#ep: sleeping dogs

[chrisodonline]

I don't know what Sam is even talking about. Callen would never wear a shirt like this.

[iron-invader]

casually frothing at the mouth wanting to be in this room

[sad-emo-dip-dye]

my head in my hands

[cocktailjjrs]

He LIVED Bitches!!!!

Long post ahead

First thing first... I love this starting pallet (i'm definitely overthinking)

Not complete white not complete black with prominent shadows, because every major character in the show is grey and one half of each partnership likes to lurk in shadows...This just highlights that things won't always be merry and colourful, but they won't completely be helpless...

Now to the episode itself...

We knew Aya was going to jump... Glad she was oh so delicately caught by Aku... I didn't think it was possible to clear everything in one episode, but expect the unexpected i guess...

And the main part of Dazai being alive and kicking...No but really, this is such a relief...

I kinda had the whole thing in the back of my mind that they can't kill Dazai, he is necessary for the plot armour to plot armour and all that shit...

But there was equal chances of Asagiri taking notes from Isayama or Gege and just decide, fuck it... let's keep him dead....If not the confirmed dead thing, then the dead till stated otherwise route that Hori took.

But i'm soooo glad Asagiri didn't do that!!!

Also, glad to know he is still as cocky as ever

AND AND AND

I screamed!!!! My fam started looking at me for two whole minutes like i've just gone crazy!!!

Because we got the prettiest boy speaking!!!

The look on Fyodor's face when he realised he was played by the one he had completely under his control (or he thought he had)... I think he realised the 'shallow bond' comment haunted him in this moment

I will deep dive into what exactly happened in those seconds in a later post, but i just wanna say

This is soooo damn funny!!!! Like you have this big bad mafia boss who has been MIA for the whole part of world destruction and his precious city being in the centre of it all (lets face it mori loves Yokohama more than he loves the whole world, he would gladly let the world burn if it means keeping that damn trouble-magnet city safe!) - BUT BUT BUT, then when things start to look up you only get a mention of the said boss and that too with a goofy fact such as he glued in vampire fangs to one of his executives! Don't tell me it's not an embarrassing dad thing to do, because it is!!!

I just know he, Hirotsu and Koyo has a hell of a time getting teenage soukoku to adulthood alive!!!

I mean -

WHAT DO YOU MEAN SIR YOU USED TO DO THIS ALL THE TIME???

No one's doing it like them!!!

Plus i just know Manga coming out is going to be even more gay than the anime, there will be more explanations and more fruity moments!!!

On a sad note...

Fyodor actually seems to be dead ( even if i don't believe it)

It hurt so bad to see Gogol man going - i wanted him dead, no i didnt, but maybe i did. His voice alone mad me sad...

But you know what i'm not sad about???

Getting rid of Fukuchi!!!

I'm not going to pretend that i felt even an ounce of sympathy for him, his whole 'i did this so you can bring peace' or 'some sacrifices are necessary for greater good' thing seemed forced to me. Like a desperate attempt at ending his character arc on a forgiving note, positive note...

But like i said, most characters in this show are grey... But there was none of Fukuchi's shade, and i didn't like it, even if in the end he wanted peace.

i do feel sad for Fukuzawa though,

He will have to live with that curse...

Plus i don't think Fukuchi is completely gone...

Decay of angel's may be over, but the mess they have left behind is not, there is still the other side of the page and whatever the fuck went down in those two hours...

But i'm glad that atleast Aku and Atsushi are on same side this time...

and this looks so much like:

So yeah, it's just another start!!!

Plus, You remember Soukoku came to fame after final battle of Dragon Head conflict?

The Finale of Decay of Angels will the foundation of Shinsoukoku's journey...

The two of them against all the threats to come...

We sure are in for a treat!!!

[nonbinarylesbianherb]

okay agatha ep was not out yet 😔 going to take a nap because I only got 4 hours of sleep

or at least try to nap with this mf taking up all my pillows and 90% of my bed

[whentherewerebicycles]

ugh he woke up BRIGHT red which could just be a flareup of baby eczema but is a little worrisome when combined with his extreme crankiness. of course the doctor has no appointments today or tomorrow and the only clinic that could see us is a 70 minute drive away. nurse triage line put us on hold for 25 min and then hung up on us lol. I called back using a different number and was told that the nurse triage line no longer exists (??) which cannot be true because the coordinator connected me to it. I will call back again but am just gonna give myself a little mental break first. he also screamed his head off when I tried to put him down for his first nap sooo we are napping on mom to ensure he gets some sleep. I think I am gonna officially call it: we are back in Survival Mode this week!!!! on the positive side I made him laugh a lot by showing him he could grab his own toes. this revelation was absolutely hilarious to him and he wanted me to help him grab them many times in a row. peak baby humor lol. we will get through this.

[etrevil]

Every time I hear the beginning of Kiseki while the anime scenes are playing out, I just reach a new level of excitement and terror because oh I know what's going to happen, and oh. I know what's going to happen.

On a related note, episode nine ending with the elevator scene was gold. Bram listening to the ED will never be topped, but this episode is a close second.

WAIT I JUST REALIZED WE HAVE TWO EPISODES LEFT 😭

[coconut530]

Bump in the Night & Sleeptober Day 21: Black Dog & Room Below

[arianwyn-art]

i’m back bitches and i brought stress a caffeine addiction sleep deprivation and a renewed unhealthy bsd obsession with me

[codgod]

i’m really enjoying this fucking dumbass anime battle with jay just firing bullets in every so often. these three are each one third of a whole idiot

[chrisodonline]

Stray Thoughts on "Sleeping Dogs"

Or "Stray Dogs," if you will.

I had intended a few different posts, and while threatening promising to write up more about this Sunday's episode, I never really got to.

HOWEVER, I did want to just mention some random things, or things of note. Most of it good. Some of it, "Hmmm?" It wasn't an episode for everyone, as I've noted. But I've read far too many things that really just seemed like some people watched it and did everything they could to find things wrong with it. Now, more often than not, I know the exact reason why. It's cool if it's not your cup of tea, but trying to make it sound like it shouldn't be anybody else's cup of tea is just...calm down.

Yes, I was determined to enjoy this because this was one of the rarer birthday week episodes where there wasn't sparse Callen due to Pebble Beach scheduling. And I was not expecting the rich and joyous Sallen we got, but I loved it. One of the best gifts this week!

No one can ruin that opening banter scene for me. Sam's teasing. Callen's obliging him. And here's the other thing: Sam didn't tease Callen about the fact that he's doing whatever Anna is asking. Callen even tried to use the "We" pronoun. The only real joke Sam makes about Anna and the wedding is directed at Callen: Sam wants to warn Anna about what she's getting into. Sam doesn't agree with her taste (we'll get to that), but his jokes are not misogynistic nor do they show any real toxic masculinity. See, other shows (and, hell, even this one on more than one occasion), would mock Callen for being "whipped" when he really just wants to be married to this woman and will do whatever it takes to get her to that point. Callen's love language is acts, specifically acts of concession, which are even more significant when you consider the traits he's usually ascribed: loner, stubborn, individualistic, etc. There's an essay in there about how hard he's worked to earn that perception to keep people at bay, but we'll just move forward.

While the show as a whole creates jokes out of Anna's wedding planning, Sam doesn't go after her for being a bridezilla or crazy or ridiculous. He does not like that suit and has no reason to. But he doesn't say, "Your girl is crazy, G. Run." He says, "Please tell your lady this will not work on me, and I want to look my best when I'm roasting, er, toasting you." So, that's good. What's less good is the constant joke that is Anna's wedding planning and decisions that just aren't in character at all. I know I headcanoned and tried to make the wedding planner scene work, but I would've hoped she'd have stopped after that. But no. This is a problem. They worked really hard in her first two appearances this season to try and pretend like a lot of the issues they (the show) created with this relationship never really happened and that she has always been the girlfriend/love interest that other characters (like Sam) were used as mouthpieces to say she was. They made G and Anna have adult conversations that made sense, and they made them seem like a healthy couple you were like, "Oh, hey, I would've been rooting for this more and sooner."

And then the wedding stuff. I'm not going to say that the dragging of it it out is one-sided. Callen clearly is hesitant for Hetty-related reasons, but I think he is slowly letting himself realize maybe that's not the best thing. He outright said he just wanted to be married to Anna. I think he confuses even himself. Anna seemed, initially, more willing to move forward and more quickly. However, this constant changing or picking ridiculous approaches to the wedding ideas feels like nothing more than dragging something out or avoidance. Is she frustrated and trying not to let herself get frustrated by Callen's wishing to delay things, so she just keeps trying to fill time by making zanier decisions? Is that her way to try and incentivize Callen to hurry up and forget the Hetty Factor? Or is it more of her avoidance issue and not his? I've written pretty often about her tendency to run, even if she did the Hetty thing and always swore it was for reasons that were in his best interests. She would do things that made her really sus in the beginning: she showed interest then the minute he returned it, she ghosted him and mocked him about it in front of Sam. She tried to get away from the team on the motorcycle. She told him to tell the truth and then treated him like a jerk when she went to prison. But guess what? He still tended to her in the hospital. And then lying to him about where she was with the volunteer work, etc. etc. Again, she always said it was in his best interest, and boy has he heard that before...and been totally okay with it. The show has just botched things with patterns so many times, it's hard to write off these silly wedding planning jabs. So, there's my essay on that.

Back to highlights: The Castor thing and recurring joke? GOLD. GOLD. I will love it forever and ever. Callen's explanation for it made so much more sense than Sam's tux choice from Anna, and so the joke was more solid. I. was. howling. when Castor walked out for the visual gag. The fact that Castor's pride has taken a hit because of being disarmed and knocked out frequently, and Callen's noticing it and being willing to reach out, was the explanation? Perfect. It shows a guy having some self-esteem issues and another guy picking up on that without making it too awkward or sappy. Just...trying to make him feel like he's one of the guys, and it's all okay. Nothing to be ashamed about. This is the Callen who has made more and more efforts to not be such a lone wolf. We've seen it with Fatima, others, and he's just really been dropping his guard and taking his role as a mentor figure and respected leader more seriously. Growth. Growth with some jokes, yes, but growth. Again, Sam doesn't tease him about being kind or make fun of Castor for taking those "hits." He's just like, "I guess you have a new best friend now. Look at you." He plays off his fake jealousy and projects it onto Castor's potential jealousy. It's cute. It's banter. It's teasing. They are all still guys, and they do a lot of bonding this way. They're not always going to be This Is Us, and this is honestly more realistic.

Of course, poor Castor gets knocked out again. But, hey, Callen did, as well! So I bet he still feels okay. And Callen probably feels a little guilty. "Hey, this is my bad, Castor. Let me buy you a drink...after our sedatives wear off." Because this was a Bartels episode, and for some reason he's like, "Let's have the bad guy give Callen a sedative." It's a well he's gone to before, and now poor Castor has gotten dragged along for the ride. (I was, for a moment, really wondering if Callen was going to get abducted because we only have a few more eps left of the show, and that's right up there with explosions as being part of the show. Alas. Maybe his days of getting himself taken are truly behind him. Growth!)

The episode was paced just fine for me. I followed it all, actually! Whaaattt? I know. A bulleted list of things I liked, in which I try to avoid making this post even more of a novel:

The casting of the other subjects was pretty good.

There were some actual stakes and action scenes.

There were some actual twists. They didn't have to try and convince us a turn was serious with the ominous music cues.

Callen's admitting he may have let the guy get away because he wanted him to, so he could get Pembroke, pointed to a lot of the morally gray issues. It's complicated, and shows like this tend to take a very black and white approach. But the character of Callen has always lived more in the gray than the black or white.

Points to Chris O'D for somehow managing to deliver the line, "I'm Subject 17" without it being hokey: it is a fine line to hit with sounding serious but not overdoing the gravitas.

I'm still very annoyed with the Leah thing from last season because it was just such an OOC to do without more reasons or context -- or some explanation that it was a sign Callen was truly spiraling. However, at no point did he ever try to make an excuse for it in this episode. Now that I liked. When someone called him out for it, he never tried to say, "Ah, yeah...well, see..." He took it.

He was also not questioning the blame that he set Pembroke off...until he realized it didn't make sense with how things had happened. He would've been the first target, not the only one not on the list. And he was right to question that. Even if, by that point, his guilt about the whole Leah situation and her not believing him was probably what made him too trusting and took the guy to the hospital.

I also thought the other character scenes were good. They can never seem to make up their mind about the Admiral's characterization, but this ep had one for him that made sense and made him work. I will always <3 Shyla, and I am sad they didn't figure out how to bring her on sooner and more often. Fatima and Rountree (and their actors) have always had the unenviable tasks for trying to fill in so many different gaps -- from characters completely gone to characters having to appear and do less -- but they do it with smiles and eagerness. Bartels made sure there was some more depth for them here, too.

I won't even go into the whole Hetty thing. Y'all know how I feel on that. And what can I say that hasn't already been said? (Though that never seems to stop me, does it?)

[misterradio]

i had a dream there was an eskew episode that riffed off the hands of orlac and i was like wow its so crazy they made an eskew episode that riffed off the hands of orlac. and then i woke up and was like. hey that didnt happen

[deadlychansaw]

— hope

pairing: Hwang Jun-ho x reader

warnings: vomiting, no use of y/n, bit angst, pregnancy, it happens during ep 2 s2

a/n: omg first time writing something like this, i hope someone enjoy this 🫣

00:30 was the number sparkling in neon red in her bedside watch. She couldn't stop looking at it. She couldn't sleep. How could she? The bed too big and cold for her to be alone, she missed her husband. Where was he?

She thought that after the coma he would retire and live peacefully with her, maybe in some cabin in the woods with two kids and a dog. this thought alone made her want to tear up.

She knew being a police officer was dangerous, so every time he wasn't home she feared that something had happened. This made her want to throw up, and she did.

That was unusual for her, maybe... no. It couldn't be. But when was the last time she had her period again? It was nine days late, this was also unusual. How haven't she noticed it?

00:45. She couldn't wait until morning so she picked up her car and went to a 24h open drugstore

"Do you need any help, miss?"

"I want a pregnancy test"

"Are you alright, dear?"

She hadn't noticed that small tears started to run down her face.

"I will be"

As the old lady gave her the test she smiled sympathetically and said:

"I'm sure you will. You don't need to be afraid"

" My husband is a cop" She felt the need to reply

"Oh, I see. But you will be fine, dear. I felt the same when my husband fought in war."

This time, she didn't reply.

She got home after speeding the car a little more than necessary and running a few red lights and went straight to the bathroom to do the goddamn test.

Palms sweaty, hands shaking and feet stomping in circles. It hasn't even passed the three minutes the test needed to be ready, just a few more seconds and...

oh.

Positive. p-o-s-i-t-i-v-e.

She was pregnant and wasn't even sure her husband would return home. Where are you Jun-ho?

"Babe, why are you sleeping on the couch?"

His voice reached her ears like the light in the end of a dark tunnel.

"I was waiting for you"

"My love, you know you don't need to"

"But I wanted to. Where were you?"

"I was in some kind of a car chase, but they shot in my tires"

That made her eyes open wide. "What? Chasing who? Are you hurt?"

"I'm not hurt. I wish I could tell you everything but i don't wanna put you at risk"

"I accepted the risk the day i accepted to be your wife. Please tell me. I'd rather know what i'm scared of"

"I guess you're right"

So he tells her everything. The games, his brother, his plan with Gi-hun. Everything.

"That is awful. Unbelievably awful. How can some people be so disgusting and evil? Gosh, that makes me sick"

She ran to the bathroom and started to vomit in the toilet, he ran after her and held her hair.

"Are you okay? I know it's s lot to process"

"Oh my God, I'm sorry for this, now you'll never want to kiss me again."

"There's not a world where i wouldn't want to kiss you" He pressed a soft kiss to her temple. "But let's brush those teeth, shall we?"

Jun-ho gets up to put toothpaste in her toothbrush and give it to her.

"I don't know what i did to deserve you, Jun-ho"

"I am the lucky one here, babe. You're still here with me after everything i told you."

"i'm not leaving your side. Never."

He picks her up in bridal style.

"What are you doing?"

"Putting my wife to bed, as i should"

He really was the sweetest thing in her life, she needed to tell him already. All the what-ifs started coming to head again what if he doesn't want a child? what if he doesn't have time to form a family? what if he never come back home anymore?

"Babe, are you crying?"

"Do you really need to search for that island?"

"I do. These games need to stop."

"I don't want anything bad happening to you"

"I promise it won't. I will always come back home to you" He seals the promise by joining their lips in a long, slow and passionate kiss.

"Jun-ho, I need to tell you something but i'm so afraid of how you're gonna react."

"You don't need to be afraid, my love. I'm always here for you no matter what"

"I- I am pregnant" She doesn't wait for him to answer. " I know it's not the right time, and maybe you don't even want to be a dad and-"

She sees that he opened his characteristically big and warm smile, one that lights up her whole world.

"Are you... happy?"

"Are you kidding? Babe i feel like the luckiest guy of all South Korea. I'm so happy. Oh my god, i'm gonna have a daughter "

That made her chuckle.

"We don't know if it's a girl"

"Oh i'm sure of that. We need to celebrate"

"Celebrate? At this time? How?

"Hmm, i can think of a few ways..."

And she had a feeling she haven't felt in a while. relief. Hope.

[sad-emo-dip-dye]

Dazai’s empty seat…I can’t do this anymore

[thursdayinspace]

So I rewatched "Our Town" last night and when I sat down at my laptop this morning to do something that was not writing, I ended up writing instead. These things happen. Just a silly fluffy-ish little thing because omg that ep is so gross and also Scully has to be getting sick of being abducted all the time. Mulder feels the same way.

She can’t sleep. It’s not every day you almost get beheaded—even after everything that she’s already been through this year, it seems there are still things that can shake her up pretty badly. She rolls over on the lumpy motel mattress and tries to get comfortable. For a glorious moment, she considers quitting. Handing Skinner her resignation and walking away, finding a nice job with regular hours where people won’t handcuff her to radiators, stick her in closets, contort their stretchy bodies through cracks in her bathroom window, or drive her around in the trunks of their cars before handing her over to aliens or the government or whatever theory Mulder’s going with right now. A job where she won’t spend the end of a work day strapped into a metal harness as a guy in a mask raises an ax above her head.

In her mind she pictures a simple life: a nice house with a yard, a dog greeting her as she opens the door and walks inside after a long day at the hospital…no, a private practice? A day of teaching? Whatever she’s been doing, she walks into a kitchen that smells like home-cooked dinner, leaning up to kiss her faceless husband who’s vaguely Mulder-shaped. “Honey, I’m home!” “Dinner’s almost ready! How was your day?” “Fine. Narrowly avoided decapitation. Nothing exciting.” Fuck. Not even fantasy-Scully can escape the absurdity of this life.

The knock on her door doesn’t even surprise her. She already knows who it is. He stopped waking her unless it’s something really important, so she groans and gets up, her bones aching, weeping inwardly as she makes her way to the door. So she can’t sleep; that doesn’t mean she wants to spend the night going over their case report or whatever that infuriatingly charming insomniac wants from her this time.

But when she opens the door, he doesn’t look as if he wants to go over case reports. He looks like shit. As much as that’s even possible for him. Another thing that’s simply unfair about her life, she thinks with a sigh. Even with bags under his eyes and pale as a sheet he still looks beautiful. “Mulder?” she says.

He doesn’t answer, just steps right into her and pulls her into a wordless hug, so tight she’s a little afraid he’ll crack her ribs. She hugs him back weakly and pats his back, not quite sure what else to do since she has no idea what the fuck he’s even doing. She expects him to pull back, but he just keeps holding on, and she’s genuinely having trouble breathing.

“Uh, Mulder?” she says again, a little louder.

“You’re okay,” he mumbles into her hair, and she wiggles in his arms, trying to loosen his grip.

“Not for much longer if you don’t let go.”

“Sorry.” He drops his arms and takes a step back, but keeps looking at her like he’s never seen her before. “Sorry, I just—”

“It’s fine,” she says. “Did you have a bad dream?”

He shakes his head. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah.” She grimaces. “Me neither. It’s been…a day.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, and she laughs. She’s too tired not to.

“Thanks to your timely rescue, my head is still firmly attached to my body.” It sounds a little bitter, and she’s surprised at herself before she feels another little piece of her frustration clicking into place. Ah, yes, she thinks. There’s that too. Rescued once again. She makes a mental note: fantasy-Scully in her little imaginary suburban nine-to-five utopia will never have to be rescued. She’s gonna be the one doing all the rescuing. Except nobody needs to be rescued in that perfect little world, because nothing bad ever happens to anyone.

“You don’t sound okay,” Mulder says, and she closes her eyes for a second. She’s not annoyed with him, she reminds herself. It’s not his fault that she became part of these townsfolks’ dinner plans, and it’s not his fault that she needed him to keep that from happening.

“I’m just a little tired.”

“I’ll let you sleep.” He sounds exhausted and when she looks at him, she sees leftover fear in his eyes. “No more interruptions, I promise.”

Her hand reaches out for his before she’s fully conscious of what she’s doing. It’s just that he’s here and she’s had enough of being Agent Scully for tonight, and he really looks so much like Doctor Scully’s faceless dinner-cooking husband in her nice little fantasy home. “Come on,” she says.

“What are you—”

“Bed,” she explains, hoping he won’t ask any more questions.

“Oh. Okay.”

She gets in on her side and is relieved when he lies down next to her without another word. She closes her eyes, but she can feel him stock-still as a statue next to her, she can feel the tension radiating off of him, and, hell, it sounds like he’s even trying to breathe without making a sound. So she grabs his arm and rolls onto her side, tugging him with her until he has his back against her chest, and she holds firmly onto his hand and snuggles back into him.

“Scully?” he asks, sounding a little confused.

“Relax, Mulder,” she tells him. “Sleep.”

“Are you sure?”

“About sleeping?”

“You know what I mean.”

She laughs and squeezes his fingers. “No. Of course not. But honestly? I really don’t care right now.”

“Okay,” he says, and he gets it, she knew he’d get it. “Okay,” he repeats, and laces their fingers together. She feels him lift his head, feels his hot breath against the side of her face, and then a gentle kiss against the corner of her eye. “Good night, Scully.”

“Good night, Mulder.”

Behind her closed eyelids, fantasy Scully lies just like this with her faceless partner, who’s just as warm and smells just as good as real Scully’s friend-partner spooned up behind her. The only difference is that her own real Mulder is…well, real. No matter how perfect her beautiful little dream house with her beautiful perfect husband may be, she kind of prefers snuggling with someone who has a face and a name. And maybe she’d actually miss the mess.

Not all of it. Not the ax-swinging, homicidal maniacs or the lumpy motel mattresses. But a partner who knocks on her door in the middle of the night because he couldn’t sleep without making sure she was okay? Who sleeps wrapped around her with his breath ruffling the hair at the back of her neck, knowing this isn’t leading anywhere other than comfort and friendship? And…she kisses the backs of his fingers once she convinces herself he’s probably asleep…a vague hope that maybe this won’t always be all there is between them?

Yeah. She’ll take it.

[definitelynotshouting]

your half of the ransom

inspired by this post and scar's tweets about secret life :] i speedran this just in time for the first eps of the new season to drop!! as always likes and reblogs and especially comments in the tags are appreciated❤️ enjoy!!

Scar wakes to a field of sunflowers.

The sun itself is a swollen yolk bleeding gold at its edges when he blinks, cascading down from the horizon to melt over the earth with indiscriminate fervor. It dips the petals of each field-flower in honey, honing their silhouettes to supple knife-points— even the soil beneath him, packed firm from countless nights of sleep, has burnished to a fine, patinated bronze. In the amber of its rays stray pebbles transmute to pyrite, the subtle scrabble of roots to filigree, and caught in the open mouth of such gaudy resplendence, Scar digs an elbow into the dirt and hauls himself, reluctant, back to his own unsteady feet.

Even at full height the sunflowers still tower, blocking all signs of hearth and home. But the sun (popped, bleeding, all gored-out gold in the upturned belly of the sky) remains his guide— Scar picks his legs up in a faltering stumble to follow it before catching rough fingers against the stalk of a nearby sunflower. He flinches; this early, it's too easy to perceive each stalk as part of a swarm, a yellowed panoptic presence bearing down on the world-weary muscles of his shoulders.

Their seeds will need harvesting soon. Scar hums, a match-strike against unyielding silence, and casts his gaze back to the sun above to orient himself in the direction of his base.

Until they're ready, he has nowhere else to be.

Trader Scar's is too-empty for so comely a morning, a hollowed-out shell long rebuilt and bristling with more wares than he has those to sell them to. But it's a familiar charade— Scar slips into the back with a single sunflower clenched tight in his palm, bruising the petals and scratching against the insides of his fingers. He changes in rapid, efficient motions; last night's poncho is discarded over a nearby chest in exchange for a brighter one, yellow wool lovingly dyed; his hair is released from its tie, combed through, then braided again; the soft leather shoes he'd worn underneath the stars are left to clump by the doorway in favour of far-keener diamond. Worn in but undamaged, the crystal chimes without dents or scratches— there's nothing left to fight here, anymore.

When Scar steps back out to the front, a ghost is waiting patiently for him at the counter.

Or— the ghost of a ghost, if he's being generous. The outline of a shadow, the flicker of a distant mirage. "Oh," Scar says, and the word scrapes like rust from the well of his throat. He'd recognize those wings anywhere. "Well, hello there, Grian."

Grian's filmy outline says nothing. They never do, when the shades appear for a rare visit. The barrier between living and dead remains a clear divide, a gorge through which Scar cannot pass— all that's left between them now are the soft, faded echoes of what was, and what it could have been.

Still, in the year he's spent here, that's never deterred him from a potential sale. Scar props a hip up against the counter, eyeing the flickering shadow and mustering up his best imitation of an enthusiastic smile. "So what brings you out here to my neck of the woods? Looking for something to buy? Some fine goods to trade, perhaps? Man, I don't think I've seen you around in a dog's age. How about some catching up?"

The back of his neck prickles, electric; Grian's shade is a stygian blot in his vision, a fuzz of static that extends its presence from floor to ceiling. His ghost keeps his silence.

Scar tugs his smile wider, flashing two rows of bright, gleaming teeth in Grian's direction until the strain threatens to choke him. "No? Not even a little bone for ol' Scar? Well, tell you what, don't you go standing on su— se— oh, ceremony! Come in, come in! You make yourself at home, you know how I just love a visitor— how about I make us a drink to share and you tell me where in the world you've been, mister."

He doesn't bother waiting for a non-existent reply; instead, Scar swoops down to snag his fingers against the cupboard he'd installed within the counter months ago, fumbling with the latch before throwing its doors wide open with a gust of musty air. Inside, an eclectic mix of quite high-quality wares and some of Scar's own humble belongings tangle, speckled with cobwebs and the first faint stirrings of freshly disturbed dust.

Scar purses his lips, eyeing each item in turn. A nautilus shell here, a few scraps of wood there, some glass bottles, the handle of a ladle he'd cracked over six months back.... Squinting, he thrusts his hand deep into the mess, sweeping the items aside and shuffling new ones into view until— there!

Toward the back lies a dented iron kettle, brittle with disuse. Scar snaps forward, straining out his arm until the tips of two fingers meet the edge of its dusty wooden handle. With a grunt, he flicks it closer, wincing at the shrill scrape of iron on wood as it inches toward him.

SCAR.

It is not a voice. No mere voice can resonate a single word like that in his chest, trembling in his bones and drumming out from the chambers of his very heart. Like a ripple on the still surface of a lake, it rattles through him, scattering each thought to the far corners of his mind and stripping him raw, flaying open his ribs to splay beneath the scorching sun. The yelp that bubbles up to his lips flies past them unbidden, rocketing out with such force that he jolts, and rams his skull straight into the overhanging lip of the counter.

White-on-red sparks, a cherry-hot bolt of fire centered on his crown. "OW! Oh, oh my gosh, I-I— Grian?"

None of the shades haunting him and this server have spoken. They've never spoken. They've never— so why now, when he's made his peace with that—

Scar wets his lips, tongue dry as desert bone, and drags the kettle out of the cupboard with one quick yank. Clutching it to his chest, he rises back up on shaky feet, holding it up as if to ward off an incoming attack. Some shield; its hollow interior reverberates with a screech when he raps his knuckles against it. "Now— now hang on, mister, you can't just— you— oh my gosh, I-I think you just made my heart stop there for a second." A bracing breath. Two. "Y-You can't just shock a man in his own home like that! You...."

Scar trails off. The misty impression hovering on the other side of the counter remains impassive, impersonal— this is not the Grian he knows.

The Grian he knew.

Deep within the static writhe of his shade, the after-image burn of greyed-out eyes begin to squirm to the surface. Scar flicks his gaze back to the kettle with instinctive, long-honed deference, staring hard into the distorted lines of his own reflection.

YOU WON. Once again the words rip something vital in him, boil up through his veins to tear themselves, wet and coppery, on the limp meat of his tongue. Scar risks a peek up, lump hanging heavy in his throat; each syllable comes out as a squeak, threatening to crack the smooth silver of his voice.

"I— yep, I sure did! I sure did, and— thank you very much, for noticing! I, uh, I still don't know how I did that, what with— oh, you know how it is, with, with the, uh, the— friends situation, how that all panned out. Y'know, actually, I wonder if that's wh—"

The eyes blink at him, asynchronous and blank. Hollow. In the heartbeat it takes for them to train back on his own, a soul-wrenching wave of gooseflesh ripples up over Scar's arms.

He whirls himself away so fast his vision spins. "So, uh— tea! You like tea, right Grian?" Without ceremony Scar scrambles to the other side of the room, forcing the counter still between them, every nerve in his body winding tighter, tighter, kinetic energy in a bottle. "How about, um, a—" he rifles through a new cabinet, clumsy with frenzy— "oh, shoot, now where did I put that— I've got some, uh, some dandelion root! Hand roasted by yours truly, of course. Not that anyone else could do it now, but— oh, oh, and look at the lavender, now that's just delicious, you've gotta try it, G, I know you'll just absolutely love it."

Silence. Scar's hand pauses, braced tight on the handle of the cabinet.

"Grian," he says, slow, quiet. Lets the words drift up, shining soap bubbles, to pop against the ceiling. "Why— what are you doing here?"

To his credit, Grian is direct. IT'S TIME.

Without permission, Scar's fingers tighten around the handle of the cabinet. "It's— what? Wait, wait—" He blinks. Does not turn around. "Time for what?"

Silence.

Scar licks his lips, worrying at the split still stinging at the right hand corner. "Time for what, Grian?"

The distinct pall of burning ozone scalds through the air. Tentatively, Scar shoots a glance back down into the kettle, peering at the distinct smudge still smearing the wall behind him. No eyes in its reflection; some of the tension riding in his shoulders loosens, slackens his tendons and begins to uncurl his fingers from the cabinet knob.

Without warning, a wash of ice wisps forward to numb the small of his back. COME HOME, Grian says simply. The words echo in the gap beneath his sternum, drag themselves up each vertebrae in his spine, and Scar freezes stiff, solid.

"This is home," Scar says, blank.

NO.

Some hot ember, banked countless months ago, sparks back to life in the pit of his stomach. "It is," he says, more firmly this time. "It's— that's it. You said it yourself: I won. And I did it fair and square, I'll say. I followed every rule, every task to the— to the nth degree, and... and now I, um." He falters. Grits his teeth until the molars ache. "I get to live with it."

But a sudden chill that has nothing to do with the shade behind him abruptly slips beneath his skin. Hesitantly, still clutching the kettle in one hand like a lifeline, Scar says belatedly: "... Right?"

Despite the sun nearing midday, the temperature around him plummets. NOT ANYMORE.

"Oh," Scar says. The metal surface of the kettles creaks as his second hand joins the first, digging nails into rust and grime. "I— again?"

YES.

"... And what if I don't want to do it again."

He does not phrase it as a question. They both know his answer.

Scar sucks in a sharp shock of air anyway, rattling the kettle against his chest and daubing a blotch of dust over the soft wool of his poncho. "Is—" he bites his lip— "will everyone... be there?"

YES.

Ah. Scar's eyes slip shut of their own accord; behind them, dozens of veins brim over, webs of blood welling up and spilling to slake a thirst so abyssal it could drink and drink for years without satiation.

"... Will you be there?"

For one long, nightmare-eternity, Grian does not reply. Then, a knife between his ribs: YES.

With slow, halting steps, Scar turns. "Okay," he breathes, and drags a hand over his eyes to cloak them both in darkness, and sags back until his skull knocks against the cabinet door with a dull, tender thunk. Each exhale emerges as a series of shaky puffs, damming up his lungs and swallowing all the air in his esophagus. Scar shudders, scrapes his bitten-down nails against iron, and breathes with the roiling of his gut. "... Okay."

When he opens his eyes again, Grian's ghost has vanished.

The spot it occupied is still frigid when he waves a trembling hand through it; Scar inhales, exhales, inhales again. Rinse and repeat, the perfect cycle, the mantra against extraneous thought. Then, solemn and deliberate, he holds the kettle out in front of him, trailing one wandering finger over its dents and bruises, tracing the paths between the known and the new.

"Guess I'll see you there," he tells it, and lifts its grubby handle up in absent toast.

High above, the bleeding sun strikes noon at last. Scar does not harvest the sunflowers.