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norcumii · 4 years ago

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The Alpha 17 Supplemental

We all deserve something a little nice. So here’s a rough draft preview of the Star to Steer By Alpha 17 supplemental. (Please note, this is unbetaed, subject to change, etc.)

I hope y’all have a good day. <3

~~~~

Alpha 17 was a good soldier. He knew from a very early age that he was good at combat, loved it, and he pushed himself to be the best that the GAR could produce.

He knew some of his brothers thought that made him a bit simple, limited, unambitious.

He didn’t care.

The trainers worried, concerned that he didn’t seem to pick up outside hobbies or interests. He could practically hear ‘there’s more to life than fighting!’ every time he got that look, the doubt screaming in their eyes. He knew that meant another psych eval was in his near future, and it was frustrating because they didn’t get it.

He liked fighting. He liked the simple math, how goal plus obstacle equaled a straightforward picture. He could break that down, take it apart and rearrange the bits for more carnage, less causalities, different outcomes depending on the goal. Some brothers liked painting, or reading, or whatever. Alpha 17 liked taking a battlefield to pieces, and the addition of life’s chaos and unpredictability just made it exciting.

It got worse as he got older, signing up for the ARC program the literal minute he was able to. His batchmates only rolled their eyes a little – they at least didn’t poke at him about it – but everyone else? The whispers just got more annoying.

ARC training was serious business, was he sure he wanted to? ARC training meant learning the ropes for hosting - like that would ever matter - and that didn’t seem to be the kind of thing he’d like. ARC training had a ridiculous wash-out rate, required a steady temperament, often led to a much shorter lifespan, blah blah blah.

ARCs got into the middle of the most interesting shit, were given command and solo missions in equal measure. They didn’t stick to any one thing, historically they were the ones getting shit done, and if there was trouble, they were liable to be at ground zero.

Of course Alpha 17 wanted in on that. So he did something else he was very good at: he kept his head down and worked his shebs off.

Didn’t stop the occasional complaints. He brushed off the ones that he could, went through all the usual psych evals (and the bonus ones too), and kept learning what he could. He trained, he excelled, he fought.

The attitude didn’t stop coming either, but that was no surprise. He might be stubborn, but so was the rest of the GAR. Came with the job description. Not that he took more than he had to, of course. After one instructor complained about excessive casualties, the next exercise he took an absurdly round-about approach which resulted in record low casualties for the sim exercise.

The next day he handed in a complaint against himself about incompetence, excessive caution, and an evaluation about how taking that fucking long would have resulted in a campaign that was far too high in cost, time, and resources.

The instructor quit bitching after that.

Alpha 17 started his ARC training as the youngest in his class. ARC trooper Alpha 17 went into his cryo stint as top graduate of his class, having already had a successful and noteworthy acclimation stint all around the mid- to outer-rim.

*****

Three years after his thaw, Alpha 17 returned from a mission totally-not-exploding some wildly unpleasant slavers’ headquarters to find the usual stack of correspondence waiting for him. He kept his holo-mail down to a screaming minimum as much as possible, because everyone and their classified dog preferred to send secured intel via datapads or datasticks or whatever data-things they could secure to biometrics and ident scans. He grabbed the box for incoming shit and hauled it off to his quarters, because it’d been almost four months away and even he would admit to needing a real godsdamned shower in his own fucking apartment.

He might’ve ignored the pile long enough for a decent meal from the commissary and a few hours of rack time out of sheer spite. When 17 finally sat down to sort it, he wasn’t too surprised that almost a quarter of the pads had the glossy red endcaps indicating highest priority. It took a second glance to register that one of those had further detailing, the Jedi Order’s symbol embossed on the center of the red caps.

That was different. 17 set down the two pads he’d grabbed at random to pick it up instead. The metal shell wasn’t new, but it held few of the dings and scratches any correspondence gained traveling through the courier system. Recently made or rarely used.

“The hell?” he muttered, powering it up. Official Order business of some sort, but what kind of mission could –

17’s brain stalled out as he finally read the simple, clear message.

Simple, clear, and about as unlikely as him sprouting wings and flying to Corellia without a ship. “Potential host.” Nope, sounded even crazier out loud. “Like hell.” He tossed the pad down and slumped back in his chair, staring at the datapad in confusion. How the fuck was he a potential host? What kind of Jedi could he possibly have a match with?

In some kind of vain hope that the message would change to something that made sense given enough time, 17 mechanically went through the rest of his mail. Several innocuous messages regarding hazard pay; five potential missions, two of which had a time window long past; one message rescinding one of the other potential missions; one airworthiness directive and recall about a jetpack model he hated anyways; somehow even more questions about his deposition for the fucking Cato Neimoidia cluster because lawyers were never truly done.

All the usual bullshit, really.

Didn’t change the potential host message, though.

*****

Alpha 17 answered the call, of course. He sent a reply message off, confirmed the trip to Coruscant via the usual GAR channels, and then he tried to lose himself in post-mission paperwork.

It didn’t help that if anything was less likely to occupy his attention, it was paperwork. Even the usual joys of finding new and ridiculous euphemisms for ‘killed a bunch of assholes’ and ‘blew up a lot of shit’ were empty and useless.

The question of what kind of Jedi could possibly consider him a match dogged him all the way to Coruscant, and only got worse when he walked into the changing room with the other two candidates. One was a quiet, well-dressed Zeltron who was the most unassuming being 17 had ever laid eyes on. Short red hair, heading towards middle-age, and 100% unremarkable – he wouldn’t call them “bland,” but he wouldn’t argue the point if someone else did. The other one was an older Wookiee who sauntered in with all the trappings of an AgriCorp member, cheerfully growling observations about everything with an air of nervous excitement.

Sure, he knew the matching was probably on different quadrants, but what the hells could he have in common with these two?

The Jedi deposited on the fourth side of the table was a bit on the small side – maybe fully grown, maybe just younger but with their mature coloring. It was hard to tell with Jedi, even for someone who was good at that kind of thing.

That was not in 17’s skillset.

It was no help whatsoever that the Jedi turned towards 17 first. He felt ridiculous, stretching out his hand like he was inviting someone’s pet to take a whiff, but somehow this was worse than in training. Training meant everyone had to be there, and was going through the motions, but this –

This was the real deal. What the fuck was 17 doing, really applying to be a host?

The Jedi curled around his wrist, warmer than expected. He could feel the faint buzz in his mind of the Jedi’s mental probe – nothing that could be strong enough to read actual thoughts, but enough to give them a decent impression of 17. He had to stifle down a snicker, imagining what it might be like to feel his mind. I like fighting, blowing shit up, and doing my job. Sorry to waste your time, Jedi.

The pulse of amusement – real, and not his – was a bucket of ice down his spine. Shit. Shiiiit, he hoped that hadn’t been somehow broadcast. It probably hadn’t, but that was awkward. Meanwhile, the Jedi let out a quiet hiss, sharing some kind of emotional nudge to pass them along.

It was hard not rubbing at his wrist where the Jedi had been as the other two host-potentials went through the ritual. 17 was sure that some of the discomfort was due to being out of armor, but a quiet part of him wondered about the strange reaction anyways.

Hosting wasn’t a thing. He’d never given the faintest shit about hosting, he just wanted to be an ARC.

He was paying enough attention to do all the bowing and whatever that was called for, but it took the amused chuffing of a Wookiee to pull 17 all the way back to the matter at hand.

Literally at hand; the Jedi was back near his wrist, looking up at him with those four bright eyes and a body posture that might indicate concern.

Wait, WHAT? 17’s head jerked up, and he looked at the other two in the room. The Wookiee was grinning, while the Zeltron was hiding their amusement almost well enough that they just looked a little bored. He couldn’t help but feel that it was intentional that he could read the body language at all. 17 looked back down at the Jedi, who weh-ed at him.

“What are you doing?” 17 asked right back, because there was no way this could be happening. The Jedi scooted a little closer to him, making another hissing noise. With the continued sensation that this could not really be happening, 17 held his hand out to the Jedi.

They sauntered right onto his palm, still giving him that look. Another glance at the other host-potentials confirmed the impossible, but 17 was still slow enough lifting the Jedi that there was plenty of time for someone to declare that this was some ridiculous mistake, or prank, or something.

Nobody said anything as 17 opened his mouth and let the Jedi in. There was that feeling of movement that wasn’t (except it really was), then there was a new voice in 17’s mind.

#Hello there,# the Jedi declared. They sounded male, young, good natured. Not at all like what 17 would have expected. #I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi.#

#Well that’s a mouthful,# 17 couldn’t help but think, bemused and not quite sure what the hell was going on.

There was a sound of muffled laughter, accompanied by something not-really-a-flash to how that was a pun given how the Jedi – Kenobi – had just entered. #From a certain perspective, yes.#

17 smirked, enjoying the feel of a fellow sapient in spite of himself. #Alpha 17. ARC-17017.#

*****

It was always easy to tell the difference between Qui-Gon and Tahl. She moved with thoughtful purpose, feet planted solid on the ground and shoulders aggressively square. Jinn flowed more, confident and feline, certain of himself in a sometimes arrogant way that could piss off even the most serene being, let alone Alpha 17.

He liked and respected them both, more than he or Obi-Wan figured most people understood. He hadn’t expected that, when he’d first met the Jedi and host that were to be Obi-Wan’s – and his, in a sense – primary trainers. He’d resented that at first, not that he’d admit it. He was no youngling, for all that Obi-Wan was a shiny. Obi-Wan also had inherited memories, and since 17 was a well-trained and skilled soldier, they should be good to go in short order.

Then they had their first training session with Obi-Wan’s brand new lightsaber.

The less said about that fiasco, the better.

It took time to learn how everything fit together; 17’s blaster and fighting skills, Obi-Wan’s genuine talent for the lightsaber and acrobatics that thanks to the Force were well outside the normal bounds for a clone, and how the Force integrated with it all.

The first time 17 dodged away from a sparring partner only to reach and yank their legs out from under them, dumping them to the floor several meters away, he’d been stunned. It was one thing to know Jedi – and thus their hosts – could use the Force, it was totally another to see it in action, and it was a far different beast to do that impossibility himself.

He liked it, though. It was interesting to find there was a whole new area and styles of fighting he could apply himself to, and as always he did so with excessive diligence.

With the comforting glee inside his head of a Jedi just as eager to learn, and to fight, he no longer questioned why the hell he’d been the one to host Obi-Wan.

~end section

#star wars #our writing #star to steer by #star to steer by 2 #alpha 17 #Hugs #hugs for everyone

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zeldas-cigarette-holder · 3 years ago

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Ahh, your headcanons! <33 Thank you for sharing them. I was wondering (after reading that one about Zelda unexpectedly finding herself somewhat dreaming about the idea of having children with Faustus) if you have any headcanons of that actually happening? Spellwood or, with a little help of a bit of magic or something, Madam Spellman?

Thank you!

I’ve planned on writing a fic that ties into both of these sets, but for now have some headcanons! Gonna stick these under a read more & two separate categories because this got long and also make their own separate posts if people wanna save/rb just one pairing! xx

Spellwood + a baby(ies)

- Where their relationship is concerned, everything is measured out and carefully calculated — it’s just the way they are. While I’m not entirely sure how witch birth control works, I’m sure she’s extremely diligent about her medication, potions, whatever it may be — she’s not the sort of person to have any sort of accidents, especially those she can control. Zelda hides her careful planning, weighs out every pro and con before even considering bringing it up to him.

- When she does decide to bring it up to him, she has a piece of scrap paper with unintelligible scribbles all over it and the sheer look on her face, her hands trembling holding her little scrap of wobbly, folded a million times piece of paper makes Faustus chuckle. She takes it as a bad response, retreats into herself and decides to table it — he mustn’t be too interested anyways, life is good with Leticia and Judas, Ambrose and Sabrina, why would they change anything?

- Faustus knows something is bothering her, and she blatantly lies through her teeth every time he asks. It only serves to frustrate him more, and drives him to tangle with sex demons at Dorian’s Gray Room. When she catches him (because she always will), she’s absolutely devastated because she has the same crumpled paper of pros and cons in her hand, tosses it at him and storms away before she lets the tears fall. It isn’t that she feels like he’s cheating on her, it’s the fact that she feels like he couldn’t have one serious conversation with her (because she sucks at feelings and would never actively start the conversation).

- She’s hurt, and it takes her a long time to come back from that sort of hurt. It’s the kind that makes her ache for a future lost even though she never tried to actively discuss it. But she’s stubborn, and she knows that he knows and it somehow makes her feel worse. He knows the deepest maternal desire she tried to hide for centuries and she isn’t quite sure how she feels about it.

- Of course she wants kids with him, and he feels so stupid that he didn’t realize sooner. She’s always been so maternal, such a good natured person (though a bit brash and irrational at times). Faustus knows he fucked up, carries around the tattered paper with him tucked in his pocket and it feels like lead. Her scratched out writing with little doodles of hearts is enough to melt his heart, and he knows just how lucky he is that she even allowed herself a moment to fantasize about a family with him.

- Faustus seeks out Hilda for help because she is the only person (other than him) that Zelda has ever divulged anything remotely personal to. She isn’t happy with him — especially not when he recounts how she threw the paper at him, though he suspects she’s known for a while by the way she raises her eyebrow — but she does try to help him, but she’s adamant that she won’t do it for him. She reminds him of how Zelda is, how she feels things with her entire heart and soul, and that she’s probably embarrassed that she felt shut down.

- It takes Faustus a few torturous days to think of what to do to make it up to her — to bring the conversation to the table again — and every passing day feels worse. She’s not talking to him, turns the other way when he comes to bed, and he pretends he doesn’t see the mascara streaked down her face. He settles on making his own list of pros and cons — his side of cons is much shorter than hers, and he knows she’ll think it’s because he’s irrational — leaves it on her desk tied with a ribbon, a box of truffles, and a fresh bouquet of white roses.

- Zelda doesn’t acknowledge it for a few days, needs her time to go over his list in comparison to her own because she’s nothing if not careful and methodical in everything she does. She sleeps at the mortuary and it’s torture — she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since before he found her list — and she realizes that after all this time, she can’t sleep without his stupid snoring in her ear, her head nestled in the crook of his neck. What finally makes her crack is when the sun is rising and she hadn’t slept for the third night in a row, and she knows she needs him regardless of everything else.

- She slips into their bed and curls against his sleeping body and satan, it feels like everything good in the world — he feels like coming home, smells like all of her favorite scents, feels so strong and safe — and she’s suddenly sobbing into his chest without restraint. Faustus wakes enough to rub her back and let her cry it out — knows she won’t be able to speak past the knot in her throat until she lets out all of that pent up emotion, knows the tears aren’t all because of the situation — and presses gentle kisses to her hair when she’s finally out of tears and sniveling herself to sleep in his arms.

- They don’t get a chance to sit and talk until the next evening, and it’s torturous for them both. They’re both rational and mostly level-headed, and knowing there’s so much to say but no time or privacy to say it is the worst part. She works later than him, despite him being the High Priest, and he takes the opportunity to make her a nice dinner with her favorite aged bourbon and fresh flowers.

- There’s a secret smile when she sits down and picks up her glass — tells him that would be the last bottle of bourbon she drinks for a while. He’s not sure it’s an answer so much as a joke, cocks his head in confusion over the way she laughs at some joke he doesn’t entirely understand, but Zelda has always been an enigma in and of herself.

- Zelda, in true Zelda-like fashion, isn’t completely sure — even when the answer from both of them is a yes. She needs time to roll it around in her head, to decide if it’s something she truly wants. She’s afraid to bring it up again — afraid that she took too long and will be shut down — but she lets herself sink into that secret fantasy of having a true family, growing his child. She contemplates going about it irresponsibly, not taking her birth control and being a little reckless, but ultimately decides against it. She isn’t the same level of desperate as she was when she stole saved Leticia, she wouldn’t dare betray his trust again.

- When Zelda finally lets it slip that yes, she wants his child more than anything, it’s in the throes of passion and he thinks she’s joking. It’s a rare instance in which they’re making love, not fucking, and he’s whispering in her ear — crooning about how perfect she is, how perfect their life is, how he can’t wait to spend the rest of his earthly life with her. She’s sure, knows that she can’t imagine anything but this perfect life with him, and tells him to cum inside of her, to get her pregnant.

- He doesn’t believe her at first, but she’s so earnest and trusting with wide, sparkling eyes and this passion and he knows, he knows she’s sure. They spend the rest of the night making a baby in various positions. It’s a lighthearted they haven’t experienced in ages, and Zelda can’t help but fall a little more in love with him.

- When she’s finally pregnant, after what felt like months and months of trying, she’s filled with some sort of renewed hope she didn’t know she needed. She has to refrain from running to him with the positive test, wants to make sure everything is okay first.

- She doubts a lot — her body, her mind, her ability to be a good mother, the fact that she’s even pregnant to begin with — but it’s easier when he knows. It brings a softer side to their relationship, not the same biting remarks and constant teasing they’re both used to. He’s good to her — sweet and everything she needs — and she almost feels guilty when she snaps because he forgot to get her a snack or a drink.

- It turns out twins run in Faustus’ family. Zelda wishes she knew before she got pregnant, though she wouldn’t change a single thing — is finally blissfully happy.

Madam Spellman + a baby

- It takes Zelda a long time to even be open to discussing getting pregnant, after everything that happened with Faustus, Leticia, baby Judas, and Sabrina’s raising. There are variables to consider, and she’s very cautious and careful about everything she does. She trusts Lilith with her entire soul and being — trusts Lilith so much it scares her — but she trusted Faustus too and that makes it even worse, knowing that at any point she could betray her the same way he did.

- Their relationship develops after Sabrina’s death, and though it’s been years by the time they’re married and ready to settle down, the wounds are still there. It’s something Lilith brings up in passing while rubbing Zelda’s feet on the lounge while drinking and enjoying the rare free time they got, and Zelda finds herself more and more open to the idea of a child — especially with Lilith.

- Lilith is good and sweet and kind and everything Zelda wants to spend the rest of her life with — Satan, she married her after she swore to never marry again — but the idea of children together is quite honestly terrifying. This is still the same Lilith who killed baby Adam, though it was for good reason, and she’s still the same Zelda who stole saved baby Leticia only to pass her along to Dezmelda.

- The wounds from Sabrina’s passing are too raw for them to consider it seriously for years, but Lilith likes to remind Zelda that they have time. Still, it’s like things never get truly better. Zelda grieves her daughter, and Lilith grieves just the same for that maternal relationship she developed with Sabrina. She loved her so much it hurt, despite every single horrible thing she had done and regrets so deeply that it keeps her up at night

- In true Sabrina fashion, she is the catalyst for almost everything in Lilith and Zelda’s relationship, and a child is no different.

- They had tried to summon her several times over the years, to call on her in any way they could — witching board, seance, trying to reach into that in between and pull her out — but nothing ever seemed to work. They never gave up hope, and when she does come to them it’s with her blessing to move on, to move past their hang ups relating to her, to be happy and start the family they’ve both always wanted.

- It’s easier said than done, and there’s still so much hesitation. Would the universe truly give them happiness after everything they had been through? It takes lots of long conversations and tears — so many tears for everything they had sacrificed, everyone they had lost, and everyone they had loved — before they come to the decision that they would try for a baby, they’d allow themselves the shred of happiness they had always wanted.

- There’s still so much to consider for Zelda and Lilith just doesn’t understand why. She feels everything with her whole heart and she’s impulsive, falls in love with ideas and follows through before thinking of the practicality behind it. It’s how she ends up in so many tricky situations — rash ideas and passionate thoughts fueled by love or self preservation— but Zelda is rational and collected even with the most passionate subjects, she needs to think of every possible outcome.

- Zelda is the one with hard limits and ultimatums, especially because of Sabrina. She blames the entirety of Sabrina’s death on the fact that she was a gift from Lucifer Morningstar combined with her being half mortal. It makes choosing a donor for their baby so difficult, and it makes choosing who would carry even more difficult. It causes arguments that end with both of them in tears because Zelda is so scared and Lilith doesn’t want to think of every single bad thing that could potentially not even happen.

- When they finally come to some semblance of a decision, they settle on the fact that Zelda would carry for a multitude of reasons. She had never carried her own child, she wasn’t of divine origin, it was the safest bet.

- Deciding on a donor was even harder. Zelda originally wanted to use Dr. Cee, because she was comfortable with him and could have some fun out of it, but he was ordinarily mortal (given the gift of immortality by Lilith, because she knew how much he meant to Hilda) and they were terrified of having a half mortal, half witch child. Faustus was another option presented by Lilith, but she didn’t want the first thing to do with him, nor a child of his origin. Several handsome demons from hell were also mentioned, though Zelda was adamantly against those as well. Lilith thinks she’s being purposely combative, it stirs up a lot of feelings in them that are hard to push past. They flip through the people that they’d feel comfortable with using and no one seems quite right. It puts them at an impasse for several months. No one is good enough, and they won’t compromise in either direction — it leads them to spend ages looking over ancient textbooks for an answer that would seemingly never come.

- There was one option they hadn’t considered — Melvin — and when Lilith suggests it, Zelda balks at her. But it’s a viable option, albeit uncomfortable, and they decide that he would be a suitable donor for their baby. Their coven is mostly females, and he’s one of the only sane options.

- Zelda is adamant on legally binding contracts signed by all before anything can be put into motion, because having a sense of solution and finality on the situation is scary for her, and Lilith is — again — unsure as to why it even matters. That’s the hard thing about being married to Zelda, she can’t believe the good in Lilith even though she’s proven time and time again that her anxieties are rooted in a past with someone who was much worse than her. It’s another point of conflict, and it stirs up a lot of passionate tears. Zelda cries because Faustus loved her and he still ripped everything away from her — the children she loved, the home they shared — because she was suddenly unworthy and Lilith cries because she thinks Zelda doesn’t trust her.

- In the end, Lilith decides that it’s only fair to agree to the contracts Zelda is so adamant about. It makes sense when she thinks about it, but she loathes to admit it. Melvin can’t have any rights — nor does Zelda want to think about him as the father, but it’s better than not knowing who it is — Zelda and Lilith have equal rights. The thought makes Zelda smile this sad, watery twitch of her lips that breaks Lilith’s heart, and she realizes that every child Zelda had ever dared let herself love was brutally ripped from her. After Zelda falls asleep that night, once the contracts were signed by all, Lilith excuses herself to the porch and cries openly and unabashedly — she cries for Zelda’s losses, for her own losses, for the pain and anguish and unbearable pasts they both had — and she finds Zelda sitting at the kitchen table with a tear streaked face when she finally gathers herself enough to go inside.

- They’re both fucking terrified from the moment their daughter is conceived until the day she’s born. Hell is no place for a newborn, and Lilith is afraid of having to step away and relinquish control, even if only for a few weeks. Zelda is scared of childbirth, of their daughter dying, of Lilith leaving her, of the issues they’d face raising their child. Lilith assures her everything would be okay, and she’s cautious to believe it.

- Pregnancy sucks and Zelda vows that she’ll never do it again as long as she lives. She hates not drinking, not smoking, gaining the weight, the fact that she can’t eat sweets whenever she wants. Lilith is doting and sweet and perfect, massages Zelda’s feet and makes her non-alcoholic drinks and watches trash television with her to pass the time. She takes up knitting for their baby — even when on her throne in Hell — and it’s so damn sweet that Zelda tears up every time she brings home a new blanket.

#whoop these are so fucking long I’m so sorry #and they kinda suck #I basically wrote two mini fics #oops #headcanons #madam spellman #Spellwood #zelda spellman #faustus blackwood #Lilith #my writing

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unioncolours · 3 years ago

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A 2nd Majsasaurus Year!

Today, 22nd of September 2021, it’s been two years since I officially joined the magical world of fandom. 22.9.2019 I uploaded the first chapter to my fic Shadows and Sand, and the rest is history.

I did a deep dive into my first year as a fic writer and active member of fandom last year, when it was my first anniversary. You can read it here!

In that meta discussion about my membership of fandom, I presented it as if walking on clouds. I was so, so happy and talked during all the discussion about my happiness in fandom.

Since that post was written, my life and also my perception of the fandom I am part of has changed. Change isn’t always bad, as I really had a honeymoon phase with fandom over a year ago, and the low after hit hard.

But let’s see what I’ve been up to and what I’ve been writing! The following year provided much change and fun things! Please keep reading 💜⬇

The first fic I wrote since 22.9.2020 was a Sakura x Ino fic. I had for a longer while been interested in writing a woman-loves-woman ship, which I had never done before, and as a wlw-person myself the urge to explore that part led to Promise me this is just a kiss. The pairing itself was chosen on rather random, it had to be two women and I like Ino, so I chose the most popular Ino-wlw ship for this for convenience.

I really liked writing the fic and it was well-received! It was the first time I had written a fic that was entirely centred around exploring feelings and having sex.

After this I jumped directly onto the next idea that had been boiling inside me for a longer while. Up to this point, all I had written, except the wlw-fic, had been set in the Naruto canonverse and I was itching to try to work with a multi-chaptered modern au! The pairing was of course my beloved Shikadai x Inojin.

It was during the creation of this fic I began to struggle. This was a new genre, as this was romance only and all my other works had been action and fantasy based, except the sex fic of course. I was maybe over critical and stressed, which resulted in me having a hard time writing it. But I made it. Was the sky always this beautiful? ended up being 35k long, and in hindsight, I freaking love, love, love how it turned out in the end and what it represented. I am very proud of this fic.

I “upgraded” as a fan by the end of October when I bought myself a digital drawing tablet. I began drawing fanart of Shikadai and Inojin and preferably them two together, haha! I still draw a few days a month and find it extremely fun as a side hobby beside the writing.

We are now in November 2020. By this time, I had completely finished my zine fic, Under the Scorching Sun, which I had written during September and October, for the Shikatema zine I was kindly accepted to. I was proud of what I had created and was eager for the rest of the contributors to wrap up theirs, so we’d have a wonderful zine for sale in 2021. It was lovely to write ShikaTema again. As the zine fic was about to be released in months from when I had at first finished it, I wanted of course to write something fans and friends could immediately take part of on the internet. I had hyped myself up to a state where I wanted to write a third and final story in my series To love and never let go, my epic series about Shikadai and Inojin.

Now, I should maybe have waited another month, but I was worried the readers would give up on me if I didn’t write it right away. In December, I began writing To find hope in the Universe, with my usual speed and love for the art.

What I by then didn’t realise or even recognise was that I was very slowly turning burned out. I ignored all the signs.

In December I wrote simultaneously as Hope in the Universe a fic that was part of the Shikatema server’s Secret Santa event. The fic’s name was The Ghost Stories of our Hearts, and it was ShikaTema, as the event’s name suggests. It was fun to write and despite the final big fic, Hope in the Universe, pressing down on me, I finished The Ghost Stories of our Hearts and was very happy with the result. Sadly, at this point the burnout began taking control over me, and I never managed to reply to the comments.

The 15th of January, I began uploading To find hope in the Universe. It was a lovely experience, even if it was tainted by negative feelings coming from my decreasing happiness and the fact that it didn’t do as well as To dance above the Stars, the second fic in the series. To deal with two very contradiction emotions, loving my work, the characters, how I have painted an entire world around the characters and how I knew some people honestly loved my hard work, and then the negative feelings coming from not feeling good enough and depressed, was a difficult thing to navigate and still is when I think back to that time. It didn’t help that during the process of uploading the fic I went through grief, and I chose distraction as my coping method. I kept writing and working, the only thing I ever knew.

Our pre-order of the Shikatema zine was in full motion by this time and it was a nerve-wracking time! Mostly because of excitement but also worry. I’m super happy for my friends who were part of the zine, with whom I could share all the excitement and nervousness with. The zine ended up making good sales, which made me happy among the uploading of the long fic.

To find hope in the Universe was completed 31st of March 2021. When I uploaded the final chapter, I felt nothing. It was so weird, so spooky, to have finished a long fic and a series on top of that and not feel anything. But deep down, beneath the layer of depression, I felt great pride.

That was the emotion that broke free once the burnout left me. Pride.

I had created this empire of Shikajin, a whole alternative timeline, an alternative canon from my own head and to this day, that is my internet legacy. I love Trial of the Heart, which I wrote in 2020, but if I have to choose between ToH and this series, I will choose To love and never let go in a heartbeat.

So, even if it felt depressing and hopeless in the moment, I look now back with pride and happiness. Never forget that. Never forget that I made that.

April was a curious time. I swore to not write anything, because I had by now recognised that I was burned out and needed to rest, yet managed to scrape together three smaller fics.

The first one was another wlw-smut fic, TemaSaku this time called Another Light. I wanted to explore that part once again. I wrote it in canonverse and honestly think the fic ended up extremely nice. Perfect amount of feels and sex. It didn’t feel hard to write at all, because the setting, characters and emotions were so different from the fics I had written the last five months.

Now more interesting things lay on the horizon! A new zine, the Ino-Shika-Cho zine called Beyond a Bond had an interest check during the spring, and later the contributor application. I urged in the interest check to please give us the next gen kids, Shikadai, Inojin and Chocho – my kids and babies, and when it turned out they were going to feature, I had to apply as a writer. For this application I wrote a one shot, called It’s just hair, and I loved this spunky little story featuring the best babies that I created.

I also edited one of my tumblr fics, And then I kissed him, into a longer, better version that I later in May uploaded onto AO3. It was once again a Shikajin, a sequel of Trial of the Heart, and it was a fun little project.

Now May came and I sent in the application for the zine early, which I now am relieved I did. I am happy that I did the work for the application in April instead of May, because in May I had a few breakdowns and another grieving period, which lead to complete creative paralysis. I didn’t write a single word during May, only uploaded the two one shots I had prepared in April.

What I did do in May was to read through the Shikatema zine I had contributed to! It arrived in the mail! I was so nervous; my whole body was shaking when I opened the package right outside the post office. The zine now resides on the parade place in my little zine shrine in the bookshelf. Thank you to the mods who made this a reality!

To my great happiness my zine adventures continued as I was accepted to the Ino-Shika-Cho zine as a writer and was assigned to write my favourite characters. I felt so relieved and overjoyed, mind blown by the sheer talent among the contributors.

On the other fandom front, June didn’t continue any brighter, with stress and mental pain still having a strong grip around me, despite the very happy news that I am still so grateful for. I wrote a Yamanaka family fic which to this day hasn’t seen the light of AO3, because of negative emotions surrounding it. I turned into a complete wreck compared to me in June 2020. In June 2020 I was flourishing, I loved what I did, I loved fandom and I loved the friends I had made through Discord servers. Now I could find myself crying my eyes out over a wip not going the way I wished it would. What had happened to Bex 2021?

I was so incredibly frustrated with myself, groaning in defeat when my hands just couldn’t write. I managed to push through 6k of what I called my “emo au” – more of that later – and finish the Yamanaka fic which is still buried, and on top of that I had the zine and another fandom event, The Naruto Photo Album, to create content for. Why couldn’t I do it? Why couldn’t I find happiness in something that once was my reason for happiness?

In the end, I managed to write 15k in June. My former monthly word count used to be 30k. One could think this would turn into the end of my fic writing career, or the beginning of a longer hiatus, but I am stubborn and want to meet the expectations of the people who love my content, so I didn’t want to give up. I wanted to try. I wanted to be whoever I was before.

Funnily enough, the healing came in the shape of the most self-indulgent fic I have ever, ever written, a fic I like possessed began writing July the 1st 2021. It was nothing less than a freaking fairy tale AU, namely a Shikadai x Inojin Peter Pan AU. I can hear you laugh at the silliness of it, but this whimsical AU gave me back my love for writing. I hyper-fixated on this story quite a bit and stopped writing on everything else, something I almost never do.

Only happy boys fly ended up being 21 000 words long! I knew it was a niched story, and true to my guesses, the story has to this day very low stats. Today, two months after it was published, it has just above 100 hits and 10 kudos, so for all I know, only ten people read and liked it. I try to not care too much, since I love the story and in some way, that story saved me from going batshit insane over my emotions about writing.

At this point I had begun writing my fic from the Ino-Shika-Cho zine, finding joy in silly scenes with my favourite characters and trying to heal. The writing process was frustratingly slow, but one word at a time I got forward and as of today, the draft is done. The pre-orders are in December. At the side of the zine fic I wrote a short fluffy Shikajin story, CLEAR, a story with almost no plot, because I knew how much self-indulgence could help me.

And then, I finally began writing for real on my emo au, A gang of fallen stars, which has the first few chapters up right now! I have for the first time in six months a longer fic (if we don’t count the Peter Pan story) and it feels… good. This fic is once again a modern au, but in darker tones than my other modern au from November 2020. I honestly like what I have so far, even if I during June and July almost planned to never finish it. I am so relieved I managed to begin the upload. In September the Photo Album was released and I could show my two fics I wrote for it.

It sounds like this year has been nothing but misery, and at times it felt like it. However, there are a few fandom friends who brought light to my life when I couldn’t see it. The first ones to mention are of course my partners in crime, @notquitejiraiya and @thespookymoth. Together we created a server dedicated to Ino-Shika-Cho during the spring and it has been tons of fun with the members there! Thank you two for listening to me and for being my friends during 2021.

I also have to mention Soverel, who carefully begun taking contact through comments and likes on my twitter, and later through direct messages, and it has been a fun ride ever since. We’ve had lovely discussions which are very dear to me and your support means a lot to me. Thank you for being you and for drawing so many wonderful artworks you’ve shared with me. Haha, and for making me play Genshin Impact, even though I do it like twice a month!

Another person who has made my days so much brighter is @sugarriene. Thank you for sending me that one dm that made us chat regularly, thank you for popping up and sharing panels and your wonderful drawings with me, and for vibing head canons with me. You are a lovely person, and you make me happy.

Finally, I want to give a shout out to @yoboseyokyu for listening to me when I had to yell into the void and for making me happy with your cute posts on both twitter and tumblr.

Since September 2020, I’ve written around 195 000 words and drawn close to 35 illustrations, most of them of Shikadai and Inojin. Almost 200 000 words of Majsasaurus. I’ve created a Discord server and I’ve been part of two zines as a writer, plus a free PDF-project.

It has been a wild year. A year filled with passion for my favourite characters and ship, with the excitement that came with being part of projects and hyping them. It was a year where I learned to draw digitally, and heck what fun it was.

This also a year where I learned people can be mean to me because of what I ship and that fandom friends won’t necessarily always stay to be your friend anymore and how much it can hurt. I also learned what my limits are, and what punishment I get if I don’t listen to my own mind and rest when I have to.

It was a year, guys.

Now, onto the third Majsasaurus Year. Cheers!

And those of you, who supported me when I needed it – thank you and I love you.

#majsasaurus

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amwritingmeta · 4 years ago

Text

15x18: The Most Loving

I’ve indulged. All day, I’ve indulged in this episode. In all of it. But, yes, mostly this scene. I’ve made gifs. And watched this scene. Obsessively. What’s life? THIS is life right now. This is the air in my lungs and the joy in my chest and, oh, my loveliest lovelies, I know you’re right there with me. Gods!

Too bad Dean doesn’t love Cas back, huh?

KIDDING.

Just kidding. He does. I believe it more strongly than ever. *fingers crossed and sprinklings of salt* But let’s have a look at why I believe it more strongly than ever, shall we? Yes we shall! (let’s see if I get through this without crying) (highly doubtful) (update: I didn’t)

Let’s start with Dean. He’s a very good place to start.

Look at how what Cas is about to say to Dean, all those beautiful soul-affirming things he’s about to share, is set up right there, in this moment, with Dean losing hope by the second, moving softly from anger into a despair that makes him see his anger clearly, just not the root of it.

The shining brightly detail here is that the frustration and the fear don’t make him defensive, which, to me, is important because the immediate naming of the anger, without hesitation, the awareness of it, the quiet acceptance of how he got them here, leading into that gentle “I’m sorry” is like his character progression this season just balled up into one glorious half-minute of character insight: his, and ours.

With the good -- that immediate apology -- comes the bad, though -- the thinking of himself as an arrow of killer instinct, lacking control of this thing inside him when it takes over and not knowing what to do about it or how to fight it.

This thing being?

His anger.

And what is it symptomatic of?

Well, I would say his Shadow. His unconscious. His repressed emotions. His inability to be honest with himself. Which leads to frustration with himself. A feeling of perpetual alarm. He can never just be himself, because he never feels as though he’s enough.

And feelings are weaknesses that will get you killed.

And his mother died when he was so young and shook him out of any sense of stability, and he’s longed for home, love, family ever since, but every time he’s dared dream or dared believe or even hope, something has happened to take good things away, because good things don’t last.

Not in Dean’s experience.

So the happiness of home, love, family has always been equated with pain. With hurt. With loss. So it was easier not to think an actual future was in the cards for him. Easier to push it down and begin to believe that he can’t possibly be loved for who he is, because what he is, is a killer.

What he is, deep down, is a monster.

His true identity has been covered up by toxic masculinity armour and he’s lost all sense of his true self, out of fear of rejection he has continuously rejected himself and out of fear of failure, failing to Protect Sammy -- a purpose so tightly bound to Dean’s sense of identity that anything threatening it has instantly been perceived as a threat to Dean’s entire understanding of himself -- Dean has bought into the lie that feelings are weaknesses and that, to survive, he had to walk in his father’s exact footsteps.

And of course it hasn’t helped that John’s revenge trip stemmed entirely from losing the love of his life. Luckily, Dean has seen his parents reunited. Luckily, Dean knows they’re now together, happily so, in their shared Heaven. If he can internalise this knowledge and accept it as a good thing, then there’s a basis for healing right there.

Leaving that behind because now here we are, with Dean verbalising his view of himself (hopefully for the last time) which has kept him perpetually in a pattern of behaviour that has been, at its root, self-destructive because of his lack of ability to love himself and see himself worthy of being loved.

Cas doesn’t go all “Dean” on Dean for no reason.

He goes all Dean on Dean because he knows better than to agree when Dean claims all he knows how to do is hunt and kill and be guided by fury and the vengeance mode that his father’s image has left like an imprint all over Dean’s personality.

And Cas is about to tell us how much better that better truly is.

*i’m cry*

The beginning of the better is linked to Dean’s instant apology, his instant admittance that he was wrong, brought by him recognising his mistake, realising he let his anger lead him once again.

(just like he did when he shut Cas out and made Cas feel he had no choice but to leave the bunker and strike out on his own) (because Dean refused to apologise for behaving like a stubborn dickhead yeah?)

And this instant apology is... well. It’s Jensen Ackles style beautiful. Because->

->the apology starts here, with this absolutely devastated look at Cas, as though Dean thinks Cas doesn’t want to be here, with him -- he wants to be with Sam and with Jack -- and Dean is keeping him from seeing out their final hours with his entire family. And so->

But the apology, sincere and selfless and wishing there was some way out of this situation because Dean would save Cas from this fate in an instant if he could, triggers Cas’ realisation that there’s something he can do to save Dean.

Because?

Well, I would hope it’s because the narrative is rewarding Dean for learning the lesson of having so much self-awareness that it doesn’t take him ten and some episodes to land in an apology. It takes him less than five minutes into this scenario to admit that his choices were the wrong ones. To Cas, but more importantly to himself.

So then, reward time, and Cas’ brain starts working overtime as he remembers who Death is afraid of, what might be powerful enough to conquer Death itself.

It would be... everything if this moment is actually about how the defeat of Death has nothing to do with showcasing the power of the Shadow, but of what Cas’ honesty and open heart leads to: his moment of integration.

Finding internal balance, as he’s no longer suppressing or repressing anything inside of him, but can face all of his emotions head on. No more self-deception and no more confusion. Only clarity.

And if this moment, in the broader sense, is about what brought that moment of integration on: Cas’ love for Dean.

Meaning the one thing powerful enough to conquer Death itself, really, is love.

Wouldn’t that be something? Isn’t that what has conquered Death over and over again in this narrative? Yes. It truly is. To have it stated unequivocally would be spectacular.

Now, I would look at both of them in this post, only, it’s already a long post, so let’s focus on Dean, because though I could talk for eons about what this means for Cas’ arc and it culminating in such a glorious act of self-actualisation, I believe what it means for Dean may play an even bigger role moving forward. *fingers crossed*

Cas reaches the realisation of how he can use the Empty for the purpose of defeating Death, yeah, and Cas reveals this realisation to Dean by finally laying all the cards on the table.

Cas: When Jack was dying, I made a deal to save him. Dean: You what? Cas: The price was my life.

And at Cas telling Dean that this deal, that Cas has kept from him, means Cas has bargained away his life, Dean’s face does this-->

Look... at how... his eyes... widen... with the sheer... shock and terror of that statement and then... there’s that soft... or so I see it... understanding that Cas once again has done that thing he does: he’s put himself on the chopping block. As if he doesn’t matter. (remind us of someone?)

So the first bit of information is that Cas has given his life for Jack’s and that he is, basically, a dead man (angel) walking.

Right. Shock and terror.

Then Cas delivers this gut-punch:

Cas: When I experienced a moment of true happiness, the Empty would be summoned and it would take me, forever.

And Dean’s face does this->

It’s like his brain is start-stuttering... true happiness?... the Empty?... summoned?... taken forever??... And then he’s like, wait what? What does this have to do with anything?

And he challenges this strange pick of a moment to share all these things by asking:

How exactly is this relevant in this moment in time, Cas? I don’t understand.

Because he really doesn’t. He does not have a clue for the entirety of this exchange, even with Cas stating that the one thing Death fears, the one thing strong enough to defeat her is the Empty, and they know the Empty can only come when summoned. They’ve talked about it, not that long ago, and still, Dean’s brain is not putting two and two together.

Because he would never, not for one second, ever equate Cas’ true happiness as having anything to do with him. Not ever.

All he can think is... well, wouldn’t all he can think be that he was about to get them both killed, and now Cas is telling him this other way he’ll die, so even if they did make it out of there alive, Cas is... what? As good as dead? No matter what? There’s this premeditated way that Cas has set up for him to die that Cas hasn’t told him about. Cas dead in all the scenarios presented to him right now is all Dean can focus on.

And so Cas begins to explain himself.

Cas: I always wondered, ever since I took that burden, that curse, I wondered what my true happiness could even look like.

And Dean looks like this.

To me, because Dean’s deepest fear is happiness.

And because his brain is trying to make sense of what is happening, but it looks like there’s white noise going on, like all he can think is What Is This What Are You Trying To Tell Me I Do Not Understand Cas Something About Happiness Why Are You Talking To Me About Happiness I Can’t Help You!

And then Cas takes it a step further, and tells Dean this:

Cas: I never found an answer, because the one thing I want, it’s something I know I can’t have.

And Dean is like... what is it??

And of course, Cas obliges, because there’s no turning back. Oh, Cas.

Cas: But I think I know… I think I know now, happiness isn’t in the having, it’s in just being. It’s in just saying it.

And Dean is getting softly defensive, worried at this point that this is headed somewhere wholly new and unexplored and the expression on Cas’ face is starting to get to him, those eyes already shining with tears and the earnestness all over him, and Dean doesn’t want to not listen to him, but he also doesn’t like the not understanding what the hell is going on, so->

And Cas isn’t about to slow down.

Cas: I know how you see yourself, Dean. You see yourself the same way our enemies see you...

And this is barking exactly the way Dean was afraid of: honesty. So much honesty. And Dean is taking it in like he’s still wondering what exactly this is. Is this Cas’ idea of a deathbed confession, because Dean’s not sure he wants to hear this... but...

Cas: ...you’re destructive and you’re angry and you’re broken—you’re daddy’s blunt instrument.

At the mention of John, Dean starts to reign himself in. He’s starting to shed the confusion for the understanding that Cas is about to speak a whole lot of truth and he’s just gonna have to hear it. So he begins steeling himself. Hence the first hard swallow.

Cas: And you think that hate and anger, that’s… that’s what drives you, that’s who you are… It’s not.

I like to read this as the words “It’s not” being the last thing Dean ever expected to hear. He looks so completely taken aback. He was, because it’s his modus operandi, most likely expecting judgement at this moment (because he fucked up and brought them here) and rejection, because he always expects it and always thinks he deserves it.

And instead, he gets what he needs most. He gets told to see himself through Cas’ eyes. Because (hopefully) it’s the only way Dean can finally recognise his true identity and stop hiding from it as if it’s an abomination.

Cas: And everyone who knows you sees it. Everything you have ever done—the good and the bad—you have done for love.

And Dean reacts the same way he reacted when Cas told him that the price to save Jack had been Cas’ life: look at the slight widening of the eyes, look at the furrowed brow -> shock and terror.

Because love?

Cas: You raised your little brother for love, you fought for this whole world for love. That is who you are.

And Dean lets the words sink in somewhat, but still... this is not how he sees himself, this is not his understanding of himself, of who he is. It’s so far from it, but this is Cas saying these things and wait...

...this is how Cas sees him?

Cas isn’t done, of course.

Cas: You’re the most caring man on Earth. You are the most selfless, loving human being I will ever know.

And Dean is about to start crying too, but he keeps the emotion back. Look at those clenched jaws, the hard swallow, the set expression. Determined not to just lose it.

But he’s close. Nostrils flaring, lips trembling, he’s fighting back the tears like, no, I will not bawl my eyes out.

Cas: You know, ever since we met, ever since I pulled you out of Hell, knowing you has changed me.

And Dean just...

This very nearly breaks the dam. He’s just swallowing down those tears like there’s no tomorrow. He refuses to cry, even now, even when his body is like Give Me An Outlet For All These Feelings.

But naw.

Stoic stoic stoic.

Cas: Because you cared—I cared. I cared about you… I cared about Sam, I cared about Jack… but I cared about the whole world because of you.

And Dean begins to have this ice-cold feeling run through him... that Cas is saying all these things for a reason...

And all Dean can do is listen...

Cas: You changed me, Dean.

And he looks so defeated. Because he can’t even imagine having to say goodbye. And there was that other moment of dickheadery, not that long ago, when Cas left him that still smarts.

One where Cas said some truths before walking out the door of the bunker, and Dean thought he’d fixed it with that prayer, but this feels reminiscent. It feels like Cas is gearing up to push even harder than he already has, and like Cas thinks Dean’s response will warrant him leaving.

And Cas confirms this is not the beginning, but the end.

Cas: Because it is.

Oh. Oh no. No, you don’t.

But Cas does. He really does.

Don’t put me in this corner.

But that’s not even close to what’s actually happening, is it?

Dean has completely forgotten how this conversation started. He’s forgotten about Death at their door, he’s forgotten about the mention of the Empty, because all he can think about is how Cas sees him as a selfless, loving human being, who has changed him for the better.

And he comes across as though all he can think is that this is too much.

And Cas mirrors his head shake...

...because all I can see here is how Cas wants Dean to take it in now. The truth of it. He wants Dean to hear him. To know that he’s loved and deserving of it, not deny it or refuse it.

And Dean, for just the breath of a second, thinks don’t, Cas. Don’t make me question my entire self-view. Because I will.

Because though he cannot deal, he can’t lose Cas again either, as this episode has gone to great lengths to tell us. (like how he stepped between Cas and Billie plus all the loss of one half of couples that’s threaded through the ep)

And then all thoughts are interrupted. The Empty arrives. Moment of true happiness style. It has been said, and Cas is... well.

And the door opens as Billie breaks through.

And Dean turns to Cas and his face is wearing this expression->

As he says “Cas?” because he still don’t understand why this is goodbye. He doesn’t get that it’s goodbye because it has to be. Because Cas is about to sacrifice himself to save him...

And then we get this expression as Dean responds with that stunned

“What?”->

Because he wouldn’t have pushed Cas away for saying I love you. Sure he was internally having a mild fit, and he’d need a moment or two to gather his thoughts, and perhaps he’d have to say no, you don’t a few times, and have Cas say yes, I do, back in order to really convince him, but that goodbye...

That was supposed to happen only if Dean didn’t get his shit together.

And Dean would have gotten his shit together. He just needed a bit more time.

So for Cas to go ahead with the goodbye, even as Dean sees the Empty entering through that wall, is nonsensical. Hence the “What?”.

What do you mean I love you goodbye?

And then...

Oh that handprint.

Please let it be a symbol for putting the past to rest and moving forward into a healthy now, with hope for the future. Oh, Cas, please come back. And Dean, please instigate the return. You are loved because you deserve it. And you deserve good things and to be happy. Both of them do. Gods, I hope they get to be happy together.

*please please please please*

#spn 15x18 #spn meta #time for bed so this is not edited one bit #pardon me #deancas #destiel #i love you #goodbye #the greatest love story ever told #*fingers crossed*#:)

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pastelwitchling · 4 years ago

Text

Based on an anon’s lovely dream.

Also, to the forlex anon -- sorry about this. Maybe I’ll post some forlex tonight, or tomorrow morning at the latest.

***

Of all the ways Forrest had imagined spending his Friday night, sitting on a hospital floor across a closed room was not one of them.

But this was where Alex was, this was where Alex wanted to be, so Forrest knew there was nothing else for it. He had left to get his boyfriend a coffee and had come back to find him in the exact same position; staring at the closed door with an almost numb expression, as if lost in thought about the man lying asleep behind it.

Forrest nudged Alex’s arm with his elbow as he sat down beside him, handing him his drink. As Alex’s fingers closed around the hot cup, his shoulders fell slightly and he exhaled deeply as if he’d been frozen this entire time and was only now thawed free.

“Thank you,” Alex muttered but did not take a sip. The dark circles under his eyes were prominent, his cheeks hollowed out, his hair sticking out in messy – yet somehow perfect? – strands as Alex had run his hands through it more than once. It had been a weird night.

Forrest and Alex had been having a date in, lying on Alex’s couch, watching TV, Alex curled up on Forrest’s chest. Forrest had just leaned in for a kiss when the phone went off. Alex had said he would get rid of whoever it was, but even Forrest had heard the crying on the other end, had seen the way Alex’s brows had furrowed and his eyes had widened, how he’d put on his prosthetic and threw on his jacket, not bothering to change out of his sweats.

“Michael’s at the hospital,” Alex had said. “I – I need to go.”

It was only through sheer determination to go with him did Alex accept to have Forrest tag along. He had to be there for his boyfriend, didn’t he? He had to show that he wasn’t intimidated by Alex and Michael’s past relationship, for try as he might to deny it, Forrest wasn’t an idiot. He’d picked up on who Alex’s long time ago was a while ago. The only problem was that he’d believed it was over.

Now, however, as he watched Alex clutch his cup tighter, his eyes on Michael’s hospital door, unseeing, an unpleasant reality settled in his chest. An answer to a question he hadn’t realized he’d been asking since the night Alex had stood in front of an entire bar full of cowboys and sang a love song to someone else.

“Hey,” Forrest tried to keep his voice light, brushing back Alex’s bangs from his eyes. Alex’s eyes fluttered at the touch and Forrest’s heart ached. Bad timing, he thought. We were always just bad timing. “You should go home, get some sleep.”

Alex shook his head. “No, I – I can’t leave him.”

“He has Kyle looking after him,” Forrest said. “And his brother and sister are in the waiting room. Alex, you don’t have to be here.”

Alex said nothing a moment, then, “I can’t leave him.”

And despite it all, despite the twinge of anguish that washed over Forrest’s heart – because he’d really gotten to like this stubborn airman – he couldn’t help but feel a smile tug at his lips.

“I know you can’t,” he said softly. “Well,” he sighed, “Alex Manes, it was a fun ride.”

At this, Alex’s brows furrowed and he turned to Forrest. For the first time in hours, Alex’s eyes seemed to fall back into focus. “What?”

“I really loved getting to know you –”

“Wait, what’re you talking about? What’re you doing?” Alex asked.

Maybe it was just because it was the dead of night, but Forrest felt sad. He really saw a life with this guy, as short as their time was. Something had connected, he couldn’t really explain it, but…

Bad timing.

He straightened his shoulders and, with his small smile, said, “I’m breaking up with you.”

Alex sat up properly, setting his coffee cup on the ground. “W-Why? Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Forrest said. “By all accounts, you’re the perfect boyfriend.”

“Then why are you breaking up with me?”

Forrest sighed, searching Alex’s face for any hope. And it was there, and that was the saddest part of all. Alex did want him, did truly like him, and yet… there was Michael, always there, in his core.

He groaned. “This would be so much easier if you weren’t so cute.”

“I don’t want to break up,” Alex said. “If it’s because we’re here, then… then, I swear, the second he wakes up –”

“Don’t,” Forrest shook his head. “Don’t force yourself to make that kind of oath. You don’t want it either.”

��I’m not in love with Michael.”

“Yes, you are,” Forrest said. “And I knew that, and I thought I could live with it, but… Alex, being apart from him will kill you, and I can’t live with that.”

“I don’t want to be apart from you!” Alex said, and Forrest fought back the desperate part of him that wanted to surge forward and kiss him.

Forrest rested his head against the wall and said nothing a moment, then, “Can you look me in the eyes… and honestly tell me that you” – he cleared his throat – “that you would rather be with me than him?”

Alex held Forrest’s gaze daringly, his chin jutted out in that stubborn way Forrest had come to like a little too much, and opened his mouth to answer. Nothing came out.

Forrest tried not to feel disappointed, but the thought of not spending anymore nights with Alex, of not waking up to his dark eyes and tousled hair after accidentally falling asleep together, of not being able to kiss him anymore or pick his brain or make him laugh or see his smile – it all kept the sad look in his eyes more than anything else had in a very long time.

Alex’s shoulders fell, resigned, his expression grieved. He shook his head. “I… Forrest, I…”

Forrest cupped Alex’s jaw and leaned in, kissing his lips softly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me, too.”

Michael opened his eyes to white walls, white sheets, and a needle in his hand.

“Look at that,” someone said, and Michael looked over to see Kyle. “Sleeping beauty’s finally awake.”

“Screw you,” Michael croaked, and went into a fit of coughs.

“Serves you right,” Kyle said, even as he helped Michael sit up against his pillow.

Michael took in the IV strip, the monitors, and raised a brow.

“You know this is all useless for someone like me, right?”

Kyle sighed, writing something down on a clipboard. “It’s to keep up appearances. You have any idea how many nurses I’ve had to warn out of here? I did a blood test on myself to help your sorry ass stay secret, so how about a little gratitude?”

“Blah blah blah,” Michael rolled his eyes. “You got any nail polish remover?”

Kyle scoffed, and pulled out a small bottle from his pocket that Michael just knew had been left for him by one of his siblings. “I wouldn’t drink that right now if I were you,” he muttered.

“And why not?”

“Oh no reason,” Kyle returned the clipboard to its place at the foot of the bed. “Isobel and Max are in the waiting room. They’ll want to see you.”

“They’re still here?”

“They’re not the only ones,” he said, and nudged his chin at the door. “Alex is right outside.”

Michael had just uncapped the bottle in his hands, but before he could take a single sip, he froze. “Alex?”

“Yep,” he said. “He’s been sitting out there since you were brought in. Hasn’t moved.”

Michael swallowed. “If you’re messing with me, Valenti…”

It was Kyle’s turn to roll his eyes as he opened the door and stepped out. A few seconds later, Alex came in, looking exhausted but thoroughly relieved. Michael slowly set the acetone bottle aside, not daring to make any sudden moves in case it scared the airman away.

“Alex,” he said, and came up short.

Alex was in his sweats, a hoodie thrown over his Air Force t-shirt, his hair a perfect mess, his cheeks rosy and his hands trembling. In other words, he was beautiful.

“Uh – Isobel called me,” he said, hugging himself tightly. Michael wondered if it was because of the cold or something else. “She and Max are –”

“—in the waiting room,” Michael finished. “I know.”

“They’ll be up soon,” he said. “You – uh – you want me to wait outside, or –?”

“No, stay,” he blurted without thought, almost rising in his bed. He sat back down and cleared his throat. “I mean, if I want to.”

For a second, Alex looked as if he might just offer to head back home, now that he’d seen Michael was okay, but he nodded instead. “I want to.”

He sat in the small armchair next to Michael’s bed, knees pressed together, still hugging himself.

“Are you cold?” Michael asked, and Alex shook his head.

“Does it hurt? Your head?”

“A little,” Michael admitted. “I’ll get better at it next time.”

Alex pursed his lips. “So you’re gonna try again?”

“I have to,” he shrugged. “I gotta access other parts of my powers, like Max and Isobel did.”

“It didn’t hurt them like it hurt you,” Alex noted, his brows furrowed. “I wonder why.”

“Beats me,” Michael said, though secretly, he had a feeling he knew exactly why.

In trying to use his abilities, he’d been less focused on getting to know himself and his powers better, and more on being able to impress Alex, on getting him back, on his anger at Forrest – his mind had been troubled with too many thoughts, too much frustration, too much desperation to focus. In the end, he’d only hurt himself. Alex didn’t need to know that though. Michael’s troubles didn’t need to become his.

Still, it looked like Alex had enough troubles just looking at Michael sitting in a hospital bed.

“But you’re okay now?” Alex asked, his voice small. “You’re not in too much pain?”

Michael watched his eyes fill with tears and everything fell into place; his hesitation, the way he held himself, the way he sat – as if terrified that any slight move might shatter the cowboy.

Instead of answering, Michael held his arms out. Alex followed his movements and he huffed a cry before he stood and fell into Michael’s arms, wrapping his own around Michael’s shoulders.

Michael held him tightly as he cried into his shoulder. “Shh,” he whispered. “Baby, it’s okay. I’m okay.”

“Isobel was crying,” Alex breathed, “when she called, I – I thought –”

Michael held onto Alex’s waist more tightly, his other hand in Alex’s hair. Alex smelled of wood and maple syrup, just like he always did, but it felt like a millennia had passed since Michael had gotten to hold him like this. He buried his face in the crook of Alex’s neck, pulling Alex’s whole body in against his.

To feel his chest, his arms, his skin, his warmth – Michael felt so dizzy with his longing and desire that he thought he might faint again. When Alex pulled away, it felt as if Michael’s very soul was leaving his body, desperate to follow.

Alex wiped his face, sitting on the edge of Michael’s bed instead as Michael held onto his wrist, forbidding him from moving too far away.

“I’m sorry,” Alex said hoarsely.

“Don’t be,” Michael said. “I’d pass out a hundred times if it means we got to do that every time I woke up.”

Alex ducked his head. “Michael…”

Michael squeezed Alex’s wrist once before forcing himself to let go. “I know,” he said. “I shouldn’t talk like that. You have Forrest…” he faltered at Alex’s expression. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Alex looked away, hugging himself once more, though Michael was relieved that he wasn’t hurting himself this time. “He came with me,” he said, and Michael tried not to let his heart fall into his stomach.

“Y-Yeah? He’s waiting outside then?”

Alex shook his head, wiping at his face roughly, and Michael understood. He was happy, so happy, and he felt guilty for it, because at the same time, nothing seemed worth Alex’s tears.

“Was it because of me?”

Alex scoffed and sniffed. “Yeah, it was,” he said, and Michael felt himself crumble only until he saw the airman’s smile. “Once again, Guerin, you’ve ruined my life.”

Michael felt himself smile as he searched Alex’s face. There was no hostility there, no hatred, no blame – there never was. And Michael loved him. He loved him like he could never say.

“I’m always doing that,” he said instead.

Alex shook his head, and Michael hesitantly reached for him again. Alex bit his lower lip only for a minute before he complied, leaning into Michael’s embrace, his head on Michael’s chest as they lay in bed together. They held each other for the longest time, and Michael wondered if Kyle had taken his time getting to Max and Isobel, or if they all purposely decided to give him and Alex their time alone.

Michael was tempted to run a hand up Alex’s shirt, to pull him under the covers with him, to kiss every inch of him right here and now, but something in the way Alex sniffled and wiped at his face every so often told Michael he just wasn’t ready for that kind of intimacy.

Still, that didn’t keep him from running a hand up and down Alex’s back, from pressing his lips to the top of Alex’s head, from sending his other hand down Alex’s side.

“Stop touching me like that,” Alex breathed against his collar. Michael’s hand instantly stilled.

“Does it bother you?”

Alex shook his head and moved closer to Michael so that he was completely curled up against the cowboy. Michael’s own heart hammered so painfully he thought it might jump out.

“I just… want to be here with you,” he confessed quietly. “Can’t I?”

Michael clenched his jaw, his eyes burning. If this is a dream, he silently begged, please don’t ever let me wake up.

“Yeah, Private,” he whispered as he wrapped his arms tightly around Alex. “Yeah, you can.”

#alex manes #forrest long #michael guerin #forlex #malex #forlex fic #malex fic #malex fanfic #malex fanfiction #roswell new mexico #roswell nm #malex angst #malex fluff #tyler blackburn #christian antidormi #michael vlamis

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flowerslut · 4 years ago

Text

Waiting Game

Words: 2657 Rated: T+ for canon-compliant mentions of suicide Summary: The story fell out in pieces, leaving Jasper and Emmett to sort through them to form the narrative on their own. Bella wasn’t dead; a fact Alice neglected to let anyone else in on. Alice was flying somewhere; it was unlikely that it would be back there, to Denali. Edward wasn’t coming home; it was assumed that Alice was heading wherever he was. Bella wasn’t dead, and Edward didn’t know it.

(New Moon gap-filler.)

A/N: Originally written for a Twilight charity fan-zine.

I humbly ask that if you read this story, please take a minute out of your day to go to MTHG.org and read about the Quileute tribe's Move to Higher Ground initiative. As a fandom it's important to acknowledge the true harm that has been inflicted upon this indigenous community and to educate ourselves accordingly. If you're able to, please consider donating to their cause. If you’re unable to make a monetary contribution, please share their cause in any way that you can; whether it's on social media, texting it to your friends, or bringing it up to family members. It's important to bring awareness to their situation now, before tragedy strikes and a natural disaster causes harm to this small, vulnerable community.

Today's story is part of a two-part fundraising initiative I've taken to Tumblr. Tomorrow I'll be posting an original song that will be available for download upon proof of donation to the Quileute tribe (any amount counts; even $1 is a great help.)

I’d also like to take this moment to request and encourage any Twilight content creators out there to take a moment this week/month/year to post one work dedicated to raising awareness and funds for the Quileute tribe. It was a beautiful thing to see everyone banding together last summer with the release of Midnight Sun, donating en masse, raising awareness, and encouraging education. I’d like to keep that momentum going through 2021, as well. 💗

(Story under cut)

“I just feel bad, you know?” A foot against the base of a tree only had to press slightly before the thick wood groaned and cracked, threatening to fall to the forest floor below. The snow was deep enough that Jasper imagined it would cause a mighty flurry to erupt around them, but he wasn’t about to stop Emmett from doing whatever he needed to distract himself. Grief rolled of him like a steady stream, relentless in it’s flow. “Like if we’d stayed, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“But we didn’t stay, and it did happen,” Jasper spoke gently, pushing back the guilt he’d only recently allowed himself to move on from. Alice had reasoned that it was likely that any type of incident that threatened Bella’s life, whether vampire-related or not, may have driven Edward away from her eventually. But Jasper knew that Alice had held onto hope even all these months later.

It really was a shame that Bella had died.

“It’s ridiculous,” Emmett finally pushed harder against the tree, and when it cracked and snapped beneath the force, catapulting snow into the air around them as the hundred-foot giant fell, neither man flinched. “It didn’t have to be like this. It wasn’t just his choice. She could’ve been one of us by now. It’s what she wanted.”

Emmett’s grief was a passing storm, Jasper knew. Emmett always handled change and tragedy and disappointment far better than any member of their odd little family. No matter how much the taller man cared for the now-dead human girl, Jasper knew that it wouldn’t take long for Emmett to move on.

As for their brother…

Jasper was dreading having to fill Carlisle and Esme in on the news. It didn’t feel right to deliver the news over the phone, so after a few vague voicemails and an even more ambiguous phone call, the pair were ending their hunting trip early and would be back at Tanya’s before midnight.

Not for the first time over the past couple of days, he wished Alice were still there. Empath that he was he had never been good at comfort, outside of using his ability to force it into the atmosphere. But still, Alice had tasked him with it regardless, informing him that Esme would take it hardest and it would be best to have them both back at the house before revealing the news.

And Edward, Alice said, absolutely could not know.

Rosalie had shocked Jasper by raging at that particular detail, her frustration trumping her initial shock and guilt so thoroughly Jasper had done a double-take, staring at the blonde curiously.

“He deserves to know,” Rosalie asserted, folding her arms over her chest as she eyed her shell-shocked husband, sitting at a nearby couch, his head in his hands. “It’s not fair for us to keep something like this from him.”

“I’m just relaying what Alice said,” Jasper deflected her irritation with half of a shrug, Tanya’s phone feeling particularly heavy in his hands. “It’s not like it would be easy information to get to him.”

Now, almost two days later, the knowledge that Bella Swan was dead sat in him like lead; heavy and unrelenting. Tanya and her sisters had expressed their sympathies, although Jasper could sense how bizarre they felt, watching Emmett frown and mope over some human girl. Carmen and Eleazar had volunteered to help them track down Edward, but Jasper quickly dismissed the offer, telling them what Alice had spoken.

Edward could not know. Not yet, at least.

“When Alice comes back, we’ll regroup,” Jasper spoke, watching as Emmett eyed an even-larger tree, likely considering knocking another one to the ground. “But when Carlisle and Esme come back, I’m going to need some back up.”

Emmett smiled thinly, nodding as he pulled his eyes off the tree and back toward Jasper. “Esme is going to be so wrecked.”

Jasper did not nod, but he did grimace at the idea of the matriarch of their family so distraught. It hadn’t mattered that the woman had only known Bella for a small amount of time. Esme had cherished and loved Bella the same as she did any of them.

It was as he was gathering the breath to speak, when Jasper stopped, his head turning back toward the direction of Tanya’s home in the distance.

Rosalie’s voice reached them only a millisecond before he’d felt it; sharp, piercing terror and guilt shooting through the somber atmosphere. Jasper was moving just as they heard the first shout.

“Emmett!” Rosalie screamed, “Emmett help!”

In all the races Jasper had entertained over the years, Emmett had never once beaten him, no matter how many times the taller man played dirty. But in all the years Jasper had been with the Cullens, through all her dramatic fits and tantrums, he had never once heard Rosalie sound so terrified.

So when Emmett beat him back to the property, snow flying around the men as they raced back toward the house, Jasper didn’t even find himself shocked. If someone could bend space and time through sheer strength alone, Jasper was sure Emmett would find a way. Anything to get to his wife.

They met a hysterical Rosalie half a mile from the house, and at first, little made sense.

“Rosie, Rosie,” Emmett held her tightly as words tumbled out of her too quickly and too disjointedly to make any sense. “Slow down, what’s going on?”

“I told him,” she screeched eventually, her words catching as the guilt and fear wrestled within her, “I messed up and I told him because he deserved to know and I—” when her words caught on a fully-formed sob, Jasper forced himself to look away. And as his eyes found Tanya and her sisters, appearing at the edge of the forest, worry coloring their faces, Rosalie finally let the rest of her words tumble out. “I miss my brother.”

And in that moment, Jasper knew what had happened.

Rosalie had told Edward Bella was dead.

Alice had strictly emphasized how that couldn’t happen. But now the boy knew. And Jasper didn’t have to be a mind-reader to guess how the impulsive teen was going to react.

“Oh, no,” Emmett whispered, clinging to his distraught wife. Jasper made eye contact with him and immediately knew that their minds were on the same page.

Now, Edward wouldn’t be coming back.

————————————

The story fell out in pieces, leaving Jasper and Emmett to sort through them to form the narrative on their own.

Bella wasn’t dead; a fact Alice neglected to let anyone else in on.

Alice was flying somewhere; it was unlikely that it would be back there, to Denali.

Edward wasn’t coming home; it was assumed that Alice was heading wherever he was.

Bella wasn’t dead, and Edward didn’t know it.

Thankfully it didn’t take long for Rosalie to calm. But while Emmett comforted her and soothed her guilt—guilt that Jasper could feel eating away at her stubborn facade—Jasper quickly and quietly explained to Tanya the situation.

“What can we do?” The strawberry blonde asked, sharing a horrified look with her sisters.

“I don’t know. I need to talk to Alice.”

And by the time they all made it back into the house, Esme and Carlisle had made it back from their trip.

One look at Rosalie, completely beside herself and shaking like a leaf, had forced the pair into action.

“What’s going on?” Carlisle demanded as Esme flew to Rosalie’s side, enveloping the girl in a tight embrace, her eyes as wide as saucers. “What happened?”

There had been plenty of things that Jasper never wanted Carlisle Cullen to find out. When he and Alice had first joined back in the fifties, that list had felt a mile long. Each fact about his past felt like a confession. Each story a token to pay for judgement never received.

Jasper watched Carlisle take so much in stride through the years that eventually, even after slip-ups, Jasper found himself comfortable enough to talk about it with the older man. To look him in the eye when the conversations transpired. He respected Carlisle, even cared for the man.

But how on Earth was he supposed to tell him that the boy he thought of as a beloved son might never be returning?

The hour that followed had been excruciating.

Emmett and Rosalie had disappeared soon after Carlisle and Esme’s arrival. It was only after Jasper asked when Irina hesitantly told him that they’d borrowed a car to drive to the closest airport in Fairbanks. From there, their plan was to call Alice and demand to know her location so they could help.

Not one to judge a plan made with good intentions Jasper had simply nodded and tried to tune out Esme’s grief.

He’d been right to suspect that the woman would take the news the hardest. If anyone Jasper had ever met deserved happiness, Esme did.

She’d already lost a son in a previous life. It felt cruel for history to repeat itself this way.

When the phone finally rang, Jasper answered it immediately.

“Hello?”

“I don’t have much time,” Alice spoke, her strained voice immediately soothing some of his anxieties just by the sound alone. “I have to make it quick so the flight attendant doesn’t interfere.”

“Where are you going?” He spoke, feeling the nerves in the house immediately begin to rise. He knew Carlisle and Esme were only in the next room, listening in as Eleazar and Carmen lingered close by.

“I’m going to stop Edward. There’s no getting a hold of him, so don’t even try. Our only chance at stopping him is by getting to him as soon as we can.”

“We?” That surprised him. It didn’t sound like an invitation. But quickly his surprise faded. Of course Bella would want part of whatever intervention Alice was staging. “And where, Alice?”

“Italy.”

“No,” he shouted the word before he could stop himself, and when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps he lowered his voice, curling himself around the phone as he walked in the opposite direction, “Alice, no.”

“If I don’t do this, Edward is as good as dead, Jasper.” Alice didn’t even sound surprised at his sudden outburst, of course. “Bella is alive, and once he sees that, I think we have a shot.”

“And if he doesn’t see that? What is he planning on doing? Join the Volturi?” It made little sense, but when it came to Edward’s fits, not much did. Of course, he was sure the alternative was more likely…

“He’s going to ask them to kill him.” She spoke, confirming his fears. “He knows they’re the only people who would willingly do it. And if they don’t want to do it willingly, he’ll force their hand.”

Jasper swore then, turning to see Carlisle standing in the doorway to the kitchen, a frown etched deep into his kind face. He knew the man could hear every word Alice was saying, even despite her lowered voice and hushed tone.

The two locked eyes for a moment before Jasper forced himself to look away and continue speaking.

“How?”

“I can’t be sure, I keep seeing him do different things, he keeps changing his mind.”

“What’s he picking between?”

“A killing spree through the city, attacking the guard, lifting a car over his head in the main square,” Jasper hissed at that, hating the fact that Edward was truly considering all of these things for Alice to get even a vague vision of them. Alice continued without a beat. “Mostly things that would expose them—he knows that’s he fastest way to force a reaction.”

“Alice, I don’t think you can stop him on your own.” Not that he doubted Alice’s abilities for a second, but if Edward was so ravaged by grief and hopelessness that he’d resort to murdering innocents, he couldn’t help but fear what his brother might do if Alice tried to stop him on her own. “I can be there, just give me some time to get to the airport.”

“No, you can’t.”

“You’re going to have company anyways once Emmett figures out where you are.”

“Tell Emmett no.”

“He and Rosalie are likely at Fairbanks International now.” He was surprised she wasn’t aware of that. He was sure they would have been calling Alice non-stop by now. Truly all of her attention was focused on Edward.

“Well, go after Emmett and Rosalie and bring them back.”

“Alice, I think we could be of some help there. Seriously.”

“Think about it, Jasper. If he sees any of us, what do you think he will do?”

Jasper sighed at that. But when he realized Alice was waiting on a verbal reply he closed his eyes, running a hand through his hair. “He’ll act faster. He’ll know we’re just trying to stop him. That we’ll tell him anything to get him to listen.” Even if it was the truth, that Bella was alive, Edward would absolutely never believe them, especially with Alice knowing his true intentions.

“Exactly. I think Bella is the only chance—if there is a chance…”

“Be honest, Alice. What is the chance? It sounds like he’s got a head start on you two.”

“I’ll do everything that can be done, but prepare Carlisle; the odds aren’t good.”

“And what happens then? If you fail. You’ll be in Volterra with nothing but a human at your side. Aro will,” he swallowed, trying hard to ignore Carlisle’s concerned gaze on his back, “he won’t want to let you go if he sees into Edward’s mind.”

Of course, Alice had the goddamn audacity to sound amused at the idea. “I’ve thought of that.”

He forced a few calm breaths, then. “Alice, you need to promise me you won’t put yourself in danger. I refuse to let this situation get worse than it already is. And it’s already bad enough. Promise me you’ll get out.”

“Yes, I promise.” But her words were too practiced. Too ready. No matter how much he trusted his wife, Jasper didn’t believe her for a second.

“I can be there soon, please. Alice, let me help. I’ll have Rosalie and Emmett come back to wait here with Carlisle and Esme. Do not do this alone.”

“Don’t follow me. I promise, Jasper. One way or another, I’ll get out.”

Jasper sighed. “If anything happens, all bets are off.” There was a moment of silence then, and when Alice didn’t contradict his words, he found himself feeling only the slightest bit better. If things went south, he’d be there, and nothing on god’s green earth would stop him. Alice had to know that.

Whether she’d seen it was something he didn’t want to know. (Because that would mean her failure was more likely than she was leading on.)

“Be safe, Alice,” he whispered, clinging to the phone with both hands now, knowing that soon she’d be gone, “I love you.”

“And I love you.”

He stood entirely still for several seconds before the beeping of the dead line brought him back to reality. Alice was on the way to a viper pit and here he was, standing in a too-big kitchen with marble countertops clutching a cordless phone like it was his lifeline. Told to sit and stay and wait, as if he’d ever been good at any of those three things in his goddamn life.

When Carlisle placed a hand on his shoulder, he nearly jumped, so taken off guard by the motion that the older man immediately apologized.

But when Jasper finally turned his eyes onto the man who had accepted he and Alice into his family over fifty years ago, it was easy to push the hesitance aside when Carlisle asked firmly, “What do we do now?”

And like always, Jasper had an answer for him. But not one he wanted to provide.

“We wait.”

#twilight saga #twilight fanfiction #MTHG #cmon content creators!#share a snippet of a WIP with a donate link!#post that link without fanfare!#encourage donations and offer content in return!#use your platforms for good you funky renaissance weirdos!#anyways this is mainly jasper/Alice bc 96% of my content is #so be sure to unclench those cheeks and try not to be a loser about that

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ratcarney · 4 years ago

Text

wordless

on top of his normal wakachi duties, raikou struggles to find a way to communicate with gau without the use of his voice. gau takes on more responsibility. yukimi is playfully homophobic, but not to a worrying extent.

based on this post and my newfound obsession with the wakachi monologue.

———

“you’ve heard me do it a million times, gau.” raikou whispered. “you’ve got this.”

“stop talking.” gau murmured as he paced back and forth, repeating raikou’s infamous wakachi speech to himself in his head.

raikou sighed and adjusted his scarf. “i can do it if you’re too nervous.”

gau looked pointedly at him. “no way. and i said stop talking.” he stopped pacing to take a breath, then turned his attention back to raikou. “drink some tea.”

raikou rolled his eyes, but obeyed the order. he sipped from one of gau’s teacups and winced as he swallowed.

if he was being honest with himself, while losing his voice was probably the least of his problems, it was the problem that frustrated him the most. so much of wakachi work depended on him being able to communicate with gau. they needed to be on the same page if they had a chance at succeeding in their field. success meant trust from hattori, and trust from hattori meant everything.

“i hate that we have to go out when you’re feeling like this.” gau fretted. “you’re sure you can’t ask the boss to reschedule?”

raikou shook his head. “i won’t make excuses for myself, especially not now when we’ve made it this far.” he held his teacup with both hands, savoring the warmth of the porcelain. gau frowned and walked over to where raikou was sitting. gently, he touched the palm of his hand to raikou’s forehead.

“do you feel warm?” gau asked, the pitch of his voice rising the way it did when he was anxious.

“not at all.” raikou exhaled. “stop worrying, gau, i’m fine.” he set his teacup down and crossed his arms over his chest. outside, the sun was setting, sending orange-tinted light spilling from the windows.

gau took his hand back. “stop talking.” his tone was firm, but raikou heard the concern in it.

raikou nodded and let his head tilt back slightly so it rested against the wall. he closed his eyes, trying to stave off a brewing headache by sheer force of will alone. the stubborn brightness of the setting sun certainly wasn’t doing his head any favors. asking gau for a painkiller would have been easier, but now, talking also seemed like a lot of work. the only appealing option was to fall asleep until they needed to go out and find a traitor, but raikou wasn’t in the habit of falling asleep before at least midnight.

—

“raikou.” gau whispered, touching his shoulder. “wake up. it’s time.”

raikou blinked in surprise. looking out the window, he saw the sun had disappeared, leaving a cloudy darkness in its wake. he opened his mouth, but a withering look from gau made him close it again.

“please don’t talk.” gau stepped back and shrugged his coat on. he carefully handed shirogamon over to raikou. “how do you feel?”

raikou tried to smile, but judging by the look on gau’s face, it probably looked more like a grimace.

“we’ll make it quick. yukimi’s driving us.”

raikou raised an eyebrow.

“i asked him about ten thousand times and he finally agreed.” gau smiled. “but he made it clear that he was doing it for you, not for me.”

they walked in silence down to the elevator and rode it to the basement level. yukimi was waiting for them, leaning up against his car and jotting something down in a notebook.

“it’s about time.” he growled, but upon making eye contact with raikou, he softened. “damn, look at you.” yukimi looked him up and down with something a shade darker than pity. before raikou could enter the car, he rolled up his sleeve and touched the inside of his wrist to raikou’s forehead.

raikou tried to dodge it, but yukimi stopped him by gripping his shoulder. unable to say anything, he opted to roll his eyes in lieu of a defiant comment. concern from gau was one thing, but pity from yukimi made him want to scream.

“not too bad.” yukimi sighed and loosened his grip on raikou’s shoulder. “you shouldn’t be out for too long, though. and don’t try anything fancy, just get in and out, you hear?”

raikou nodded, trying valiantly to make a face that accurately communicated the phrase “shut up, yukimi” with equal parts annoyance and begrudging affection.

“i’m serious, raikou. no showing off.” yukimi narrowed his eyes. “save the flashy shit for when you can talk.” then his glare fell upon gau. “get him back in one piece. then we’ll have kazuho take a look at him.”

“yes, sir.”

“alright.” yukimi moved so that raikou could get in the front seat. “you’re goin’ downtown, yeah?” gau rattled off the address, and yukimi pulled out of the parking lot and into the street.

raikou sighed and tightened his scarf. yukimi glanced at him and snickered. clearly he was amused.

“you’ve got a goddamn accessory for everything.” yukimi snickered, trying in vain to suppress his schadenfreude. “fucking ridiculous.”

unable to do anything else, raikou glared at him. he was thinking quite a few choice words, but after reminding himself that yukimi was doing him a favor, he let his sullen thoughts fade away. he would get yukimi back later. raikou contented himself with silently scheming for the rest of the car ride.

“this is it.” gau said from the backseat, and raikou snapped back to reality. yukimi parked the car and stared into raikou’s eyes.

“look at me. keep it simple.” he growled. “and come right back.”

raikou nodded and signed “yes,” which was more or less the extent of his japanese sign language knowledge. he knew yukimi knew more than he did. he had been trying to find ways to talk with the kira technique kid who was holed up in his apartment all the time.

yukimi chuckled, a rare moment of genuine amusement without a trace of sadism. “go, kid.”

raikou stepped out of the car to join gau on the sidewalk. he kept a cautious hand on shirogamon as they walked through a back alley.

finally, after about ten minutes, raikou heard faint footsteps around the corner, the trained kind that could only belong to an iga ninja.

he felt gau tense up next to him, and touched his shoulder to put him at ease. gau looked at him expectantly.

the wordless tilt of raikou’s chin said “well, go on.”

gau nodded and stepped out from around the corner. raikou casually followed, knowing that his presence was a lot more threatening than gau’s, and it was better to be fashionably late than directly on gau’s heels.

the traitor, a tall, grizzled man, eventually said the words raikou and gau knew to be inevitable: “who the hell are you?”

to raikou’s surprise, gau smiled.

“we are the wakachi.” he said coolly.

they raised their right hands to show their identical bracelets at an angle that perfectly caught the light of the moon. the metal shone, sinister in the dim light of late evening.

“treason control officers of the kairoshu. meanwhile…”

raikou stopped listening to the words he knew by heart and observed gau from the corner of his eye. he was standing tall and confident in a way that he had never stood before. the infamous wakachi speech was comprised of words he had heard a million times before, but it was evident that the words didn’t control him. he controlled them.

in the light of the moon, gau’s eyes glittered with a certain delight. he was taking pleasure in having power, raikou realized with pride. gau deserved this power, and until now, raikou hadn’t seen it from him. raikou took some more pride in hearing gau emphasize the same words and syllables as he did when he did the speech himself, mirroring his own cadence and tone, but making the speech uniquely his nonetheless. the change in his attitude was mesmerizing, and raikou almost missed his cue.

“...you are to be severely punished.” gau stepped back of his own accord, not needing raikou to remind him.

raikou narrowed his eyes and ran towards the traitor, keeping his head low in case he had a weapon. sure enough, raikou heard the familiar click of a gun before thrusting shirogamon into the traitor’s chest. he removed his blade quickly before looking back to see the man hit the ground. his gun clattered against the pavement and slid a few feet away.

the traitor was suitably punished, having paid for his disloyalty with his life, and raikou raised shirogamon a final time. he hesitated, and yukimi’s words echoed in his head.

don’t try anything fancy, just get in and out, you hear?

keep it simple.

raikou sighed and sheathed shirogamon, feeling exhaustion setting into his body. the adrenaline of the kill was draining away.

gau knelt and cut a lock of dark hair from the body. he sealed it in a plastic bag and pocketed it before approaching raikou.

“your scarf.” he tilted his head, a worried expression on his face replacing the confident one he had worn a few minutes earlier.

raikou looked down. blood had spattered onto it and dark red stains bloomed on the fabric. gau inspected it closely.

“i can probably get those out.” he mused, looking up at raikou. he swiped at raikou’s cheek, attempting to remove some blood from his face. “you’re usually more careful. we should get you home.”

raikou dipped his head in agreement. gau stepped over the body and looked back to wait for raikou, who had walked around it. they made their way back to the main street side by side. after a minute, gau looked up at raikou.

“did i do okay?” he asked. “with talking, i mean…”

i’m proud beyond belief, raikou wanted to say. you impressed me. you did amazingly, and i am so lucky to have you by my side, gau.

but he couldn’t.

gau looked at him with bated breath.

raikou stopped and did the only thing he could think to do.

he hugged gau.

physical affection wasn’t usually his ideal avenue for expressing his feelings, but taking gau in his arms was easy, like he belonged there.

gau had tensed up at the contact, but relaxed after the shock wore off. he hugged raikou back, his chin resting on raikou’s shoulder.

raikou felt gau’s hands on his back. they were still a little shaky from doing the wakachi speech by himself. his adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet.

slowly, gently, raikou reached up and cupped the back of gau’s head with his hand, bringing him even closer. he swallowed hard. “you did so well.” the words were barely audible, but the weight they held made up for the lack of volume. in that moment, hattori didn’t matter. the traitor didn’t matter. earning trust and advancing the ranks of the kairoshu didn’t matter. what mattered was how tight gau was holding him, like raikou would fade away if he wasn’t careful. communication didn’t have to be through words, raikou realized, suddenly hyper-aware of gau’s arms wrapped around him. through his touch, gau conveyed the honor, the gratefulness, and all the pride he felt not only to have done the wakachi speech correctly, but to have done it by raikou’s side.

gau pulled away and raikou noticed with concern that his eyes were shining with tears. before he could apologize, gau smiled brightly and wiped them away. “you don’t know how much that means to me, raikou.” he said softly. “and please stop talking.”

raikou nodded. he tousled gau’s hair, hoping that the little gesture conveyed his pride the way gau’s touch had. by the look on gau’s face, he knew that it did.

“are you done?”

gau and raikou’s heads whipped toward the opening of the alley. yukimi stood there, leaning against the wall and pointedly checking his watch.

gau jumped back from raikou, his cheeks reddening. “sorry, yukimi.” he squeaked.

“gayass.” yukimi muttered, just loud enough for raikou to register that he was addressing both of them.

raikou looked up at yukimi, adjusting his scarf and daring yukimi to say something about it. to his confusion, yukimi’s eyes widened.

“raikou…”

before raikou could do anything, gau piped up. “it’s not his.” he assured yukimi. raikou looked down and saw the traitor’s blood stained on his scarf, vest, and sleeves.

yukimi sighed, the tension leaving his shoulders. “scared the hell out of me, kid. get in the car, i’m sure you’re tired.” as raikou walked to the car, yukimi’s eyes narrowed. “you’re usually more careful.”

“that’s what i said.” gau said, already sitting in the backseat.

“pipe down.” yukimi rolled his eyes. “get in, raikou.”

raikou nodded and walked around the car to get in the passenger seat. he sank into the seat, only then realizing how tired he was. yukimi noticed.

“just hang on ‘til we get to your place.”

raikou’s eyelashes fluttered, his eyes threatening to close completely, but before they could do so, he felt gau’s hand on his shoulder. he didn’t have the energy to turn his head, but he could tell that gau was smiling. his touch conveyed affection beyond the likes of what could be said aloud.

raikou’s pride for gau and his wakachi performance was still coursing through the air between the two of them, speaking volumes in its electric silence. they had created a form of communication that was all their own. raikou exhaled and let himself get lost in gau’s gentle touch.

there were no words needed.

#I HAVE CAST SPELL OF SHUT THE FUCK UP ONTO RAIKOU #I HAVE STOLEN HIS VOICE LIKE FUCKING URSULA #I AM GOING TO TORTURE A CHARACTER IN A WAY THAT IS SO METAPHORICAL #communication is KEY raikou #talk to your loved ones!#real talk actually he and gau are so cute. i don’t mean in like a romantic way i just mean in a love that transcends definition kind of way #jo.posts #jo.fic #nabari no ou #nno #nno fic #raikou shimizu #gau meguro #yukimi kazuhiko

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of-muppets-and-men · 4 years ago

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Penumbra

Sweet Jesus... I am still alive and finally back with another chapter. Apologies once again for failing to post it here and for taking so long.

Link here if you’d prefer AO3.

June 17th.

It had been a day like any other for Ichigo.

He was just a boy then, living his best life alongside his father, newborn sisters and his beloved mother. There was no worry, no cause for distress; just bliss. How could anything be wrong with his mother by his side? Unfortunately for the Kurosaki family, fate was not so kind as to leave them be.

One moment and life was never the same.

Even now, as a grown man, as a father, Masaki’s absence still ate away at his soul. So once again, Ichigo in front of his mother’s headstone, lamenting alone in the rain. He paid no mind to the rain beat against his umbrella or the moist fabric of his pants against his legs. Ever since he and Orihime wed, he’d make the walk to the graveyard on his own. It felt troublesome to ask his son to pay respects to a grandmother he’d never known and Orihime somehow made coming here a worse affair than it already was… So he asked her to stop.

Not that it mattered to him; he liked it better this way. A more personal touch rather than the exuberant parade his father kept on with. It was just him and her. And so he lit the incense, joining his hands in prayer.

“Hey Mom… Been another mundane year but I hope you’re doing okay. Kazui’s getting big, I wish you could’ve met him…”

The young man shut his eyes, sighing deep and heavy in the gentle yet steady wisps of rain. Eyes still closed, Ichigo’s right and slipped down the face of the grave. He traced his fingers across the damp pillar of stone, feeling every dip in the engraving when something drew his attention away. A slight chill went down his spine as he sensed the faint spiritual pressure.

Ichigo knew the signature well: A Hollow.

His days as a substitute Shinigami may have been over but that didn’t stop Hollows from roaming around Karakura. Or keep his natural-born abilities from sensing them mucking around. Ichigo felt every muscle in his body tense up, screaming at him to don Zangetsu once more. With a clenched fist, He decided it was time to return home. After all, it was no longer his place to interfere; a path long behind him now.

“Sorry, Mom. I’ll swing back around when I have the chance.” Ichigo said mournfully. He started the fair walk back to the clinic, body still in turmoil.

C’mon, it’ll only take a minute.

Coward, you’ve faced down GODS. What’s one little hollow?

His mind beckoned him to act. To make good on the vow he’d made to her all those years ago. But he resisted, persistent as his subconscious was. Although their pleas did beg the question. Who was assigned to defend Karakura from Hollows now? It certainly wasn’t he knew, otherwise they’d never leave him alone. Ichigo pretended not to care before his mind travelled elsewhere. Or more specifically, to one person in particular.

Rukia.

How was she? Was she a captain by now? Did she marry that idiot, Renji? So many questions he wanted an answer to.

It had been so long since they’d last spoken. 9 years? No, probably closer to 10 now… Not since that night after the war ended. A night that was easily one of the best of his entire life. But… it was as equally bittersweet. So many things he’d wished he’d said to her then. How different things would be if he hadn’t been paralyzed by indecision. If he’d damned all the laws of the Soul Society to let her hear those three little words.

Ichigo let his arm drop to his side, letting the rain soak the rest of him, “I am a coward…”

And so he walked home, leaving his umbrella behind. The cold drops of water streamed down his sullen face and seeped everywhere else. Ichigo had long thought the rain had disappeared, but like all the relief in his life, it was only for a few fleeting moments.

Elsewhere

Suì-Fēng kept her stance firm, eyes and ears sharp; waiting for even the slightest notion of her enemy. Sand and dirt crunched beneath her sandals as she felt a bead of sweat across her brow. The commander of the punishment force focused on every shifting shadow like a mantis hunting for prey.

“Where are you?” She whispered with an almost jovial hum.

As she uttered the last syllable, she heard the faintest shift in the stones. From above? Good strategy, the lieutenant’s mind mused.

*woosh*

The Shinigami barely had time to think as her foe lunged forward with blinding speed, thrusting their blade with determined vigor. Side-stepping the tip, Suì-Fēng flipped the assailant onto the floor then scrambled for a chokehold. Arms taut around her foe’s neck, Suì-Fēng couldn’t help but gloat.

“You’re gonna have to try harder than that if you wanna beat me, Katsumi.”

A confident chuckle passed Suì-Fēng’s lips as her Captain’s adopted daughter scowled in defeat. But as Suì-Fēng loosened her grip, Katsumi’s silhouette faded into nothing, only leaving behind a single golden ribbon.

“What?!”

“HADO 63: RAIKŌHŌ!!!”

Gray eyes shifted to the adjacent hill, just inside her blind spot. A roaring bolt of lightning surged toward the captain, caught entirely off guard. It was only Yoruichi’s reflexes that managed to get her out of the spell’s way; Suì-Fēng had the singed uniform and hair to match her luck. A Flash step later and the captain and lieutenant were clear of the blast. Its fearsome might shook the ground beneath her, sending dirt and sand asunder into the air.

“Good grief, that much damage with no incantation?” Suì-Fēng scowled, her pride undoubtedly tarnished and by a child no less.

A scoff laced with envy. In the lieutenant’s youth, such mastery and skill were demanded of her; to bring honour not only to her house but to the name Shihouin as well. And to ultimately be out done, prodigy or no, was an unforgivable grievance; at least in her mind. Suì-Fēng moped on the floor of the training hall while she watched her beloved Yoruichi call for Katsumi.

“Katsumi! That’s enough for today!” she called out, her voice faintly echoing, “Bring it in!”

In a moment’s notice, the jovial little girl appeared before her elder shinigami. Arms taut behind her back, Katsumi bobbed up and down out of sheer excitement, eagerly awaiting her mother’s praise.

“How did I do?”

“You performed magnificently, sweetheart. A solid plan with beautiful execution. Not to mention your use of Utsusemi and a high level kido spell such as Raikoho. Even some Captains have trouble utilizing those techniques.”

“Well, I did learn from the best.” Katsumi proudly announced.

Yoruichi ruffled a loving hand through her hair, “I think it’s more than that but thank you darling. Suì-Fēng? Anything you wish to add?”

Her Lieutenant sat silently for a moment, bowing her head a touch.

“Nothing, My Lady. Katsumi performed… exemplary.” The lieutenant gritted, swallowing a bit of her pride, “But don’t let this get to your head, kid…”

“That a challenge?” The girl smirked.

Suì-Fēng’s mood switched instantly back into the same annoyed grouch she always. Her eyebrows became so furrowed, Katsumi thought they might pop off her face. The younger soul kept her grin, trying desperately not to giggle; teasing Suì-Fēng being a trait Yoruichi more or less approved of.

“THAT DOES IT! My lady, would you mind if we went another round?” the petite woman hissed.

“Suì-Fēng… We have an Officer’s meeting to attend.” Yoruichi breathed, clearly exhausted by her lieutenant’s temper.

Before Suì-Fēng could retort, Katsumi beat her to the punch, “C’mon, Mom. One quick spar?”

A deep, audible sigh left the Captain’s mouth, “Ughh… Fine. Just one. Take your positions.”

The lieutenant and apprentice stood and faced one another; Suì-Fēng more than ready to showcase the full power of an officer. Yoruichi would act as their referee, hand raised in waiting.

“Begin.” as she chopped her hand.

The two clashed into a heated fistfight, each feinting and striking with lethal efficiency. Suì-Fēng poured her all into every blow in an attempt to finish this battle quickly. But try as she might, Katsumi kept up, parrying every jab and checking every kick she threw. Growing more frustrated by the second, Suì-Fēng’s blows grew more wild. How can this child possibly keep up with me? Her mind vehemently screamed. Meanwhile, Yoruichi witnessed her lieutenant’s anguish in full. If only she could tell Suì-Fēng who this girl was...

Katsumi on the other hand kept her composure, waiting, watching for an opportunity. And it would most surely come. In her fury, Suì-Fēng’s guard had become sloppy, letting Katsumi slip a spinning kick up and through it. Pegging her chin. It was enough to stun the lieutenant, allowing the young girl to sweep her off her feet.

“Enough! The winner is Katsumi.” Yoruichi announced.

In a show of sportsmanship, Katsumi offered a hand to her downed opponent, only for Suì-Fēng to knock it aside. Breaths heavy, the lieutenant shakily rose to her feet. She assumed her fighting stance again, urging Katsumi to continue.

“Again…” was all she could say. How had she progressed so much in a year?

Before Katsumi could speak or act, Yoruichi stepped in front of her, shielding her daughter from view. And her lieutenant’s stubbornness quickly turned to acquiesce. Suì-Fēng’s captain stared down upon her, eyes cold and daunting as if a member of Central 46 itself.

“Suì-Fēng. Enough. You have nothing to prove to me so let’s end this before you embarrass yourself further.” Her beloved captain reprimanded, arms crossed.

Avoiding her gaze and keeping her head low, Suì-Fēng relented, “Yes, My Lady…”

Knowing full well she couldn’t fully explain the depths of Katsumi’s heritage nor exploit Rukia’s secrets, Yoruichi sought to dismiss herself and Katsumi. Though it did sting, having to watch a dear friend go through such a pressing mental ordeal. So in an act of sympathy, the captain walked over to her defeated subordinate, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“I need to take my daughter home and prepare for this afternoon’s meeting. Can I trust you to do the same?”

“Yes, Lady Yoruichi.” Suì-Fēng spoke, dutiful and precise.

Keeping her voice hushed so Katsumi wouldn’t hear, Yoruichi whispered into her lieutenant’s ear, “Don’t feel ashamed, My daughter is… Unique. One day I hope you’ll know what I mean.”

Now, more puzzled than depressed, Suì-Fēng looked up at her Captain. Her grey eyes begged for some level of clarity, but found none as amber looked back. It was a look she’d grown to know and hate. Equal parts wise and misleading. Suì-Fēng picked herself in a huff, while Yoruichi ushered for Katsumi to follow. The poor girl had patiently waited for her elders to conclude their business and was more than ready to return home. Katsumi practically pranced behind her mother, a gleeful hum on her lips.

Though her cheery demeanor didn’t last. Suì-Fēng wouldn’t meet her gaze as she passed by, out of shame or remaining slivers of pride, Katsumi could not tell. It was confusing; she wanted to feel proud of her victory but the way Suì-Fēng looked soured any attempt. The girl stopped briefly, fingers fiddling nervously as she said the only thing she could think to say.

“Sorry.”

Suì-Fēng looked back up as Katsumi ran after her mother then vanishing out of the cave altogether. Now alone with her thoughts, the lieutenant bitterly scoffed.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, kid…” fully aware no one could hear her.

***

It took practically no time at all for Yoruichi and Katsumi to reach the Shihouin Manor. The past year of these training lessons had been a strange blessing in disguise for the Commander of the Punishment Force. Helping Katsumi grow was inadvertently helping her keep up to par too. Yoruichi felt strong, perhaps even stronger than she had been against the Wandenreich. No sense of falling out of grace as she had over a century beforehand.

But aside from her own personal growth, she couldn’t help thinking about Katsumi’s. The jovial little girl holding onto her shoulders, that she watched grow since her birth, might very well become one of the strongest Shinigami in the history of the Soul Society. As Katsumi resumed humming, Yoruichi deliberated on how she stacked up to the foremost powerhouses of the Seireitei.

Zaraki and her father were monsters in their own right, but immense as their power was, it lacked any sort of refinement. Refinement Yoruichi had diligently instilled in her student. Katsumi’s reiatsu reserves likely match that of Captain Unohana herself. And while her Tōgetsu may not be a match to Ryujin Jakka or Kyoka Suigetsu, Katsumi’s creativity may yet change that still. But the scariest part was how fast she was progressing. A 10 year old girl had already outclassed the entire Shino academy, mastering Shunpo techniques, Hakuda and Zanjutsu that even took time for Yoruichi to learn. And it was only a matter of time until she learned Shunko… and Bankai.

But that train of thought would have to wait until, at least until after the meeting.

Landing in the courtyard, Yoruichi kneeled down to let Katsumi off before going inside. Apparently, her daughter had energy to spare, bolting off into the foyer with no trouble at all. Where she would bump into another member of her house.

“UNCLE YUSHIRO!” Yoruichi heard Katsumi scream, followed by a loud crash.

The Lady of the Manor rushed inside to investigate the ruckus, only to find Katsumi prancing around a half conscious Yushiro.

“Sister! You’Re BacK!” her little brother managed to say, “HoW diD tHe traINInG gO?”

“Wonderfully, Little brother.” Yoruichi chuckled, “Our little Katsumi will be a Shinigami in no time.”

“tHAT’s gREAT!!”

“Say, Yushiro? Do you mind keeping her company while I attend this Captain’s meeting? I’d rather not have Shinji make comments about me being tardy.”

Unable to speak anymore thanks to the knee to the head courtesy of his niece, but was able to give a thumbs up. Much to his dismay and Katsumi’s delight. So while their retainers iced Yushiro’s head and cleaned up yet another broken vase, Yoruichi went to her room to switch into her more formal Captain’s attire. The baggy sleeves of her Shihakusho and Haori always bothered her, hence why she wore them so little. And already dreading the likely boring proceedings ahead of her, she made her way to the front door.

Yoruichi stood by the foyer, hands tucked in her sleeves as she called out, “Katsumi! I’m leaving now!”

“Coming!”

The voice started off faint but then materialized along Katsumi, who Flash Stepped into view. Without a second to spare, Katsumi leaped into her mother’s open arms, embracing her as tightly as her arms would allow.

“I’ll be home soon, Okay? Don’t burn the house.” Yoruichi joked lovingly.

“No promises.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

One tender kiss to the cheek later and Yoruichi was off, while Katsumi disappeared back into the Manor.

*** Yoruichi soared above the Seireitei, feeling the wind and crisp air flow through uniform. The Shinigami very nearly forgot how beautiful the afternoons were here, particularly from such a vantage point. But alas, she drew her gaze towards the first division barracks; her destination.

The flash goddess nimbly landed upon one of the railings, much to the shock of one Renji Abarai; the shock of her arrival almost made him spill his tea. With a second to catch his breath, he watched as Yoruichi coyly leaned against the very same railing.

“Hey, Renji. Rukia around?”

“Do you always have to appear out of nowhere? And yes, she’s already inside.” Renji griped.

“Lovely. C’mon, before she starts complaining.”

The lieutenant of squad 6 lazily followed his old friend inside, but not before rolling his eyes at her disregard for protocol. Even though she’d been reinstated as Captain of Squad 2 and had been for a decade now, Yoruichi still felt alien walking through the old halls of the first division. As did Renji; it was rare for lieutenants to accompany their captains to such meetings, let alone now, given meetings barely happened at all. The pair walked in silence, until Renji piped up with a pressing question of his.

“Do you know what this meeting is for?” Renji suddenly asked.

“Well, One thing is the exoneration of Kisuke and his reinstatement if that succeeds but I’m not aware of anything else.” Yoruichi explained.

“Is that right? Think they’ll give him back his position as Captain?”

“I don’t know… It’s possible but I don’t see Kurotsuchi taking that lying down.”

A shiver ran down both their spines; Mayuri was more than capable of making cockroaches uncomfortable. He was a genius, no doubt about it, but… the lines he’s willing to cross for his own ends. The otherwise emotionally inept Renji saw Yoruichi’s shoulders tense with the mention of Kisuke. A sharp exhale through his nose prompted the Lady to prod for an answer.

“What are you snorting about?”

“It’s nothing. Just never seen you flustered about anything before. But to think it would about Kisuke of all people.” Renji leered, very much enjoying being on the opposite end of teasing.

Although a quick jab to his ribs changed his tune just as quickly.

“His banishment was unjust. I’m thankful that others are beginning to see that now…” Yoruichi explained, failing to conceal a smile on the edge of her lips.

The pair made their way through the winding corridors to the Main Hall, avoiding the gawking of unranked Squad members. Renji, still rubbing his side, was glad to see Yoruichi in such high spirits, given the cruel and often unforgiving nature of the Soul Society.

They reached the entryway to hear the resonant chatter of the other Officers. Most were accounted for; Squads One through Eleven were present, though Rukia was noticeably missing from the roster. Odd, Yoruichi thought to herself but whatever. Yoruichi took her place amongst the rows, beside Byakuya and Toshiro. It was then Head-Captain Kyoraku appeared before the rest of his cohorts, lax as he always was.

“Thank you all for gathering here in such a timely fashion,” Shunsui began, “I’m sure most of the Captains here are aware of the reason for this meeting: the exoneration of one Kisuke Urahara. But before that matter, It’s my honor to introduce the new Captain of Squad 13: Rukia Kuchiki.”

The room filled with officers erupted in shock and surprise as Rukia entered the room, though not yet in an official Haori. Yoruichi and Renji stared at one another in disbelief; somehow she neglected to tell them either of them her ploy.

“Now today is not her official promotion, but as witnessed by myself, Captain Kuchiki and Captain Kotetsu, Rukia has completed the Captain’s Proficiency Test. So a big round of applause to our dear Rukia.”

Isane did not meet Yoruichi’s piercing stare, nor did Rukia. Rukia only mouthed a single word to her confidant and husband.

Surprise.

#bleach #bleach oc #ichiruki #pro ichiruki #Ichigo X Rukia #rukia x ichigo #Rukia Kuchiki #ichigo kurosaki #katsumi kurosaki #yoruichi shihouin #Penumbra #sui feng

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littleoldrachel · 5 years ago

Text

i am burned out (i smell of smoke)

okay, look. I wasn’t gonna post this until it was FINISHED because i am trying to learn to actually finish my wips. but. the world is sorta falling apart and i hope that maybe i can help even one person feel temporarily less anxious about it all.

i wrote this for @gumnut-logic‘s birthday and am now over a month late, so! good! (so sorry nutty, you’re so incredible at blessing us with your words, i just wanted to do something nice for you since you’re so so good to us)

my love for virgil tracy + my silent lurking in this fandom have brought this about. i never thought i’d be writing thunderbirds fanfiction and yet. here we are (my father would be so disappointed in me).

this is my first time writing these characters, as will become painfully clear. pls be nice to me, i am fragile lol. i am horribly aware that my virg is probably too ‘floppy’ as per your post, nutty, so sorry in advance! this is me whumping your boy emotionally and mentally, but i’m gonna fix him, i swear! there are five parts (i have written the first three).

virgil is always written as being very good at taking care of his mental health, and it occurred to me that some of the best people at this have had to learn to be that way, and so I guess this is an exploration of that? anyway, have some virgil aggressively loving his family.

brains isn’t in this and kayo isn’t much either sorryyy. oh my GOd shut up, here you go:

i am burned out (i smell of smoke) [on ao3]

summary: in which virgil falls apart, learns how to put himself back together, and realises he doesn't have to do it alone.

word count: 2.8k ish (part 1/5)

warnings: mental health issues

timeline: i suppose this is set in early TAG verse? jeff is missing and nobody is Coping Well.

happy belated birthday, nutty!! <3

He isn’t quite sure where it began. Somewhere between three back-to-back rescues, pulling a child’s body from thick, black mud, and failing to reach the scientist before smoke ravaged her lungs, a weight settles in his chest that none of his usual coping mechanisms can shift.

To say it’s been a hard week would be an understatement, but then again, they’ve had hard weeks before. Any time a rescue mission turns into a recovery mission, they all feel it - how can they not? - but this time, this time is different.

Perhaps it was seeing the kid’s mother break down completely at the sight of such a small corpse. Perhaps it was the abuse hurled at him and his brothers by the scientist’s girlfriend for failing to rescue her soulmate in time. Perhaps it was sheer exhaustion and pain, perhaps it was feeling ribs break under the force of his CPR efforts, perhaps it was knowing that in spite of it all, it wasn’t enough.

It’s like he can’t quite draw a full breath. Like his throat has half-closed and tears are creeping at the back of his eyes, but neither is willing to break the damn. It’s the heaviest kind of emptiness he’s ever known.

And so Virgil forces it away - or if not away, then at least to one side - whilst he takes care of brothers who need to talk about the horrors they have just witnessed and the fresh guilt they now bear. He’ll take care of himself later (probably) and then he’ll finally be able to shift that god-awful weight on his lungs. It’s fine.

Alan is easy enough to handle; Virgil’s pedestal will never be as high as Scott’s or John’s but he’s still Alan’s big brother, and Alan feeds on reassurance and praise. Virgil knows that both Scott and John will be in later to check on their youngest too, but for now, Alan needs him.

“You did well today, kiddo,” Virgil says, leaning against the doorframe to Alan’s suite. His littlest brother is lying flat on his back staring up at the ceiling.

Alan blinks slowly, twists to meet his eyes. Overly-bright cornflower blues meet steady browns and Virgil catches the tremble of Alan’s lower lip with an aching heart.

“You did, Allie.” Virgil strides across the room and has Alan scooped into a hug within seconds. “All those people are gonna wake up tomorrow because of you.”

“It doesn’t feel like enough, Virg,” whispers Alan. “So many people didn’t make it.”

“I know.”

(The weight on his chest and struggle to breathe will never let him forget it).

Alan sighs, rests his head on his brother’s broad chest. “I just - I keep remembering her face. When she realised I couldn’t save her. I close my eyes and she’s just - there.” He closes his eyes and digs the heels of his palms into them.

He’s so young. It’s not the first time that Virgil has had doubts about forcing this responsibility on a teenager, but it is the first time Alan’s watched someone die in his arms and none of Virgil’s carefully crafted words will change that. Especially not now, whilst the pain is raw and jagged and demanding to be felt - no, Virgil and his brothers will be helping him to untangle this over the next few weeks.

“Wanna play something?” he asks instead.

The response is less enthusiastic than usual, but soon Alan has a fragile smile on his lips as he thrashes Virgil’s Princess Peach with Waluigi (and so what if Virgil deliberately chooses the tracks he knows he’s shit at just to make Alan chuckle when he falls off Rainbow Road again?).

His water-loving brother won’t be so easy (though of course, there’s nothing easy about watching someone so young trying to carry the weight of the world). Still, Gordon is at least predictable in his frustrated misery and rolls his eyes as he sees Virgil coming towards the pool with a towel in hand.

“I’m not in the mood, Virg,” he calls, before hurling himself underwater and sinking to the bottom of the pool.

It’s Virgil’s turn to roll his eyes, but he kicks off his shoes, sits on the poolside and dangles bare feet into the water, waiting. When Gordon finally emerges from the water, annoyance flickers across his face at the sight of his waiting brother, and he turns, kicking away from Virgil with a powerful breaststroke.

Virgil waits until Gordon’s swum four lengths before speaking. “How are you doing?”

Gordon’s perfect rhythm barely falters as he grabs his brother’s leg and yanks, pulling Virgil into the pool and immediately swimming away. Virgil shakes the water from his hair, internally cursing his stubborn-ass younger brother and treads water until Gordon reaches his end of the pool again.

“How many lengths is that?”

Gordon ignores him, switching fluidly into butterfly stroke and splashing away from him once more.

Virgil can’t help but sigh; his limbs are aching and his chest is heavy and he wants nothing more than to curl up in bed. But his younger brother is hurting - emotionally, sure, judging by the way he’s slicing through the water like it’s done him wrong, but physically too if the minute winces are anything to go by. (And Virgil can’t stand it).

The next time Gordon comes by, Virgil is ready. He seizes his brother around the middle, and bodily drags him to the edge of the pool. He doesn’t often use his size and strength against his brothers, but this time calls for it. Once out of the water, the fight goes out of Gordon, and he staggers, murmuring “ow, ow, ow, ow.”

“Come here, you idiot.” Virgil pulls Gordon into a shady spot by the loungers, and begins helping Gordon stretch out overworked muscles. Gordon hisses as Virgil presses down on his calf muscle. “Sorry, Gordo.”

“S’okay.” Gordon glares up at the sky. “Just stupid cramp.”

Rolling his eyes, Virgil shakes his head. “Yeah, that or the fact you’re reliving your Olympic training after having been up for forty-eight hours straight.”

“You know if you keep doing that, your face will get stuck.”

Virgil pulls a hideous face, then grins in response to Gordon’s laugh. It feels good to smile, it shifts the weight on his lungs the tiniest bit.

“Flip over and I’ll do your back.”

“Virgil Tracy, you’re a goddamn saint,” Gordon declares, obediently flopping onto his stomach.

There’s a pause whilst Virgil runs expert hands over the rock-like knots in Gordon’s back and Gordon melts into the mattress. When Virgil next speaks, his voice is gentle even as his hands dig in: “You know that punishing yourself isn’t going to bring them back.”

Gordon tenses then sighs. “Damnit, Virg. Can’t a guy get a massage without psychoanalysis?”

But his voice is a great deal lighter than it would have been even half an hour before.

His wrists are aching by the time he drags himself out to the cliff edge where Kayo likes to perch.

His brothers have different uses for this particular stretch of rock: Scott likes to end his morning runs here by stretching in the breeze off the waters. For John, it’s a spectacular place to stargaze, not least because it’s so very quiet and dark up here. Gordon can often be found diving off these rocks, cheered on by Alan, much to the constant stress of their oldest brother, who attributes more than seventy percent of his grey hairs to this cause.

For Kayo, it’s a watchpost. Her stormy eyes skim the horizon for non-existent threats, calculating, calm, controlled. And after a bad rescue (or three), she sits and waits for hours at a time, gazing into choppy waves and brilliant sunsets with the loneliest eyes Virgil has ever seen. He’s supposed to sit with Kayo in silence until she tells him what she needs from him, be it a hug, his presence, or just distance.

This time, she makes it clear the moment he pads towards her, fading into the rocks like she was never even there. Distance, then.

John is possibly the hardest to handle of all his siblings, purely because he’s the hardest to get a hold of. John knows Virgil’s antics only too well, knows that a meaningful conversation about how he feels is coming, and has therefore made himself scarce.

Virgil sighs as John misses (read: rejects) his third call in a row. Two can play at that game, Jonny.

Instead, he dials straight through to EOS.

She answers him immediately, as usual. “Virgil. I have been anticipating your call.”

“You have?”

“You have all had unsuccessful missions. You always call after missions with a body count.”

Virgil swallows, fresh guilt rising in his throat, and forces it back down.

“Please can you put me through to John, EOS?”

“Of course, Virgil.”

Silence for a second, and then John’s hologram appears. His red-headed brother is studiously avoiding eye contact, hands darting over controls in an anxious pattern.

“This isn’t a good time, Virgil, I’m busy rerouting some calls to local emergency services, and-”

“John.”

“-and there’s a call from Tehran that really needs me, so if that’s all-”

“John.”

Silence.

“How long since you last ate?”

John’s eyes meet Virgil’s and he looks away at once. “Uh… this morning?”

“Negative,” EOS chimes in, “last intake was twenty-six hours ago.”

John’s jaw clenches. “Thanks, EOS.”

“John, you need to eat.”

“Smother Brother.”

“I’m serious.”

EOS pipes up again, “John also needs to rest. He has been operating for twice the recommended period of time.”

John glowers, but says nothing.

“Don’t make me set Scott on you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Virgil raises his eyebrows and John sighs loudly in frustration. “I will. I will. I just - thinking about food makes me feel nauseous. Like…” He swallows, looks away. “Like I’m eating mud.”

The sharp hurt in Virgil’s heart twinges violently and he wishes more than anything he could wrap John up in a bearhug and stop the world from hurting him. “What if I’m here whilst you try?” he asks softly.

Another sigh. “Fine. But only if you eat something too,” John says. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that your stomach was growling even louder than Two’s engines on the way home.”

“Smother Brother,” Virgil’s voice is hopelessly fond, even as he goes to make a sandwich that he can’t face eating (which for him, is a bad sign - he who has forced down Grandma’s inedible chilli through sheer willpower and love). The bread is hard and tasteless, the filling bitter. He chokes down a half slice, focusing instead on the fact that his younger brother is carefully chewing at his toasted bagel, eyelids heavy. Eventually, John’s shoulders slump, and his head lolls back into slumber.

His work here is done.

Well, almost -

“Hey, EOS?”

“Yes, Virgil?”

“Can you put that playlist I made him on a loop?”

“Of course, Virgil. Venus Bringer of Peace is now playing.”

There.

His oldest brother is hurting. Virgil doesn’t need ESPN or whatever freaky connection Gordon and Alan accuse them of having to know that.

There was a death toll, and therefore Scott will be hurting. Every life lost becomes a personal fault for the man, and nothing Virgil says or does will change that. They have this argument every two or three weeks, increasingly frequently as the months since their father’s disappearance have ticked into years. And he’s so very tired of rehashing the same words over again and again, he’s so tired of being utterly powerless against his brother’s borderline suicidal recklessness, he’s so tired of his uselessness in convincing Scott to stop treating his life like some replaceable trinket.

(So very, very tired).

And yet, Virgil stands in the doorway to his father’s office, bracing himself for yet another battle with his older brother.

Because taking care of the idealistic, brash, self-flagellating workaholic is what he does best - especially when said idealistic, brash, self-flagellating workaholic least wants it.

Scott is hunched over the desk, poring over debriefs with an almost-empty glass of something amber in his left hand. Virgil makes a mental note to re-encrypt the code to the drinks cabinet - Scott had cracked it far too quickly last time, but he doesn’t stand a chance against John…

“Hey, Scott,” he finally enters the room, but his brother doesn’t even spare him a glance. Virgil takes the seat opposite him - the one he used to sit in as his father waxed lyrical about his dream of an elite rescue organisation (it hurts) - and waits.

After five or so minutes, Scott looks up blearily, blinking in surprise. “Virg? What are you - when did you-”

“It’s gone midnight, Scott. We agreed you wouldn’t do this anymore.”

A muscle in Scott’s jaw twitches. He’s wound tight from alcohol and stress, and it hurts Virgil to see it. “I have to get this done.”

“Not at one am, you don’t.”

“Don’t start, Virg, you know debriefs are essential - you know I have to - to -”

“To what?”

“What?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you have to get done? What’s so important that it can’t wait till you’ve at least slept?”

Scott breaks - quicker than usual (thank you, whiskey) which is a relief, because Virgil’s energy is down to its last droplets; hell, it’ll be a miracle if he even makes it to his room after this.

“To figure out where we fucked up! To explain to the fire services that we did fuck-all for their rescue efforts! To figure out why I wasn’t fast enough to get to those children! I have to - to know,” he flings himself to his feet and begins pacing. “Fifty-four people died today, that’s fifty-four lives we should have saved, and I have to know why we failed so it never happens again.” He slams both hands down on the table, scattering papers to the floor. His eyes are wild and slightly bloodshot, and Virgil’s heart aches for the pain in those cerulean blues.

The fight leaves Virgil’s spirit, because for once, he’s having a hard time reconciling his own failings with the number of bodies he’s pulled from mud and rock today. Usually, he is the first to reassure his brothers that they did all they could. But on a day like today, with the weight of whatever-it-is on his chest, it’s just not good enough.

But that doesn’t mean he’s going to leave Scott alone in his pain.

“What can I do?” Virgil asks quietly, and Scott stares at him.

A pause. “Just - just be here,” Scott allows at last, sinking back into his chair.

“Always,” Virgil says, and he means it, even through the fog of this exhausted, low, heavy feeling.

“You okay?” Scott says, looking him over with a frown, and Virgil curses internally, because of course, Scott notices what none of his other siblings have.

“As much as any of us are right now,” Virgil answers, as honestly as he can. Scott clearly doesn’t quite believe him, because he keeps shooting Virgil surreptitious glances laden with concern, but he lets it go. Perhaps he too lacks the energy to fight him on this.

(It’s not enough and Virgil knows it. It’s not enough to stop his brother from working himself into an early grave and it’s not enough to blame poor construction work for the collapse of a tower block when he should have been able to save them).

(He’s not enough).

He’s exhausted. He had thought he was shattered before, but now -

The heaviness in his chest is a gaping wide hole, and the edges are raw and ragged from trying to hold himself together. His throat closes and clogs, but the tears won’t come, even as misery wells inside of him.

He looks blankly at the piano he sometimes uses to pull himself back from edges like these - edges that plunge down, down, down into an abyss he daren’t explore. Only the tug in his chest isn’t there. The canvas on his easel remains blank, his paintbrush untouched. Hell, even the idea of a nice, hot shower has him cringing at the effort and self-care involved.

What the hell’s the matter with him?

He can’t quite explain it, and for one usually so attuned to others’ emotions, this awful lowness is startling. Because it’s more than lowness, and it’s more than heaviness - it’s more like a complete absence of feeling, an emptiness that he doesn’t know how to name.

Perhaps, it will shift in the morning. Perhaps, this is the consequence of pushing yourself to over-exhaustion and beyond, and then expelling what little energy remains to support your loved ones. Sleep will help, Virgil tells himself. Rest makes everything better, you will be better in the morning.

#thunderbirds are go #virgil tracy #littleoldrachel writes #not wolfstar #happy belated birthday nutty!

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upstartpoodle · 5 years ago

Text

Moving Forward (Chapter 2)

Rating: T

Relationships: Dwight & George, George & Ross, George & Cary, past George/Elizabeth.

Summary: The next chapter of my post s5 AU. Cary argues with Valentine over George's disappearance and pays a visit to Nampara, whilst the Poldarks and Enyses speculate over what happened.

@harry-leroy, @forcebros, @ticketybooser. It’s a day late but I got there in the end ha. I hope you enjoy it! :D

AO3

***

“Uncle Cary, where is Papa?”

“Hellfire and damnation” Cary Warleggan muttered from where he was stood, arms folded, staring down at the fire crackling in the grate of the parlour. When they had spotted the dubious activities of Ross Poldark from the clifftops that day, he had thought that they had finally, finally, found their way to victory against the cursed man. In the cold light of that winter’s morning, however, he found that—far from the triumph he had envisioned—not only had George, after running off to Nampara in the middle of the night, vanished off the face of the earth, but also that that unfortunate event had once again put him in the unenviable position of having to deal with the nigh endless pestering of his nephew’s little brat of a son. Turning around, he saw Valentine standing in the middle of the room, fixing him with a determined stare to which he had become all too accustomed in the wake of George’s illness. He sighed sharply through his nose.

“Where is Papa?,” the boy repeated when he received no answer to his first question. “I wanted to speak to him, but he hasn't come down to breakfast.”

Cary let out a growl of frustration, not bothering to disguise it from the child. Had he known the answer to that, he himself would have been sitting down to eat his fill at the breakfast table, unconcerned, rather than treading the parlour rug into disrepair, hoping, each time he turned back to the window, that he would see the slim form of his nephew riding, unharmed, up the driveway. He was of half a mind to tell the boy exactly that, but he had enough good sense—and knowledge of Valentine’s temperament—to realise that it would have done little to get him to go away.

“You can't speak with him now, boy,” he said instead. “He is away from home.”

'Away from home', his own thoughts sneered back at him. How polite a phrase for 'possibly dead in a ditch somewhere', or 'thrown down a mine', or 'tossed over the cliffs for the ocean to swallow him whole—'”

“But why?,” Valentine spoke up again, stubborn. “Where is he?”

“Somewhere where he is not being burdened by the endless questions of nosy little brats,” Cary snapped, trying his best to push the lurid imaginings out of his mind. “Go and bother Bessie if you must. I am busy.”

After all, he thought, George had left very late last night, and it might well have been the case that, all having gone to plan, he had been obliged to stay at Nampara until morning, and had yet to return. Somehow, as the images of the ugly look on Hanson's countenance as he had left the evening before—and that of the fierce determination on George's—flickered in his mind's eye, he rather doubted it was. But if it were, he resolved to give the damned little fool a scuff about the ear at the very least when he returned.

If he returned.

God damn.

“You aren't doing anything expect pacing about the parlour,” Valentine argued, and with another surge of frustration that would have had him tearing his hair out in the days when he still had any, Cary noted that he had not, despite his instructions, moved an inch from his spot in the middle of the room, what little that could be seen of his brow beneath his unruly mop of curls marred by a frown that was part worried, part mutinous. “And I don't think you know where he is.”

Cary snarled. Why the sheer, blunt nerve of the child—

“Don't be absurd, you cheeky little—!” he barked, ready to give the boy a piece of his mind, but he was cut resolutely off.

“I heard you arguing last night,” Valentine said, glaring at him. “Papa said he was going to Nampara. Why hasn't he come back yet?”

And was that not the very question that had been plaguing him ever since he had woken that morning to find George still missing. Where was he? Why had he not returned? No matter how he tried to reassure himself, a thousand possible answers were whirling through his head, each one so horrible that, caught up in the thought of them as he was, he barely even registered that Valentine had just admitted to eavesdropping on them the previous night. Perhaps Hanson, furious at his betrayal, had attacked him. Or Poldark himself, having seen his long-standing enemy enter the fray and thinking him ill-intentioned. Or maybe Poldark had already been dead and dealt with by the time George arrived, and the General had overpowered and shot him, or slit his throat, or whatever it was that such men did to those who interfered with their plans. He felt faintly sick. God curse it, why had he ever let him go? He should have had him dragged up to his chamber and locked in for the night, sane or no, his own guilt and discomfort be damned. George would have been furious with him, no doubt, but at least he would have been safe.

“That,” he said through clenched teeth—damn and blast it, why would the little nuisance not leave him alone?, “is none of your concern—”

“Why?” the child retorted angrily, before he could even finish chastising him. Cary wanted to yell. George would never have questioned him in such a manner as a child—indeed, even the slightest hint of anger on his part had often been enough to have him scampering away to hide—so why, good God, why, would his blasted little brat not do the same?

“If you ask that one more time,” he growled, marching up to the boy and brandishing a threatening finger in front of his nose, “I will be forced to tell you what happens to little boys who say 'why' too much. Now go and eat your breakfast.”

Valentine, however, did not appear much impressed by the threat. His dark brown eyes narrowed, fixed on the finger in front of him with a disturbingly familiar look of disdain that seemed out of place on his round, childish face. It was, Cary realised, an exact replica of the expression his father reserved for the likes of Ross Poldark.

“I don't want to eat my breakfast,” he said, stamping his foot in hard on the floor in a manner which, had said father been present, he would likely have been chided for as being ungentlemanly. “I want to know where Papa is!”

His voice was growing rapidly louder in his anger, and Cary foresaw that, should he not take action now, the argument would devolve into a shouting match for which his already frayed nerves would not thank him. And so it was that, fed up and fast losing patience, he simply grabbed Valentine by the shoulders and corralled him back into the hall and to the dining table, where his half-eaten bowl of porridge sat, fast cooling and abandoned.

“Sit” he said.

“No!”

“Sit!” he repeated.

There seemed to be something sufficiently dangerous in his tone that Valentine actually complied, but only with extreme reluctance. Something in the way he sat there, arms folded, glaring mutinously up at him, told him that, though he may be sitting now, he—Cary—would not enjoy the consequences of it. It suddenly occurred to him that he had just put a cross Valentine in range of a number of potential missiles, which he knew from experience the child was unlikely to balk in employing. Porridge, for example. Grey, pasty, lukewarm porridge which might at any moment be catapulted his way.

“Don't you even think about it” he growled low in warning.

Valentine stared back at him, unmoving. They stared and stared, until Cary broke his gaze with a scowl, looking about for the nursemaid, who was stood to one side, doing her utmost to impersonate a stretch of the wall.

“Bessie,” he barked. “Make sure that he eats all his food. And see to it that he does not disturb me again.”

Bessie gave a little bob and a soft “yessir”. With a sharp nod, Cary made to depart to the parlour once more—if nothing else but to remove himself from the line of fire—though not without a sour glance towards the dearly departed Elizabeth, where her portrait hung beside the door leading from the hall. The whelp's wilfulness surely must have come from her. It was true that George could often be stubborn and wilful himself (something which had greatly irked Penrose when he had explained the need to use more robust—which he would absolutely not think of right now), but he had never been so openly defiant as a child, and certainly not towards his guardians. Personally, he thought the boy had been overly-indulged—Francis' lad had been overly attached to his mother and he had grown up to be a brat of rather impressive proportions, after all. Having said that, though, he could hardly claim that George was much stricter a disciplinarian than his late wife when it came to his children.

“Uncle Cary?”

Cary bit back a groan. He had barely even managed to reach the doorway and still the little brat would not let him be.

“What?,” he scowled, whirling back around to face him. “What is it?”

He fixed the boy with a stern gaze, but there was something he saw in Valentine’s face that had him frowning in what a charitable—and as far as Cary would have been concerned had he been present to hear such an opinion, deeply mistaken—person might have described as a worried manner. He was still angry and recalcitrant, yes, but there was something else in his expression—something frightened and uncertain that he hadn't quite yet learnt to hide.

“Uncle Cary,” he said again, and Cary thought he detected a slight wobble to his voice that had him inwardly cringing even more than his defiance had. “Have the bad men done something to Papa?”

Cary fought back a flinch with all his might. A horrible image of his nephew lying in some unknown dark hole, covered with red, congealing blood, eyes blank and glassy, flashed through his mind, but he forced it down. Carefully schooling his features so that his own fears would not seep through into his expression, he looked Valentine right in the eye and forced himself to speak.

“What bad men?” he said, as if he didn't know exactly to whom it was that the child was referring, as if that very possibility hadn't been what had had had him pacing about the parlour in a frenzy ever since he had woken. Valentine, however, did not seem convinced, for the look he sent him in return was both deeply cross and far too withering to sit naturally on the features of a child so young.

“The bad men that were here last night,” he replied. “You and Papa were arguing about them. I already told you that I heard you.”

Cary glared. Even when he was verging on upset, the boy still could not suppress the urge to show disrespect. He should have just walked out of the room and be done with it. But then, he would probably just have followed him again. What he would do to give the brat the hiding he deserved, but George, he knew, would have been furious with him, and so he swallowed down his anger as best he could.

“Eat” he snapped.

He nodded his head sharply towards the still untouched porridge. It would be unpleasantly cold by now, but really, it was the child's own fault for letting it cool. Valentine, though, didn't even cast the merest glance at it. He simply stared right back at him, and shook his head violently from side to side, so that his already messy curls flew even further out of place. For a moment, Cary was inexplicably reminded of the way in which his old hound, Ambrose, had used to shake the water from his shaggy coat after a foray into the sea, before he noticed that, though Valentine’s jaw was clenched tight, there was a distinct tremble to his lip which sent a spark of panic rising suddenly into his chest. Damn and blast, please say that he would not cry. He could not abide wailing children. George, he had always been able to scold out of it, and he had soon learnt not to do it, but somehow, Cary suspected, the same would not work for his son. And in that case, what could he do to stop him?

“Do you think I would let anybody into the house if I thought there was a risk that they might hurt somebody here?” he said with a sigh, attempting more to appeal to reason than to comfort, but unfortunately, it seemed to do little to appease Valentine.

“You let that man in when Papa was ill,” he argued, and his voice was most definitely shaking now. “You let him hurt Papa.”

Cary scowled, turning sharply away. First George, and now his wretched son. Were both of them determined have the shadow of Penrose hang over his head like a cloud for the rest of his life?

“Dr Penrose was not a bad man,” he retorted, with a conviction that, even as he forced away the memory of watching his nephew, limp and pained and vulnerable, being shackled tight to his own bed, he wasn't entirely sure he believed. “He—”

“He hurt Papa,” Valentine interrupted, with a fierce simplicity that only a child could achieve. “He was a bad man.”

Cary turned back to look at him and, feeling his heart sink to somewhere in the region of his stomach, realised that he was on the verge of crying, tears shining in his dark eyes, though he had not yet let them fall.

“The bad man who was here...,” he spoke again, and this time, his voice was surprisingly small. “He wanted to hurt Uncle Ross. What if he hurt Papa too?”

It was Cary's instinct to snap at him not to be so foolish, but his own whirling thoughts stopped him. After all, he could hardly claim it to be so foolish a thought, else he would not have been entertaining the notion himself. He was fully aware that Hanson and Merceron were dangerous men. They had had Despard hanged because he defied them. They had had Poldark thrown down a mine and then plotted to have him murdered by the French because he had supported the man. They had even had that little dog of the Enys woman's poisoned because she had helped to besmirch their reputations. What they would do to an ally who had betrayed them, he did not know, but he doubted that it would be anything good. Suddenly, he was horribly aware of how little he knew, and he could no longer bear it. Could no longer bear the thought of going back to stand at that blasted window waiting for something to happen, whilst he was pestered with endless questions that he could not answer. He had to know for certain what had happened, no matter how terrible the news that awaited him was.

“Fine, fine,” he growled, half to himself as much to Valentine. “I am going to Nampara! Now will you eat?”

“No,” Valentine said, his voice suddenly firmer, though the tears had not quite dissipated. “I'm going to come with you.”

He had already slipped halfway out of his chair, but Cary strode forward and, taking him roughly by the shoulders, pushed him down again.

“No, you are not,” he said. “You, young man, are going to sit here and eat your breakfast or so help me I will—!”

Valentine cut him off with another of his defiant looks, and he took a deep breath, steadying himself. Shouting at the boy would achieve nothing, no matter how satisfying he might have found it.

“Just stay here and wait,” he sighed. “Patiently. I will return soon enough. Bessie, make sure that he does not go running off.”

Another bob and a “yessir”, and he was already striding out into the hall, not daring to look back lest the boy be encouraged to scamper after him. He grabbed his coat, hat and gloves and donned them without care, then wrenched open the door and stepped out into the weak morning sun, marching off in search of his horse. He did not yet know what it was he would find at Nampara, but whatever sight he might have to steel himself for, there would be Hell to pay. The only question was: who was it that would be doing the paying?

***

The fire was crackling low in the grate when Ross was jolted out of the light doze he had been slipping into by the sound of a crow cawing in the tree outside. He groaned—his neck and back were aching from the unnatural position he had been contorted into by the rickety old chair—and rubbed a hand tiredly over his eyes, trying to keep himself awake. He couldn't fall asleep now, not when it had been stressed to him how important it was that George's condition be carefully watched over.

As much as he might have wished it, George had not so far proved illuminating in the matter of his unlikely intervention and the cause behind it, but Ross was not so much of a fool as to have thought that he would be. The man had not even so much as shifted in his sleep in however long he had been sitting there—how much time had past since he had left the parlour to watch over him, he really had no idea. Exhausted and weakened by pain and blood-loss though he was, however, George made a surprisingly good companion, as he tried to make sense of his rioting, tumultuous thoughts. His silent presence was somehow comforting to him—no pressure to talk, to plan, to take action. And perhaps it was a little more than that as well. Even white and wan and as close to death as he looked, being able to watch the slow rise and fall of his chest, assured of the fact that, despite all, he still lived, he felt he could cling a little tighter to the hope that he would pull through and survive. Elsewhere, in other company, he thought, it would have been like trying to hold onto smoke with his bare hands.

Smoke. Smoke from a fire. There was a slight chill in the room, the flames, he remembered, nearly dying in the hearth. That would not do. Dwight had wanted George kept warm, and there was a definite bite to the draught that was beginning to creep in through the window—there was gooseflesh on the bare skin of his forearms, he noticed, the hairs standing right on end. With an enormous effort, he forced himself up from the chair and, taking ahold of the poker, mindful not to make too much noise, stoked the fire back into life. The flames danced higher, and he couldn't help but stare at them, transfixed, as they flickered back and forth before his eyes.

He was too dazed and tired to take note of the footsteps padding along the corridor outside , and so when he heard the door creak slowly open behind him, he gave a violent start, whirling about to see who had entered. It was Dwight. Though still pale and rather grey, he seemed a little better, as if he had caught a little sleep, but the look in his pale eyes was still grim and sober.

“How is he?” he asked softly.

Ross shook his head.

“No change,” he said. “Neither for better, nor for worse, as far as I can tell.”

Dwight nodded thoughtfully, heading over to the bed where his patient lay, motionless, like a corpse awaiting burial.

“That is encouraging,” he replied, though Ross did not think from his tone that he sounded particularly encouraged. “As long as he does not take a turn for the worse, we might hope that he will recover fully.”

He was still nodding to himself, as if he were trying to convince himself of his own words. Carefully, he reached out and took one of George's limp hands in a gentle grasp, pulling back the cuff of his sleeve so that he could check his pulse. Out of the corner of his eye, Ross saw his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed convulsively.

“You should get some rest, Ross,” he said with a frown, his focus still fixed firmly on George. “Last night was as much of a strain on you as it was on the rest of us.”

Ross stared at him tiredly, barely registering what he was saying. He had let go of George's wrist, and was now gently thumbing back each of his eyelids in turn, his lips pursed in concentration. The sleeves of his shirt, he noticed, were clean and white, whereas the night before, they had been soaked red with blood. Ross frowned. The only men's clothes he had at Nampara other than his own were some old things of his father's, but the shirt Dwight was wearing was not near loose enough on his slim frame to have been borrowed from him. Where then, had he got it?

“Caroline is here,” Dwight said, as if reading his mind—though Ross knew his expression was probably open enough in his exhaustion that his friend would only need working eyes, as opposed to the power of telepathy, to determine what he was thinking. He had turned to look over his shoulder when he didn't reply, and was frowning at him in concern. “I had a note sent to Nampara to inform her of what happened, and she was kind enough to bring some clean clothes for me.”

There was a pause.

“Jeremy and Clowance are here too.”

Ross gave a strange jolt, the sound of his two children's names pulling him sharply out of his stupor as if he had been struck by lightning.

“Jeremy and Clowance?,” he asked, his voice suddenly very rough. “Are they—?”

But he didn't quite know what it was he wanted to ask. Whether they were alright, safe and unharmed? Whether they were hurt, upset or scared by what had happened? Or maybe—he swallowed—whether they were angry as their mother surely was, after how he had seemed to behave? Luckily, Dwight came to his rescue as he floundered, and spoke up in his stead.

“Caroline brought them back home,” he said. “They were really very worried. Geoffrey Charles has taken them down to the beach for the time being. That should at least cheer them up a little. Besides, we wanted them kept away from Hanson whilst we dealt with him.”

Ross had no idea what to feel at that. Guilt that they had been worried? Disappointment that they were not here for him to see? Perhaps dread at having to face them and their unknown reactions later. If there were one thing he did feel in bounds, however, it was relief. Relief that they were safe and cared for, and that the others had the sense to keep them away from the loathsome Hanson. It occurred to him that he could no longer hear the man grousing, though he faintly recalled there having been some commotion in the corridor outside earlier on.

“Dealt with?” he asked, wondering exactly what that meant. He suspected, though, that the reality would probably disappoint the wilder fancies of his imagination.

“Sent back to his lodgings in Truro,” Dwight amended, somewhat confirming Ross' suspicions. “He complained the whole time, of course, but at least he has gone.”

“Yes,” Ross replied with a scowl. “Gone right back to his brother so they can plot our demise, no doubt. We would have been better served had we smothered him with a pillow.”

It was not an entirely serious suggestion, but Dwight didn't seem to find much humour in it. He turned about to face him fully, the frown on his face morphing from concerned to a little cross.

“You agreed earlier that it would be best for him to sent back to Truro to recover” he reminded him, sternly.

Ross scoffed.

“I agreed that I didn't want him in my house,” he said darkly. “As far as I'm concerned, the only favour he's earned from me is to be tossed on the midden and see if that heals him.”

The crow in the tree outside cawed again, as if in agreement. Dwight, on the other hand, crossed his arms in front of his chest and clenched his jaw, eyes darting briefly to the wall and back with an expression of deep frustration with which Ross had become increasingly acquainted ever since Ned Despard had barrelled his way back into their lives.

“What other course of action was there, Ross?,” he said, and there was a hint of annoyance in his voice that he was too tired and overwrought to suppress. “It behoves you to ensure your actions are beyond reproach in this matter, if only to prevent us from being painted as the villains of the piece.”

Ross frowned. He opened his mouth—to say what, he did not entirely know—but one look at his friend's face had him reconsidering his words. Already, Dwight seemed to be flagging, his eyes dull and tired, with dark bags beneath them like bruises.

“How much sleep did you get?” he asked suspiciously. If Dwight had been awake to deal with Hanson, then he couldn't have rested for more than perhaps a couple of hours, surely.

Dwight shook his head.

“More than you.” He settled down into the chair beside George's bed, wincing slightly as it creaked. “Go, Ross. I shall be here to watch over him. You shan't do him or yourself any good by driving yourself past the point of exhaustion.”

Ross rather thought he would have been better served to follow his own advice, but he had just enough sense left in his sluggish brain not to say it aloud. Dwight was not to be persuaded—that much was clear—but then, neither was he. He conceded enough to leave the room as instructed, but despite his exhaustion weighing on him so heavily now that it seemed as if his limbs had turned to lead, he still balked at going to his bedchamber to sleep. Who knew, after all, how the events of the night would resurface in his dreams? And so, instead of heading down the corridor to rest as advised, he made for the stairs, intending, vaguely, to make his way through the decanter of brandy in the parlour as he waited for something—anything—to happen.

The sight that met him when he stepped through the parlour door, however, instantly made him regret his decision. Demelza, Caroline and Prudie were all huddled together around the table, and had been deep in whispered conversation right up until they heard the creak of the door opening behind them. As he entered, they cut themselves off abruptly, swivelling about in their chairs to stare at him, each with a worried, questioning look upon their face. Fighting not to squirm under the combined force of their gaze, Ross was suddenly reminded of why he had so wanted to be alone before.

“How is he?” Demelza asked. Her blue eyes were alight with concern, though for whom exactly, he did not quite know.

Ross shook his head. It was the second time he had been asked that this morning, but this time, for some reason, he couldn't quite unstick his throat to give her an answer. He staggered over to the table, brandy decanter quite forgotten, and, sinking into a chair beside them, put his head in his hands.

“Is-is it so bad?” That was Caroline, uncharacteristically tentative for a woman usually so bold. It was that, perhaps, that allowed him to mine some deep part of him for the elusive answer that seemed caught on the tip of his tongue. He raised his head from his hands to look at her.

“He isn't worse than he was,” he said shortly. “Dwight says that that is encouraging.”

Unfortunately, however, he had not been any more successful in sounding encouraging than Dwight had been for him. Caroline, it was clear, had seen something of his own fears in his face, for he saw something very strange flicker in her eyes, a dark shadow passing across her wan features. If he hadn't known any better, he would have thought it to be something akin to guilt, but he dismissed it as a flight of imagination, brought on, no doubt, by the lethargy that had settled over him like a tonne of bricks. After all, what would Caroline have to feel guilty about?

“Did—?” She faltered. “Did he give any indication of why...?”

She trailed off. There it was again—that why, why, why that each one of them couldn't help but ask, but to which none knew the answer. Ross clenched his jaw, tight.

“He didn't exactly have much of a chance to explain himself whilst we were rooting about his innards, no” he said, more tersely than the question had warranted. The moment the words left his lips, he regretted them.

“Ross!” Demelza hissed, her eyes flashing.

Caroline had gone very white, and it suddenly occurred to him that, quite apart from not wanting to hear gruesome details, she—was? had been?—an almost friend of George's, in an odd sort of way. The realisation made him feel all the more wretched, and a strained silence began to stretch uncomfortably out between them.

“'Tis awful strange though,” Demelza spoke up again, after several excruciating minutes of avoiding each other's gazes, mouths clamped tightly shut. “What could 'ave possessed 'im t' do 't? An' t' put hisself in such danger... 'Tis hardly...well...”

She lapsed into silence, but nonetheless, each and every one of them heard what she had left unsaid.

“It is hardly,” Ross finished for her, his eyes fixed broodingly on a burn on the wood of the table before him, “what we have come to expect of George.”

But even as he said it, a memory flashed before his eyes—of George, afraid, clearly, but steadfast, pistol in hand as they stared each other down, ready to defend his wife and unborn child from the raging mob surrounding them. Perhaps, he thought, a deep frown drawing his brows together, we do not expect such things from George because we haven't been looking in the right places.

Silence fell between them once more, but this time, it had barely had a chance to settle before it was interrupted by a loud and angry pounding on the door outside. The four of them started, alarmed by the sudden clamour.

“Judas, who could that be?!” breathed Demelza, her eyes wide.

“Th' hordes o' Hell come t' tek us all, by th' sounds of 't” Prudie grumbled in reply.

She stood, reluctantly, and headed out to the door, muttering to herself all the way. Ross heard it creak on its hinges as she opened it, followed by an unpleasantly familiar snarling voice that had him leaping up from his chair so violently that he almost overturned it. The hordes of Hell?, he thought to himself wryly as he heard swift footsteps in the hallway and Cary Warleggan burst in through the door like a charging bull, a horrified Prudie scurrying along behind, his hat and gloves in hand. More like the Devil himself. Well, you wanted something to happen, and now it has. I suppose I must be more careful what I wish for.

“Where is he?!,” the man snarled, pale eyes flashing dangerously as he stepped into the room, fixing Ross with a fierce glare. “Where is my nephew?!”

Ross gritted his teeth, bracing himself for confrontation. He had no love for either Warleggan, but though it was George with whom he often clashed, he found Cary, objectively speaking, to be far more objectionable—in temperament if nothing else. The man was rough, rude and acerbic, and blatantly loathed him, and he was not sure whether, in his current state, he could endure the man's anger without lashing out in return.

“Sir George is resting at the moment,” he replied, attempting to remain calm. “I can assure you, however, that he is in good hands. Dr Enys is tending to him.”

Cary scowled.

“And why, pray, does he need tending to?” he said.

There was a movement behind him, and next thing he knew, Demelza was standing at his side. They exchanged an uneasy glance. With everything that had happened, neither of them had thought to inform the elder Warleggan of his nephew’s injury. How he would react to finding out that George had been shot, Ross had no idea, but he was hardly likely to jump for joy at the news. Well, at least the old man’s ire might be directed away from them and towards Merceron and his loathsome brother, he considered—so long as he should be inclined to listen in full to what had happened, that was.

“Forgive us, sir, but have ‘ee not heard?,” Demelza asked, regarding their unexpected and very much unwanted guest with an uneasy frown. “Your nephew were shot. By Ralph Hanson,” she added as Cary’s face turned thunderous, no doubt suspecting Ross himself to be the most likely culprit for George’s injury.

Ross had expected something akin to surprise from the man, shock or disbelief, or even—and this was the scenario he had been bracing himself for—outright denial. But Cary looked neither shocked, nor disbelieving, and he had certainly made no move to deny anything. Indeed, if he seemed to be anything, it was purely and simply angry.

“And how am I supposed to have heard?!,” he sneered. “Perhaps you expected the birds to have twittered the news in my ear with the dawn chorus!”

There were no questions posed of why Hanson might have wished to shoot George, or even why he might have been at Nampara to be shot in the first place. Slow and sluggish though his thoughts were, Ross could only come to the conclusion that he must have known something of what his nephew had intended to do, if not why. This realisation, however, was buried down to the back of his mind as a spark of temper, faded to embers with exhaustion and confusion, started to burn hot in the pit of his chest. The man's displeasure was understandable, yes, but he would not have him speak to his wife in such a manner.

“We hadn't had the chance to inform you,” he said, firmly. “It was of utmost importance that George be operated on immediately—”

“Yes, and no doubt in the chaos, it slipped your mind,” Cary interrupted, his voice rising by degrees. “I suppose he is actually alive, or did he pass away in the night and that just happened to slip your mind too?!”

The memory of gunshots, of pained cries and the smell of blood, and of George lying deathly still on the bed, white and wan, began to seep, unwelcome, back into Ross' mind, and all of a sudden, that spark of temper in his chest erupted into an inferno.

“Forgive me, Mr Warleggan,” he growled through tightly clenched teeth, trying, with all his might, not to shout, “if I was not entirely abreast of the situation after holding down your screaming nephew for God knows how long so that we might remove a bullet from his gut!”

Despite his best efforts, his voice was beginning to rise too, but he felt a hand on his arm, distracting him momentarily from his anger. Demelza. Before he could turn towards her, however, Cary snarled in fury, and, in three large strides, they were suddenly nose to nose, eyeball to eyeball. Though his instinct was to recoil, Ross refused to back away.

“And of course how terrible that must have been for you,” he hissed sardonically. “Or perhaps you wished for time to revel in the moment. Did it satisfy you to see him brought so low? You've enough hate for him, after all. I imagine you'd drink to providence had he died.”

Ross opened his mouth to tell him that, if he were to find satisfaction in anything at all in that moment, it would be in punching him on the damned nose—as he richly deserved for making such insinuations. Perhaps if he managed to break it, he thought, it would make it as crooked as the rest of him. Before he could speak, however, he felt Demelza's grip tighten on his arm. He turned to look at her. Her gaze was imploring, and her brow was crumpled in a worried little frown. She shook her head, almost imperceptibly, and, taking a deep breath, he nodded back at her, trying to calm himself down.

“You may imagine all you wish,” he said, with as much dignity as he could muster. “But you are mistook, sir, if you believe me to be so twisted as to delight in George's injury. Perhaps it amuses you to think of your enemies in such agony, but it is not my custom to wish harm upon others.”

Unless they really deserve it, a traitorous little voice whispered in his head. Such as the likes of Hanson. But he barely had time to think on it before Cary scoffed loudly at his words, his lip curled in a sneer.

“Is that so?,” he growled, like an angry bear that had been successfully poked out of hibernation and was longing to take a swipe at the source of its temper. “In that case, what precisely did you wish upon that customs officer you once beat half to death? Or upon my nephew when you tried to shove his head into a roaring grate? But perhaps you simply intended to give him a nice, rosy complexion. And the customs officer, no doubt, would only have benefited from having his limbs... rearranged.”

“I—” Ross tried to protest, but Cary cut across him him sharply.

“No!,” he barked, teeth bared. “George may have become yet another in a long line of people ready to throw themselves in danger to save your sorry hide, but I assure you that I have no intention of fawning at your feet or comforting you with platitudes when I have spent this whole morning and the better part of the night not knowing where in God's name my nephew was or what had happened to him or if I would find him days later dredged up as flotsam on a beach somewhere—”

He cut himself off, turning sharply away, his jaw clenched. Ross stared, seeing something dark flash in his eyes, something almost...almost... In a moment, he felt his anger deflate as if it had never been, leaving him feeling oddly hollow.

“I will take you up to see him” he said.

Cary sneered.

“I will take myself up if I have to,” he replied. “I've no care to be accompanied. But I warn you, Poldark, if I so much as suspect that you caused him the slightest harm, I will make your life so wretched that you'll no longer wish to live it.”

And with that, he spun on his heel and marched away before any of them could even tell him where his nephew was, like a bloodhound on the scent of a fox. Letting out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, Ross rushed off after him—though not before he heard Prudie, who had throughout the exchange been glancing between the hat Cary had thrust at her to hang up and the fire in the grate with an expression of utmost disgust, say to the room at large:—

“D'ye suppose Cap'ain Ross would be awful angry if I burnt 't?”

16 notes · View notes

kumeko · 5 years ago

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Title: regrets

A/N: For @amaranthinecanicular, for the @bnhasecretsanta2019! I really love the idea of Bakugou and Kirishima comforting each other post the overhaul and kidnapping arcs—I think there’s a lot of lovely parallels between the levels of guilt, helplessness, and regret they must feel after what they’d been through. Hope you enjoy!

…

Kirishima pressed his fingers against the bandages on his arm, the sheer white marred with splotches of dried blood. His skin felt raw in places, aching and bruised from his opponent’s bullet-like punches. And this was with being knocked out for most of a fight.

The door to his room opened and a middle-aged doctor slipped in. His chart was tucked under an arm and the other one carefully closed the door behind her. She smiled at him kindly as she approached his bed, her eyes crinkling from behind her square glasses. “Hi, I’m Dr. Watanabe. How are you feeling?”

“Great,” Kirishima lied, scrambling to sit up on his hospital bed. There were more important issues than his pride or aching body. “How’s Fat Gum and Suneater? Are they okay?”

“Hmm?” She scrutinized him for a long moment and crossed her arms. “Well…how about this, you tell me how you actually feel and I’ll tell you about them. Deal?”

“Uh…right…” He smiled sheepishly. Maybe he should have expected that. He was in a hospital after all. There was no way he was feeling great. “My arms hurt.”

“To be expected. You had a lot of damage to them.” Flipping through his chart, she clicked her tongue and set it aside. Holding out a hand, she gestured at his arms. “May I?”

“Huh?” He blinked, not comprehending at first. “Oh—yeah, yeah, of course.”

“Great.” Dr. Watanabe prodded his arms, her fingertips glowing slightly. “My quirk makes it a bit easier to find any internal injuries—which fortunately for you, is just a broken bone.” She pressed her fingers against the bandages, examining the length of his arm, before letting go. Satisfied, she picked up the chart and started making notes. “We can release you today, even, but you’ll have to go easy on your hero work until your arms have recovered. It should take about a week.”

“A week.” Kirishima winced. Well, there was no way he could train or help with patrol then. “How’s—”

“Right, your companions. A deal is a deal.” She smiled sadly. “Well, to start off with, Fat Gum and Suneater are in the same state you are. Mostly just exhausted, a few bruises, but nothing so serious as to detain them.”

“That’s great!” Kirishima sighed with relief, the tension in his shoulders disappearing. His team was safe. His friends were safe. His—

The doctor’s expression hadn’t changed.

Kirishima stared at that sad smile and swallowed. There was something else, something worse, that hadn’t been said. “We saved Eri, right?”

“Yes. But…” She clutched her chart tightly. “There is no easy way to say this, I’m afraid. The young girl is fine, as are most of your companions in the raid. Unfortunately, Lemillion lost his quirk and Sir Nighteye…Sir Nighteye passed away.”

Death. Actual death.

This wasn’t like saving Bakugou, where All Might won but had to retire. This wasn’t like when they were attacked at the training camp, where Ragdoll disappeared and came back quirkless.

Sir Nighteye was dead.

There was no coming back from that.

-x-

Kirshima winced as he opened the doors to the training ground. His right arm still hurt a bit, not entirely recovered from the broken arm and bruised wrists. He’d just have to bear it. It was a manly thing to do and he needed to feel manly now.

He needed to feel himself.

“DIE!” Bakugou shouted at the top of his lungs.

Kirishima couldn’t help smiling as he looked up. Bakugou only had two levels of intensity—intense and super intense. And it seemed that months of frustration from not getting his license had kept him at super intense. Bakugou stood on a ledge on a large stone slab, carving his name on another slab. Explosive fire shot out of his hands and he laughed manically.

“Good job!” Kirishima yelled, pumping his fists.

“Huh?” Bakugou stopped, turning toward him. He stared at him for a long moment, then snorted and went back to his training. “About time you showed up, you dick head.”

It was hard to make out, but Kirishima was certain Bakugou’s ears were red. It was good to see some things never changed. Snickering, he read between the lines and explained himself. “Had to wait for Recovery Girl to let me come back. I couldn’t really train with a broken arm.” He punched in front of him, quick jabs that cut through the air. “But I’m all better now!”

Bakugou grunted. “Good.” He inspected his gauntlets, fiddling with the gauge. “What happened?”

“A mission.” Kirishima paused, not sure how much he was allowed to say now. Or what to say. They’d won. Kinda. They’d lost people but saved the girl and stopped the bad guys and…he didn’t know how to explain it all, to put into the words what he’d experienced in that cavern. What he still felt now, thinking about that final blow, about Fat Gum’s back as he defended him, of Tamaki’s profile as he forced them to leave.

It was very different than their internships before.

“We did it!” Kirishima finally said, forcing a smile. That’s how he’d do it before, right? That’s the level of enthusiasm he’d give, the right amount of smile and gusto. “We beat down the bad guys!”

“Of course you did.” Bakugou snorted derisively, giving him a look. “It’s you.”

Kirishima blinked at the surprisingly honest compliment. There was such confidence in his tone, it left no room for arguments.

Of course he’d succeed.

Of course he’d win.

But he hadn’t, he hadn’t, and he just nodded. “R-right. Anyways, time to train!” He smashed his fists together, trying not to flinch as a jolt of pain ran up his arm. “Can’t get too rusty!”

-x-

“Hey, kiddo!” Fat Gum waved at him from down the street. Once more, he was fat again, his body a giant cushion for damage. “You’re up and about now!”

“Yeah!” Kirishima jogged up to him. “You’re okay?”

“Yeah.” Fat Gum guffawed, patting his belly. “Just lost a lot of weight, that’s all.”

Kirishima stared, not sure if he meant now or before. Fat Gum looked as round as he usually did but then again, Kirishima had never measured it before.

“Still, my wallet took a hit.” With a sigh, Fat Gum opened his empty wallet. His shoulders slumped slightly. “I had to eat so much to get back in shape. And payday’s so far away.”

“Right.” Kirishima nodded, getting it now. “Are you on patrol? When should I come back?” He glanced around, realizing that Fat Gum was alone for once. “Where’s Tamaki-senpai?”

“Woah, hold on with questions.” Fat Gum chuckled. “I’m on patrol but you don’t have to come back to the agency right now. You did good, kid.” He ruffled Kirishima’s hair. “Rest up a bit and then I’ll call you.”

“But I can help now—”

“No,” Fat Gum repeated firmly, crossing his arms. “We just took down a major organization! And you helped me defeat a big villain. Take a break, you’ve earned it.”

Had he? Kirishima wasn’t so sure. What’d he done that was so helpful?

“I told Tamaki the same thing—he’s at the hospital now, checking his friend.” Fat Gum frowned, his expression turning sad. “Poor kid. He’s going to need his friends now, more than ever.”

Kirishima had heard of what happened, in bits and pieces. Of Deku’s gambit, of Mirio’s stubborn determination. Of Sir’s last stand.

Manly. That was the only way to describe any of it.

-x-

Kirishima growled as he activated his quirk, his skin hardening into jagged plates. His forearms still hurt from where they were punched through, but that was a phantom pain, nothing more. Taking a deep breath, he forced his quirk to activate further, hardening until each part of him was like stone. His eyes cracked slightly at the strain and he gritted his teeth.

He had to become harder. So hard nothing could penetrate him. So hard that he couldn’t get knocked out again. Harder and longer and maybe next time he could tell Fat Gum, You go on ahead.

Adjusting his stance, Kirishima started punching a boulder. Over and over, he had to break through it. Hardened scales broke off his fingers and he forced his new skin to harden and take their place. Faster, faster, so fast that next time his defense broke, it would return immediately.

“Kirishima.”

His shoulders strained at the effort, his arms burned. Kirishima could feel his quirk starting to relax and he forced it to keep activating. Short, quick bursts. What was the limit he could push to? He had to go beyond it.

“Kirishima.” A hand grabbed his fist and Kirishima blinked in surprise. Turning his head, he found a scowling Bakugou. Bakugou growled, “Turn off your quirk.”

“I’m training!” Kirishima replied, pasting a smile on his face. “Just a little longer.”

“It’s been hours, you dolt.” Bakugou gestured behind him, at the open door to the training room. Just outside, Kirishima could see a night sky and wow, time really had passed. “Turn. Off. Your. Quirk.”

As Bakugou glared at him, Kirishima swallowed. Now that he realized how much time had passed, he could feel just how sore his limbs were. How bloody his hands. Maybe he should take a break. Smiling sheepishly, he nodded. “Y-yeah. I’ll do that.”

His skin smoothened over, bruising in places. Hopefully he hadn’t reinjured anything—he didn’t want Recovery Girl to give him the stink eye. He’d seen it often enough directed at Deku.

“Good.” Bakugou still didn’t let go of his hand, his frown growing deeper as he studied his bloody knuckles.

“I didn’t realize—” It was as though a switch had gone off his entire body and his legs buckled. Collapsing, he yelped, “Woah!”

Fortunately, Bakugou’s reflexes were quick and he quickly caught Kirishima. Wrapping an arm around Kirishima’s waist, he grunted as he forced him to a standing position. “Can’t even keep track of yourself?”

“Sorry!” Kirishima winced. He couldn’t put any weight on his legs and he leaned heavily on Bakugou, slinging an arm around him. Shit. He hadn’t meant to wear himself out this much. “This isn’t really manly.”

“No shit,” Bakugou bit out, pulling Kirishima closer. Slowly, he started walking to the door. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I…” Kirishima lowered his eyes. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“I know that.” Bakugou took a deep breath. He held it for a long time before slowly exhaling. A calming technique, Kirishima remembered watching as Bakugou grumpily forced himself to learn it. “What is it?”

“What is what?” Kirishima asked, confused.

“This. Why are you doing this?” Bakugou growled, not liking to repeat himself. Before Kirishima could answer, he added, “Don’t make me force it out.”

Kirishima glanced at him but they were outside the training grounds now. The path to the dorms was lit by pools of light, each casting multiple shadows on Bakugou. All he could make out was the usual furrowed brow, the set jaw.

He was serious, most like.

And maybe it would be good to let it out. He wouldn’t judge, he never did, and maybe that was what Kirishima liked most about Bakugou. There was never pity or cheap gratitude, just unflinching honesty.

“The mission…I didn’t help.” Kirishima closed his eyes, remembering his worry as he ran from Tamaki. His fear as he crashed into the wall, Fat Gum shielding him from further damage. “No—I couldn’t help.”

He hadn’t been strong enough. Nothing had changed, not really, from that day he’d realized he was a coward. What was strength without the courage to wield it? It wasn’t manly to leave Tamaki behind, alone to take down three criminals. It wasn’t manly to let Fat Gum shield him.

“I wasn’t strong enough to help. And…people got hurt.”

Bakugou didn’t say anything, just slowly plodding forward. There was a long space of silence. Had his opinion of him gone down? Kirishima hoped not. He couldn’t take that. Finally, Bakugou said, his voice unusually soft. “You tried, right? Gave it your all?”

“Y-yeah.” Kirishima nodded.

“Then…” Bakugou paused and Kirishima could feel his body twitch as he forced himself to continue. “You just have to take this feeling and try harder next time. So you don’t feel it again.” Bakugou’s skin was warm, warmer than usual, and Kirishima could just make out flush on his neck. “That’s what you told me. After All Might…after what happened.”

“I…” Kirishima trailed off, realizing what he meant. All Might had lost his powers saving Bakugou.

And it had crushed him. But it hadn’t been his fault. It hadn’t been his fault and this was Kirishima’s fault.

All this meant that Kirishima had to accept what happened and make sure it never happened again. Crimson Riot had said that too, hadn’t he? That he had regrets and refused to have anymore of them.

It was the manly thing to do.

It was Red Riot’s thing to do.

Kirishima grinned. “Yeah.”

“Great.” Bakugou coughed and forced his pace faster. “Never repeat this to anyone,” he warned, his usual temper flaring through again. “Got it?”

“Yep.” Kirishima chuckled. Stretching his neck, he leaned over and kissed Bakugou’s cheek. “Thanks.”

Bakugou’s skin burst into flames. It was worth it, even as Bakugou dropped him.

#kirishima eijirou #bakugou katsuki #bnha #kiribaku #kirishima x bakugou #fanfic #I can never include enough manlys #sadly #so my boy is a little less energetic than he ought to be

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katlyn1948 · 5 years ago

Text

I Love You

Katlyn1948

Summary:

Arya and Gendry talk...and other things

Notes:

So...when I say that this story wrote its self, I mean it wrote its self. It took me four hours in the span of two days with good old fashioned pen and paper. I think it took me longer to transfer it to my tablet then to actually write it. This is also based off an Alex and Sierra song that I will link (or try to) and it a part of a bigger series that I have been wanting to do for sometime. I have a Spotify playlist for these two characters and there are a lot of songs that I want to write one shots off of and I just so happened to start with this song. I have NO IDEA when or what the next will be, but I’m sure it will be fun.

I am still working on Firestorm (I have a few more paragraphs to write) and I am working on the next part to “Lover” (it will be smut, you have been warned). I plan to upload all of them come next weekend, since it is Thanksgiving in the states. I am also working on my Arya/Gendry secret Santa, that I can’t wait to share!

Anyway, I hope you all enjoy!!

Work Text:

https://open.spotify.com/track/2ELVVIbpucfOqGFC21Q4yR?si=dHYuguzAT0Grj5jjv-s4Ug

The air in the sky emitted a cool breeze that made the sea waves shift amongst the red castle. If one were to look beyond the horizon, there would never be an inclination that the city behind the giant stone walls now was nothing more than a pile of ash and rubble.

In the two months since the Battle of King’s Landing and Daenerys’ rise to power, little effort had been made to rebuild. It wasn’t for lack of trying, for the new queen, along with her king regent, made it their top priority to mend the fractured ruins. However, the sheer amount of what had to be done made it seem as if little had been touched.

Arya herself helped in any way that she could, if it meant that she could distance herself from Gendry. She hadn’t mustered the courage to go to him and explain her wrong doings. It was cowardly and so unlike the young assassin that it warranted feelings she had yet to experience within herself.

Self-loathing had not been an emotion that Arya had had the pleasure of experiencing, but after the long night, she seemed to be doing a lot of self-loathing. The only way to quench that heat was to speak to Gendry. She knew that eventually, she would have to. Of course, being the way she was he would have to be the one the conversation. She just had to get him alone.

It was nearing sunset as Arya stood on the dock of King’s Landing; one of the few places left untouched by wildfire, waiting for Gendry to make his appearance.

She had written him a letter earlier in the day asking him to make his way to the docks after supper. She hoped he would comply, his curiosity getting the better of him. However, in the off chance that he didn’t show, Arya would mentally have to prepare for that.

She was unsure how angry Gendry was with her, if he would be able to even stand being in her presence. If she were in his boots, she would be irrevocably furious at her. In fact, she was. She was angry with herself and her stupidity.

There were only a few times in her life were she could blatantly acknowledge her undeniable stubbornness that caused her say or do stupid things.

The night after the battle was one of those stupid times.

It was pathetic really, how the stubborn bull had awakened a part of her she never knew existed. There were feeling that sparked the moment she saw him ride into Winterfell on some white horse. Much like the princes and knights in one of Sansa’s stupid fairytales. It was ridiculous that such a sight made her stomach knot in certain, unfamiliar ways. On the other hand, how the steam that bellowed from behind him as he worked on the dragon glass caused an ache in between her thighs that the whores in Bravvos used to banter on about throughout the night.

That night, after her intense encounter with Gendry in the forge, she slipped her hand in between her legs, picturing his large, soft, calloused hands flicking the delicate bud of nerves. She could see his deep blue eyes behind her closed ones as she continued to work herself. When the slight pressure in her abdomen began to rise, she had to bite her pillow to keep from screaming is name in ecstasy.

Even when her fantasies had come to fruition and they spent, what was supposed to be their final night of life, had been everything Arya could only imagine. She promised herself that if they did survive the night then she would tell him how she truly felt. She would let him know how he made her body quiver at just the tiniest touch and how she wanted to taste the bittersweet flavor off his soft lips.

Everything she had been feeling would come into light.

But when he found her in the store room, shooting arrows, and professed his undying love to her, she calmed shut, saying the words she knew that would hurt him. His broken eyes had nearly crushed her soul, but the need for revenge was just too great. The choice between life and death, at the time, was easy to choose. Death would always be her outcome, even if other’s told her otherwise.

Now, as she stood on the dock waiting for a person she wasn’t sure would show, Arya truly began to feel alone.

“Arya?” The voice was soft, but had the power to send shivers down her spine.

She knew it was him, the voice alone giving her validation, but she needed to be sure that he was the one standing behind her. She need to see his deep blue eyes and feel his large arms wrapped around her.

Slowly she turned and sighed in relief when the blacksmith was standing just a few short feet away.

“You got my letter.” She said as her eyes darted to the parchment in his twiddling hands.

A humorless chuckle escaped his lips, “I did. Although I;m not so sure as to why I showed up.”

“I needed to get you alone. You’ve been quite popular these days. Everyone wants your help somewhere or another. I’ve hardly seen much of you.” She softly smiled.

“What do you want, Arya?” His voice was stern and hard, not like the lighthearted conversations of the past.

Arya shifted here feet as she inched towards where Gendry was standing. She was so close to him that she could smell the smokes of the forge on his jerkin. She lifted her hand to his cheek and slowly lifted herself on her toes so she could reach his lips.

The kiss was light, so much so, that Arya hardly felt the chapped skin his lips were sure to have. It was such a soft peck that one could hardly tell it was a intimate gesture.

Gendry didn’t protest, but was caught off guard by the sudden shift in atmosphere.

As Arya lowered herself down, she clasped Gendry’s hand into her own, bringing it close to her chest. “I want to talk.” She said with his hand still clasped in hers.

“And where do you suppose we do that?” He asked, Arya could see the conflict in his yes as he struggled to down at her.

“You see that ship?” She pointed to the a ship anchored just beyond the docks.

Gendry nodded, “Yeah, what ‘bout it?”

“It’s mine, stupid. We can talk there. The crew are on the mainlands tonight, so we have complete privacy.” She hoped he would take her up on the offer and not leave her heartbroken and alone like she had done to him. Although, she couldn’t blame him if he did.

“How are we supposed to get to it?”

Arya smiled, taking his question as confirmation. She let go of his hand and crossed the dock to where a row boat was tied to a post, “I believe, Lord Baratheon, that you are quite familiar with this.”

A noticeable blush creeped onto Gendry’s face, “I’m going to kill Davos.”

“Don’t be mad at him. If anything be mad at me, I was the one that pried it out of him.” She confessed as she climbed into the dingy. Gendry was close behind and visibly revolted at the thing.

“Fine, I’ll go, but you’re the one rowing.”

Arya smiled, “As you wish, mi’lord.”

“Don’t call me that.” He grumbled as he took his position in the boat. He immediately took the ores from Arya, never intending her to row the both of them to her ship, and began treading them through the water.

They rowed in silence; Arya capturing quick glances at Gendry as he worked the ores though the water. With the waves calm and the slight breeze drifting through the air, Gendry had little to no difficulty navigating through the water.

The ship was just a few hundred yards away when Gendry suddenly stopped rowing, bringing the dingy to a halt.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Arya questioned.

Gendry sighed as he placed the ores in their respective sockets to keep them from falling into the sea. “What’s your plan, Arya?”

“What do you mean?” Pure confusion dripped from her voice.

“Why are you taking me to your empty ship?” He paused, searching her eyes for any answers.

“I told you, to talk.” She said curtly.

Gendry scoffed, “Talk? Arya we could have talked on the damn dock! We were alone, no one would have bothered us there, so why the ship?”

Arya sighed, giving herself a few moment to compose her emotions before speaking.

“We could have been interrupted. Some errand boy would have fetched you to do something for some lord! The only way for me to get truly alone was if no one knew where we were.” She confessed. Her breath was uneven as she tried to keep everything from spilling out.

“Fine, you got me alone. Now talk.” He urged with annoyance.

Arya let out an exasperated chuckle, “I am not having this conversation in a fucking dingy! If you don’t want to row anymore, then hand me the ores and I’ll take us to the ship!”

She grumbled in frustration as she shifted her position on the boat in order for her to grab the ores out of the sockets. Her hands grabbed for the handle when Gendry quickly stopped her. His hand had engulfed her as he placed them over hers.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” He huffed. “I’ll take us to the damn ship.”

Arya quickly snatched her hands out from under his, placing them in her lap and twiddling her fingers to keep her mind off at how much the small interaction burned her skin with desire.

The rest of short boat ride consisted of soft grunts as Gendry treaded the water. Arya didn’t dare glance his way, waiting until they were firmly on the ship before making any more advanced.

Once docked at the ship, Arya and Gendry climbed the rope ladder left for them by her crew just the day prior. They hauled themselves over the side and Gendry was immediately at a loss for words at the shear size of the vessel. It could house at least fifty or so crew members, not to mention enough storage to hold at least a few moons turns of supplies.

The decorative finishes showed exactly whose ship it belonged to.

“Let me guess...Davos.”

Arya smiled, “You are correct. I went to him after the battle at Winterfell. He told me he could find something, but I never imagined it would be something like this.”

“Well he is one for making sure people have the best, whether is be advice or a bloody ship.” He looked around the deck, marveling at the Stark sigil printed on the sails. “Why do you have a ship, anyway?”

Arya sighed as she felt her hear sink into her stomach, “Follow me.”

“Where are we going?” He asked as he began to follow in her footsteps.

Arya weaved below deck and continued I until they were at least two stories below deck, “I keep the good ale in my cabins to keep any wandering hands away. Trust me when I say that we will need it.”

They walked for several minutes before Arya haunted at the a large mahogany door. The Stark emblem had been engraved into the wood with a large wolf’s head designed as the knocker. Arya unlatched the door, pushing it open to allow Gendry to step inside.

For such an extravagant ship, Arya’s cabins were quite minimal. There was a table situated by a port window with two chairs. There were two goblets already set out for the two of them. A wardrobe was placed against the wall opposite to where the bed was placed.

Gendry tried not to blush as his eyes lingered on the feather bed.

It was substantially larger than the bed in her chambers back in Winterfell, and even that bed had been quite comfortable, but this one looked as if it were going to be heaven to lay upon.

Arya noticed his gaze and tired to suppress a smile at the thoughts that were no doubt going through his mind, for they were the same that went through hers. She’d be lying if she said that she didn’t want to throw him down onto the bed and ravish his body until the morning sun rose.

She wanted him, more so than the night of the battle. Her body craved for his and it made her scoff at how ridiculous it all was. She had one taste of such intense visceral pleasure that now she couldn’t wait for more.

But now was not the time for inappropriate thoughts; now was the time for talk and there was so much that Arya had to say, she wasn’t sure if she could get through it all without breaking down into a pile of puddles.

“Please, sit.” She gestured to the chair across from where she was standing.

Gendry shuffled out of his cloak and draped it behind the chair before taking a seat. Arya had pulled a jug of ale from the cabinet beside the wardrobe, pouring a hefty amount of ale into each of the goblets. Gendry didn’t hesitate as he chugged his goblet, reaching for the jug in Arya’s hand before she had a chance to place on the table in front of them.

“So, you got me here. What do you want to talk about?”

Arya took her seat across from Gendry and took a swing of ale before answering, “Us. You...me.”

Gendry scoffed, “I thought ‘us’ ended the night after the battle.”

Arya ignored his jab as she gathered courage to speak from her heart.

“You want to know why I have this ship? I was planning on sailing west after Jon’s coronation. I was going to hire a navigator and few more crew members and sail beyond the horizon, never letting anyone know I was leaving.” She paused as she tired to ease her shaking breaths, “But as I spent time here, around the people that I love and care about, I came to realize that that would be a stupid mistake. I was trying to run away from a past that I didn’t want to remember, or a life I believed I didn’t deserve.”

She hadn’t realized the tears streaming down her face until Gendry’s thumb gently wiped them away.

“I’m so sorry, Gendry. I didn’t mean to break your heart the way that I did. I was just so focused on revenge and killing Cersei. I thought that if I severed ties and broke your heart that it wouldn’t have hurt you so much if I didn’t make it out alive.”

She couldn’t help the sob that escaped her throat, shaking her body with the sheer force of it.

Gendry was quickly by her side, pulling her into his chest as she let the tears take over her body. “Gods, Arya. How could you ever thing that? I would have never stopped loving you, even if you did rip my heart out of my chest. It’s impossible for me to stop loving you.”

Arya shook her head, pushing herself from his grasp, “No, but you have to. I’m not good, Gendry. I’ve done bad things; things that would make you see me differently. Gendry, you deserve someone good.”

Gendry sighed and pulled Arya’s hands into his own, “Arya, i fell in love with a strong, smart and beautiful girl. Every time I look at you, my breath escapes me and I can’t help but smile when your name is brought up in conversation. It feels like the most natural thing in the world.”

“But you can’t.” She whispered as she looked from his eyes.

Arya knew Gendry’s felling for her and it made her heart burst at his confirmation, but even with her own undeniable felling for him, she couldn’t give him what he needed.

“Gendry, I wanted to tell you about this ship because, despite my revelations, I still need to leave. Maybe with everyone knowing, but I have to go.”

Gendry’s eyes snapped to hers, “Arya-”

“No! Let me finish. I have to leave to find myself. I lost who I was when I was in Bravvos, and although my family and you have given me pieces of myself, there are still some that are missing. I can’t be with you, as I am, without finding myself completely.”

“Gods, Arya, I just professed my love to you, again, and now you’re telling me not to, again. I can’t do that. Not this time.” Arya now saw tears welling in his eyes and it nearly killed her to see him so broken and vulnerable.

She sighed, “But you have to try. I can’t have you becoming your father. Not having my aunt broke him and I would never be able to forgive myself if I did that to you.”

A chuckle escaped his lips as he shook his head, “If you think I’ll end up anything like Robert, then you must have hit head harder than you thought.” He brushed a piece of loose hair from her face as she resorted his hand upon her cheek, “You are the most infuriating woman I have ever met, Arya Stark. You are stubborn, mean, and scarier than any wight I have ever faced, but even that won’t make make me stop loving you. I don’t think you realize just how much I do love you. If you have have to leave to find yourself, then I will wait, no matter how long. And if you never return, then at least I can pray to the gods that I see you in the after life. I love you.”

“You’re stupid, you know that?” She scoffed as she wiped the tears from her face.

Gendry smiled, “So I’ve been told.”

There was a beat of silence between the two as they looked into each other’s eyes.

There was so much emotion swirling in Gendry’s blue irises that spoke so much more than words. Arya was confident that even her gray eyes betrayed her, giving Gendry all the consent he needed to place his lips upon hers.

She was surprised by the action, but accepted it with much anticipation.

It had been too long since she had been this close to him and now that she placed firmly in his arms, she never wanted to let go.

Quickly, the kiss deepened as Arya felt Gendry’s tongue slip past her teeth, swirling with hers in a mirage of emotions. She sighed against his lips as he brought his hands to her waist, squeezing them tight with need.

They stumbled from the table, crashing onto the bed as Gendry dragged Arya down with him. She straddled him easily as their lips continued to explore each other’s mouth. Eventually, she released her lips from his, gasping for air. The action burned her lungs as she took fast breaths to try to ease her racing heart.

Gendry was heaving, as he too, tried to catch his breath.

For a few moments, all they could do was stare at one another, waiting to see what the other would do.

With Arya still straddled around Gendry’s waist, she leaned down and whispered into his ear, “Love me, Gendry.”

And that he did.

For hours, they explored each other’s bodies, taking the time to admire the nooks and crannies that they were deprived of all those nights ago. With no one to disturb their love making, Arya could be as loud and as rough as she pleased. Gendry had no qualms, although he was sure to regret the claw marks on his back come morning. They even enjoyed the gentler parts of their union as Gendry took his time sheathing himself within Arya, nearly pushing her over the edge of no return.

There was no need for them to rush and for once, they could truly learn their lover’s body.

It was as if they were discovering not only themselves, but each other, for the first time.

Arya may have know Gendry for years, but this was a part of him that she had to earn to learn, just as he had with her. They trusted each other with, not only their lives, but their bodies and that was the most vulnerable anyone could become.

It was hard for Arya to let down those walls for Gendry to truly know her as man and woman, but once she did, it was if the whole world had opened up endless possibilities. For the first time in her life, she was no longer alone, but rather one with him, now and forever.

Their extensive indiscretions had left them numb and exhausted.

The soft rocking of the ship against the calms waves had lulled them into slumber more than once that night, but with the moonlight shining through the small port window in Arya’s chambers, she couldn’t help but watch him as he ran his fingers down her spine, trying hard to spell out his name. It was amusing to feel his hard work at learning his letters. It left her with soft tickles and more than a few giggles as he did so.

“Are you still leaving after Jon is crowned with Daenerys?” Gendry asked as the sun began to rise over the horizon.

Arya swallowed and nodded softly, “I do, but that is a week away. We can spend all we can with each other until then.”

“I’ll keep you to that, mi’lady.” He chuckled.

Arya smiled, but was too exhausted to correct him.

“I’ll write as often as I can, but I cannot promise that the ravens will get to you in a timely manner, if at all.” She confessed.

“I’ll keep an eye out for them.”

“And I truly don’t know when I may return, but when I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Arya-”

“And you have to promise me that if your heart does change and find a lady to spend your days with, that you’ll be happy.”

“Arya-”

“And try to watch after Jon, will you? He will be devastated when I tell him-”

“Arya! Please do not worry. All will be as it should, even if it takes years. Now, can we please enjoy each other’s company before we have to return to the docks and explain where we’ve been these past hours?” He pleaded.

Arya blushed and smiled, “I love you.”

Gendry pulled her close as he wrapped the furs around their naked forms, “And I love you.”

#arya stark #gendrya #got #arya/gendry #gendry baratheon #gendry waters #gendry x arya #gendry/arya #arya x gendry #i love you #alex and sierra #arya/gednry playlist

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irondad-defensesquad · 5 years ago

Text

Familiar

Fandom: MCU

Rating: T

Relationships: Tony & Peter, Tony & Jarvis

Characters: Tony Stark, Peter Parker, Edwin Jarvis (flashbacks), Pepper Potts (minor role); other characters are only mentioned

Summary: When Tony comforts Peter, his brain suddenly clicks, as if it’s remembering something that’s been lost inside him for years. Or, Tony realizes how much his relationship with Peter reminds him of Jarvis.

(AU where Thanos is defeated only a few months after Infinity War and nobody dies - except for the purple prick, of course. Tony and Pepper get married and expect Morgan. May didn’t dust and neither has everyone in Peter’s class, only a few people.)

Word count: around 6,529

Also on AO3! (separated in two chapters)

–

A/N: Heya! This MCU sideblog is kinda new, so I posted the full work here, too. I hope you guys enjoy it!

WARNINGS - mentioned child abuse, alcoholism and character death.

Tony knows something is up with the kid.

Having known Peter for a couple of years now, the teenager is prone to bottling things up. It started off with wounds, which were easily detected by his suit. Following that, Tony would find out he had the same coping mechanism when it came to things that deeply, mentally affected him; and that is harder when you’re unable to get reports on someone’s emotional well-being.

Peter hasn’t been out as Spider-Man as often. Tony has somewhat expected it after bringing the kid and everyone back, but it doesn’t help that the kid rarely answers his calls now. When he does, Peter comes with excuses not to come visit him, arguing he has his own life to get through, which Tony understands at first, but then Peter straight up ignores him, and the man becomes skeptical and worried. He even goes to the point of calling May, who only tells him that her nephew has grown a bit distant overall.

It takes two or three months for Peter to come visit at all, and it’s pretty much thanks to his aunt, who finally convinced him to sleep over there since she would have to work on helping the people affected by the Snap. Happy picks him up, almost bringing Tony to the good old days when Peter used to come by the compound… he can’t help the reminiscent feeling.

Pepper snaps him out of it with her sweet, concerned voice. Her hand is carefully placed on his knee, caressing it with the most gentleness.

“He’s coming now, Tony,” She reassures him, as if reading him like he’s an open book. “You don’t have to be worried.”

Tony sighs. “I couldn’t even get him to come here by himself, Pep… what can I do?”

“You have to be patient with him, honey. Peter has been through a lot… he’ll tell you once you make it clear that it’s okay.”

He doesn’t reply then, as she gives him a supportive smile. Tony tries to believe that’s how it’s going to work out, so he returns the gesture and holds her hand. His eyes gaze at Pepper with adoration and sheer joy of expecting their child.

(He won’t admit out loud that there’s fear somewhere inside him, too, despite having literally dreamed about it and becoming so enthusiastic after. Not only was his father the worst role model, there was… also the guilt of Peter dying in his arms, as Tony couldn’t do anything. Nightmares would still haunt him to no end.)

It takes Tony another moment to return to reality when Happy arrives with Peter. The head of security has a rather uneasy and concerned expression on his face, silently telling Tony that the kid is acting off. The older man doesn’t have to take another minute to confirm it as Peter barely looks at him and Pepper in the eye when they greet the teenager.

Being the great people he could’ve asked for, Pepper and Happy make up the excuse they needed to get something heavy inside the house. They disappear quickly before Peter can protest. It’s probably the first time they’re alone in such a long time.

“So, uh, wanna get inside?” Tony proposes. “Or do you want to sit out here for a bit?” He presents the chairs standing in the porch.

Peter simply shrugs and sits in one of them, refusing to look at the man as the stubborn boy that he is.

“How have you been, kiddo? Has school been tough?” He asks nonchalantly, only to get no response.

Tony really wants to be patient with him like Pepper suggested, but he’s had it. The kid hasn’t talked to him properly in freaking months, has only ignored him. It’s obvious that something is wrong, and all Tony did was give it time. He’s given enough time, more than enough.

“Kid,” The man stands on his knees in front of him. “Pete?”

Peter turns his head away, only the dead silence replies.

“Peter, you’ve been away for months now and you’re not going to tell me anything?” Tony insists.

“No.” The kid’s voice is the quietest he’s heard, beating it to when Peter said I’m sorry before he faded away with the wind.

“And why is that?”

Nothing. Tony sighs, almost groans.

“I know there’s something wrong, Peter. You don’t have to hide it from me. You’ve been ignoring my calls and texts all over. Your aunt noticed you’ve been quiet, too,” Tony explains. Having no reply, his voice lowers, “Jesus, kid, I’m- I’m really worried about you. Why won’t you talk to me?”

The question makes Peter shift to anxious and guilty, yet it doesn’t convince him to talk. No, it makes the kid more stressed, as his hands are visibly shaking.

“You know you can trust me, right? I… Kid, I care about you, so much. You’re so important to me.” Tony almost feels hurt that Peter seems to not believe it. Has he not made it clear before?

The man reaches the boy’s hand, grabs it gently. “Pete. Please look at me.” At Tony’s pleading tone, Peter hesitantly raises his head, revealing unshed, repressed tears. “You can tell me anything – anything that’s hurting you. I won’t think any less of you.”

Tony doesn’t take the eyes off the kid, who’s unable to contain the following sniffs that escape. The older absolutely hates seeing Peter in this state, but it’s worse when he thinks just for how long he’s been bottling it up.

“I-I don’t- I c-can’t fit in, Mister Stark,” Peter whispers.

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t fit in! I-It’s only been months and- and everything feels so different, Mister Stark! I don’t- I don’t know how to explain and it’s frustrating, like—” Peter sobs. “E-Everyone is just acting like n-nothing happened. And I’m here, still remembering every single detail. Still feeling myself disappear. I can feel everything, and I c-can’t forget.”

Tony’s heart breaks. “Peter…” He holds his hand tighter.

“May’s found someone, my classmates aren’t always there… Ned and MJ were dusted, too, but they have their own lives, too. A-And you, you got married… you’re gonna have a kid…” Peter’s eyes are fully red, tears falling nonstop. “Everyone is moving on but I’m still here… fearing I’m gonna disappear again.”

He takes a while to reply. Tony blinks his own tears again, as his hand reaches Peter’s cheek.

“Oh, Pete…”

“I just- I get it, y’know. I’ve never been a normal kid. Now it’s pretty much worse and I’m trying to accept that, too. That I’ll never fit in. I want everyone to be happy. I w-want…” Peter sniffs. “I want you to be happy, too. You have your own family. Y-You don’t have to babysit me anymore.”

“No, Peter—”

“It’s okay, Mister Stark. I-I’ve always been different- I’ve always been a freak—”

“For fuck’s sake, kid, that’s not true,” Tony snaps for once, immediately toning down as he feels Peter flinching. His own dark eyes are burning now. “You’re not a freak, you’re- you’re my family, too.”

He places both hands on Peter’s shoulders firmly and doesn’t look away, ever.

“Peter, you’ll always fit in my life. And in May’s life, and your friends’. I want you to be here. You’re my kid, you’ve- you’ve always been my kid, and nothing will ever change that, okay? Nothing.”

“But—”

“I mean it, Pete. Do you have any idea how much I missed you? Do you know how fucking horrifying it was to watch you die in my arms? It was hell without you, all those months…” Tony’s own tears start falling. “It was killing me, Peter. May couldn’t handle it, either.”

The teen grows quiet again. Tony starts drying some of his tears with one of his hands.

“You don’t… you don’t get it, everyone’s just acting like things are fine and I just c-can’t forget what happened.”

“It’s okay if you don’t feel okay. You’ve been through so much, Pete… everyone copes differently, you’re not forced to act like everyone else does. You shouldn’t bottle it up.”

There’s silence between them for a couple of minutes before Peter hesitantly speaks up again.

“B-But what if… what if everyone gives up on me?” He wonders, absolutely frightened, despite his whispering tone. Just those words manage to destroy Tony inside more.

“That’s never going to happen, not in a million years. We love you, kid. I love you so much you have no idea.”

Peter only cries more, and Tony finally hugs him. The teen sobs in his shoulder, breaks down hard as the man holds him, putting one of his hands in the kid’s brown curls while the other soothes his back. Tony can’t help letting out shaky breaths in the meantime, but he’s still firm in his grip, grounding the kid, reminding him of the unconditional love he has for him.

Knowing Peter, the teenager will need the reassurances over and over again, and Tony is going to do that every single day if necessary.

When the boy’s sobs start quieting down, the man plants a kiss against his cheek and squeezes him, unable to contain his tears. Tony pulls him away only slightly, still holding him by his arms and keeping him close.

“We’ll get through this, okay? I’m never giving up on you, kid,” He reassures, sighing deeply while Peter is able to breathe slowly. “I will always stand by your side.”

Peter, teary-eyed, looks at him with certain doubt. “Always?”

“Always.”

The teen jumps in his arms again, only for… for something to catch Tony off guard. There’s something like… like a click. In Tony’s mind, that is.

He freezes for a moment, but he cannot refuse to comfort Peter again. The mechanic mumbles soothing nonsense, only for him to become silent as his attention shifts… to somewhere else.

This moment, he realizes… it feels like a deja vú. Except it’s not actually a deja vú. If that makes sense.

It doesn’t help that Peter notices when they finally face one another – or at least when the kid looks at him, since Tony is facing the nature around them, not quite focusing on the trees themselves.

“Are you okay?” Peter asks, taking him out of the trance.

“Wh- of course, kiddo. You shouldn’t worry about me.”

He doesn’t look convinced. Tony almost feels hypocritical now, not wanting to worry the kid with some weird impression he has. But how can he explain when it doesn’t even make sense to himself?

Before Peter can question him again, Pepper and Happy are back there. The latter tells them he should get back to the city and the former offers them to come inside and get themselves something to eat. Peter finally looks a little excited, maybe because he might be hungry, so he no longer focuses on Tony, or so he hopes. The kid isn’t stupid.

Pepper and Peter get to the kitchen first, especially as the teen offers to help her. Tony doesn’t follow them immediately, facing the wooden walls of the house. Words fly around and replay in his brain, somehow in different voices other than Peter’s and Tony’s.

It’s almost like Tony has actually heard them. Somewhere, a long time ago…

It might be a lost memory. It sounds so familiar. Why is it?

He doesn’t think about it now as Pepper calls for him. Tony shakes his head and is able to put on a mask for the meantime.

(Yet not for a moment does he try to stop struggling to remember.)

It comes to him at night. If anything, it’s nothing more than a mere glimpse.

Everything is mostly blurry. He can recognize old colors, that remind him of a distant past. Of a familiar face. One so important and meaningful that has craved a place in his heart. He can’t put his finger on it, however.

He hears silent crying. Feels warmth wrapping around his body. Arms that feel like… like home.

I will always stand by your side. The voice says, in a memorable accent.

A-Always? It’s a tiny, young one that asks.

Always, Tony.

Tony wakes up with actual tears in his eyes. He’s not scared, but… it’s something strong regardless.

It was an actual memory. If it weren’t, he wouldn’t have gotten so shaken.

He… He wants to understand. He wants to remember.

As a result, he doesn’t fall asleep again. No, he ends up going downstairs. Tony doesn’t think too straight, so next thing he knows, he’s somehow inside the garage. To find answers.

B.A.R.F was created to recount traumatic experiences, change them, give him some comfort. It was his own therapy method for quite some time after he’d developed it. Tony hasn’t used it in a long time, though, but he still remembered to implement it in his E.D.I.T.H glasses (… which might have its name changed now that the big battle is over).

Today, he doesn’t mean to use it to change something in his past. This time, he wants… he wants to activate his brain, somehow. He’s still trying to make sense of the flashback he had. More and more words fly here and there, and he knows there’s something meaningful about them, about the memory he’s striving so hard to clear it up. It’s too bad that he can’t rationalize.

He keeps feeling the same pain and warmth from that moment. He remembers his frustration. He knows it’s from his distant past, long before Tony was known as the genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist persona. It’s a part of his life that the Stark has forced himself to repress, to the point where it’s still affecting him now.

Now that he has the glasses, parts of the memory are coming to life, right there in his garage. There are the same colors he’s seen. Dark red that reminds him of blood, of violent words and remarks. The sunset outside, a rather beautiful and tear-jerking sight. Frustrated yelling, except Tony can’t understand any of it. In contrast, there’s another calm voice that tries to reason with it.

Tony knows he’s going to feel even more fucked up. Almost nothing about his past leaves him at peace. It always comes back to haunt him with the same questionings about himself. He partly blames the media for getting literally anything from his life and making a huge deal about it, despite having become familiar with being such a recognizable figure.

He doesn’t want it to matter now. He wants to understand what happened. There are memories that may never come to the surface, thanks to the long-term trauma. A mechanism his body has developed all those years, long before the occupational hazard that is to be a hero.

Tony is sure he’s on the verge of breaking down as he tries to force it to come out. No, it’s not working. He shouldn’t do it this way. Shouldn’t yell at his oppressed, younger self that’s never been truly gone. That’s been quiet, in an inner coma, suffering all at same.

He should be… patient. Suddenly, Pepper’s words come to him again.

You have to be patient with him, honey. Peter has been through a lot… he’ll tell you once you make it clear that it’s okay.

He takes comfort in them. He should… give himself time.

It’s okay, he tells himself. It’s okay. You don’t have to come out now, but you don’t have to be afraid. You’re… You’re safe.

In response, Tony is able to breathe again. He tries not to focus on what B.A.R.F is up to.

You’re safe, he repeats again, and again. He closes his eyes and relaxes, at last.

He… lets it flow.

(Distantly, it kind of reminds him of that movie with the cartoon panda achieving inner peace. He must have seen it with Peter one time. It feels like decades ago.)

In. Out.

In. Out…

When he opens his eyes, he’s no longer in the garage.

Rather than the cozy wood, it’s a wide room with dark red walls. Tony recognizes it to be the living room of the Stark mansion. He’s been so used to the lake house that he forgot just how big (and empty) everything was. Sunshine rays enter the residence, it’s a rather beautiful day.

In contrast, there’s the yelling again. Fighting. The bright blue pixel figures slowly come to surface. One he acknowledges to be himself. Young Tony seems to be at least 15, as he’s already wearing one of his old MIT hoodies. The other person turns out to be Jarvis, who still has his fancy, black suit.

The two are arguing. A very rare occasion to happen. They never got into a bad argument, not like Tony and Howard constantly did. Though, if anything, Tony is the one yelling. Jarvis calmly tries to get to him, which makes the teenager behave worse.

“You don’t GET IT, Jarvis!” The boy screams. “I don’t fit in anywhere! Not in MIT and certainly not in my own home! My parents send me away whenever they have the fucking chance!”

“Master, they only… they only mean to do the best—”

“DON’T YOU DARE DEFEND THEM! You hear them say that yourself! They don’t want me around, n-nobody wants me around.” Tony’s voice is angry, furious, yet it’s dangerously close to break in tears that threaten to fall. When he was young and more emotionally unstable, he’s not yet learned to keep on a mask. That would happen after MIT. “Nobody gets it, Jarvis. I’m… I’m never going to be normal. I’m a Stark. I’m supposed to be great, but I’m… not.”

Present Tony feels the words stinging in his heart. The look on Jarvis’ face only makes it harder to watch, to listen. He doesn’t repress it again, though. It’s too late to go back.

“Mom and Dad gave up on me when I was fucking six, Jarvis,” Young Tony hisses, words poisoned with disgust. “They barely let me get home now. And when I am here, they never want to see me. They’re ashamed of me.”

The boy’s eyes only grow deeper as he continues, “I w-want to believe you, Jarvis… I want to believe Mom, that she and Dad… that they love me, but it’s- I’m not that fucking stupid, okay? No matter how hard I try to be better, I’ll never be good enough. No matter how many stupid robots and engines I build, that’s never going to change.”

(Present Tony feels it. The shame. The disappointment in himself. It was never truly gone, was it?)

“I don’t… I don’t blame people for feeling ashamed of me. For thinking so little of me.” The teenager’s voice breaks in sobs. “I-I know I’m a fucking freak. Okay? I get it. I’ll never be normal. And… you know what? You don’t- you don’t have to keep babysitting me anymore, Jarvis, you can- you can just leave me, too. Y-You have your family to get back, you should be with them. I’m not worth it.”

Jarvis is silent. He’s completely torn, heartbroken.

(Tony almost wishes he could never remember the look on the man’s face.)

“Maybe Howard was right,” Young Tony says bitterly. “I’ll never be someone anyone can be proud of.”

The teenager weeps and falls to his knees. Present Tony only stands there, unable to see the look on Jarvis’ face as he stares at his younger self. Tears creep in his own eyes, the speech getting through his heart, ripping it to a million pieces again.

(He hates that he still feels like Young Tony to this day. Feeling useless at the battle against Thanos. Helpless as he watched Peter die. Failing to save half of the universe. Watching the world still falling apart, despite everyone getting back. Expecting his child, Morgan, to arrive and fearing he’ll fuck her up, too.)

Present Tony doesn’t say a thing. The silence that follows in the scene almost drowns, suffocates him.

It’s a long time before he hears slow footsteps coming to him. His teenage self, that is. It’s then that Jarvis wraps his arms around the young boy. The Present Stark can feel its affection from there.

(He faintly feels what teenage Tony must be feeling right now. Having always wondering how a hug from Jarvis felt like. It’s something he never admitted to himself until maybe that moment and right now, years later. Tony can even smell the butler’s cologne and it’s so much like home.)

Young Tony freezes; stiffens his body while Jarvis welcomes him in his embrace. The butler places a hand behind his head, touches his dark hair so caringly that Tony finally gives in – he downright melts.

“I’m… I’m very sorry. For making you believe all of this.” Jarvis sighs. “I will not defend them – and not him ever again, because he is wrong. For a so-called genius, he knows nothing about you. I have not known a boy as intelligent and as good-hearted as yourself.”

The younger makes no noises nor moves while the older continues, “You have already changed the world… and you will make it much better, because you are going to be greater than he could ever be.”

“Jarvis…” He whispers. “I…”

Present Tony can tell he wants to say I love you. But he doesn’t. He’s too shocked, too broken to say it; but Jarvis seems to hear it anyway. The butler soothes him as he leans his chin against the top of Tony’s head.

“I am very proud of you.” The man speaks, with the most sincerity he’s heard. It might be the most genuine and positive thing anyone told the fifteen-year-old in more than a decade.

Jarvis gently pulls him away, faces still close and he gazes at him with unconditional love.

“I will always stand by your side.”

“A-Always?”

He doesn’t hesitate. God, Jarvis smiles fondly at the hurt boy. “Always, Tony.”

It’s the first time Jarvis calls him that. He’s not Master Tony. From the sound of it, he has never been just Master Tony to the man. He’s always… been family. Just like that, the teenager sobs even harder, only to be protected by Jarvis’ arms again. The crying echoes in the living room, and so the sun illuminates them both.

“M-Mister Stark?”

Tony doesn’t startle up, even though he was entirely integrated. He partly turns around, finding Peter, his curly hair the biggest mess he’s seen. Were it not for the situation the teen finds him, Tony would have squished the kid for how freaking adorable he is.

“I-I’m sorry, I uh- I heard you wake up and you- you just rushed out here and I got w-worried, so I followed you and… I kinda saw some of that. Sorry,” Peter rambles. “Are you okay, though?”

Despite the tear that rolls down Tony’s face, the man nods. “I’m fine, Pete. Sorry for scaring ya… there was something that wouldn’t leave me be. Not the first time that happens,” He shrugs, which doesn’t really soothe Peter. Tony then admits, “But it was… different this time.”

The boy’s puppy eyes shyly glance at the projection of B.A.R.F, which hasn’t faded away. It’s paused like a Youtube video, so it has stopped by Tony having a full crying attack while Jarvis holds him.

“Who’s… W-Who’s Jarvis?” Peter asks.

Tony is almost shocked to realize that he’s… he’s never talked about the butler before. Well, he never opened up much about his past, but the kid is already aware that Howard wasn’t the best father in the world. The billionaire would have, maybe, if he had the A.I., but much like its inspirational muse, it was… gone, for good. Remembering what happened to Vision makes Tony’s heart drop more.

“He was… like a father to me. When my old man couldn’t be.” He swallows a lump in his throat. Tony ends up gazing at the projection of his own father figure. His real one. “You know I wasn’t in a good place before… but Jarvis was always there to take care of me. He never stopped, not for once, until he passed away.”

From the corner of his eye, Peter nods in silence. Tony doesn’t mind that he hasn’t stopped crying quietly himself. He just lets it all go. As he gazes at the image in front of them, guilt fills Tony’s heart. Certain… fear of letting people down. It’s a feeling he honestly only felt when he was a kid. Maybe, it’s there whenever he remembers Yinsen, whose advice Tony never once forgot. But now that he truly remembers this argument with Jarvis, it makes him feel worse. Makes him feel like he’s been… ungrateful to his father figure – forgetting him.

Part of Tony remarks that he couldn’t remember this, it is his coping mechanism, whether he likes it or not. Still… he can’t help feeling terrible about it. He hates that he ever developed that method.

“What’s wrong?” Peter isn’t dumb to ignore the look on his face. This kid… he’s too good.

Tony sighs in fondness, looking at Peter briefly with a sad smile before resuming to Jarvis. How sweet of a man the butler was… to the freaking mess that younger Tony was.

“Just feeling nostalgic is all.”

It’s true; B.A.R.F reacts to what his brain is currently thinking. The scenario changes to what was Tony’s bedroom, as huge as the rest of the mansion was. An even younger Tony Stark, probably seven or eight, fixing a little electronic car toy that he built. Jarvis is standing next to him, watching with clear interest.

“Look, Jarvis! I think I got it!” Little Tony claims, very proud of himself.

“I knew you could repair it, Master Tony.” Jarvis smiles. “Let’s put it in action, shall we?”

Following that, they test the car, that runs at full speed while the child controls it. Tony is having the time of his life and the other is satisfied.

“Look at it go,” Jarvis says in his same tone, not taking the smile off his face.

Another memory replaces it. Little Tony hesitantly enters a room, crying and hugging himself. There are plenty of bruises in his arms, from what they can gather from the rare lighting from the night outside.

“J-Jarvis?” He calls, vulnerable.

The butler wastes no time to get there.

“H-H-He got m-mad that I w-was- was p-playing with the…” Tony tries to explain it but is interrupted.

“Shhh… you don’t need to explain it.” The man carefully holds his hands. “I will take care of this, alright?”

Tony nods. “I-I don’t like it when he drinks… h-he gets really worse.”

Jarvis sighs. “Neither do I. But you are safe now. Once I get you cleaned up, I could tell you a story. What do you think?”

“I like stories. C-Could I… have some some chocolate milk, too?”

“Of course.”

There are others to come. Jarvis greeting a younger Tony whenever he gets home. Jarvis comforting him after a nightmare. Tony shyly giving him a hand-made Happy Butler’s Day card one time when he found out that day existed, since he… he never had the courage to do the same when it was Father’s Day. Not even when it was just Jarvis and Tony after Howard and Maria died.

The unpleasant memories of that time are projected by B.A.R.F, too. A nineteen or twenty-year-old Tony Stark coming home drunk with some random lady. Jarvis isn’t looking pleased, but he could never be angry. He’s just worried.

“Ah, beat it, Jarvis,” Tony groans. “Don’t need to baby me anymore. See?” He smirks at the lady that playfully threatens to bite him.

“Sir, this is getting too far.”

“Sheesh, can’t I have some fun? C’mon. You would like that too, old man. Next time, I’m gonna bring you a lil’ friend.”

Jarvis can only sigh. Tony scoffs, “Alright, whatever, we’re going to bed. See ya.”

“Let me assist you—”

“Hey- Hey! Leave it, okay?” He almost slaps the other’s hands away. “Ugh, Jarvis. I can handle stuff on my own. Don’t need any diapers. See?” Tony kisses the girl passionately. When he finishes, he says, breathlessly, “I’m a big man now.”

The butler doesn’t protest, if not for a pained look. “Of course.”

The drunk young man stumbles to his room with the girl, leaving Jarvis on his own. The man was old, nearing the end of his life and yet he still insisted to take care of Tony, even if he was nothing more than some stupid piece of shit that always disappeared in parties, coming back with random girls every night he came back.

Current Tony is silent when the last memory comes. He’s at some other event, some party at Stark Industries. Obadiah brought him to meet some of his co-workers and stuff. Tony is having the time of his life when someone rushes to him; one… one of the housekeepers that sometimes helped Jarvis at home.

“Mister Stark,” She tries to get to him.

“Marisa! What’re you doing here? You’ve come to join us?” Tony laughs with the others, but she looks serious.

“Tony, this is no time for partying.” When she calls him Tony, that’s when something is wrong. His face almost falls.

“Shit, you’re scaring me; what happened?”

“It’s… It’s Jarvis, he’s…”

What she says next isn’t heard, as Tony doesn’t remember. The look on the twenty-one-year-old says otherwise. Next, he’s at the hospital. Awaiting with Obadiah by his side, he’s insisted to come.

When the nurse comes out, she has a heartbroken look on her face.

“How is he? Is he okay?” Tony already throws a bunch of questions, even though her expression… it tells him everything. He can’t accept it.

“No. No, c-c’mon. Jarvis is the strongest person I know, he can’t… he can’t just…!”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. The nurse lowers her head. “I’m very sorry. We tried everything we could. I’m sure he tried, too.”

Tony doesn’t cry; he straight up faints. The alcohol must have worsened it. When he awakes, they’re alone at the corridor and he begs Obadiah to assure him that Jarvis is fine. He hopes his butler rushes to see him, so they could go home, watch the genius build something, play a game, do anything.

He couldn’t be more wrong. The now older Stark almost feels disgusted as his younger self craves Obadiah’s comfort, but well. He couldn’t have known.

“He can’t die, Obie,” Projection Tony whispers, only to raise his voice. “H-He can’t die. He can’t leave me, too!”

Finally, the man removes the E.D.I.T.H glasses. The whole hospital ambience disappears and they’re both back at the same old garage. Everything feels so small now. So crushing, all this knowledge.

He almost forgets Peter is there at all. The teen saw everything… all the details. Tony didn’t want to hide anything from him, not anymore. On the other hand, he also regrets it when he sees Peter’s sorrowful gaze. Shit, it’s too much for him.

Tony looks away in shame and regret. “Yeah. Now you get why I don’t talk about that past stuff with anyone,” He jokes darkly. He sighs and tries again. “I’m sorry you had to see all that.”

Peter looks a minute away from crying with him, but he takes a deep breath and replies, quietly, “It’s okay.”

The mechanic holds the glasses like they’re going to break at one touch. He puts them away where they were, by the desk with everything else he kept there. Tony resumes to the same spot he was, no longer seeing the projections, just his adapted workshop. Everything is very quiet now, not even the crickets outside can be heard.

(It felt like his house after Jarvis was gone. Tony would barely be there, drowning himself in every drink he found at bars.)

“He died before I could say I was sorry.” Tony whispers. “I… I forgot what he told me. That he believed in me. And after my parents died… I just stopped caring, for good. But he didn’t stop caring about me and…” His lips are quivering. “He was gone before I could realize it. Before I could b-be better.”

Peter takes one step. “Tony…”

Tony now stares at his own feet, the tears making it to the wooden floor. He realizes he doesn’t have any socks warming the former. “He… never gave up on me. But he knew I was ruining my life. I… I let him down. Really bad.”

He can hear Peter stopping. He knows the kid is closer, but he doesn’t have the courage to approach. Maybe it’s the right thing to do. Tony feels like the worst person in the world now. God, he’s fucked up so many damn times.

The broken man is silent for dreadful and long minutes, Peter not getting any closer, nor saying a thing, either. Tony’s hands are shaking.

“I just… I wonder if…” His breath trembles. “I-If he could come back and see me one last time… wh- what would he think of me now?”

He doesn’t expect an answer. Or, he might know it. It might not be too pretty.

Tony embraces the dead silence. At least, before he’s embraced by two arms from behind.

“I-I… I think you’re pretty great, Tony,” Peter gulps, clearly crying. “You grew so much, you became a hero. You saved the universe, you… you saved me.”

Tony’s mouth opens but nothing comes out. Especially not when the boy hugging him, desperate to reassure him, continues with a whisper full of intensity, “You changed the world, just like he said. He would be so proud of you, Tony. We all are.”

That’s enough to break the elder. Tony sobs, his own hands reaching Peter’s arms and squeezing them. For once, he turns around and hugs his kid tightly again. They stand there for an eternity, ugly crying, repeating reassuring words.

“I love you. I love you.” Peter repeats, each time with more sincerity than the last.

“God, I love you too, kiddo.”

(He hopes he can feel Jarvis’ presence there, too. Even if that’s technically impossible. Jarvis never left his heart, after all. Tony promises he will stop hiding it. He’ll make sure to tell Morgan about the man, too. He was his hero. He just wishes he could have actually realized it sooner.)

Finally, Tony leaves one last breath before pulling away from the crushing hug. He still holds Peter’s arms affectionately.

“Thanks, Pete. I needed that in this moment of catharsis,” He tries to joke, getting a little smile out of the kid.

“Are you okay now?”

“Never been better.”

Peter nods. Tony wonders what they can do, seeing as it it’s so late in the night. They both have terrible sleeping habits, he’s afraid.

“Let’s get outta here, yeah?” The older suggests. “How about we see a movie? I miss late movie night.” He puts an arm around Peter’s shoulder, guiding them both out of the garage and closing the door behind them with his spare hand. “Remember we used to put on Star Wars for the hundredth time when you couldn’t sleep?”

Peter snorts. “Y-Yeah, that would be cool. Any suggestions? Would be nice to pick something different.”

Tony hums and thinks for a while… then he has it. “I remembered this one… you know that, uh, that panda that learned to gain some inner peace or something? And he did those moves with the water?”

“You mean Kung Fu Panda?”

“Yeah, that’s the one! I suddenly remembered it today. Thought of refreshing my memory.”

“Oh, cool. That’s the second Kung Fu Panda movie, by the way. The best one in the series, to be fair.”

“Of course.” Tony smiles as they reach the house and get to the living room. The lights are dimly on, thanks to his instructions to F.R.I.D.A.Y.

They both stay awake until the movie ends. Doesn’t take long for the two to fall asleep right there and warm themselves up with the blanket Tony grabbed. They snuggle against one another, safe with each other’s company.

He missed this.

When he falls asleep, though, he remembers Jarvis tucking him in to bed one night. Like every other night, Maria is at a business trip and Howard just isolated himself somewhere in the mansion.

“Tell me that story, Jarvis! You promised!!” The enthusiastic, small Tony demands.

“Very well. Once upon a time, a very stubborn little man went to bed… the end.”

Tony groans. “That’s a horrible story!”

Jarvis openly laughs that time. He is usually contained, being affectionate in his own way, and much better than his father, that’s for sure. Still… it’s nice to hear it.

“Do not worry, Master, I have many other ones like that. You will learn to appreciate true art.”

“Noooo, I know you have better ones, Jarvis!”

“Oh no, you have discovered my secret.”

“Tell meeee,” Tony whines.

“Very well. Can’t say no to that face.” Jarvis dramatically sounds defeated, making Tony giggle. He then sounds serious again. “Once upon a time, there was a very smart boy who created amazing inventions. He had a room full of them, but he had to hide; for his intelligence was misjudged by the mean people of the village. His father would not give much support, either; but the boy was fearless.” Tony’s eyes brightened up as the man continued, “He went outside and helped everyone with their problems. Built stronger homes, vehicles, all constructions you could imagine… and one day…”

Jarvis grabs the little metal man Tony built when he was six, which sitting on his bedside table.

“… He discovered how to fly. He created magnificent wings and flew by his village. The people saw him as their hero… and they had hopes. For the little boy, now a grown man, changed their world and would continue to change every other place he went, making the whole world a better place. The end.”

Tony blinks in awe. “Woah…”

“Did you like it? I personally prefer the one of the boy going to bed, though,” Jarvis teases, the boy rolling his eyes as a response.

“I loved it,” Tony answers, clearly flustered.

Jarvis smiled at him for a couple of minutes. Then, he would stand up and say, “Very well. It is time to sleep, Master Tony.”

“Okay.” The boy yawned, feeling the exhaustion coming to him. A gentle hand is placed by his leg. “Good night, Jarvis.”

“Good night. You can call me if you need anything.”

Once Jarvis turned off the lamp, Tony closed his eyes, faintly hearing the butler close the door in the distance.

When Tony opens his eyes again, he’s flying in the blue sky. Flying to the horizon ahead of him. Knowing the people down there are counting on him. They are proud of him. They’re their hero.

Somewhere down there, he knows his family is there rooting for him. Peter, Pepper, his little Morgan, Rhodey… and Jarvis is there, too, smiling with pride.

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