#except instead of having the ball pulled away she would just straight-up whiff

[tenpoints4andy]

🦊: I'm gonna kick this ball all the way to the moon!

[sabraeal]

Sic Semper Monstrum, Chapter 6

[Read on AO3]

Obiyukiweek 2021, Day 2: Death Upright: Change, Ending, Release Reversed: Refusal to Change, Unfulfillment, Stagnation

A seam strains along a well-worn shoulder, so stretched he can actually hear it creak over the din of the canteen. That clinches is: that asshole’s got to be picking out too-small fatigues from the GI bin.

There’s no other way for him to look like that, biceps testing the tensile strength of cotton every time he takes a sip of his coffee. Sure, this guy’s jacked the way all the active rangers are, ready to heave 750 tons of metal onto their backs at a moment’s notice, but he’s not Mitsuhide. It makes sense when he pops buttons off his coverall, or stretches out one of their dingy cotton tees. But that’s not this asshole.

He’s lean, the kind that telegraphs that taking an elbow from him might be career limiting. There’s no reason the general issue tee should cling to his back like it’s painted on, his coverall hanging off his hips like he’s got an occupation other than freeloading. Shirayuki leans over, fingertips brushing over his sleeve with a laugh--

“Just punch him already,” Kiki drawls, “get it out of your system.”

Zen blinks, suddenly aware there’s still some Taco Tuesday left in his mouth. “What?”

“Kiki.” Dark bruises circle the skin beneath Mitsuhide’s eyes, underscoring the weary strain in his voices. “We shouldn’t be encouraging that sort of behavior.”

“Why not?” Her elbows dig into formica as she leans over her plate, shoveling rice into her mouth. At her father’s table, Kiki knows the use of every spoon, the name of every fork, but this deep in the dome, Ranger Seiran’s never met a meal she can’t inhale in five minutes flat. “I did it.”

Air hisses right through his perfect teeth, the only sign he’s annoyed besides the tense bar of his shoulders. “And you’re lucky you didn’t get caught.”

Kiki hums around the lip of her mug. “You mean like you did with Lugis?”

Mitsuhide doesn’t have skin like his, the sort that flares up like flash paper at the barest hint of sun or taunting. But still his neck flushes red as a burn, so bright Zen’s half tempted to slap it, just so he knows what it’s like.

“T-that was an accident,” he insists, even as his mouth settles into a satisfied smile. “Even the inquiry said so.”

It’s a struggle to keep his own from curling at the edges. “Only because Lugis didn’t want to press charges.”

“Only because he didn’t want it getting out that a girl ran circles around him on the mat,” Kiki corrects, each word a scalpel’s slice, excising those particulars from that shitshow with surgical precision. They can talk about this; Lugis’s challenge and the way Kiki swept him; that he was hardly on his feet when Mitsuhide somehow mislaid his fist and found it in his face, but everything else, the whys of it--

Those are all off the record. Forever. Or at least they would be, if Lugis wasn’t crawling through the dome like a stoat that’s caught whiff of an egg.

But that’s not what this is about. “And you want me to do that with that asshole?” Zen mutters. “Since it made Mitsuhide such good friends with Lugis, after all.”

“Obi isn’t Hisame,” Kiki informs him with the kind of steel in her tone that suggests she won’t be taking critique on that particular assessment. “All your issues with him are external.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snaps, teeth gritting down.

It’s a mistake, a rookie one at that: never ask a Seiran a question you don’t want the answer to. “He’s got Shirayuki’s attention and you don’t.”

Mitsuhide clears his throat, shoulders set like Zen better plan to shelter in place. This particular storm isn’t about to hit its usual conversational breakwall. “Attention you’d have, if you hadn’t skipped out on your session.”

Zen grips the table to take that hit. But it’s not nearly the last; the stare Kiki turns to him is wide-eyed, half-betrayed. “You didn’t say anything about that.”

“It’s none of your business.” Even as the words fly from him, he knows it’s not fair, that he’s spitting nails into the wind so that they’ll hurt someone else instead of him. It doesn’t stop him, it never does, but a guilty knot settles in his gut. “The sessions are voluntary. They always have been. I don’t need--”

“Someone to keep your head on straight?” Every syllable snaps like ice, her eyes twice as cold. “That was the whole point, wasn’t it? So if something happens to us, you’d have--”

He can’t listen to this, not another word. “That was never the plan! I would never plan for you guys...”

Not coming back. For Redwood Dancer to be left a ruin on the sea floor, their bodies strapped in, hermetically sealed until the ocean wore the jaeger down to parts.

“Nothing is happening to you guys,” he grits out. “Shirayuki was always an addition, not a-- a replacement, because you’ll never--”

“No one can promise that.” Mitsuhide’s never one to throw a first punch, but oh, does he know how to end a fight. All the breath’s knocked clean out of him, and there’s Dancer’s right hand, shoveling down another bite of rice like it’s nothing. “Every time we go out there it’s a flip of a coin. It doesn’t matter how good we are, one day there’s going to be a kaiju that kicks us clean off our feet.”

He shakes his head, wishing the words would fall right out of them. “No. That’s not--”

“Zen.” He’s never heard a siren’s call, but it can’t be as inexorable as Mitsuhide saying his name in that tone, both firm and pitying and mournful all at once. “You know better than anyone. Rangers don’t grow old.”

There’s no thought when he levers himself up from the table, just up with away chasing its heels. He just can’t be here listening to this, not now, not after they just barely crawled home from another kaiju clawing its way across Korea’s shoreline. Not when he knows he should be fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with them-- that he would be if they stopped trying to saddle him with every rookie that rolled out of the simulator and finally put him with the only person that could fill that brace beside him.

“Zen!”

It’s easy to ignore Mitsuhide’s shout over the dinner rush; it’s just part of the noise, a buzz at the edge of his senses. Something to goad him, to push him out of there before either of them think to follow after. Their pity’s the last thing he needs, the last thing he wants. After all, it’s not him that won’t climb in the Conn-Pod, but his--

“Boss!”

Zen blinks, the empty corridor resolving around him. He’d let his feet carry him, their only imperative away-- and now he’s all turned around, every bulkhead the same. He’s heard about this happening to rangers when they lived in the dome too long; chasing the Minotaur, a ranger called it, three drinks down at the local hangar. And no fine little princess to give you string to find your way out.

Except he did have one of those. A person to help him through the labyrinth, even if she couldn’t show him the way. He’d been avoiding her.

That seems stupid now. It’s not like she’s on that asshole’s--

“Hey! Hey, boss.”

Speak of the devil. Zen turns, and there he is, too-tight t-shirt and all: his own personal problem. “What do you want?”

“Nothing.” He holds out his hands, as if that’s proof enough to clear him of ulterior motives. “I just...saw you head out and it looked like...”

Zen’s shoulders square, body braced like they’re back on the mat. “Looked like what?”

Obi’s breath rushes out of him. “It looked like you shouldn’t be alone.”

It’s not until he lifts his hand that he realizes it’s trembling, barely able to push his bangs back where he needs them. “Yeah? And you thought-- what? I’d want to see you?” Even to his own ears, his laugh is bitter, wrong, like it came from someone else’s mouth. “You, the guy who won’t get out of my way?”

Something ripples across this asshole’s face, too fast for him to catch more than its wake. “You think I’m the stick stuck in the mud here?” When those strange cat’s eyes stare at him, it’s out of placid waters, but that grin on his face-- it doesn’t reach them. “Rock, meet hard place.”

Zen’s hands clench, so hard his knuckles creak. “You think this is a joke? You’re trying to shove your ass in a seat that isn’t for you, and you--”

“You think I want to be out there?” He lets out a bark somewhere between pitying and derisive, arms folding over his chest. Zen takes special care not to check how stressed his seams are. “I did my time, Your Highness. I got out. I got told no one would ever look for me again.”

“Then why are you here?” Zen spits. “No one wants you.”

“You don’t know how true I wish that was.” A hand pulls at his shoulder, long fingers digging in around the blade. “But your brother dragged me down the coast because I’m not done. I’ll never be done, because I can’t sit on the sidelines and watch Snotju or Head Banger or whatever cosmic asshole crawls out of the rift wreck another wall.”

His hand lifts, scrubbing through the bristle of his hair, just a shade too shaggy to be regulation. “It’s fucked up, isn’t it, Master? I’m the one who doesn’t want to be here, but I’m the one who’s got the balls to get back in that jaeger. And you--” a cold gaze rakes over him-- “you’re content to sit there and watch the world burn just because I’m not--”

“Shut up.” He’s trembling, every muscle straining against his self-control. “Shut the fuck up. You don’t know a goddamn thing--”

“I’ve been in your head,” that asshole reminds him. “I know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“You don’t.” He can’t. “You don’t fucking know a thing about me.”

He cocks a hip, grin loaded like a bullet. “The prove it.”

Kiki’s right: in the instant where his knuckles hit that cut-glass cheekbone, Zen feels great.

Shirayuki’s office has always put him at ease; he stepped in here the first time before she’d even properly covered the walls, the tension seeping right out of him into the push carpet under his boots. There’s just something about how she fills a space-- something that has nothing to do with furniture or wall hangings or motivational posters-- that makes his brain put out whatever chemical that means safe. He’d never understood why the other rangers avoided her, not when they could have forty minutes in the room equivalent of a warm hug.

But it’s different this time.

“Izana made you call me here.” He’s ramrod straight on her worn couch, hands clenched in his lap. Or rather, right over the throw pillow he moved to sit. “Didn’t he?”

“The Marshal’s personal feelings have nothing to do with this.” Her words snap like a window on a sill, closing on that topic with a sense of finality he expected from the top brass, not their therapist. “The PPDC’s code of conduct is quite clear on the procedure to be followed after a non-sanctioned physical altercation between personnel.”

There’s a loose thread right by the fringe; he’d noticed it months ago, but never dared to tug it. Every time he’d felt the urge, he’d think of dominoes and load-bearing pillars, of the whole edge unraveling in his hands right as she looked at him.

Today, he pulls. It comes right off with a snap. “And that’s the only reason you brought me in?“

Shirayuki turns to him, one incredulous brow raised. “You were the one who cancelled our last session--” her mouth twitches as she twists the knife-- “last minute.”

Well, he deserves that one. Sure, he’s had his reasons, but Shirayuki-- well, she deserved more than one step up from ghosting. If the thought of having to look anyone in the eye after all that hadn’t made his stomach turn for three days, maybe he would have come to that conclusion before Kiki ripped him a new one over it.

“Sorry about that,” he mutters, aware with every word that it’s not enough, that there’s not enough apologies to patch up the trust he broke. “I wasn’t...ready to talk.”

He expects the clap back; yeah I got the message, or but you were ready to take a swing? But he should have known: that’s not how Shirayuki works. She’s a professional, whether that’s what he wants from her or not.

Instead he face softens, right back into his friend. “I know. What happened in the drift can be...intense.” She hesitates, teeth sinking into the plush bow of her lip. “I just wish that you had felt comfortable conveying that to me. As my patient, you’re supposed to be able to control--”

“I don’t want to be your patient.”

Her mouth closes with a grunt, hand pressed to her stomach as if he hit her. “O-oh,” she murmurs, breathless. “I hadn’t realized that you, ah, wanted to terminate our sessions--”

“No!” God, it would be nice to be able to say this all smooth like he’s sure that jacked asshole can, leaning against a wall with his hand right by her head, sexual tension rocking the Richter scale. “I just meant--” his teeth try to grind down his thoughts into something palatable-- “Shirayuki, I don’t want to just be your patient.”

He could fall into her eyes they’re so wide, rounded ‘o’s that match her mouth’s geometry. “Ah, Zen, that’s...”

“I don’t mean because I-I like you.” Even though he does, but there’s rules for that. The kind the PPDC will look the other way on, but not Shirayuki. She’s not from under the dome; she still worries about what people might think outside of it. “I just...wish you were on my side.”

“I am on your side.” Her shoulders pull straight against the back of her chair, her soft look hardening into resolve. “Which is different from telling you want you want to hear.”

He jerks back, cheeks stinging like he’d been slapped. “I didn’t say I wanted that,” he mumbles, hands clenching over his lap. “But I don’t need you to tell me to do whatever it is Izana wants me to either.”

“I wasn’t going to.” The notebooks in her lap closes with a snap, and with trembling fingers, she sets aside her shield. “Izana wants you back in a jeager for the legacy. For the unbroken line of Wisterias standing between humanity and the rift. But I...”

Her eyes lift to his, and they’re no longer the lush, leafy green of a forest, but the hard glint of emerald. “If you get back in that cockpit, you need to do it for yourself.”

It’s an effort not to say, I don’t see the difference.

“I saw you when the siren went off.”

Zen scrubs a hand over his face; he remembers. Their eyes had met over that seething mass of fear and competence, and-- and he’d been so sure that if he saw her, something more than that glimpse of red in the corner of his vision, he’d forget every inch of his resolve and go to her. That he’d just take her in his arms and tell her all the thoughts roiling in the sea of his mind, but--

But he hadn’t. He’s taken one look at her and, without even a pang of guilt, left her there. A real hero.

“Zen.” She says his name so firmly, so seriously, that his head jerks up, gaze tangling with hers. “You don’t want to be on the sidelines. You don’t want to be the general hiding being his troops. You want to be out there, Rex Tyrannis shoulder-to-shoulder with Redwood Dancer. And you could be.”

It’s his breath that’s rasping, the death rattle of the man he’s let himself be these past few years. “How?”

There’s not an ounce of hesitation in her when she says. “You have to choose to move forward.”

And cozy up in the cockpit with that asshole. He thinks about that grin, cocked with a confidence he’s never been in the neighborhood of having, and...

It’s so familiar that his double vision makes his head pound. “I can’t work with that-- Obi. I won’t.”

“I know that...” Her lips press together, bursting apart with a pop. “I know there’s no limit to the amount of people a ranger could potentially drift with, but there’s something...special when you find the right one. That there’s something right about it than can’t ever be replaced.”

He stares, head galloping in his chest. She shouldn’t know that-- there’s no way she could. Most rookies out of the academy just drift successfully once, and that’s it-- that’s their partner, for better or worse, like marrying the first kid you kiss. There’s exceptions-- emergencies, injury, irreconcilable differences-- but even though this job has a high turnover...rangers rarely die alone. There’s not enough people for a paper.

“Yeah, I’ve...heard that too.” Probably from the same mouth she did, though it seems Mitsuhide’s polished the speech since he last gave it. To him, at least.

“I understand that you have a vision of who you want beside you in the pod,” Shirayuki presses, voice growing tighter, more tense with every word. “But Atri’s gone.”

Every drop of blood in him turns to ice. “Atri?”

Her breath hisses out through her teeth, relief slumping her shoulders. “I know no one can be him, but--”

“You think this is about Atri?” A giggle bubbles up from him, bitter on his tongue. “I’ve been sitting here for weeks-- no, months! And you think all this, the whole reason I won’t climb in a jaeger with just anyone off the street is because of Atri?”

Every corner of her face lost. “Isn’t it?”

“No, I...” He pinches the bridge of his nose, like it might stem the pounding of his heart behind his brow. This whole time he’d been so careful, trying to be understood for once, to let someone see him instead of his mistakes--

But he should have known; as long as his brother is obsessed with sending him an endless parade of nobodies which he sits behind a desk, it’ll only be his hang ups hung out for everyone to rifle through.

“I should go,” he finally manages, levering himself to his feet. The room spins, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears, but he can’t stay here, not when she thinks-- when she’s always thought--

“Zen,” she murmurs, voice muffled by distance. “Are you all right?”

--That he’s pathetic. “Yeah.” He stumbles to the door, swinging it open. “I just need to--”

And of course, standing right there is that asshole, hand half-raised to knock.

“Boss,” he breathes, clearly stunned. “I, uh, didn’t think you’d be...”

The awkwardness in the office is palpable, so thick that he might as well be moving through molasses. Before this guy showed up, he’d though he had half a chance; he was practically the only one outside of K-Science that would even look at her, and his sessions always felt like more, but now--

Well, it’s no wonder he didn’t stand half a chance next to him, if she thought he was waiting for Atri.

“Don’t worry about it.” Zen pushes back him, shoulder clipping his. Or at least near enough to claim the feat. “I’d hate to keep you two from your--” date-- “dinner plans.”

Shirayuki’s breath gasps from her. “Zen, wait, we’re not--”

“It’s fine,” he lies, every muscle tense where he stands, fighting the urge to look back. “A couple of things are clearer now.”

It’s not just her. They all think he’s waiting for him, that one day he might stroll back in here like nothing happened, and Zen--

“Please.” Shirayuki’s voice trembles, and even if he’s not looking, he knows she’s at the door, vibrating in its frame. “Let’s just finish the session.”

-- and Zen’s been giving them nothing else to work with. All these years, looking like a kid stood up on prom night.

“No, I just remembered there’s something I’ve got to do.” He forces a smile on his face, giving her a bare hint of it as he peeks over his shoulder. “I’ll see you next week.”

It kills him how much hope lights in her eyes. “Next week?”

“That our appointment, isn’t it?” he says, light tone limping. “Unless I see you around the dome before then.”

“Right,” she breathes, cheeks flushed at both corners of her smile. Obi’s watching her, concern writ large in his eyes, and well-- maybe he’s not as much of an asshole as Zen wanted to believe. “Until then.”

He gets halfway down the hall, before Obi calls out, “Hey, boss...”

It’s clear when he looks back that Obi hadn’t meant to speak, but now that he has, he clear his throat, giving himself a visible shake.

“You could come with us,” he says, hesitant. “If you wanted.”

It’s an olive branch, one he doesn’t deserve. One he should take, if he wants all this to heal over without a scar. But he’s not ready for that, not yet.

“No.” He shakes head. “I wasn’t joking about having something I got to do. Go enjoy yourselves.”

This is a terrible idea.

He knows it the entire time he’s walking, the anxiety cresting the second he sees the plate on the door, engraved and letters painted black: IZANA WISTERIA. MARSHAL.

“Well,” Izana hums from his desk. “Are you going pace outside my office all day, or are you planning to come in?”

Zen lets out a rush of breath and pushes the door open the rest of the way.

“You win,” he says, all in a rush. “I’ll do it. I’ll give him another chance.”

“I think at this point, he’s giving you another chance,” Izana tells him, barely glancing up from his pile of papers. “But...I’ll arrange it.”

He nearly says, I figured you’d have it all arranged already, but bites it back. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure. And Zen.” His brother looks up, capping his pen calmly before he folds his hands over the desk. “It’s not me who wins. It’s humanity.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, meeting that steely gaze. “But I’m not doing it for them.”

For once, his brother doesn’t have anything to say.

It’s Obi who’s locked in first this time.

His cheeky smile is already waiting when Zen steps on deck, body gripped by Rex Tyrannis’s hydraulics when he throws him a wink. “Second time’s the charm, right Your Highness?”

“Third time,” Zen mutters, keying in his code. “It’s third time’s the charm.”

“Right, but you were top of your class.” A guy like Obi shouldn’t be so comfortable when he’s got twenty tons pinning him in place, not when he’s got a face just asking to be hit. “So we can shave one of those off, right?”

“Depends.” His mouth twitches. “Where did you rank?”

Obi’s grin grows stiff enough to float. “I think you’d say I’m a natural talent.”

“That bad huh?”

A laugh saws out of him, raw in the loud silence of the pod. “You have no idea.”

“I think I could take a guess.” The hydraulics hug Zen tight; even lifting to his arm to the panel is a chore. “Ready?”

“For you?” Obi’s mouth stretches into a leer.  For once, he feels like he’s in on the joke. “Any time.”

Don’t chase the rabbit. It’s Obi’s voice that says it; not the way he had before, serious and concerned, a scolding and a reminder. No, this one is a laugh restrained, sing-song. One pill makes you big and one makes you small.

There’s a faint riff of guitar, and Zen’s about to tell him to can it, that putting trash in the drift just clogged up the flow, but--

But between one breath-- one blink and the next, he’s lost in the tide, rolling through his memories rudderless. When a hand grips his shoulder and--

“I’m ready.” Zen’s always too honest, too eager but he’s young here, younger than he ever remembers being wearing the badge. “To pick up the legacy. To be what father meant us to be.”

The memory runs true, his younger self still chatting away with Shidnote, unaware that his whole world’s about to be cut off at the knees. But he’s not watching that now, he’s watching the way shadows crawl across his brother’s face, a storm front that appears and vanishes in the moments no one looks.

“About that.” Izana settles his hand on the desk, but the drumming is no longer bored but...nervous. An asynchronous beat that runs at the speed of his thoughts. “I meant to tell you. I’m being promoted.”

“Promoted” The word still kicks his legs out from under him, still knocks the wind out of his lungs as efficiently as any punch to the gut. “But I thought we would--”

“They want me in a command capacity now that Mother’s taking over Anchorage.” Izana won’t look at him. The man who has built his career on being able to stare down Orochi in Sagami Bay can’t bear to look him in the eye. “I’m being taken off active duty.”

“But--” He looks between them. “But--”

“But--”

“But--”

The memory stutters. It’s him, he’s the one who’s pushing away. He’d always thought he couldn’t give this to someone, to some guy right off the street, someone who might pity him, but it’s-- it’s him. He can’t look at this. He can’t face failure another time.

And he doesn’t know how to stop.

Hey. Obi’s voice is too close, but he’s just an outline in the drift, blues and grays fuzzing between misfiring synapses. Hey, we don’t have to watch this.

They do. They have to, if he’s going to get through this.

Right. There’s no way for Obi to sigh here, where there’s no air, but he does, long and loud. It sounds...different. Almost...feminine. I have worse. Want to see me wet the bed when I was--?

The words fuzz before they can continue. Go ahead, Obi says, sounding like himself. Take as much time as you need. It’s not like we have clocks here.

Zen can’t nod here, not without a body, but he breathes, one solid in and out--

“It’s supposed to be us.” Even with the distance of time, every word is carves straight from his flesh, laid out on a platter for his brother to see. “We’re supposed to carry on the legacy.”

“Shidnote will continue on in his current capacity,” Izana explains, bored, as if he didn’t even speak. “He’s served me well. I’m sure you’ll both be sufficiently compatible.”

“But--” Zen grits his teeth. “It’s supposed to be us. Why are you giving me an excuse--?

He blinks. He never said that. He’d been thinking it the whole way to his bunk, but in the moment it had only been a yes sir. I understand, sir.

Then why--

“It’s an excuse.” The shine’s all worn off Atri’s grin, baring the raw edge beneath. “That’s all I’ve ever been to you.”

Scrap litters the floor at his feet; he’s never known what jaeger-grade parts sold for on the black market, but he knows it’s not pocket money. This is a small fortune if someone knew where to sell it.

Which clearly Atri does.

“You’re going to blame me?” Zen’s laugh limps with bitterness. “I catch you with stolen goods, and it’s my--?”

“It’s not stolen, it’s salvage,” Atri snaps, snatching a length of steel from his hands. “It’s not like they’re using it.”

A lie-- there’s not a shred of steel or wire that’s wasted in the dome. Jaegars come with a price tag that only governments can pay, and any corner that can be safely cut on maintenance is considered savings passed onto tax payers. There’s no way he can’t know it, not after six months, but--

He doesn’t care. He never did.

“This is why you agreed to be my copilot.” Every word aches as he births them from his lips, a truth that cuts even as he speaks it. “You didn’t care about protecting your friends. You just wanted access to parts.”

Atri shrugs, the barest twitch of his shoulders. “I never said I gave a single fuck about all that hero shit. You just assumed I did, because you do.”

“But the drift...” His breath wheezes, the way it did when he was a kid, before his dad paid for all that to be fixed. “How did you...?”

“I just thought about the stuff you cared about. Friends. Kaiju. Me.” Atri’s grin turns smug. “Some of us don’t wear our heart on our sleeves, Wisteria.”

Wow. Obi’s outline fuzzes as he circles behind Atri, a single brow raised. He’s a real fucknut, huh?

His memories are jumbles, him-now and him-then all tumbled together until his first instinct is to jump to Atri’s defense. He may not be an academy-trained ranger, someone who has a lifetime worth of experience in a simulator, but put him in Rex Tyrannis and he’ll--

Steal the toilet cover? Obi offers, mouth canting into that insufferable grin. The one that always reminded him of--

Ah.

Obi darts a glance to where Atri stands frozen beside him. Jeeze, you really know how to hit a guy where he lives. You think I look like this asshole?

Just the grin, really. He’s almost a head taller, broader in the shoulders, and Asian besides. Better looking too--

Obi’s smile stretches into a leer. You don’t say, bossman?

Maybe Atri’s right. He’s got to get better about what he thinks about in the drift. Especially with someone this insufferable around.

If anything, Obi’s more amused. So it’s this guy though, he’s whole hold up you have with me? It’s not--

Against his will, Atri springs to life, mouth curled into his nastiest sneer when he says “I don’t know why you’re acting so betrayed. After all, you only wanted me to get back at the Marshal, and I played my part, didn’t I? I’m sure he’d jump in the pod if that meant he could be rid of me.”

“That’s not--” true, he should say. He can’t though, not when he’s not this-Zen, when he’s just looking out from his eyes, straight into Obi’s.

“Yeah.” There’s no spit to swallow in the drift, but he does anyway, a force of habit. “It is.”

The memory fuzzes away from him, and it’s just them now, two men braced in the Conn-pod, staring at each other through their visors.

“Right hemisphere, calibrated.” Zen blinks, watching as his hand opens and closes, the robotic voice’s dulcet tones washing over him.

“I never wanted this, you know,” he murmurs, “not if it wasn’t with my brother. That’s how it was supposed to be, me and him versus the kaiju.”

“Left hemisphere, calibrated.” His arms seem to move on his own, and it’s strange how he can’t keep the smile off his face this time. It feels good, moving like this again.

“No,” he breathes. “It was supposed to be me and him versus the world.”

“Ready to activate the jeager.“

Obi’s arms lift, a fighting stance to mirror his. It’s easy, so easy. Easier than he ever thought it could be. “What changed?”

He’d shrug, if the hydraulics would let him, but this isn’t Redwood Dancer. “Seemed like a shitty reason not to save the world.”

“Calibration complete.”

Obi grins, teeth shining bright under the lights of his visor. “Doc tell you that?”

Zen laughs. “Pretty much.”

“She’s got a gift,” Obi agrees, hands moving in sync with his. “And it’s making you feel like an asshole.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Looks like you jokers are getting along,” Kiki deadpans through their helmets. “How do you feel about taking Rex out for a drag?”

“After being cramped under this dome for months, Princess?” Obi drawls, tossing him a conspiratorial wink. “It’d be my pleasure.”

“Just give us a sec!” It’s been a long time since Zen’s talked much with the crew in CIC, but he recognizes that voice-- Yuzuri, one of Shirayuki’s friends. The peppy one with the cute accessories. The one that told him she’d give him cement shoes if he made her cry. “Let’s see if we can get you off your leash.”

He’d always liked her. Hopefully the feeling’s mutual, since she’s right next to the plug.

“Hey, boss.”

Zen blinks, glancing across the cockpit. “Yeah?”

“I know Atri was supposed to be a big fuck you to His Majesty, but...” He hesitates, thoughtful. “You drifted with the Big Guy for a while after that. Why?”

“Ah--”

It’s impossible not to think of it, the siren rising in the air, the men running past them, voices drowned out by the drone.

“I’ll do it,” he says, glaring up at the man across from him. “At least you know you’re just a seat warmer.”

“Zen--”

He blinks, the memory stuttering beneath him. That’s not what Mitsuhide called him then, that wasn’t until after--

“Zen.”

That’s not inside the memory, that’s inside his helmet. “Mitsuhide?”

“You’re out of alignment.”

He shakes his head, uncomprehending. “What do you--?”

“You’re out of alignment.” He repeats, each words strained. “You both chased the rabbit, and...Obi went straight down the rabbit hole.”

It doesn’t make any sense. “But I--”

“You have to go get him,” Mitsuhide says, dire. “He’s pointing the plasma cannon at Mission Control.”

[kryptored]

When he is latibule

Almost forgot to post this here. Oops.

AO3

Chapter 2

She dreams of Luka again the next night. And another night. And another night. And another night. And another night.

Something as recurrent as this should scare her. But instead, all Marinette feels and thinks is that it’s not so bad to have dreams of Luka smiling at her.

When she sees the stretch of his lips, the slight flush of pink across his cheeks when he looks straight into her eyes, the stray strands of baby hair tickling the top of his forehead, the way his lashes flutter as he blinks, how his nose twitches just so…

The images she has seen in her dream calls to her like a memory, and just looking back at them makes her heart beat a little faster, even if she hasn’t done any running. It makes her face flush a little, even if she’s not too hot under her warm blanket. It makes her eyes water a little, even if she’s not feeling sad. It makes her smile more than a little, even if it’s just a dream about him. It makes her hands tremble a little, even if she’s not scared at all.

She doesn’t remember all the other details, except for his face; except for him smiling at her. she doesn’t mind it, though, because dreams are supposed to make you feel good, and her dreams of Luka are definitely the good ones.

It’s another day of living a not so normal life, and classes have just ended. For the most part, Marinette tries to avoid seeing Kagami and Adrien together, because it still hurts. She’s still not ready to act unbothered while insisting she’s happy for them. Instead, she spends her free time staying close to Alya and Nino as they talk on the way out, while Adrien hurriedly leaves for his fencing class.

For some unknown reason, she can’t help but look around for something, or for someone. Alya and Nino, who are too engrossed in their discussion on how to spend their time together while babysitting their younger siblings, fail to realize that Marinette has strayed away a little from them.

She looks around from the top of the stairs for something; for someone. Her grip tightens against her bag straps as her head turns from side to side. From the safety of her purse, Tikki peeks up at her holder, who’s currently standing on the balls of her feet. The kwami has an idea on what’s going on, but refuses to say anything on the matter. Instead, she chooses to look around for herself from her perch.

Marinette finally spots him before Tikki does (not that she knows her kwami was looking, as well). She settles her heel back down on the ground and does her best to resist waving her arm up in the air to catch his attention. But as soon as she bites her lower lip and raises her arm a little, she realizes that there’s no need when Luka eventually spots her, smiles, waves at her (and she waves back, albeit shyly), and climbs up the flight of stairs to meet her.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Tikki stifles a giggle as she witnesses their awkward interaction, before hiding back inside the purse. This time, Marinette braves the decision to start the conversation.

“Are you here for Juleka?”

Even though it should be the most obvious answer, considering she’s in the same class and friends with his sister, Marinette can’t help but deflate a little at the disappointment; that he’s not actually here for her.

“On another day, I would be.” He takes hold of her lunch bag, and she’s too surprised to even resist, “I’m actually here for you today.”

Or perhaps not.

“O-oh…”

This time, Alya and Nino notice Luka’s presence and decides to join in on their conversation. Marinette doesn’t hear anything they say, as her mind goes blank and can only focus on the weight of Luka’s arm around her shoulders while he’s talking with Alya and Nino. It takes them a few minutes before the couple realize that Marinette is in good hands, and they leave her with Luka as they go on their way.

Luka and Marinette, on the other hand, remain on the top of the stairs as other students continue filing out of the building. He still has his arm around her shoulders, and he doesn’t seem on dropping them anytime soon. She doesn’t mind the contact and tries really hard to not lean too much into him and bask in his warmth.

“You good, Marinette?”

“Uhuh.” She looks up at him and can’t help but love how the bright afternoon sun’s shining down on his face, making him absolutely golden. Absolutely gorgeous. Absolutely mesmerizing. “What about Juleka?”

“I got her text, saying she’s going somewhere with Rose.” He leads her down the steps, “And even if she wasn’t, I’d still come and pick you up because I want to.”

She gives in and finally leans onto him, and he squeezes her shoulder as if he’s keeping her from moving away.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

They are warm and content and alright for the moment.

They spend the rest of the day in her room, and thankfully, no akuma has the decency (or the audacity) to disturb their peace. At the moment, Marinette has finally left behind the homework she’s finished, in exchange for a new design project.

To her joy, Luka doesn’t mind staying for this part. He tries his best with giving feedback on her progress, pointing out what colour looks nice or if something is missing. He sits cross-legged on the chaise, his shoes already discarded on the floor. He has a hand resting on his chin, his thumb and fore finger rubbing against its sides as he tilts his head from side to side, humming as he does so.

“So… what do you think?”

“I think… it looks great!” He crosses his arms, smiling wide and his eyes bright, looking directly at her.

“You sure?”

“Do you trust me?”

“O-of course, I do! I-it’s just… I’m having second thoughts about it.” She takes a seat beside him, releasing a deep sigh that has him putting an arm around her shoulders (again, but she still doesn’t mind the contact).

“Well, just make sure you take some breaks every now and then. Don’t overwork yourself like you keep doing – ,” he pinches her cheek when she pouts at his statement, “ – and just let your ideas flow. Once you have everything out of your system, then you can start cutting out – ” she pouts even more, even with him still pinching her, “ – all the things that don’t work or you don’t need.”

He cups both of her cheeks and she tries so hard not to blush so much but ends up with very pink and stinging cheeks. “You got that, baby girl?”

She blinks in surprise at his question, and Luka uses her reaction as an opportunity to brush his thumbs against her cheeks. Normally, Marinette would blush at this sort intimacy form Luka, but her mind is too distracted to allow her to feel embarrassed.

“W…what did you just call me?”

He chuckles at her words and leans closer.

“Did I lose you there, baby girl?” He’s not so subtle at trying to keep the laughter in, considering how much his smile is straining against his cheeks and his hands tremble a little against her skin.

“Baby…girl? Wha – ”

“If you don’t like it, just tell me. I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable, so – ”

“I-it’s okay. I kinda…like it.” She doesn’t shake off his hold on her face, but her eyes fall to the ground. She bites her lip, and he can’t help but think that she’s just adorable.

“Alright, baby girl.” He watches how the colour red paints her cheeks beautifully. “But I’ll only call you that when we’re alone or you feel comfortable enough to be called it.”

“That sounds nice.” Her eyes find his again, but this time she relishes how light she feels when she loses herself in their colour. She loses herself like a balloon freely floating, and she doesn’t mind the drift so long as it’s with him.

Standing in her room, his hands holding onto her face like glass, and looking into her softly makes her feel warm and content and alright for the moment.

Luka goes home at some point, but they spend the rest of the night draining their phones’ batteries talking to each other until they fall asleep. This happens the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that, and the night after that. It becomes something regular on most nights, and Marinette regrets those few ones when akumas make their appearance, disrupting the routine she has with Luka. And in the mornings after those awful nights, she makes sure to text him a greeting and apology, and he never fails to say that it’s fine; that it’s all okay and he understands.

And on those nights that she feels joy with a sprinkle of excitement before, during, and after their calls, she knows she must be smiling even before she starts dreaming of Luka again. Every time he offers his hand, she takes hold of it. She makes sure to hold onto him tightly (though it’s unclear whether she actually does or not while dreaming) as he pulls her away to wherever and somewhere. She tries to count every callous she feels on his hand, and it makes everything feel so real. She watches how his hair bounces on every step or leap they take. She notices the lack of stiffness around his shoulders, and somehow, she’s proud that she’s someone he can be relaxed and vulnerable with. She splays out her other arm to feel the air around them, and she’s quite sure she feels something soft. She takes a whiff of her surroundings, and she’s quite sure it’s Luka who she smells like a breath of fresh air.

She has another one of those dreams with Luka, where she takes his hand and runs away to wherever and somewhere, and Marinette sits up to remember himher dream.

She looks at Tikki, who she finds is sleeping peacefully, and closes her eyes to relish whatever new moment they must’ve done in the dream. She clenches her hand against her soft blanket and imagines that she’s back to holding his hand. She breathes in and imagines she can still smell his shampoo. She listens to the sound of a silent and sleeping Paris and imagines that she can still hear him talk to her. she tilts her head from side to side and imagines that she’s back to that floaty feeling she gets whenever they’re close to each other.

Something warm grows in her chest; in her heart and it feels exciting. It grows and grows like a flower under sunlight and water and care.

Marinette opens her eyes, and they are wide in part fear and part confusion. She puts a hand to her chest to feel the fast beating of her heart, and her face warms up even when her hands are now cold and clammy.

This must be love, but not the same way how it used to be or still lingers with Adrien. And for some reason, she likes the feeling of it. She really, really likes this feeling, which is something she hasn’t felt in a while, even with Adrien. Her face feels warmer than ever and she’s probably on the verge of crying, so much so that not even the bite on her lip doesn’t stop her from smiling so wide and –

‘He’ll just get tired of waiting for you. He’ll just get tired of you.’

Something awful grows in her chest; in her heart and it aches. It wilts and wilts like a flower without the sunlight and water and care.

[lana-b-bana]

love is a place

Summary: Wilhemina drops her cane under her bed, and, as much as she hates to admit it, she needs help in getting it. There’s only one person she would consider asking: Cordelia Goode. 

—

What a fucking mess. Wilhemina sighed, her head dipping down as she balled her bedsheets in her fists. What a mess. All she was trying to do was unzip her dress and for one second—one second—she took her hand off her cane and watched in horror as it clattered to the ground and rolled underneath her bed. Now here she was, sitting on her bed, dress half-unzipped and cane-less. Her damn dress wasn’t even unzipped all the way, so her foolish mistake was for nothing. 

Mistakes? Another one? a hissed whisper pierced her thoughts, and Wilhemina immediacy recognized it as her mother’s voice. She couldn’t claim that she had a happy childhood, with her always taking her mother’s rants about her disability quietly, but to heart. Even from the afterlife, she managed to tear Wilhemina’s self-esteem to shreds. You idiot, now look how helpless you are—

No. Wilhemina gripped the sheets harder. She was the most brilliant woman in the world; she could handle a little setback like this. Her head lowered more, but this time, her spine made its unwillingness to endure the awkward bend of her neck known. A sharp bolt of pain ran up her body, and Wilhemina jolted upright. Her stupid back. If it wasn’t acting up so much, she would have pushed through the pain and just dropped down on her stomach. Oh, would you really do that? You know you could never stretch without your back hurting. 

Wilhemina seethed, an equal mixture of fury, shame, resentment, and panic. Breathe, she reminded herself. Breathe. Think of all the different options. First, she could attempt to grab her cane. It surely didn’t roll too far. Upon further thinking, she ruled that idea out. She ... she couldn’t. Because you are weak—

Second, Wilhemina pushed on, she could try to find something long so she could poke her cane out. But when she glanced around her room, there was nothing. Fine, move to the third option. Was there even a third option?

Of course, there was. She could go ask for help. Help, really? Her mother’s voice again. Who are you going to ask for help from? Wilhemina squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t just sit there—she tried that already—so there unfortunately left that bitter option left. You never answered my question, child. 

“Cordelia,” Wilhemina whispered, her hands relaxing for the first time in hours. Cordelia would help her; she always promised that Wilhemina could count on her. 

Do you really think she would help you? That she wouldn’t laugh at how weak you are? Was that her voice or her mother’s voice? Did it matter? Wilhemina never lied to herself, and she wasn’t going to start now. As much as it pained her to admit, she couldn’t grab her cane by herself. Out of everyone she knew (which was admittedly a little pool of people), Cordelia was the one person that she trusted the most. Wilhemina wouldn’t even have to admit that to her, either.

Decision made, Wilhemina lifted her head to stare at the bedroom door that seemed to mock her by being so close, yet so far away. Just five steps, she reminded herself. Five steps. 

One, two, three, four, five. Wilhemina gripped onto the doorknob, concentrating on slowing her rapid breathing. That wasn’t too bad, she told herself, tried to convince herself. Five steps done. Easy.

But when Wilhemina managed to step aside and swing the door open, she had to sag against it as she stared at the hallway that only seemed to grow longer. No. She squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t think like that. For God’s sake, she was Wilhemina fucking Venable, the almost CEO of Kineros Robotics. She could do anything if she put her mind to it. All she had to do was put one foot in front of the other.

And that was what Wilhemina did. She stumbled down the hallway as quick as she could, sagging against the door she knew was Cordelia’s. She raised her hand to knock, but before she could, she was falling—spiraling off a cliff somehow, plunging straight into the cold icy waters of the ocean. Except ...

Wilhemina opened her eyes. There was no hard impact with the floor or sudden pain. Instead, there was warmth. Warmth, like the feel of a tight hug. Wilhemina let her eyes drift up past the hemline of a white, sheer robe, higher past the sight of exposed skin, and into the shocked eyes of the person she wanted to see. But not like this.

“C-Cordelia! I’m—I didn’t mean to interrupt your evening. I just ...” Wilhemina trailed off, swallowing hard. She finally was where she needed to be, but how could she ask for help? Was there an easy way?

Cordelia’s eyes gentled, perhaps seeing the warring emotions written all over Wilhemina’s face. She tightened her grip on Wilhemina’s waist (which brought a flush to her face, as much as she wanted to deny it) and smiled. “You weren’t interrupting anything, Wilhemina. Where’s your cane, hmm?”

She rubbed circles with her thumb, prompting Wilhemina to inhale and say, “I-I dropped it. Underneath my bed. Could you ...?”

“Of course, darling. I’m glad you asked me. Let’s get you sitting down first, okay?”

“Mhm.” After Wilhemina mumbled her agreement, she tensed up, fingers curling into Cordelia’s shoulders. Would, God forbid, Cordelia try to carry her? Pull her there like a child?

Of course not. “Just hold onto me,” Cordelia whispered, slowly taking a step back. Wilhemina followed. This pattern of theirs continued, Cordelia taking a step back and Wilhemina taking a step forward. It was almost like a dance, and it was so easy for Wilhemina to just relax and follow Cordelia’s lead. She could apparently understand what Wilhemina didn’t say, and now, her instinct to move. How could someone know her so well? 

Their dance ended when Wilhemina sat down on Cordelia’s bed. Her eyes were still so warm when she said, “I’ll be right back, honey. Don’t worry.” 

As Cordelia left the room, Wilhemina let her gaze fall to the bed. There was no doubt in her mind that all the beds were of equal quality, but this one was softer and warmer—and it even smelled like Cordelia. Wilhemina’s face heated up, and she swiveled her head to look back at the floor, determinedly ignoring the now prominent smell of Cordelia’s perfume wafting around the room. 

After an eon, Cordelia finally came back into her room, holding Wilhemina’s cane. It sent the blood rushing back to her face as she was served another not-so-subtle reminder of how vulnerable she was. And she hated it.

Wilhemina snatched the cane from Cordelia’s hand and attempted to get up quickly. Much too quickly. Cordelia’s hands flew out, holding onto her waist. “Hey, hey, where are you going?”

“Back to my room. Thank you for your assistance, but that’s all I require.” 

Cordelia hummed, not taking any offense to being dismissed like a servant. “Why don’t you stay here for the night?”

“What?” Shocked eyes flew up to meet Cordelia’s. “Why? I have a perfectly functional bed in my room.”

“I know you do.” Cordelia reached up to tenderly cup Wilhemina’s face, and all she could do was stare. “I would feel much better if you stayed.”

“Well,” Wilhemina breathed out. “I wouldn’t mind staying, then.” She was kidding herself if she thought she was staying for Cordelia; she was selfishly staying for herself. But still, she was sure Cordelia knew that. So why was she still so kind and offering a choice?

Ah.

Wilhemina would never ask if she could stay, even though she wanted to, so Cordelia made it seem like she was the one who desired, not Wilhemina. There was a small bubble of protection she could manage to hide in, all because of Cordelia.

“Good.” Cordelia nodded and walked to her side of the bed. She shrugged off her robe and slipped under the covers as Wilhemina stiffly leaned her cane against a nearby nightstand and laid on her back. 

“Goodnight, Wilhemina.” With a wave of Cordelia’s hand, the lights went out.

“Goodnight, Cordelia,” she murmured into the darkness.

—

Wilhemina couldn’t stop tossing and turning. Usually, if she was unable to sleep, she would grit her teeth and forced herself to stay still. There was no soothing transition into the embrace of sleep, just force into tough oblivion. Perhaps her restlessness that night was because of Cordelia’s close proximity—oh, why was she deluding herself? It most definitely was because of her. 

It wasn’t Wilhemina’s fault. But every time she extended her arm, she brushed Cordelia’s nightgown (oh, she couldn’t think about that for too long), and when she turned her head to the side, she caught a whiff of Cordelia’s perfume. And this was, of course, her room but strangely, Wilhemina didn’t feel like an outsider at all. 

She felt like she belonged. 

Well. Wilhemina had never felt like that in ... years. She couldn’t remember the last time a feeling of contentment and intimacy. 

“Wilhemina, are you alright?” Cordelia’s sleepy murmur broke neither comfortable nor uncomfortable silence.

“I’m fine, Cordelia.” Wilhemina’s face certainly did not heat up at the sudden husky tone of Cordelia’s voice. 

“Are you sure? I can feel you thinking from here.”

“Ah, yes, well, I—” She hesitated, at a loss for words, an occurrence that happened increasingly often ever since meeting Cordelia. How could she explain the dichotomy of fear and want she was experiencing at the near presence of Cordelia? 

“You don’t need to explain anything to me, darling. Just come here.”

Heart beating rapidly, Wilhemina scooted closer to Cordelia. “Here?”

“Closer ...” Even in the dark, she could see Cordelia’s playful smile. “I don’t bite.” 

Oh, dear Lord. 

Cordelia pulled Wilhemina even closer until she was laying her head on Cordelia’s chest, her arm automatically going over Cordelia’s waist. Wilhemina hated to be so ... weak, but they were cuddling. Sort of. 

The worst part was that she liked it. Their embrace was long and natural and tender and intimate, and she liked it. 

“I can practically hear all the gears in your head whirring, honey.” 

Though there was no malice in Cordelia’s voice, Wilhemina couldn’t help but flush. “I don’t mean to, but I have so much I want to say, and I’m not sure ...”

“I’ll tell you what. We go to bed”—Wilhemina tried to ignore how nice the we sounded—“and in the morning, we can talk it out together. How does that sound?”

A pause. “Wonderful.”

Cordelia chuckled and began running her fingers through Wilhemina’s hair, sending shivers through her. “Goodnight, again, darling.”

“Goodnight, Cordelia. Again.”

Wilhemina finally relaxed into Cordelia, the voices in her head finally quitting. In their shared embrace, there was no room for evil murmurings or doubts. Just blissful silence and warmth spreading through Wilhemina’s body. What a good night, indeed.

[youngjusticeslut]

Fleas

Fandom: She Ra and the Princesses of Power Links: FF.net // AO3 Characters:  Catra, Adora, Kyle, Lonnie, Rogelio Ships: Childhood Adora and Catra Summary: A young Catra faces a bit of a predicament. Luckily, Adora is there to help her out. Rating: K+ Word Count: 3,880 Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters.

Some people would say that six hours of training drills was too much for ten-year-olds. They would watch, aghast, as these children held weapons in their hand, working together to fight a common enemy that they’d never seen in person. These very same, judgemental people probably thought that children would make better use of their time playing outside, or learning.

These people didn’t live in the Fright Zone.

“Kyle, behind you!” Adora shouted, ducking from a laser that soared where her head had just been. Despite the warning, Kyle did not dodge, and was instead hit by the lazer square in the chest. The boy crashed to the floor with a whimper, his other team members shaking their heads in disdain.

Octavia sighed and called off the drill. “Pathetic,” she sneered. “You’ll be the only team today without a passing score.”

“It’s Kyle’s fault,” Lonnie muttered, but was silenced after a quick jab from Rogelio.

“You are a team. One person’s failure is everyone’s failure.”

Adora could have groaned. The number of times their team had failed at Kyle’s hands was immeasurable. More often than not, Catra’s tail would start thrashing and if Adora wasn’t holding her back, she was likely to pounce right on him. This would help nothing, as Kyle would start crying and all of them would be punished. Fortunately, Catra wasn’t currently present; she’d been mysteriously absent for most of the day.

“We’re sorry,” Adora said, speaking for her group. If she didn’t, they’d never be dismissed. “I’ll make sure it won’t happen again.”

Octavia snorted, looking between Adora and Kyle and shaking her head. Kyle, for his part, looked particularly guilty. “That’ll be the day. Tomorrow we’ll add an hour of combat training, just to be sure,” she simpered, watching carefully for any sign of resistance in the young trainees. Long ago, the extra training would have elicited a groan, maybe even some argument or protest.

They knew better, now. Except perhaps Catra, but she did it on purpose.

Octavia’s eyes fell on Adora last, a hint of a smirk on her lips as she watched the leader of the group. Being Shadow Weaver’s favorite put quite the amount of pressure on the young girl, and both officers and captains held her to a higher standard. Used to the behavior, Adora kept straight, her determined gaze never wavering from Octavia.

“I see Catra never showed.”

Adora swallowed, rummaging quick through the mental list of excuses she already had prepared. “The burn on her tail got infected,” she said, and it was partially the truth. It had been bothering Catra. The other night, Adora had sat with her whimpering friend and rebandaged the burn. “She’s in the infirmary.”

“Hmm.” Octavia looked like she had more to say, but everyone knew of the stupid stunt their team had pulled a couple weeks back. It had started out as a simple challenge, trying to see which of them could get closest to the incinerator. Catra had held back at first, hesitant but curious to watch the others. Then Lonnie called her chicken. With something to prove, Catra didn’t make a single noise, not until her tail caught fire.

Injury and illness in the Horde weren’t unheard of, but they were frowned upon. Visits to the infirmary were only for serious conditions, and even then, people wouldn’t look at you the same. Kyle had been just like everyone else until he caught pneumonia. None of his team had been allowed to visit him in the infirmary; when he returned, he was like a stranger to everyone. It was no wonder that Catra had chosen to suffer in silence rather than admit her burn was bothering her.

Without a reason to linger any longer, Octavia sighed. “See to it that she’s on time tomorrow, Adora. Dismissed.”

Kyle all but burst into tears the moment they were in the locker room. Not actual tears, for those would be severely punished. But his pathetic blubbering echoed throughout the room until Rogelio awkwardly pat his shoulder. Lonnie narrowed her eyes, only slightly softened by the display. “Don’t mess up again,” she said, but her voice lacked any real malice.

Adora brushed past them, embarking on her search for Catra. With training over, they had about an hour until dinner rations were handed out. An hour would be plenty of time to track her down. Sometimes, when they were particularly bored, they would make a game of it. Catra would hide and time Adora on how long it would take her to find her. Her record was thirteen minutes and forty nine seconds.

Usually Catra had about six different hiding spots, all in different areas of the Fright Zone. At first they’d been painfully obvious, and her and Adora had been found out hiding away more than once. Shadow Weaver would always take it out on Catra, though, so the kitten had no choice but to get more clever.

Adora spent thirty five minutes looking for her, but to no avail. Each of her hiding spots were empty. Even though she knew better, Adora was starting to worry. If Shadow Weaver caught whiff of Catra’s absence, she would get angry. Angry wasn’t even the right word to describe it; no word could describe the terrifying manner in which she doled out punishments. The last time she’d gotten angry at Catra, she’d thrown her in a cell for the better part of a day without any meals. When she’d finally been let out, her nails were clawed down, and furious scratch markings covered the door. To this day, they still hadn’t fully grown back.

With no time left to look for her, Adora made her way to the mess hall.

Catra didn’t make an appearance at dinner, so Adora snuck an extra ration bar on her way out; the green ones were Catra’s favorite. When her friend didn’t return to the dormitory in preparation for lights-out, Adora went looking again. If Catra really didn’t want to be found, she would go upwards.

With nothing more to lose, Adora began to head for the water tower. More than once, Catra had expressed a grand desire to explore it. Most people wouldn’t have even thought to go up there; it was too dangerous for most of the Horde to even try. Lucky for Catra, Adora was a pretty good climber. She couldn’t fathom what her friend found so interesting about a water tower, but she would bet anything that it was where she was lurking at the moment.

And she was right.

No sooner had Adora reached the top did she finally find her, curled up against the base of the rusty tower. She sighed in relief, an easy smile stretching on her lips. “Have you been hiding here all day? I’ve been looking all over for you!”

Catra’s ears perked as Adora spoke, but she didn’t turn. “Go away, Adora. You shouldn’t be here,” she said, shifting uncomfortably.

“No, you shouldn’t be here. You missed training, and dinner, and it’s almost lights out. Do you want Shadow Weaver to kill you?”

Fighting back a groan, Catra shook her head. “She’s already going to kill me.”

Adora raised a brow, taking a seat beside her. Below them, they green lights of various aircrafts and buildings illuminated their view. It would have been pretty if it wasn’t the Fright Zone. “What’s going on?”

Catra shook her head, her tail thrashing about as she made another uncomfortable sound. “Don’t sit next to me. You’ll catch it.”

“You’re not making any sense. Catch what?”

Tears rose to Catra’s eyes, shakily pointing at the small pile by her feet. Adora followed her finger, looking closer until she made a face. “Are those…?”

The younger girl nodded, angrily swiping the tears away with her hands. “I don’t know how I got them. They itch like crazy,” she whimpered, scratching her head in aggravation.

Adora frowned, but didn’t get up. She gently rested her hand on Catra’s knee. “You need to go to the infirmary.”

“No!” Catra hissed, jerking away from Adora’s touch. “If Shadow Weaver finds out…”

“What would she do?” Adora couldn’t help but chuckle. It wasn’t like it was Catra’s fault. Bugs weren’t a rare occurrence in the Horde. Every so often, a case of lice or bed bugs would break out in one of the bunks. The day after, all of the inhabitants with hair or fur would be sporting buzzcuts. “She can’t blame you for this.”

“Oh yeah?” Catra scratched her head again, unable to look at Adora. “She blames me for everything. Doesn’t matter if I did it or not.”

She was right, of course. Not that Adora could see it; somehow, she always managed to escape unscathed and Catra was the one who took the brunt of the punishments. Most of the time, Catra would say she didn’t mind, that she could take it. She’d certainly gotten better at taking it, over the years. Still, nothing could quite conceal the pain, the debilitating fear she felt when she was frozen in one of Shadow Weaver’s spells.

After a period of silence, Catra’s eyes lowered further. “She calls me mangy, like I’m just… a dirty animal. She always said it was only a matter of time before I got fleas,” she whispered, more to herself than to Adora.

“So you hid up here?” Adora asked, just as soft.

Catra nodded. “I thought I could take them out myself. It hurts, but anything’s better than facing her. And I can’t… give everyone fleas because of me. I don’t want people to look at me like I’m dirty,” she admitted, balling her fist. “Can you imagine what Lonnie would do with that? Or Octavia? I’d never live it down. I’d be known as ‘flea bag’ for the rest of my life.”

As much as Adora wanted to deny it, she knew Catra was right. “I can help you,” she offered. “We’ll pick them out together. Otherwise you’ll never come down. You’d probably die out here,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“What if you catch them?”

“Stay still and I won’t,” Adora said, sticking her tongue out. “Besides, it’s me or the infirmary.”

Catra rolled her eyes but finally acquiesced, scooting closer to Adora. To her credit, she did her best to stay still, despite the rampant critters that buried themselves in her fur. Adora’s work was cut out for her, and she tried to be as gentle as possible.

“You smell disgusting,” she grimaced, noticing the abundance of red bumps under Catra’s fur. They had to have itched something fierce.

“I stole this spray from the infirmary,” Catra said, nodding to a bottle that had rolled off to the side. “It killed most of them. Smells gross, though.”

Adora nodded, continuing to pick out the dead fleas from her fur. “Are you in pain?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” she snapped, her back stiffening. When she was younger, newer to the fright zone, she’d cry at every little thing. Adora was the only one who was there for her, always ready with a smile and a comforting squeeze. As she grew older, she realized that she didn’t want to be the whimpering little kitten anymore. Even if it hurt.

The two sat in silence for a little while, just Adora helping clear Catra’s fur. The damage was bad, but not impossible. They may even be able to keep it under wraps if Catra could suffer out the itching in silence. “You know, maybe I’ll leave one or two in there,” Adora said, trying to break the tension. “Kyle might rock a buzzcut.”

Catra scoffed. “That’s not even funny. Whoever heard of a cat without its fur?”

“You could start a trend.”

“The hairless cat trend? Pass.”

Adora giggled; it was an odd thought, indeed. “Yeah, you’re right. I like your fur,” she said, lifting up some of her hair and pawing through it. “We’ll have to clean your bed out, too. Make sure there aren’t any creepy crawlers.”

Catra didn’t respond. Instead she tugged a loose thread from the cuff of her pants, enjoying the feeling of Adora’s hands in her hair. It didn’t last long, though, for her mind started to wander. She could already see it now, a bug getting loose in the dormitory, the blame falling to her. Her eyes darkened, clenching her fist.

“Do you need to scratch?” Adora asked, noticing how tense she was growing.

“I’m not dirty.”

The blonde blinked, taken aback by the suddenness of Catra’s words. “Of course you’re not,” she responded, without even having to think about it. “The fleas could have come from anyone.”

Catra lifted her head a bit. “You promise?”

Adora nodded hard, so much that it made her neck ache. She came around to the front, shooting Catra a grin. “Don’t listen to them. And besides, you’re all clean now. We’ll change your sheets and no one will ever know.”

As much as Catra wanted to believe her, she couldn’t. Everything always turned out to bite her in the rear, no matter how hard she tried. Still, she had to face the music sooner or latter, and she’d starve if she stayed up there any longer. “Okay,” she said quietly, fluffing out her hair to her desired volume. “Is the smell too noticeable?”

“Nah,” Adora brushed off, quickly getting to her feet. “You’ll be fine until morning. Just wake up early so you’re first in line for the showers.”

Catra grinned, lacing her arm with Adora’s. “You know I won’t. And besides, no one can beat Lonnie.” The girl was cleaner than a bar of soap; no matter how hard any cadet had tried, she was always first in line for the showers. “Did you save me a ration bar?” she asked hopefully, her ears perked up. Despite telling herself that she’d make it without dinner, her stomach disagreed with the sentiment.

A green block was handed to her with a wink. “They really need to work on their security,” Adora said with a mischievous smirk.

It was a wonder how Catra didn’t wake up the entire dormitory that night.

The top bunk kept squeaking with every movement she made, and Adora heard every bit of it. If she wasn’t so tired, she would have felt sorry for her. By the time they’d returned that evening, everyone had been asleep. They’d quickly changed Catra’s bedding and bid each other goodnight, but neither of them actually made it to sleep.

Adora hated that she couldn’t go and distract her. She was sure that Catra must have been in agony the entire night, scratching herself in an attempt to quell the itching. Not that she’d admit it if she was in pain. She didn’t do that anymore.

When the alarms began to sound at five in the morning, Adora pushed herself up from the mattress, groggy and disoriented. Still, the first thing she did was pull herself up to Catra’s bunk, finding her looking just as tired as she felt.

“Any better?”

Catra nodded, rubbing her eyes. “I’m okay. Rogelio snored all night and I couldn’t sleep,” she lied, yawning soon after. Adora didn’t press the lie, knowing it was better to let it slide.

“C’mon, let’s hit the showers before all the water is gone.”

Before either of them could climb down, they were stopped when an officer walked into their dormitory. He lifted a whistle to his mouth, and within moments a high-pitched shriek filled the room. Every child grew startled, as it was a sound that didn’t belong so early in the morning.

“Listen up,” Marcus barked, dropping the whistle and holding his hands by his hips. “Dormitory inspections are scheduled for three o’clock, sharp. Block seven came down with a case of fairy-pox this week, a result of untidy quarters. Anyone found not to be adhering to the cleaning code will be reported to Shadow Weaver. Anyone who is feeling unwell should report to the infirmary, immediately.”

Catra raised a brow. “Fairy pox?”

“It’s nasty. Trust me, you do not want to get it,” Adora whispered back. Luckily, she’d never been a victim of it. But she’d seen people who had. Most of them hadn’t been the same, after.

As Marcus left, Catra rubbed her head before looking down to her pillow and paling. Judging by the black specs on the blue sheet, Adora had missed a few fleas. Adora watched as Catra’s face twisted into worry, then fear. Before she could say anything, Adora squeezed her shoulder.

“Don’t worry. Nobody will know.”

“They’re doing inspections!” Catra hissed, grasping her hair in her hands. “What if they find the bugs?”

Adora quickly shushed her, glancing around to make sure nobody had heard. “They won’t find out. Just keep calm, okay?”

Catra smacked her hand away, pouncing on her and pinning her to the bed. “How can I keep calm? Everyone’s going to know. I knew I shouldn’t have come down,” she rattled.

“Nobody will know. Do you trust me?” When Adora didn’t receive a reply, she sighed and gently pushed Catra off of her. She could feel the fear radiating off Catra in waves, and it was starting to make her worried. But she had a plan; she’d come up with it at some point during the night.

“What are you going to do?” Catra asked, watching as Adora picked up the dead fleas.

“Don’t worry about it. Just trust me, okay?”

“Fine.”

“And please, take a shower. I can’t smell that spray anymore,” Adora teased, tugging her friend’s hair before hopping off the bunk.

Despite what Adora had said, Catra didn’t trust her.

How could she? It was painfully obvious that when inspections rolled around, they’d find out about her fleas. Even if they were dead, she’d probably be quarantined; the whole dormitory would be quarantined. The entire day, Catra felt like every look she got meant that someone knew. She could only imagine how much worse it would be once they knew.

Adora remained eerily calm about the whole ordeal. She kept insisting that she had a plan, but Catra didn’t dare put faith in it. Nearly every plan they ever came up with ended up in some kind of disaster, why shouldn’t this one be the same? At two thirty, their morning lessons had concluded and they were dismissed to receive their lunch rations. Adora winked at Catra before disappearing, leaving her to fend for herself.

Though her stomach was in knots, she went to the mess hall anyway. If only for Adora’s sake, knowing that she would be upset if she didn’t eat. Just her luck, today’s lunch rations were her least favorite. It was as if the world was working against her, that day.

On her way back to the dormitory, she tried to think of what Adora’s plan could be. A fire drill? No, they’d tried that once to get out of a test, and both of them had been made to run around the base for an hour. Adora wasn’t dumb enough to try that one again. Maybe she’d pinned it on Kyle? Catra glanced at Kyle, who was in a good mood for a change. His eyes lit up as he went on and on about something to Rogelio. Probably something stupid, like a book, or a beetle he’d found during one of their survival lessons. Yeah, Catra could see Adora pinning it on Kyle. Everyone would believe that.

Still, she was worried. The closer it got to three, the sicker she felt. All the cadets stood in position by their bunks, waiting for inspection to begin. Catra had to force herself to do the same, despite wanting to find a quiet corner and curl up to hide.

At three on the dot, two officers came in the dormitory and began their inspection, clipboards in hand. Catra held her breath, standing straight and looking ahead the entire time, praying that for once, something would go right in her life. As Marcus and Octavia reached her bunk, she thought she was going to be sick.

“Something wrong, Cadet?” Octavia simpered.

Catra swallowed. “No.”

“Let’s see what treasures we can find in Catra’s bunk this time,” Marcus said boredly, starting to poke around her things. Catra bristled, but did her best to keep her face neutral. “Hiding any rats again?”

“No.”

Octavia scoffed, but didn’t press as she began looting through Adora’s bunk. After a few minutes both she and Marcus noted something down on their clipboard before moving on to the next bunk. Catra’s heart thumped loudly against her small chest, wondering what they’d marked. More than anything, she was confused. Where was Adora? She should have been here.

When they finished the last bunk, Marcus and Octavia exchanged a few hushed words before Octavia cleared her throat. “Stand down. Inspection passed, Cadets. Nice work.”

“Everyone?” Kyle asked, looking as relieved as Catra felt.

“Your hospital corners need more work,” Marcus said gruffly. “But yes, everyone. At ease, Cadets.” With that said, the two left the room.

Catra sank to Adora’s bed, covering her face and trying to quell the blood pumping in her ears. She was full of adrenaline now, wanting to punch something. But with training not for another thirty minutes, she was left with nothing to do but think. Whatever Adora had done, it worked.

“Hey, Catra.”

Catra’s ears immediately perked as she heard Adora’s voice. She sat up, ready to pounce on her friend and grill her on what had happened. But when she took in her appearance, she paused, jaw dropping.

Adora’s blonde ponytail was gone.

She grinned, watching Catra’s reaction. “That bad, huh?”

“What did you do? I don’t get it, your hair…”

Adora shrugged, sitting by Catra on the bed. “I took the blame for the bugs. Told them I snuck out this morning and went dumpster diving,” she said with a wicked grin, rubbing her head for a moment.

“And they bought it?” Catra asked, her tail swishing in curiousity as she took in her friend’s new appearance. It didn’t look bad on her, really. Her ears stuck out a bit, but it was cute.

“Hook line, and sinker. I have toilet duty for the next two weeks, but whatever.” She shrugged before laughing a bit. “At least then I know they’ll be clean.”

Catra nudged her ribs, rolling her eyes. “Hey, that was one time!”

“Whatever you say, Catra.”

She couldn’t stop staring at Adora’s hair. Part of her wanted to reach out and touch it, but she hesitated. “Hey, Adora?”

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t have to take the blame for me.”

“Yes, I did. I decided that I really didn’t want the image of you without fur seared into my brain. And my hair will grow back, so…” Adora trailed off.

Catra smiled. “Yeah, wouldn’t have been a pretty picture, that’s for sure.”

“Besides…” Adora mused, getting off her bed and holding out her hand to Catra. “This will make me much faster in combat training today. I’ll beat you with my eyes closed.”

Catra took her hand but yanked her down to the bed, cackling as she got up on her own. “Fat chance. I’d like to see you try.”

[modern-victoria]

As swift as this is love

Chapter eleven of my Quakerider fantasy au.

read it on ao3.

 Their horses trotted next to each other, the sounds of their hooves hitting the ground matching. Daisy was admiring the scenery around her, although it was autumn and the leaves were turning a reddish-brown, the forest was still vibrant in colors. The ground matched the yellowish colours of the foliage above her, contrasting starkly with the blue of the sky. Next to her, Robbie was staring absentmindedly in front of him. She sometimes forgot that he too, had to marry a stranger. He didn’t even have the comfort of his own home like she had. She couldn’t imagine being thrown into an unknown environment surrounded by strangers and being forced to like them. She obviously got the better end of the deal.

 “I’m sorry for how I reacted last time.” She said quietly. He turned to look at her, but stayed silent.

 “I didn’t have to let all my anger out on you. I- I just didn’t-” She huffed in annoyment. Daisy couldn’t find the right words to let him know what went through her head that evening.

 His eyes softened, and he brushed her knee with his gloved hand, telling her he understood. She nodded and looked back in front of her, the road centered between her horse’s ears.

 A little while later they arrived at a small clearing. The King’s guards arrived as first ones in the open space, but Captain Mace soon motioned everyone to stop with a quick movement of his right hand. He dismounted his horse and moved further into the clearing, followed by two other guards. At the commotion, King Phillip got off his horse too and went to see what had startled his guards.

 “Oh my, what happened?” he breathed out.

 Daisy heard the sadness breaking her father’s voice, and jumped off her horse, striding over to her father.

 “What is it, father?” She asked, but as she turned to look at what her father was staring at, she stumbled backwards in shock.

 “No,” Captain Mace shouted, “Your Highness shouldn’t see this!” He took Daisy by her shoulders and pushed her away, but Daisy shook him off as Robbie moved towards her.

 “Who did this?” She asked, but she knew the answer.

 “Hydra.” Robbie confirmed her suspicions.

 “This is wrong,” She said, as she took in the bloody carnage that laid in front of them.

 “Your majesty,” Captain Mace began to the king, “It isn’t safe for you here, we need to get you back to the safety of the palace.”

 Daisy’s eyes roved over the mass of limp bodies rotting in front of her. Their faces were unrecognisable due to grime and blood smudged onto them, their clothing were charred and bloody too. Some of them missed a limb, others a head. Daisy’s stomach already churned at the sight, but then she got a whiff of the smell and she ran towards the treeline, emptying her stomach of all its content. Robbie stood at her side in seconds, holding her hair out of her face. When she was done, he pulled her away of the clearing. Daisy’s eyes flitted across his face, and she swore that for a few seconds, she saw his eyes glowing red, but she blamed her shock.

 She mounted her horse, and everyone followed.

 “When we’re back at the palace, send some men to give those people a proper burial,” the King ordered one of his guards. He stared sadly at the pile of bodies before urging Lola to a trot.  

 Daisy pushed her heels in her horse’s flanks, but she found the movement took too much effort for her sudden tired body. A shiver tore through her body noticeably, but Daisy didn’t say anything. She kept staring straight ahead and it wasn’t until she felt something being slipped onto her shoulders that she moved her head and saw Robbie trying to put his long leather jacket around her. She looked at him and he urged her to pull the jacket around her, so she did. His black jacket smelled of leather, sweat and, well, Robbie, and Daisy exhaled all the air left in her lungs before breathing in the jacket’s smell as if to purge her body of the horrid stench of death.

 The ride back felt much longer. A heaviness had settled onto the group who stayed silent the whole way back to the palace, except for Duke Eli and her father, who were silently conversing, but the words didn’t reach Daisy’s ears. She only heard a muted buzzing. She didn’t notice the sun filtering through the canopy anymore, nor did she see the small birds chirping as if there hadn’t been a tragedy in these woods.

 When they arrived in the courtyard, King Phillip dismounted his horse with such swiftness and grace, he appeared twenty years younger, but the hard lines on his face proved the contrary. He handed the reins over to Mack, who had ran out of the stables at the sudden commotion in the courtyard. Daisy was watching her father absentmindedly, until she saw the vast determination that had settled on his face. She jumped from her horse, led it to Mack and set off after her father. Captain Mace was a few steps in front of her, but they both had difficulties with keeping up with the long strides of her father, the king. She noted two pairs of footsteps following her and whipped her head backwards to see Duke Eli and Robbie behind her. Duke Eli seemed annoyed, not at all fazed by the scene they had just witnessed. Robbie wore a grim expression, but after locking eyes with her, he sped up his pace to step next to Daisy. King Phillip was navigating the corridors of his palace with ease and determination, and after a moment Daisy knew where her father was going. She felt hope surge inside her again.

 King Phillip opened the heavy wooden door of the military chamber abruptly and stumbled upon the war engineer speaking with Gabe. Daisy and Robbie stepped into the chamber, which held a massive marble table in the center on which a map of Kingdom of Zephyr and its’ neighbouring kingdoms had been drawn centuries ago. Both Gabe and the engineer looked startled at the people who had just entered the room, before bowing to the king and his daughter. Robbie walked over to his brother and traced the new chair he was seated in. Instead of small wheels underneath a wooden chair, the seat was bigger and had a pair of large wheels in the back and a pair of small ones in the front. The wheels were still wooden, but now there was a thin sheet of spiked metal plated on the outside of the wheels to keep the wood from wearing out. A metal handle had been fixed onto the back of the seat to facilitate pushing it around.

 “Fitz made me a new wheelchair.”

 “I can see that.” Robbie said as he turned to the engineer, called Fitz apparently. “Thank you.”

 “Well, it’s no problem really,” He said with an accent, “Anything for a friend of a friend.” He looked at Daisy and grinned. She replied with a smile and Robbie felt a surge of jealousy rise up, but he quickly pushed it down and told himself he didn’t care. Gabe was eyeing his brother suspiciously, demanding Robbie’s attention. When they were looking at each other, Gabe’s eyes snapped to Daisy and then back to Robbie, raising an eyebrow questioningly. Robbie didn’t understand what he meant at first, but then he saw Daisy was still wearing his jacket, her arms now slid into the arms of his jacket. The jacket hung loosely on her shoulders and her hands weren’t visible, it was much too big for her. Robbie found it endearing and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards. Gabe smirked at his brother and Robbie glared at him in return, daring him to say anything.

 The king, unaware of what had just transpired between the two brothers, started: “Daisy, maybe it’s best if you and Gabe leave. War isn’t meant for you.”

 “I’m staying.” Daisy clenched her jaw and stood defiantly.

 “Fine,” the king sighed, “Fitz, show me where the last known Hydra camps are.”

 Fitz hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should speak when the princess was still there, but after looking at the king’s impatient expression, he launched himself at the war table and started pointing at certain locations.

 “Last known location of a Hydra camp was south of the Afterlife mountains,” he said as he circled the area on the map with his hands.

 “If we know where they are, why not attack?” Daisy inquired.

 “It’s not that easy.” Fitz shook his head, his curls bouncing with the motion. “If we know where they are, we can keep an eye on them until we have enough men to attack them at once. If we would attack their camp now, they would just flee into the Afterlife mountains and we would lose them.”

 Daisy stayed silent, nodding slightly.

 “Any other locations?” The King stepped closer to the table.

 “There has been a raid in a village west of Darkhold Castle.” He turned to Duke Eli and he defended himself immediately.

 “My men were on that, but they lost them in the woods. A lot of my men lost their lives.” He leaned onto the table, his eyebrows knitted together in anger.

 “A lot of good men lost their lives to save the kingdom,” the king said, thinking Eli’s anger was for the people he’d lost, and placed a hand on his shoulder. Duke Eli watched the hand on his shoulder and clenched his jaw, nodding his head curtly in thanks.

 “There’s another camp east of Lake Maveth, but it’s hidden inside the canyons surrounding the lake. We don’t know the exact location, but we think it's their main base. No scout has gone to their camp and returned alive.”

 “Nor dead,” Fitz added as an afterthought.

 “They were sending us a message. They slaughtered those people to send us a message.” King Phillip said angrily. “We need to stop them!”

 “Surely you don’t want to do anything too brusquely.” Duke Eli tried to persuade the king. “What about the ball we’re hosting in a month?”

 “How can we hold a ball when our people are suffering?” The king muttered, turning to look at his daughter. Daisy huffed in relief, smiling despite herself.

 “To show them we’re not afraid!” Duke Eli shouted. “We made an arrangement, your majesty.”

 “We’ll show them we’re not afraid by stopping them.”

 “The people need to see the prince,” He said, “and the princess, off course.”

 “Duke Eli, I-”

 “No father,” Daisy stepped in, resting a hand on her father’s arm, “We’ll still be hosting a ball. No plans have changed.”

 “They won’t expect us,” Robbie added and moved next to Daisy, his arm brushing hers.

 “Fine,” Eli grumbled as he left the room, ‘I’ll tell my men.”

 “But how do we stop Hydra?” Gabe asked when his uncle was completely gone.

 “We could draw them out?” Robbie offered.

 “But how?” The King asked.

 “If they sent us a message, they’ll clearly want to do it again,” Daisy said.

 “I don’t follow.” Fitz shook his head.

 “A convoy with someone special in it, maybe?”

 “It’s too risky to send the king, and it wouldn’t make sense for him to leave the palace,” Fitz rebutted.

 “What about a princess visiting her husband’s home?”

 “Daisy, no!”

 “No way!”

 Her father and Robbie simultaneously shot down her proposition. Daisy glared at them both.

 “I can handle myself,” she said as he crossed her arms. Her father shook his head to reprimand her, but Robbie spoke first.

 “I don’t doubt you can, but I- we- the people can’t lose you.”

 “If I may,” Fitz began, “You may be onto something, your highness.”

 “We won’t send her as bait!”

 “She doesn’t really need to be inside. Hydra only needs to think so. Her reason to leave the palace is pretty valid.”

 “What if there are spies?”

 Everyone turned to Gabe.

 “Spies?” The king repeated.

 “Yes, your majesty, everyone has some, right?”

 “They’ll know she’s not inside,” Robbie said.

 “Not if everyone sees the princess entering a carriage. Doesn’t mean it has to be her highness.”

 “You want to send someone else in my place?”

 “She’d be protected, off course.”

 “But you said so yourself, it would be too dangerous and you want to send a poor girl in my place?”

 “It’s too dangerous for a princess, when they see she’s but a commoner, they’ll leave her alone.” Her father tried to sooth her.

 “Like they left the people in the woods alone?” She snapped back.

 “Daisy, she’ll be protected by an armed convoy.”

 Daisy knew her father wouldn’t change his mind on this matter, so she didn’t continue the subject. Instead she left the room, they would always see her as a princess, not the warrior she knew she was. Robbie followed her out, his gloved hand clutching her leather-clad arm.

 “I’ll be there, and I’ll protect her, Daisy.”

 She searched his eyes, a small part of her looking for the fire she saw earlier, but instead she only saw deep brown eyes filled with tenderness. She slipped out of his jacket and placed it in his hands. She left after brushing his arm with her hand.

 “I know you will,” she whispered to the air.

Chapter ten - Chapter twelve

[jungshookiee]

Baseball!Jungkook AU (Ch. 3)

Chapter 3 (3/3)

Genre: Angst, fluff, Badboy!jungkook

Warnings: maybe a curse word or two

When your dad got hired to coach the nation’s top high school baseball team,  moving to the upper east side of Seoul wasn’t as easy as you thought it would be. Getting used to your new high school and your new position as the team’s manager was the easy part - getting used to the team’s quiet, badboy pitcher was a different story.

ch.1 ch.2

That night, Jungkook caught you in the dugout. The team was mostly gone, and since you and your father lived a couple streets down from the school, your father went home first, complaining of a minor headache. You said you'd wrap up practice, and with the full moon climbing higher and higher, the team was more than eager to hit the showers and, more importantly, their beds.

"Wait," came a voice, followed by a hand wrapping around your wrist. You turned from stuffing your backpack with notes and papers to find Jungkook unnervingly close. He didn't wear that lazy smirk to purposefully piss you off, but his eyebrows were furrowed in thought, as if he didn't want to be here anymore than you did.

You sighed and put your things down. "Look, if you want an apology -"

"I don't," he insisted. His fingers were warm against your skin and his hair was even blacker in the night. You could see his eyes in the moonlight, but they were reserved and cautious. "I - I want you to help me pitch better."

You couldn't help the subtle way your eyebrow rose in surprise, or the way you cocked a hand to your hip. "Really now."

He let go of your wrist and rolled his eyes. "You're trying to make this as difficult as possible aren't you."

"You're the one who's making it difficult, Jungkook. I'll help you, but just know I've always been here for your improvement. You could have come to me a lot sooner."

"Yeah, yeah," he huffed, waving it off. "Pick up a glove. The school is going to be locking the field up soon. I know where we can practice."

At the sudden request to adventure, your heart fluttered. A midnight outing with Jungkook, the mysterious, handsome heartthrob of the school himself? You nearly gagged at how ridiculously school-girlie you sounded. He was a lot more than handsome and heartthrobby. He was a real pain in your ass, hard to coach, but even harder to get over.

Knowing your father was probably fast asleep already, you threw your bag over your shoulder, and you two were the last ones out of the field, the groundskeeper waiting at the gate.

"What?" Jungkook asked once you two arrived at the parking lot. There were no other cars except a black, beat up Sentra with the passengers side window missing. The thing looked like it would fall apart at any moment. You wanted to think Kook was joking, but he was already fishing for his keys in his pocket.

"There's no way I'm getting into that death contraption."

"Oh come on! That wounds me, the drives not that far to the park."

"Why don't we just practice here? My house is just a few streets down anyway, I can just walk home."

Jungkook looked around the empty parking lot hesitantly. "What if you fall? The pavement's rough; you could scratch your knees up."

You glanced down at your school uniform; you still wore your mini skirt, your white button shirt with the sleeves rolled up. You'd never had a chance to change. You laughed. "I'm not some fragile glass doll, Jungkook. Toss me a ball."

Surprisingly, he turned out to be a good listener, given he only needed to tweak and refine a couple of things. You taught him how to hold the ball to avoid stressing where his hand had had an injury and you nearly rolled your eyes at his surprise when he instantly started throwing better. His stance improved too, and you couldn't help staring as his body moved in perfect rhythm with his pitches. He was lovely to watch, like spotting a black panther in the woods, completely captivating your attention.

Which, of course, made you miss one of his balls and it went soaring right past your head.

"Watch it!" He yelled, coming to jog toward you. "You almost got decapitated."

"Sorry," you said immediately, turning to fish for another ball in your bag. "Hey, but look at you improving. I almost have no complaints now."

Jungkook went to take the ball from your hand, but paused, his fingers brushing yours. "I'm not good with apologies," he began, unable to meet your gaze. "But...I'm sorry. For making you cry in History class a few days ago."

"I didn't cry," you lied, cheeks coloring at the embarrassment. Where was the Jungkook who was abrasive and silent most days, aggressive and brooding the rest? Where was the boy who stepped on your toes, the boy who you always wanted to have an argument with? You realized you were witnessing the rare soft side to Jungkook, the one that wasn't all that scary.

He gave you a "yeah, sure" glance before continuing. "Look, I try to apologize and you reject me. Seems fair, what you did out on the field today seemed like enough payback."

"Maybe your next lessons should be learning how to shut that mouth of yours."

He cracked a smile then - a truly beautiful, amused smile and your heart hammered in response. "You're tougher than you look, Y/N. I...like that."

You grinned back, you couldn't just stand there and not get so overwhelmed by his amiable mood to not smile, that was just impossible. He took the ball from your hands and backed up to play more ball. You had to take in a decent whiff of fresh air after such close proximity; he smelled great and you tried not to let that get to you.

"I've never thrown a ball like this, but it feels so much better," he called from the other side. "My curves are improving right?"

Your thoughts went straight to his peach; his curves certainly were improving, and you could see them even better in those low-riding sweats - hey, but that was to be thought about at another time, not when you were playing catch with the boy!

"How'd you break your fingers in the first place?" You asked, begging for some distraction, but you didn't realize what you'd just asked until his expression turned darker, more complex. "I'm sorry," you squeaked, mentally kicking yourself. And here he was, finally opening up to you yet you had ruin it.

He caught your ball, playing with it in his glove. "It's okay, I have a temper, you know. It's kind of annoying how I blow up sometimes. But you should know, it's the least I could do for yelling at you like that."

"Jungkook," you said exasperatedly, detecting his stalling tactic.

"My mom used to get just as mad as me when I was a kid. I broke something, she broke my hand." At the horror written all over your face, he quickly continued. "It's okay, though. She ran off soon after that. I live with my dad now and everything's fine. I guess I inherited her bad attitude."

"I'm sorry," you found yourself saying anyway, despite his reassurance. "I'm so sorry, Jungkook."

He caught your ball then, but didn't throw it back, forehead creased in deep thought. "Like I said, it's okay. I think we should head home, it's already so late."

You caught his arm as he was heading back to his car. "Wait, tell me one thing then. Why do you hate me so much?"

He started at the harsh word, but by the look in his eyes, you knew he acknowledged the way he treated you. "It wasn't hate..." he started, but seemed unable to finish. He tossed his glove and ball into the back seat, working up the courage to finally meet you gaze. "I feel the opposite."

Suddenly, he was there, hovering over you, sandwiching your hips to the car with his own. His hands found the dip of your waist, right where your skirt's waistband began. His lips found yours as if they were meant to connect like two magnets. Your world was suddenly consumed with Jungkook's heat. He was everywhere, all at once, leaving trails of fire wherever he touched. His lips were heated, passionate, his hands gentle yet they burned.

You were out of breath in just a few moments. "Wait," you huffed, pulling away. His hands were dragging up your thighs, lifting the hem of your skirt as he went. You swatted his hands away. "Jungkook."

He was just as breathless as you, and that made you feel better; you weren't the only one who felt it. His hands found your face instead, brushing your hair off your shoulders in wonder. He kissed you again, eyes clouded in a daze, and you let him the first time, the second time, losing count of how many times he left first kisses on your lips.

"I guess I'm not that great at telling people how I feel if I made you think I hated you," he breathed against your ear.

"No, but you're certainly good at showing it," you laughed, circling your arms around his muscular waist.

"Can I walk you home?" he whispered, leaving small, affectionate kisses against your temple as if he couldn't stop.

"We'll never get there if you don't let go," you warned, but he wasn't ready, not yet at least. You didn't mind; you didn't think Jungkook had many opportunities to express his feelings like this. You decided that's what you wanted, you wanted to be his catalyst, his reason for kindness and love.

You wanted to see this side of his everyday, on and off the field.

[abutterflyscribbles]

I don’t even know how these characters are, they just showed up on my doorstep today and we’re still getting acquainted.

“What are you?”

It was winter and the ground was frozen. Snow had not yet fallen but frost lay lightly over the naked branches of the trees and shrubs. The whole garden had been stripped of its flesh reduced to a skeleton of brittle brown bones. The pathways of patterned brick wound their way through the squares of dead lawn, and short walls of stone indicated where flowers bloomed in the warm seasons.

The day was dry, the sharp air cutting at Franklin's lips until he could taste the few drops of blood welling up from cracks. There was the smell of inhospitable cold in the air. Chilly, almost metallic. The bare garden and the cold had joined forces to drive away animals and humans both so that the wind could whistle around the space, chasing leaves back and forth in front of the hollow shell of the abandoned house.

Franklin defiantly stayed, cracking the frost under his boots as he walked around the garden with his hands in his pockets and the hood of his jacket pulled over his ears. The place really was empty. In this sort of area Franklin would have figured there would be a few homeless people squatting in the flimsy remains of the house. Instead it seemed to be one of the few places left in the area that was truly empty.

Excepting Franklin.

It was just so noisy. The house was full of loud voices, the streets full of cars, the parks full of joggers, dogs, bands . . . everywhere was full and Franklin couldn't breathe. He put on his headphones and blasted music to block out everything else, pulled his hood up so that his vision narrowed to what was directly in front of him. He drew himself further and further into the safety of the little bubble he inhabited in the middle of a frantically rushing world.

In this garden he could take off his headphones and listen to silence. He couldn't even hear cars from here. Nothing but the wind.

And footsteps.

If it hadn't been so quiet Franklin would have never heard the footsteps. They were light, the muted sound of bare feet on the brick path.

Franklin could smell . . . flowers.

Not a perfume, no, this smelled like spring flowers opening under the sun. It was a scent he had caught whiffs of, from his mother's window box, and from the park. Even at the park the flowers were overwhelmed by the smell of plastic play places getting hot in the sun, smoke from barbecues. This smell was the smell of an entire garden full of flowers, fresh and clean.

When he turned toward the sound of the footsteps he thought he was looking at a bush that had miraculously bloomed when he wasn't looking. Purple roses, dark and velvety. Living color in a dead world.

Franklin blinked and realized the rosebush was looking at him.

Glaring at him.

Because it was a woman and not a bush at all. A skirt of roses brushed down to her knees, a collar of them around her neck, and tattoos of roses painted from the knuckles of her hands and up her arms, disappearing under the collar. Her knuckles were turning white, slender hands balled into fists. The undisguised scowl belied the delicate lines of her face, cracking it with dark frown lines, her head tipped down to cast a shadow over her eyes.

“What . . .” Franklin's eyes scanned up and down the woman's arms, trying to see where the tattoos ended and the dress began, “Who--?”

“You shouldn't be here,” The woman said, petals rustling softly when she took another step toward Franklin. She was at least five inches taller than him, and he was almost six feet. Beautiful, soft flowers aside, the woman was somewhat terrifying.

“Nobody lives here,” Franklin shrugged, “Nobody cares if I'm here.”

“I live here. I care.”

“You live . . . here?” Franklin looked at the house, shattered windows boarded over, front door sagging in its frame, “You've got to be kidding me.”

“If I were joking,” the woman walked around him, her footsteps light, but her shoulders rounded forward like a prowling animal circling its prey, “you would be certain that I was. Now get out.”

Franklin twisted and turned to keep up with her circling, still not managing to get a good look at her tattoos. If this encountered ended with any degree of friendliness he had to ask her who did her ink. The spinning and strong smell of flowers was making him dizzy.

“Go back!”

The woman pointed a finger at the broken gate Franklin had entered by. The silence of the garden ripped open like the torn bars of the gate, letting the sound of nearby traffic rush through like a wave slamming into the beach. It slammed into Franklin, knocking him off his feet, making him so dizzy he dropped to his knees, hands clapped over his ears. All the noise of the city was pouring through the gates and screaming at Franklin.

Too much, too much. He was choking on the perfume of roses, gagging on it. The noise scattered his thoughts and he could not collect them again. All he could do was crouch on the ground, rocking back and forth, trying to make the world go away.

Go away, go away, leave him in the silent garden, just leave him in the quiet . . .

The rumble of cars died away. Stillness settled over everything, light as flower petals.

Franklin cautiously pulled his hands away from his ears. It was quiet.

“I suppose I'm not the only one who needs peace,” the woman said, her tone less harsh now. She sat on the cold ground, her skirt of roses resting on the ground in a careless tumble, “I'll let you be for today. And if you can find your way here again then you're welcome to visit.”

Still getting his breath under control, Franklin stared at the woman's shoulders. The flowers . . . the flowers were blossoming from her skin. The tattoos that ran up her arms pulled their petals free on her shoulders and bloomed into her collar. Or . . . was she simply made of flowers, shaped like a person? He was still so dizzy he couldn't be sure.

“What are you?”

“A recluse,” the woman laughed, pushing a mess of straight brown hair back from her forehead, “a winter boarder. A lost soul.”

“I . . . I'm Franklin. What's--?”

“Don't give names so freely,” the woman stood up, showing that her legs were patterned with roses too, “if you want to call me something you'll have to pick it. That is, assuming we actually meet again.”

Franklin was still too scattered to think. He stood up and followed the woman up to the house, brushing dirt off his pants. Her feet were caked with dirt and she left dark footprints on the rotting porch.

“Is it always so quiet here?”

“If I want it to be.”

“Um,” Franklin couldn't even begin to think how that worked, unless she paid off the neighbors not to play loud music, “so it's okay if I come back?”

“If you can find you way back, like I said.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“Don't thank me,” the woman said, grasping the handle of the door, “it puts you in my debt. If you come again remember not to use your name so freely, or to express gratitude so easily.”

“Yeah, okay,” Franklin shrugged.

“Good day,” the woman pulled the door open. It swung open smoothly, the handle sparkling and the door shiny new. Franklin caught a glimpse inside the house of an entryway carpeted with dark green, and light fixtures that looked like blooming flowers.

“And if you do pick a name,” the woman said over her shoulder, “do not pick 'Rose' or I will make sure you never find your way back here.”

The door shut behind her.

The door was sagging in its frame, splintered and stained. The wind was whistling through the boarded up windows. When Franklin peered through a crack he could see nothing but piles of broken wood and drywall.

The only thing left from the encounter was the faint smell of roses.

Franklin walked the garden until night fell but saw nothing else.

[embracetheapocalypsewithme]

Embracing the Apocalypse, Part 19: Donkey Heaven

Things keep getting angst-y, but I promise that there will be some light (and smut again eventually) in this. Hold on to your hats!

Summary: Negan comes to terms with what happened to Rebecca and Chris puts in an appearance. Is he there to help or to harm? Will Rebecca ever wake up?

Word Count: 2,474

Content Warnings (or selling points?): Smut, Negan, Negan being Negan, language, violence, drama, angst, and hospitals.

Part 1: The Tale of Thelma Facefuck

Part 2: What’s Up, Doc?

Part 3: A Successful Job Interview Begins with a Firm Handshake and Ends with a Salty Surprise

Part 4: A Crack in Everything

Part 5: Sorting Duty Sucks

Part 6: A Faint Whiff of Bullshit in the Air

Part 7: Turn and Face the Strange

Part 8: Poor Life Choices

Part 9: In Which Negan is a Total Jerk

Part 10: No Plan

Part 11: Negan Settles Rebecca’s Hash

Part 12: I know Where That Hand Has Been, Negan

Part 13: Gimme Danger

Part 14: The Loneliest Hours of the Morning

Part 15: Well, Fuck You Too, Kitty!

Part 16: That Escalated Quickly

Part 17: Well Fuck Me Gently with a Chainsaw

Part 18: Shards of Glass

Part 19: Donkey Heaven

Part 20: Morphine Dream

Tag List Roll Call: @negans-network @lucifers-trash-stash @unicorn-blood-splatter @opheliadawnwalker3 @thedeadwalks @ali-pennell @negans-dirty-girl @dusty-cookie @grab-my-boner @miiraal @warriorqueen @sweetsweetpeach

(psst! let me know if the tags work...sometimes they decide not to)

Read on A03 here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/8807527/chapters/22280600

Part 19: Donkey Heaven

Negan sat at Rebecca’s side throughout the very long night, listening to her breathe softly and watching her face for any indication of change. Krouse poked his head in periodically to check her status, and tried to make small talk, but was staunchly ignored as N stared straight ahead at the young woman lying in front of him, his eyes never wandering.

This scenario was not new to him. He knew what it meant to sit with someone who was on the precipice of death, wondering if they would ever open their eyes again. Knowing that you may never again see the clarity and humanity in those eyes even if they did open was the most terrifying part; that, and the fact that the next time they moved it could be to take a bite out of you as one of the dead’s army. He knew all of this very well, and yet it didn’t make it any easier to bear. If anything, the repetition of these events in his life only made his heart ache more.

“Please open your eyes,” he whispered to her in a wavering voice he hadn’t heard escape his lips for many years. It was the sound of heat radiating from hot pavement in the summer at mid-day. The last time he had heard it had been under circumstances very similar to these, though not exactly the same. On that occasion he had known on some level that it was all over for the woman he sat beside in a hospital room, waiting for the end. This time, there was some hope. Rebecca wasn’t doomed. Not yet anyway.

“So. You love her,” the voice that came from behind him did not sound accusing; only matter-of-fact. 

Whirling around, and cursing himself for not noticing that someone had entered the room in the first place, Negan let out a string of swear words as he stood face to face with Chris.

“Fucking fuck! Don’t do that, man,” he cried at the sombre man standing a few feet behind him.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just wanted to check on Rebecca too,” Chris’ face showed no emotion, as always, “I overhead what Krouse told you in your office and I was concerned, but I wanted to give you some time alone with her before I came.”

“She’s lucky to have someone who cares about her like you do, even if you’re a stoic fuck.”

“I’d say she’s lucky to have someone who clearly loves her the way that you do. Even if you don’t admit it.”

“Yeah. Well. Lot of good it did her,” Negan mumbled, turning over his shoulder to look at her.

“How is she?”

“We don’t know. Krouse can’t tell anything until she wakes up. If she wakes up.”

“Fuck,” the sudden anger in Chris’ voice caused Negan’s eyes to snap up to meet him.

“Yeah. Fuck in-fucking-deed,” his shoulders deflated and his eyes fell back to the unconscious woman laying before them, “I don’t even know what to do. I just feel-“

“Powerless? Enraged?”

“Guilty,” he admitted, his voice just a whisper in the darkened room.

“How do you figure you’re guilty for what happened to her?” Chris challenged.

“I had so many chances to say I was sorry, but my fucking ego got in the way. We were both being assholes, honestly, and one of us would have to break eventually and apologize, but we were both too stubborn. So we didn’t talk, and then this happened.”

“What were you fighting about?”

“It doesn’t even matter. It was stupid. So fucking stupid,” his head swayed from side to side, and his gaze dropped to the floor, “If we had been together maybe I could have stopped it, or maybe it would have been me instead. It should have been me.”

“Maybe it would have been both of you. Maybe they would have killed you both. You can’t live your life thinking about what might have been. You can only learn from it and move on, you know?” Chris placed a hand on Negan’s shoulder before letting it drop back down to his side, “When my grandmother was dying, her last few days were spent in a coma. The doctors said that even though she couldn’t communicate, she could hear us talking to her. I don’t know if that’s true, or if it’s something they say to help people cope with watching their family members die, but maybe you should talk to her. Tell her what you wanted to say, if you hadn’t been a stubborn asshole, as you put it. Maybe she’ll hear you.”

Negan lifted his eyes to Chris, feeling the salty warmth of tears bubbling behind them. Blinking them back into submission, he nodded wordlessly before taking his seat next to the bed.

“I’ll leave you alone. I’m sorry this is happening to you. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

Negan nodded, his eyes still trained on Rebecca, “I will.”

Heavy boots thudded against the floor as Chris made his way to the door, growing further and further away. As the door closed behind him with a click, all sound faded from the world until it seemed to Negan that nothing existed except him and Rebecca. The only sounds were the light breath escaping her partially opened mouth and his heart thudding in his ears as he tried to pull himself together.

“I know I fucked this up, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pressed you for information you weren’t ready to give up. I should have let you do things in your own time,” he sighed, “I just wanted to be closer to you, and it really sucked when you kept your guard up. I didn’t mean what I said. You’re a lot more than just someone to stick my dick in. I hope you know that, and that you can hear me now.”

Rebecca lay nearly motionless in the bed. For a moment, Negan thought that he may have seen her brow furrow, but decided that it was just wishful thinking. He slumped forward, placing his forehead against her chest. Warm tears began to sting his eyes, which were squeezed shut against the sudden deluge of emotions.

He hadn’t cried in years, but something about the destruction of this young woman’s potential and her hope for a better future broke through his barrier. It was as if he was back to square one; back to the hours and days following the death of his wife, as he wandered through ruined cities and towns, learning how to adapt to his new circumstances.

Over the intervening years, he had hardened himself against caring for anyone on an individual level. Sure, he could care for his group as a collective, but to care for any one person above all others was to invite heartbreak; and that he could not bear. He had to adapt in this way to keep himself sane in an increasingly insane world. It was why he had formed his harem of wives, rather than only taking one. It was one of the reasons why he had formed a team of Saviours, instead of having a singular right-hand man.

Somehow Rebecca had disarmed him with her way of walking through life with grace and optimism. He found that he did care for her very much, even if he hadn’t been consciously aware of it. This realization, coupled with the possibility of losing her, caused a sob to leave his throat as the tears held at bay by his eyelids finally flowed hot and fast, wetting the sheets covering Rebecca’s bed. Although he tried to regain his composure, it was clear that he was past the point of no return as he continued to sob on top of her.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” were the only words that he could form through his tears. His pulse thudded loudly in his ears, as his hands balled into fists.

He felt Rebecca’s body spasm without warning, her chest hitching violently against him, pushing his head up and down. Jerking his face up, tears still slowly tailing from him, his eyes widened as he saw her vibrating on top of the bed. For a moment he thought that she was having some kind of seizure, and leapt to his feet, kicking the stool over in the process. Breath held tightly in his lungs, he looked on, preparing himself for the worst.

Only, instead of finding her face contorted into a mask of pain in her final moments, her expression was one of amusement. Her green eyes were now wide open and trained on him; they sparkled with tears. Soft laughter erupted from her.

“Holy shit!” she exclaimed weakly, “You sound just like a braying donkey when you cry. It’s uncanny. I was laying there thinking, ‘Who the fuck let a donkey in here? Did I die and mistakenly get sent to donkey heaven?’ Cause I could work with that, I guess, but it’d smell pretty bad.”

“What the fuck!” he cried, “Are you actually fucking ok?”

“Yeah? I mean, my head feels like someone kicked me repeatedly with work boots on because, oh hey, they totally did! But I think my brain’s ok. I dunno. Maybe get a real doctor to see me and make sure I’m not bleeding on my insides?”

“Fuck. Yes! Sorry. I’ll be right back!” he said stumbling for the door to call in Krouse, who was taking a nap against the wall outside. The sleeping man’s eyes sprang open as she scrambled to his feet before following Negan inside the infirmary.

“Well, this is pretty good!” he said studying Rebecca, “I honestly didn’t know if you were going to wake up for a while there.”

“Yeah, I’m guessing that was the intent behind those assholes beating me until I stopped moving,” she said with a cynical edge taking over her voice before asking, “Am I going to be ok?”

“The fact that you’re conscious is a really good sign, but since we have no way to see inside of your body, really only time can tell. If you’re bleeding internally, it’ll become apparent eventually. It seems pretty clear that you’ve got at least a few broken ribs, and maybe some fractures in your face.”

“I have to say, I really don’t fucking like this ‘time will tell’ shit you’re laying on us, Doc,” Negan interjected, crossing his arms across his chest.

“I know, and I apologize. If we had better facilities, or more than a few hours of power a week, I could do more to check. But as it is, the best we can do is to wait and monitor her. Like I said though, the fact that she’s awake and talking is a really good sign,” he had moved on to checking her pupils, which appeared to be responding normally to the light he shone into them.

“Ok, fine. I get that. How long do we have to monitor her until we know?”

“It’s hard to say, but probably at least another day or two. I’d be willing to give her a thumb’s up at that point if she doesn’t seem to be deteriorating. Then she can go back to her own room and heal.”

Negan scoffed at Krouse’s words, “Like fucking hell she’s going back to her own room! Fuck that, she’s moving in with me if she makes it out of here,” he said sternly, causing Rebecca’s eyes to widen.

“Uh, wait a fucking minute. Do I not get a say about where I live now?” she asked with an annoyed expression.

“I’m going to leave you two to hash this out,” Krouse said, backing away from them slowly, “I’ll be back I a while to see you, Rebecca.”

“Thanks, doctor,” she said distractedly, her gaze still trained on Negan.

After Krouse had left the room, the pair sat in silence for a moment before Rebecca pierced the tranquility of the moment, “I did hear what you said before you started ugly crying on me.”

“Yeah?” Negan said, uncertain of how to respond.

“Yeah. Did you mean it? Or were you just caught up in the moment?” she asked, raising am inquisitive eyebrow, “Because last I checked, you wanted nothing to do with me. But here you are, blubbering into my nice, clean sheets like we’re in some shitty soap opera or something.”

Negan sighed deeply before responding, “I meant it. I don’t know if I want to mean it. I know that I tried my best to not mean it for a long time, but I do. I do care about you a lot, Rebecca.”

“So you do remember my name,” a faint smile sketched its way across Rebecca’s lips before she caught it and tried to neutralize her expression, “Well, you really hurt me. So I guess that means I care about you too. Or something like that. I think the only people who can fuck you up like you fucked me up are the people you love.”

“You really suck at this apologizing thing too, you know,” Negan said before adding, “Almost as much as I do.”

“I know,” she said, looking down at her hands for a moment before returning her eyes to his, “And I know I was acting really irrationally too. I said some shitty things to you that I didn’t mean, and I think we both really suck at this whole ‘having emotions’ business. So, you know, sorry for being terrible or whatever.”

“I’m sorry too. Can we just forget about this shit and move on now? I hate heart-to-heart conversations. They make me feel like so much less of a badass than I clearly am.”

“Uh huh. Tell that to the man tears soaked into these blankets, Mr. Badass McGruffy,” she said with a laugh before doubling over in pain, “Fucking hell, broken ribs hurt like a bitch!”

“Yeah, I’d imagine they do. Now, lie down and rest. I’m going to go get you some food from the cafeteria. Breakfast should be started by now,” he said before standing, “I’ll make sure someone’s outside of the door at all times when I’m not here.”

“Sounds like a good idea. Just promise me something, ok?” she said, reclining against the pillows.

“What’s that, Fuckface?”

“Once I’m out of the woods, can we track down the assholes that did this and fuck them up real good?”

“Darling, I can pretty well fucking guarantee that they will regret ever fucking with you once I’m done with them,” he said over his shoulder, before opening the door and walking into the hallway. Golden light painted the stark, white walls of the corridor as a new day began to break. They had work to do. But first, breakfast.