mean, great show, but where, baby?" you ask.

"at lyla's."

"oh, ok," ross nods, then leans down to whisper in your ear. "how upset d'you reckon matty'll be when i tell him he's been replaced as eilidh's favourite?"

"oof," you wince. "heartbroken. anyway," you shift your attention back to the kids. "what's your choice, keir?"

your youngest ponders for a moment, looking intently at the cat. "he kinda looks like toothless. maybe that?"

ross pouts, like the cuteness is too much for him. "he does look like toothless the dragon! that's better than my choice, keir - i was going to say guinness, because of his head."

you scoff - typical ross - while eilidh's brow furrows. "i don't get it."

"and that's why we shouldn't call him that," you say, stroking the cat's little head. "we can have a think during dinner and decide later. i'll hang onto him; i think i need to get to know him better before i make any name choices."

ross smirks. "alright, love."

true to your word, the cat genuinely does not leave you the whole night, except to take food and water breaks - you continue to hold him while ross dishes up the pasta he made, he naps as you eat dinner, and he curls up contentedly on your lap as you watch tv with a cuppa later in the evening.

and yet… you still can't think of a name for him. the process of coming up with one becomes so tortuous that you have to text the friend you saw earlier in the day:

you: hi babe, hope you're having a good night! would either you or matty be able to drop off that baby-name book i loaned you tomorrow? i unexpectedly need it back lol x

bff: WHAT

bff: of course i'll drop it off but OMFG ARE YOU PREGNANT AGAIN

you: omg haha no

you: sorry i kinda implied that didn't i x

another text interrupts your convo:

shortarse: fucksake can you not stress us out like that please

shortarse: she genuinely got so excited about the thought of another baby macdonald that i honestly thought she was going to go into labour

shortarse: tf do you need the book for then

you: came home to find ross and the kids had brought home a cat lol

shortarse: fuck off

shortarse: send pics

shortarse: wait no ew that sounds weird nvm

shortarse: can we come over and meet it lol

you: drop the book off tomorrow and i'll consider it

you: also keir wants to buy the baby a football kit lol can we? nufc obv

shortarse: sound

shortarse: aww i love that kid

shortarse: of course he can get a kit

shortarse: also my girl says you should have another baby and it can be best friends with our baby lol

shortarse: i mean it's not like our kids won't be best friends anyway

shortarse: but you get the point

shortarse: i think it would be cute tbh

shortarse: anyway i'm off to go and calm her down before our son makes his debut appearance on the carpet

shortarse: byeeeeeeee we love you all we'll see you tomorrow

you: we love you too!

chuckling, you click your phone off and throw it to the side of the couch. ross lifts his head from your chest as you do. "what are you giggling at, love?"

"i just asked if someone from the healy household could drop the baby-name book off, because i genuinely have no idea what to name our new friend…"

"...and they thought we were having another baby?" ross smiles, kissing your cheek.

"there was so much excitement that the new baby almost made an appearance, apparently," you smile as ross throws his head back laughing. "but i explained that you and the kids had been adopted by a cat…"

"...and matty insisted on dropping the book off tomorrow so he could meet it?"

"god, you're good at this game. he did, after asking me to, and i quote, send pics. of the cat, obv," you shake your head. "i was spared a pussy pics joke, thankfully."

ross snorts. "well, he has got baby brain."

"i'll say. he and the missus tried to convince me that us having a third kid would be cute."

your husband smiles, softly caressing the sleeping cat and trailing his hand up your arm. "well, i wouldn't be opposed to it."

"really?" you gently turn his head so he's looking at you - there's not a shred of insincerity in those lovely eyes of his. "you're not just saying that to further fulfil your dream of shagging a milf?"

"no, love," ross giggles, and your heart skips a beat. "i'm just saying, i wouldn't mind having another baby with you. but i think we should probably at least name the fluffy one on your lap first."

"yeah. and sort out litter trays and all that," you scratch the cat between the ears, and savour the purring that he emits. it's a perfect little domestic tableau you've got going on, what with you snuggled into ross with the cat asleep on your lap, and eilidh and keir sat on the floor against ross's legs, happily watching bluey; a baby would slot in perfectly. "i'm up for it too, though. i love our family. i love you. and i think we should at least consider a third kid."

"i love you too," ross leans in to kiss you sweetly. "fourth, though."

"hmm?"

"the cat. our third kid. a baby would be the fourth."

you smile. "i suppose you're right. ok, let's give our third kid some time to settle in and get used to the house - which, by the way, i expect to be this tidy all the time from now on - and then we'll discuss a fourth. sound good?"

ross kisses you again. "sounds great."

[outro-jo]

NCT 127 brushing their Partner’s hair

pairing: nct 127 members x reader (gender neutral)

type: scenario

summary: what each nct 127 member would do if their partner asked for them to brush their hair

warning: none

a/n: please read info before requesting

UPDATE: T*eil has been removed

masterlist | info

————————

taeyong

literally so excited that you asked him

super careful and quick to apologize about the tugs with a quick kiss

head pats when he’s done 

johnny

“you want me to do it?”

fusses at you to stop moving 

probably won’t happen often but wouldn’t mind if you asked him again

yuta

loves playing with your hair anyways so this is nothing new

y’all probably do this while watching a show or movie so it probably goes on for a while

loves mindlessly brushing

“does it feel good?” “am I hurting you?”

kisses throughout

doyoung

soooo confused as to why you would ask but agrees

brushes VERY lightly bc he doesn’t want to hurt you 

“am i doing this right?”

jaehyun 

biggest smile when you ask him

can’t stop talking about how pretty your hair is or how good it smells

thinks about how he’ll do this for y’all’s kids one day

wants to make this a regular thing

jungwoo

timid at first but takes any opportunity to be close to you

surprisingly good at it

doesn’t talk much but would love for you to talk about your day or just content to let you ramble

kisses after

mark

another one that’s surprised that you’d ask him

so nervous about hurting you

the pride when you tell him he does a good job after (pls he’s so cute)

“you’re really pretty”

haechan

takes it as a joke at first and starts brushing really fast but when you start to get upset he takes it seriously 

“you smell good”

actually a pleasant time

probably musses it up after 

[vanoincidence]

Not the Right Banshee(s) Pt. 1 || Van, Jade, Max & Tina

TIMING: current. LOCATION: regan's apartment. PARTIES: @highoctanegem @vanoincidence & the terrible twins (max and tina). SUMMARY: jade is dropping van off after work, but what's waiting for both of them comes as a bit of a surprise. CONTENT WARNINGS: none!

The apartment probably smelled like her, from the time they all packed mice together. The place probably had one minuscule teeny tiny bit of glass scattered somewhere from the time she exploded a glass of Sprite. There was probably a strand of bleached blonde waiting to be found. Jade doubted Van and Thea were too meticulous with their cleaning. So Jade couldn’t, she just couldn’t get herself to go up to that second floor. Even though Van had asked every night she’d brought her home from work. It would be fine, okay? Everybody who ever went through a gay girl breakup knew how intense everything felt at first. (Not that… they weren’t dating dating) (But…) And sure, her cats and blasting CRJ were the only things injecting dopamine into her system these days. But she’d be bouncing in no time! She was Jade. She did not mope.

She waved Van goodbye, watching her walk up to her apartment, refusing to go until she saw the lights turn on. And then, satisfied with her friend’s safety Jade lowered her face shield. She considered doing a round or two of deliveries and calling it a night. But something flashier caught her attention before she could find her phone: A lonely woman in the corner of the street. She looked a little lost, so of course, Jade had to be kind and helpful, cause maybe she could kickstart her rebound tour if she played her cards right. She lifted her shield again, hoping her eyes still sparkled, and flashed a confident grin. “A little late to be out at night, babe. Can I help you with anything?”

Regan Kavanagh was sloppy. It was the first thing Max learned about her, back when they were training together. She’d been so embarrassed for Regan. It was sad, really — to be activated at such an old age. Regan had been practically geriatric in human terms. Didn’t they only live a few decades? Max had tried to keep this in mind at first, had tried to cut Regan some slack, but… she was so sloppy. She’d proven as much in her childish escape from Saol Eile, and proven it all the more in the mess she’d left behind in this pathetic, human town. An apartment with her name on it, two children living inside. What did she expect to happen? How did she think this would end?

So, Max had been watching the apartment. There was so little room for error here. She was to prove herself, to bring pride to her mother, to prove that she was worthy of the gift Regan Kavanagh had tried to toss aside. The children in the apartment needed to die, but so did anyone else who knew about them. Killing them first could spark panic, lead to problems. It would be sloppy. And Max wasn’t sloppy.

There was a woman. She dropped off one of the apartment’s occupants sometimes. Max had done some digging the first night she saw her. People in this town were fond of social media, and this woman — Jade — was no different. And, like many Wicked’s Rest occupants, Regan Kavanagh was all over the woman’s blog. Fate, she couldn’t believe it. How was Regan this bad at something that should have been her birthright? Wasn’t she humiliated by it? She should thank Max for what she was about to do. She should be so grateful.

Max forced a smile onto her face as Jade approached. She wasn’t particularly good at it, but she’d learned to use her youth as an advantage. No one seemed to suspect young girls of anything. Foolish. “Aye, I’m a bit lost, actually,” Max replied, Irish lilt raising the words. “Maybe you can help me out. Mind if I borrow your phone?” She just needed Jade to get close enough to touch. Then, things could be over quickly. It was kind of her, really, to plan on doing this fast. Usually, Max preferred to play with her food. Maybe she’d ask Tina to incapacitate the two upstairs so they could take it slow with them.

Even if Regan hadn’t visited the apartment often (aside from when bringing mice inside), it still felt weird to live there without her in town. She should’ve gotten used to it by now– the way it felt more like the doctor’s home than her own, despite being void of any trace of her. Van was grateful, at least, that Jade hadn’t stopped taking her home at the very least. After waving her goodbye, she pushed through the door, kicking it to a close behind her. 

“Um…” Her heartbeat picked up a tick and she flexed her fingers against the tote bag she still had pulled over her shoulder. “Are you…” Why had she been sitting in the dark? That was weird, too. “Who are you?” Van frowned, noticing that the woman was wearing shoes indoors. “Hey, that’s not very polite.” 

She’d hated Regan forever. Regan was a bad banshee, and Regan was old, and that was stupid. Max thought so, and so Tina did too. She’d spent so much of their classes rolling her eyes, whispering to her sister and laughing. Both when Regan wasn’t looking and when she was sure that she was. To make matters worse, she’d ended up in some stupid human town in stupid Maine of all places. Didn’t she know that American humans were some of the worst there were?

There hadn’t been a moment’s hesitation when she and Max were offered the chance to come to the town. It was another chance to prove just how good she was, to help everyone back home, and to make her mother proud. Tina also wanted Max to be proud of her. Her sister was absolutely perfect, and once she’d forgotten the name of the bone in your little toe and her sister never would (what did it matter that she’d thought there was a special name). So when they’d found the apartment, where mice used to be, she’d been delighted. They could get rid of stupid tiny humans that Regan was apparently fond of, and be on their way. The very fact that Regan had moved the dead mice was unforgivable, and a reason to kill someone in return, and it wasn’t like human lives mattered. Besides, Tina wanted to look at the metatarsal bones in a human’s foot. It seemed like it’d be fun to do.

She’d broken into the apartment while her sister went off to find some lady named after a stone, and she’d ripped one of the pillows on one of the chairs apart when she’d first noticed that the mice weren’t there. Gods, she was going to murder Regan when she got her hands on the traitor. Still, Max was outside somewhere, and Tina sat herself down on one of their chairs, arms crossed, legs crossed, a grin covering her lips when the door opened. It was only one of the stupid tiny humans who borrowed the apartment from Regan, who’d somehow gotten Regan to care about them, like the failure she was.

And this human had the audacity to call her ‘not very polite’. Tina fought away the urge to break her neck right away. It was important to take your time, to have fun. “Van, oh my god!” She put on as falsely cheerful of a tone as she could, Irish lilt incredibly present. “I’ve been wanting to meet you! This is where I say bestie, isn’t it?”

Jade unbuckled her helmet, hanging it on one of the handles. It would be super rude to approach and not show her face. How else would the stranger know Jade was super friendly and super down to have fun? And look, she had to keep saying it, okay? It was the only way it’d start to feel true. And that was the only way she’d eventually move on. She had to move on. (The ring on her left hand signaled otherwise) (But…baby steps). Unfortunately for Jade, upon closer inspection this lost woman looked pretty young, actually, dashing all hopes she had of taking the first step towards getting over Regan. Oh well, too bad. She tried! 

The Irish accent did something, okay? Her knees went a little weak. Regan didn’t even have a strong accent, but… but. She was in that ‘everything reminds me of her’ stage. (Which now included a broom with a white brush, a chicken wing, and Wednesdays). But that was totally different from moping, cause she did not mope. Back to what mattered, Jade wanted to be super helpful and nice to the young girl. She watched Barbie, she knew all about girl solidarity.  There was less sway on her hips, now that gay thoughts were out of the way. “Yup, totes, hang on,” she reached inside her leather jacket, pulled out her phone, and handed it to the girl without wasting a moment. (And…Oh. Right. She should probably change her lockscreen too, if she was serious about moving on). “I’m Jade, by the way” she grinned, extending her hand, “and I can totally give you a ride if you have somewhere else to go. I was dropping off my friend”. 

Max was all poised to grab the woman by the wrist and end the whole thing right then and there. A solid scream would do it, just one yell. But… she happened to glance down at the phone, to catch sight of the lockscreen and find Regan’s face staring back up at her. The very sight of it filled her with a rage she didn’t quite understand, made treacherous emotions swirl in her stupid chest. Because it wasn’t fair, was it? None of it was bloody fair. 

Regan had no idea how lucky she’d been. In Saol Eile, she’d been treasured. She’d been a tool so often utilized, so much so that Max had often found herself envious in a way she’d never admit to. She was a better banshee than Regan was — a better banshee than Tina, too, though she felt less like bragging over that — and yet Regan had been desirable. A doctor, as if that wasn’t a shameful thing to be. So how was it fair that Regan could come here, to this stupid little town with these stupid little people, and find herself treasured all over again? How was it fair that some woman had Regan as her lockscreen on her phone in a way that was just as telling as it would have been to wear a locket with her photo around her throat? Max had known that Regan was a failure. But to this extent? 

A swift death with a single scream didn’t seem right anymore. Max was angry, though she shouldn’t have been. Max was annoyed, though she was above such things. Max wanted to make this stranger hurt because Max wanted to make Regan hurt, because nothing about any of this was fair. Regan should have to pay for everything she’d done, for betraying a people who had only ever been looking out for her.

The banshee’s smile was sharp, and she turned the phone to face the woman, lockscreen like an accusation. “She’s pretty,” she commented. “Shame she’s such a disappointment, isn’t it?”

“How do you know my name?” Van stared at her, keys dangling between pinched fingers. She’d seen on tik tok how to use them as a weapon, but was it fucked up to use them on another woman? Then again, she had killed two women. She was not the good person she wanted to pretend to be. She was a woman killer, all things considered– though, she hoped this wouldn’t be another. She willed the anxiety to subside, to not create a black hole beneath the girl in the chair that would ultimately swallow her whole. “I only have like, two best friends. Maybe three, or four. I don’t know.” The number was growing, but something told her that this stranger didn’t actually care about that. 

Van flattened her back against the door, sweat dotting the back of her neck as uncertainty made her stomach roll. She quickly grabbed her phone out of her pocket and texted Jade. Somebody is inside of Regan’s apartment. If this were anything like a horror movie, she’d look up from her phone and the girl would be standing in front of her with a knife or something. Van half expected it as she looked up from her home screen. “I um– do you– are you here for Thea? She doesn’t live here anymore.” Maybe this was all being blown out of proportion. Maybe the girl in the chair knew her because Thea actually had brought her over! Or, based on her accent, maybe this was a long lost cousin to Regan who was bringing her the postcards she had asked for! 

“Why wouldn’t I know your name, Van. Van, but not like the car!” Tina’s voice rose to a pitch that she thought her mother would’ve been proud of. Except what mummy dearest would be most proud of would be if she could murder this girl and clean up Regan’s giant mess. Regan had always made messes, and yet back home, people had like, worshiped her. Which made no sense. Not when she’d become a banshee when she was so old and, on top of everything, and been a traitor. Which was why Tina knew she had to murder the little girl in Regan’s mouse-less apartment. 

“Well, you could make that ‘or four’ into an ‘or five’ if you wanted to?” Tina bat her eyelashes before pushing herself up from the chair. “I’m here for you and Thea actually. Special double fun.” She began wandering around the apartment, turning on her heels every so often. “I wanted you both to show me fun together. Pretty please?” Her lips formed a perfect pout (she’d practiced, because apparently humans were easily swayed by this sort of thing). “I just wanted to have fun, and you’re so,” abhorrent, “like, totally gorgeous.” Her stomach turned at that, but she wouldn’t let that get to her. “So I think pretty people can have more fun than ugly people, right? Is that crass of me?”

Jade’s smile turned bittersweet, looking at the lock screen. “She’s my… we were…” Thanks to this stranger, at least she realized now, how weird it was to still have her picture there. And actually, her smile disappeared completely with the follow-up comment. Her gaze flickered to the girl. Rude? But also… familiar. “Um, she’s not a… why would you say that?” Jade didn’t particularly care, at this point. She’d decided to stall, cause the vibes were definitely not great anymore. Was it cause this girly had the nerve to insult her… Regan in a very specific way? Partly, but also, the accent, and the… slow heartbeat. And the fact that she’d been standing there the whole time while she and Van said goodbye. Fine, maybe she did have some of that slayer paranoia (Emilio might be proud).  

Possibly the worst (or best, depending where you looked it from) timing of all time, her phone lit up with a notification, Regan’s face coming to life again. Van. What could Van be texting about so soon after going inside? Did she forget something in Jade’s delivery box? She could see the preview easily, even if the stranger still had her phone. Somebody is inside of Regan… she read. Well, not anymore, technically. She looked up to the second floor. Finishing the equation: The stranger, the accent, the insult, someone inside Regan’s… apartment. And sure, it could all be a giant misunderstanding they could laugh about later, but for now, for Van, she’ll think of worst-case scenarios. “Change of plans!” she said cheerfully, beaming at the stranger. “My friend wants me to stay. We’re getting pizza, watching a movie. So, maybe I’ll call you an Uber or something, yeah? Here let me…” She reached for her phone, attempting to get it back. 

We were… Were what? Max could make some assumptions, of course, the kind that made disgust curl up like a living thing in her stomach. There was something else to it, too, something far uglier. 

For a moment, she remembered being a child. Young enough to remain unactivated, scampering around with Tina and aware of the massive weight of duty on her back even if she’d had no way to comprehend the magnitude of it just yet. She remembered the boy she and her sister used to play with, the way she’d loved him. She and Tina argued once about which of them would marry him someday. It was a childish notion, a foolish one. She should have known better. She still remembered the way it felt when their mother plunged the blade into that boy’s chest, still remembered her first scream bubbling up from her throat and ripping out of her mouth. 

Regan should have known better, too.

The only real shame to all this, Max thought, was that Regan couldn’t be here to witness it. She could have learned something from this, the same way Max and Tina had learned something from that worthless boy’s blood staining the grass. Maybe there was some way to pass along the lesson. Would Regan recognize Jade’s finger if Max brought it back to her? Or would an ear be a better option? 

The phone in Max’s hand lit up, and she glanced down to the notification. Ah. So the child upstairs had met Tina. Max made a mental note to chastise her sister later for not taking the child’s phone first. Tina was lucky that Max already had Jade occupied; otherwise, things could have gotten far messier. 

“Ah, ah, ah.” Max held the phone behind her back and out of reach with one hand. With the other, she pulled a long, thin knife from her pocket. “We’re only just starting to have fun, aren’t we? I’d hate for you to miss it. If you’re good, I’ll even take you to see Regan again.” Her eyes flickered down to Jade’s fingers, the sharp smile on her lips widening a little. “Parts of you, at least.”

Van winced at the increased pitch of the girl’s voice. Maybe she didn’t have a great memory, but Van felt like she remembered some things. Specifically girls, especially brunettes. She stared at the stranger, eager to match the face to a name she might have forgotten. Was this Diana’s friend? But then she’d mentioned Thea, and Thea had no idea Diana existed. If this were any less creepy then maybe Van would’ve fallen victim to the way the girl bat her lashes, but if there was one thing about Van, it was that she was perpetually anxious– always thinking that the person in front of her had ulterior motives. “I don’t…” 

She looked down at her phone to see if there was any response from Jade, but there was nothing. Disappointed, she texted again, come back and give me an excuse to leave!!!!  Van hoped that she’d get a reply. “That is kind of rude…” Van blinked at the girl, astonished by the way she didn’t seem to care about the implications of what she was saying. How could somebody be so rude? “I think I’m actually– you know, I’ll let um, I’ll let Thea know you came by? But I have to actually go back to work. My boss told me to come back.” She waved her now locked phone in front of her, reaching for the door knob. “Feel free to like, hang out!” She opened the door, making an attempt to slip through. 

This human was so lame. Not even finishing sentences. Tina wondered which part of her would be best to bring back to Regan. A clavicle was always nice. It would involve a decent bit of work too, which was fun. Not that Tina was here to have fun, but if she just so happened to have fun amidst everything else, that was a more than alright coincidence. 

“Why’s it rude if it’s true?” She batted her eyelashes at this useless waste of a child. She’d been close to a waste of a child, once. Though Tina firmly believed that she’d never been a waste. Her and Max’s mother had to have truly pleased Fate in order to be blessed with daughters, and so the little boy who they both fell in love with, whose freckles practically glowed in the sun, well, he had to die. Tina had nearly given herself a scar on her hand from her brief, stupid attempt to keep from screaming. She wanted to scream, though at first it had been more out of horror before it transformed into something beautiful.

“I don’t like liars.” She pouted. “Liars are awful, and what would Regan think if she knew that someone she loved,” Tina gagged, “was such a big baby of a liar?” Now Van was trying to slip through the door and Tina slammed it shut. “No. Nuh-uh. You’re not leaving. Well, you might, but by the time you leave you won’t be a-waare of it.” Her voice turned sing-song.

Ugh. Was there anything worse than someone absolutely killing the vibe? Well, her being killed, probably. (But it was a tight competition. Neck to neck). Jade sighed, letting the woman hold the phone away from her. Using her height to her advantage was a little rude too. The way she pulled a knife, though? Hot! Objectively speaking. Jade could still appreciate a slay. And right, the math. So this chick totally knew Regan then, but she didn’t exactly sound fond of her. Which was a total red flag. Who wouldn’t be fond of Regan? 

Wait. Was that… a threat to her fingers? As if this couldn’t get any worse. That was definitely a line being crossed. “Nuh-huh. These make people very happy, how about we negotiate different parts… I love banshees, you see. There’s no need for this to be an unpleasant affair…” Jade trailed off, hiding whatever nerves she might be feeling in an easy smile. She wasn’t worried about herself. Pft. If things got worse, she had that iron dagger Regan gave her concealed somewhere. (And actually… had Regan known something like this would happen?). But if she was being threatened with a knife, she didn’t wanna picture the same being done to Van. Van, who easily freaked out. Van, who melted chairs, and opened portals that swallowed people. Well, actually. Maybe that was exactly what they needed. But it wasn’t worth the risk. The longer she stayed chatting with the stranger (she didn’t even give a name, so rude) the chances of Van getting hurt increased.

“Look, I’m not the type of girl who pulls a knife on a pretty girl without their consent…” Instead of backing away, Jade approached, her eyes fixed on the woman, paying no attention to the knife in front of her. She let it poke against her abdomen, relying a little too heavily on the power of being a captivating speaker while she got a hold of the pommel on her back. “Unless they lack a heartbeat, I guess, then…fair game. Hey! What I’m trying to say here…I really don’t wanna hurt you. Certified banshee lover. Two out of two banshees prefer me. But—” she drew her iron dagger swiftly, and with a precise movement, she pushed it against the woman’s collarbone. Just the right pressure not to stab (she was a woman of her word). It would surely sting like a bitch, though. Jade clawed the back of her neck, keeping her in place. “I really want my phone back, and to check on my friend, pretty please? I don’t want this to go any deeper,” she taunted, with another jab of the blade.   

The fact that this woman even uttered the word banshee was proof enough of the depth of Regan’s failure. For a human to be able to recognize one of them on so few context clues was disgraceful, and Max felt a burning forest fire of anger simmering in her chest. How much had Regan told her? How many secrets had she whispered between bedsheets, betraying her people over and over again with soft touches and quiet declarations? Max hated her more in this moment than she’d ever hated anyone else before. She wanted to take Jade apart piece by piece in retribution, wanted to make sure Regan knew that she’d died in pain and suffering. She was not allowed to have say in whatever punishment Regan was handed by those in charge back in Ireland, but she could punish her with this. She could make sure Regan suffered through the people she’d clearly been foolish enough to allow herself to love. 

(Would Regan feel as Max had all those years ago when her mother’s blade found its home in the throat of a boy she’d been sure she loved? She barely remembered the feeling now, had forced away all the negative emotions associated with it in order to focus instead on the joy of activation, but Regan clearly didn’t possess such skills. For Regan, this would hurt the way Max wanted it to. There was some joy to be found in that.)

Her anger only increased when a blade was pressed against her throat; a blade of iron, if the burn was anything to go by. Had Regan shared this secret, too? Max’s lip curled up in an expression of disgust at the thought. “The dramhaíl you met in this town lost their right to call themselves banshees the moment they began spreading secrets to things like you,” she said lowly, tilting her head back slightly. There was no fear reflected in her eyes. If Max died here, it would only be because Fate willed it to be so. But… something told her she’d be just fine.

Quickly, she plunged the knife in her hand forwards, jerking her head back and away from Jade’s blade in the same fluid motion. She aimed to incapacitate rather than kill; Jade’s insolence and Regan’s affection for her had come together to forfeit any right the woman might have had for a swift death.

The mention of Regan made all of this fall apart. All of her previous thoughts about who this girl was practically blew up in her face. Van stared at the brunette, wide-eyed. What did she know about Regan? Was it really the postcards? Had Regan told her grandma about Van wanting to kick her in the knee? Were these Regan’s sisters? Nieces? Were they mad that she had suggested such a thing? No! Regan wouldn’t be a narc, not like that. She would definitely keep all of that a secret, right? “I’m not a liar. I just don’t think you’re very nice, and I don’t like not-so-nice people.” Van practically hissed out the words as she tried to put space between herself and the brunette. 

She slipped away from the door, stepping towards the table that now had mismatched chairs surrounding it. So much for the new chairs, they’d be destroyed anyway. “Something super bad is going to happen if you don’t leave.” Maybe something would swallow them both up. Would Regan be upset with her for killing a family member? Then again, Van didn’t even know if they actually were family. They didn’t look anything alike. 

Regan must have cared about this child. Tina found herself bristling at the thought. Not that she’d wanted Regan to care about her (that would be bad, to have someone like that care for her). Still, the fact that Regan had found people to care about just made Tina all the angrier, all the more ready to end this child’s life and send evidence of that to Regan. Maybe she’d splurge and get a sparkly ribbon. That would probably surprise Regan, and not in a fun way. “I am nice. Or, well, I can be.” Tina shrugged, “if I’m given enough reason to be.” Which as of right now, she was pretty sure she hadn’t been.

“Something bad will happen if I do leave, though.” Tina pouted. Well, bad for her. Maybe good for this child, though she was fairly sure it was considered bad like, in general. At least that’s what Max and their mother and everyone else back in Saol Eile. “Besides, I want to have fun with you.” She hadn’t said the word banshee, but if she had, then Tina would’ve had half a mind to snap her neck right then and there, even if it would ruin some beautiful bones. “So, you’re totally not getting me out of here, leathcheann. I really wouldn’t push your luck if I were you. Fate has a way of taking things into its own hands.”

The blade pricked against her abs as it went in, and Jade had to swallow the grunt scratching her throat, unwilling to give the stranger the satisfaction of seeing her in pain. (First the threat to her fingers, now going for her abs. It just felt a little homophobic, didn’t it? What did she have against her?). And like, it was hardly the worst way she’d ever been stabbed, but maybe she should save those thoughts and comparisons for when she wasn’t in fight mode, and she could really look at the wound. Which now felt sticky and warm against her shirt. UGH. Another shirt ruined.

“I really wish you hadn’t done that,” she whined, feeling the strain as she tried taking a full breath. Not too bad, still super annoying. She brandished her own dagger, forced to move past the sting. Alright, Jade had manners, she didn’t want to hurt this lady, like… at all. It felt super unnecessary and wrong to harm banshees after collaborating so vigorously with two of them, but she started it, okay? Surely they would understand if they were here. (But they weren’t here, were they? They choose to leave. She chose to leave) The reminder of their absence was enough to spark fire behind Jade’s eyes, she lunged forward, tackling the stranger to the ground. She was never too good at physical combat but she always did love a good tackle. The few seconds where the opponent tried to grapple with the fact that someone half their size pushed them on their back was a super nice ego boost. This girly wasn’t even like, vampire strong so… all the more fun. Not as fun? The freaking knife, still jabbing inside, cause Jade had to hand it to her, girly had a stubborn grip (babies would be jealous). Jade did not waste those precious seconds taunting her like she would’ve any other time, though. She sank her dagger with brutal strength into the girl's shoulder, pinning her there for a moment. She was not the main problem.     

Jade took full advantage of the adrenaline dump to get back on her feet and dash toward the apartment. Not a care in the world for her abdomen. (She was so gonna regret that. But, later) (What mattered now was Van). What if the intruder was more ruthless than the girl who tried to kill Jade? What if they didn’t enjoy a sassy little convo before getting down to it? There was no scream, that was good no? From either Van or the stranger, who Jade figured was another one of Regan’s extended family coming for a visit. (Also why were they here at all? Did they miss the memo that Regan and Siobhan were going back to Ireland? They were totally missing the welcome-back party). Jade didn’t make past the entrance before the sounds she dreaded to hear reached her ears: Commotion upstairs. Her heart raced against her chest, and her shallow breathing made it harder to calm it down. “VAN!?”

“I don’t think that’s true! Because somebody who is nice wouldn’t be making like, weird threats and stuff!” Van wasn’t exactly sure what this woman’s intentions were now that Regan had been brought into it. Didn’t the brunette know that Regan had left them for Ireland? Why was she here? What sense did that make? The whole postcards thing didn’t make sense either, because Regan was pretty adamant about Van not getting any, and it didn’t make sense to send somebody rude like the girl in front of her with them. Didn’t Regan know her better than that? Van didn’t like mean people! She’d been surrounded by mean people. 

“You are like, super confusing!” Van put some distance between herself and the brunette, eager to find another exit. There wasn’t one, but maybe she could lock herself in a room and then the girl would grow bored, and– 

She heard Jade’s voice from outside, desperate and terrified. It was unlike Jade to sound like either of those things, and Van bristled. Anxiety pulled like threads from her, rationalization collapsing upon itself as she finally understood that this was her in danger. “JADE!” Van echoed the older woman’s worry, throwing herself back towards the door. She grabbed the knob, yanking it open. Behind her, the floor of Regan’s apartment began to melt beneath the girl’s feet, and her own, too. She slipped, desperate to get out. Finally, the door was opened, and she pushed herself through, grabbing onto Jade’s arm as she shot out into the dusk. 

She wished she had a dagger on her. Well, she did have one, but the child was jumping about too much for Tina to potentially waste a good throw. Not right now. She’d find the girl later and take care of it then. She just hoped that Max wouldn’t be too pissed off at her. “Maybe it’s not a threat! Also, maybe threats can be sexy and cool!” Tina shrieked, ensuring that this child would go away with at least the slightest bit of ringing in her ears.

“I’m not confusing.” Okay, another shriek. Just for fun. This trip was mission-based, but if she had some fun hurting humans who mattered to Regan in the meantime, then she got some extra benefit out of it all.

Except then there was another voice and Tina didn’t like that. She didn’t like that one eensy-weensy bit. Jade. That was the name of whoever was on the other side of the door, and that was also the name of the human who covered everything to do with Regan all over the internet. It was revolting. She jumped out quickly after the girl – after both of the humans – before they disappeared and Tina double-timed it down the steps until she was outside. Her face in a deep scowl, she stomped over to Max. “Where the heck did they go? Is fuath liom na idiots sin! We need to go find them and take care of this.”

There was a moment of bliss as her blade slid into the woman’s stomach, and Max’s eyes danced with the joy of it. There were few sensations she enjoyed more than this, save for that which came with the life leaving a person’s body. But there’d be time for that, too, wouldn’t there? She’d cut Jade up into such small bits, make her an unrecognizable collection of fingers and toes and teeth and hair. She’d bring it all back to Ireland in a Ziplock bag, present it to Regan with a smile on her face. Would Regan feel it before the plane landed? Did she love Jade enough to scream for her from across oceans, continents away? Max wanted Regan to feel it. She really did.

Perhaps it was these thoughts that distracted her enough for Jade to get something of an upper hand. The wretched little rat surged forward, slamming into her and knocking her back. Max kept hold of the knife all the while, giving it a vicious twist that was only half involuntary as her back hit the concrete. Then, there was the burning pain of an iron knife in her shoulder, and the weight on top of her vanished as Jade ran into the building. Max let out a scream, shaking the streetlamps and shattering the windows of the nearby buildings. 

This wouldn’t do. This wouldn’t do at all. By the time Max got back to her feet, Jade and the child had vanished, and Tina was circling around to meet her outside. “You should have killed it,” Max snapped, gripping her bleeding shoulder. “Did you even draw blood? Ugh. It doesn’t matter. Come on. We can’t leave this job unfinished. But, Palatine? I’m killing Jade. You can take the infant. If you think you can handle it.”

Without leaving room to argue, Max grabbed her sister by the arm and pulled her forward. They had unfinished business to settle.

[kadavernagh]

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Outside Regan's old cabin PARTIES: Regan and Jade SUMMARY: Regan and Jade reunite. CONTENT: Unsanitary tw, some intense injury descriptions

It’s not as bad as it looks.

The trees all had their leaves now, and even with the barrier of the canopy, sunlight still reached the ground, letting in more life than any of the thick windows in Saol Eile, and any of the matching ones lining the cabin. When the once-familiar place came into view, Regan’s legs grew unsteady, and she had to stop. Exhausted. She was exhausted. That was all. Where else was she going to go? Not Elias. Wynne, too, would need to recover, even if it was in a different sense than her butchered presumably former-friend. The ham child was in mourning. Jade was not in her apartment. Van was in Regan’s old apartment, and would be terrified by the intrusion. Regan considered walking into the morgue or Sly Slice, but she hadn’t showered in days, her clothes had brown bloodstains (how kind the airport security did not care), and her hair looked like she’d run her latex gloves through it for an hour. The morgue might think she was dead. Actually, perhaps that wasn’t a bad outcome. She would get a bath. 

Regan strained up the simple staircase – a few planks of wood, if they could be called stairs – and stood there, staring at the door like it was something she’d never seen in her life (do you know what a door is, Siobhan had asked, and maybe she didn’t). Once again, she shook the exhaustion away. What had stopped her? Right, she did not have a key. All this way, looking like the walking dead (but unfortunately not feeling like it), and she forgot that she no longer had a key. Maybe that was for the best, because the tremor that had run through her legs now reached her arms and her chin. With a quiet whuff, Regan placed her bag on the ground, sat herself on the stairs, and closed her eyes. She wouldn’t fall asleep here. She knew what was out there (or at least knew enough to know that she did not know what was out there), and without her screams rattling these woods for a month, wildlife probably surged back into the area. She’d wait for an hour, she decided. And then she would leave, try something else. Regan nearly choked, thinking about the words, the promises she and Jade had exchanged, rings in their hands and lemmings by their side. Jade had the nerve to compare what they had to Fate, and Regan had the nerve to agree. So this would put it to the test. If Jade was meant to show up here, if this was Regan’s future, not the one she had just left behind across the sea, Jade would come. And if not, Regan had enough life left in her to make it back into town and figure something else out (probably).

What Regan did not have, however, was a phone, or any other way to tell time.

And what she did have, was an overestimation of her ability to not fall asleep after everything that happened over the last few days, with a full day of travel on top of it. The woods were not the bottom of a lake, they were not an old banshee jail with iron bars, and they were not next to the bedroom of a woman who told her she breathed too much. The woods, even if they did not deliver her Jade to her, would offer the best sleep she’d had all month.

———

Maybe it was the fact that she’d made this very trek about a dozen times already, but Jade was finally starting to reach a level of ‘unbothered’ when it came to her cabin in the woods. Especially now, with the sun setting, letting life take on different colors around her as she went along the path. Like a cute little postcard. (One that she would have sent… If…) And like, sure, the forest sucked for multiple reasons, but she wasn’t gonna pretend it couldn’t be a gorgeous gorgeous girl when the light hit just right, okay?

Her visit was meant to be short anyway, only two things to check off her list once she reached her destination: First, to feed Snickers some ramen, and catch up a little bit. (Maybe bribe another excerpt of Regan’s journals out of the pixie), and second, to grab another knife (or two) for a night of hunting. She was getting a little sloppy, leaving too many of those behind. (Cause… that was the worst she’d done these past few weeks).  

But nope! Jade was not pondering on those horrors, even if some bruises still refused to go. Cause she was back to living in the present and all, so instead of making herself sad for no reason, she hummed a little tune under her breath as she marched on. (Funky town, to be precise). And when the cabin came into view, she was totally relieved, cause it meant she was like, even closer to getting back in town and fulfilling her duty. 

There was… a different vibe about tonight, though. And by vibe she meant, something was obstructing the door. Ugh. Was this another banshee trying to chop her in tiny parts just for being super lovable? Or maybe it was someone close to… any of the undead she’d been messing with, tracking her for revenge. Yikes, somehow the latter was the worst of the two scenarios. Jade had to get closer to decipher what exactly she was looking at. (Ooooh! A package? Except… no way Amazon delivered out here) (And she didn’t order anything anyway). 

She stared a little longer at the silhouette by her doorstep. And the bag. There was a bag on the side, but who cared about that? All Jade could focus on was the adorable lump, with streaks of white hair sticking out. (Not unlike her old broom). She’d recognize that lump anywhere. She… That was— Her heart seemed to get it before her eyes and her head connected the dots, cause it pounded wild against her chest, almost as if one muscle alone could propel her forward from the sheer strength it pounded with. 

Not a banshee, then. Her banshee. Regan. 

Regan.

She jogged, nope, she sprinted the final stretch, cause… were they even a decent love story if there was no dramatic running? Taking it slow would’ve suited her muscles better, but slow meant one more second Jade didn’t have Regan in her arms. And that just… didn’t work for her. The times when she tried to be chill about her love were gone the moment Regan put a ring on her finger. All in, or bust.

Jade reached the steps a beat later, kneeling down to Regan’s height. It was an awkward angle, the plank was stabbing her shin, and she couldn’t fully wrap her arms around Regan the way she desperately needed to, but what was a little bit of discomfort when Regan was here again? She kept herself upright, a palm flat on the top step, and her left hand reached up, shaky fingertips rediscovering Regan’s face. All jokes aside, Jade had no illusions that she’d ever get to do this again, brush her hair, cup her cheek. The rock solidifying in her throat was a reminder of that. She thought she’d lost this. Forever. 

But it was hardly a fairytale reunion. Shockingly no tears came, but Jade’s gaze soon hardened, the more it traveled across Regan’s face. She had seen more liveliness in the undead she hunted. What hell did those… nope, play nice. What horrors did Regan witness? How much did she punish her body? Did Regan even have a second to close her eyes in Ireland? She doubted those old farts believed in sleep. And, how many hours had Regan been out here waiting all uncomfy sitting on narrow steps?  

“Regan” Jade choked, and someone would’ve definitely made fun of how quiet she sounded. If said someone had been awake, of course. And okay, maybe not. Cause there was a brokenness to her voice that would’ve had Regan panicking. “Baby,” Jade’s fingertips danced across her love’s pale skin, face still buried between her knees, and lifted it just enough to press warm lips against a cold forehead. It didn’t stir Regan awake either. And as much as Jade was vibrating for Regan to be here with her, she didn’t have the heart to disturb her sleep. 

(Regan was here, by the way. She was going with the vibes right now, but she’d fully have to process that later).

Jade considered picking her up and carrying her inside (as if they needed more marriage imagery), and just waiting it out. But could Jade fully trust her body yet? Not really, not when it felt like she was still recovering from… oh, that was irrelevant. (A nightmare month to put it mildly). But then, heavy eyelids fluttered slowly, revealing a disoriented gaze, and Jade waited (she always did, always would), until recognition dawned behind her favorite blue eyes. Her belly swooped, nay, somersaulted when their eyes met.

Funny. Funny cause it was Regan who had opened her eyes, but it was Jade’s body that felt awakened, her lungs thawed, finally taking on crisp air, her heart racing to that beat only reserved for Regan, her skin buzzing for connection. Regan woke up, but it was Jade who felt like she was seeing the world again. “Hi,” she tried again, cut off immediately by arms wrapping over her shoulders and Jade could only melt forward, angle be damned. She buried her face in the crook of Regan’s neck, a shiver running down her spine, responding to Regan’s fingers tangling in her hair. Her hand trailed down to Regan’s shoulder, to her arm, squeezing. Real. She was real. Wearing her jacket too, apparently. Her chest swelled with love, shuddering to let some of it out.

“Oh, you’re here” she whispered, trailing up to Regan’s face again. She stroked her cheek, her jaw, recalling her favorite path. “You’re here… you’re…” The arm keeping her from laying all her weight on Regan trembled and Jade pulled away, there were equally important things to do, anyway. Like losing herself (or finding herself, really) in Regan’s eyes. In her head, they still sparkled the way they did when she last saw her, even if there were more pronounced eye bags around them. Ireland hadn’t taken that away from her. Regan hadn’t reverted or been rebooted to ‘instrument’ mode. And oh, right… she was gonna do something about them kneeling. Begrudgingly, Jade moved away, helping Regan get on her feet too. There was so much she needed to say and do, that she wasn’t sure how to proceed. (Nobody ever prepared you for your big love to come back after all hope was lost, actually) (Maybe she’d be the one to write that book). So she found herself quiet instead, letting gravity do its thing. When everything else failed, their bodies still knew what to do. She tipped forward until their foreheads touched, her hands itching did another round of exploration. She caressed Regan’s face longer this time, without a rush, traveling down shoulders and arms, until she grasped her hands, looking down at them. 

She noticed the ring. She felt it, as their fingers tangled, but her heart pounded with dread at the thought of turning Regan’s palms up, searching for new scars. Later. Cause Regan was here (did she mention that?), with her. And it was perfect the way it was, even…

“You need a shower” she huffed out a laugh. A real one, not the ‘see I’m totally fine’ giggle she’d been using lately. And look, personally she didn’t give a flying f…udge how long Regan had been marinating, but she knew from experience how crappy it felt to go around with dry blood on you. (Should she be worried?) (Um. Whose…blood was it, actually?) 

And like, maybe the cabin wasn’t anyone’s ideal place for some R&R (certainly not hers), but it had enough. Ever since she and Van got rudely attacked for being adorable, she’d try making the place more lively. In case of an emergency sort of way. “Can I take care of you?” She asked, softly. There was a huge problem with her request though, which was, that Jade didn’t wanna let go yet. Her hands had settled in her favorite spot, wrapped around Regan’s lower back. She would have to be pushed away, plain and simple. “I have… more than an over ripe banana inside. And like, there’s water… and um, your Baxter State Park shirt,” she pointed out, nuzzling Regan’s cheek. 

Jade didn’t wanna speed up any of this. They had so much to talk about, she knew that. Part of it scared her. Part of her wasn’t sure if she’d be able to handle it (she, the toughest girl in the world, terrified of the pain Regan had endured). But it could wait. They had… nope, not forever, obviously. But time. So much of it, actually. And she needed all of it.  

———

The first thing Regan registered was warmth – warmth pressed against her body, brushing against her forehead. She hadn’t been dreaming. There was only a long dark tunnel that she was emerging from, the world shifting into focus. She could smell (hear? no) Jade and… pine? Regan’s nose wrinkled. She blinked a couple times, bleary, seeing dark clouds of death wafting on the breeze, streaming like ribbons. Her mind supplied possibilities. Rabbit. Raccoon. Skunk. Porcupine… okay, she was there. Awake. Outside. Cabin, right. Regan blinked one more time, actually waking up, that cloud dissipating as her eyes filled blue. And she stared into huge, shiny hazel ones, color shifting by the second, and almost screamed. Her heart burst into her throat instead. “Jade!”

Regan lunged before either of them could breathe, ignoring her body’s complaints and hooking her arms around Jade’s (it was her it was Jade) neck and pulling her close, selfishly into what looked like a rather uncomfortable position. Jade didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she was… palpating Regan’s shoulder and arm like a first year medical school student? A little weird. Well, weird for Jade to do it. Regan would palpate freely, expertly, and without judgement. “You’re real, right? Checking. Based on experience–” The hot breath against her neck answered that question. Dream Jades were nice – when she wasn’t busy resenting them and they weren’t found at the bottom of a lake – but they never behaved like this; they never wanted her so much. Regan’s brain stuttered at everything. None of it felt real but there was every indication that it was. Shouldn’t she follow the evidence?

Also, it was… dark, or getting there. She figured it had been morning when she came out here – close to noon, maybe, but how long had she been sleeping? (How long had Jade been here?) The sun was gathering close to the horizon, well past the point of any magnificent, romantic sunset colors. And… it was hard to tell in the dwindling light, but Jade’s lip seemed swollen. No, it definitely was. Regan was an expert on the subject matter (not the swelling, but actually that, too).

Feeling Jade’s touch, hearing her voice again, made Regan’s heart swell like she had cardiac edema. Upon autopsy she probably would have realized it was love and gratitude, but she wasn’t a Medical Examiner at the moment. She wasn’t sure what she was. She thought Jade had been lost to her, that everything had been lost to her. (No, it was just almost everything, none of which mattered this very second.) Regan allowed Jade to guide her to her feet; she was still sluggish and exhausted, and apparently not the only one. Why was Jade moving so stiffly right now? She had been careful, right? Shouldn’t– Jade’s hands found their familiar places, and as their foreheads met, the half-thought became only a long sigh. Peace unlike any she’d felt in weeks settled over her. This was real. This was home. She made it.

Regan couldn’t recall the last time she helped someone to their feet, but she was decently sure it didn’t involve running your hands down their body afterward. She had been gone a month. Maybe things changed, though certainly not between the two of them. It wasn’t like she was about to let go of Jade any time soon – they had to make up for a lot of days without this. Regan’s bones felt malleable and marrowless but she could definitely lean, and as Jade’s hands so easily reminded her what she’d been missing, she rolled her head against Jade’s, riding her heartbeat. Somewhere in the ballpark of 120 bpm. “Your heart is racing,” she was insultingly quiet, and more pleased than concerned. Jade’s well-intended hands circled around healing wounds, and Regan’s muscles tightened for a flickering second. She hadn’t decided how she was going to address that yet. Hadn’t decided anything in the last 5 minutes (600 heartbeats). So she swallowed the throb and let Jade’s gentle hands skim over her bicep, by pure chance (or at least her eyes being elsewhere entirely) missing the hole in the jacket. Her hands found Regan’s ring instead, and Regan couldn’t quite decipher Jade’s expression. Maybe the fact Regan braced herself for the need to pull her hands away had something to do with that. It wasn’t necessary though. And as Regan’s fingertips brushed over the other set of hands and heart she had given Jade, the kind around her finger, she lingered there. “Soggy of you. You didn’t even know I was coming back.” And she still wore it. Regan poked at the ring. Jade made the old thing shine. 

She stared into Jade’s eyes for a long time – how long, she couldn’t say, but who cared? – and wondered if anyone else saw them so bright. Not… not in the same context, necessarily. Anyone. Anyone at all. But was there someone? Right, the drowned– no, drenched ring. Regan could only imagine what the last month had been like for her. And now wasn’t the time to ask, but… slowly, she slid her hand out from Jade’s, raising it to give that swollen lip a light touch. “You’re off the hook for now, but tell me later, okay?” There was a later now. It struck her as she said it.

Regan took an unsteady breath, but her throat was a little less dry now (et al). “I– I went to your apartment first. You didn’t come. One of your roommates – blue hair – told me to leave – can you believe that? A human telling me to – and that she didn’t know where you went. So I came here, because I thought you might – I wasn’t sure if you were using this place.” A shiver scurried across her back, making it tighten in pain. She wasn’t sure if it was the way Jade’s hands probed at tired muscles, or the thought of the cabin itself. Either way, she would bury it in the folds of her brain like a cemetery plot in favor of at least 69 other things. There was even a list to organize those for her (the list needed organizing first).

Regan didn’t have very much right now. Not only in terms of what she was carrying in her bag stuffed with airport purchases, but in general. She did have Jade, though. She still did. She reached for and into the bag, inching past some dried fruit, trail mix (no m&ms left), and the bandages, until she fished out exactly what she had been looking for. The paper was wrinkled and not exactly free of bloodstains or water damage, but she had it. What more did she need? 

“I got your letter.” She looked up, the bags under her eyes dark enough to be orbital ecchymosis, breath hitching enough to be a sob, pathetic enough to be a human, but with hope in her eyes. The letter couldn’t have been more clear. Jade wanted her back and wanted Regan to know that. But would that change if she knew what happened to Elias? Or Wynne? The ham child? Her breathing picked up too much too fast at the thought and she sputtered, very un-banshee-like (which was fine, because she was not a banshee, was she?). “I made so many mistakes. I don’t know where to…” Elias had been all but silent on the flight back. The ham child grieved. It was only Wynne who saw Regan’s uncertainty and was able to meet it with their own judgement, the kind that healed. And now Jade took all of her remaining uncertainty and filled the cracks. Take care of… so much for all of that self-sufficiency that had been drilled into her. Regan swallowed back the rest of what was climbing her throat, and pointed at the door. “I should start with that shower, right?”

Because Jade was right about that; she smelled, and not in the tasteful, decomposition sort of way. (I’m always right sounded off in her head.) Except… when Regan stared at the door of the cabin, it still put scalpels in her belly. Couldn’t she just– come on. Leanbh, come– she looked to Jade at the right moment, cutting herself off, offering an alternative. She’d go in if Jade was there. And she was there. So she would go. She was tired enough that her body didn’t fight her any more.

What greeted her was both familiar and not. Inside, there were weapons. Rows and rows. Swords and axes gleaming as they lined the walls, a crossbow on the table, wooden stakes piled in an open trunk. Regan froze like her leg had been caught in a bear trap. Her daggers were buried underground in a casket miles away, or across the sea, depending on their use. She never wanted to see them again; that was one of the other few things she was certain of right now. These weren’t those daggers, she reminded herself, but they… she could only think of Jade using them. Of the things she went after that demanded such heavy artillery. Of her hands knowing how to use each and every one of these to lethal effect. Of how dangerous all of it was and how sharp these blades would be against human flesh. Regan tried to hide the instinct to slink back out, because some things were too complicated to explain or even understand for herself. When she turned toward the bathroom, they were out of sight, but the image of the axes burned behind her eyes like harsh sunlight beamed off of them. Add that to the list. Not the list in the letter. A new list of things that Regan needed to know about. She had a churning feeling in her stomach that she would keep discovering more.

Regan wasn’t sure if Jade would know to give her privacy or not. Regan wasn’t even sure if she wanted it. She knew she didn’t want to split off again. In fact, she couldn’t right now. It dredged up the lake, the way her hand knew better than she did, because it was familiar with both the sharpest failures and most unconditional affection. Regan looked at Jade with a new kind of weariness in her voice. “First aid kit. Where is it? It’s not – my shirt isn’t my blood. I mean, most of it. The front– but I need the kit, for after.” She looked sideways at Jade’s purple, puffy lip again. “Were you careful enough to not need it yourself?” Her eyebrow managed a small rise. Regan released a shaky breath, “I’m going to shower and–” Clean these up. “I’ll be with you soon?” She offered Jade the best reassurance she could: the smallest, tightest smile (she did remember how), and she kept the door open a crack, because the thought of closing it with Jade on the other side made her heart seize… and, fine, hearts couldn’t do that, technically, but this had to be a close approximation.

———

Another laugh tumbled from her lips. The kind that totally would’ve hurt her ribs a few days ago. Cause, right…nope, um, forget about the blunders, the oversights, the boo-boos. Forget about that second accident (the wrong kind of blonde accident) tipping her closer to a full-blown breakdown. Anywhoosies, Jade had no reason to care about the past, when her focus could fully return to her present. To Regan. Who sounded the perfect mix of smug and dazzled to realize her heart was wilding. Oh, how Jade loved her. Why did she ever let her go? (It was rhetorical, thank you). “You’re not supposed to call me out on it,” she rolled her eyes, playfulness twinkling in them. “Whose fault is it, huh?” She gave Regan’s hips a light squeeze. The way her body seemed to tighten every now and then wasn’t lost on Jade, and she wasn’t insecure to believe this was a reaction to her touch. (Puh-lease). But she tried not to dwell on the why yet. Later.

And Regan was full of callouts, apparently. Except this was totally hypocritical, cause she was wearing her ring too so? Pot meet kettle! (She was calling dibs on the kettle, even though sonically, the opposite felt more accurate). Her face fell momentarily, cause Regan was messing with her, obviously, but she was right. There was a time when Jade didn’t know she was coming back. There was a time, post cryptic message, that she thought she’d received the wrong kind of goodbye message. That something had gone so south there was no coming back from it. It was fueled by Elias’ online disappearance and Wynne’s growing hopelessness in every update. Could anyone blame her? 

She exhaled a puff through her nose, intended to be a laugh. She could get back in the mood, again! No dwelling allowed until Regan said so. “You like me soggy…” she licked her lips (ouch), which Regan seemed to be focused on too. When did she not, really. But this time concern was etched across her face. Later, Jade pleaded in her head, or maybe it shone in her eyes too, cause Regan’s fingertips were healing against her mouth, putting a pin in another convo. “Yes ma’am,” she agreed, even if she knew Regan might get mad later. She’d rather have her mad here, where she could protect her than away where… nope. LATER.

There were a few things they could talk about, even if Jade would rather hold onto Regan for the rest of the night. And the following day, and… She scoffed at the mention of her roommate, Kelsey, as Regan went on to explain the little journey after landing in Wicked’s Rest soil. “I’ll have to update you on my living situation, it’s been a little… different while you were away,” but that part went to the later category. Cause she’d have to go into Elias (how was he, by the way?), and then the banshees, and then Van. Nope. 

Reluctantly, Jade let Regan’s hands go, cause she needed them or whatever, to reach for her bag. Was she craving that banana? Really? Did she not see how brown— Oh… Jade watched her pull out a familiar paper sheet. But like, weren’t all paper sheets familiar? Duh, she knew what this one was about: Her emergency letter. Except it looked just as rough, if not more than Regan did. Why was it so stained? Jade shook her question away, her eyes bright with confidence. “I meant every word. You and me, if you want it.” This didn’t need a later. This wouldn’t change even if Regan told her she killed her granny with her bare hands. (In fact, she might even cheer a little bit for that). 

Something about the letter in her hands was giving Regan some nasty flashbacks though, and Jade wondered how the letter was attached to negative memories. (What was the emergency that led to her opening it, actually?) Jade felt Regan’s sobs in her own lungs, in her ribcage, rattling her. So much for her heart slowing down. This had to be studied, surely. How much Regan affected her. She couldn’t see Regan like this, but it was unavoidable. Ireland had been hell on earth, that was pretty obvious. Her hand was steady, her thumb caressing Regan’s face. She would love to crack a joke and find excuses for every single thing that Regan claimed to be a mistake. Turning it into some sort of girlboss moment. She was a pro at twisting situations and absolving herself from fault. She’d do it for Regan too. Except… She figured Regan would wanna atone. (She was honorable, unlike her). So instead, she spoke gently. “You can tell me about them… when you’re ready.”

But first, a shower, Jade nodded in agreement. Without letting Regan’s left hand go, she pulled out the keys inside her pocket and opened the door. She guided her inside slowly, stopping when Regan froze behind her. Jade turned, picking on the apprehension swimming in her eyes, as she observed her old cabin repurposed as an armory. Something stirred inside her. Jade didn’t like that look. Was the amount of weapons wrong? Was it the variety? The organization? And why did one uncertain look from Regan have Jade wishing she could throw every single weapon into the bottom of a lake? (She wouldn’t) (Couldn’t. Geez, she had to get a grip). She gave Regan’s hand an encouraging squeeze, waiting. 

Eventually, Regan let go of whatever was holding her back at least enough for them to make it to the bathroom. And… not that Jade would ever entertain living in the cabin but one of the things she loved most was having a bathroom all to herself at all times, if it was her wish. Since that banshee attack, she’d brought some of her own stuff into the bathroom as well. It ended up being super useful actually, for those nights when she was extra bloody or covered in zombie sludge and felt bad about going back to Elias’ place. So Regan might find some hair products and fancy soaps if she were to want that. She didn’t know when the last time Regan had felt soap bubbles on her skin was, but by her estimation, it had to be days. Maybe more, she wouldn’t put past those weirdos in Ireland to bathe in some questionable stuff. 

She was gonna suggest using her products actually, but oh, Regan looked at her like she wanted her to leave and… Jade didn’t understand. Wasn’t a month of agony enough? She pointed at the small cabinet, quietly answering Regan’s question about the first aid kit. What was going on? Jade really tried not to look like a kicked puppy but it wasn’t her fault she had giant wet eyes. And, UGH. Alright, unfortunately not everything was about her all the time. This definitely had nothing to do with her. Regan didn’t wanna be watched, not now at least, not the way she’d learned to enjoy Jade’s attention. 

And that was fine, (wrong, but fine), but leaving? “Nuh-uh, nope,” she blurted out, reeling from what felt like rejection. She waited, gaze fixed on Regan’s. Hoping she'd understand how much she needed this. That there was no playfulness behind her words, no teasing smirk, no quirked eyebrow. “I’m not going anywhere,” I don’t think I could, was what she meant.

Jade could definitely chill by the toilet, right? She wasn’t even gonna suggest getting in with her, which would’ve been what the Jade from 2023 would’ve done. The staring continued, her eyes shifting from hurt to confusion. But Regan seemed to go back on her words, not kicking her out yet. Okay… tentative, Jade approached. The thing about approaching Regan, it was always magnetic, her body shifted to fit what first demanded her attention. For now? Removing the jacket, Jade’s gift. She reached for the lapels slowly peeling them away, finally noticing the hole in the fabric. Her brows furrowed. Later. More things to add to the list. (Not the letter, the list of things they had to discuss). Regan was resisting now, standing in the middle of the bathroom, only her shirt keeping her injuries a secret. And Jade had a rock lodged in her throat. What was Regan scared of showing her?

She grabbed the hem, but let Regan dictate how much help was needed. Jade pinched the fabric at the arms, gingerly making space for Regan to slide her arms, one after the other. Until all that was left was the neck, which Jade helped pull over her head, revealing Regan’s naked torso.

Oh. 

Jade took in the injuries with the eye of a slayer, quiet and observant (a bloody bandage on her upper arm, a dirty one on her stomach). Injuries were nothing she hadn’t seen before. But these she felt like they were her own. Her heartbeat raised even higher, her throat burned, fingertips zapped with the need to do something. Bring justice to this. But there was no one to pay for it in front of her. Only Regan. Instinctually she tried turning Regan around, checking her back for other potential injuries, but the recoil was instant. Crap. Jade beat herself up for it and retreated, bowing for a second and then looking up at Regan. She hoped the anger boiling in her chest, no doubt showing in her eyes at whoever caused those injuries wasn’t misinterpreted. She wouldn’t ask for answers. Not until Regan was ready. 

An apology bubbled in her throat. Not that it could get out with the giant knot obstructing it. What was she sorry for, exactly? She could've stopped this before it even happened. That was it. She let Regan go away in the name of what, exactly? Respecting her decisions? Duty? Screw that, actually. She should've been more toxic. She should’ve fought her, leaving things in the worst place if it meant Regan knew where she stood about going back to Ireland. She didn’t apologize, nope. But she let the tears fall in silence, realizing they were the first real ones since they reunited (she lasted a lot longer than she’d thought!) 

It did feel like the oxygen was getting sucked out of the room exponentially the more she stared at Regan’s bandages, though. It was hypocritical of her, in a way that was strange. Cause it was like, weirdly self-aware. She had been battered, shot, and stabbed in a matter of days. Regan getting hurt? That was as wrong as people who put cereal before milk.  

But even with the vestiges of violence peppered across Regan's body, Jade still marveled at the sight. Cause it was Regan in front of her. Real. Back in her life. And…how was she real, actually? How did she exist for Jade to look at, for her touch, for her to love? She did, for whatever reason. And Jade’s mission here, to love her, was the simplest thing in the world. Easy peasy. She would not fail at it. It was hard to fail when something came to her as natural as breathing. (She didn't want to question why hunting had never felt as breezy, if that was what she was born to do). 

“I'm gonna give you a kiss,” Jade whispered, rubbing Regan’s ring finger invoking the tacit promise they’d made to each other. Her lips ghosted over Regan’s, faint, just a brush, cause it was all her bruises could take. She so needed more than this, but the small action seemed to bring a small sense of relief in both of them. “I love you,” she kept thinking of what Regan was hiding under those bandages, of what she was hiding on her back, of what she was carrying in her heart. But a shower first. A shower would do her good. She could help with that. “Hands on my shoulders,” she instructed, with a smile a millimeter shy of becoming suggestive. Incorrigible. She reached to unbutton her pants, hunched to slide them down (ignoring both the weight of Regan’s hand on her injured shoulder, and the resistance from what was likely a broken rib on the mend), and finished helping Regan out of her dirty clothes and into the tub. 

She itched to get inside help further but she had done enough, Regan needed some me time. “I’ll be here, on the toilet. I can hum for you, I can tell you about Lu and Mel. I’d offer my silence, of course… but you had 30 plus days of that, I have to make up for lost time,” she turned around when she heard the first splash of water, giving Regan her privacy, and busying herself with something else. What…oh! Right. She grabbed both first aid kits. They hadn’t been used much until the week before. So Regan would have enough to work with. And… um, she could give her space for that. She could leave if that was needed, look from the door like a needy cat, eyes on the ground as Regan patched herself up again. She could do that. And then later… Later. 

———

The bathroom door was half-closed for only a fraction of a second before Regan heard it push open behind her, Jade trailing in, her eyes so shiny and wet they reflected every bit of light this place had to offer. If Regan was supposed to be annoyed… she just wasn’t. Relief pooled in her sinuses instead. Maybe this complicated things, what Jade would see, but Regan suddenly didn’t like doors very much. Disliked them, actually, even worse than a certain someone’s prickly white beard hairs that ended up everywhere. What were they good for, anyway, doors? Privacy? Who needed– okay, privacy was one of Regan’s favorite things. A hobby, even, along with yogurt and looking for dead fish that washed up on the beach. Yes, those were the three. But when Jade was on the other side of the door, all bets were off. She’d dislike yogurt if it stood between them. Add the Atlantic Ocean to the list, too. Besides, Jade looked… wounded. And it wasn’t the same as the stiffness she’d been walking around with (or the purple of her lip, more obvious than ever under the bathroom lighting). I’m not going anywhere. Regan gave her a sideways look, then a nod of understanding. “You and me,” she confirmed. She found herself drifting closer to Jade, because that’s where her body always tugged her. Even death was just a whine in her ear in comparison. 

Regan didn’t fight Jade’s fingers on her jacket – or… well, their jacket? – and her arm felt decent enough that she didn’t flinch as the leather bunched off. But standing there in her shirt, the one that might as well have been Elias’s shirt for all the blood he left on it, made her skin rise with chills that seemed to poke up from beneath. This was why Jade was initially left on the other side of the door. But Jade knew. She saw it without seeing it. She probably collected more injuries than Regan had on a daily basis given the teeth and claws on those spawn (actually, she couldn’t think about that right now – and the weapons). And what else was Regan going to do, keep Jade’s hands off of her? Never again. Even Putrecia’s haggish hands on her cheek had made her long for Jade’s touch. And that was only a single day since she’d last had it. So… Regan’s hand hooked onto Jade’s hip as Jade reached for her shirt. It wasn’t that kind of touch (soon, though?) and she was under no illusion as to why her shirt was about to come off, but she pulled Jade a little closer, for the simple reason that she could.

Her hand had to drop only a moment later (more painful than the gash on her stomach) but it had been worth it. She didn’t particularly need help here… she thought, until her shirt rode up along her back and she tamped down on her lip to keep from making a sound. Jade seemed to sense it anyway and slowed, helping with the final stretch. Something started crumbling in her stomach, some pit forming, deep as a grave, at this kind of help.

It only grew as Jade looked over her. No surprise seemed to register, which was a relief, at least. Jade had anticipated something like this, surveying it with the kind of look she’d expect from a professional, and– Regan whuffed out a breath and was about to reach for Jade’s hip again, reassure her that it was fine, not as bad as it looked, but then Jade tried to turn her by the shoulder and Regan jumped back, wide-eyed, like she’d just dodged a swipe from one of the swords now lined up in the cabin like a row of soldiers. “What are you doing? That isn’t– you can’t. Not that.” Jade’s response was as quick as Regan’s and she dropped away accordingly like she’d been whipped. Regan looked in her eyes and, sure, there wasn’t shock, but the green of her irises brightened while the browns grew darker than Regan had ever seen them. 

Who hurt you, Jade had asked when they met – a joke, a quick reply online. Now Regan saw the same question howling across Jade’s face, fury where there had previously been amusement, in an utterly different context. Regan was not as confused this time. She couldn’t say no one.

For a second, Regan wasn’t sure what was happening. They fell into silence. Guilt dribbled through her like the worst fondue, or like blood guzzling from an arterial wound, chased by the urge to apologize. Like she said, she had made so many mistakes. And now Jade was looking at some of them, probably feeling something parallel (not guilt, though, Regan figured, since there would be no rationale for that – rage was more likely). “It’s not as bad as it looks.” She said it out loud now. And it was true, wasn’t it? A little? Her arm was fine; her stomach was getting there, slowed only by the material of the blade. It was her back that throbbed with an unfamiliar pain and filled her with humiliation. 

The kiss Jade announced immediately became one of Regan’s favorites, putting all concern to rest. It was barely there, Jade’s lips probably hurting (so maybe not all concern), but Jade was so soft, everything about this so wonderfully familiar and taken away from her for so long (by herself…), and Jade’s breath filled her with happier memories. Everything hurt just a little bit less. Regan reached out with a tired hand, searching for Jade’s. She cupped her other hand over Jade’s, ring over ring, and took a moment to appreciate the warmth of her favorite person against her skin. “I love you. Is fiú níos mó ná gach cnámh ar domhan tú.” She mustered a small, tight smile again. “Not a single bone is better, that means. Except for the ones your skeleton consists of, perhaps, but those will be mine, hm? You’re not rescinding that now that I’m back, are you?” She knew the answer because she felt it in her bones. Also… back. She was back. That hadn’t completely sunk in yet. Had it hit Jade yet? 

Regan would have been satisfied standing in the middle of the bathroom, covered in dirt and blood for years so long as she was able to keep holding Jade’s hand. But Jade had more sense (odd; Regan’s brain was just unusually sluggish right now though) and could see what Regan couldn’t: the exhaustion, her wobbling legs, the fact there was blood on her jeans, too. So Regan trusted her… Jade (associate didn’t seem right – perhaps not collaborator either). The jacket and shirt were one thing. The assistance with her pants was another. She didn’t like it, though Jade’s smile nearly smoothed out any offense she took. Nearly. Leanbh, her mind supplied. She didn’t need help with her pants. She was an adult, a doctor! She knew what a body was and was not capable of. This was– as Regan bent down to race Jade’s hands, a vicious, searing bolt jumped down her spine like a current on a wire. Regan spat out a sharp breath and relented (feeling rather stupid for not listening in the first place), placing her hand on Jade’s shoulder instead. She sighed because, despite how foolish she had just been, it was still nice to be touching her even if… well, Jade didn’t seem the most steady, either. Regan caught the grimace. She was hurt. They both knew it. Jade had to know she knew. Where was she hurt? Why was she hurt? When Regan opened that first aid kit, how much would be missing compared to when she had left it here? And for a moment, her fingers gripping hard on Jade’s shoulder for support, she felt the tinge of something dead. If she looked, really looked with her eyes, would there be more? She considered it. But she was also about to fall over right now, if Jade didn’t first.

Regan glanced at Jade – too long for it to be categorized as a glance – and, judging the intensity in Jade’s eyes and obvious need to do something, allowed herself to be helped with the tub, because Jade needed it even if Regan wouldn’t admit she herself did. From inside the shower, she stared at the frosted sliding door that would cut them off from each other again. Then she stared past it, at Jade. Her thoughts were forming much more slowly than she was accustomed to, and she stood for a moment before reluctantly dragging her eyes off Jade and looked toward the drain. “I’ll do a bath. The bath has more… it’s more… uh, water. It’s better. Better for cadavers, too. Yes.” And easier to keep the door open. Did she make any sense at all? Whatever. Except, then she remembered that a bath would be ill-advised right now, medically speaking, and it’d be agony on her back. She didn’t want to soften anything that was just starting to close up. Back to the shower plan. Her eyes went up to the handle. “I was wrong. The shower is– also water. Very water. Cleaner. I’m not a cadaver. I’m going to shower.” Right. She got the water running with a squeak of the pipes. Her old adversary, the door, was an obstacle between them once again, though. Regan just left it open. It wasn’t like steam was going to escape; Regan’s showers were lukewarm at best, anyway (they felt hot enough to her).

“Can you, um…” Before Jade did anything else, Regan needed her to assure her she wouldn’t look, because that door was not going to budge an inch so long as Regan was in the tub. “I have to take these bandages off. Do not promise me anything, but…” Ever again, she almost added. “Don’t look. Even if there’s some noise.” Which maybe the running water would help conceal (though Jade had pretty exceptional hearing, didn’t she? And Regan’s voice could really carry). At Jade’s offer to just talk, Regan’s eyes nearly leaked (that was all just shower water though… every last drop. Obviously. Except she hadn’t even gone under the water yet.) Jade talking… yes, please, her heart beat. Her response was immediate and eager, more lively than she’d felt in days. “Tell me about your children. The cats, the ones from your program, either, all. Tell me about anything. Hum. Sing. Read the instructions insert that came with the first aid kit.” Her pulse hadn’t calmed from the offer yet. “Can you just talk to me? I miss your voice. Irish accents don’t compete, in case you wondered.” Actually, it might be nice to never hear one again– she’d ignore that her own subtle accent was a little more lilty right now. Regan hesitated, because this was not something she could have ever admitted overseas, but… Jade would like hearing it, wouldn’t she? “I thought about it every day, your voice. And you. The whole Jade. Your smile, fingers, kidneys…”

As she listed her favorite parts of her… Jade (again), sharing her love for each, Regan had the privacy she needed so tried to be quick about it, peeling off bandages and discarding them on the other side of the shower into a pile on the floor. Her stomach was healing nicely, the yellow plasma-filled cut finally scabbing. Her palms were in need of no further care. Her bicep, too, was in decent shape, especially given how recent that injury had been. The difference between iron and gold, she supposed. Her back was another story. Siobhan had been the one to bandage her up, and Siobhan was terrible at following instructions, only more useful than the band-aid dispenser, and full of far more insults. Somehow Regan felt seven wads of square gauze (how were there seven? There were four wings) stuffed under criss-crossing bandages that were tight and loose in places that made no sense. She wadded up each piece of gauze and tossed it angrily on the floor, a couple of them flying across the bathroom. Her body’s attempts to heal stuck to a couple of the squares and released fresh blood when she separated them. Still better than they were yesterday.

So far, so good. “...lips, even when they’re purple. And the way your hair curls on your temples when wet, and…”

Regan stepped under the showerhead, eyes closed, knowing that in just a moment, there would be pain, and not the controlled kind she had grown used to. She stopped listing Jade parts. The water burned as it hit her back. It felt like it was seeping under her skin, trickling deep into her wounds and pounding against her nerves. She hissed, and it shot a crack through the mirror Jade had brought in here at some point. Right. That was something she needed to concern herself with again. Some banshee she– even a child could have–

Around her feet, dark water swirled – a mixture of grime that coated her skin and blood seeping from beneath the clots that had formed. The smell of her own rank sweat made her stop breathing through her nose. Between the altercation with her grandmother (and seeing– and–) the jail, the trial, the airport, and sleeping outside, she had built up quite a collection of dirt, and possibly an accompanying ecosystem that would have rivaled Emilio’s old couch. It was all washing away, but Regan felt about the same.

She scrubbed and then scrubbed some more, finally noticing several bottles of unfamiliar product. If she were to open them, would they smell like Jade? She’d be more tempted if she didn’t have the actual Jade waiting for her. And a bed. Even if it was in a cabin she itched to get away from. It took a few rounds of lathering to actually get her hair clean, shampoo and soap seeping where it shouldn’t and causing a burn all over again, and she decided that was enough, even if it probably never would be. “That’s better.” Regan announced as she shut the water off. She wasn’t actually sure, but it sounded a little reassuring to herself, didn’t it? Nothing really felt better. But maybe she could get Jade to agree and be less shaken up. (As much as Regan loved hearing her voice, even if it was shaky, like Jade was trying to compress it, and it overflowed.)

She wasn’t going to call Jade over to help her get out of the tub. She had more pride than that (leanbh). And Jade would see– well, Regan didn’t care about her arm, but her stomach was hard to look at, knowing that it had been her own doing. And her back, she wasn’t sure how she could explain. Or perhaps it was one of those things that wouldn’t need explaining now, but she was having a difficult time approximating Jade’s reaction. So Regan cautiously held the edge of the shower and stepped out, her back complaining with sharp throbs, but it was still better than how she’d gotten through the plane ride with such wounds (poorly and with enough ibuprofen to make her stomach bleed). “Stay there and do not look,” Regan reminded Jade gently, not so much an order, knowing she’d consider otherwise hearing her feet hit the floor.

The first aid kit – two of them actually, one that she didn’t recognize (formal introductions would have to come later)– had been set out for her by the sink. Both were missing some supplies. She took care of her stomach without Jade seeing, because that was the easiest, and she had access to both of her hands to bandage it. Her back ached with the effort. Most people did not realize how impossible it is to not move your back when using your arms in any way. Her latissimus dorsi responded to each effort she made to pull the bandage taut, or to reach; her trapezius when she pulled back; Regan’s rhomboids felt as though they bled internally when her arms moved at all, and even her deltoids extended to her scapulae, flexing on the edge of a razor. Her arm came next, though. Trickier, and it brought more stabbing reminders to her upper back, but she could do it. That one had already formed a fine scab. 

Now she reached the problem she had been anticipating, she didn’t know what to do about it now any more than she had when she tried to close Jade out of here. Her back was nearly impossible to bandage by herself, and the sliced venation in her wings were incredibly sensitive, sending every sensation across her shoulders and spine. It would heal. And at some point, if she was lucky (luck, what a concept – better or worse than Fate?), the veins would branch back out and new membranes would form between them. She didn’t… how could she let Jade see them before they had a chance to grow back? How could she let Jade see them like this first? Regan appraised herself quickly in the cracked mirror, seeing a tired ghost, but one that had adequate enough bandaging on her stomach and arm. Regan frowned, spying new lines on her face that she would have normally celebrated. She didn’t need to decide at this very second. She could… she could always have Jade turn around again. 

So carefully, Regan wrapped a towel around her body, wincing at the way it brushed against such rawness as it looped around her back. But Jade could look now, (more importantly, Regan could look back) and that always made things better. She reminded herself of that. Jade’s eyes always healed, like some new antibiotic with no bacterial resistance (and her eyes were Regan’s music, too, with all their changes in tempo). So… “You can look now.” Regan swallowed. Her skin did at least feel much cleaner. “I still haven’t… my back isn’t bandaged. I wasn’t sure. I…” And just as expected, Jade’s eyes told her she was there, unconditionally. A soft orchestra came to a swell (maybe dirt got in her ears, too; did she need an antibiotic?). “Okay,” Regan gulped. They were on the same page. In the same place and on the same page. She was not going to turn Jade away. She never would again.

Clinging on to the towel wrapped around her, she gathered gauze and bandages from the kit, and looked at Jade, checking in with her. Now it was her turn to give Jade a kiss, and one simply wasn’t enough. She didn’t know how sore her lip was (whoever did that, she’d– not now), so she aimed for the most tender cheek instead, lingering, sighing against Jade’s skin. “I love you,” she said again, because once wasn’t enough for that, either. This wasn’t how Regan imagined this going. Not shortly before she had left, anyway, when the fear of a poor reaction had been overridden by Jade’s endless, freely-given love. It would have been okay then. Now it would not be. And not because Jade would be fearful or disgusted, but because the rage Regan had seen in her eyes would boil across her entire body, angling her toward whatever the closest proxy was. And Regan didn’t trust Jade to not act on it in some way, to take it out on a spawn that resembled Siobhan, or something (though Regan would have liked to take a photo of such a spawn and pointed out the resemblance to that hag).

“I am going to show you. This isn’t how I…” Wanted? She found herself dancing around that word again. “...saw this happening. But I am tired. And it hurts. And I can’t reach. And you ameliorate it all so well. A subject for future research… I’ll be the next Alexander Fleming.” Which made no sense to anyone else. Regan backed away, but not far. How naked she felt. It was probably all those layers of dirt that slipped through the drain. “Tomorrow. If you have… I’ll answer anything then.” Slowly, Regan rotated around, the breath she took growing huge in her lungs, stretching out the tissue, bursting through her ribs. Before she could form second thoughts, she let the towel drop to her waist, giving Jade a view of her back, and what Siobhan had (and had not) done to it. “Okay.”

Her breathing picked up, tears welling in her eyes (tears, they were tears, fine). In some way, she was relieved to not be looking at Jade’s face right now, into her eyes that were incapable of hiding anything. Regan heard nothing but breathing behind her (also some of Regan’s favorite music). Should she say something? How fast were Jade’s thoughts turning, and were they turning so quickly she’d get nauseous enough to run to the toilet? That thought left just enough of a gap for uncertainty to slither into it. Still no words. She spoke, slowly and tentatively, because the silence was killing her. “Are you… is it okay? Jade?” When had her voice grown so wet? “I only need help taping the gauze. Forget the bandage. I can do that part.” Another pause. Was she afraid? Something thick grew in Regan’s throat; that was exactly what she had feared most about this, months ago. “I’m not going to move them. I’m a better patient than most I saw during my residency. Not my decedents, though. They don’t move at all.” Not that there was much to move; she just kept what was there flat against her back, easy to lay gauze and bandage over. Also, that was a lie, and she now felt it in her stomach. She was a dreadful patient, doctors always were. “I won’t scream, either.” She had already done plenty of that.

———

It’s not as bad as it looks. Jade latched onto those words like a lifeline, keeping them on heavy rotation in her head. She replayed them, as she lifted Regan’s shirt. And again, when anger went up her throat and down her lungs like lava, burning everything in its path, squeezing every drop of Regan’s premium oxygen out of her, making her chin quiver with the one emotion she hated feeling. It’s not as bad as it looks, she thought, when Regan read her reaction, when her lips pressed against a bruised cheek, when the ‘I love you’ filled a room that had been nothing but her trembling breath for minutes now. (There was love, so how bad could anything be?). It’s not as bad as it looks looped again, calming her enough to inject some humor in her humming, in a way that said, of course, my bones still belong to you (what doesn’t?). She kept reminding herself that it would not be as bad as it looked, her obsessive thought only interrupted by Regan’s use of the phrase ‘very water’, which had Jade’s heart waterlogged with feelings in a similar fashion. Oh. If that didn’t ease the pain coiling in her chest. Regan’s charm still managed to keep her anchored, even when Jade felt everything was gonna get flipped one-eighty. 

It’s not as bad as it looks, kept thundering in her head when she heard the spray of water, and when she sensed Regan moving, dressings discarded with a heavy thud, wet against the tub. Even as chunks of gauze ended up on the floor by her boots, filthy like nothing in recent memory. Yup. It would not be as bad as it looked, Jade hoped, gaze cast obediently elsewhere, her back to the shower and the sink. It won’t be as bad as it looked, she convinced herself, manufacturing hope, and went on to listen to Regan list all of the things she had missed about her. She was so focused on keeping the reassurance in the forefront, that she was too late to make a quip on the fact that Regan listed her fingers second. She was definitely off her game. She wasn’t sure she’d even entered the game, unable to find any joy in the compliments and the praise, too busy reading between the lines. Regan was distracting her, pandering in a way that would’ve worked any other time, if it weren’t for the fact that she was downplaying her injuries, which meant it had to be bad. (Math). Maybe as bad as it looked. Regan also knew Jade well enough to figure out she’d do something stupid once she saw her wounds. She was buying herself some time. Regan knew her. But Jade knew her back. 

And then the sudsy sounds of soap and shampoo felt like some kind of ASMR. The horror kind, cause Regan kept trying to muffle the pain. And Jade squeezed her knee until it hurt, stubborn enough to honor the promise she’d made (even if it wasn't a real one) (she would not look… she would not). The mirror (her mirror) broke, but it was the hiss straining past Regan’s lips that stung Jade like that banshee’s knife being plunged into her abdomen. Like Monty pulling the trigger, like Mack saving one last punch for her. Like Ariadne making her a failure again. Her chest heaved, head bowed cause… Regan’s wishes. Jade trusted her to concede when she’d reached her limit. Nope, she didn’t. She knew Regan would push till the end. Correction, she trusted her to know Jade would wanna help if things got too difficult. She’d ask, cause Jade needed it. But she wasn’t asking yet, so…

So Jade had to speak up, do what she could from her position, help disguise Regan’s pain better, for her. She spoke up, more tears than breath in her voice. “My…um, my sims are doing great, you know, I’m thinking of…of getting a second puppy for Tango to have a friend!” Could she talk about that without mentioning the Grim Reaper? Would that be a sore subject for Regan? Actually, yup, only one banshee allowed in this cabin. Only one banshee allowed in her life, ever again. Changing subjects. “But, um…forget about The Sims. Oh! Things are heating up at Sly Slice, there’s like… an online petition demanding garlic bread and…” Could she talk about Sly Slice without mentioning Van, that was her sore subject. “Never mind, that’s… that’s boring, they’ll never allow garlic bread, Rocky’s dumb, everybody knows. Lemme tell you something more fun,” but what had been fun lately? Nothing. Even bringing up Mel and Lu would get sad, cause she couldn’t be with them as much anymore, and then she’d think about Elias, whose apartment she’d been staying at and…  

She resorted to playing a game of I see, with the items they had in the bathroom. (The game lasted about 5 seconds, so she improvised… mentioning the walls, the floors, the wood, the air, herself and Regan, (who she didn’t technically see anyway)). Then she hummed (Funky Town, again. Start to finish) about ten times before she heard the water shut off. 

All Jade wanted was to turn around (cause, could Regan even get out of the tub by herself?), but like the mind reader she was, Regan was quick to remind her to stay put. So she would, despite her apprehensions. It’s not as bad as it looks, twisted again inside her mind, the reminder probably going on a roller coaster ride around the folds in her pretty brain. Regan had this, she was the doctor. The problem was, Jade wasn’t great at dealing with the silence. So hearing nothing but the sound of Regan going through the first aid kit, picking up gauze and bandages, backed by her small expressions of pain was pushing her to insanity. She couldn’t even hum anymore cause, a) distracting, b) there was nothing funky anymore. (Not even Regan). A silence lapsed and Jade wondered if she’d missed the instruction to turn around, but nope. She was pretty sure her body would’ve reacted instantly. 

At last, Regan gave the okay and Jade shot up, her legs were wobbly as she moved toward Regan, by the sink. She couldn’t wait any longer to wrap her arms around… oh. There was more. Regan was gonna show Jade her back, yup. Alright. Cause she needed help with the bandages, of course. That was fine in a, Regan said it wasn’t as bad as it looked sorta way. She meant all of it, right? (Why would she lie? She couldn’t lie) And Jade? She'd seen ugly things (just about any of Amber’s boyfriends). She’d dealt with gorey things, which was a given considering her line of work. She'd seen her siblings beat up and bloody and covered in all different sorts of undead sludge. She'd watched her father come home, more blood than human, arm dangling, only attached to his body cause all Bloodworths were stubborn like that. (Which was in a way, the trigger for the chain of events that led her to this town, to this bathroom, to this Regan) (She could never say Baba did nothing for her again).  

All of this to say, Jade had this, whatever this was. She was equipped and she was prepared and… Whatever weapon had gone into Regan’s back, she had probably seen equal damage before. It’s not as bad as it looks. Right? And wait a second, Regan saying she’d answer questions about it later did not bode well, but before Jade could ask for clarification on that, the towel dropped to Regan’s waist, in a move that would’ve been tantalizing any other time. But Jade couldn’t feel a thing. Or maybe she felt all of the things at once, cause the little colorful blobs inside her mind went into override. 

Regan was right, it wasn’t as bad as it looked. It was horrifyingly worse.

It was one of those things that felt surreal. The cameras were probably all angled toward her, the lighting had never been better, the audience held their breaths, itching for her reaction, hungry for her horror or her rage or… What was she looking at, exactly? There was… a membrane (?) of sorts, protruding from… where her shoulder blade should— and…blood, duh, and…but…

Regan said she had no third leg. 

Jade had trailed kisses down Regan’s back, her fingers had dug into her shoulder blades (especially to elicit that stuttered breath she loved so much in response), and she’d remember… Regan was her favorite thing to look at. It did not compute. What was she looking at? She had to reach far within the archives for one snippet of a conversation with Cass. Magic necklace. Which… could’ve helped conceal… They should’ve been wings, shouldn’t they? (She was no insect expert but, what else could it be?) Did Regan keep these from her?

Did Regan have… Why didn’t she say something?

But something much worse barreled down as she dislodged what was supposed to be a useful memory. Like a bad Jenga move. It crashed against her conscience, destabilizing the small amount of composure keeping her upright (which was actually, just confusion).

Jade remembered Parker, in the forest, with his sleeping darts and his utility belt, and how willfully she had come along for the removal of a fae’s wings. Some fae. (She couldn’t even recall her name). Cause what she remembered of that day, was how proud she was of becoming his assistant, following his orders without questioning a thing. She remembered how flippant she’d been about the whole thing. Using her allure to bring the fae into Parker’s trap, while treating it like a sidequest, cause of course she would.  And she never looked back on that day, never reflected on what the experience must’ve been once the entomid woke up. She moved on with her life, unchanged. Cause like, she didn’t even do a thing! Jade hadn’t held the knife or the darts then. (Was it any less violent? Wasn’t her charm, her words, her lies not as dangerous of a weapon if she wanted them to? 

Regan had wings. Had. (How…) And someone took them from her. Mutilated her. And as she stared down at the bloody mess on Regan’s back, her heart aching for the woman she loved, Jade understood this was pain she’d helped to inflict on others before. Not too long ago. It could’ve been Regan the target of her mindless shenanigans. It could’ve been her on the end of Parker’s scalpel, while Jade watched like it was the best spectacle in the world. 

She didn’t vomit, cause her body couldn’t move. Not even her involuntary muscles wanted to work with her. 

“I can’t… I can’t…” breathe she wanted to say. But Regan might think she meant she couldn’t help. She could, she had to, if only at this point to clear her conscience. (Stop it. Get it together. For Regan. Inhale…1,2,3,4. Hold…1,2,3,4. Exhale…1,2,3,4. Hold. Repeat). She sensed Regan shifting, probably worried about the time she was taking, worried about Jade of all things, but Jade’s hand was soft (how? under the circumstances, she didn’t know) against her waist, asking for time. She couldn’t spiral now, when Regan needed her. But the weight of every choice she’d chucked away as a quirk or used as the punchline of a joke was starting to press down on her like… you guessed it, those compression machines all over TikTok. 

She used to say that a lot… I can’t. After I don’t wanna was banned from her vocabulary (not by choice, mind you). There used to be a time for I can’t, for breathing issues, for belly aches. A time for mistakes, and hesitation and for her steady hand to shake. But she was past that, and it was so inconvenient that all seemed to rush back to her since arriving in this town. I can’t didn’t matter. It didn’t matter then, it didn’t matter now. She kept on going. She could, so she would anyway. It wasn’t the time to unpack previous transgressions. “I got it,” she grumbled low, reaching for the gauze, not trusting the natural register where her voice sat. Okay. Done with the trip down memory lane. She was good at speedrunning through her emotions. Locking the bad ones in, exchanging them for more positive ones. Just one second and she was back in the game. She could. She would. Regan needed her.

She picked up the gauze one by one, except… she had to pause immediately. Her lips tasted salty, and Jade could not cry while doing this. Her vision had to be sharp to get the dressing in the right places, guide her fingers without grazing the wounds. She waited until she stopped sniffling, and then continued with the task at hand. She had some experience with it, after all. (Not as much with wings) (Regan had wings, by the way). “I love you,” she cried, pressing the last bit of tape against gauze and skin. It sounded like an apology. (It was) (And she actually hated herself for how soon she had to use it like that. It had to be a new record). She brushed the wet strands of hair sticking to Regan’s back and placed a kiss on the base of her neck, stepping away. She didn’t deserve to be close to Regan. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.” That went for the gauze. And for Ireland too. For making everything more difficult over there, for gifting her the ring, for falling in love with her, but especially for hurting others the way Regan had been hurt. Could she ever tell her? And geez, not even about the wings, but about Monty? And Mack, and Ariadne? 

Maybe actually, Jade did need to get away from Regan for a second. Not Regan, specifically, but shame and guilt and…it was all wrapped up messily, unlike the way she’d just finished patching Regan’s wings up. (Regan had wings. She had.) “I’ll… I’ll be in the bedroom, actually. Feels… the steam, you know. It’s… hard to breathe in here. But, call me, and don’t close the door. I’ll… I can help with the bandages too, if you need.”

———

I can’t. 

Regan’s heart plummeted into the lake back in Ireland. Jade couldn’t do it, couldn’t look at it. Was it because Regan hadn’t told her? Was it because of the blood, or the shape they were in (the shape of ‘mostly gone’)? Or was it because of what they had been? None of those seemed right. She had to have seen worse, and weirder, and… maybe the first thought that had come to Regan’s mind, but… but what did she mean, I can’t? Couldn’t she? Regan thought she could. She had thought she could before she’d left for Ireland. She had been so sure, nearly positive, that Jade could, and it was almost impressive how easily those two small words, I can’t, were capable of slicing into her like… well…

I can’t.

Jade hadn’t expected to see Regan again to begin with – and then the injuries, and now the – that was all, she was overwhelmed. And her being overwhelmed came out as I can’t. Had she asked too much of Jade? If not the gauze then the wings themselves? She had, right? The shock of– of everything. But… but Regan loved Jade down to her go hálainn kidneys, she stanned them in a fanbase (which, to be fair, Regan expected Jade would have kidneys). Couldn’t she, couldn’t Jade also– Regan swallowed down that tibia as best she could, but some (at least an epiphysis) came up as a choke. No, that wasn’t it. That would not be it. No. She knew it wasn’t. (Right?)

Which meant… was Jade unwell? Regan took a half-step forward, away, but Jade’s hand brushed against her waist, then stuck there. Regan stopped drifting. It meant something, even if she wasn’t sure what. She would stay, wait until that became appar– oh, that was probably what it meant. Stay. Or Jade had been about to collapse and needed to hold onto something. That wasn’t it, right? She didn’t think she could do a session of simultaneous holding right now. Regan almost turned to check on her but Jade said she had this. She didn’t sound like herself. But she reached for the gauze. This all seemed like it had been… Regan shouldn’t have asked. What she’d give to shimmy that towel back up to her shoulders no matter how red it became. She’d give a whole bone. Two.

She tried not to read too far into Jade’s voice – the panic, the way disgust seemed as though it was being held back by only a thin dam. Jade’s actions didn’t align with that. Regan felt gauze dabbing gently against her skin by dutiful hands, only making contact with the margins when necessary (and Regan did not scream; she was a good patient in that regard). Except Jade was cr… having an allergy attack. One of her signature ones. Regan was afraid to say anything. She’d been quiet this whole time, first because of confusion, then because she couldn’t distract Jade, and now because… she was afraid of asking and getting an answer. So Regan continued being quiet, and hardly noticed anything until she heard the words I love you followed by a light, warm dap on her neck, a kiss. I love you was not I can’t. So what was the I can’t? And there was disgust, still. Perhaps confirmation bias was in play to an extent but she heard something. And if not directed at Regan, then… herself? Regan had deferred any questions and it seemed right to allow Jade the same courtesy, especially when a single question mark between them might unspool more than either of what they could handle right now. 

She took a deep breath, expecting a bandage to be wrapped around her, but it didn’t come. Instead there was an apology. Had Jade seen the cracks, the doubt? Or was it about the injury? Or– right, more questions she wasn’t getting an answer to. (Her thoughts turned to Siobhan and she flipped them over just as fast.) It didn’t really matter. Regan hated the kind of wet coming from Jade’s voice right now. 

Jade verbally interrupted Regan’s ability to turn around before she could rally her body to move. Jade’s sharp breaths had carried a tiny voice on them, one she’d never heard from Jade’s mouth before. How often was it that Jade seemed to be having trouble finding words? She had so many words. She was one of the most talkative people Regan knew (excusing that the majority of people Regan knew were cadavers). There was something about talking to Jade while not facing her that felt like concrete skidding across her wounds. But… maybe it was a good thing. 

Wait, the bedroom? Why did she say that like she was leaving? Where was she going? The bedroom, but without Regan? Did she mean they’d both go, you and me? Or… no, because she was saying…

Regan’s jaw felt as defective as the rest of her body. The bedroom. Away. Jade needed to get away from her. Her heart did an anatomically impossible scrunch inside of her. “Okay.” The first word Regan had said in at least ten minutes, and it cracked her voice like that mirror. She heard Jade shuffle out behind her, footsteps slow and effortful. She couldn’t peel herself away from where she was rooted. It was like pins had been jabbed through her wings instead of them getting lopped off.

Because what had Jade meant by the bedroom? And that she would be in there? And that Regan could call for her? 

Had Jade meant she would be in the bedroom, and Regan should stay out? Or had she meant she’d be in the bedroom and Regan should come in? No, because then she wouldn’t have said to call. Because you don’t call for someone right next to you. Also, Regan was not a child. She wasn’t going to call for Jade. Her throat felt like it was narrowing as she wondered about disgust again. Was that why Jade needed to get away? It didn’t– it seemed like something else was going on, but either Regan was too tired for the obvious to be obvious, or it wasn’t obvious at all. She could only think about the sound of Jade’s breath getting caught in her throat, the way she seemed to stop breathing at all behind Regan’s back. 

Her jaw worked again but it trembled. A new mandible would have been ten times more useful than that pubic defender had been. Regan stared down at the balled up gauze, the soaked bandages, the pile of dirty clothes. She sniffed the air. They smelled. Normally she’d be appalled at the thought of leaving them there, but her back already complained at the prospect of bending over to clean. And she was so tired. That was why her eyes were wet. She didn’t know what to do and there was no giant wheel to dictate. There was no doctrine in her head guiding her. 

Either way, Jade would have at least a few minutes. Regan had half a tube of toothpaste her teeth and breath were demanding. Even more demanding was the bottle of ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet, one of its only inhabitants. Regan swallowed down more little red pills than she ever would have recommended a live patient take, and got to work on the bandages. Her concession that she could do it on her own had been made in a moment of doubt that… well, had been needed after all, hadn’t it? She did still manage to do a far better job than Siobhan, though her back tightened against her nerves every time she reached for and looped the bandage around. Jade also did better than Siobhan with the gauze. Jade, who was in the bedroom. And Regan could call for her. But Regan wasn’t going to do that.

Regan nearly called out to ask for clothes but then it hit her that it would be calling out to Jade (who was in the bedroom, not here), and she couldn’t do that, either. What if Jade needed more time? What if she needed a lot more time? Was Regan supposed to stay here? She looked at the door again, but all she could see through the crack were the living room and kitchen, where all the weapons were. It looked the same as it had five minutes ago, because no one had gone through it since Jade went into the bedroom. Without Regan. Frustration and uncertainty ate through her, gnawing at her back. Anger was not something she was capable of right now. And even if she were, it wouldn’t be at Jade. But she wanted a bed. And sleep. Sleeping the last few nights in a jail cell and then on a plane had pushed her to some edge. 

Every once in a while, she turned toward the door to check if was still open, for all the good it did. She couldn’t see or hear Jade. When she moved her head too quickly she saw a trail of squirming worms on the floor or a crowd of banshees staring at her. The room would telescope, and fear grabbed for her with Cliodhna’s long fingers. 

“I can’t…” Had she said that? Or had Jade been put on replay in her head? So many things seemed to be.

She wasn’t some child. She was not going to call for Jade. Jade, of bedroom infamy. Except, actually, I can’t. 

Regan called for Jade.

They had a lot to talk about.

[banisheed]

TIMING: May 1st, 2024 LOCATION: Ireland PARTIES: Siobhan (@banisheed) & Metzli (@muertarte) CONTENT: Domestic Abuse (child abuse discussion) tw, Animal Abuse tw SUMMARY: Siobhan and Metzli have a strange encownter.

Being kicked out of Saol Eile didn’t hurt so much the third time, Siobhan thought. Perhaps it was something about third times being charming, or what have you. Or perhaps it was that this time, she had chosen it. Regardless, she didn’t fancy being in Ireland for much longer and she had a million gratitudes and apologies to give Metzli, Anita and Xóchitl; nothing had gone the way she thought it would. Siobhan hadn’t talked about what happened, or what was happening; how does one explain that an idea of a life has died and will never come back? She was as lost as anyone else. All she needed to do was take some things from the shack and then it was done, it was over, they could all go back to Wicked’s Rest—it wasn’t home, she could never call it home, but it was the place she would rather be. Not that she’d started packing yet, but… but…

There was a cow. That was, in fact, exactly what she said to Metzli: “There’s a cow.” Its red and white hair was painted with mud, and it stuck its large head into the rusted trough that was bolted to the side of the shack. Siobhan frowned; that thing had collected rain water over the years, but it was far from clean. The water the cow so hungrily slurped wasn’t even clear. She thought she should help; Rónnait liked the animals she kept and Siobhan didn’t hate them, or caring for them, either. Her family were ranchers technically, though they would have screamed at the label. But she was still a banshee, despite her shame, and all she could really say was: “Metzli, there’s a cow here.” 

The colorful tag on the cow’s ear shook as the creature continued to drink up the dirty water. 

—

The departure from the banshees didn’t come lightly, and had it not been for Siobhan’s strength, it likely wouldn’t have happened at all. That time spent outside of that dreadful place had been quiet for the vampire. All Metzli could do was listen and watch, take any precaution they could to prepare for an outburst. Whether sad or angry. Or both. Yeah, probably both. That was what Metzli expected anyway, and as they continued to watch and follow Siobhan, they were surprised to find peace in her eyes. It lay comfortably all over her, the way she had deserved all along. Metzli was honored to share that experience with her, and apparently a cow too.

“Yes, there is a cow.” They took an unnecessary breath, as they always did to keep their sensitive nerves settled. “We should get it clean water.” Taking a step toward the cow, Metzli stiffened at the way they were painted with flecks of mud as it shook its head free of some of the wet dirt. The sensation forced out a groan up their throat and they swallowed with a step. If they could get past the crawling ants under their skin, then everything would be fine. Some days, they really hated being able to feel again, but all it took was one look toward Siobhan, a person that made it worth it. The ants ended their march. 

“Is there a pond or stream we can lead it to?”

—

“Or we could…” Siobhan waved her hand around in the air, running through ideas in her head. She settled on what she usually did: “Kill it.” She grinned as though the cow could understand her. “Eat it. Chop it up. You get the blood, Anita can have the meat, I get the bones, Xóchitl can watch.” The cow lifted its head up, water dripped down its brown nose, getting caught in the fur around its chin. She watched the water collect in the fur, and then drip down, and was struck with the sudden desire to dry its mouth. The creature stared at them with its big, mucus-crusted black eye and again, Siobhan was struck with a need to clean it. Everything about the creature was pitiable; cattle always were. Was there any other creature so thoroughly domesticated? So completely incapable of living without human interface? Or one that wore its uses so plainly, that could not be anything more than it was? Each cut of a cattle’s meat had a name, didn’t it? That hair, though muddy, would make fine boots. And if the cow was producing milk, the excess of it wasn’t meant for a calf. Everything this creature had to give was for someone else. There was nothing more pathetic than this thing staring at her. 

(Did it ever look at itself and think that maybe it should just—)

“There’s a stream nearby. We used to fill the water for the livestock from there.” Though this shack was far from the dairy farm that comprised the Dolan estate in Saol Eile, the few animals once here lived well, so Siobhan thought. If you were alive, that was living well—what else did lesser creatures need? Siobhan ripped in old rope from the broken pasture fence and tied up a simple noose. “Your family owned a farm too, didn’t they?” Siobhan asked absently, slipping the noose around the cow’s head, who didn’t protest or jerk away. Obviously, if the tag in its ear was any indication, the cow was used to human contact. She could’ve led it anywhere; didn’t it have any sense to be cynical? “Come on, I’ll lead the way; at least, if we’re going to eat it, it should have some clean water.” 

—

Killing the cow would indeed be a kind gesture to its cycle. Whatever direction its owner was taking, the cow’s place at the end of its road would be on a plate. Metzli had seen that cycle countless times, in a place where they had both arms for working, and land to tend to. Blood, as it seemed, had always stained their hands, and now there was only one to paint. “Yes, we had a farm.” A beat, and a huff from the steer as Siobhan beckoned it to walk. Metzli followed her closely. “There were many animals and crops. My cousins were helpers like me, but I was oldest so they would give me much more work.” 

Back in those days, where the air was fresh and the streets were full, survival had a completely different meaning. It meant waking up before the sun circled back around, before a rooster could screech as an alarm. It meant lugging around food for animals and trimming ripe vegetables from their roots. It meant the blood on Metzli’s hands wasn’t human, and it never mixed with dust. But those days were long gone, and in Metzli’s place, stood an abomination that understood all too well that a dead heart hurt just as much as a beating one. 

Because despite what people may say about Siobhan or think about her for doing the things she had, Metzli understood. More than once, they too had to rip limbs away for the sake of family. For the sake of keeping order and peace among the clan. But there was no peace, and there was no safety in the bond that was supposed to be sacred. Far more sacred than those, Siobhan’s ties were born of blood and not a bite, and yet…and yet she stood next to an abomination, with no tethers of blood surrounding her with the same warmth that trailed through her veins. It was wrong, and it was heartbreaking, but luckily for them, hearts couldn’t truly break. They could only bend.

“Sometimes I miss that farm, but I cannot go back. I am not even sure if anyone in my family survived the attack from when I was turned.”

—

There was something about the definitiveness, the straightforwardness, the inexplicable knife-to-the-chest sentiment that amused Siobhan about the sentence: “Yes, we had a farm”. Of course, everything Metzli said was rather blunt; ‘Yes, we had a farm’ was no more different than the accompanying ‘there were many animals and crops’. They were just statements, and Siobhan’s invention of subtext was an exercise in creativity more than intuition. There was nothing there and yet the sentence echoed like a handful of nails spilled across a table: rattling, rolling, scratching and bouncing. Yes, we had a farm. As the shack turned into nothing but the brown point of a roof on the horizon: yes, we had a farm. As her gaze turned to the trees far beyond, and the mockingly silent entrance to Saol Eile hidden among them: yes, we had a farm. Yes, Siobhan had grown up on one. Yes, we had a farm. 

The truth could be a simple affair—yes, we had a farm—and yet how much truth lived inside simple words was variable. Siobhan tried to imagine the farm Metzli spoke of, with its animals and crops and cousins. She tried to think of the place that Metzli couldn’t return to but only thought of the one she couldn’t. She held only one idea of a farm. Yes, we had a—with pastures that all sloped downwards and miserable animals with Death caught in their fur. And the cows! Siobhan could never forget them. Where the sheep pooled together on one end of their enclosure, and the goats shrieked until their last breaths, the cows greeted their butchers. To Siobhan, they seemed to have a docility that was bred. They seemed to understand their purpose. Yes, we had a farm and it was a home, once, full of gray, dead animals. 

She heard the stream first, then saw its lazy trickling stream and led the cow to it. It was her imagination that the creature seemed grateful as it drank. “Only sometimes? You don’t dream of going home?” Siobhan asked. “If you could have your farm again—or rather, maybe those days again. Before…everything. Would you? Would you go back?” Did Metzli long for it the way she did? Siobhan leaned down, flicking a finger at the cow’s yellow ear tag. “Do you think the cow wants to go back?” 

—

Home. It could be any place, but more often than not, it was a collection of people that provided love and safety and understanding. People like that were what made a home a home, and if Metzli really thought about it, their childhood had none. They stopped walking, wringing their fingers against themselves as they struggled to answer Siobhan’s question. It should’ve been easy. Instinctual, even. Because Metzli did miss certain parts, but they struggled to believe that any of it was worth missing. 

There was no home. There was no family. There was no love. There were only memories of safety in solitude and hatred stinging their skin. But the more Metzli thought about it, the harder it was to cement their desires onto their tongue. Instead, for several beats, they streamed down their cheeks until they managed to let out what sounded like a pitiful croak. 

“N-no.” Their shoulders sank, and they avoided any chance at eye contact by forcing their gaze to remain on the cow as it drank. “Not…It was-I…” Swallowing harshly, Metzli counted to six, pacing along with each number and repeating the process until they calmed down enough to speak. Properly that time, albeit with a few tears. 

“That was not home. That is just where I was raised.” Their breath stuttered out of their useless lungs, “I have many wishes that it was a home, but it was not. Be-because home is where you are happy. Home is where people are happy to see you. Home is-is where you want to be when you are not happy.” Passion grew in their chest, blooming into a small smile that shone beyond the tears down Metzli’s face. “Home is-is Leila and Fluffy, and-and Anita and Xóchitl, and Cass!” They lit up considerably, “And you. Home is you. When-when…when I think of my past, it hurts. Tingles are on my skin and it itches, and then I feel this-this…” A beat, and then Metzli rubbed at their half limb to settle the rising tension in nerves. “Heavy thing in my stomach.” They sniffled, finally looking at Siobhan. “I was not loved. I was not wanted. You call me abomination because I am dead, but I was called this before because…because I was alive.” Metzli breathed, watching Siobhan mess with the yellow tag. “I think the cow wants to be free to choose where to call home and that is okay. Sometimes…sometimes home is not where we think it is.”

—

An apology crystallized in Siobhan’s throat, bobbing as she swallowed useless words away. Siobhan wanted to ask what the difference between the place you were raised and a home was—Ireland, with all its edges, was her home—but the question withered away. She’d overwhelmed Metzli with her question and that was the enough to change her tone and pivot her curiosities. She stood slowly, her hand flexing at her side. “Home is back in Wicked’s Rest, isn’t it?” For them, but not for her. This was home; the cocoon shed her, but the lost shards would always be home. Her gaze lifted to the brown point on the horizon then back on her friend. 

Siobhan, knowing that Metzli had never hesitated to offer her comfort, shifted nervously on her feet. She remained where she stood, by the flowing stream. Her voice transformed into an oddity of kindness; something like her great-great-grandmother’s. “Home is where you’re loved and you are loved, now. And you’re loved in Wicked’s Rest and that’s home.” Siobhan repeated Metzli’s sentiments hoping there was some comfort for them in their version of truth. She considered her disagreement suddenly irrelevant. “We don’t have to think about your past anymore, if it burns; if it makes you heavy. I think your future is more fun, isn’t it?” But it wasn’t the same for her and it didn’t matter: loved or not, wanted or not, this was home. She could be a stray if she wanted, a little runaway from the beef ranch, but her reality wouldn’t bend. 

Then, there was the matter of the cow. Siobhan thought she understood the metaphor (Metzli was making a metaphor, weren’t they?) but she couldn’t pretend like she agreed, or that she understood, or keep herself from the question. The simple creature continued to lap up the water. “It can’t choose,” she said, arguing as softly as she could manage. She offered her friend a gentle expression, betraying the comfort and kindness she hoped to offer. “It’s a…cow. It can’t just…it doesn’t know better. It can’t live in the wild. It can’t just…exist. It wasn’t made to live. Not the way you’re describing.” Metzli must know; they grew up on a farm. There was a singular purpose. A unifying duty. “It’s a cow.” 

—

Without a word, they nodded, keeping the silence as Siobhan struggled to keep her illusion from completely falling apart. Things were easier to understand when there wasn’t fluff in what people were saying. Little meanings here and there that were thrown in for their sentiment, but most of the time, Metzli felt like it was for their confusion. However, now that they had the experience to decipher what was being said, they realized how important fluff could be sometimes. Words without the sharp edges. Words softened to allow for comfort to follow. Words that were too full of emotion to freely walk off one's tongue, but fell when they needed to. Into the arms (or arm) of someone who could carry them. Metzli lifted without hesitation.

“It can choose.” They affirmed, closing the distance between them and Siobhan. “Cows can be stubborn and bold, or shy and quiet, or controlling and rude.” Something akin to a snort came out of them as they thought back to one of their favorite dairy cows, Chicha. She was one of the best, and having been just a child when she was born, Metzli grew fond of her as they grew together. “One time, we lose a cow. Chicha. She was much annoying and always want to be out of the fence.” They breathed out a small chuckle. 

“Wake up and went to work, and she was not there. We lose her for two weeks. Think she was dead after one week.” Clicking their tongue, Metzli patted the back of the cow’s head and trailed their gaze back to Siobhan, offering a knowing and amused look. “She come back with this confident walk. Like nothing happen. My apá was so angry and wanted me to kill her for meat, but I know this is stupid choice so I just clean her up.” Their face fell at the memory, and they clicked their tongue again. “Our brand was messed up on her back. Some other farm try to put theirs on top and then I see she had cuts and fur missing, and I was so mad, but she was home, and she look very happy because she find this way to come back home where she will be treated good.”

Metzli wasn’t sure if Siobhan would find any comfort in the story, or see what they were trying to say, but they were sure that she didn’t really have to at that moment. Her wounds were still fresh and her heart needed time to repurpose itself. It was a good thing her and Metzli had enough of it to spare. “It will be okay, cariña.” They looked down to their friend, bending at the waist to connect their head to hers in a gentle bonk. “You are not a cow that was made to be certain way. You are…” Metzli pulled back, tears in their eyes with a smile reserved for so few to see. “Free and loved. You are my friend. You are my home. And,” They stood upright, holding their arm open for an embrace should Siobhan want it. “Now you have a new future. What do you want to do next since you are not a cow?”

—

Siobhan knew what Metzli was trying to do. It was thoughtful, it was kind, it was them tapping on frosted glass. What Siobhan wanted was to go home: she wanted her wings, her family, her dusty cramped room full of worn bones. What she could have was this: some kind words which dripped off her skin like rain. All of it left an uncomfortable residue. Siobhan thought she was worse than Chica; if she walked to Saol Eile with her scarred back, there wouldn’t be someone willing to take her in. She didn’t do well with choice, and yet, it spread before her like the dark branches of a blossoming sapling. She could do just about anything, and that was the problem. 

She could invite people to Ireland; she could let a leprechaun go; she could lead a cow to a stream and in fact, she’d done all those things. She could help someone she hated; she’d helped Regan escape, she’d spared the doctor’s wings from a full removal. And why? She was always contradicting herself, and why? What great purpose did being so confused serve her? Siobhan was too many things—an abundance of metaphors: she could call herself a garden, a library, a forest, a graveyard. Complexity didn’t interest her nor did it soothe the reality of being stuck with herself: squirming, writhing, pitiful. She needed to pin a more suitable Siobhan to the board (not by the wings, of course, she didn’t have those anymore). 

Falling into a different Siobhan was like wearing an old set of clothes; she’d been so many versions of the same, strange meandering woman for so long that slipping into another facet was a secondary nature—her primary nature being completely unknown to her. This Siobhan smiled softly, nodding at the love that Metzli offered, and imagined herself throwing it over her shoulder. She stood up. “What if I want to be a cow?” She did not want to be a cow. “What if it doesn’t matter? What if nothing does? What if I don’t want to be your friend?” She wanted to be Metzli’s friend. 

Siobhan pulled one of several knives from her pockets. With the flick of her wrist, she jammed the knife into the thick of the cow’s neck. She twisted, opening up the whining creature like a faucet. She pulled her hand away, covered in slick, burning blood, and smiled. This Siobhan didn’t think about how a different Siobhan really loved cows. This Siobhan didn’t do much thinking at all; it made her uncomfortable. As did being loved (as did being unloved). As did trying to figure out what she wanted (as did disobeying her whims). As did doing anything that was expected of her (as did doing anything she oughtn’t). She could stab a cow if she wanted—not that she wanted to—and she could do things that she didn’t want to—just because—and she wasn’t making any choices because choices made her uncomfortable—ignoring all the choices she was actively making and had made—and she could do it all because…. Because…

“Freedom makes me itchy,” Siobhan said with a shrug. “As does iron.” She scratched at her bloody hand. “So do artichokes; do you think I might be allergic?”

—

“We can see what matters and you can decide not to be my friend if you want. It is what you get to do. You are—” And then there was a knife in the cow, a bloody smile spreading across its throat. 

Hunger wound around Metzli’s throat so tightly that they wretched. Their eyes went red and glossy, body tensing as control barely managed to set itself in place. Killing the cow wasn’t exactly what Metzli had in mind for Siobhan’s newfound freedom, but they supposed metaphors were open to interpretation. They grumbled to themself and fought through the animalistic urge to bite, their face twisting with discomfort. 

The miscommunication was why they preferred plain speech. It’s what they probably should’ve stuck to, they thought. But Metzli figured Siobhan would’ve used her freedom to kill anyway. She couldn’t resist a good knife and some blood. Not as well as she could resist what was good for her. 

“Maybe.” They finally responded in a choke, clearing their throat soon after. “It will be strange allergy to have.” Which was not what she meant was it? They told her about their itch, so was it the same as theirs? Was she experiencing a level of discomfort that made living all too much? If she was, they could already tell speaking about it in depth was out of the question. They responded in kind, granting her silent wish. With a swallow, Metzli approached the now lifeless cow. “Will we take it home for food? I can prepare this and we can have meal together.”

—

Metzli was more tolerant than Siobhan hoped for—had she been hoping for something? No, of course she wasn’t. This Siobhan didn’t hope because hoping was pathetic and nothing she hoped for ever came to be anyway. She was flowing from one whim into the other; one dead cow into the next inevitable dead cow. Chaos incarnate, or something like it, right? (Her mind was strangely empty, no agreement echoed back through its hollow caverns.) Performing for an unresponsive audience really stabbed the life out of her metaphorical cow; in the realm of reality, the literal cow that had the life stabbed out of it flopped over as if taking a deep nap. 

What she’d imagined—which was different than hoping—was that Metzli would lunge across the space between them and sink their fangs into the cow. Or, perhaps, press their lips to the spurting wound. Instead, they stood there. Instead, they offered her more kindness that she didn’t know where to put. Siobhan frowned. “Stop being nice; this is weird. Is this what it’s like to have a friend?” Why hadn’t Metzli moved? Why had they retrained themself? Why did they offer to make a meal out of their bloody metaphor? She scratched her red hand, which was sprouting a new rash. “I think I might be allergic to friendship too.” She didn’t like this. “You’re no fun.” Her frown transformed into a childish pout. This Siobhan who wanted to play games learned quickly that Metzli was immune to them.   

She rounded the cow and lifted its big, dumb, dead, stupid head. “I don’t eat meat,” Siobhan said, “which I know is ironic considering…” Considering all of her; which she hated to admit was a tolling bell of irony. “But I’m sure Anita and…” Siobhan paused. “...Xóchitl would like a fresh meal.” And why did it matter to her what those two would like? Did it matter why it mattered? She was so tired of fighting her brain’s logic that she’d just have to let this one battle go. Waving a white flag, she smiled softly. “Help me drag this damn thing back. Or carry it yourself and I can pretend like I helped. I’ve got gloves if you need them.” 

Siobhan glanced up at the horizon, and the brown pointed roof of the shack. Her shoulders sank. For years she knew she’d convinced herself that she’d come a long way: from child to adolescent to woman to this. But it was always back there she went, back here she came: to Ireland, to Saol Eile, to her great-great-grandmother’s shack, to herself. Could a dog chasing its own tail forget where it was going? All she had to do was turn around and yet, and yet… And why? Why? She sighed; she wasn’t sure she even wanted to run another delusional lap. Maybe she’d start attributing her whiplashed thoughts to vertigo. Or, maybe, she’d find the right Siobhan to pin down and let her take over the laps. Or maybe she’d go back to the shack, watch Metzli cook a cow, and stop pretending like there was anything here that she cared to take back home. Yes, maybe, it was time to pack her suitcases. Maybe. Or maybe not yet. Who was going to tell her which choice was the right one?

“Hey, Metzli,” she said, “I love you; I don’t want to stop being your friend.” That, at least, she could be sure of.    

[fezwearingjellybananas]

If you’re still taking AU headcanon asks: AU where Caitlin’s powers manifest in s1 or s2? 👀

Absolutely! It might have got away from a little

Farooq Gibran shows up to attack S.T.A.R. Labs as canon, it more or less follows canon, only there's a moment Caitlin seems not herself, her face seems to harden and it's like she's going to step out to fight him, and Cisco grabs her, and hisses because she's so cold, but that noise of Cisco in pain shakes her out of it, Barry's powers come back, and afterwards Caitlin doesn't remember it.

And then Leonard Snart shows up to kidnap her, with his friend with the Heat Gun. And she tries to run, they want to use her to hurt Barry, they're talking about hurting Barry, and she tries to run and she's so sure she remembers those flames licking at her arm, but there's no burn and after she doesn't remember anything until she wakes up tied to a chair. They say she tried to fight, but she can't remember.

She talks to Cisco after. This happened when she was a child, a few times, she would get scared and then not know anything, but they all assumed it was some kind of anxiety disorder, one developed after she lost her father, or maybe before, it all gets so lost in the blank parts of her mind and she hates it, she spent so long working on getting it to stop, it's been at least five years since her last full black out, but Cisco is her best friend and he's there for her in the way he always is and he reassures her that she's been through so much lately, it's okay for her to be struggling right now.

There's a moment, standing by that crater, that Caitlin thinks she's just got Ronnie back only to lose him all over again, and the moment he's told there's no radiation, Barry's so focused on getting Caitlin in there to Ronnie- please, please to Ronnie- that he doesn't notice the ice that's been spreading out from her feet.

Doctor Wells asks Barry later about the temperature drop his suit registered, and Barry shakes his head, he vaguely noticed, but there were more important things on his mind, it was probably to do with the explosion. Eobard takes himself off to his Time Vault with a grin though and pulls up a different newspaper article. It was always a gamble, employing the future Vibe, he could take a speedster's powers among other things Eobard wasn't sure about, and Cisco Ramon was loyal, but ultimately good. A hero. But Killer Frost wasn't, not in the timeline he came from, and she's got the ideal powers for countering a speedster's...

There's that flash on her face again, that shift, when Eiling comes to Jitters to try and take Ronnie, but Barry's hurt and Barry needs Caitlin.

We get our first proper look at Frost with Hannibal Bates, though we don't know it yet. One moment the person Caitlin thinks is Barry is kissing her out of nowhere, the next he's lying on the other side of the room, his face frost covered and tinted blue and Iris is there for some reason, Doctor Wells too, but it's Iris who's holding her, telling her it's okay, and Caitlin doesn't remember, doesn't know what they saw doesn't know what Iris knows, but Iris is there and gentle and reassuring, and Caitlin still just sees Barry's body, and she's scared, but Iris is there and so warm and gentle and reassuring and Caitlin feels herself crying and when she wipes the tears from her face they look like ice.

Eobard drops that Caitlin has powers when he's in the Pipeline, talks about her becoming Killer Frost and a villain like it's inevitable, in the same way he talks about Cisco's powers, tries to convince her one day he'll turn on her friends, and none of her friends believe him. Barry tells her that was the timeline Eobard came from, and uses it as one of his reasons he can't risk the one they live in, not if it means doing that to Caitlin.

But there's still the Singularity, and when we open s2 Caitlin is at Mercury Labs and trying to understand metapowers more so she can get rid of her own before she goes down that path. This is also when we first meet Eliza Harmon, who's working with Caitlin on this.

S2 we get a few hints about Caitlin's past, we learn her mother divorced her father after he developed motor neurone disease and she didn't want Caitlin seeing him and it drove this wedge between them that only worsened the day she told Caitlin he'd died.

'Jay' works with Caitlin on both finding a cure for Velocity-9, and trying to find a way to take a meta's powers. It could help them stop Zoom for good, he convinces her, and he's showering her in all this affection and love and she's hurting so much...

When Geomancer attacks S.T.A.R. Labs while Cisco and Barry are on Earth-2, Caitlin has another black out, throws ice out of herself again, and Iris is there to comfort her, again.

Finding out her Earth-2 doppelganger is Killer Frost only makes Caitlin more afraid of herself, more desperate to get rid of these powers, which is exactly why Cisco and Barry spent the first few weeks back trying to keep it from her. And now she's lost Jay and she's just tearing her hair out-

But Cisco was a villain on Earth-2 too, he says to her, it doesn't mean anything, and he'll do what he can for her, but powers can never change she's his best friend and he knows she would never hurt him.

This is when we first properly meet Carla Tannhauser- Caitlin goes to see her and Cisco goes with her. Caitlin's mother still refuses to talk about her father, they both know she knows more than she's letting on, but she does say she'll help.

Jay is Zoom and Caitlin finds another thing to hate herself for- nothing good would have come of giving Zoom a way to take powers from people, and even if Caitlin didn't find her own way, she recognises her own work in Harry's method of taking Barry's speed.

Giving him Barry's speed is the only way to save Wally and of course he agrees to that, he's Barry, he's the hero. And then Zoom- Jay- is holding Barry against the wall, murder in his eyes, and Caitlin can beg, can plead, can offer herself like Barry would do for her-

And then Zoom runs to her and we fully see the shift, we see Caitlin's hair glowing white, we see this anger and rage and protection in her eyes and she with such purpose shoots ice from her hands directly into Hunter Zoloman. And she speaks, Frost, for the first time, a voice which is Caitlin's and which isn't, a warning:

"If you touch Caitlin again, I will drive an icicle through your heart"

Zoom skitters away, through a breach, he got what he came for, and Team Flash look at this person who is Caitlin and who isn't and she's nervous and afraid, and Iris holds out a hand.

When Caitlin comes back to herself she's sat in the Cortex, a blanket around her, her family around her, and they explain what happened during her black out. Explain that they met Frost and no one was ever meant to know about Frost, but she couldn't ever let Caitlin get hurt, not again.

And this part of her opens, things fall into place, and learning to live with Frost, finding this new dynamic between them, finding out how to control her powers and embrace them instead of being afraid- because both Caitlin and Frost have the powers, the powers come from the body they share-, finding out the truth about what happened to her father and what he did to her, that can all wait for s3 and beyond.

For now she knows the truth, knows she's safe, and for now she can just breathe.

And then she's going to find Hunter Zoloman and stab him with an icicle for everything he's done to her friends.

Thank you!

[5+ headcanons for an AU]

[shrinkthisviolet]

For the au headcannons, what would have happened if Betta survived and became a part of team Flash. Cause that could have been interesting.

Interesting indeed! Here are some:

She’s a living bomb and can turn things into bombs. This would definitely be helpful, especially against the Tricksters, whose specialty is in gadgets and contraptions. She might even know a thing or two about bomb mechanics

She'd also be able to help negotiate, being a military woman who takes no shit, who's stood up to the likes of Eiling. Barry would definitely become more skilled at, say, bluffing 😂

Since Eiling pops up again with the Ronnie and Stein stuff, she'd be a huge help there, defending them from Eiling and maybe even suggesting where they can relocate

Tbh she might even already know about Eiling's interest in FIRESTORM, so they could find Ronnie and Stein before Eiling does first...tho really, that would still just mean the events of the episodes all happen, just much earlier

She'd probably catch on to something being fishy about Eowells before anyone else does. She's intuitive like that, from what I can tell

send me an au and i’ll share 5+ headcanons about it!

[amimuu]

*insert Ami dragging in a huge chalkboard filled with scrimbles and writings fitting to a madman* Ahem...hello...welcome to the tumblr post in which i explain my vision of how hbt au would be as a musical

Lets start (adding a keep reading so you dont have to scroll if ya dont wanna see it) ALSO. spoilers for hbt au in general including the things discussed over here, Heathers the musical and....Disney's Frozen...

so first of all I think the overall vibe of the music would change constantly as Mark's life goes on, at some points becoming lighter to signify positive changes or gaining new hope. Or the opposite, getting somber when a negative event happens.

ALSO! I think each character would get a "theme". Not directly a song. Just a part of it, a melody that incorporates into the main song each time said character sings or has a protagonic role in the song. Of course, some character's (Mark, probably) Do get their own theme song, and sometimes the lyrics of that could incorporate into other songs.

Also. ALSO. when I mention a song to reference to I mean referenxe the vibe the song gives unless I specify it otherwise

Alr i didn't really think of lyrics or names (just the vibe) so here's a list of how i think the songs would go. For now uhm...I'll give them placeholder names

No room for the both of us - Do I. need to explain. INWCT chapter 1. It starts with a phone ringing a lot as you hear someone making their way towards it, the music slowly building up until said person picks up and Alt!Cesar starts singing. ("Black out days" by the Phantogram mixed with "For the record" From 36 questions and a bit of "Kiss me (kill me) By JerryTerry. Im saying nothing else)

Warmth - Alt!Cesar makes his choice to keep Mark alive for a while but struggles with humanity in return. Warning! Lots of blasphemy in this particular song. He also talks a bit about the alternates and the morningstar....Not really sure how the vibe would go

Deer - Bambi ripoff bitch shows up. Alt!Cesar struggles even MORE with humanity (think of "Kiss me (Kil me)" by JerryTerry, mostly from the alternate's parts in which it sounds sickly Sweet yet creepy whenever it sings (Alt! Cesar does too at the start but it becomes less and less eerie as the songs go on), the song changes its mood whenever anyone else sings, and at the end the deer is cut off from singing by Cesar, who starts hitting it with a stick at the rhythm of the music, that has already shifted its vibe once again)

Bandages - That one part in which Mark is bandaging Alt! Cesar's hands and talking about his faith and stuff (The idea for the vibe is mostly soft, calm acoustic with no percussion ... I couldnt think of a song that fits the vibe ToT)

The truth - they report to Thatcher, head to the church and find the bambi rippoff bitch again. This song shifts povs between Mark and Alt! Cesar-deer also sings (Along with its Kiss me, kill me song vibe) but not a lot as it is consntantly cut off by Cesar. Theres an epic instrumental near the end as Alt! Cesar finally makes the choice to protect Mark-a mix between his theme and Alt! Cesar's (kind of like that one instrumental in "I hear a symphony". The rest of the vibe is pretty much... Tense) The music calms down after its over (maybe it could end with some violin?)

Crucifix - Confrontation between Mark and Alt!Cesar. This one particularly sounds somber, yet there is a little hope between the lines. The music and tension build up until it is cut short by a gunshot. After that there is soft music and a couple last words are sang, softly, no music in the background, by alt!Cesar. He sounds very sad :( (This one is kind of meant to sound like "I am Damaged" from the heathers musical)

---

10:15 pm - 10:15, saturday night. Mark is confused- very. Sad also. Very traumatized, definitely. Theres a couple call back to other songs as well as lyrics from songs to come.. It ends with him choosing to stick to his faith and calling Thatcher (Picture "the 30th" by Billie Eilish .u." for an idea of the vibe)

---

Cold glare - Mark's life from before he turned ten and stuff...bad times. This song is not meant to be completely and all sad as his mom is still there (this one is, actually Sang by present Mark, narrating back on the events)

Angel numbers - Mark makes a new friend :)! What could possibly go wrong? (this song ends with Mark's dad screaming- also there's a couple dialogue cuts.. I dont really have an idea of the vibe)

Cesar - Mark makes another new friend but this time it goes nicely. Cesar's introduction to the story (this song kicks off with their first interaction btw. Maybe there could be a song between angel numbers and this one to smooth out the events. There's a few dialogue cuts, mostly to highlight important events between the friends. Also, this song's lyrics get used in the future, as well as the melody, or a slightly changed version of it is meant to be alt!Cesar's "theme") (also for the vibe of this one i imagine something like "if i could tell her" from dear evan hansen mixed with a bit of "a better versión" from 36 questions)

Mother - More events on Mark's childhood, up until the events from the day his parents died..its kind of a reprise to the first song of this section but not really? Only the melody, Maybe there could be some shared lyrics. (This one in terms of vibes and bpm could be something like "astronomy" By conan gray...just that. Progressively growing more and more tense)

----

Mark Heathcliff - Thatcher's experience with Mark, from their first meeting up until the time in which Mark calls him after the events of INWCT. Meant to be relaxed and a bit sad at times- also forgot to say the shared melody present at "Mother/Cold glare" is Mark's theme- which is also present here, along with some lyrics. (For the vibe of the music i imagine something like "the story" by Conan Gray)

Roll along - Mark narrates his life after the events of INWCT. He's not doing really well but hey! He got a dog! (There are some parts in this song with small dialogue exchanges between Mark and Thatcher, mostly discussing Mark's "saintly duties"). Kind of like rolling girl but imagine an entirely different vibe but the overall mood of the lyrics is the same, Hence, roll along. (But uh in terms of song vibe picture "Dear Theodosia" from hamilton... With a few somber parts)

Crucifix (Reprise) - Mark meets again with a little someone...It doesn't go well. Have you watched the frozen movie? Yeah? remember that part in which Ana and Elsa have a reprise of that one Ana song and it ends with Elsa accidentally throwing ice into Ana's hearth? Well imagine that kinda buildup in the song as they argue, but when Alt!Cesar has enough and he pushes Mark the melody just goes into a religious chorus kinda melody (Picture the part in "Meant to be yours" in which J.D. forcefully enters Veronica's room and sees her "dead". Like that but slower and more...ethereal sounding sort of) Until its cut short by...Mark getting impaled. OOF

warmth (reprise)? - Not really a song, but yeah, but REALLY short. The lyrics change but the melody stays the same, just that...slower. Alt!Cesar is singing in a very low voice too. (Picture "some die young" by Gavin Mikhail- but a lot less instrumental) This one ends with Alt!Ces calling for help, specifially, the sound of waiting for his call to be connected.

----

Uncle - SO MARK AND DAVE MEET FOR THE FIRST TIME. Just that Mark is in a medically induced coma so.. Yeah. Dave talks about his past and his life with his parents.. Thatcher sings a few lines! Also between strophes you can hear the transcript of how Cesar's call for help went. (for the vibe its kind of like "Our Word" from the 36 questions musical... But mix it with a bit of "Non-stop" since there's a lot going on. Also its a pretty long song) This one probably ends with Thatcher saying something like "oh. Well..."

Talk - So this one is just. Soft. Thatcher is worried, Mark just woke up. And they talk. About...pretty much everything. The enviroment is pretty peaceful, yet...a bit sad. Maybe Thatcher brings up the call. Mark sure as hell mentions Darcy and they both laugh a bit at this. Probably by the end lol. (So for the vibes, picture "its quiet uptown" from Hamilton)

---

And...that's it. I am fried and this mostly were from the parts of the story that we have details off- so yeah hehe-

I think than an interesting one in the future would be about Thatcher's alternate experience...Mostly narrating what happens as the hours pass, with a very eerie tone and a few dialogue breaks from Mark, who is violently texting Thatcher (his voice is also audible in the background as Thatcher sings) until in the end Thatcer just begins singing in a very low voice after....getting rid of the bugs. And then BOOM Mark comes in(Ohhh i think the vibe of this one would be kind of like "El tango de Roxxane" From Moulin Rouge ohhhhh YEESSSSSS)

But...after that one. Yeah. No idea. Ooof. Well...I hope you enjoyed reading that cuz i sure had fun writin' it. (also finding song references for the vibes of some songs lmao)

[scotianostra]

Good Morning from Scotland  

Sunrise from Lochiel Road Inverlochy. 

The street was probably named after Ewen Cameron of Lochiel,(1629-1719) . There is a great  story about Lochiel, so what better way to start the day!

  The building of the Fort of Inverlochy (later to become Fort William) in 1654 to suppress local insurrection and warfare, inevitably led to much confrontation between the British Soldiers of Cromwell and the Clan Cameron, led by their chief Ewen Cameron. Significant skirmishes took place at Achdalieu, Strone Nevis and Achintore, all in the year 1654.

  It began when two thousand Cromwellian troops, under General Monk came equipped with one year's supplies, workmen, servants and ample materials to construct the garrison.  Ewen Cameron heard of their entry into Lochaber and rushed back home and was most probably shocked by what he would find.  Within a day the Cromwellians, using the plentiful woods of the area as a resource, had already firmly entrenched themselves in Lochaber behind a wooden stockade.

  Ewen kept just thirty-two of his bravest men with him, retiring to the woods of Achdalieu where they would await the return of their forces and wait for a chance to strike against the enemy.  The commander of the fort, a Colonel Brayne, would soon order nearly three hundred of his men out of the fort, to cut "some fine old oak trees."  Two ships of soldiers sailed from the fort into Loch Eil, one anchoring on Ewen's side of the loch, the other ship on the opposite shore.  The young Chief of Clan Cameron counted one hundred and thirty-eight of the enemy on his lochside, in addition to officers and workmen.  Returning to his men Ewen asked their advice on what they might do "now that such a party of the enemy had offered their throats to be cut."  

Ewen Cameron of Lochiel decided to make the British Army pay with their lives each and every time they set foot outside their fort.  The Camerons would "take a bite" out of the Cromwellian soldiers during each such outing, beginning that very day at Achdalieu. Ewen's scouts brought word that the Cromwellian soldiers who had landed nearby were slowly made their way to the village of Achdalieu , pillaging houses and capturing poultry along the way.  Though given orders to march slowly through the woods to engage the enemy, the Camerons ran on ahead, eager to expel their unwanted guests.  The Cromwellians heard their charge, for though only 32 in number,  the Camerons must have sounded like an entire regiment, utilising the cover of the woods to confound the enemy just as Ewen had hoped.  Led by their courageous chief these "sons of the hound," armed with muskets, broadswords, dirks, targes and bow and arrow, rushed upon the soldiers.  

For every Cameron there were four soldiers from the Fort  armed with heavy muskets and bayonets. Immediately the Cromwellian soldiers fell into an extreme sense of panic, for they had fired much too soon.  Long before they had a chance to re-load the Highlanders were upon them.  Thirty of the enemy were dead instantly, with the "point blank" discharge of the Cameron firearms.  The subsequent cutting wounds inflicted upon the redcoats were said to be beyond belief.  Needless to say broadswords will inflict great damage upon an enemy, but they also were reported to have hewed through a good number of bayonets and into musket barrels.  After what has been described as a "stiff fight" the remaining 60 or so living Cromwellians were put to flight.

  Lochiel craftily sent two or three of his men ahead of the retreating enemy and had them call out from behind a bush, as to make the enemy imagine that they were heading into another body of Camerons.  While this strategy slowed the return to their boats, it also enraged the redcoats, who were still superior in numbers to the Camerons. In the midst of the battle Ewen was separated from his men, after following a few of the enemy into the woods where he killed two or three of them with his "own hand."  

As fate would have it the English officer who had commanded the party had also fled in this direction and had concealed himself behind a nearby bush.

  Observing that the Chief of Clan Cameron was alone he emerged from his hiding place intent on avenging the deaths of his men.  Facing off to one another with swords these two gentlemen fought for both survival and honour.  Their swordsmanship being of a somewhat equal match, they fought on as the redcoats continued to be hounded by the Cameron men.  It is said that the English officer was a large, powerful foe, but that Ewen exceeded him in agility.  In due time the Englishman's sword was tripped out of his hand, leaving Ewen poised for the kill.  This was to be denied, for the redcoat pounced upon Ewen and wrestled him to the ground.  They struggled and fought one another, eventually tumbling down into the nearby channel of a brook or stream, which happened to be dry.

  The Englishman found himself atop of Ewen and proceeded to use his great size to drive the Cameron Chief deeply into the sharp stones.  After some time, during which the two men fought with their last remaining strength, the English officer regained the use of a free hand, with which he drew the dagger from upon his belt.  While keeping his full weight upon Ewen, to hold him to the ground, the Englishman attempted to stab his foe, but was unable to in such close quarters. In the end he finally managed to disengage himself, raising high above Ewen for the death blow.  In those moments of battle, when one is faced with impending death, desperation and fury combine with one another into a formidable defence.  Ewen at long last saw his opportunity, which he must have realised would be his last chance of survival.  He reached up and grabbed his opponent by the collar, jumping at the extended throat which presented itself at that moment.  The English officer, at full extension with his dagger above Ewen, was defenceless; his throat was bitten and torn from his body.  As Ewen reflected in his later years "it was the sweetest bite" that he had ever experienced.  The Camerons lost only five men on that day.

Many years later, when more civil relations had been restored Lochiel found himself in London at a barbers shop to get his beard and hair dressed. The barber sat him in his chair and producing his razor remarked: " You are from the north, sir, I believe ? "" Yes," answered Lochiel, " I am. Do you know people from the north ? "

  " No," shouted the angry barber, " nor do I wish to. They are savages there - one of them tore the throat out of my father with his teeth, and I only wish I had the fellow's throat as near me as I have yours just now." On this occasion Lochiel did not challenge him and it is said he never again entered a barber's shop. Soon after the fight at Achdalieu , the Ewen requested those of his people who lived near the Cromwellian garrison of Inverlochy to "make their peace" with the Governor, that they should live peaceably towards himself and his garrison.  This was soon arranged and the Cameron people were secured from ruin during their leader's absence from the district. The Governor, however again sent  parties to bring in wood and other materials to strengthen his fortifications - materials belonging to the Camerons, if not Ewen himself.  

Being kept well informed of what was occurring at Inverlochy the young Chief of Clan Cameron returned to the district and immediately placed a body of his most resolute followers in a secure place, less than one-half mile westward of the fort.   That same morning a body of two hundred men came out from the garrison, marching in Ewen's direction.  Observing them, he detached twenty of his men to a secret place, to the rear of the enemy - between them and the garrison - with orders to rush out and intercept them in case they retreated, as they naturally would when attacked in front by the Camerons.  The Cromwellian party marched in "good order" until they arrived at the village of Achintore , where Ewen and his band lay concealed.  The Camerons furiously rushed forward, scattering their enemies in all directions.  

The memory of the battle of Achdalieu struck fear into their hearts, when they found themselves so suddenly and unexpectedly attacked by a force of strength of which they did not know and could not ascertain.  The men in ambush rushed forth to intercept them in their flight, giving the Cromwellians a full charge of their firelocks in front and then charged with their broadswords, killing more than half their number.  Those who escaped were pursued to the walls of the fort, but many of them were taken prisoner.

Once more, Ewen, XVII Captain and Chief of Clan Cameron left Lochaber and again heard that the Governor of Inverlochy was taking advantage of his absence, cutting down large quantities of his woods to supply the garrison with an ample supply of fuel during the upcoming winter.  Annoyed at this, he returned from his military commitments elsewhere and found that the English soldiers had been cutting down the woods on the shoulder of Ben Nevis , about one mile eastward from the garrison.  Ewen marched to this point, called Strone Nevis, early on the following morning after his arrival.  He carefully posted his men and gave then the necessary instructions.  Ewen kept sixty, under his own immediate command, in a tuft of wood at a point opposite where the soldiers sent out from the garrison with the hewers of the wood always took up their position.  Two other bodies of thirty men each were told off to his right and left, respectively, where they were concealed.  They were instructed to rush forth as soon as the concerted signal was given, which was to be a great shout of "Advance, Advance!" as if the wood was full of men.  The remainder of his men he placed in a pass between the wood and the garrison, to lie in ambush and not to move out of that unless they found that the enemy was making a successful resistance when attacked by the Highlanders in front.  If these men laying in ambush noticed their enemies running away, in retreat, they were to rush forward in advance of them, place them between two fires by giving them a volley in front and then attack them with their broad-swords.  The object was to kill as many as they could.  They were, however, specially ordered to give quarter to any who offered to lay down his arms and surrender.

  About four hundred Cromwellians marched out of the garrison, taking their usual position, quite innocent of the fate which immediately awaited them.  Everything turned out as Ewen anticipated; a general slaughter at once ensued.  The Highlanders, issuing forth from their places of concealment, made a great noise, loudly echoed by the surrounding mountains.  This, accompanied by the simultaneous sounds of several bagpipes, frightened the enemy, who in consequence made no resistance.  They truly believed themselves surrounded by large bodies of Highlanders pouring in upon them from all sides and immediately fled at their highest speed. More than one hundred of the Cromwellians were killed on the spot and the remainder, having been attacked unexpectedly by those in ambush between them and the garrison, were part of a second slaughter.  

Not more than a third of the four hundred escaped.  These were pursued to the walls of the garrison and the whole battle was over so quickly that it became a matter of history before the Governor actually knew that his men had even been attacked.

  Not one single Cromwellian officer escaped, they being the only men among the garrison troops who had the courage to offer any resistance to the Camerons.  Among them was a young gentleman, a great "favourite" of the Governor who, exasperated at the loss of his friend and that of his men, became furious and swore immediate revenge upon Ewen and the entire Clan Cameron. The next morning the Governor ordered out the entire garrison, some 1,500 men.  Ewen, as usual, obtained advance notice of this action and moved his men to higher ground, keeping in view of the enemy as he himself "marched round the mountains, with pipes playing and colours flying."  He made every effort to induce the Cromwellian commander to follow him, to get him entangled in the woods, narrow paths and other obstructions abounding in the area, where he could be successfully attacked.  The Governor was too wary to fall into the trap prepared for him.  

After traversing many difficult and rugged paths the Cromwellian forces turned right about and by the help of good guides found their way back to the garrison, heartily fatigued and disgusted with the fruitless expedition.  The Camerons, following closely on their heels, repeatedly insulted the Governor and his followers.  Whenever the nature of the ground favoured, and when they came to close quarters, they invited the Cromwellians to advance "for their Chief was there, ready to receive their Governor, if he wished to speak to him."  They were also said to have uttered several other "very tantalising and insulting remarks."  Needless to say, after this the garrison of Inverlochy was on better guard when they dared to venture from their fortification.

[austarus]

Harrison Wells (Eobard Thawne) x Reader - Integrated Revelations (1/3)

**A/N: The picture/edit/gif does not belong to me.

*I attempted a thing where I try to get back into the groove of writing for my murder speed husband... It’s probably shit, but here goes nothing. Sorta another theory I’ve had and had all these scenes connect together. I’m a shit writer so... Also, I’m dying and crying. Hahaha. I literally am dying. My uni work online is being ridiculously overwhelming along with my work hours for school. I really need a week with no deadlines or work just to get caught up with three weeks of work for certain classes. I really need to take a break. But I can’t, started to loose sleep. Can’t even have time to write or play Pokemon Reborn. Anyway, that a bit of an update from me. I wrote this back in July, hoping to have written a fic a week (which turned out to not happen, but hey, I tried) until October to post things. Also this most likely has grammer errors. I’m sorry. Once again, a shit writer. Please don’t forget to comment, like, and reblog. It means a lot to content creators of all kinds!

Word Count: 3584

Part 2  Part 3

“Well...” Eobard’s raspy voice didn’t seem to alarm the two speedsters that had phased into the Time Vault. The futuristic speedster had sat with a leg crossed over the other, and elbow resting on the arm of the chair. “Things just got a lot more complicated, didn't they?” Eobard pushed from the chair, standing up and taking a few steps forward. Nora and Barry looked on, one adorned a look of uncertainty and the other masqueraded his rage and pain through the years. “Barry Allen.” Barry nodded along, gauging the black-haired man’s façade. “But which Barry Allen? Clearly, you're… from a lot later than this one.” Eobard maneuvered his body and pointed to the unconscious form of an earlier Barry Allen.

“Way later.” Barry simply answered, looking indifferent.

“Way later,” Eobard echoed the response, putting emphasis on the word ‘way’. The scientist nodded along, pursuing his lips as his electric blue eyes flickered to Nora. Before anyone could speak, could even move the Time Vault door dematerialized. Nora watched as an earlier version of yourself entered the Vault hurriedly and out of breath. You had entered looking over your shoulder with a tablet in hand. You had been scanning for the supposed Time Wraith that had attacked Barry, but not your present time Barry.

“Eo, I traced-” You froze in place as you turned your gaze forward. Fear crippled your heart as you saw a version of Barry, much older through the years, and a woman not too far off his from his age. You swallowed thickly, clutching the tablet tighter. There’s three Barry Allen’s now?? Who the hell decided to break time? A small throbbing sensation erupted at the back of your head, but you dismissed it. Eobard had swiftly moved to stand in front of you. His eyes connected with yours for a moment.

“You knew?!” The young woman spoke up, stepping forward towards you which caused Eobard to hold out a subtle arm out to the side to keep you behind him. “All those years.” The older man narrowed his eyes at what the female had called out to you. You frowned at her words in confusion. Who is she? An image flashed through your mind of the woman, smiling proudly at Barry while wearing a dark purple and white suit with a yellow emblem. She clearly knows who I am, but… What even happened? Are they from a different future? You pushed away the image to the back of your mind. “How could y-”

“If you even think about touching her, either of you, then you’ll regret ever running back here,” Eobard steely replied. You took a step closer to your speedster boyfriend in case something were to happen and he needed to speed you away to safety. Not that you needed saving, but you were still working on defending yourself via your lessons with the futuristic speedster. So, they’re from the future, and I’m guessing far off from this other Barry, but not too far for him to age too much. You spared a small glance to the cuffed and unconscious Barry Allen on the ground. It hurt your heart to see him vulnerable like that, but Eobard had confided to you his suspicions regarding this Barry Allen. One Barry Allen problem at a time. Taking a breath in, you remained silent and studied the two speedsters that confronted your speedster.

“Let it go.” Barry grabbed onto the speedster’s shoulder, holding her back. Oddly enough, Barry’s words coldly cut through you. 

“Now,” Eobard’s cocky attitude returned to him as he established the safety of your presence. He had that kind of affect, putting himself on the air of superiority and intellect with his attitude and words to belittle the person in front of him rightly so to get the desired reaction he wants and anticipates. Eobard knows how to tug on Barry’s strings. “Who's your friend? Let me guess. Jesse Chambers- No. Maybe Lawrence. Wait- Danica Williams-”

“-It doesn't matter who she is.” Barry cut off Eobard’s rattling of names.

You eyed Eobard’s deceptive small smile as he held Barry’s gaze then turned to the young adult. The female remained silent, avoiding Eobard’s icy eyes. “She's your daughter.” You scrunched your face in confusion before the neurons clicked in your head after a few seconds. Lemme guess, she’s a speedster that ran back in time and met a younger version of her father. Weird flex bro, but whatever. You do you. If I was a speedster, I’d do things differently. Obviously not up to scale what with the tampering that Eobard likes to do with the timeline to get his way with things. “You've brought me your daughter.” Your eyes flickered back to Barry before taking another look at the female and seeing a bit of resemblance, other than the fact that she was a speedster like him. Then the article Eo’s been obsessing about did reveal something true. Barry does take Iris as his wife. The West-Allen family. “It's, um... Dawn, if I'm not mistaken.”

“Nora.” The young speedster forced out after briefly glancing at her father.

“Nora. Oh, that's nice.” Eobard turned back to Barry with a smirk, “At least you still have one.” That’s cruel, Eo. “What- Nora- time travel's so weird-”

“Why did you come here?” You found the nerve to speak up, moving to stand beside the man masquerading as Harrison Wells. I’m not going to be afraid; I can’t always cower behind Eobard if something unexpected happens. I need to take things in my own hands. Even if they do find out about- You cleared any evidence of distress at their sudden appearance from your throat, “What do you want?”

“I need him to fix this for me.” Barry held up a broken tube-like device in his hand.

A thought hit the genius scientist instantaneously, his blue eyes widening. Turning your body, you saw Eobard take a few steps backwards, “No...” The headache didn’t go away, instead intensifying slightly by the second. Negative emotions flooded your system at Eobard’s crippling composure. He shook his head at them. “No, if you're here...” Eo turned to face the unconscious Barry, cuffed to his motored wheelchair, pointing to them and him. “And he's here... that means-”

“-You don't get home.” Barry simply stated. Your heart shook, terror and dread feeding into your system at his words. Uncertainty of the future- your future with Eobard- plagued you. How does this all end?

“I get home!” The yellow speedster whipped his head around in agitation, his voice raising with every statement. Barry smirked cruelly as he shook his head. You held your breath at Eobard’s spiking wrath, you hadn’t seen him this angry since General Eiling’s interference with The Flash and Plastique. Even then he’d mask his resentment to pull the strings in the game strategically. “I get home. I go home! I get everything-”

“-You don't go home, Thawne.” The Scarlet Speedster halted the Man in the Yellow Suit. Eobard clenched his jaw. You reached out a hand to rest it on his arm in an attempt to calm him. His eyes met yours for a fraction of a second. You felt the tension hang heavily in the air. “Unless… you help me.” Barry held up his broken device once more, mockingly this time. Your eyes flickered to the ring on his right hand. Similar to Eobard’s. A future version of Cisco must have been able to figure out how to use microtech to compress Barry’s suit. He’s the greatest mechanical engineer that I know. Eobard’s shoulders sagged a fraction as Barry held his ground. Turning around, the genius scientist rubbed his face before kicking the spare Barry in annoyance. Barry, all clad in black, winced because he probably ended up feeling that kick. You and Nora remained silent, eyeing the exchange between both speedsters.

Eobard shifted his body back, hands on his hips and fueled hatred present in his eyes. “What do you want?”

“Like I said, you're gonna fix this for me.”

“To do what?”

“Drain dark matter.”

What could Barry possibly need with Dark Matter? Hasn’t it done enough damage? “Whose dark matter?” You crossed your arms with the tablet close to your chest, a frown on your face as Eobard stepped beside you once more.

“None of your business.” Barry sneered at you. You narrowed your eyes at his demeanor, the young man who you gradually grew close to and considered as another brother like Cisco.

“Barry-”

“-It is our business.” Eobard retorted, taking your hand in his tightly. Both men were frustrated at the others persistence.

“No, it's not.”

Eobard started, letting go of you and rounding heatedly on to Barry, “There's no chance that I help you-”

You reached a hand out. “-Eobard, don’t-”

- It's none of your business-”

“-Cicada's!” Nora blurted out. Silence filled the room between the four of your, outbursts settling. You blinked a few times, taking a step back and resting a palm against your temple. Grimacing, you cast your eyes down as images of a half-masked man in green stood with a dagger. A glowing dagger with a look of emptiness and death in his eyes. That man looks dead to the world, as if willing to kill for an estranged purpose. It’s so cold. You shook your head subtly and stood your ground, unwilling to show weakness, but you saw Nora’s eyes shift when she looked at you. Barry eyed his daughter with a sort of incredulous look while a calculating and analytical look flashed through Eobard’s eyes.

“Cicada's.” The name seemed so familiar to Eobard as it easily slipped of his tongue. The hushed tone in Eobard’s voice expressed a calm before the storm. A deceptive man full of secrets and knowledge of many, many years to come. Especially when it came to The Flash. “The one who got away. You want to destroy Cicada's dagger, don't you?”

“We want to save lives.”

A cynical laugh leaves your speedster’s lips as you pursed yours, trying to tease out the logics from Barry. “You want to save lives.” Eobard chuckled mockingly at Barry’s response. “I bet you do. I bet you do. Especially your own, right, Barry Allen?”

“Look, that me,” Barry pointed to the other version of himself in the room, “he's gonna wake up soon. He sees me standing here, your whole timeline is gonna be blown to hell. You're never gonna get home. You know that's true!”

“I know! I know!” Eobard sighed, his facial expression contorted, and his eyes held a different motive as he flicked his gaze to Nora, who hadn’t stop taking glimpses of you. “Where are my manners? Can I get you a cup of water?” You rolled your eyes at Eobard’s ploy.

***

The four of you had moved to the small lab, far from the Cortex in avoidance of Caitlin and Cisco. The timeline was a fickle thing to speedsters, Eobard had told you that. But oddly enough, when it came to Eobard it seemed to be malleable to his every whim. Tools and spare wires littered along the desk your speedster boyfriend was working at. The monitor held a camera feed of the Time Vault where Barry’s unconscious younger version was still unconscious.

How hard did Eobard hit him? Like, how the hell is he still asleep even through all that yelling and seething??

“Here,” you handed Nora a bottle of purified water.

“Thanks,” she quietly spoke, you nodded at her. You really didn’t know what to think about someone who knew you in the future, yet you had no idea who she would be until a few years later. Would I even still be in this time period by then? Or would Eobard had kept his promise? … Nothing’s making any sense right now. You felt frustrated for not really being part of their conversations. You were… just there.

“So, who made this?” Eobard examined the piece of teach as he started working on it.

Barry answered with pocketed hands, “Someone smarter than you.”

“I doubt that,” You snorted as Eobard laughed at Barry’s statement. Leaning against the dark blue beam of the side lab, you crossed your arms avoiding Barry’s gaze when he glanced over to you. You chewed on the inside of your cheek. “If so, then why come here? Why go through all the trouble to come here when you can get help from the person who made it? Why then would you need Eobard’s help?”

“We-”

“It’s… complicated,” Barry sighed before Nora could finish saying anything, pocketing his hands.

“I think that’s an understatement to the type of trouble that seems to find you, Barr.” You crossed your arms. “At least a Time Wraith didn’t follow you this time. Which I’m still having trouble tracking down.” You nodded to his former self on the monitor. Barry rolled his eyes at you.

“You know, Allen,” the yellow speedster wheeled around, electric blue eyes meeting Barry’s green gaze, “for your plan to work, you're gonna actually have to have his dagger in your possession...”

“We've got that covered.”

The villainous speedster raised an eyebrow at the forensics scientists. “You got that covered. How’s that?” He humored them.

“With this.” Nora pulled out a dark piece of metal, holding it out for you and Eobard to observe momentarily.

“What is that?” You piqued up, causing Nora to look over at you. An odd emotion flickered in her eyes. Eobard reached a hand out to it only for Barry to pluck it from Nora’s grasp. Your eyes flickered between the two then back to Nora. She didn’t seem to be cautious around you and Eobard at all. Revealing the reason for aid and showing Eobard exactly what he seemed to want to see. You weren’t a genius, but you obviously saw the pointed looks that Barry subtly gave his daughter. The cogs were turning in your head as well as in Eobard’s. He masked his growing speculation about the two speedsters.

“Is that-”

“It's a piece of Savitar's suit, yeah.” Barry stoically responded, since Nora had already shown Eobard the metallic piece, to Eobard’s oncoming question before he could even finish. Barry knew Eobard recognized the object, shaking his head that that cat was out of the bag for this secret too.

“Savitar?”

“Savitar. The Future Flash and the self-proclaimed God of Speed, kitten,” Eobard simply explained as he worked. Images of a metallic suit flashed through your mind as it hummed with energy; a familiar face shrouded in shadows and a hauntingly course voice. “A twisted time remnant of the man you know to be your friend. Another big bad that Barry’s had to face in the future, primarily due to the mistakes of his growing unhappiness. Isn’t that right, Flash? The pain you’ve caused the people around you just for you selfish wishes.” Barry rolled his eyes but remained silent.

“Eobard, play nice,” you scolded the older man, “they’re still guests here after all.”

“Hmph. You know what's funny about your dad, Nora,” the futuristic genius caught her attention, “is he hates me. Hates me with a passion, and yet a version of him, this Savitar, is a much bigger jerk than I ever was. Did you see the face?” Eobard gestured to his own face, primarily to one side of his face while snickering “Did you- did you see the, like, pizza face-” Nora awkwardly stepped from foot to foot, looking away.

“-Pizza face?-” Eobard Tiberius Thawne you owe me so many fucking answers when we get home because these images aren’t making as much sense as they should.

“-Can you hurry up?-”

“-Yeah, I'll hurry up.” Eobard smugly nonchalantly threw the tiny screwdriver onto the desk. He picked up a different on. “I gotta tell you, Allen, using Savitar's suit, it's a smart idea.”

Barry tilted his head to his daughter. “It was hers.”

Eobard gave her a hard look. His eyes flickered towards you then turned around. “Clever girl.” You picked up an odd indication in his tone. The speedster narrowed his eyes at the tech as he ignited it, illuminating in his hands to signal its functioning aspect. On the monitor, the four of you noticed that the other Barry was coming to consciousness. Eobard inhaled silently. “Oops.” Eobard swiveled his body around to hand them the piece of tech. “Gotta go.” Barry narrowed his eyes, quiet hatred behind them as he took the tech from his nemesis. “I still look forward to seeing how this all pans out. Nora. Kitten, make sure they see their way out,” Eo glanced at you one last time before speeding away in a torrent of red-lightning to the Time Vault. The three of you watched as the villainous speedster reclaimed his rightful place, crossing his legs once more. An analytical look across his features.

You spoke before the two speedsters sped away in a torrent of lightning. “Cicada’s the one with the lightning-shaped dagger, the one that glows ominously? Heartless eyes? Breathing problems?”

“Yeah? How did you…?” Nora trailed off. Barry figured that your powers were still manifesting themselves and it seems that their run back in time has triggered sporadic post-cognitive images to be revealed through certain key words.

“It doesn’t matter how-,”

“Your powers are still developing,” Barry interjected, pocketing the tech safely. “It seems that our visit has amplified what you can do. Let’s just what it doesn’t shift anything else”

He knows about my powers… Right, time travel. “Just be safe. I-I don’t know too much and I’m not sure what the future holds, but whatever trouble you two have run into just be cautious. Not for me, but for the ones you love. The past will always have some sort of domino effect to the future. I may not be able to time travel, but Eobard has taught me a thing or two about it.” You stopped, looking off to the side while rubbing your arm. “Barry?”

“Hmm?”

“Just answer me this one thing.”

“… It depends.”

“I know, timeline and speedster stuff. But…” You took a breath in, “Is he safe?” The speedster avoided your eyes. You swallowed thickly, moving your gaze to Nora. “Does he live?” She opened her mouth a fraction, moved by the desperation evident in your eyes

“I can’t answer that.” Barry whispered without hesitation, an alien emotion behind those eyes, replacing the kindness and warmth the Barry you knew had. It was bitter. “Nora, it’s time to go back to the night it all began.” Barry flashed away to the pipeline. Nora remained.

“I’m sorry,” She whispered, your body felt numb at the absence of answers. You turned back to the monitor, running both hands through your hair before picking up a spare tool and frustratingly throwing it at the wall. Picking up the tablet once more, you ran some algorithms and diagnostics privately on your powers as you made you way to the Time Vault.

Eobard’s head perked up in question at your entrance. He remained seated catching your troubled look. You only whispered, “We need to talk after this is over,” before leaning against the wall and tapping at the screen of your tablet. He hadn’t missed the embittered look in your eyes, the prominent frown on your face. A peculiar emotion hidden behind those lovely eyes of yours when the speedster had been so accustomed to seeing lights and twinkling of stars within your irises.

Eobard rubbed his wrist as he attained messy hair due to Barry and Nora’s revelations. You speculated he had been running his hands through it in thought as he tried to decipher the truth and what his next plan of action would be. King vs King. Eobard and Barry. It was a dangerous game and it’s clear that Team Flash are Barry’s pieces to move while Iris was by his side. From the future’s perspective. But you… at this point, you hazard a thought of what Eobard saw of you as. Queen… or Pawn. Pursing your lips, you shoved those thoughts away as your mind reminded you of all you and he had gone through since he had revealed himself and his truth to you. But right now, you were feeling so conflicted and insecure at how everything would play out. He promised to take me home with him… That we could start a life together. I don’t want to be used up and thrown away again. I’m tired of being broken and alienated.

The restrained Barry shifted once more in abrupt confusion as he found himself slumped against the cool metal of Eobard’s motorized wheelchair. A prop to his act. His mind felt foggy and arms felt heavy, particularly his right hand. You stopped tapping and eyed him indifferently because you really had no idea how to feel, but you realized you need to be cautious with how you act and what you say until you and Eobard clear things up from earlier events.

Barry’s eyes darted rapidly to the seated, smirking speedster in front of him then to you then to the metacuffs before lingering back to Harrison. The Scarlet Speedster assessed the guarded expression on your face. You saw this Barry feign confusion, eyebrows raised as he eyed the metacuffs and Dr. Wells. You cracked your neck as Eobard did a little hand-wave gesture to Barry. The young speedster looked baffled, probably at getting caught, as he opened and closed his mouth.

“Now, who are you?”

[cartoonfangirl1218]

3 times Bette was afraid to touch Barry and the one time she wasn’t

Obvious AU where Bette is still alive. I felt that there was some potential with her so here it is.

Their was a loud crash bang, but Bette didn't even look up. Probably another brawl between the new recruits. No one wanted to use the tazer less they accidentally shock themselves when she tried to head butt them.

It had been days since she been in the normal world, and she was slowly accepting this was what her life was going to be like until she died or until she gave in.

She had been dead for precisely a day before returning back to life. According to Eiling, she had been shot and blown up. But with the help of a man named Savage, they connected to a group called the Time Masters and hired the Pilgrim.

The Pilgrim was a woman able to stop time, another meta-human of some sort, and she went to the split second after Flash had run off and she blew up. Retrieved her body and with some extensive bomb-detonations, DNA analysts, and other stuff that Eiling didn't comprehend well enough to explain to her, she was alive.

Bette couldn't really wrap her mind around the whole Time Masters thing, and Savage or the Pilgrim but she chose not to dwell on it. After all she could make explosives with everything she touched who was she to judge.

The one thing Eiling made sure to keep were her powers. Unpredictable as ever. She had been too dazed and confused to really fight back when they brought her into the room.

The room was large, probably ten feet wide, ten feet in length. All white with padded grey walls and a large see-through window spanning the front next to the door.

They put her in the middle of the room. Strapped her to two chains hanging from ceiling into a elevated T or crucification-position. It prevented her from being able to move her hands around to touch the chains on her wrists or touch anyone/thing else.

She was hanging with no firm grip on the ground and she teetered on the toes of her boots. Preventing her from getting enough leverage to make a proper kick or at least that would make an impact.

She stayed in this position for hours on end, her back straining and arms aching from being stretched as her body longed to touch the ground. They wouldn't even let her eat with her hands, they spoon-fed her and gave her water. She was only unstrapped to go to the bathroom.

Which was a toilet and sink located at the upper right corner of the room. She was thankful that no perved had decided to look but it was still degrading. Treated like a wild animal, and going without the privacy of a stall.

Eiling was determined as ever to make her into a weapon, and he hadn't let up his threat that he would force her. Every day she would be tazered, hit, kicked, and water boarded.

This wasn't new for her, she had dealt with this while she had been serving on the Gulf Cost. Interrogation techniques and pain and she had become immune to most of them. She took comfort with the fact that they wanted her alive to be their living weapon so as she gasped and panicked for breath as the water bag placed over her head, suffocating her. She remembered they wouldn't go that far.

Although sometimes she wanted to give in, such as the nights they tried the sleep deprivation tactic, brights lights, loud noises, cold water splashed over her every time she was about to nod off. What would happen if she said yes?

Maybe they would finally unstrapped her? Maybe they would let her go into a regular room and sleep for once and maybe get a home and call me and special missions? Finally know what the date is?

Those thoughts were quickly pushed out when she reminded herself that as a living weapon, they wouldn't see her as a person.

Only a fighting machine. They wouldn't let her go back to her old life nor help her control her powers. It wasn't worth losing her humanity and independence to fight enemies if she didn't get a say in it.

She had joined the army to fight for the American way, but fighting for the government. She had a feeling fighting solely for the government might be killing more than terrorists but more anyone who tried to fight against it's precious leaders. Her stubbornness kicked in and she used all her will and tactics she learned at training to refuse.

"One thing different in this scenario," Bette snorted to herself, "There's no army to come looking for me. No one even knows I'm alive."

The crash sounded again, along with Eiling shouting and Bette curiously looked up.

She saw a red blur rush through the facility and Bette gasped. The familiar red blur, who had tried to help her all those days, possibly months ago.

He had honestly tried to help her with her powers, and one of the only ones who didn't look at her with absolute fear when he found out about her powers.

Flash looked through the window at her. He knocked Eiling's head against the glass and kicked open the door.

"Flash" she whispered, horsely. She jingled the chains uselessly and cringed as her torso recoiled in pain.

"Bette you're alive!?" Flash asked incredulous.

"Clearly," Bette snapped, Flash unsnapped the chain and she fell to the ground.

"Let me help.." Flash reached for her hand.

"Don't touch me," she hissed, scorching away from him, "I can handle myself."

She gripped her hands tightly, making sure not touch the floor, and pulled herself up by her elbows. Then promptly felt a searing pain in her ribs and buckled to the floor.

"Bette, we need you to get you out of here. You can't walk." Flash insisted as she crawled on her elbows and knees to the door.

"I don't have gloves on. I don't want to hurt you." Bette hissed.

"I can handle this, come on" he tried to reached under arm and attempted to get her to standing position but she kept squirming out of his grasp.

"Trust me." The speedster said with urgency. Bette looked at him, and relaxed her muscles. If anyone would get her out of this. He would.

She offered him her wrist. He took it and took her to the outside world in a woosh of air.

She found out it was 2016, she had spent two years in that place and has sustained from 7 cracked ribs, a severe concussion, a slight fear of water, broken ankle and dislocated knee cap.

There had been other people kept captive at the place, but she had been the only one to stick around with Team Flash.

Caitlin offered her a new set of gloves and although she couldn't participate in missions until she was healed, she helped out the Labs with random jobs and surveillance.

It had been quite dull, but once she was fully healed from her injuries, Cisco suggested as a professional trained solider, that she could teach them to fight better.

She had been training them but Caitlin and Cisco soon ducked out after the first session, claiming that their expertise lied behind the computer screen and they rather be able to sit on their chairs without sore butts.

Barry, she learned his name was, continue to train with her since he was the one doing most of the fighting. She had to admit, despite some posture and technique problems since he depended on his speed, but he had the basic skills down and the superspeed reflexes helped him a lot.

"Okay Bette, stop I'm woah" he ducked her roundhouse kick "I'm done."

"It's only been 20 minutes," Bette protested, taking another head-butt at him. It felt so good to be exercising again.

"Can you let it up a little?" Barry asked.

"Do you think Zoom would let it up a little?" She elbowed him in the shoulder.

"Fine," He panted, and aimed another upper cut at her. It would have been an easy block, but she hesitated and he sent flat on the ground.

"What happened there, bombshell?" Barry asked as she got up. She smirked, Cisco had started to nickname her Bombshell after she explained that one of her best talents in the army was as a bomb detonator.

"Nothing. I mean.. I would have blocked it, but you know...hands. I'm so used to touching myself." She cringed, "Sorry that sounded so wrong."

"Well you have your gloves now. So come on throw something at me. Punch.” "I'm okay, really." Bette wiped her pants.

"Oh come on punch me. You've got to get use to touching things again, so try to hit me." Barry insisted.

"It's fine, I'll stick to kicking."

"Bette," Barry whined, exaggeratedly "Punch me. It's not hard. I won't even defend myself. See" he clasped his hands behind his back.

"Even more of a reason not to," Bette protested with the image of his head exploding into a thousand little pieces.

"But I'm use to it. It'll be fine. People punched me lots of times" He grabbed her wrist, and attempted to squash it against his face.

"Then have them do it. I'm not going to," She pulled her hands back. "You can't fight without punching people" Barry chided, shoving her backwards.

"Really? Because I was beating your ass two seconds ago." Bette snorted, dogging another swipe at her. She tried to flip his legs with her own when he grabbed hers midway and threw her over.

"Oh look who's beating your ass now," Barry taunted, as she tried to up kick him again, once more with the same results and again.

"Damn Bette, keep fighting like this and we'll have your butt imprint on the floor." Bette growled in frustration.

He kept knocking her over and circling around her with his damn superspeed until she finally snapped and sent a smooth undercut to his jaw.

He fell to the floor with a thud, Bette bend down to his side,

"Oh my god, Barry I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do it so hard!"

"You did it" he cheered with such a happy grin that Bette had to laugh "Great job," He reached for a high five.

"'Another time" Bette glanced wearily at his hand and cracked her knuckles -

Eight weeks later, Barry had taken to what he called Operation Touchy and Bette sincerely wished he would choose a new name.

Ever since the punching incident he felt that she had to get acquainted with physical contact again and every week, after training he would "introduce" her to a new sense of touch. After punching, it had been slapping, after that it had been handshakes. It was sort of ridiculous and unneeded if you asked her but he kept trying.

There was another factor too.

The more time she spent with him, the more she came to admire him. She didn't want to admit it, but she was starting to get a small crush. At first she had tried to convince herself it was a misplaced feeling and that she only was grateful for helping her, no love whatsoever.

Besides he was dating Patti, she was not that kind of girl to ruin someone's relationship. He would be better off with Patti, she was as normal and awkward as he was. They were perfect together.

But then they started to get to know each other. That was one way not to get over someone. He started to tell her about his mother and how he had come to live with the Wests. He talked about his bio-engineer dreams, and school and how he used to get bullied when he was younger.

He also introduced her to some of his favorite shows, and after he found out she had no idea who Dan and Phil where they spent the entire afternoon looking up videos. He would send an occasional but very energetic email, saying "THEY POSTED A NEW ONE? IT'S HILARIOUS GO LOOK? LOL FUNNY!"

She admired his optimism very much, she never met anyone so happy, and it brightened her day to hear him crack a joke in midst pressure. One time he had sent a Dubsmash of him dancing to Gangam Style/Harlem Shake/Whip n Nae Nae and she almost collapsed on the floor, laughing.

She had never seen anything like a grown male attempting whip Gangam style then do the worm and trip over a bowl of popcorn.

Today he "introduced" her to poking. Which she was pretty sure just an excuse for him to annoy her.

Afterwards he invited her to watch Mean Girls at the Lab because Patti was working a night shift.

"Isn't this a chick flick?" Bette asked as he placed a bowl of popcorn on the desktop.

"Well, yeah but it's written by Tina Fey!" She looked at him blankly "And stars Lindsey Lohan" he added like those two names would be an obvious answer to why a PG-13 move from the early 200s would be so awesome.

"Watch and you'll understand," He sat on the rolling chair beside her and accidentally knocked his knee against hers. An act that shouldn't have been so electrifying for her but it was. She blushed and grabbed a handful of popcorn.

Bette felt a little disappointed that he didn't seem to have noticed their knees touching but she hissed at herself, "Patti Patti Patti Patti.” "What was that?" He asked her.

"Nothing" Bette chirped, and blushed again.

Eventually she fell asleep at some part about a Halloween party and she thrashed restlessly. She had been having nightmares ever since she got her powers, usually world-about-to-end-all-thanks-to-her-types but sometimes she had general ones of fallen friends as their body parts were sent flying fifty feet in the air or when they were beheaded and militated by the Taliban.

Currently it was a flashback to being water boarded, over but this time Eiling wasn't letting up. She felt the burn of his bullet going into her chest.

"Wake up!" A disembodied voice called and she woke up. Barry was holding her by the shoulders and shaking her awake. "Are you okay? You were about to fall off your chair."

"Uh yeah, a nightmare. Regular PTSD stuff, ignore me." Bette waved him off and tried to settle herself back into a comfortable position.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He asked.

"No. I'd rather not, I, Eiling that..um. Death hurts nothing much you can say about that.”

"Right, I get it" Barry nodded sagely. He reached his arms around her and she stiffened, unsure what to do.

"Now this is called hugging" Barry said, soothingly, stroking her hair. She felt her heart flutter a bit as his warm chest rested against hers, with his soft even breathing.

Slowly she put her hands around his back and rested her chin in the crook of his neck. He was so warm and so soft.

But like all things it had to end, and Bette wanted to slow the rapid flutterings in her stomach. "It meant nothing, just friend hugging a friend. He has a lovely girlfriend of his own who deserves him" she thought to herself.

But "I think I like hugging the best so far" she added shyly Barry grinned, "Me too, it's a lot less painful than slapping." ————

She had been about to leave S.T.A.R. Labs after Barry had returned from saving the subway when she spotted him, sitting melancholy on the patient table.

"Hey Barry, are you okay?" She asked him softly He sat silent.

"Did someone die? Do you want to talk about it?" She asked. "Patti," he sighed deeply.

It had been a month since Patti broke up with him, but he still had hurt feelings. She couldn't blame him, he had been over the moon with her but all the secret keeping and lies took a toll. Despite her feelings she hadn't want them to break up because of it. She actually encouraged him to tell her but it all came too late.

"Sometimes I feel like, I won't be enough for anyone. I'm too secretive. My intelligence scares them off. I'm too much like one of the girls. I've always been friend-zoned." Bette frowned, he must not only be talking about Patti,Iris was in this too.

"And then, I always make such lame excuses and jokes." This was more than the break-up, this was his whole self-esteem in the balance.

"Every time I try to find someone, I do but I end up losing them or endangering all the rest of the female population finds me utterly disgusting!"

Bette couldn't stand to see him like this. He resembled a symbol of hope and life to almost everyone in Central City, and although he couldn't save everyone he tried. He cared and he should know this.

"Barry, I want you to listen to me. Although it feels like it. You can't hold all the faults of the relationship on your shoulders. It's a relationship, a bond between TWO people. So for every mistake you made she made one too, it's not entirely one. Furthermore you're an amazing person Barry Allen.

You have more sense of fairness and justice in you than most people have in their pinkie. You want a fair trial, and you always put 110% in what you do. Believe me, people appreciate that. And in terms of people you care about. Barry you are the sweetest being in the universe. You cheer people up, you reason and sympathize with their troubles. What woman wouldn't love that about you. Know what else they would love about you, let's review" she started counting off her fingers.

"Singing voice is angelic, body 12 out of a scale of ten, your intelligence is outstanding and there is nothing cuter than when you start talking about what you love, you put your friends before your self and that's always very admirable, and most importantly you never stop being you. Which is what every girl looks for. That's true honesty."

Barry looked at her, mouth agape. "You're talking about me?" "Of course I am.” And for once, Bette didn't think about her hands or touching or anything else in the world. She only saw him and all the traits she had described. The incredibly smart, geeky man who saved the world on a daily basis. The man who had helped her in the darkest time and always looked at her with a smile.

She pulled his head closer to hers, gently caressing his cheek as she stared into his piercing brown eyes, and kissed him.

She pulled back, looking at his face for his reaction. "Thanks for what you said" Barry said, looking away.

Bette felt her heart dropped down to the floor, he didn't feel the same way, this was so embarrassing. Even if she had been gone for two years she doubted that people suddenly kissed to cheer friends up. She moved to leave.

"Now may introduce you to French kissing?" he asked. Bette turned back to him, and saw his eyes shining. "Yes" She pulled him closer, and fell into a tight, comforting embrace.

[captcas]

Worth Fighting For (4/?)

WORTH FIGHTING FOR by capthamm

Killian “Hook” Jones is a dominate up and comer in the UFC while Emma “The Savior” Swan’s career was cut short. When Hook’s manager moves up and the office brings in UFC’s youngest legend to keep him in check, will either of them be able to handle it?

read on ao3 // tumblr: ch 1/ ch 2 / ch 3

[CHAPTER 4/?]

Emma finishes up her work and heads to the subway. She’s doing her best to ignore her obvious frustration with her new client and hopes a quick stop at the gym might clear her mind a bit. She’s grateful that Henry is at Avery’s for some science fair project. She needs this after today. Emma’s got a lot of pent up— something— she needs to work out.  She gets to the gym, gives a tired smile at Belle and heads to the locker room. She changes quickly, grateful they let her keep her locker, and heads towards the treadmills. Emma’s trying to pull up the latest episode of her podcast so she doesn’t pay any mind to who’s using the machine next to her.

That is until he looks her way.

Fuck.

She’s run into Killian here a total of maybe three times before they started “working” together so it only makes total sense that she’d run into him now.  She gives him a forced smile before putting her earbuds in and starting up the treadmill. He seems to get the hint, smiling back and continuing his run.  She’d be lying if she said she didn’t steal a glance or two as she jogged.

Okay, more than a glance.

She can’t help it. Watching his chest breathe in and out in a rhythmic pattern that parallels that of his feet pounding against the treadmill. She can’t help but notice the way his jaw ticks every once in a while, surely pushing himself to the full limit, or the beads of sweat that drip from his forehead and disappear beneath the hem of his shirt.  She hasn’t admired another human being like this in a long time– probably ever.  She doesn’t let her mind wander further than that, knowing anywhere else it would travel would be way less than professional.

She runs.  Mentally and physically.

She can’t think about him this way and he can’t think about her in any way besides as his manager. So she’ll shut it down now, being professional and curt and not allowing either of them to cross the bright red line that she’s almost positive she’s not the only one close to crossing.

It’ll be easier this way.

Killian leaves the treadmill to presumably find a sparring partner and Emma feels like she can breathe freely again. She runs, longer than she ever has, and for a while forgets about anything but the beat of her feet hitting the belt of the treadmill.  When she finishes, Killian is nowhere to be found. She doesn’t allow herself to be disappointed despite the small pang in her gut that tells her she wanted him to wait for her.  She gets back to her locker, showers, and changes. As she walks out of the gym she unlocks her phone to a text from Killian.

I didn’t want to break you out of your runner’s high. See you Thursday, Swan.

She presses the phone to her chest, trying to slow the beat of her heart. The text is innocent, an explanation as to why more pleasantries between co-workers weren’t exchanged.  She won’t let herself think of it as anything else.

She knows it is.

Getting on the subway, Emma finds a seat, not answering the text message despite it burning white hot in her pocket the entire way home.

Henry gets home an hour or so after her. She makes up dinner, he quickly summarizes his day, and smirks as he tells her he did in fact finish the sixth book. She smiles at him and puts in the movie so they can watch as they eat.  It’s really hard to pay attention to a bunch of British kids when a certain British man is taking up the entirety of your mental real estate.  She’s seen the movie at least ten times, but Henry seems to enjoy himself. They both cry when Dumbledore dies and Henry seems newly invigorated to get through the seventh book for their next movie night. The movie finishes way past his bedtime so Emma tucks him in and returns to clean up the kitchen.

As she does the dishes she feels like she’s on auto pilot, her head spinning over the events of the day. When she finally lays down, she stares at the rotation of her bedroom eiling fan for what feels like hours.  Killian Jones has crept his way into her head and she hates it.

She finally falls asleep only to wake the next morning and find he’s also crept his way into her dreams.

She groans into her pillow. Despite her gut telling her this could be good , Emma forces herself to end this now. She’s been given an opportunity and she can’t throw it away for some blue-eyed fighter who can read her like a book.  She can’t and she won’t. Henry comes first, and no one is worth risking his future for.

Emma won’t acknowledge the fact that a lot of this has nothing to do with Henry.  She picks up her phone, and responds to his text:

Yes, Mr. Jones, Thursday, 9AM sharp. I will reserve the conference room. Thank you, E. Swan . . . Killian knew the text was risky, but he didn’t think it’d shut them down completely– like there's a "them" to shut down at all.

He’s going to have to play by her rules– not that he was ever under the illusion that he wouldn’t be– and he’s in this for the long haul.  He bides his time for Thursday, desperately hoping to run into her at the gym or on the T. It’s Wednesday night’s training session where Robin finally says something. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks, mate. You’re no beauty queen yourself.” He shoots his friend (and trainer) a sarcastic smirk but receives only a judgemental stare back. Killian sighs, running his taped hands over his face. “I’m fine, Rob. I promise. Just stressed with the manager switch is all.” “Is there something wrong with Emma? Is she stressing you out? Regina said you two seemed to hit it off but if that’s not the case then I can–”

Killian cuts him off, “No, no, no. There is absolutely nothing wrong with Emma.” He winces at the meaning behind his own words, hoping it’s lost on his friend. When he meets Robin’s eye, he knows it’s not.

“I see then. How about a few quick practice rounds in the ring?” Robin gives him a knowing look as he lifts the rope for Killian to slip under. He nods back at him in thanks, not just for lifting the rope, but for dropping the subject. He doesn’t want a fuss over something that is decidedly and absolutely nothing.

He adjusts the peeling tape on his battered knuckles and slips into training mode. The world blurs around him when he fights; it’s just him and his opponent. He feels the rush of instinct and adrenaline course through his veins as he rolls his shoulders back ready to go one versus one with his trainer.

He takes it easy on Robin.

Obviously.

He wipes the sweat from his brow as he all but chugs from the water bottle Robin threw him after the quick bout. Water pours down his throat like ice, quelling the adrenaline, and calming the innate rage that boils over mid-fight. With a clear mind, his first thought is of green eyes. He punches the padded wall behind him in protest of his own mutinous thoughts, and Robin shakes his head.

“You’ve got it bad, mate.” Robin gives Killian a tight smile and throws him a towel, “Shower up, you did good today.”

The pounding of the water on his shoulders brings further clarity. How he feels about Emma is, at this point, out of his control, but what they become is her decision. He’s known this all along, but would be lying if he said he hadn’t tried to push the hands of fate a little bit.

It was selfish, but Killian doesn’t mind being selfish when it comes to Emma.

He finishes up getting ready and walks out of the locker room while scrolling through ESPN’s predictions for this week’s fights when he quite literally runs into someone.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I–” He looks up. “Oh Belle, I’m sorry, lass. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Belle smiles brightly, “No problem, Mr. Jones. It happens.” “Killian please, lass.”

Belle nods shyly and smiles before walking towards the storage closet between the two locker rooms. Killian’s eyes subconsciously follow the sweet lass until they catch a flash of blonde leaving the locker room opposite his. Something in his gut tells him to ignore her, that sparking a conversation will only dig him in deeper; yelling out her name only torturing him more.

He stares at the space where her head was only seconds before a bit longer than he should and catches Belle’s knowing glance as he finally shakes himself out of whatever trance Emma put him under.

. . .

She knows going to the gym is risky but Emma needs to let the tension out somehow.  She’s obviously just stressed about her client meeting tomorrow.

It has nothing to do with said client.

And his damn blue eyes.

She walks in and notices Belle isn’t at the desk, but a quick sweep finds her putting towels away in the storage closest between the two locker rooms.

It also finds Killian Jones.

Emma looks down at her phone immediately hoping to avoid any in-person contact. He seems nice enough but she’d like to keep this strictly professional… she thinks.

She flinches before walking into the locker room, sure he’s noticed her by now and will say something that she has no choice to ignore. Emma expects to be pleasantly surprised when she gets into the locker room unscathed but her mind betrays her. Questions of why he didn’t stop her or even so much as cough to get her attention flood her mind for the rest of her work out. The silence and space is unlike the Killian Jones she’s become acquainted with over the past week and starkly different than the ones she’s kept in the peripheral of her mind for the last year.

Yes, a year; she’s not blind.

She audibly groans catching the attention of a man working out on the bench next to her. She recognizes him from somewhere but she can’t place him. Before she can figure it out, he’s walking over and introducing himself.

“Need a hand?” Emma can’t help but roll her eyes, of course he thinks she needs help.

“I got it, the groan had nothing to do with the workout. Thanks anyway, bud.”

“Graham Humbert.” Oh. Oh.

She dials the sass back a bit and throws on a friendly smile, “Emma Sw—“

“The Savior?! I thought that might’ve been you but I didn’t think you still came around. It’s been what 7 years?”

“Ten.” Emma mumbles, now fidgeting with the hair tie on her wrist. She changes the subject, “Rough fight the other weekend, huh?”

Graham seems stunned, but whether it’s at her bringing up his loss or the fact she continued the conversation, she’s not sure. “Yeah,” he laughs awkwardly, “Jones got the best of me. He’s fucking quick, I’ve heard people say that but you can’t prepare for it unless you’ve been in the ring with him.”

Emma mentally facepalms forgetting that this particular subject would divert her train of thought right back to where she didn’t want it to be. “Oh? Huh. You’ll get him next time.” She answers more than vaguely (and dishonestly— Graham winning wouldn’t be good for her now either) and Graham seems to sense the visible shift. She’s pretty sure a trash can could’ve sensed the awkward tension between them

“We’ll see I suppose. If there is a next time.” He pauses, probably waiting for her to answer but continues when she just nods in agreement. “Well it’s an honor to meet you, Emma.” He hesitates and she can practically feel what’s coming next. “If you ever need a spotter, uh, or dinner, let me know.” He slips her a business card with his cell number on it. “I’d be happy to help with either.”

She smiles softly, unable to help the inevitable blush that rises to her cheeks when someone (rather awkwardly) asks her out. “Will do, Graham. Thank you.”

He nods at her with a genuine smile and turns back to his bench. She does the same only to catch the eye of Killian. She’s not sure why she feels like she did anything wrong– for fucks sake they aren’t dating– but if the look on his face is any indication, he heard the entire exchange. Emma just saw him leave so she’s not even sure why he’s here.

Fuck it.

Emma walks towards him as he turns and heads to the door, she jogs a bit before calling out his name– what the fuck has gotten into her? “Jones!”

He turns around at her acknowledgement. “Yes, Swan?”

She realizes she’s not sure why she approached him, an explanation for her conversation with Graham suddenly seeming awfully presumptuous. “Oh, uh, I just wanted to confirm our meeting for tomorrow.” Smooth.

“Yes Swan, I recieved your text.” He mimics her, “9AM sharp. Did you reserve that conference room?”

She’s tempted to be mad at him but can sense the mirth hiding behind his eyes. “I did, but, uh, maybe the coffee shop is better. I think Tina has a meeting with Hatter’s entire team and it seems irresponsible to take up the conference room...” She’s not sure what the fuck she’s doing but the words just seem to be pouring from her mouth without her consent.

She doesn’t really mind– neither does he.

He nods at her and she’s either crazy or there’s a sense of bridled excitement in his next words, “As you wish, Swan.” He smiles softly and turns into the locker room.

Emma is left standing in the middle of the gym extremely confused? Excited? Hopeful? She’s not sure, but all she knows is that Killian Jones has come into her life like a hurricane and she’s pretty sure she's only in the eye of the storm.

. . .

Killian is out the door and halfway to the T when he realizes he forgot his headphones on the elliptical. He’d usually leave them... but tomorrow ishis off day and he needs them for subway rides so no one tries to talk to him.

Bloody hell.

He heads back into the gym, telling Belle he just has to grab something he forgot. Killian walks through the locker room to the machine he was using and stops dead in his tracks when he sees her.

Bloody. Hell.

He forgot she’d be here, which is ridiculous because his mind rarely lets him forget her existence, but he’s more so stopped by who she’s talking to. He’s close enough to hear her conversation with Humbert, and although he has no right to be, his blood boils with envy when he insinuates taking Emma on a date. He can’t help but notice she doesn’t say yes.

She also doesn’t say no.

It’s when that realization hits him that Emma spots him from across the gym. He’d like to say he masked his emotions well, but the way Emma jogs towards him tells him he failed.  He turns to walk away, not wanting to acknowledge the feelings that he’s finding hard to control in her presence, but when she calls his name he can’t help but respond.

Why does she look so worried? “Yes, Swan?” There’s an edge to his voice that he can’t control. One minute she’s short and professional, the next she’s chasing him down at the gym. He doesn’t mean to mock her by repeating the “9 am sharp” from her text, but  he feels as though he’s getting whiplash from this woman.

He doesn’t really mind.

Especially when she agrees to another coffee shop date– meeting– bloody hell.  Killian rides the high of Emma’s growing comfort all the way til their meeting the next morning.

And he is abruptly dropped on his proverbial ass.

Emma’s initial greeting is friendly and warm, as is their elevator ride, and when he offers to buy their drinks again, she flashes a bright smile but assures him she can charge it to the company. The moment they sit down at the table everything shifts. He supposes it’s his fault as he tries desperately to keep things professional. They get stuff done -Emma sees to that- but he finds himself stumbling over words where innuendos would flow easily, making for an entirely awkward conversation. Where the last meeting lasted three hours, this one lasted a mere 45 minutes before Emma assured him she had another meeting to run off to.

He knows she doesn’t. (So he checked her digital calendar, hoping for a second chance at a lunch date -sue him.) Not that he would’ve asked her to lunch, but he’d hoped his good luck in regards to Emma Swan may have continued. He can read her like a book and he knows she feels something but the last thing he wants to do is push– good thing he's a patient man.

This woman will be the death of him.

[achele-gleerph]

I want to be my own person, apologize for my own mistakes, not those of the people I once knew.

Yes, I’ve made tons of mistakes in the past, I’ve owned up to them, learned from them and corrected them. I’ve contacted the people I could find and apologized for my actions. If I could apologize to everyone I would! So for those that have not received a formal personal apology, I am sincerely sorry if I caused you any harm in the past. Currently I’m connected to people who are involved in drama, through this I’d like to formally distance myself from these people. I don’t wanna play any part in their drama. As I’ve said, I’m trying to change. Own up and learn from the mistakes I’ve made in the past.

Let’s start with my reasoning for kicking people out of roleplays.

In a former group of mine (Hazel Run) I’ve kicked someone out for forcing a ship on someone else.

Others were kicked out of Hazel Run by me and my co-admin, these decisions were not always discussed with one another, something we should’ve been doing and I fully apologize for that.

During my time as an admin of my current roleplay (What If) I’ve never kicked anyone out.

Being an admin is never easy, especially when it comes to making decisions like kicking someone out. I’m trying to do better and carefully take in everyone’s side before making these decisions in my current rp.

Now onto banned fc’s. When Lea Michele first got accused of being racist I was nowhere near my laptop, additionally the person playing Rachel Berry was not online. We don’t share the same timezone so we had to wait to discuss further action (change the fc/update graphics ect.) Due to college and real life I’ve been having a hard time to keep up who should and shouldn’t be banned anymore. About a  month ago I asked if anyone had an updated banned fc list (proof), I will be updating the list on the main as soon as I have more time.

Now onto the former What If, What If was created by me with the help a former friend, Eil. I had the plot but needed a co-admin thus Eil stepped in. For months it was me and Eil running the roleplay together, a little while later Erin stepped in to join the admin team as well. The three of us ran into some issues and we invited Kat (a.k.a Pepper) to join the admin team. Eil and Erin left at a certain point due to disagreements between all of us. I am sorry for the way I acted back then, not my best moment for sure. After Eil and Erin left Emmy joined the admin team at What If.

The current What If roleplay has pretty much always been me as an admin, due to former events I didn’t really trust anyone on the admin team other than myself. Last summer I brought Fiona on as a co-admin to help with things like activity checks and acceptances. Fiona has since been removed from What If. I will be updating the main as soon as possible, most likely during the weekend.

So far those have been the only people on the admin team of What If.

Another group I’ve created was Hazel Run, this was started after the first What If shut down. I created this roleplay with Kat. Since Kat was better at English than I was; she wrote the rules, and of course, both of us worked together on the ideas.

Kat and I never had the healthiest friendship, we both suffer from anxiety and didn’t have the best way of communicating, I take full blame for my behavior during this time. She left shortly after and I decided to continue the roleplay as was, I now fully see that I should’ve discontinued and worked on a group without any of her ideas. She accused me of stealing, an issue we have since resolved. In my current group I use some of her writing and ideas with permission and credit.

There are certain claims out there that I wanna address because they are simply untrue:

I have never lied about my age, I am 26 years old.

I have never left a group behind or joined groups under aliases, my name in the rpc has always been Sunny.

I have never been married, nor have I ever lied about being married to someone within the group. During this time I was not out yet and didn't know my sexuality.

As an admin I do think I reserve to right to accept and decline whoever I want, this can be based on writing skills or whether or not I think they’d be a good fit within the group. I barely decline people but when I do I always have a reason.

Here’s a timeline of the roleplays I’ve been a part of so far.

First roleplay I ever joined was one called Elysium Island, I played a Troian Bellisario fc and was probably around 14/15 years old. This was a good 10 years ago.

After I fell in love with Glee and Dianna Agron I joined a Glee future family roleplay, I stayed here till the group was disbanded.

I did a bunch of 1x1’s and joined a rp called Supernatural Academy after that.

After that I opened my first ever own roleplay, What If with Eil.

Hazel Run was created after, with Kat.

After Hazel Run I created What If (2.0) on my own.

Lastly I want to apologize to all the people I have hurt over the years and for once again being involved in some sort of drama. If you have not yet received a personal apology please feel free to message me so I can do so.

I will not address the drama that happened over the summer, I’ve acknowledged and apologized for those actions here.

Right now I mainly wanna focus on being a good admin and learning from my experiences. My focus in the rpc has always been to have fun and I will continue to strive after that.

-Sunny

[kadavernagh]

[pm] The latter. They won't care that you're

Enterprising. I stand in support, but I also just happen to be standing right now. Siobhan and I will certainly not be doing this. Once this is all over and I'm I don't plan on seeing her again, if I can help it. I probably won't be able to help it. Saol Eile isn't very large. Although, I also can't be positive they'll take her back, even after We will both be busy, though. You're the perfect height. I can see all of you.

Vinegar. Or... plain, fine. I forgot about Pringles.

So you're saying you'll let me come if I wear a ghillie suit? How is that preferable to the winter coat? ...Would you share a bed with a ghillie su

Mike is my favorite ulcer. But you are just my favorite. I've never had anyone, um, do something like this for me.

...Yes. Don't let them do something foolish. Or... don't help them do something foolish. There is no "letting". They have been commanded enou [user's fingers cramp] Why can't I [user remembers a very old promise to not tell anyone about wynne's background] Oh for screaming out lou

Only Van. I'm not going back there after that experience. I don't like crowds. Wait, you didn't kn What did you think banshees do? when we're not-- We scream when someone is about to die. We see it. We're gifted with foresight into Fate's plans. At least... where death is concerned. I seem to be entirely inept at all other kinds of foresight. And popup books are for

You're no baby. Why would you say that?

You mentioned a hotel. Um, when we find the lemming. The 16th. That night. What do you think?

[pm] Cause I'm cute? Or cause I would be public enemy number one?

Yup. Cause I want the rights to it if it goes well. Exactly!!!! I think next time you guys battle it out you guys should try something a little more, hands on. Less clothed, perhaps. The audience would go wild. I'm the audience. We totally are, our convo's going great. She called me short though can you believe the nerve :/

I looove the sour cream & onion one, yassssss. Or the BBQ one. Which one do you prefer? Classic? Is everything else too titillating?

[user is mad that Regan is making her laugh] UGH. Why are you so funny? Please wear a ghillie suit, pretty please. I'm sure you'd find a way to make it sexy.

I'm on it ma'am. It's always an honor when I'm put in the same category as those dead deer. That's all I want in life. What about the ulcers? Do you like the pictures better than Mike?

You like that, huh? [...] Would you like me to keep an eye on them when you leave?

How many children have you taken to the zoo????? Why haven't you taken ME to the zoo? OH. You can sense when someone's about to hit their series finale too? But everybody knows popup books are the coolest :(

Probably cause they're not kids, they're like, going through their adulthood free trial and stuff, and they probably appreciate someone who wants to listen to them. I am good with children too! But that's just cause I'm baby.

[kindness-ricochets]

Prompt: “Hold my hand until it’s over?”

Day 13! The unexpected Part II of “You love me as if I deserve you.” -------

Jesper woke with the casual and undeniable fact that he loathed himself. He knew from the hot, sore feeling in his belly, so familiar the question he asked himself was not do I deserve this but why do I deserve it this time. Because he did. He always did. He pushed himself to sit up. It was late to be waking. Gray sunlight lit the room—not the dark gray of predawn, late morning gray on a day of lazy Ketterdam rain. On the bedside table, Jesper found a bottle of water, which he drank; a cold cheese bun, which he ate; and a sketch of a simple smiling face, which he turned upside down so it would stop silently judging him.

Now he remembered. He had been drunk, and Drunk Jesper had promised Wylan a talk today. He groaned. Maybe… maybe it was already mid-afternoon. Maybe he was tired enough to go back to sleep. Maybe… Drunk Jesper needed to stop writing checks that Sober Jesper had no intention of cashing. He groaned again and, as that did him no favors, went to dress. The responsible and mature thing to do would be find Wylan and explain about last night. As he settled his guns at his hips—ornamental in Geldin District, but intrinsically a part of him nonetheless—Jesper knew beyond question that he would not look for Wylan. He knew it in the keen hurt burning a hole through him. Instead he headed outside, skirting the parlor where Marya Hendriks painted by the window. Jesper let himself out into the drizzly yard. There were some trees on the grounds, a fine place to wander, if one were so inclined. They gave cover, kept the worst of the drizzle off. Jesper wandered and stroked his revolvers. There was nothing here to shoot. Well, there was, but he didn’t think a freshly killed squirrel was a gift Wylan would appreciate. When he was small, Jesper loved adventures. He mightn’t have had many of them in his own simple life; his life was housework and farmwork and school and church. Outside of that boring stuff, he pretended the adventures his life failed to provide. He hadn’t a chance to slay dragons, so he pretended, had at the mighty dragon (there was a boulder out past the west field, good to climb and leap from, or to stab, or whatever he needed the dragon to do for his play). Another of his favorite games was to be an ancient hunter. There had been reproductions in his schoolbooks of cave paintings in Ravka, images of mighty beasts with tusks a boy might dream about sliding down. Jesper could only imagine living at those times, hunting those creatures—only for food, of course. He tried four sticks before he found one that bent without breaking, then sat on the wet ground and unlaced one of his boots. This would be a proper apology gift. Sorry about last night, but I brought you squirrel meat was pathetic. Sorry about last night, I slew a woolly mammoth for you had far better energy. “Jesper?” He looked up. Wylan stood nearby, bundled in his coat, scarf, and hat like he had wandered into a snowstorm. It was a thin wool coat in Mercher gray, and it brought out the smudges under his eyes. Jesper looked away from Wylan, to his unlaced boot and makeshift bow. “I’m going to hunt a mammoth,” Jesper said, because he remembered that he hated himself again and he didn’t want to. Wylan regarded him for a moment, then said, “Can I come, too?” “No, you’re not a hunter, I don’t want you to get hurt. I’m hunting a mammoth for you.” “I’ll stay behind you.” “The mammoth could sneak up on us and gore you with its tusks.” “I don’t think that’s going to happen, Jes. Mammoths are enormous. We would feel it approaching.” Jesper considered that. They probably would have advanced notice of a mammoth approaching, at least enough for Wylan to hide behind a tree or something. He nodded. “You can come.” Wylan smiled. A smile like that ought to be illegal. At the very least, it ought to be a carefully controlled substance, accessible only by permit. Since Jesper’s bootlace was currently a bowstring, he had to walk carefully. Wylan asked if they ought to go and get Jesper’s coat, but Jesper told him to hush, they were on a mammoth hunt. Never mind Jesper’s clompy steps with his unlaced boot. Just hush. Yet the longer he walked, the harder Jesper found ignoring the ache inside him. It was worse with Wylan beside him, his presence reminding Jesper of his promise, broken over and over with each step. He had promised they were talk. Jesper felt Wylan’s eyes on his back, drumming that reminder into him. Promise. Clompstep. Promise. Clompstep.  Promise. Clompstep. Jesper tried to remember the snowy tundra he was sure walking across, to imagine the mammoth tracks, but Wylan was there, each of his squelching steps in the wet grass saying, you promised, you promised, you promised, until Jesper whirled on him. “I know, okay?” he demanded. Wylan looked stung. The rain dripped softly around them, the noise shushing out the rest of the world. He didn’t have to say anything; Jesper bowed his head and slumped his shoulders. He didn’t mean it… “Breathe,” Wylan said, and Jesper obeyed. “Again.” And again he obeyed. Running his fingers along his bowstring, Jesper said, “I don’t belong here.” And it hurt. It hurt that it was true; it hurt to say. It hurt so much the ache in his belly burst like a lance blistering, spilling red-hot pain into him. Jesper dropped his bow. He sat hard, his hands loose between his knees. This time the wet feeling stayed with him as the damp soaked into the seat of his trousers. Jesper didn’t like this kind of weather, but Wylan did. Wylan thought it was peaceful. Wylan liked the hush of precipitation, the clean scent of it, the gentle rhythm of the raindrops. Wylan liked being inside and curled up with coffee or hot chocolate. Jesper put his hands over his face. He was burning. “Jes?” “I don’t,” he said, “I don’t… fit, and I hate it! I hate b—“ No, he didn’t mean that. He cut himself off. “I hate… I hate…”

What? What did he hate?

What did he want? Then Wylan was there, kneeling beside Jesper and wrapping his arms around him. “It’s okay,” Wylan lied. Jesper sobbed drily. Then less drily. He held onto Wylan, one arm around, and Wylan cradled the back of Jesper’s head in one hand and pressed his lips to his hair and kept saying ridiculous things about it being okay. “I love you,” Wylan said. Jesper felt the words, the heat of Wylan’s breath. He cried ugly into Wylan’s chest. This was not what he wanted, for so many reasons this was not who and where he wanted to be. But if it was, then he wanted nothing more than for Wylan to hold him until it was over. “Can you tell me? Tell me what you hate, darling.” What he hated? Well, Jesper hated lots of things! He hated leeks, the middle of the ocean, quiet libraries, and Wylan’s father. He hated being trapped inside for days on end. He hated himself. He hated being shot, the smell of old lager, and mulled wine because it was ridiculous and tasted like sour pie.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you.” “I know.” “I hate…” The words wouldn’t come easy. Jesper shook his head. “Please,” Wylan said. A crack in his voice, right down the center. A sniffle. “Please, tell me. Tell me what you want and I’ll get it for you, tell me what you need.” What if what I need is less of you? Jesper thought. At least, he meant to think it. He thought he thought it, until Wylan started to pull away from him. Jesper half-twisted to pull him closer. “No, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t—don’t. You know I say things without thinking sometimes.” “I know,” Wylan said, softly. “It’s okay, Jesper. I’m here.” “I don’t mind reading to you, Wy, I like that, what I mind is having nothing else. To you, I’m a partner, but to them I’m your secretary.” It was okay for Jesper to joke about being Wylan’s secretary. There were few things Jesper wouldn’t joke about, and that one never hurt because he could see the way Wylan’s eyes shone every time he looked at Jesper. It was almost scary sometimes the way he forgave Jesper’s mistakes, laughed at his worst jokes—it might be a groaning laugh, but it would be a laugh nonetheless. “I don’t belong at these parties, I don’t belong with merchers and I never will. They only see me as a part of you, and they’re not wrong.” Hearing the protest coming, Jesper asked, “What do I have outside of you?” He didn’t take work with the gangs anymore. Tried to avoid the tables. He tried to stick to the straight and narrow path of helping Wylan with the business, practicing with his zowa powers, and the occasional wonderful visit to Eil Komedie. It wasn’t enough. Hesitant, Wylan suggested, “Maybe you should start taking classes at the university again. Just a class or two, to see if it might be better for you now.” Jesper didn’t know if that was a good idea. He wasn’t sure it was explicitly a bad idea—a class or two, with Wylan to support him if he started to get twitchy again, that sounded okay—but he wasn’t sure it was a good idea, either. He just didn’t know. He didn’t know what he wanted, only that he didn’t have it. “I want to be your boyfriend, but I need to be more.” It was the best way Jesper could think to tell Wylan that he wasn’t enough. He didn’t blame Wylan, he didn’t want more from Wylan, he wanted more from himself. And that was terrifying. When Jesper followed his initiative, he tended to wind up drunk, broke, or otherwise in a ridiculous situation. He wound up in Fjerda. In prison. In love with someone who didn’t love him back. His life with Wylan was safe, but his life with Wylan was not enough. Safe was not enough. “I don’t know what to do now,” Wylan said, “but I’ll think about it. We’ll both think about it. Okay?” Jesper nodded. “I… I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner. I know how special you are. You don’t have to come to the parties if you don’t want to.” Jesper didn’t know if that would help. He didn’t know if anything would help, only that he felt inexplicably better now that he had roughed up his throat and smeared snot on Wylan’s coat. There was something healing about a good cry. The wind picked up, blowing the rain sideways and shaking drops off the leaves to pelt them both with cold droplets. “Can we head back?” Wylan asked. Jesper nodded. He was okay now. Wylan picked the wet knot loose from Jesper’s bow and began working the lace back through Jesper’s boot.  There would be consequences from this discussion, Jesper knew there would. For now, he didn’t mind. For now, he could happily look at Wylan’s red-gold curls where they peeked out from beneath his cap, feeling the gentle pressure of his boot being set right, and be happy with them together.

Jesper smiled at the ridiculous, beautiful boy with his deft hands and generous heart, and not for the first time, he wondered, What did I do to deserve you? Like he had heard the question, Wylan said, “Thank you, Jes. It’s not every guy who would slay a mammoth for me.”